#directed at the exact people who would be workshopping it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter seventeen

Young!Silver Rayleigh x reader. Modern AU. NSFW for sex and violence.

*****

Imagine moving to live in a mountain chalet to escape the bustle of the big city. Your small house is situated in the middle of the woods, the closest -small-ish- town reachable by car but quite isolated, which suits you just fine. You spend most of your days writing at your laptop, reading in front of the fireplace and taking long nature walks.

Beyond the occasional hiker, some of whom knock on your door to ask directions back to the town after losing their way, the only person you meet semi-regularly is your only neighbour, owner and resident of the only other chalet in the area, only a couple miles away from yours: Silvers Rayleigh.

You had no idea there was someone living within walkable distance of you, but the day after your arrival you heard ringing at the door, went to open thinking it was the mailman since you knew no one in town and it was too early for your friends from the city to come visit… and found yourself face to face with this tall, imposing man, neck-length blond hair and dark eyes still piercing despite the barrier of his reading glasses.

“Hello. Name’s Rayleigh, I live nearby. I saw your car pass by, and since we’re the only two people crazy and clever enough to come live in this corner of the world, I thought I’d introduce myself. You need help with moving in?”

You are favourably impressed by his friendly but direct approach, the exact opposite of what you got used to in the decades you spent living in the city; you tell him that no, you have everything under control since you brought only the essentials from your old home and you’ll be done moving everything to its new place by the end of the day, but you appreciate the offer, and are glad to meet him.

You and Rayleigh become acquainted over a cup of tea in your freshly stocked kitchen. Like you, he moved to the mountains in search of peace and quiet after decades spent living in a large city; you tell him you’re a novelist, which means you are free to work at home as long as you have your laptop with you and an internet connection, while Rayleigh is the owner of a small but successful coating business, and has left day-to-day operations to his colleagues to visit his old workshop once in a while.

You feared Rayleigh would resent you for having come to interrupt his solitary life in the woods -not that you’re a particularly noisy person, nor the sort who listens to loud music at all hours, not to mention your chalets are two miles away from each other, but still- but he seems genuinely happy to have met you. Both well aware of the risks of living miles away from the closest urban centre, you exchange telephone numbers, to be able to call each other in case of need, and spend most of the afternoon talking.

A quiet friendship soon blossoms between you. Rayleigh is, just like you, a lone wolf, content with his own company, but apart from the fact even the most reclusive man feels the need to exchange words with another human being once in a while, you seem able to spend time together without getting on each other’s nerves. You meet for a drink at your or his place, and Rayleigh accompanies you to explore the mountains, the experience much more engaging and pleasant than if you had gone alone with your map and compass; he’s the sort of person who knows when to talk, when to listen, and when the best thing to do is simply to remain silent, a gift you rarely found among the people of your old life, and you often spend hours talking or simply enjoying each other’s company.

You gradually learn to know the people of the small town, salespeople you do business with and a few women your age, but you don’t feel the need to build closer relationships; Rayleigh is different, and even though you never discuss it openly, you know it’s the same for him.

One day, months after you moved to the mountains, you visit Rayleigh’s chalet to return the drill you had borrowed to mount a few shelves on a wall -there are a few men in town who could have done it for a small price, but you decided you might as well learn to do it by yourself, and did a more than decent job- and as you sit on the sofa waiting for the tea he’s making, you notice a book on the table next to you - your first book, that you published when you were only twenty-one.

“I, err, bought it online; I was curious to read what you wrote.” Rayleigh admits, looking suddenly embarrassed as he rubs the back of his neck with his hand “Sorry, maybe I… shouldn’t have?”

“Of course not! I am flattered, like any novelist would be knowing someone has read her book. Did you, err, like it? You can tell me you didn’t, I won’t get offended, and my style was still a bit acerbic back then…”

The truth is you would have been supremely disappointed to learn Rayleigh disliked your work, or even worse was left indifferent by it, but he seems sincere in saying that he loves it, finds the story compelling and original, and your writing style elegant and engaging. “I haven’t finished it yet thought; I just finished chapter seventeen.”

Chapter seventeen, you remember perfectly even though you consigned the manuscript of that novel to your newly found agent decades ago, contains the most explicit, steamy, downright lurid sex scene you have ever written, a passionate encounter between your protagonist -a female novelist- and a mysterious man who has captivated her heart soon after their first meeting. You’re usually not the sort of writer who takes inspiration from her own life, but chapter seventeen was the exception, even though unfortunately those had been dreams -the wet sort- and fantasies rather than real events. You normally wouldn’t mind discussing it in any case, your readers are mostly adults and there’s nothing wrong with writing and reading about sex…

But then why are you blushing furiously at the thought that Rayleigh has read that particular section of your book? And it’s not either as short as some of your other chapters are, no less than twenty pages of explicit filth and intense lovemaking, three rounds of it…!

Your only consolation is that Rayleigh is blushing as well, even though he seems unable to stop smiling as he looks at you; you don’t need to be a mind-reader to realise he’s imagining you in the place of your character, and perhaps himself in that of her love interest, and that makes you feel… well, something you had thought you would never experience again as you left your youth behind you to fully enter middle-age. It’s somehow surprising; but the sort of surprise you can’t help but appreciate.

For a whole minute neither of you feels able to speak as you gaze at each other, until the sound of kettle whistling in the kitchen puts an end to a tense, and only vaguely awkward, silence. You enjoy your tea as you discuss your tastes in books, and an hour later you leave to return home, suddenly in a good, almost giddy mood.

You have enjoyed your first four months in your new home, more inspired to write than you remember having been in years and enjoying long walks in nature, when suddenly that almost idyllic life you had built comes crashing down, or at least suffers a serious setback, on an apparently peaceful night of early summer.

You are sleeping soundly in your bed when a sudden noise wakes you up, followed by a drunken laugh; in a daze you reach out for your bedside lamp to switch it on, rise, peek out of the room, and observe a terrible scene: three men you have never seen before, all wearing biker jackets and heavy boots, are in your living room, drinking from the bottles in their hands -one has a baseball bat as well, another a large hunting knife hanging from his belt- and breaking your things for the simple pleasure of doing it.

Your home, your peaceful little chalet, has been invaded; what can you do? Call the police? The closest station is at least twenty miles away, and given the state of the mountain roads it might take the agents a full hour to reach you, but you can’t let these men destroy your home! But you are alone, unharmed, and the men must have noticed your car parked outside, which means they know there is someone here…

“Who do you think lives here?” one of the men suddenly asks, as if he had just read your mind, and then another, who had spent the last minutes meticulously breaking all the framed pictures and diplomas hanging from your walls, turns swiftly, and you’re not quick enough to back away in the hallway. The men grin.

“Hello, darling.” the one who saw you first says “Hope you don’t mind if we came in. Why don’t we all have a bit of fun?”

The easiest, safest thing to do would be to barricade yourself in your bedroom, whose heavy door could withstand the onslaught, and call the police with the phone on your bedside table, but one of the men is quick to approach and, as you move away to stop him from grabbing you, he puts himself on the doorway connecting the living room to the hallway, blocking your path.

“Come on, darling… if you’re good I promise we’ll let you live…”

The five minutes that follow are the most terrifying of your life, and you seriously doubt you’ll live to tell the story, or that you’ll survive unscathed; the men, laughing and jeering, play with you like cats with a mouse, grabbing and pushing you, but finally, taking advantage of a moment of inattentiveness, you grab an empty bottle from the floor and smash it against the face of one of them.

You run, faster than you’ve ever run in your life, you run as if you had all the demons of Hell after you, and as the threats and shouts of the men follow you. Barefoot, wearing nothing more than a t-shirt and shorts, you reach the house door, fortunately left open after the intrusion, and pass it, disappearing into the still cold summer night.

By the time you have reached Rayleigh’s house, you’re freezing, and limping, still terrified the men could catch up with you, even though you have chosen a narrower, less easy to find path on which even their bikes, that you have seen parked in front of the house, might be unable to ride along. Sobbing quietly, shaking, you ring the bell, and your friend’s expression when he comes at the door expresses all the horror he must feel.

“Oh my God! (name), what happened to you?”

“I… I…” you stammer, and then you’re unable to say more, but you burst into tears, tears of fear and relief at the same time, reaching out for Rayleigh, who quickly takes you in his arms and accompanies you inside.

A minute later you’re sitting on the sofa -once again there’s one of your books on the table next to it; the fourth, that Rayleigh insists on buying online even though you offered to lend or even gift him the copy of each you brought with you from your old home, in case you had to check your references writing a sequel or whether a scene you’re planning is too similar to one you already published- with a blanket on your shoulders and a water bottle in your hand.

Your sobs have calmed down enough to allow you to tell Rayleigh what happened; when you tell him that you are hurt, but not hurt, you see his large shoulders sag in relief, but your friend’s expression remains grim. “That it should happen to you.” he murmurs in the end.

“Well, we’re the only two people in a twenty mile radius, and I’m not wishing this to you…”

“You know what I mean. I… shit, this is horrible; but I promise you are safe now, and I’ll stay with you until the police come.”

Rayleigh remains where you can see him while he carries out a short but very grim, judging by his expression, conversation over the phone; then he returns to you, and says that the agents will go directly to your chalet and they will warn you once they have ascertained that it’s safe to come back.

Rayleigh gets to work to make you as comfortable as he can. His clothes don’t exactly fit you, but the night is too cold for you to remain half-naked as you are, and his heavy jumper and trousers are, if not comfortable, at least warm. The main source of pain is your poor feet, bleeding after two miles hobbling down a mountain path; you use the contents of Rayleigh’s first aid kit to clean and bandage the wounds, and then put a pair of heavy socks on.

“I can make some tea if you want; I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for a while.” he offers then, and while already feeling guilty for all the trouble you’re causing him -it’s the middle of the night, and no matter how fond you are of each other you’re ready to bet Rayleigh would gladly return to his bed to sleep rather than playing nurse to you- a hot, calming tea is exactly what you need, since you can’t seem to stop shaking - more out of shock than cold.

“I’m sorry for all of this.” you whisper sadly as you follow him to the kitchen, unable to stand a distance of more than a few feet between you “But I couldn’t grab my phone nor my car keys, and didn’t know where else to go.”

“Are you kidding? (name), of course you did the right thing coming here. I’m… glad I can help.”

He seems so sincere, so earnest in his pure and genuine desire to support you, that whatever apology you were about to offer dies on your lips.

You drink your tea sitting on the sofa, wrapped in your blanket, Rayleigh’s arm heavy and comforting on your shoulders, a gesture both of you would have considered inappropriate in any other circumstance but that here, and now, feels perfect, naturally offered and gratefully accepted.

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” you ask after a while, more because you can’t stand the silence than out of genuine curiosity; by this time the agents must have reached your home, but you can’t bear to think about the damages the three intruders could have caused in your chalet, that you had lovingly furnished and in which you felt at home, safe and protected, even just a few months after moving in.

“Not at all; I would have warned you otherwise. The worst I ever witnessed in a decade I have spent here was a band of campers who played loud music and poached a few buzzards in the woods, and a hunter who shot a doe and then left the carcass in the middle of the road. When I think of what could have happened to you… but you were good at defending yourself; good, and very brave.”

A tiny smile blossoms on your lips, his words of praise making you feel marginally better when you could have sworn nothing could. “Well, I used one of their bottles, and you know what they say, when you make your bed…”

In the end, it takes a full hour before Rayleigh receives a call from the agents, announcing that the intruders have left, and that it’s safe for you to return. Having taken his two heavier coats, one for each, Rayleigh accompanies you outside and drives you back home.

“You are safe, alright?” he murmurs ten minutes later, opening the door and offering you his hand to get out “And I’m here with you. It’s going to hurt, but you can’t start healing if you don’t look at the wounds first.”

You nod mutely, but you find strength in those words, enough to stand the sight of your home after the invasion. The whole place has been ransacked: the furniture in the living room, the kitchen and your bedroom has been kicked and knocked over, the framed pictures on the walls and the shelves on the wall broken to pieces, the curtains on the windows and the pillows of the sofa slashed. And then, of course, there’s the stealing: your laptop, on which all your work is stored, has miraculously survived unscathed, but the intruders have taken the money you kept in the bedside table, a few of your jewels including a ring you had received as a gift from your late mother and held great sentimental value, and even, absurd but true, your microwave oven.

The police agents take your statement, that you will have to repeat tomorrow at their station; you describe the men for them, already convinced they will never be found and your things are lost forever, and in the end the agents leave you and Rayleigh alone.

He makes it clear that he’s not leaving, and that he wouldn’t mind if you wanted to spend the night at his place, but you are not going to let those - those bastards chase you out of your own home. You put some clean clothes on, and take a blanket and a pillow to sleep on the sofa; you offer to prepare a bed for him as well, but Rayleigh refuses, and it’s then that you notice his gun, that your friend keeps stuck in his belt, until now hidden by his coat.

“I’ve got a licence; and I never had to use it since I moved here, but I’d better be safe than sorry.” he tells you, and while uneasy at having a firearm in your home, you nod, accepting his reasoning.

You sleep badly that night, and when you wake up with a start after nodding off and lift yourself up from the sofa, you see Rayleigh standing near the window of the living room as he stares outside, lost in his thoughts, the dark of the night enveloping his body; he’s standing guard, probably aware it’s highly unlikely your tormentors will come back but unwilling to take any chance. He doesn’t notice you have awoken, but knowing he’s there makes you feel better - safer, enough to place your head back on the pillow, close your eyes and succumb to exhaustion as you finally fall asleep.

The next day Rayleigh has to leave for a business trip; he’s due to be away for a week, and he offers to postpone it to remain help you, or to accompany you to the town’s only B&B, so that you don’t have to sleep alone in your home, still bearing the signs of the invasion.

You refuse both offers. “There is no reason; the home alarm will be installed tomorrow, and the sooner I start cleaning up and fixing everything that’s broken, the sooner I’ll be done. I’m fine, truly.” you assure him “And if I leave, or if I get used to needing someone else's presence to feel safe, I might never be able to live here alone again.”

Clearly unsure, Rayleigh finally acquiesces, and makes you promise to call him if you need help, or just want to talk. “Take care of yourself.” he says, and then he kisses your brow, something no one has ever done since you were ten, and that fills your heart with tenderness.

You start missing him a minute after he left, but you roll up your sleeves and get to work. You have a cutting-edge home alarm installed, complete with cameras surrounding the property and a panic button, and the home door replaced with a more secure sort; you clean the chalet from top to bottom, throw away the pieces of furniture that can’t be repaired, and visit a large shop in a nearby -well, an hour drive away- shop to buy some more, and to replace all the things you can’t use anymore, including your microwave oven.

It costs you quite a lot of money, and it’s hard work, especially for a woman alone, but every little step forward, every new shelf installed or framed picture hung, makes you feel a little better, and back in control of your own life. You don’t plan on buying a gun like Rayleigh did, but in the end your home is certainly back to its original, cosy state, and the night before his return, for the first time since the accident, you sleep soundly in your bed, at ease once again in that place you initially feared you would never feel safe in again.

Rayleigh has left by train; you check the company’s website for the schedule, and make sure to be at his door before he is, having prepared the dishes he has shown to appreciate the most in the several occasions you have dined together. He must be very tired, but his face lights up when he sees you as he gets out of his car, joy and almost relief making him even more handsome than he normally is.

“You’re here!”

“I am, hope you don’t mind. How was your trip? I brought you dinner.”

You prepared more than enough, as you often do, so you end up eating together at his place; Rayleigh tells you of the state of his business, fortunately in good health as far as both number of clients and level of profits are concerned, and is happy to learn you have made your home more secure and once again livable.

“So… it’s everything alright?”

“I think so; I still feel insecure at times, especially when some noise wakes me up in the middle of the night, but it gets a little better every day. From now on I’ll go back on focusing on my work, and I’ll leave this nightmare behind me.”

“I’m glad to know. I…” Rayleigh rubs the back of his head with his hand, suddenly awkward for some reason you can’t decipher “I must admit, I feared you would decide to leave, to move to town, or to go back to your old place in the city.”

You admit the thought had crossed your mind, but leaving would mean giving the men who have ransacked your home and tried to hurt you the win, which is the last thing you want. You love living at the chalet, and except for this accident, which as he said was a case in a million and not a common occurrence, you never had any reason to consider moving away. You made sure to be more protected at home, and now you’ll go back to enjoy the peace and beauty of the mountains…

And then there’s him; Rayleigh, who is different from any man, any person really, you have ever met, and is a positive aspect of your new life you hadn’t expected to find. If you were to move, he’s the thing you would miss the most, and one of the main reasons why you’re determined to remain. You can’t tell him; not yet at least, not so early after realising that delicate truth yourself, but in the privacy of your heart you know it, as surely as you know your name.

Rayleigh smiles at you; his hand leaves the fork to take yours over the table, the touch delicate, almost shy, but full of significance. “I’m glad you’re here, (name).”

“I’m going nowhere.” you tell him; it’s a promise, to you both “You have my word.”

“Have you made arrangements about the wood?” Rayleigh asks you one day. You’ve met in town, both of you buying groceries, and decided to get a coffee before returning home. You have noticed the way the waitress looked at both of you as she served your table -coquettish towards Rayleigh, openly resentful towards you- while he ignored her, his dark eyes focused on you with an intensity that at times is able to make you feel flustered “For the winter, I mean.”

The day is chilly at best, the mid-autumn wind making you shiver unpleasantly as you leave the cosy warmth of your home or take your clothes off to get in the shower, but you can only imagine how terribly cold it will get in the heart of winter, when snow can fall for days and water freezes inside the pipes. There is a wood shed on the back of your chalet, where you found a little timber left from the previous owner, but you have already made arrangements with a logging company to have enough to last you through the winter, delivered directly to your house.

“They’ll come next Thursday.” you explain as you enjoy the content of your cup.

“Good. You know how to chop it, yes?”

“... sorry?”

“Chop the wood, to put it in the shed.” Rayleigh explains, smiling gently in response to your flummoxed expression “The logging company will deliver the wood to your home, but they won’t put it in your shed; they usually leave it on the front porch, and the logs are usually too big to be used, and need to be chopped.”

“Oh… I had no idea…”

“It’s fine, it’s your first winter here.”

“Can I pay the logging company’s workers to do it for me?” you ask, suddenly aware of how naive you’ve been, not considering this little matter “I’m not even sure I have an axe…”

“You can try but they usually don’t do it, for insurance reasons, not to mention they’d overcharge you. It’s alright, I’ll do it.”

“... sorry?”

“I’ll chop your wood; just call me when they are done on Thursday.”

You insist that you can’t ask him to do that, easily imagining how tiring and time-consuming the job could be, even for a strong man like Rayleigh, but he remains undeterred, and looks supremely unimpressed when you offer to pay him for it.

“We’re neighbours, living in an isolated area; it’s normal that we help each other.” he points out gently “Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”

“Of course, but…”

“But, nothing, (name). It’s fine; if you really want to make it up to me, you can cook me dinner like you have done so many times already.”

You share a smile, and you’re about to say something when the waitress approaches. “Can I bring you guys anything else?” she asks, speaking in the plural form but openly ignoring you; you see Rayleigh tense, and suddenly his leg is pressing against yours under the table.

“No, thank you.” you answer firmly, also speaking without looking away from the man sitting in front of you “We have everything we need already.”

And that’s how, on the following Thursday, you find yourself with a full-blown mountain of wood spread on your driveway, and with Rayleigh, who came immediately after the logging company had left and you called him, ready to get to work. You brought him a bottle of water and a towel, and begged him to let you help him in any way you could, but he assured you he was fine and would be done before the end of the day - which, given the fact it’s barely early afternoon, could mean several hours.

“Please don’t overexert yourself. Have you eaten? Take as many breaks as you need, it’s alright if you want to finish tomorrow or any other day…”

“(name), I’m fine.” he reassures you, openly amused; his hand -which is just like him: broad and strong, the touch gentle but firm when it need be, and why are you suddenly hot, even though winter is only a few weeks away and you’ve gone outside without a coat?- is placed on your shoulder, the gesture chaste and reassuring but that for some reason is enough to make your heartbeat accelerate “I’ve done this for more than a decade every year, the last time only six days ago. I’ll be fine, and if I need to take a break I will, you have my word.”

Reassured but still vaguely embarrassed for the inconvenience you’re causing him, you leave Rayleigh to his axe and block, and return inside to get to work: your latest novel is almost ready, but during their latest call your agent has insisted you need to submit it as soon as possible, so as to have it ready for publication in time for Christmas.

You sit in the living room, with your laptop and a cup of tea to sustain you, polishing your work and making sure even the smallest detail will satisfy your readers. You’re quite proud of this novel and usually capable of focusing on what you need to do, but today you’re unusually distracted, and the reason why you need to re-read the same line three times and to keep deleting what you just wrote because of yet another typo is not the noise of traffic out of your apartment or the loud music the lodger upstair is generously sharing with the whole complex, like when you still lived in the city…

It’s him.

The soft thuds of the axe cutting the log and the two halves hitting the ground reach your ears; looking out of the window, you can see Rayleigh hard at work, the axe lifted above his head and then swiftly lowered for a neat cut. He’s been working for two hours without any sign of slowing down, and maybe you should insist he takes it easy, but concern is not the only impulse that leads you to abandon your work -and by now cold cup- to cross the living room, reach the house door and linger there, your shoulder resting against the jamb and your arms to your chest, to observe him closely like you would do with a really good show.

Which he really is.

You had thought Rayleigh was attractive ever since your first meeting. Tall and imposing, he has the physique of a man who keeps fit more through an active lifestyle and working hard than going to the gym; he has broad shoulders, arms whose strength you got to admire every time he offered to bring your groceries and other heavy parcels inside, and a very pleasant to look at backside, especially when he wears a certain pair of heavy but form-fitting trousers. He has strawberry blonde hair, piercing brown eyes, and the sort of smile that makes dimples appear on his cheeks; he is without a doubt one of the handsomest men you have ever met, and no matter how sincerely you consider him a dear friend, you have grown increasingly aware of the fact the more time you spent together… and it has never been harder to keep your attraction under control than now that he’s on your front porch, naked from the waist up.

There is an unspoken elegance in the way he works, the deliberate, confident movements of his body betraying a full control of his actions; the axe he’s handling is very heavy, not to mention dangerous should its edge cut through flesh rather than wood, and Rayleigh would have any reason to be tired by now, but his stamina must be higher than you gave it credit - which is another thought your mind can’t help but linger on.

You can see perspiration glister on his shoulders and back as he works, and the way he stops for a moment to brush the hair away from his eyes before returning to work; from your position at the door -you are sighing, biting your lip and squeezing your thighs as you fantasise about being able to touch and caress what you are now admiring; you should probably feel embarrassed, at the mercy of your impulses like a teenager who has just discovered boys, but you don’t, no, you could even say you like it…- you can see his broad back bend and straighten, muscles rippling under his taut skin, and the way his biceps bulge with the effort of raising the axe…

“You know.” Rayleigh mentions after a while without looking up at you, amusement clear in his voice “It will last longer if you took a picture.”

You hadn’t even realised he had noticed you were there, but you’re determined not to make him see he has caught you off guard. “You’re probably right.” you answer pensively, and then, unflinchingly, you retrieve your phone from your pocket, select your camera, frame him, and take the picture.

“Perfect, thank you.” you say cheerfully, turn and walk back inside swinging your hips before Rayleigh has time to react.

The picture came out really well, but that’s not the only reason why you’re openly grinning; you are sure Rayleigh will not let the matter drop, and he in fact doesn’t.

He has joined you in the living room a minute later, still naked from the waist up even though he must have used the towel to wipe away the sweat from his body; you are face to face, his naked chest in front of you -wide shoulders, firm pectorals, a taut stomach, soft-looking blonde hair disappearing under the waistband of his trousers; God, he looks so good you might start salivating any minute- a pleasant view you shamelessly enjoy, not bothering to hide your mouth behind your hand when you lick your lips, suddenly hungry for something that is not food.

Rayleigh is smiling as he reaches out towards you; he has noticed your interest and doesn’t bother to hide how flattered he is. “Let me see the picture.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“Come on, (name); it’s my picture after all, and I don’t want it to be on your phone if it didn’t turn out right.”

You tell him that the picture is very flattering, so much that you were planning on asking the publishing house to use if for the cover of your new novel, but Rayleigh is not deterred; he tries to take the phone from your hand as you retreat deeper into the room, until the base of your back is pressing against the edge of the table top, and his hands rest on it at the sides of your hips, effectively caging you.

Your heart is pounding; you try swallowing and you manage - barely. Without a word you surrender your phone in Rayleigh possession, and he observes the picture after turning on the screen. “Not bad.” he decides, and grins as he places the phone safely on the table.

“So; the cover of your next novel, was it? I should feel flattered.”

“I'm sure my readers would love it, but I think I changed my mind; I want to keep that picture for myself, rather than sharing it.”

“I see. I could let you do a whole photoshoot if you'd like…”

You grin; Rayleigh smiles, and a moment later his hand, warm and strong and delicate, has cupped your cheek.

“Tell me I can.” he murmurs; his voice, low and soft, and the arousal behind it, is enough to make you shiver “(name), please, tell me I can or I don't know what I'll do…”

It’s like taking a deep breath after having held it for a lifetime. “Of course.” you murmur, offering him your mouth, and a moment later the space separating you has disappeared.

Kissing Rayleigh is everything you had hoped for and more; soft and intense, passionate but unhurried, as if he wanted to take his time savouring it - savouring you, and the taste of your lips. You hear him moan softly when your tongue finds his, deepening the kiss, and a moment later you’re running your fingers through his hair, feeling his heart pound against your chest; you can feel Rayleigh’s hands running up and down your sides, gently moulding the shape of your body, and when you finally part, both breathless, a look is enough to make it clear you want the same thing.

Rayleigh grabs you by the hips to effortlessly pick you up and place you on the table. You quickly circle his hips with your legs, closing the space between you; your arms snake around his neck as he still holds you in place, but a moment later your hands descend down his chest, exploring flesh and skin, so deliciously masculine and warm under your touch, and you can feel a rumbling of pleasure under your palms.

“Am I of your liking?”

“You most certainly are; especially if we were not to limit ourselves to kissing.” you point out; it’s quite a bold declaration, especially if shared between a couple that has been so for less than two minutes, but Rayleigh has the power to make you feel safe, at ease, even if just from the embarrassment of discovering you want different things.

That, and the fact that you can feel his erection pressing against your thigh.

“Are you sure?” Rayleigh’s gaze meets yours as he takes your face in his hands, torn between the desire of hearing you confirm yours and the fear of making you uncomfortable “I don’t mind, I… I want you so much, but we have all the time, I don’t want to ruin…”

“We’re ruining nothing; and I want you too, more than you can imagine. I just need to feel you, Rayleigh; whatever happens from tomorrow onward, I have never been as sure of something as I am of this.”

The handsome man in front of you raises an eyebrow. “From tomorrow onward?”

“Yes, because I want to spend the rest of the day making love to you.” you explain placidly, arching your hips to press yourself against his turgor, and Rayleigh whines.

“Woman, you are killing me…”

You have no intention of causing him any more discomfort, and you prove it by lifting your arms, allowing Rayleigh to free you from your sweater, long-sleeved shirt, and tank top, all in one. You should feel cold, almost completely naked from the waist up, but the way he is looking at you is enough to fill your belly with warmth.

You kiss some more, touching each other and panting as the desire between you grows; Rayleigh’s hand runs up and down your clothed leg, his mouth smiling against yours as he feels you arch your hips as you search for a modicum of friction, the pressure between your legs mounting to unbearable levels.

“Down, girl…”

“I can’t… Rayleigh, please…”

He grins, leaving your lips to bite gently at the column of your neck. “I like the way you say my name.” he murmurs “And don’t worry, I’ll take care of you in a minute.”

You help him unclasp your bra, and a moment later you’re lying on the table, moaning as Rayleigh, bent over you, kisses and licks your breasts. You run your fingers through his hair, and a moment later he has captured your right nipple in his mouth, sucking with just enough force to mix pleasure and pain, and rather than moaning, you are screaming -Rayyleeeiiiggghh- and in a murmur he tells you to go on, and you’re so beautiful and hot, and he’s waited for almost a year to hear you scream his name.

One of Rayleigh’s arms is resting on the table next to your head, supporting him. He lowers his free hand between your legs, cupping your core; despite the heavy trousers you are wearing you can feel his thumb finger pad against your clit, gentle but merciless as he rubs and caresses and stimulates, and then suddenly something snaps inside of you and a tide sweeps you away, and your scream is no longer a name, or a word, but a simple, raw declaration of love and passion.

Rayleigh’s hand carries you through your orgasm, drawing every last drop of pleasure from your body until your head falls back on the table; you are wheezing, and while you thought you were past embarrassment you can’t help but blush when your gaze meets his.

“Don’t look at me like that! I haven’t had sex in a decade…”

“Then we’ll spend the next one doing it.” he decides; he kisses you, sweet and passionate. “Let me bring you to bed.”

“No.”

“No…?”

“No.” you repeat, smiling as you rest your forehead against his “I want to do it on the rug.”

The living room’s rug is one of the few pieces of furniture you brought with you from the city, soft and heavy, the red and black wool perfect for lying in front of the fireplace with a book, and also, you discover today, to make love on.

Rayleigh picks you up before you have time to react to carry and then gently depose you on the rug. “Comfortable?” he asks softly, and when you nod he smiles, stands, and starts stripping.

The sight of his naked legs, like the rest of his body made strong and taut by a lifetime of work, is enough to make you bite your lip, but then you sit up, and Rayleigh turns back to you, the turgor inside his black briefs is at the same height of your eyes, and suddenly you can’t quite remember how to breathe.

You rest your hands on his hips. “May I?” you ask, looking up at him, and having received a nod of permission you slowly, cautiously finish undressing him, and then there’s nothing you can do but stare, open-mouthed, and Rayleigh groans, as if having to physically stop himself from filling your open cavern with his organ.

“Darling, please…” he begins, and then doesn’t finish, because you have taken his erection -lovely, absolutely perfect, long and big and veiny, erect against his belly, the base surrounded by soft blonde hair and the tip already leaking pre-cum- in your hand, pumping it hard enough to force a litany of swear words from Rayleigh’s mouth, and you must not be the only one who hasn’t done it in a while, because it takes him only a few minutes after you have swallowed him to murmur that you need to stop, because no matter how much he’s enjoying your ministrations -oh God yes, yes darling, just like this, don’t st-oh God your teeth…!- he wants more, for your first time.

He lets you take off your shoes and socks by yourself, and then he’s kneeling above you, opening your trousers; he kisses your belly, then the apex of your thigh, and then further and further down as he slips your trousers down your legs, and finally all you are wearing are black panties, which is not the sexiest, nor the newest, pair you own, but Rayleigh doesn’t seem to mind, so you don’t either.

You kiss some more as his hand slips under the cotton. “You are so wet.” he murmurs, and you can feel him once more, the clever movement of his fingers pushing you to the brink for the second time; you arch your hips against him, but a moment later he has retracted his hand, and laughs when he hears you whine “Patience, my darling; I promise it’ll be worth the wait.”

It is, a thousand times worth it, but nevertheless you are almost crying with need when Rayleigh frees you from your panties, remains a moment still to admire you, and then takes you in his arms once more, you legs intertwined, an arm bent under your head as a pillow, your hands caressing his back as his slips between your bodies, and a moment later you can feel his tip pressing against your folds.

“I’ve wanted you since the first day I met you.” he murmurs; your faces are close enough you are almost sharing breath, and it’s never been like this for you, the perfect intimacy of this moment almost bringing tears to your eyes “I’ve always been content on my own, and then one day you were there, offering me tea even though you were in the middle of a move, and coming to me after you had to run from your home. God… you are so beautiful.”

You smile, heart bursting with happiness, but at the same time you’re frustrated, because you’re not good with words, at least when you have to speak them out loud rather than typing them to be published, and there’s a reason why most of your books have always been devoid of romance. Talking about feelings is hard, and scary; and while being with Rayleigh has always had the gift of making you feel safe, you are not sure you can actually express what you already know in your heart.

You decide to try.

“I…”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“But I want to; I… I never thought I could feel this way; especially not at this age.” you murmur “To be honest, I had lost hope I could; that I could meet someone I can be myself with, without fear. But I did; I found you, Rayleigh, and for this I will be grateful forever.”

It’s pretty inadequate as far as affection declarations are concerned, but Rayleigh looks happy; he kisses you once more, arching his body above yours, and then he starts to push, slow, deliberate movements as he grins, well aware of the effect he’s having on you.

“You’re so tight.” he moans in your ear, and you wish you could point out that the reason is your long period of celibacy as much as his size, but you can’t, because it would be a complete lie and because at the moment you wouldn’t be able to talk even if your life were at stake.

Rayleigh is gentle at first, making sure you’re comfortable and he’s not hurting you more than you’d appreciate, but then something changes; he holds you in his arms as he shifts, kneeling on the rug and then moving, his pace quickening, his muscles tense and his groans and cries filling the air, and he’s so hard, so big and strong and masculine and in control, and he’s looking at you, his dark eyes fixed on your squirming, panting form. He looks at you as if you were the realisation of all his dreams, and despite the delicious friction filling you belly with fire you’re taking his body as if you had done it a million times already, as if you were made for it and for him and he for you; you grab his biceps hard enough to sink your nails in his flesh and

“More.” you growl, and Rayleigh grins, and obeys, giving you his all as he makes sure you forget any other man who has ever touched you, and any other partner you have ever loved.

Leaving Rayleigh at the end of your lovemaking is the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but the day is too cold to remain naked and exposed, so you regretfully stand, separating your body from his and giggling when Rayleigh takes your hand to pull you to him once more and steal a kiss from your lips.

“Where are you going? Stay here, I’m not done with you yet…”

“I’m glad to hear it; I just need to fetch a blanket, I’ll be back in a minute.”

He finally lets you go -make it half a minute, I miss you already- and remains lying on your rug, naked like the day he was born, looking at you as you cross the room, swinging your hips a little more than you normally do. You walk quickly towards your bedroom, and after a moment of indecision you retrieve a heavy quilt from the wardrobe; you bought it only a week ago despite its high price, in anticipation of the cold winter, and you couldn’t imagine a better occasion to inaugurate it. You also take both of your pillows.

Rayleigh has not remained idle while you were away; he is now kneeling in front of the fireplace, perfectly at ease in his nudity -and who wouldn’t be, with a body like his?!- as he uses the little wood you had found in the shed behind the house and brought inside to kindle a fire. He looks up at you, smiling as he rubs his hands to wipe the soot away, as the light of the flames bathes his face; he’s handsome enough to make your heart tremble.

“Hope you don’t mind; we’ll be warmer.”

“I don’t; after all I have enough chopped wood to last me through the winter.”

You both laugh as you return to the rug, and quickly arrange a comfortable bedding with the quilt and the pillows. “Are you tired? Do you want something to eat, or to drink?”

Rayleigh shakes his head, looking at you fondly. “Maybe later. Now come here, the only thing I have an appetite for is you.”

You happily snuggle together under the quilt, unbothered by the perspiration permeating both of your bodies; you kiss for a while, hungry hands moving on warm skin, satisfied but not yet sated. Out of the house night is falling, but neither notices; it’s not like you had something to do, or somewhere to be, more important than this and here, with each other, discovering a future neither had dared to hope could be in the plans.

“So.” you murmur in the end, resting your cheek on his shoulder as your hand plays with the soft hair of his chest; Rayleigh seems to appreciate, given the way he’s literally purring, a low rumble of pleasure that reminds you of the content growl of a tiger “It seems like we’re having a chapter seventeen of our own.”

It may seem too obscure a reference, since Rayleigh has by now read several of your books, and who knows how many others, but he immediately understands what you mean; he smiles, vaguely unsure, as he brushes his fingers against your cheek. “Maybe.” he concedes “It’s been a very enjoyable chapter, even more than the one you wrote, and it can be so again. But…”

“But?”

“But, I would also be happy if this could be our chapter thirty-one.”

Chapter thirty-one is the one, in the book you’re both referencing, where your novelist protagonist and her love interest, the no longer mysterious man, confess their feelings to each other and decide to pursue a relationship. You’ve never been particularly interested in romance and your novel was not exactly a love story, but you’re pretty proud of how you had built up the relationship between the two characters, a love that doesn’t magically solve all of their problems -rather, it creates a few more!- with the two not falling suddenly in love at first sight or, worse, after having sex, but building a relationship based on trust and respect, learning to compromise and taking care of each other.

You were young when you wrote that novel, too young perhaps to know what love was, but you thought, and you kept on thinking, that perhaps one day you would find a relationship like that as well. And who knows, maybe you can, now, if you only had the courage of…

“Sorry, maybe it was corny… what I meant to say is…”

“I know.” you reassure him, turning in Rayleigh’s embrace to look him in the eyes; his hands raise to cradle your hips, the hold possessive and still hungry, but there is tenderness in his eyes, and a smile you can’t help but returning as you caress his hair “And I’d like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am; really, really sure. How could I not, given everything we have shared ever since we met? I mean, I haven’t had a relationship worthy of the name in more than a decade, I don’t even remember what it means to have a partner, but…”

“We’ll remember together.” Rayleigh reassures you; he kisses your brow and then, as if remembering suddenly that he can, your mouth “Now come here; I want to hold you for a while before the next round.”

Happy, you settle in your lover’s arms, his solid body warming you better than any heavy blanket ever could, and enjoy the feeling of his heartbeat under your cheek as Rayleigh holds you in his arms, tight, as if never intending to let go.

#One Piece #Silvers Rayleigh #Dark King Silvers Rayleigh #Silvers Rayleigh x reader #Dark King Silvers Rayleigh x reader #Bellona's stuff

15 notes · View notes

megamanheadcanons · 5 months ago

Text

Zero, X and Axl are playing Minecraft in Zero's bedroom, which is located upstair of his workshop named Nakajima, at 7pm.

*Knock, knock, knock*

Zero:"Lemme see who's coming at this hour."

He opens the door

Zero:"Good evening."

Mail delivery reploid:"I have a package for Mr. Wilhelm Ziegler. Errm... this package is a firearm, so would please show me your ID card and registration paper please?"

Zero:"Here they are."

The reploid's eyes shines beams of laser scanning Zero's ID card and registration paper for the firearm.

Mail delivery reploid:"Hmm, all things seems to be normal and in order, have a good evening sir."

Zero and the mail delivery reploid both exchanged handshake before he closes the door.

X:"What's that?", he points at the package Zero is holding.

Zero:"Ah, It's a new rifle, a carbine to be exact."

X:"What brand and how much?", he paused playing Minecraft and eagerly asks Zero.

Zero:"SIG SG553-CB, and it's only 400 zenny"

X:"What's "SIG"? Never heard about that."

Zero:"It can be translated to English roughly as "Switzerland Industries Group"."

Axl:"Damn, that's carbine must be "Sick"."

Zero:"You and your word playing jokes, Axl."

X:"Why did you ditch the KAZM-157, given to you by the organization?"

Zero:"It's a heavy mf. I now have backache thanks to that mf when we patrol the crowded streets for 6 months. IT'S A 9KG MACHINE GUN X! Don't know how the superiors gave me a machine gun for street patrol."

X:"Hmm, maybe they see you have stromg arms, your servos are better than mine.", he suggests.

Axl:"Any notable feature about this Swiss cheese maker?"

Zero:"First,it's a carbine, a mix between a submachine gun and a rifle. So it's lighter and shorter, compares to our KAZ rifle, which is 3.3 kg, it only weighs 2kg. Second, it has the counterbalance system like the ZAX-175, so it doesn't have any recoil. And finally, it's based on AK platform, which our ZAX-175 is the direct descendant, so it's easier to accomodate with it and repair."

Zero:"Anyways, let's head back to the computers and continue with Minecraft."

Trivial fact: Zero's original name is Wilhelm Wily, but he changed his name to Wilhelm Ziegler to conceal his dark past and ties to the mad scientist and to make people feel safer when they're around him.

#megaman x #mmx #megaman #zero #axl #x #headcanon #headcanons #megaman zero #megaman zx #megaman zx advent #megaman legends #submission

9 notes · View notes

ahsoka-in-a-hood · 1 year ago

Text

Soulmate AU worldbuilding………………………… I am workshopping

I think I want there to have been a society, historically, where warriors formed these force soulbonds to become semi-immortal and drift compatible in combat- something along the lines of being each other's link to life maybe, making it so you have to kill them both just to kill one. Because I think the concept is cool.

And I'm thinking the Sith have a super dark history with it- maybe they co-opted the above? but added hierarchy. Maybe they used these links as a form of enslavement.

I want the exact nature and origins of the phenomenon to be murky and disputed, with wildly different beliefs around them.

I think maybe the most mainstream jedi philosophy around soulmates is that the force sometimes indelibly links people in a string of fate, and these people will have a great impact on each other and learn great lessons from each other and shape each other or meet by fate in order to accomplish something. (but it's not about being inseparable and staying together forever)

But circling back to the Sith and murky origins thing I think it would be cool if there was some fringe theories about dark origins or something. Maybe even that the phenomenon is the result of some old sith curse or something. It's a thought!

(I'm also intrigued by the idea that there are no parent-child soulmates. Possibly because of fate reasons- if you already have a direct hand in someone just existing, does fate need to guide you together? idk this feels goofy but on the other hand I'm thinking how this would shape thinking around it- there's gotta be people who believe it's an inherently romantic thing, since that is technically the trope, and this would be their 'natural' proof- which leads to some horror scenarios with soulmates with big age gaps or whatnot. And also if there are Master-Padawan bonds like that, with people making assumptions about Master-Padawan bonds… it's a thought)

In terms of Palpatine & Anakin as soulmates (which is where this thought started) I can imagine that Anakin believes in soulmates with his whole heart, and that Palpatine is very ready to use that and also some deeply fucked up sith traditions. (i guess in this particular version obi wan and anakin are not 'soulmates' and possibly padme and anakin aren't either, although if they aren't Palpatine possibly contrived to fake that they were for a while)

#fics i'm not writing #soulmate au #anakin skywalker #sheev palpatine

46 notes · View notes

liminalweirdo · 1 year ago

Text

YSK why your countless online job applications never land you an interview

Why YSK: We all know how god damn demoralizing it is to try to find a new job by searching online and applying via indeed, idealist, etc. You see your dream job listed, you know you're the exact person they want/need; you fire off your resume/cv and, of course, no reply save for the confirmation it's been received and thanks for applying! /s

It doesn't matter if you apply via indeed or on the company's direct webpage. Your application, resume, cv, or whatever is never seen by a person first. It's assessed by what's called a "automated screening software," that reviews your cv/resume, compares keywords in it versus the job listing, and then determines if you're the appropriate candidate.

Sounds neat, and definitely effective, but so wholly cutthroat and you aren't even aware of it. Not even the employer who is using the site or service to host the listing.

I mean, I could imagine how fucking insane it'd be to just have resumes mag-dumped directly to my inbox and then manually go through them to assess individually. So, these things were created, but - when has anyone ever told you about this when you were in your first "resume workshop! yay!" I don't even think those people know about this software.

The simple reason your not getting callbacks is just because you aren't using the exact words that are in the job listings post. You most certainly have the skills requested, you just framed it in your own way - not the way the listing says it verbatim.

It's super arduous, annoying, and taxing to have to re-do your resume for every single listing you shoot out, but, that's the game being played, and you didn't even know it was being played.

I'll never forget learning about this when I was in a slump of no call backs for dozens of jobs I applied. I had quit a position with two colleagues at the same time as we had to get the hell out of dodge that was that job, and it was bleak. No callbacks, no interests. It was terrifying. One colleague opened their own business, so they sorted themselves out well enough, but me and the other went the indeed/idealist route. 7 months with no returns and dwindling savings/odd jobs, my colleague checks in with me about my search and ultimately shares that he's gotten a 3 callbacks in a matter of weeks as a result of some website he used (jobscan.co).

I'll never forget that conversation, that website, and the curtain pull of how all this shit works. I used that site for a bit, but once I realized that all you had to do was semi-copy/paste word usage from the job posting into my CV/resume- suddenly, I was getting equally numerous responses back and interviews.

We're beyond the times of "knowing someone to get your foot in thr door." This is what's keeping people that actually could perform the job from even being noticed as an applicant because of sorting software. It's so simple and so stupid, but that's why you barely ever hear back beyond some automated "thanks for applying!"

I hope this helps someone. Boy, do i know how horribly soul-crushing and invalidating it is to apply for something you 100% know you qualify for and would do amazing at only to just be met with non-resonses. You're good at what you do, you're just up again a stupid program, not a lame HR person.

#in case anyone doesn't know this #resumes #jobs #job search #at the same time i've done this and still didn't get callbacks because capitalism fucking sucks #but if you really need a job or you're aiming for your dream job this might? help?#reddit

4 notes · View notes

jezunya · 9 months ago

Note

I think, sometimes, there's a disconnect here with people taking this phraseology much too literally (much like the "kill your darlings" advice being interpreted to mean killing off characters you like, which is not at all what it means). "Write what you know" does not mean "write about a character who is you, in the exact same circumstances that you have lived through."

I saw this a lot when I was doing my bachelor's degree in creative writing: scores and scores of other students who came from small, Midwestern American towns, and so they wrote stories about being in a small, Midwestern American Town, with some kind of interpersonal ennui as the main emotional force. And they were flabbergasted when I would come to class with sci-fi and fantasy writing to share with the workshop.

There are a couple of really good reasons for this, of course. One, journaling about your own life and then just tweaking it slightly to make it fiction (eg, 'write an alternate ending to an argument you once had') is an introductory exercise to get young writers' imaginations started. And two, I cannot tell you how many writing instructors still see "literary fiction" (real world setting, interpersonal drama or ennui, nothing fantastical) as the only real fiction worth reading or writing, and everything from Tolkien to le Guinn to Gaiman as (sneering, snobby voice) ~genre fiction~

The thing is, while my classmates (and sometimes my instructors) were thrown by my sci-fi and fantasy presentations, I also got complimented on my deep characters and full emotions in my writing for class. And when asked about it — or, often, when asked how I could just spitball a dozen different directions for a classmate to take things when workshopping their story — I have always, always, always pointed to my upbringing reading character-driven sci-fi and fantasy, thanks to my parents, and to my 20+ years of reading & writing fanfiction.

Now, there's obviously plenty of bad sci-fi/fantasy in the world, and plenty of bad fanfic too. But the exercises of, on one hand, letting your imagination run absolutely wild, and, on the other, digging your teeth as deep as they can go into characters' psyches and emotions and relationships… Those have both shaped me as a writer more than anything, and I think a lot of people who come up being trained on journaling and "literary" fiction miss that. I know with my former classmates, it seemed like a lot of them couldn't move past the 'rewrite the ending to an argument you once had' level of imagination. If it wasn't very literally based in their life, they couldn't conceive of it.

But, respectfully, I think Mr. Gaiman is saying, even if it doesn't look like your life, it will still be your emotions, and your thoughts, and your humor. There's no "creat[ing] something new entirely," because everything you create is going to be colored through you and your ideas. My personal example is this:

In 2009, I enlisted in the US Army (hey kids: don't do that!) Also in 2009, I wrote a fanfic set in a fantasy world where the main character was a princess who volunteered to be the sacrificial tribute to the neighboring werewolf kingdom in order to keep the peace between the two lands. I was processing my emotions around entering the military, sure enough in my decision to not back out but also with no idea of what to expect, by writing a fantasy story about a princess who didn't know if she was going to be eaten alive or enslaved or maybe find friendship and love in the end. I'm not a princess and I don't know any werewolves, but that fanfic was 100% me, right down to various characters arguing the different sides of my own misgivings vs determination.

So I think that's what is at the heart of this ask, a fundamental misunderstanding of what it means for an author to put themself in their work. You're not supposed to just keep journaling about your hometown ad nauseum (unless that's genuinely what you want to do!), but you are always going to be in your writing, because if you're not, it may as well have been written by someone else (or by soulless AI).

As an author, do you think authors should always put a piece of themselves into what they write? Like their experiences, personality traits or sense of humor? Or do you think it would make more sense to try and create something new entirely, without anything taken from your own personal experiences?

You are literally making what you write out of your experiences and your personality and your imagination. I don't know how you could do it the other way. Everything is always going to be you.

#writing #my comments #neil gaiman #can you hear my disdain for literary fiction?#even calling it 'literary' instead of 'real world fiction' suggests that all other genres are lesser #I survived 5+ years of creative writing classes and all I got was this stupid diploma

2K notes · View notes

thatbeluga · 3 years ago

Text

college rant

idk why this semester I'm feeling a lot more out of place than I did last semester. Now that I have more in person classes, and I'm actually hearing the other students hear talk, I just feel like my brain is not the same as theirs. Like there's a whole high level of operational speed my brain isn't even wired to function on. And I don't even know if it's bc most of them went to super expensive private schools or what. Like, I can get most of the material eventually, my brain can get it, just not in the same way as everyone else.

And then there's just the fact that my college is FILLED with rich people. Like, I thought I was comfortable, and then I heard the very casually delivered words "Yeah, I think I'll work in NYC for a few years but I'd rather raise my kids in London" and I realized I am NOT in the same space as some of these people here. On breaks everyone just "hops on a flight" to see their friends across country. I usually go one maybe one flight every one or two years for a big family vacation.

Or how everyone seems to have all these connections in high places. I have friends who could get a job at Goldman Sachs tomorrow if they wanted to. I have a friend who casually made almost 50K at a job he worked at for a few hours a week (He also apparently knows a few Netflix producers?). They did internships at major firms or political lobbies or research facilities last summer. I picked up dog shit. My connections could get me... a casserole when I'm sick? A few hours of work here and there if I need it in a pinch?

And then there's just people from places that just don't think the same. I'm a crass, sarcastic, and sometimes rude person, because I come from a place where being crass, sarcastic, and rude is a sign of affection. And people here just... do not get it. At all. They take my every word seriously and get offended by it, when it's literally an attempt by me to connect with them. Back home, sharing insults is how you know someone is comfortable with you. And that's not something I can just shut off, it's a part of who I am, and it's so, so, frustrating when other people don't get it. But I can't even be mad at them, because I know it's not their fault!

I'm the only graduate from my high school currently at this college. There have only been a handful from my high school that have ever gone here. Getting accepted was a HUGE deal for me. It was probably my second farthest reach school, and it was a big moment for me when they told me they wanted me. That all my hard work meant that much. And then, the other night I talked to someone who said he hoped his kids wouldn't "settle" for this college. He even admitted that he "settled" for this. As the conversation progressed, he told me that this college is "where kids who didn't get into the Ivy's go." and I know that's just a difference of perspective, but it felt like a slap in the face. I was never aiming for Ivy's, I aimed for this college and was so lucky to hit the mark. He also hit the mark, but to him he missed. And that was just a perspective I couldn't fit into my head.

First semester, a lot of the stuff I just ranted about was a point of pride. Being a rural, middle class public school graduate at this institute was something I was PROUD of. I loved when I would occasionally slip into my family's accent. I loved being the wild, scrappy, worldly one in the group. I even liked being an average student, after being a really high achiever all through high school. But the charm has worn off a lot of that. People have turned out to be a lot shittier than previously thought. I'm starting to realize I don't actually have to like the people I pretended to like last semester.

The reason all of this is really weighing on me is because something I always had, something that always kept me here, was that I got here on my own merits. It wasn't some relative in admissions, or rich parents, or sports prowess or other connections that got me here. It was MY accomplishments that got me here. I have tons of friends who struggle with that, because they know it's not their accomplishments that got them here. For a while, knowing that it was my abilities that got me here was enough, but do I belong here?

Hardly anyone here gets me, and I don't get them. I miss home where people make sense. Where everyone else can afford one plane trip a year. Where "I hate you so much" means "You're my favorite person." Where the speed my brain works at is fast enough. Where knowing the old guy that fixes up houses or the church gossips are all the connections you need. Where you can boil a fucking lobster alive and no one bats an eye.

I just can't wait to be done here, and go home, and raise a family there, instead of fucking London.

#long post #rant #college #homesick #god i needed to get that out #lowkey like how it came out tho #could use it for a creative writing assignment #but also it's like #directed at the exact people who would be workshopping it #writing #also a lot of this is based on like one guy #like a lot of the specific examples are about him #but they apply to like #literally everyone here #i only like maybe #two of them #and even them i'm just like #different

6 notes · View notes

lightyakami · 2 years ago

Note

I'm asking more because I love your headcanons so much (if you're still doing these!) 26, 31, 37, and 38!

thank you!!! sorry this took me a while -- trying to find uninterrupted time to write was a comedy of errors dfjsf but they were really fun to think about and write.

26. how do they comfort one another hands down the easiest way to make light feel better is to workshop solutions to his problems with him. this sounds good. it is not good. when light is upset, his solutions range from ‘that seems likely to cause future complications’ to ‘you will go to prison forever & you will deserve it.’ so L doesn’t do that anymore. usually he removes light from the situation and walks around with him for a bit. movement is good for light — he tends to get full of Bad physical energy without realizing it, and this helps shake some of it away. there have been lots of nights walking around and around the alleys behind their apartment.

99% of the time L doesn’t really want direct comfort. it stresses him out more than it helps because he starts overthinking how he’s supposed to show the other person that he has been Definitively Comforted. (he’s going to get a good grade in being comforted, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve.) instead light usually just sits quietly with him and pretends he just happened to want to be in that exact space in that exact time. comforts him in the same way a cat would. light is very good at this. many people in his life consider his complete lack of interest in doing anything whatsoever when someone is clearly upset to be a flaw, but it is in fact something L both wants and needs form a partner. 31. what’s the relationship like? smooth? rocky?

i always see their relationship starting off as a complete mess. they’re compatible on the big-picture issues but constantly at odds when it comes to smaller things — who does the dishes, when does the alarm get set in the morning. all the things that keep people together from year to year are in place, but they’re a little short on the ones that bring them from day to day. they have this idea that their relationship is in some way special and they don’t have to put in the work that other people do, but it’s a classic case of two people who adore each other but let each other down in a million unimportant ways that begin to scale.

but they do eventually figure it out. i like to think of matsuda or sayu pointing out what’s going on, persistently enough that they start to take them seriously. and i think as the year go on and on they learn how to actually take care of one another in the little ways. they’ve always been willing to kill for one another and by the end they’re also willing to like, put a coaster down so the teacups don’t leave rings on the nice new table.

37. what do they like least about each other? (i love this question so much dfgjkd)

L about light: so i think light can be really, really mean. L isn’t fond of this in general, but he can deal with it when light directs it towards him. what the does find incredibly unpleasant is when light directs it towards people who have nothing to do with them and who really do not deserve it. getting snippy with him is one thing, but he finds it incredibly unpleasant when light snaps at some poor barista who’s just trying to do her job. (which like. i think light is generally pretty sweet to strangers, but he Does Not Take Well to being corrected or made to feel stupid, even if this clearly wasn’t the other person’s intention.) i think he can look at this with compassion and recognize that light basically just has terrible emotional regulation, but it’s still one of his worst flaws.

light about L:

i think L is bizarrely non-confrontational about certain things. he expresses his desires quite strongly so he often comes across as very stubborn, but he’ll often fold when someone pushes back against them. not all the time, but fairly often. more so if he’s tired or generally having a bad day. it takes light a few months to notice they’re literally always ending up at the restaurants or movies that light wanted. also, sometimes people treat L like he’s stupid or an inconvenience because of what are clearly autistic traits — ie, not looking in the ‘right’ direction or responding as quickly as they’d like — and L will just let them do it. this isn’t necessarily something light considers a flaw, but he does not like it at all. he finds it both concerning and frustrating. it freaks him out to see L being anything other than 100% invulnerable.

(99% of the time light is genuinely being mean for no reason but every now and again he's actually snapping at someone who was being weird and condescending towards L. it takes L literally years to notice this, somehow. best three detectives in the world but his oh-my-god-my-partner-is-being-mean-in-public mortification response is so strong that it short circuits his brain.)

38. what was their most memorable date?

probably the one time they went for a hike and L promised light that the plants he kept pointing out were absolutely 100% not poison ivy and light-kun was being ridiculous and he’d walked through this exact patch a million times before and yes he was sure, he would remember if he broke out in a horrible rash after touching them. it turned out that a very small number of people are, in fact, not allergic to poison ivy. they did see some really cool birds, though.

#thank you for asking this was very fun #i think L's biggest everyday flaw is Severe Passive Aggression but i think light would actually be more upset by the sense that L could #be like. weak in any way whatsoever. he wants him to be perfect and unbreakable forever #i always see L as kind of wanting to please everyone around him but coming off as if he doesn't care at all #just based on things like how he's always got food ready for everyone & coffee available even if he's personally drinking tea #i think being quite sharp and authoritative is a skillset he has & is very good at but not necessarily something he actually likes doing #im never quite sure how to put that into words dfgj but i hope it makes sense #.txt

21 notes · View notes

extremelyblackandwhite · 4 years ago

Text

ascendance - 01

PAIRING: mob!bucky barnes x reader

WARNINGS: violence, dark themes, age gap (reader is 23, bucky is 37)

SUMMARY: she was at the wrong place at the wrong time and a misunderstanding dooms her to a life as an ascendance card under the watch of the executer.

A/N: i’m so excited to go back to my mob writing roots with this one. there’s a bit of a few twists and changes to the traditional mob writing i’ve done before and i am really excited to be sharing chapter one with you. hope you enjoy it xx

> NEXT CHAPTER

The ambience was dark, badly lit by the yellow flickering lights in the halls with echoes of the buzzing of the hot old light bulbs. There was no sound but that buzz and the heavy sound of his boots hitting the rotting wood floor boards. The scent in the air was putrid, a mix of what seemed like life meeting its end stage, cheap cider and weed. It was definitely different and he didn’t trust it.

At the end of the corridor there it was. 107. The 107th flat in purgatory with the door slightly opened. He pushed the door open, the smell getting more intense and his boots sticky with the liquor spilled on the floor.

- What did you do? - each word was punctuated with intense disbelief, as if this was all a nightmare.

- Bucky, help me!

PRESENT

The wind brushed and pulled her hair into different directions as she stepped off the train’s step. She rushed through the streets of New York, hair pin stuck in the middle of her teeth as she fought the winds to try and set her hair into an appropriate hair do while running down the street at the same time. The chattering people and the sun peaking through the clouds was hopeful as she grabbed her coffee from the same vendor off the side street as her eyes gazed upon the Metropolitan Opera House which had been gracing the New York landscape for longer than she had been on this earth and now she was part of it, she was a small speck in an almost 60 year long history.

Her smiled widened as her sneakers hit the pavement, eyes gazing over the fountain and the flags of the production coming down from the opera house’s arches. The same production she was part off. Sure, she was a chorus girl but the mere thought of singing on that stage, of watching that public in those red velvet seats under the chandelier just made it all more exciting. She walked inside the theatre through the stage door, meeting the manager at the door.

- Hi. - she leaned her hands against the desk where the manager was surrounded by attendance and cast sheets as well as a big laptop shining a blue light onto her face. The woman didn’t even look up, instead putting up a board with the names of all people in the production in front of her. - Do you need to see my ID?

- Just sign in front of your name.

Y/N giddily looked at the list of names, hers closer to the bottom but there, written in bold Arial font. She signed her name in front of her printed one with the barely working pen, before pinning it over the board and handing it over to the manager who pointed inside the opera theatre. She held onto her gym bag harshly, padding the sublime floors and looking around with such wonder one would believe she’d never been here. She’d been here before, she was here every month to watch a performance but now she was not guest, she was not just another person walking in with a ticket, she was part of it, she was part of the show. After years of doing community plays, workshops and failed auditions, she had gotten here and suddenly all those days spent in bed feeling miserable in bed after getting rejected yet again didn’t matter anymore she was here.

Her eyes glanced at every tiny little ornament in the opera house until she entered the theatre room. Her heart filled with joy and happy nostalgia as the red and golden tones of the room involved her. There wasn’t anyone in the theatre yet except for a few musicians from the instrumental pit and some cleaners so she was free to roam around. Her fingers traced the suede velvet of the red seats, finding a few missing binoculars on the grounds but not really caring.

- You! - she whipped her head towards the voice which came from a woman, probably in her mid 40s all dressed in black with a gold name tag slightly above her left breast.

- Hi. - Y/N smiled, extending her hand towards the woman. - I’m Y/N, I’m the new ...

- I don’t care, we need silk ribbons, now.

- Oh, I ... I’m new, I don’t know where I’d get silk ribbons, m’am.

- The costume room? Go, stop looking at me as if you were Bambi and go.

- Oh, okay.

She made her way hastily out of the theatre room wondering how she was going to find silk ribbons, where she was going to find them and why she had to find them. Maybe it was a hazing ritual for new people, after all, she had been into various hazings during her career, including downing a whole bottle of honey which she couldn’t even finish, only eating one fourth of it before becoming nauseous.

She stopped in the middle of the hall, wondering where the costume room could be. It couldn’t be on the top floor, that was usually where the bars and common rooms were so if the building followed regular construction protocols for opera houses, it was probably on the underground section of the house where the dressing rooms used to be. Y/N ventured into the lift, pressing the lowest number on the number chart of the panel until she reached the underground floor. Y/N looked around, people running in and out yet no one stopped whenever she tried to question where the costume room was. She had managed to find the costume shop but no luck finding the costume room until she was pretty much pressed against a dark door with those exact words by the passing crowd.

She twisted the knob of the costume room door, tumbling onto the dark room as a result. The room was filled to the brim with costumes on each side of the room, a plexiglass divider between the two sides which stopped every meter or so and also appeared to be divided onto female and male costumes with the ensemble costumes at the back. She padded across the concrete floors, looking through dresses and accessories for ribbons but no successful attempt. The ruffling from the other side of the room had her turning around, forehead furrowed as she walked towards the plexiglass divider.

- Hello? - she questioned, wondering if there was someone in this room who could help her find silk ribbons. Great, she had barely joined the company and was already screwing up. Great, Y/N. Way to go, Y/N.

She saw someone all dressed in black just like the women before, yet there seemed to be something which didn’t match up; black jeans, black shirt and black leathe jacket as well as a pair of also black boots, scruffed and probably entirely too old to still be holding up together. Her eyes caught his which despite the low almost non existent light of the costume room, were light, a sort of greyish blue like the calm sea before of storm. His gaze pulled hers in, like gravity and she couldn’t help but clutch the jacket next to her as a bad feeling along with something she’d never felt before settled in her stomach.

His hair was mostly pushed back yet the ones which framed his face fell like dominos. She moved along the side where she was to one of the plexiglass gaps and he did the same still maintaining eye contact with her, until the two reached the gap. She didn’t notice she was holding her breathe in until she breathed out.

- Hi. - her own hand gripped her wrist, shoe grinding against the floors. - Uhm, I’m new here and this lady sent me down to find some silk ribbons but I can’t find any. Do you ...

- I... uh ... I don’t know where they are. - he faltered for a few seconds before regaining his posture.

- Oh, I thought since you were here, you might be one of the stage managers.

- I’m not. - his tone was monotonous, almost as if he had the answer to her question before she even made it.

- Oh ... - she rubbed her neck. - Are you also looking for silk ribbons?

- I’m looking for the dressing rooms, actually.

- They’re down the hall. - she pointed at the door as if it was the “down the hall”. - Hum ... Are you new here too?

- Yeah. Thanks. - he walked towards the door, opening it and stepping out before catching her gaze once again.

Y/N remained in the middle of the room as if she were in a transe and maybe she was. It felt like she was falling yet she was firm on her feet and she did not like that feeling. She did not like that feeling of falling, it wasn’t feeling, it was hopeless falling and she wondered why looking at a man who looked like an 80′s glam rock reject made her feel like that, so lost. Maybe it was the respect he appeared to command by merely looking at her or maybe it was the nerves about being new and not being able to find some goddamn silk ribbons. Damn it.

- Call for 30 minutes before dress rehearsal. - the voice came from the intercom and immediately her mind dropped the idea of finding silk ribbons and moved to finding the ensemble dressing room and get dressed and ready. Damn it, this was going well.

She rushed down the hall, bag almost slipping off her shoulder until she saw the door with the ensemble plaque on it. The young woman peaked inside the room where pretty much everyone with a role on the ensemble were already sat down. She shyly walked in the middle row until she found her own little corner, her name written on a sticker on the mirror along with photos of how the makeup should be done as well as how to get the costume in correctly. The same goofy smile returned as she sat down and saw her name above her. It was fine, she was here, she was part of a company.

- Hey you’re new. - the girl next to her twirled her chair to face her. She already had her makeup on and hair pinned curled up and ready to put a wig cap on. - I’m Elliot but people call me Elle.

- Y/N, I’m the new chorus girl. First day.

- Aw, welcome. - she had a bright smile, inviting and almost as exciting as the whole experience of being there. - Do you want help pincurling your hair? I can get it done while you do your makeup.

- Yes, please. - she pulled out a big box from her bag which had all her makeup and pins.

Elle started pin curling her hair up while she put an inappropriate amount of blush on which was just appropriate to get on stage under the bright yellow lights. Turns out half the practice for opera is learning to do your makeup under bright yellow lights and then learning to sing. 10 minutes to rehearsal start, she was along with Elle going down and up to the main stage where most dancers were warming up. Elle left her to do so, leaving Y/N once again to just stand there, looking around like a little sheep in the middle of wolves.

- I’ve never seen you around. - her shoulders almost went up as he turned to see one of the principal sopranos, if not the principal soprano. She had seen all of her shows ever since she was a teenager and she had even wrote an essay for university on her for a module. Catherine Vargas, the best New York could offer, if not the best the world could offer. - I didn’t know they were still casting dancers.

- Oh, I’m a chorus girl, Mrs Vargas.

- A chorus girl? - she furrowed her brows at her, looking her up and down. - What type?

- The type who ... is in the back with the ensemble. - her voice lowered at least a few volumes down, back curved as if she were bowing.

- I know what chorus girls do. I asked what vocal type.

- Lyric soprano, m’am.

- A lyric soprano in the chorus. Interesting. Where did you train?

- Julliard, m’am.

- Julliard? - she looked her up and down again. - That is a great school. What is a Julliard graduate doing in the chorus line?

- Everyone starts somewhere. - she laughed nervously, scratching her arm as she did so.

- Not a lyric soprano from Julliard. Composers sure do love an ingenue, don’t they? Don’t worry, a few months with me and you’ll be supporting.

- That’s ... that’s really kind, Mrs. Vargas. Thank you.

- Don’t thank me. Could you get me some honey from my dressing room? I’m feeling a bit strained.

- It’s 5 minutes until rehearsal starts.

- It’s okay, chorus normally doesn’t do much during rehearsal. Can you get it?

- Yeah, I think so.

She straightened her crinkled skirt, looking behind her back before going down the stairs which led down to the dressing rooms. This was good, right? Getting into one of the main star’s good graces besides she was right, the chorus didn’t really get much attention during rehearsals, at least not as much as the main characters. It’s easier to get away with screwing up in the back than in the front, her teacher would tell her which would always earn a few laughs from her colleagues. Yet, Y/N hated to make any mistakes. She would stay up all night in front of a cheap piano she had bought from a charity shop, playing and singing the same 5 note progression until her flatmate yelled at her to shut up. For her, if it wasn’t perfect and if she didn’t get any criticism while performing it, she hadn’t done it right. It didn’t matter at the end of the day but what did matter was to climb up the ladder. She didn’t want to be a star, all she wanted was to be able to be on that stage forever with the spotlight shining on her and she knew there was only one way to climb up. Actually there were two, extreme luck and connections. Now, she didn’t have the best of luck so her major choice was to make connections and reach that status.

She made her way into the principal dressing room. It was probably one of the biggest she had ever seen, with expensive decor and various flowers covering it. She wondered how many flowers she received on opening nights if that was the number she had on regular days. Y/N made her way to the desk, opening drawers and more drawers to find honey until she found it on the lowest drawn. She went down on her knees to grab it, mindless and careless to everything that was happening until she felt a sharp pain on the side of her her.

Then everything went dark.

TAGLIST: @lookiamtrying @buckyswillows @blossomslibrary @juliesland @iloveshawnieboi @unmagically

419 notes · View notes

super-ion · 1 year ago

Text

I awaken to the smell of bacon and coffee and an empty spot next to me in the bed.

Damnit.

Even on her birthday she's making me breakfast. Five years since peace unexpectedly broke out and she still can't let herself sit still. On top of that, her augments make it so she only needs three hours of sleep.

I sigh and pull on one of her t-shirts. It hangs off my shoulders like a dress. I'm not a short person by any stretch, but she's got a good two feet on me. She won't say so in words, but I know she finds the sight adorable.

I wander into the kitchen, careful not to be too quiet… she really doesn't like being snuck up on. Seven years fighting Vesperians will do that.

There's a cup of coffee waiting for me… the #1 wife mug. She's got the #2 wife mug, half empty next to the stove. My coworkers at the mechanics corps got us the mugs as a joke wedding gift… The only time I've ever gotten her to drink from the #1 mug was when both of her legs needed to be serviced and she was bedridden for three days.

I wrap my arms around her thick frame and bury my face in her back.

"Oats and bacon will be ready soon," she mumbles flatly.

She's like that, direct and to the point, reluctant to speak too loudly, her voice is always flat and neutral. I suppose most people find off putting... It definitely took me a while to get used to it.

"Why are you cooking breakfast?" I murmur demandingly into her back. "It's your birthday."

It isn't really her birthday. She doesn't exactly have one specific date that she can point to between not existing and existing. Shortly after we started dating, I managed to badger her into picking one that we could celebrate. She picked the date that we met... and then I kissed her for the first time.

See, she may be a terrifying augmented super soldier, but deep down inside, she's a cinnamon bun.

"I like cooking breakfast," she replies.

I huff grumpily and release her from my embrace. She turns and leans down so I can plant a quick kiss on her lips.

I grab my coffee and wander into her workshop to see what she's been working on. It's not quite complete, tall jagged mountains (the Tetons I think), bathed in red gold by the sunrise. I'm pretty sure it's a commission, but she's working on it with the exact same love and joy that she would for one of her personal pieces.

I'm leaning close to admire the minute brushwork when the door chime rings.

"I got it!" I shout and scramble for the door. Lucky for me, she's preoccupied with cooking and I make it to the door before she can.

I swing the door open to greet the delivery bot. It's right on time. My face splits in a wide grin at the sight of the package it's holding before it.

I quickly sign the delivery slip and thank it profusely as I try my hardest not to snatch the package from its hands.

I close the door and I'm practically bouncing with excitement. She must have picked up my elevated heart rate because she pokes her head out of the kitchen.

"What is that?" she asks.

"This…" I reply, "is your birthday present."

She cocks her head and regards it as I offer it excitedly.

After a moment's consideration, she takes it cautiously and opens it. Her confusion deepens as she pulls out a swath of white fabric patterned with pink and red roses. She lets out a tiny gasp as she unfurls the dress.

"Okay, so…" I announce. "I found a tailor online who specializes in clothing for augments. I had this custom made."

She's staring at the dress in wonder.

"You wanna try it on?" I prompt.

She blinks at me like she's still surprised someone would encourage her to wear something like that… old habits die hard I guess.

I shoo her into the bedroom and start serving breakfast for the two of us (making sure to swap out the coffee mugs in the process, it's her birthday, she's #1 wife today, damnit).

She emerges from the bedroom a few minutes later and…

Oh my god, she looks radiant. She's trembling slightly and there are tears in her eyes, but she's grinning. It's more emotion than I see on her face most days. The dress fits her frame perfectly and she can't stop running her hands along the skirt. She unconsciously makes a little twirl, billowing the skirt out.

She hesitates slightly when she sees me staring. It's like she's almost embarrassed by the idea of being seen taking joy in something as frivolous as a dress.

I'm her wife and I love her. Her happiness is anything but frivolous. I bound out of my chair and wrap her in a tight hug.

"You look amazing," I tell her. "You like it?"

She nods, and tears are falling down her cheeks now. I grin and rub them away with my thumbs.

"Happy birthday," I whisper. "I love you."

"I love you too," she says, her voice cracking with the tiniest bit of emotion.

She’s a battle-scarred, jaded super-soldier loaded with biomechanical upgrades and chemical augments. All she wants to do is wear cute clothes and paint.

#well this ended up being super fluffy #hope you enjoy it!#lesbian #scifi lesbian #my writing #writeblr #writing prompt #writers on tumblr

16K notes · View notes

winterpower98 · 2 years ago

Note

(Double Training AU) So I thought about your comment about the twins being disappointed at Red & co if they overheard the mayor.

Honestly I'm walking a fine line of somehow explaining the actions of Iron Fan and DBK, the excuse of asian parenting can only go so far and as far as I know my parents haven't unleashed a demon before so I have no reference. I think I mainly just want them to be pretty scarce with affection but still 100% proud of their son (you simply can't convince me the guy who can recite the exact hour of his son's birth isn't at least a little proud of the tyke) Iron Fan switches between matriarch of a dying kingdom and tired mom sitting in the corner of her son's workshop watching him work. DBK is trying his best but being absent for 500 years kinda makes it awkward to readjust to interacting with people. Iron Fan after DBK got sealed away, makes Red Son hug her before he leaves for things (modeling this after my mom, she said you never know which one could be our last it's a bit depressing but I think it applies well here, Iron Fan can't lose her other boy now that DBK is gone) DBK on the other hand only hugs Red when he's crying, partially so he doesn't need to keep looking at his crying face and partially because that's the only time he feels like it's appropriate to give affection.

(Side tangent: being in an asian household is weird, knowing people talk to their parents is weird, me relating to canon Red Son but also seeing multiple fics writing PIF and DBK as abusive gives me mixed feelings :/ I don't even know how to put it in words)

There's also the point of in canon Macaque was supposed to release LBD but since he never died, I don't think he's actually met her before? So maybe after using it to seal away the demon, it was kept hidden but over the years just started drifting from place to place and only recently ending up with the Mayor?

So as the Mayor and LBD's eyes in the mortal realm, he would probably have kept an eye on the recent demon attacks in the city. Letting him decide to "give" the key to Red Son instead of MK. His phone call staged and a ploy to peak the demon's interest since he can't just award the demon with the key like he did with MK in canon.

I was also thinking, maybe despite being imprisoned LBD can still interact with the living world, haven't figured out exactly how maybe magic shards that the mayor places where she directs him to? Anyways mainly I just want her to haunt DBK a bit, maybe during his imprisonment. That would help explain his megalomaniac tendencies also how he can find the tomb and why he even thinks it'll grant him power.

I think after he gets LBD out of his system he would start actually connecting with his family, to the relief of PIF and the absolute joy of Red.

I really need to write some actual fics to start tying things together haha

Thanks for letting me ramble again!

-💙

These are all interesting takes on the Bull Family

And maybe Mayor and LBD can still communicate telepathically even if she's locked away? She could direct him around and tell him what to do, but she wouldn't have a physical impact on the world

But I understand why it would make you feel weird or uncomfortable the way other people write them. We identify a lot we the characters from the shows we like, and in this case specifically, this family was in part written to reflect Asian parenting. So, it makes sense for you to have mixed feelings about the way they are written in fiction and you are valid for it

#lego monkie kid #lego monkie kid au #monkie kid #monkie kid au #double training au #winter answer #winterpower98

16 notes · View notes

babbushka · 4 years ago

Text

Wreck The Malls: Flip Zimmerman and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Flip Zimmerman x Reader

6.2k ; cw: mentions of gun violence, blood and injury ; NSFW (shower sex, injured sex, PIV, oral sex)

Available on AO3

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

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. But it is also universally acknowledged, that a lucky man in possession of a good wife, should want to get her something special for the holidays.

This is the story of how one Detective Flip Zimmerman of the CSPD, goes on a journey through hell and back to obtain such a gift, and might just learn the true meaning of Christmas along the way.

Now, though this story takes place on Christmas Eve, it should be noted that our Mr. Zimmerman does not actually like Christmas. He doesn’t celebrate it, and he thinks the entire holiday is one big headache. Does it bother him that his own holidays always seem to be overlooked in favor for the goyishe celebrations of December? Yes – but that’s not the reason he dislikes it so much. If you were to ask him, he would say something akin to;

“I just don’t know why the fuck everyone makes such a big goddamn deal.” He huffs and puffs on his cigarette in the parking lot. Flip rolls his eyes, “All month long, stores have been playing this shit music since the day after Thanksgiving.”

Sitting in his car with Ron – the only one of his friends patient enough to listen to him complain for an hour straight – Flip turns the radio down just low enough for Jingle Bell Rock to sound. They’re outside the big mall, something shiny and brand new, just in the nick of time for the holidays. Ron shrugs, going over his last-minute shopping list.

“We can go home, no one will know.” Ron points out for what must seem like the eighteenth time.

Flip had asked Ron to accompany him both for emotional support, but also to get a second opinion on the gift he was picking up for you. Flip loves you more than anything else in the entire world – yes, even more than his buc-wheat cereal and Greek yogurt – and even though you had already exchanged presents during Hanukkah only a few days prior, that wasn’t going to stop him.

“Of course we can’t go home, I want to get her something nice.” He says as much, flicking the ash of his cigarette out of the car window, the oppressive commercialism of the mall looming ahead.

“(Y/N) doesn’t like Christmas either though.” Ever the practical voice of reason, Ron tries giving Flip one more out, one more chance to turn back now, “You don’t have to put yourself through this, you know.”

“It’s not a Christmas present,” Flip shakes his head, finally turning the car engine off entirely, and silencing the radio once and for all. He steels himself, staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror, “It’s a just-because present. I already have it all picked out and everything, I just need to go in and pay for it.”

“You’ve got some real brains underneath those flowing locks of yours man.” Ron smiles, gets out of the car and stretches out his muscles for what he’s sure will be a ton of walking through angry mobs, “Minimizing the amount of time in there is probably for the best, considering.”

It’s the way that Flip hesitates that clues Ron in that maybe, Flip didn’t have as many brains as he had thought.

“Considering what?” Flip asks, the second clue.

“Flip, it’s Christmas Eve.” Ron spells it out plainly, and wishes he had a camera to capture the exact moment that the next thought enters Flip’s mind, and subsequently spills out of his mouth:

“…Oh fuck.”

Shaking his head fondly, Ron claps a hand on Flip’s shoulder as he rounds the front of the car, and the two of them brave the great unknown together.

Flip was not nearly as familiar with the mall as he likes to think, but he knows where the jewelry store is, and really that’s all that matters.

They make their way down to that section of the enormous space, and it’s almost impossible to ignore the sheer abundance of Christmas Cheer that surrounds them. Nearly every store had something in its window display: lights, statues, mannequins modeling holiday attire, some even had moving animatronic animals that gave Flip the shivers. Every pole and railing and kiosk in the place was covered in garland and lights, and in the grand atrium, enormous ornaments were suspended from the ceiling.

Pausing for a moment and looking up at them, Flip wonders what the likelihood would be for them to all come crashing down.

He’s so caught up in fact, that he nearly misses Ron branching off in another direction.

“Hey wait, where are you going?” Flip jogs a couple paces to catch up, a frown already forming between his brows.

“I need to pick somethin’ up for Patrice.” Ron explains, holding up his little shopping list. Flip gives him a mildly panicked look, but Ron only reassures him with, “We’ll meet up at the food court?”

I can do this, Flip thinks to himself, it’s one store. How bad could one store be?

“Sure, don’t take too long.” Flip eventually agrees, swallowing down the feeling of impending doom – otherwise known as “acid reflux” according to you – and squaring his shoulders.

He didn’t need Ron, he was a grown man after all. He fought in Vietnam twice! Surely he could go to the jewelry store…right?

Making his way over to the escalator, Flip has his eye on the prize; Goldsmith’s Jewelry is just off to the left, he can see it coming. Playfully taking the five golden rings theme and running with it, large decorations spin gently in the window, glittering in the light. Flip’s relieved to see the place relatively empty.

Not completely dead, but definitely not a line out the door the way that the toy store had. As a matter of fact, when Flip walks through the glass doors, he’s greeted by less than ten people, including the owner himself, who lights up when he spots his friend.

“Philip! Good to see you son. Here for those earrings you were looking at?” Carl, a fabulously eccentric man with no less than fifteen pieces of jewelry on at any given time practically jingles when he comes around the counter to give Flip a hug.

“You bet Carl, how much am I layin’ out for you?” Flip has to bend himself nearly in half to reach the kind gentleman’s embrace, already reaching for his wallet.

Carl was one of those men who could reminisce and catch up for hours on end, and as much as Flip would love to listen to the story about how Carl lost his dentures in his shoe for the hundredth time, he would rather listen to you instead. Thankfully, Carl doesn’t seem too pressed about it, and he only beckons the detective over to the register counter.

“Tell you what, since you’re practically family and helped out Darlene with her car troubles, I’m taking half off.” Carl announces with a twinkle in his eye, making Flip feel a little guilty about wanting to scram as fast as possible.

“Oh you don’t have to go doing all that Carl really – ” Flip tries, but Carl is having none of it.

“I want to!” He smacks at Flip’s hands when he tries to offer him the full amount of cash, fully turning his back on Flip to go into the little employees only room. “You stay right here, I’ll just go into the back and get it wrapped up real nice for you.”

Left alone once again, Flip has no choice but to let his eye wander. The entire place was sensory overload, really, and Flip wishes he could have a fucking cigarette. Was the music at the mall always this loud and discordant? Chewing on his lip instead of the butt of a cigarette, Flip looks around the store.

He makes uncomfortable eye contact with a man who is clearly picking up something for the wife and something else for the girlfriend, and he looks away when he realizes. Training his eye on the great big mirror up on the wall instead, Flip frowns.

Is that…no, it couldn’t be.

Santa Claus wouldn’t be taking a break from the Workshop near the foodcourt to stop into a jewelry store, would he? Flip shakes his head, he’s probably just being paranoid. The guy is probably on break and looking for something for Mrs. Claus. Flip cracks himself up with that thought, and is about to turn around and joke with the guy about it – when he notices through the mirror that the Santa is ever so cautiously reaching around the counter, looking for the lock mechanism.

“Shit.” Flip licks across his teeth, when he manages it open and begins pulling out necklaces with seemingly no one noticing.

Carl still hasn’t come back, so Flip casually reaches for the phone on the counter near the register, dials the direct line number to his buddy back at the station.

“CSPD this is Jimmy – ”

“It’s me, I’m at the jewelry store on the second level of the mall downtown. I think there’s a robbery about to go down, I’m going to need backup.” Flip mutters as quietly as he can into the receiver, keeping and eye on the Santa.

Sure enough, he’s pulling out a sack, and it looks as if this guy has already hit up quite a few stores, if the brand new boxed electronics filling it are anything to go by.

“Is he armed?” Jimmy asks immediately, and Flip tries to get a good look.

“I can’t tell, he’s in a Santa suit.” He explains, and then scowls when the line goes silent for a moment.

“…Flip are you serious?” Jimmy tries to start some bullshit but Flip doesn’t have the time for this.

“Yes I’m fucking serious would you just tell Trapp I need backup? Ron is here somewhere but I don’t know where the fuck he went.” He hisses, teeth clenching tight enough that he can feel the muscle fluttering in his jaw.

“Okay okay! I’m on it, keep him in your sight.” Jimmy replies, before hanging up.

Trying to steal a glance through the mirror again, Flip realizes he must have been a little too loud, because the Santa has bolted through the doors, sack filled with diamond and ruby and sapphires galore.

“Fuck.” Flip grunts to himself, before slamming down the phone near the register and rushing out of the store with a futile, “CSPD! Hands where I can see them!”

This would be much easier, Flip reasons, if it weren’t Christmas fucking Eve. The mall is swamped with people, loud and slow like big dumb buffalo – no, he wouldn’t do buffalo the disservice of comparing them to these last minute mall shoppers who cannot decide if they want to walk on the left or the right side of the aisle. Santa, he needs Santa – but there are so many! Nearly a dozen guys in red coats and white beards ring bells or wave or laugh jolly hearty laughs, and Flip feels like he’s in hell.

No, he supposes, Hell must be the five-story Hibbard & Co., where he finally manages to catch sight of the Santa he’s after. Bolting across the large expanse of the mall and into the first level of the store, Flip trips and stumbles through displays of empty cardboard box presents and wooden nutcrackers, causing shouts and screams of distress to erupt around him from the patrons of the store.

The employees however, are entirely unphased, they continue to spritz the air with their perfume samples, directly into the face of Flip, who is scrambling and already breathing heavy as it is, his boots carrying him around the sharp corners of the mirrored kiosks in the perfume department.

“Oh – shit – fuck!” Flip’s blinded by the perfume, his eyes stinging. He’s choking on it, unable to breathe as rose water stings his vision. “I love my job, I love my wife, I love my job…”

He chants to himself as he blinks and coughs, to no avail; he’s so blinded that he crashes into a display of coats, which in a domino-like effect crash down all the other displays of winter clothing on their way down, but Flip can’t stick around to apologize, the Santa is getting away.

“Out of my way – Ron!” Flip shouts as he pushes and shoves himself through the large swathes of people, Christmas music blaring bright and cheerfully as he runs and runs and runs, shouting out, “Ron if you can hear me a little help would be appreciated!”

The Santa isn’t making this easy for him, Flip curses, as he runs down the up escalator.

Following suit, there’s real screams now when the Santa pulls out a gun and starts blindly shooting behind himself at Flip, making everyone on the escalator, and everyone in that area of the mall for that matter, scatter. If Flip thought the crowds were bad, a mob was even worse, and soon everyone is running in every which way direction, as this Santa gets off the escalator and sprints down towards the food court.

Flip wonders why the place isn’t on a lockdown yet, wonders what the hell is taking backup so long to get there already. Didn’t this place have cops? Weren’t the mall cops good for literally anything? What a waste of his time, Flip thinks, as he runs runs runs with his gun in his hands, trying to hold steady as he aims to shoot, the robber in his sight, he can see him, he can practically smell him --

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this – oh fuck me -- !” Flip collides hard with an unsuspecting dad who just happened to be grabbing lunch from the food court for his entire family.

“Watch where you’re fucking going pal!” The dad shouts.

All at once, a whole tray of pizza slices doused in red sauce and melted cheese, and four large cups of pepsi are flying through the air and landing all over Flip’s brand new shirt, the one that you had just given to him for Hanukkah. He wants to be livid, wants to choke this guy out but the robber is getting away, Flip’s losing visual on him, and after all the trouble, there’s no chance he’s letting him get away.

“You fucking watch it!” Flip scrambles up, which isn’t easy to do on freshly mopped linoleum floors covered in soda pop, his gun spiraling a couple feet in front of him that he lunges to pick up, muttering to himself, “Ruined my goddamn – ugh – fuck!”

He has to change, and he has to change quickly – scanning the nearest stores, the closest one in the mall that sells clothing. He runs over to it, already unbuttoning his ruined shirt, and grabs the first thing on the rack he sees, which happens to be the most hideous, tacky, terrible looking Christmas sweater.

Flip raises his eyes up to the ceiling, and can practically feel the universe laughing at him when he groans, “Oh you have got to be kidding me.”

There’s no time, he doesn’t have any other choice, so he yanks the ruined shirt over his head and throws the sweater on. It’s two sizes too small, and it’s itchy as all fucking hell, and of course, as if the situation couldn’t get any worse…the faux lights turn out to not be so faux after all, and they blink as he accidentally rips a tag off so not to trip any alarms.

Throwing money onto the counter as the employees stare at him like he’s a maniac and not just trying to do his fucking job, Flip’s chest heaves as he stands there, gun drawn, scanning the panicked swarms of people in front of him.

“Where did you go you motherfucker?” Flip growls, growing more and more pissed off by the minute.

A moment or two goes by, but then he spots him – the pet grooming salon.

Without any hesitation, Flip is chasing this man down with all his vigor, lungs pumping full of recycled mall air conditioning, blood pounding in his veins. The sooner he catches this guy and gets him cuffed, the sooner all this pandemonium will end.

“Hey!” He hears an authoritative shout from the other end of the mall, and lets out a sigh of relief.

The mall security has finally shown up, and he’s about ready to tell them that Santa is in the pet salon, when he notices they are not slowing down in their full force sprint towards him.

“Shit, shit shit shit,” Flip realizes they think he’s the maniac! “I’m a cop! It’s not me – I’m – oh for fuck’s sake.”

Flip realizes he doesn’t have the time to explain, so he does the exact opposite thing you’re supposed to do: run.

Into the pet salon Flip goes, hoping that if he can just grab the Santa it’ll all be explained, but there is no Santa to be found. Instead, Flip is met by a dozen dogs that have been let loose. Big dogs, like Dobermans and Rottweilers, and small dogs like Poodles and Pomeranians have all been released from their cages, and for whatever reason, are baring their teeth at him, and lunging after him as he runs the other way.

“Heel! Sit! Stay – ow!” Flip feels teeth sink into his ankles, and doesn’t bother looking back as he kicks away one of the smaller dogs in the pack that is chasing him.

He can see the Santa, and now, chased by dogs and mall cops, Flip chases him down for hopefully the last leg of this race. He can feel steam shooting out of his ears, he’s never going to leave home again he decides, never is going to step foot in this fucking mall again, as he’s chased.

Meanwhile, blissfully unaware over in the lingerie department of Macy’s, Ron Stallworth’s greatest dilemma is trying to choose between the red velvet bra and panty set, or the navy satin set. He’s been staring at the two sets for quite some time now, and is conscious of the fact that Flip must be waiting for him, so he calls over one of the employees for her opinion.

He explains that it’s for his girlfriend, and while red and blue are both colors she likes, he isn’t sure which would get the most use – when he sees a Santa Claus stumbling and tripping over himself, shoving people out of his way as he runs past the great big glass windows.

“Huh.” Ron frowns, putting the sets down and moving over to the windows to get a better look.

Ron hears the commotion before he sees it, but when he does see it – ‘it’ being his best friend bleeding, in a blinking fuzzy Christmas sweater, gun brandished, chased by dogs and security who are blowing their whistles and brandishing guns of their own – he grabs all his shit and makes leave.

“If you ladies will please excuse me – ” Ron gives a parting excuse to the employees, who only frown at him as he runs and runs and runs to catch up to, “Flip! Flip what the fuck is going on!”

“It’s about goddamn time!” Flip shouts, nearly red in the face from exertion and sheer unbridled rage as he points with his gun to the man in red a few yards ahead, “That Santa! Is! A! Maniac! I don’t know how many stores he’s stolen from, but at least from the jewelry store and is shooting at people – watch out!”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, half a dozen men throw large plastic ornaments the size of cars out onto the floor as a means to blockade the hall. They’re dressed in green, with red and white stockings and pointed hats that have jingle bells on the end, but these were no innocent visitors from the North Pole.

“Of fucking course he’s got elves.” Flip grunts as he tries to run around them, tries his best to avoid getting hit square in the chest with them as they bounce and create a rampaging path of destruction.

“I’ll handle the dogs and the elves, and the mall cops, you catch Santa.” Ron slows down enough, until he’s far enough away that Flip can’t hear him, his own feet still on auto-pilot as he hunts down the Santa.

And then – then!

As if by some miracle, the Santa trips, and he and his sack full of stolen goods all come crashing down to the linoleum floor. In slow motion, Flip jumps using all the strength he has left, hands extended to grab the Santa, and as he flies across the distance between their bodies, Flip swears he sees his life flash before his eyes.

Thudding to the floor, he manages to get the Santa in a chokehold, letting out a triumphant shout of victory.

“Got you!” He pins the man down, rolls him over onto his back so that he can pin his hands behind his back, Flip fishing for his handcuffs that he managed to keep in his back-pocket this whole time, “I got you you son of a bitch!”

Off to the side, a group of small children watch a grown man leap and tackle Santa Claus to the ground.

Little Stacey gasps in shock and horror, before her older brother Jacob can quickly cover her eyes with his own mittened hand. They, along with their friends – an assortment of ten to twelve year olds left unsupervised on Christmas Eve while their parents and gaurdians get gifts for in-laws they don’t like – immediately turn to one another, while Santa’s body jerks and writhes underneath the heavy knee of some strange man.

“What should we do?” Nicolas asks the leader of their group.

“Well there’s really only one thing we can do.” Dewey says with all the determination of a man about to walk into battle. The children exchange glances with resolution and with all the authority that an eighth-grader can muster, Dewey regards his friends, “All in favor of rescuing Santa and saving Christmas, say ‘aye’.”

“Aye!”

It is this emboldened shout of unity that draws Flip’s attention – before he is promptly charged by six small children who proceed to punch, and bite, and smack at him.

In the chaos, Santa manages to slip out of Flip’s grasp. Thankfully he’s still handcuffed and he’s dropped his gun, but the children don’t notice that. No, they’re too busy beating the shit out of Flip, who can’t bring himself to fight back against the angry fists of fury that are descending onto him.

“Get off of me! Get – I am a police fucking officer get off -- !” Flip manages to shake them away, and they stare up at him with wide eyes when he wipes the blood away from his nose at being slammed to the ground.

“Don’t you assholes have parents – oh forget it.” Flip doesn’t bother, caring so little about anything anymore.

He’s is almost defeated, almost, but Santa is handcuffed and limping, he can’t get too much farther, he’s so close – he’s right there –

“Oh shit!” Flip jumps back, as suddenly, out of nowhere, Ron in one of the security mall-carts comes darting from around the corner and t-bones the Santa from the side.

Santa’s body slides across the floor, and seconds later, Bridges, Trapp, Jimmy, and a dozen or so other familiar faces flood the large floor, in their blues and with their walkie talkies loud.

“Flip!” Bridges darts over to where Flip has practically collapsed onto the floor.

He’s directly underneath those ornaments, and he practically wills one of them to unlatch from their suspension and crush him to death.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” Bridges has the audacity to ask, looking Flip straight in the face.

His bleeding, swollen face.

There’s a moment or two where Flip can’t think of anything other than how badly he wants a fucking cigarette, but eventually he licks across his teeth, scratches the back of his neck.

“Honestly?” Flip muses, before replying in the most dry deadpan way he can muster, “I’ve never been better.”

Blood drips onto the blinking Christmas sweater, and with that, Bridges claps him on the back and nods.

“Go home. We’ll get your statement after the holiday weekend.” He says, and sweeter words have never been spoken. “Don’t worry about Ron, we’ll give him a lift home.”

Flip’s snowy home in the mountains has never, ever looked more beautiful, Flip can’t help but think. It was quiet, so quiet up here. Snow dusted itself along the length of the front porch, draped the roof and surrounding trees in a blanket of crisp clean fresh white. No dirt, no blood, no sweat – just white. It was purifying, to say the least.

But not so purifying as the front door opening and your stunning face lighting up to see him.

That is, until you notice him limping, notice him covered in blood, notice his hair destroyed and his face bruised. Then your smile melts into something closer to shock and terror.

“Phil! What the fuck happened to you?” You rush to him, trudging through snow that’s up to your calves. You’re not wearing shoes, and Flip can’t bear the thought of you getting too cold, so he hoists you up and holds you against his side, walking you back to the house.

“I…really…don’t want to talk about it.” Flip sighs, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the covers with you and never emerge.

“Holy shit, are you bleeding?” You push your hand up to his face and feel at his tender nose, making him wince.

“That sounds about right.” He mutters, slamming the door behind him with his foot when he finally crosses the threshold into the foyer of the house.

Flip puts you down and immediately shoves his entire face into your neck, trying hard not to cry. What a fucking day it had been, he can’t help but think as he lets the stress and frustration finally mount behind his eyes. His face hurts, everything about him hurts, his legs are exhausted, his back is fucking killing him, and worse of all, his ego is beyond bruised.

“I hate Christmas.” Flip hiccups, knowing that he’s smearing blood against your pretty robe. Now that he’s got you in his arms, he doesn’t want you to go away, doesn’t want you more than a foot away from him.

“I know sweetheart, I know. Come on let’s go take a shower.” You card your fingers through his hair, and lead him up to the bathroom.

In the light of the bathroom, you do your absolute damndest not to laugh. It’s not that you’re laughing at him, because you would never laugh at him of course, but you’ve never seen your husband look more angry in his entire life, and you’ve been there for a significant portion of it. You have a million questions that you know better than to bombard him with right now, knowing he’ll explain all in due time.

So instead, you peel away his layers until the both of you are naked. A Christmas sweater that blinks bright red and green is buried under blood-stained and ripped jeans, your robe, underwear and socks. Flip turns on the heat and waits for the water to not be so frigid, and in the meantime, you examine him.

“Were…did you get bit by a dog?” You frown as you see crescent bruises blooming underneath his skin. Thankfully, it looks like no actual puncture wounds – what a Christmas gift that would be, rabies.

“More like a pack.” Flip grumbles, making your eyebrows shoot up nearly to your hairline. You want to ask, but Flip dismisses it for now with a sigh and an, “It’s a long story.”

Finally the water seems to be good enough for him, and Flip leads you into the shower. At once, the water runs pink as it washes him clean of the day from hell. Your hands in his hair are heavenly, washing the muck and sweat and grime out of the locks, and Flip could practically cry.

“I know what you need.” You whisper, kissing at the side of his face that’s not tender.

Keeping heated eye contact, you slowly slowly slowly slink down to your knees. Water cascades down your shoulders as your hand reaches for Flip’s cock, as you pump it ever so carefully in even strokes until he’s fully hard.

Your tongue licks up a thick stripe of his shaft, and Flip has to lean fully against the wall so his legs don’t give out and he winds up in the ER with a concussion again. Your mouth swallows him down, feels the weight of his cock on your tongue, against the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat.

“Bed, now.” Flip stops you before you can get any further, and you pull off with a smile, glad to see that though he’s in a bad mood, he’s willing to let you help him feel better.

Barely drying off with a towel, Flip kisses and kisses and kisses you as you both stumble to your bed, falling down on top of the covers. You’re giggling against his lips just because you love him so much, but he’s not smiling. No, he’s still in a proper pissed off mood, and you’re glad to let him do what he will with you.

Flip’s cock throbs as it slides in real easy into your cunt, the wet heat of your body welcoming him on the first thrust. Your eyes fall shut as your back arches off the mattress from the feeling of being so filled so fast, the breath punching out of your lungs.

“God you’re wet.” He has to groan, swipes a few fingers over your clit just to massage it and get your legs shaking, your shoulders squirming for him, “What – were you jerkin’ off missing me? Thinkin’ about me? I was thinkin’ about you.”

The thought makes him break out into a sweat as he starts to thrust, his limbs aching and sore from all the running and bodily contact, but too desperate for you to give a fuck.

“Yeah, yes Flip – I missed you, missed your cock.” You whine, giving him permission to, “Give it to me, take it all out on me honey.”

The flood gates open, and Flip’s ramming into you hard and fast. He’s bouncing the mattress, slamming the headboard from it, from the grip on your hips as he fucks and fucks and fucks you. Spit strings down from his teeth as his jaw is clenched, savoring the feeling and chasing that feeling, of your beautiful body opening and squeezing around him.

“Fuck ketsl, fuck I – oh damn that feels good.” He grinds himself all the way up inside you, pushes you up the bed with the force of it. He grabs at your hair, yanks your head back so he can suck and kiss at your throat, can feel your fluttering pulse as you moan and sigh and gasp.

“Yeah? How good? Tell me.” Your hands don’t know where to go, you don’t want to accidentally touch a bruised spot, so instead they fist in the sheets as you push your hips up to let him rail into you from this new angle.

“I’m gonna knock you the fuck up, that’s how good it is, that’s how hard you make me ketsl, do that thing I like? You know the one.” Flip’s delirious, doesn’t know what he’s even saying, but you breathe out a harsh moan from the words, hands pushing your tits together.

“Like this?” Your voice wobbles from the fucking he gives you, breasts bouncing, nipples peeking through your spread fingers as you cup and hold them for him.

“Just like that – fuck, goddamn baby you’re so pretty, I could fuck this pussy all night long – ow!” Flip is about to lavish kisses onto your cleavage, when something twinges in his back, and his arms collapse underneath him and he falls square on top of your chest.

“Shit, Flip are you okay?” Your body tenses immediately, worried for him, the mood ruined.

“Yeah – yes, dammit,” Flip groans, never feeling more like an old middle aged man than he does right now.

“Okay maybe don’t fuck me all night long,” You chuckle, calming and soothing him with your hands in his hair, abandoning the hold on your breasts. Still, you’d hate for him to not even get to come after all of that, so you kiss the side of his tender nose and whisper, “Are you close?”

“Yeah, sorry I’m sorry – ” Flip rolls you onto your side, eases back into you that way, where he doesn’t have to hold himself up.

“Don’t apologize, just come in me honey, come in me.” You encourage, knowing that he’ll get a good few orgasms out of you once he’s feeling a little better.

Flip nods and kisses you, wet and hot and sloppy as he thrusts a few more times, your legs corralled over his, until he grunts out long and low, spills into your pussy.

He rides that high, rides the feeling of your sweet lips on his, until all he can do is groan from being sore.

“I think I need to see a doctor.” Flip grumbles, sounding so dejected.

“Yeah I think so too handsome.” You give him an apologetic smile on behalf of the universe, and he sighs.

You’re an angel though, striking up a cigarette for him. Passing it to him, Flip pulls out of you with a wince and the two of you starfish out onto your backs, staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom. You let him have a few minutes of silence, but eventually the curiosity kills you and you have to ask,

“Hey, how come you were even in the mall to begin with?” Peering up at him through your lashes, wondering what the hell he had even gotten himself into, “I thought you were just popping into work for something.”

At that moment, the cold dread of realization crashes through Flip, and despite his injuries and general exhaustion, sits straight up in bed and gasps out, “Oh fuck!! I’m sorry ketsl I was going to surprise you with – ”

Just then, the doorbell rings, and the both of you frown at one another.

You weren’t expecting anyone to come over, even though it was Christmas Eve, you didn’t have any plans to celebrate anyway other than with some Chinese food takeout and a good movie. Considering the state that Flip is in, you go to reach for your robe, but Flip shakes his head and grabs for his instead.

“No, let me. You’re not dressed.” Flip says.

You love him enough not to point out that he isn’t dressed either, but Flip deserves to do what he wants after the day he’s had, you think.

Creeping down the stairs, Flip tries to look through the front window to see who it could be, but whether it’s the angle or something else, he can’t get a good visual. He pulls the robe sash tighter around his waist, looks through the peephole.

Strangely, there’s nothing there, no one to be seen. No car in his driveway, either.

How strange, Flip thinks, as he cracks the door open, wondering what the fuck else the day has in store for him.

Sitting right there on the front porch, is a small box. It’s wrapped in a golden ribbon, bearing the logo of Goldsmith’s Jewlery in a wax seal on the side. Frowning, Flip approaches it, picks it up. It feels like the right weight, but to be sure, he pulls open the ribbon and peeks inside.

Sure enough, resting atop the black velvet interior of the box are the diamond earrings that had started this whole mess.

Something about that, something about those earrings being there, makes Flip’s heart warm through. Even though it’s cold, he doesn’t feel the bite of the wind. All he can think about, is you, waiting for him upstairs in your bedroom. You, who care for him, who takes care of him, even on days when he doesn’t even want to take care of himself.

The earrings twinkle in the grey sunlight of the snowy day, and despite it all, Flip smiles to himself. What was another year of bullshit, really? He could go through anything, could do anything, as long as he had you by his side. Yes, Flip thinks, it’s all worth it, or at least it will be, when he sees your smile once again, when he gives you this little token of his appreciation, of his love.

And as he casts his gaze up to the sky, half expecting to see the real Santa Claus flying away in his sleigh, half expecting to see some friendly man smiling down at him behind a team of reindeer, Flip feels something that maybe…just maybe…might be akin to Christmas Spirit.

Until the moment passes, and he’s reminded of the day’s events by a twinge in his side from where he was donkey kicked by a twelve year old.

“Who the fuck am I kidding,” Flip scoffs to himself after a shake of his head, locking the door behind him, “Ba fuckin’ humbug, and a merry new year.”

#flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman/reader #flip zimmerman x reader #flip zimmerman/you #flip zimmerman x you #blackkklansman #adam driver fanfiction #adcu #flip zimmerman smut #flip zimmerman humor #flip zimmerman angst #my writing

161 notes · View notes

sesamenom · 1 year ago

Text

OK so headcanons/ideas/interpretations below the cut:

1. Twins run in feanors family (specifically the miriel side). feanor absorbed his twin (hence the too-much-fea problem he seems to have). gil galad also has a twin (pt 5/6)

2. Nerdanel is just as fiery as feanor (she was the one carrying their 7 kids!!), she’s just a lot smarter about directing her energy at productive tasks. So after another insufferable political thing where they have to dress up and make polite small talk for hours, she’ll disappear into her workshop for a week or two, because a big part of stone sculpting is hitting giant rocks with a hammer, which I would imagine to be a very good outlet for her. (meanwhile feanor after the same political thing is brandishing a sword at fingolfin)

3. Of their kids, maedhros, caranthir, celegorm, and the ambarussa ended up more like nerdanel in terms of fire spirit management. (maedhros slowly loses control towards the end of the first age but still.) specifically celegorm & the ambarussa use hunting/tracking with orome’s Hunt as a way to redirect from hunting fingolfin, and maedhros & caranthir tend to disappear to go camping after a particularly difficult family reunion.

4. Maglor and curufin are more like feanor, and tend to direct anger towards people instead of things. this was one of the major factors in putting maglor in the gap next to morgoth because he snapped around the same time feanor did and didn’t really recover until after the third kinslaying, so during the aglareb period he was one of the most immediately terrifying feanorions.

5. Gil galad is actually maglor’s kid. maglor’s wife was a telerin luthier who went with him up to alqualonde, then divorced him when he announced support of feanor stealing the ships. in the chaos of the first kinslaying, maglor ended up taking gil galad w/ him to beleriand. he then sent Gil to Cirdan (a distant relative of maglors ex wife), since he realized he wasn’t in a great position to raise a kid by himself. However, he sent him anonymously because he was worried cirdan would refuse on the basis of the kinslaying (which of course makes sense). he never ended up meeting gil galad again (in beleriand at least), and gil never actually knew who his parents were, only that his father was finwean. (after he went to mandos, maedhros explained the situation to him)

6. Gil galad also has a twin, finwain, who was raised in valinor by their mother. durign the first kinslaying, they both ended up grabbing the nearest kid and running, and finwain lived with the remainder of the teleri. he doesn’t meet gil until mandos and he doesn’t meet maglor until he sails (read: is dragged to valinor by elladan & elrohir). also, gil galad has too many used-once-etymology-unknown names, so finwain can have them. (x)

7. Gildor is finrod & amarie’s kid from after finrod was reembodied. he sailed to beleriand during the war of wrath and never left.

8. Erestor is caranthir’s son. he keeps it somewhat of a secret during the second and third ages. (x)

9. Of elrond’s kids, Elladan is the Mannish one (hence adan) Elrohir is the Noldorin one (rohir) and Arwen is the sindarin/Doriathrim one

10. Undomiel/Tindomiel was absolutely planned, before either of them were even married

11. Galadriel’s hair is a mix of gold and silver, but the exact hue shifts with the waxing and waning of the Trees. She also reflects treelight and used to wear basically a blackout showercap at night to prevent telperion head. during the darkness her hair glowed a little more faintly with the absorbed light (like those glow in the dark toys you charge up under a lamp) and was one of the few light sources on the Helcaraxe. after the creation of the sun and moon, her hair still shifts with the day/night cycle but the glowing is tame enough she only needs to cover it on full moons.

12. Melian’s descendants all have some maia weirdness

12a. Daeron can slightly influence the Music with his flute to spawn small plants and animals 12b. Dior was able to slightly affect his perception of time ainur-style when fighting the feanorions as a last-resort superpower like fingolfin’s Vala-mode 12c. Elured & elurin hid themselves from maedhros by blending into the forest 12d. Elwing’s birding was mostly caused by her maia-ness; ulmo only prodded it a bit. also post-birding and with the instruction of the valinor birds she can grow maia-style wings on command. she does wing races with Eonwe. 12e. Elrond & elros’ hair shifts to match whoever they’re (emotionally) close to. their finwean stuff mixed with their melian stuff also means they can grow temporary wings and glow when sufficiently angered, but the wings aren’t strong enough to go more than a few feet off the ground. mostly it’s good for intimidation, and also how elrond scared annatar away.

13. Elrond’s kids have extra weird hair as a side effect of being the product of the two Weird Hair Families. Arwen has the strongest Treelight hair (galadriel advises her to use blackout showercaps during full moons). elladan and elrohir wear dark hoods when hunting so they can actually sneak up on things without worrying about time-based strobelight hair. (x)

14. Elladan would be blond without luthien hair and elrohir would have white hair. unfortunately, they are otherwise completely identical.

15. All finweans create some degree of fire or light when they die

16. Ainur have glowy facial markings, and maia match their respective valar. Melkor is the only one who doesn’t have them. Huan has them. (x)

16a. Melian’s descendants have them. luthien, daeron, and dior are the only ones who have them by default; the others’ markings show up when excited/angry. Elrond & elros’ glow because of the fingolfin thing.

17. All the El twins (elured & elurin, elrond & elros, elladan & elrohir) are identical in any combination aside from hair color (and maia markings when they show up). elured & elurin can alter their appearance enough to temporarily shift their hair to luthien mode. someone eventually labels them all (minus elros for obvious reasons) in valinor because five identical people is very confusing, especially when one of them is politically significant. paperwork was never delivered to the right person in rivendell

18. glorfindel upon his return to middle earth immediately took a boat out to dig up his old stuff from the ruins of gondolin.

19. noldorin steel and gondolindrim steel are both mithril; celebrimbor was just the first person to actually name it

20. the palantir have a block button but nobody in the third age knows where it is

21. feanor has raven hair (basically a combo of dark blue/purple/teal). maglor has blue hair, caranthir has purple hair, and celebrimbor has teal hair. (x)

22. celegorm has silvery blond hair courtesy of miriel

23. finwain [gil galads oc twin] has silver hair with bluish tips from maglor. erestor has brown hair with purple highlights. everyone always asks if he dyes it.

24. the non-maia members of Orome’s Hunt tattoo their arms/faces to match orome’s markings.

25. aredhel would have joined the Hunt, but she was too young before the flight of the noldor

26. the arkenstone was one of feanor’s older prototypes/floor scraps. aule put it in the mountain to see what the dwarves would do with it (they ended up properly polishing/cutting it)

27. Maglor wears jewel dust in his hair to make it extra blue and extra sparkly. (which means 2/3 of elronds dads are sparkly)

28. Rochallor & the mearas are descendants of Nahar

29. Gandalf tried Valarin on the Doors. Celebrimbor does not speak Valarin. Gandalf knows that.

30. Mandos himself was absolutely yelling the Doom at feanor

31. Luthien goes back to look for Daeron after the events of the Lay. he ends up living w/ her, beren, and dior in their little house in the woods. After their deaths, Daeron adopts elured & elurin (hc courtesy of @sakasakiii [lol i feel like ive tagged you in every other one of my posts lately, sorry rin!])

32. daeron is a miriel-level weaver, but his tapestries are mostly ignored in comparison to Luthien’s hair cloak

33. The Earendel star discovered by Hubble is in fact Earendil. he took a wrong turn and got lost

34. Elladan & elrohir drag maglor along when they sail. he’s affected by the oath’s “afar casteth” and has to be tied up to stop him from trying to oath-punch-himself-in-the-face

35. the Noldolante, the Lay of Earendel, and the Lay of Leithian are all banned in Rivendell’s song hall because hearing them once in a while is nice, but hearing them for hours on end is incredibly annoying and also nobody was writing anything new. the Song of Earendel is promptly added to the banned list.

36. Glorfindel is elenwe’s cousin (or nephew maybe?) on the vanyarin side

and more that i can't think of at the moment

Silm fandom, who wants to share their character headcanons with me? Tell me about your blorbo’s favorite hobbies. Tell me about the OC you created or the textual ghost you expanded on. Tell me which characters are more than a little fruity. Tell me Maedhros’ favorite color. I want to hear it all.

#silm #silmarillion #headcanons #long post #not art

94 notes · View notes

justasimplesinner · 4 years ago

Note

Ok first of fucking all I love the way you write, it's really hard to find a writer who can make a character or topic im not particularly interested in actually worth reading. Fucking spot on my guy 👌. Secondly, I was wondering if you'd be up for a request with Mof Johnathan and Arkham Eddie? If you could write a scenario were he's sitting down at his workspaces or couch working on something villain related and they feel a full blown breakdown coming on. Like they're really fucking stressed for whatever reason (take your pick) and the fact that they can't even focus on their own work is making it worse. Their s/o walks in and all it takes is a glance in his direction to figure out they've stumbled upon a ticking time bomb. So, as a spur of the moment attempt to distract him, they plop themselves into his lap and start whispering sweet nothings and praise while they stroke his hair (your choice whether it gets saucy from there or not). I'm a soft bitch and I need you to quench my thirst for hurt/comfort fics.

nothings better than making grown men break down. also, despite being short, this took so god damn long, i swear. but writing eddies pov is just so enjoyable, thats rewarding enough. he's such a stupid fuck its adorable

Masters of Fear!Jon getting comforted hcs:

It didn't feel right. At all. Nothing felt right. Everything was wrong. Every scratch of his pen on the paper felt like nails on a blackboard and his ears were ringing. His hands were shaking and instead of words, there were just crooked lines, like a hand-written ECG record. Every little sound from outside made him jump, every little drop of rain falling onto the window felt like a small bomb going off right besides his ear.

Ever since he woke up today, everything felt so wrong. You weren't in bed when he woke up, your side already cold because you left for work. Because he slept in and couldn't even say goodmorning to you. Or goodbye. And if something happened to you? It was Gotham, everything could happen to you. And he didn't even get the chance to see you, talk to you, kiss you. And the scrambled eggs he reluctantly made for breakfast almost made him vomit. He didn't eat them. Actually, he hadn't ate at all. Nothing. Not a crumb. It made him sick.

It's like he felt something coming, but he had no idea what. Like a storm, like danger. The feeling you get when you're being watched. The feeling he always got when he heard those specific footsteps in school hallways. Very specific. Measured, every move thought out - the trait of a sportsman. But heavy. Not clicking on the floor, but thumping. Very loud and very obvious. The footsteps that made him freeze in place because even if he tried, he wouldn't outrun them. They would follow. The pain would follow. Thump, thump, thump on the floor, foretelling nothing good, right around the corner, right... behind him!

He jumped up high in his seat, whipping his head around, eyes trying to scan the room but it all felt foggy. The only clear thing was the loud crack of the pen breaking in his clenched hand. And the first thing he saw was a hand, reaching out for him, maybe for his throat, maybe to thrash him around - he didn't know, but it was too close.

– Jon? – it was like something snapped in him when it was your voice that rang in his ears and his breathing stilled when he realized you were lightly rubbing your right hand. Did he hurt you? He wanted to ask, he needed to know if he hurt you, if he fucked up again but when his eyes finally looked up into yours, he couldn't say anything.

The best thing was, he didn't even need to. It's like you already knew. Like he didn't have to do anything and you just saw it. Knew it. Sensed it. And when you got closer this time, he didn't push you away. There was no pain. No pain when your brows furrowed in genuine concern. No pain when your hands cupped his face to look him in the eyes. No pain when you slowly lowered yourself onto his lap. You never brought pain.

– Oh, baby... – your tone was condescending in the best of ways, and your fingers glided up into his hair so gently, nails scratching softly at his scalp, and it's as if his eyes shut on their own accord as he curled into you, wrapping his arms tight around your torso to press you closer. Keep you there, in that exact spot. So that you would never leave.

– I'm sorry I hurt you. – he practically cried into your neck, pressing his face hard into your skin to remind himself that you were there for him. He had you right in his lap, and yet he had to fucking remind himself still. Why was he so fucked up? You didn't have to put up with this. You didn't have to care. He wasn't your responsibility, he was nothing. And yet...

– You could never. It's fine.

You hugged him tight, one hand combing through his messy hair, tangled from him pulling on it, and the other one tracing up and down his back, making up shapes as it went. There were spirals, zig zags, waves, straight lines - he focused strictly on the feeling of your fingers, imagining every little shape they drew.

He kind of wished his shirt was off. So that he could actually feel you on his skin.

– I'm sorry. – and he was, because you just came back from work, probably exhausted, and now you had to baby him since he couldn't even fucking take care of himself. Why was he like this?

– Don't. You don't have to be sorry for feeling something. It's what humans do.

How did you always know what to say? How did you always know what to do? What has he ever done to deserve even an ounce of what you gave him? Did it matter? He was so fucking glad you were back home.

Arkham!Eddie getting comforted hcs:

Mistake. One after another. Each one followed by the next, like a chain reaction. The only thing he fucking did today was mistakes. All the measurements were wrong. All his coding was wrong. Every single little thing was at least a little bit off. He didn't accept 'a little bit off'. It was either perfect, or it was nothing to him. He was nothing. Nothing but a fucking failure, constantly fucking things up, unable to perform even the simplest tasks. Every last idiot could programm a computer. And he wasn't an idiot. Or was he?

A groan ripped from his throat, the hand in his hair tightening.

If he wasn't an idiot, why couldn't he get anything done? If he wasn't an idiot, why did Batman, of all people, outsmart him? If he wasn't an idiot, why hasn't he won yet?

It's like his body wasn't his own when he let out a pathetically high-pitched growl and his arm instinctively threw the first thing it gripped at a wall. The coffee cup smashed into little pieces upon the impact, coffee splashing everywhere, blemishing everything. You brought him this cup. And the one before that. You put it there. You did yet another thing he hasn't asked of you. Why couldn't you just listen for once? Stop disturbing him? It was all your failt that he couldn't focus, because you were constantly going in and out of his workshop and he clearly told you to stay away.

Oh, speak of the fucking devil, he could already hear your thumping footsteps nearing the door, probably lured in by the sound of his cup shattering. Because you were 'worried', as if he would be stupid enough to injure himself or do anything reckless! He furiously pushed some old scraps of metal to the floor, making them clink loudly, feeling a slight sting on his forearm. Great, now he fucking cut himself because of you-

– Eddie, baby? You alright? – the sound of your gentle voice echoed in the room, overpowering the earlier noise. He didn't even grace that with a response, just sighed heavily, annoyance seeping out of him, as he leaned his head on his palm. Why did you have to ruin everything?

And then, just to spite him, you moved closer. Close enough for your sweet scent to fill his lungs, your fingers dancing over his shoulder and he almost shook them off. Instead, he abruptly leaned back in his chair, gritting his teeth. You wasted your chance to get out of here without a scratch.

What he didn't expect however, was your legs slowly, yet suddenly straddling him, hands on his shoulders, digging in lightly to massage and manipulate them into whatever it was you wanted. He felt his stomach churn, his blood boiling to the point where he felt hot all over and his hands almost, almost shot out in your direction. To push you off.

– If you haven't realised yet, I'm working. – it was a blatant lie and you knew it immediately. He wasn't working, not at all, only tinkering with things and fucking them up further. All because of you-

Your hands slowly travelled up, surprisingly careful not to tickle his neck, grabbing his face on both sides with that gentle, motherly fucking smile of yours. Like he was some child. Like you were trying to lure him in and... and... kiss his forhead, and... push your own against it, and- argh!

– Maybe take a little break, hm? – you muttered and he felt it more than heard it, your lips moving lightly against his skin, your nose soon nuzzling his long one and it's as if his head moved along on it's own accord.

This was such obvious manipulation-...!

– I don't need a break! I-...!

– I know you don't, Eddie. – you rudely cut him off, thumbs caressing his cheekbones – But I'm asking you nicely. I miss you.

Even if he protested, you wouldn't've let him go. It was obvious in the way your arms slid around his neck and shoulders, hugging him to your body, almost suffocating him in your chest and he just had to brace his hands on your back. And maybe he would've even pulled away, but you were so... warm. Soft. Like a pillow. And it made him snuggle in further.

– You're so clingy sometimes, you know that? – he muttered, his arms wrapping around you tighter, fingers hooking into your flesh and he felt your fingers slide into his hair, gently massaging his pounding scalp, making the ache almost instantly ease off slightly. His muslces started relaxing, too, his spine finally having a break from holding up his weight.

– You know you like it. – he clearly heard a chuckle in your voice, and it made his hand slide up to the back of your head to push you further into in, to quiet you, as his chin found it's place on your shoulder. Your nails dragged up and down his back, sneakily creeping under his clothes sometimes, and it made a violent but pleasant shiver run through his body, causing his arms to tighten around you.

Maybe he could take a break. You clearly needed him, it would be unwise to ignore you for too long. You could feel neglected, abandoned even - that could cause... problems. He didn't have the strength to deal with problems now. He could just indulge you for a little bit, no harm done. And so, his grip tightened, his body curling around you so every possible part of it was touching you.

You so obviously needed the comfort, and truly, he could never deny you.

#riddler #edward nigma #edward nygma #the riddler #jonathan crane #scarecrow #the scarecrow #masters of fear #arkhamverse #my writing #angst #fluff #kinda hurt/comfort #anonymous #damn this was exhausting #but so totally worth it #even i like my work for once

116 notes · View notes

anistarrose · 4 years ago

Link

Summary: Winters running the Mystery Shack are difficult, but two unexpected guests improve Stan’s day.

Characters: Stan Pines, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Ford Pines

Relationships: Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines

Happy Holidays, @halogalopaghost! I'm your Secret Santa, here to mash together a couple different prompts through the power of time travel (and Mabel)!

***

It doesn’t take Stan many years to learn that winter’s no good for the rural Oregon tourist business.

Granted, he can hardly blame the tourists — he has to drive on Gravity Falls roads himself, much to his disgust. Between the paved, plowed streets that always turn slick with ice where you least expect them, and the winding gravel roads that you might as well ignore when road and wilderness alike are under identical four-inch blankets of snow, he knows no gallery of fake haunted paintings or taxidermied coyote’s ass is worth the trip in these conditions.

He’s on his third winter in town, now — not counting the first, worst one he arrived at the tail end of — and if there’s a right way to run a business this time of year, he hasn’t found it yet. He always scrapes together just enough to pay his bills, thanks the occasional local who wanders over to purchase a seasonally appropriate if overpriced snow globe — but he’s lucky if he breaks even in December, and knows January through March are a lost cause before they begin. He’ll make it back within the next year, sometimes even before summer ends, but it stings to know he’s about to fail at his one goal for the next three to four months straight, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

It might sting less if he had another way to spend these winters — if he had a good reason to formally close the Shack for a few months, like an experienced business owner making a grounded and responsible decision. But he can’t even search for Ford’s journals in this weather — he’s learned from his mistakes, his countless brushes with frostbite, throughout those cold, desperate months in the wake of the portal shutting down.

He’s useless right now, and worse, this season’s shaping up to be the bleakest yet. His usually-scammable neighbors have already lined their shelves with winter knicknacks from Mystery Shack visits past, and the bulk of Stan’s meager sales have come from shivering out-of-towners who’ve never tried to take a Pacific Northwest road trip in December before, and probably won’t be keen to try again.

What seasonal merchandise hasn’t he sold yet? Bumper stickers for miscellaneous holidays, maybe — but neither timely bumper stickers nor the usual selection of tchotchkes will convince people to visit the Shack in the first place, under these road conditions. He can’t even walk around selling merch door to door, for the same reason he can’t look for the other journals — he’d freeze to death, presuming he could make it through the snowdrifts to somewhere worth visiting in the first place. Even with snow chains on the Stanmobile’s tires and a bucket of salt in her trunk, grocery runs alone are perilous enough.

Damn it, Ford, he thinks, why couldn’t you have gone missing in Florida?

He could always do what he does best and lie, maybe — send out word that there’s free hot chocolate or something with every purchase at the Mystery Shack, and hope that people hand over their hard-earned cash before they pick up on the false advertising. He might draw in some local customers that way, and even if he loses their trust for the next few months, they always seem to forget about his cons eventually — as if he never scammed them, and they’ve never so much as heard the words caveat emptor.

He’s just about to dial the local paper’s number on the phone, hoping to flatter Toby into letting him run another ad for free, when he hears a telltale knock at the gift shop door. The bell atop that door doesn’t ring, which means that despite the hostile winds and snow they braved to get here, his visitors are still out loitering on the porch — or so Stan thinks for a moment, before it dawns on him that he doesn’t even remember unlocking the door this morning. He’d just been that pessimistic about even seeing a customer.

“Hello?” someone calls — a fairly young voice, probably approaching the tail end of puberty. “Are you there, uh…Mr. Mystery?”

“On my way!” Stan shouts, throwing on his fez and bolting for the door. His neighbors in Gravity Falls might forget and forgive a lot, but he doesn’t want to risk the wrath of a parent whose teenage kid froze to death on the local grifter’s doorstep, so he unlocks and flings open the door as fast as he can. “Welcome, travelers! Prepare to be baffled and bemused by our mind-boggling boreal mysteries, here at this last refuge at the edge of the Arctic we like to call the Cryptid Cabin!”

His visitor — no, his two visitors — both blink slowly, proving to at least be baffled, if nothing else. Both are bundled up in what Stan assumes to be several sheep worth of wool garments, lovingly knitted into sweaters, hats, and scarves.

“But you call this place the Mystery Shack,” the girl speaks up, and the boy nods.

“Yeah, and we’re nowhere near the Arctic! This is Oregon, not Alaska!”

Stan groans — the only customers he might see all week, and of course they’re teenagers. “Look, punks, business is slow these days! I’ve had a lot of time to think about a seasonal rebranding, and not a lot of chances to workshop it, alright?”

The teens’ expressions instantly soften, and the girl exclaims: “Well, you can workshop it with us!” She grabs the other kid — her brother? — by the hand, and pulls him into the gift shop.

Maybe Stan’s judged them too quickly — he’s still not thrilled to have strangers pitying him, of course, but he’ll take it over strangers mocking him any day of the week.

“Dang, you’re right,” the boy comments once inside, and face-to-face with shelves of untouched merchandise. “It really is empty in here in the winter.”

With little light coming in from the windows, and a flickering bulb overhead that will soon need replacing, the often-bustling room is now dim and eerie — aside from the junk food wrappers on the floor, which Stan hastily kicks under his desk.

“Look at all the lonely snowglobes in need of homes!” the girl pipes up, swiping a glass-encased antelabbit off the shelf and giving it a hearty shake. “Good thing I’m here to adopt this lucky little guy — how much is he?”

Stan takes a second to run the numbers — the maximum amount of money a teen would have on hand, versus what Stan needs to charge to make a profit — and replies: “Twenty-nine ninety-nine and nothing more. We don’t do sales tax here, ‘less you’re a cop.”

“Bet there’s a lot of other taxes you don’t do, either,” the boy snorts, rummaging through a shelf of hats until he unearths one with the old Murder Hut logo on it. “Aha! Now here’s a collector’s item!”

“Oh, did you come here before the rebrand and forget to grab a souvenir?” Stan asks. He doesn’t remember these two, but it’s been a couple years since he painted over the last Murder Hut sign — and they do seem pretty familiar with the building, not to mention Stan’s whole… business model.

“Oh, uh, that’s a funny story, actually! Real funny!” the boy stammers with a whole lot more trepidation than the topic should’ve warranted, and looks to his sister for help.

Sure enough, she steps in. “We lived here for a while — in Gravity Falls, I mean! Not here in the Shack, obviously — wouldn’t that be ridiculous, if we lived in your house for months without you knowing? Could you imagine —”

“That is to say, we still visit sometimes!” the boy supplies. His eyes are a whole lot more fixated on the snowglobes than with anything in Stan’s general direction. “You probably don’t remember us — we weren’t in town for very long, or anything…”

Stan sighs. They’re lying, obviously — but hey, there’s no cops in the Mystery Shack, and he doesn’t have a dog in whatever fight compelled the duo to spew this bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on the cash register, of course, but these kids are tolerable company when they’re not being suspicious as hell — so if they want to invent a bad cover story for a low-stakes tourist trap visit, more power to them.

“Well, the hat’s vintage, so that’ll be double price. Twenty bucks,” he announces matter-of-factly, and the boy groans — but there’s a smile behind it, like he’d expected this and now he’s just playing along. If there’s one thing Stan’s willing to believe, it’s that these kids have been to the Mystery Shack before.

“You’re a highway robber, old man, and I’m the coward who’s gonna let you get away with it,” the boy declares, and Stan can’t help but laugh. The kid reaches under several layers of sweaters to pull out a wallet, with a blue pine tree embroidered on, and miscellaneous charms of fantasy characters hanging off a chain on the side. Stan doesn’t recognize any of them, but they still tug at his heartstrings, because he can tell they’re the exact kind of nerdy references Ford would love.

He does take note of the pine tree design, though — it’s generic enough that slapping it on some shirts and hats wouldn’t quite be plagiarism, and in Stan’s eyes, those are always the best souvenir designs.

The kids put their money forward, hovering awkwardly as Stan rings up their items — the girl busies herself attacking a loose string on her brother’s scarf, nimble fingers tying it back in its approximate place, while the boy twiddles his thumbs and stares at the snowy, gray scene out the window. At the moment, only light flurries fill the air, but tomorrow night promises a blizzard… and Stan, grump with a soft side that he is, can’t help but hope that if these kids are really on vacation, then they aren’t planning to drive anywhere tonight.

With it being winter, and him running the business that he does, he doesn’t have much charity to give — but, if he’s going to play along with his customers’ little lie, then he should probably at least bring up the topic.

“You’re not hittin’ the road any time soon, are you?” He makes eye contact only with the green illustrated presidents in his hands, so not to come across as overly invested. “Weather forecast says tonight’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Aww, you’re worried about us?” the girl coos, because apparently both parties here are damn good at picking up on each other’s lies. “That’s so sweet — but you don’t have to be! Our great uncle’s waiting for us in town, and he’ll… well, let’s just say he’s planning to bring us back home before the blizzard hits.”

“He’s, uh — he lived here back in the seventies, so he knows what he’s doing,” the boy adds. “On the roads, that is. Mostly.”

“Well, you two take care,” Stan tells them, hastily adding on: “So you can come back when the weather isn’t terrible and buy more keychains, that is.”

“Oh, we will.” The boy grins, sharing a conspiratorial glance with his sister. “Maybe don’t count on it being next year — or the year after that, even — but you can count on it.”

“Well, uh…” Stan stops himself, resisting the impulse to divulge things he really shouldn’t. “You just shouldn’t count on me running this place forever. Be sure to get your novelty cryptid pins while they’re hot, y’know.”

He’s never really wondered what he’ll do with the Shack when he gets Ford back — and yes, he has to believe that statement deserves a when, not an if — but he figures the Shack’s fate will depend more on Ford’s own whims. If reality lands somewhere between the nightmares of Ford wanting him gone and the fantasies of finally sailing around the world, if Ford doesn’t hate him but still wants to spend more time with Important Science Experiments than with his brother, then Stan could see himself returning to a mediocre life in his moderately successful tourist trap… but with the search for the journals still coming up empty, Stan can only try not to think about the future, and accept that he’ll just cross — or burn — that bridge when he comes to it.

“Okay, Mr. Mystery,” the girl suddenly declares with a tone that frankly reminds Stan of his mother, “you look like you could use a pick-me-up!”

“What?” It’s starting to freak Stan out how well she can read him, and there’s no telling whether it’s just a sharp intuition, or something significantly more Gravity Falls-y. “If I look tired, kid, it’s because it’s December in Oregon, I haven’t seen the sun in a week, and I am tired. Only pick-me-up I need is for you to get out of my hair, and let me go back into hibernation like nature intended.”

“Okay, but counterpoint: you hear us out,” the boy insists. “We’ve got a little something up our sleeve to really light up your winter —” He winks at his sister. “Don’t we?”

“You bet we do!” She pulls a bag of marshmallows out of not her sleeve, but her backpack, and grins. “Prepare to be amazed and astounded by the natural wonders of this town, and also the miracle that is processed sugar and gelatin!”

“Are you imitating my sales pitches?” Stan asks, dumbfounded. “And do you carry those on you at all times?”

“In winter in Gravity Falls, I do!” the girl replies, already heading for the exit with her brother. “C’mon! If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, nothing will!”

“We all know you’ve got time to spare, Stan,” the boy adds, cracking open the door. “Get a move on!”

“Spare time doesn’t mean I’ve got spare limbs to lose to frostbite,” Stan grumbles, but follows them anyway. There’s something captivating about these little punks — not so much this mysterious phenomenon they’re trying to sell him on, as if they could really out-charlatan Mr. Mystery himself, but rather the way they’re not put off by his frigid facade. They see right through him, showering him in alternating kindness and acerbic wit.

Stan can’t help but wonder if their uncle’s kind of like him — tired, bitter, and pretending to be indifferent, but secretly soft on the inside, like a marshmallow that’s burnt on the surface but melted within. It would explain why they’re so good at calling him on his shit — but then again, Stan and this mystery guy can’t be too alike, because if Stan had a niece and nephew like these two, he’s sure he’d be living his life a whole lot differently.

He exits the Shack, and all his questions are immediately replaced with new ones when he sees the teens just hurling marshmallows towards the edge of the woods. The wind’s in their favor, so some of those sugary little fuckers fly far.

“Okay, so I’ve already got a couple concerns,” Stan tells them, shivering. “First off, what the hell?”

“It might take a couple minutes before one shows up,” the girl admits, as if it’s a totally reasonable stand-alone explanation for whatever the hell’s going on here. With about a third of the marshmallows now blending into the snow on Stan’s lawn, she and her brother stop with the throwing, though they still hold onto the bag. “Our grunkle theorized that they move slower in winter, to save energy — oh wait, never mind! Here comes one now!”

“Sorry, what? And where?” Stan squints out into the woods, terrified to lay his eyes upon a woodland monster these kids just lured to his doorstep — but all he sees, at first, are a few wisps of smoke dispersing in the wind above the trees. He’s not even convinced it’s smoke, really, because these aren’t the right conditions for a fire — but to his surprise, he glimpses an orange light within the woods, glowing steadily brighter until the trees and bushes around it are all casting faint shadows.

When it steps into the clearing, Stan realizes he has seen something like it before, albeit only from the overcautious distance he tries to keep from all anomalies. It’s an otherwise normal campfire perched on wooden, spiderlike legs, and it melts a path in the snow as it trots forwards, then lowers itself to the ground to absorb the first of a dozen marshmallows.

It lets out a satisfied little sound — a low, steady crackle that sounds almost like a purr — then scampers up to the next morsel of food to repeat the process.

“It’s called a Scampfire!” the girl explains, beaming. “There’s a bunch of them out in the woods, and they’ll always wander over if you leave out enough campfire food — especially sugary stuff! Isn’t that cute?”

“Our great uncle figured out this amazing trick when he used to live here, and he passed it down to us!” the boy adds, practically bouncing up and down in place. “If you leave them a trail of food, they’ll follow you around until you run out — which means they can clear your driveway, warm your hands, even save your car if you drive into a snowbank! Or help you make s’mores, of course.”

“Our grunkle says he even skipped paying his heating bill a couple winters,” the girl adds with a grin, “but I dunno if we can recommend that in good conscience.”

As the scampfire draws a closer, continuing to purr as it consumes more of the sugary trail, the boy slaps a handful of marshmallows into Stan’s palm. “Give it a try!”

Stan’s not thrilled about bringing a fire onto the wooden porch attached to his wooden house, even as cute as said fire is, so instead he tosses his ammunition at something much more disposable — the golf cart, since if this one croaks, he can always just steal another from the insufferable rich family up on the hill. His aim isn’t great — he blames his cold fingers — but exactly one marshmallow lands right in the cart’s driver seat.

The scampfire breaks course from its path towards the Shack, clearing a path through the snow before it crawls into the cart, absorbing the final morsel and curling up atop crossed legs. Nothing explodes, and in fact, a few of the icicles on the awning start to melt, dripping water into the patch of bare muddy ground surrounding the cart.

“Huh,” Stan mutters. Dozens of harebrained schemes flash before his eyes — if he could find a slingshot, or even better, some kind of cannon to mount on the cart’s front hood, then he’s sure that with practice, he could entice some scampfires to clear a path through any snowdrift…

But no matter his exact solution, it’s a way to get into town consistently. He can finally go door-to-door selling knickknacks, instead of sitting in the gift shop every day and hoping some poor soul would get bored enough to brave the roads and visit. He can actually work out a way to line his pockets even in the winter, instead of constantly waking up from nightmares about getting foreclosed on —

“See? They get food, and we don’t freeze — classic mutualistic symbiotic relationship!” the boy declares, and his sister gently socks him in the arm.

“Nerd!”

“Hey, you knew that too! We’re in the same biology class!”

It’s familiar, but the kind of familiarity that Stan doesn’t treasure anymore. It’s more like the kind that he hides in the basement or in boarded-up rooms whenever he can, and grins and bears with a heavy heart when he can’t, like every time he looks in the mirror or hears someone call him Stanford. He comes so close to asking these teens if they’re twins, because he figures the answer can’t be worse than wondering — but the question dies in his throat, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

“Is your uncle who invented this trick the same one who’s waiting in town for you?” he asks instead.

“Yep!” replies the girl. “He probably won’t get worried about us for like, ten or fifteen more minutes, though — I’m sure he’s got his nose buried deep in a book right now.”

“Do me a favor and let him know he’s a lifesaver,” Stan says. “Also tell him I’m glad he moved out, because he sounds a little too smart to fall for the fake monster wares that I peddle.”

The kids exchange a look that Stan can’t even hope to comprehend, though he’s damn sure it’s worth a thousand words to the two of them. Twins or not, he’s getting an “inseparable” kind of vibe from these two, that’s for sure.

“I’m not sure he’d like the Shack at first,” the brother muses, “but I’ve got a hunch it would grow on him.”

“He does like cryptids — sometimes even fake ones!” the sister chimes in. “Oh, shoot — we still need to grab a souvenir for him! I knew we were forgetting something!”

“Huh.” Stan throws a few more marshmallows in the direction of the woods, and the scampfire stumbles off the cart before trotting along on its merry way back to the forest. “I can get you something, no problem — I don’t call this place a gift shop for nothing, y’know. But for the love of Paul Bunyan, let’s talk about it inside.”

He’s not great at mental math, but he doesn’t have to be to know he owes a lot to these teens and the mysterious uncle he might never meet. Hell, even forgetting the business perspective — he can actually look for the journals in winter without risking frostbite, if he gets one of his fiery neighbors to tag along. Even if he finds nothing, even if he only winds up with more failures to contend with, he’d rather rule out locations than be useless to Ford for months at a time.

None of this weird family that he might never see again, these three benevolent strangers that he can only put two faces to, could possibly know how much they’ve just changed for him — and he can’t tell them, as much as his oversized heart promises he can trust these snarky kids who remind him so much of himself. But he does owe them, so when he reenters the gift shop, he goes straight for a seldom-opened and never-advertised box of knickknacks that he has no intention of charging them for. It’s got the dimensions of only about two side-by-side shoeboxes, so he lifts it onto the counter with hardly a grunt, and opens it up.

“Got lots of goodies in here — mostly stuff that I made or, ahem, acquired in bulk, so they never quite sold out by the time everyone and their mother in town had already bought their own. Take a gander.”

He knows that gander will reveal some Murder Hut-branded shirts with the words written on in marker, plastic six-sided dice with a different cryptids pictured on each side, cheap whistles purported to attract Bigfoot, cheap flashlights once advertised for attracting Mothman, exactly three cool rocks that Stan found in the woods… and the pièce de résistance, a little wooden Mystery Shack-shaped music box, which chirps out a pleasant tune when Stan flips up the roof. That last one’s a rare knickknack that Stan really put effort into personally crafting, back at the height of last winter’s monotony, through cannibalizing parts of premade music boxes and sticking them into brand-new shapes — but he couldn’t sell them for enough to be worth the cost of making more, and could never sell this last one at all.

“Oh, wow!” the girl gasps, clearly delighted. “How can I even choose between —”

“No, take it all. It’s on the house — but don’t you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me? I’ll know if you blab, ‘cause people will start asking me if they can get free crap, too, and I don’t wanna hear a word of that nonsense.”

“Free stuff at the Mystery Shack?” The boy narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling okay, old man?”

“Kid, stuff only goes in the Free Bullshit Box when I can’t sell it anyway.” Stan crosses his arms with a huff, even though he’s technically telling the truth. “The only catch is take it before I change my mind.”

A sudden spark of recognition in the brother’s eyes morphs into a grin on his face, and he nods. “Oh, we will. Don’t worry.”

“I think our grunkle will love this! Especially the dice,” the sister adds. “Hey, maybe we could give all this to him piece by piece for Hanukkah! There’s enough here for a new surprise every night!”

“Whoa, there is! Man, the look on his face the first time we bring out a Bigfoot whistle is gonna be great —” The boys eyes dart to the watch on his wrist, and he coughs into his hand. “But we should probably get a move on, huh? Don’t want to get caught in, y’know, the blizzard tonight.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Stan returns the lid and hands the box over. “You, uh, need a ride back to town? ‘Cause being a man of mystery and all, I know this neat trick to clear a whole road with just a bag full of marshmallows —”

The kids both start cackling, so hard that the box almost escapes the girl’s hands, and Stan laughs with them — not because he thought his joke was that funny, but because the kids’ laughter is absolutely priceless. The isolation’s definitely getting to his head and his heart, but he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get.

“I think we’ll manage on our own,” the boy finally wheezes out, “but thanks for the offer, Mr. Mystery. Thanks for everything, really.”

“See you later!” his sister adds as they leave. “Don’t let the feral gnomes bite!”

“You take care, too,” Stan replies, not nearly as loud — but he figures that the kids can read his lips. They can read so much about him, and know so much about the town, that he’s honestly a hair’s breadth away from assuming they’re two more anomalies from the woods themselves, just in more recognizable shapes than most…

Though if Stan’s honestly considering that theory, then more of Ford must’ve rubbed off on him than he likes to think about — which is to say, it’s a good a reason as any to stop thinking about it. What or whoever they were, the duo were actually pretty tolerable for teenagers, and Stan’s pretty sure they didn’t put a curse or whatever magic mumbo jumbo on him — because if they could manage that, they could definitely tell some less conspicuous lies, right?

He kinda likes the idea of one goddamn supernatural force in this town that’s actually benevolent, actually watching his back when his mood’s at its bleakest, and coming to his rescue with — no, he’s dropping that train of thought. No baseless hoping, just letting himself down easy before he gets up.

It does occur to him, several minutes after the gift shop door swings closed, that Hanukkah has already come and gone this year. Which probably just means the kids are prepared to hide that box for another twelve months… but maybe, when Stan finds the other journals, he’ll double-check for entries on helpful teenage cryptids who can’t lie. Just to be sure.

***

Mabel, Dipper, and Ford barrel into the living room so suddenly that Stan almost drops his mug of hot chocolate. They’re all covered in a ridiculous amount of snow, considering how briefly they were just outside, and Ford looks awfully delighted for someone whose glasses are someone whose glasses have just turned opaque with fog.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts. The cardboard box in her arms has seen better days, but she’s cradling it like an infant. “You’ll never guess when we just were!”

Dipper points a gloved finger in the air. “You mean, when we just — oh wait, did you already —”

“Yeah, I beat you to it this time!” Mabel pumps her fist. “Anyways, Grunkle Stan — you’ll never guess who we just visited!”

#gravity falls #stanley pines #mabel pines #dipper pines #stanford pines #gravity falls secret santa 2020 #rosalia writes fic

110 notes · View notes

watchinglikeafangirl · 4 years ago

Text

Lovely Writer episode 3 - analysis

The episode this week changed everything again. We see more of Nubsib's true colors and we see the two become closer. Nubsib is still pretending but his true personality is also showing here and there, Gene starts having thoughts and is confused how he feels about Nubsib. All in all, this week's episode had a lot of information and was even more fun to watch. Especially the scene, when they film "bad engineer" and the first meeting of the characters ending in a weird embrace filmed in slow motion. It was hilarious...

Honesty and no filter

I don't know if honesty is the right word here but I would say it kind of fits. Even though Nubsib is crossing many lines, Gene at least tells him immediately when he's uncomfortable. Especially in the scenes when his personal space is invaded which he is not used to. He lives with Nubsib but kissing him is a whole different thing. He is someone who is very closeted and only opens up to Nubsib because he learns that life doesn't happen in fantasies and books. But when Nubsib tries to kiss him in the second episode, puts his face aggressively closer to Gene's, Gene pulls away immediately. This shows that even though he might be an introvert who is living in his head very much, he is not shy in the way that he doesn't talk about any emotion. He felt very uncomfortable and told Nubsib immediately also because he feels that Nubsib would listen and back off, which he then did.

In this episode, we get a similar scene. Nubsib pushes Gene on the sofa in a very slow, dominant and erotic way and Gene is kind of okay until Nubsib is too close.

Right before the kiss, he's extremely uncomfortable and says that he is. Nubsib is really concerned and sorry about it and backs off immediately. You could also say about this scene that Gene was not really uncomfortable and just scared of his feelings towards Nubsib but I think, it was just their closeness. They only know each other and live together for three weeks and Gene opened up just yet. It would be out of character if he would have settled into a kiss or even a make-out.

Nubsib is his true self when he comforts Gene who is having a nightmare. There is no sound effect, just some music playing and this scene is very slow and calm. Nothing disturbing the peaceful moment of taking care and there is no rushing.

Defensiveness and hidden feelings

Like I said, and like we all know, Gene is an introvert which becomes very clear when we get to know that he is living alone in a condo that is too big for one person alone. Everything is chaotic and as soon as Nubsib moves in, it's very tidy and clean. But Gene is too scared to admit it. He's too scared to admit that he likes Nubsib's company. Nubsib knows he does and jokes around when he's trying to get a confession from Gene. Gene, completely confused why that kiss is stuck in his head, gets defensive whenever Nubsib flirts and teases him.

This difensiveness becomes more after Aey says "he seems to like you" which confuses Gene even more. He can't stop thinking about it and ends up throwing Nubsib out of his condo because he is too scared to admit it. To himself and to Nubsib. Gene is very inexperienced and insecure about romantic stuff, so he doesn't know if this feeling of tenderness is even real and if Nubsib is really honest with him. There is an awkwardness between them that reminds us that they don't know each other well and Gene would have to get to know Nubsib more in order to be okay with his feelings. Because now, Nubsib still is a total stranger. The insecurity in romantic things and feelings leads Gene to question the meaning behind every word Nubsib said to him and if they were even true. This growing friendship with a stranger and growing romantic feelings for him is too much for Gene and he feels like he won't be able to focus on writing any more. For him it's either living or writing and he chooses writing over everything and feels like he can't think straight.

His feelings which he can't name or distinguish make him get defensive whenever he feels Nubsib is playing around.

Pretending and unawareness

Nubsib gives us all the vibes of fakery in many scenes and we feel there's something breeding under his skin that will show its true colors at some point (and I think very soon). Gene gets that vibe too and that's why things get awkward between them sometimes when both suddenly turn quiet like they don't know what to say to each other which could be because both can't get rid of the picture of their kiss. I mean, both obviously think about it. Nubsib can't even kiss Aey for the scene and Gene can't focus on writing because of it.

Nubsib is the one pretending here. Especially on the sofa. He even says that he learned it "in a workshop" which means the way he is behaving is all inspired and copied from these acting workshops. And that adds depth to his character. He is inexperienced too. He acts like the typical dominant BL character but even says himself that he learned it from the workshop.

That means, he's also insecure but is very good in hiding it. Because he feels like being his true self when it comes to romantic stuff is not enough and that he has to cover those stereotypes in order to appeal as attractive. Especially because Gene wrote this kind of character in the novel himself. So, Nubsib thinks it's the right way to act and is too shy to be his real self which is very sad and thankfully doesn't work out that well when they are on the sofa. Gene gets uncomfortable and I guess a bit frightened by the now very dominant version of Nubsib.

I don't think Nubsib is aware of the effect the moments when he is his true self have on Gene. They are the moments when Gene likes him and falls for him, not the ones when he's pretending. As soon as the pretending stops, the sound effects stop as well and they are talking more natural and real.

Same goes for Gene. What I noticed this episode was that the moment Gene enters, the sound effects start. That means Gene is pretending too but not in such an obvious way and maybe not even on purpose. He backs out of every situation because he sacrificed his life to writing. Writing defines his whole day, social-life, sleeping-routine and health. But I think, deep down he wants to live a bit more. He pretends to be okay with the situation, with how his life is going, but he sees, now that Nubsib moved in, that his way of living covers up all the desires he himself has. Nubsib unlocked something in him, makes him see that life is not only in your condo and especially with other people. Gene sees that now and he'll get sad.

Criticism and jokes

This show criticizes many different aspects. Basically everything of the BL industry is being criticized.

Mostly the charcters don't stand up for themselves when they are feeling uncomfortable. The scene on the sofa was definetely too intense and Gene didn't like it at all. I was already turning my eyes because I was just like 'not one of those scenes' but surprisingly the scene didn't go the way I thought. In many shows this would've gone in a very different direction even though the other charcter is not okay with it. BLs sometimes like to romanticise harrassement.

The writers are mostly female and the target audience is as well. BLs are mostly a fantasy and that's totally fine. It's just boring that every show is basically the same with the same stereotypes and exact same plot. The characters are not in any way real and Gene just copied this idea for "bad engineer". BL novels are created by women for women and that's what is criticised here because there's nothing real about it. In fact Gene wants to focus more on character developments and not NC scenes.

Fanscervice blends over problems the actors might have with each other. Nubsib and Aey don't get along that well but they have to, for the fans. This is a new level of pretending and also very uncomfortable to watch because they have to sacrifice their own values in order to have a job in the first place.

The jokes ... they are just very funny. Having a discussion about product placement for product placement?

Changing in the women's changing rooms because you thought it was 'unisex'?

Nubsib wearing a shirt saying 'eat me'?

There are many more but these are the ones I remember laughing at the most.

Questions

What's the deal with Aey?

Nubsib obviously doesn't like him but why? What did he do?

Is Nubsib jealous? Does Aey have a crush on Gene?

Will Aey become a character we feel sorry for?

What's going on in Tum's life? (I'm concerned)

Ending

This show adds layer after layer and from afar it looks like the typical BL but it's way, way better than that. It's funny, entertaining, realistic and interesting. Basically a writer navigating helplessly through the BL industry and learning that everything needs to be mainstream and is not allowed to be very different from the rest. I like this idea very much because as fans of BLs, we only see the things from the outside and can only assume the stuff that's going on behind the scenes. Here we have people who know what they are talking about whom we can use as a ressource. I found new aspects in this show I didn't even think about being a problem with the BL industry. It's just very interesting.

Preview

The previews always promise some heavy developments and I'm really excited to see jealous Gene and also drunk Gene. What will he do and will he be different? I mean, Nubsib is going to move out but I guess in the end, he won't. I don't know, something will happen because when Gene said "you can stay" he looked very sorry. Perhaps Nubsib shows more of himself and I think we all agree that he's probably messed up. He thinks pretending and manipulation leads to love...

#lovely writer #gene x nubsib #do they have a ship name?#i should've solved my tasks instead of writing this...#nevermind #i like this more

39 notes · View notes