#earnest and cringe at the same time it is part of it

[stackthedeck]

the problem with every spideytorch fic ever is that Johnny never has a breakdown when he realizes that he's unfortunately madly in love with Peter like he should be weeping and wailing about how uncool and lame it is to have a crush on fucking Spider-Man

[luna-the-moth]

i am begging for riddle with reader who makes audio porn 🙇🙇 does he accidentally stumbles by it? did cater introduced the concept to him? would his treatment of reader change after he sees them the next day? does he avoids them? he definitely can't listen to the entire recording no matter who is it for the first time LMAO he needs a 5 minute break

asidfsdf ask and ye shall receive, anon <3 riddle has so much potential on this subject tbh im <3

18+ / gn! reader / sub! riddle implied / reader does audio porn/asmr!

genuinely i think cater would consider showing it to him as a joke to see his reaction. on the other hand . he knows trey will kill him . BUT. i do think he toes the line by making enough subtle jokes about boyfriend/girlfriend/partner asmr that ace (disgusted, cringed out like the loser his is) asks him why he's talking about "lame shit like that," leading riddle to ask what it is...(he googles it later because no one will tell him, mostly out of fear, mischief, protectiveness, or some mixture of the sort).

Riddle stumbles upon one of your tamer audios at first: it's nothing saucy, just an audio where you're soothing your "partner" post-exam season. (he looked up "asmr, soothing" since that's one of the benefits to asmr trey had listed). nevertheless, his face burns red enough to rival trey's freshest strawberry tart once he realizes who the voice belongs to.

He doesn't allow himself to listen any further- how could he? to allow himself to fantasize about you so openly , , , yes you were kind, intelligent, and enjoyable to be around, but it's not as if he's harboring any romantic intent towards you!

and you...why would you post this publicly? do you not know how much power your words hold? how the timbre of your voice could send a man to his knees? to upload such intimate moments of yourself, scripted they may be...

Riddle's chest heaves as the realization of the situation fully sinks in, but he can't restrain himself from clicking the hyperlink promising "an exclusive sneak peek into [your] heart <3." yet unlike the romantic ideas riddle had come up with, the titles that appeared made him nearly faint.

"Teaching You How to Properly Obey My Orders."

"Caught You Slacking Off."

"A Reward <3"

All of them were so...intense.

Eyes razing through the posts upon posts of similarly titled audios, Riddle feels a shudder go through his body. He's never even heard of most of the acts you placed in the tags under each post but...the thought of you leaning forward into a microphone, murmuring all of your wishes to your paying listeners...he can't help but wish to know the experience, too.

His sleep that night is fitful. He cannot sleep properly . Cannot think properly . Cannot allow peace to overtake him for a moment lest his thoughts stray back to what he had found-

He's in a huffy mood the next day; far more likely to scold a slacking student or mischievous cat. But you...he doesn't approach you at all, avoiding your gaze with every accidental meeting. You wonder if perhaps this is part of him trying to spare you from his ill temper; the adeuce duo had told you of his moodiness from that morning.

But as time drags on, Riddle still can't quite look at you the same way as he once did. He's more passionate. Earnest in wanting to spend time with you, and perhaps a tad possessive as well...You sum it up as him making up for his previous mood, but any explanation you come up with never seems quite right...

<3 lemme know if you'd like to hear more thoughts about the twst charas, nonnie! im also down to talk about sub! twst boys outside of audio porn lol

[words-after-midnight]

Came across a post earlier remarking how authors should be earnest in their work and not become so insecure about criticism from imaginary bad faith readers that they become self-depreciating in their genre/tropes and/or overexplain things to the point of it being exhausting for the reader, and while I completely agree with that take, a part of me is also very much like... can we really blame authors for being scared of the kinds of criticism their work is likely to receive in this day and age, often to the point of trying to prevent those critiques in advance in a way that may affect their stories negatively? There is so much vitriol online directed at authors about aspects of their work being "cringe," people making fun of writers' prose or dialogue with out-of-context screenshots, authors and their works being condemned due to bad faith readings and misunderstanding of themes, and I could go on. Is it really that surprising that this is where we are? Don't get me wrong, I agree that writing for imagined bad faith readers is not a good approach, and with the kind of stuff I write, I have long ago internalized the idea of developing a thick skin and having the confidence to stand by my work. At the same time, I think it's normal for writers to see certain criticisms coming, and be a bit wary of that. It's scary to bare your heart and soul to the world, especially seeing, on a daily basis, how many other authors are treated for doing so. It's unfortunate that the outcome in many cases has been this overly defensive writing, but I also feel like this is not at all surprising in context, especially with younger/newer authors who are often less experienced at dealing with criticism of their work in the first place.

[keicordelle]

Man, the more of Gaku's rabbichats I read, the worse I feel for him and how his idol persona consistently gets taken as real. Even among his friends/the other idols, he's constantly trying to tell people that he's not really like that, and either no one believes him, or they seem to just prefer his stage persona

And it certainly doesn't help that his idol persona is grounded in his real self. He's not a sexy womanizer, but he is just as genuine and earnest as he comes off when he's in the spotlight. Unlike Ryuu, whose whole image is built on lies, and Tenn, whose persona is very clearly divided from himself (even if there is truth to how Tenn presents himself, it's based in the past and those who know him as Kujo Tenn know him to be the two-faced angel) -- unlike them, the core of Gaku's personality remains the same whether he's on stage or off. He's just as sincere, just as passionate, just as "cringe" in his daily life as he is when he's TRIGGER's Yaotome Gaku

And I wonder how much of that is because of how he was raised. How much of it is just that Gaku's idol persona is formed around his personality -- and how much is Gaku's personality formed around his idol persona. How much did his father's careful cultivation of him affect how he turned out as a person? I like to headcanon that Gaku's willingness to earnestly say embarrassing lines without a hint of self-consciousness is something Yaopapa trained into him, knowing he was going to someday position Gaku in front of an audience, even before he'd settled on what kind or how.

So for Gaku, divorcing himself from his idol persona is impossible. For him, and for others, who look at him and see the similarities more than the differences and assume they know better.

How lonely must that be, to have people you like and care for only ever see the parts of you they expect to see, now matter how many times you try to hold up that mirror

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Who'd You Have to Blow to Get That Part?"

Rated: Teen

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x reader

Tags: mild D/s elements, mild degradation, reference to past sexual encounters, slight daddy kink, lovers to enemies

Summary: Ransom won't let you leave the room until you agree to go out with him again.

You’ve been ignoring Ransom’s calls for a week when he finally corners you in your dressing room

“Well well well,” he simpers. “The Lyceum. You’re really making your way up from the chorus line, little girl.” You glare at him and he chuckles, doing a slow walk around your body, appraising you in a way that manages to feel both admiring and ridiculing at the same time. He plucks at the ribboned hoop of one of your panniers as he passes. “Well, la-dee-da,” he mocks. “What on earth is this? I think I like it.”

You swat at his retreating hand with a huff. “Who let you back here, Ransom?” 

“Oh didn’t you know I know everybody? The director’s an old friend. He knows I have an interest in … the theater. Said I could poke around backstage if I wanted.”

“Great. I’m sure he didn’t mean in my dressing room.”

“Your very own dressing room, by the way: how fancy.” He doesn’t look at you as he says it, instead sauntering along past the couch and then over to the dressing table, feeling free to snoop around. You cringe when his fingers drag across the vanity top and land on the script you’ve left lying there. He picks it up and starts flipping through its pages. “Hmm …”

You fluster at the idea of him seeing all the notes you’ve scribbled in the margins. “Do you mind not touching my stuff?” you gripe. “Ugh.” Looking around for your robe, you spot it draped over the back of the dressing chair but realize that it won’t stretch around when you’re wearing the panniers. You huff and try to plant your hands on your hips assertively—a motion that is likewise hindered. You settle for gripping the sides of your whalebone-stiffened waist. “I don’t have time for this. Why are you here?”

“You’re one of the leads,” Ransom says, feigning impressed as he waves the packet of papers in the air. “So Daddy finally bought you a speaking part, huh?”

You feel your cheeks heat, hating him with every fiber of your being. “No,” you grit, hurrying over to snatch the script from his hands and set it back on the table. “I got this part myself, you insufferable piece of shit.”

“Been practicing those blowjob skills, then?”

Your jaw works as you fight not to react. “Why are you here?”

“I tried calling,” he says. “But you’re surprisingly hard to get a hold of these days.”

“Ever consider that I lost your number?”

“Mmm, I don’t think that’s it.” He smirks and leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne, can see every detail of that stupid-pretty face, the hair that’s gelled and combed to perfection. He looks good, just like he always does, which only makes you hate him more. “I haven’t seen you twirling in your usual circles, bunny,” purrs. "Not since we parted ways. What’s it been now, three months?”

“Five,” you say tightly. “Though who’s counting?”

“Clearly not you,” he teases, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’ll admit I’ve hardly thought of you at all, since then, but …” He’s wearing a camel-colored coat and cashmere scarf, and he reaches past said coat’s lapel to produce a single, long-stemmed rose, presenting it to you with an earnest pout. “I heard about the role. Thought I’d stop by and congratulate you, see how you’re doing.” He lets his gaze drag over your half-dressed form again, eyeing you up appreciatively. “I still think about you, you know.”

“I thought you’d hardly thought about me at all."

He looks surprised for a second, before he’s chuckling at you again with that trademark blend of affection and condescension that you wish you hated more than you do. “Oh, bunny,” he coos, nudging your chin with the rose’s fragrant bloom. “You pay attention to what I say. I always liked that about you. That’s just how you are, isn’t it? So attentive, such a good girl.” You color mightily at that, too flustered to think of a waspish response like you want to. He sees this and smirks, dragging the rose’s velvet petals over your lips and humming in satisfaction when you hastily snatch it from his hand. “There we go,” he praises softly. “Pretty flower for a pretty girl. Though I worry how you’re doing when you don’t turn up in public for months on end.”

You force a prim smile. “That’s sweet, but I don’t need you to worry about me, or bring me gifts.” You turn around and stick the rose into a nearby vase, which already has a number of similar blossoms in it. Ransom’s is the biggest and freshest, but you rearrange it into the middle of the pack so that it doesn’t stand out as much. “And I’m doing just fine, if you really want to know.”

“Are you, though?” he presses. He steps closer, close enough that the frame of the panniers presses against his pants, and it’s easy for him to reach up and finger the strap of your stays. “I seem to remember you being quite the social butterfly.”

“Yep. That’s me.”

“You’ve missed the last several big events of the season, and I know you well enough to know that it’s not like you to play the shut-in.” He traces the strap from your shoulder, down to the top of the busk. You see his blond eyelashes lower onto his smug fucking cheeks as he shamelessly leers at the swell of your breasts, his fingers hovering just over the skin. “Who’re you supposed to be?” he asks. “Marie Antoinette?”

You scoff and push past him. “Unlike you, I get busy. I actually work for a living. And yes, that sometimes means that frivolous parties aren’t my number one engagement. So if you’ll excuse me.” You’re supposed to be over in wardrobe, getting fitted for your costumes. Danielle is probably already waiting for you. But Ransom blocks the door when you try to leave, and he does nothing to disguise the way he looks at your body when you stand back to regard him with another huff. “Ransom, move.”

“You should wear corsets more often,” he drawls, ignoring your protests entirely. “It actually makes your waist look tiny.”

You glare at him and try to move around him to grab the door handle, but he leans back against it so that you can’t pull it open. He grins, eyes raking over you from head to toe. You fight not to squirm, feeling more ridiculous than anything else, decked out as you are in your eighteenth century reproduction undergarments. You sigh and stand back, frustrated at how goddamn entitled he is. “What do you want?” you ask, knowing that he wouldn’t be here bugging you right now if he didn’t want something. 

“I want to give us another try,” he says. 

You wait for the punchline, or for him to crack a mean smile and laugh at how gullible you are, but neither happens and you’re left standing there blinking at him like a dummy, heart in your throat. “What?” 

“You heard me.” He pushes off from the door and stares you down as he steps up close. He cups your face in a palm that’s soft from never having seen a day of work in its life. You have to fight not to press your cheek into it, and of course he notices, the overconfident prick. “I think we called things off too soon,” he murmurs. “Don’t you?”

“‘We’? You’re the one who ended it.”

He frowns thoughtfully. “Hhhm, did I though?”

“Yes.”

“Ehh, I don’t know if I remember it that way.”

You purse your lips. “I said I wanted to be exclusive, and you called me clingy.”

“Well that’s hardly ‘ending’ things …”

You scoff. “You said my pussy wasn’t ‘anything to write home about’ and left me at the restaurant.”

“Hmm. Well … maybe I was too hasty.”

“Yeah, right. ‘Hasty’.” More like genetically predisposed to assholery, you think.

“Hey, I mean it.” He grabs you when you try to move around him, holding you still by your upper arms.

“Let me go.”

“Maybe I never gave things between us a real chance, bunny” he says, trying to ply you with his words and sheer proximity. “That’s what I’ve been thinking these past months. That I let you go too soon, didn’t think things through. That I let my emotions get the better of me.”

“More like your dick,” you mutter, but he ignores you. 

“After all, we had good times together, didn’t we? And you always look amazing on my arm, and the sex was soo …” he trails off, letting his fingers trace your skin. His mouth twitches when he notices your breathing picking up, your chest heaving visibly against the front of the stays. “Come on, princess. Just think about it,” he coaxes, leaning in to whisper against your ear. “You and I fit so well together. Don’t you remember how it was?”

You shiver instinctively, body reacting to the words he’s murmuring so intimately against you, to the way he’s touching you like he owns you. “Ransom,” you breathe. “I don’t—”

“I miss you, you know. I do. In my life, in my bed. I don’t like waking up alone.”

You ignore the flutter in your belly at hearing him admit that, and force yourself to shrug his hands away. “Well that would be your problem, not mine,” you say. He’s not good for you, and letting him bust in like this and insinuate himself back into your life will only lead to disappointment at best, heartbreak at worst. “Excuse me,” you grit when he walks backwards to block the door again. So fucking entitled. “Seriously, Ransom. I have somewhere to be!”

“I don’t really care. We’re not finished here,” he growls, eyes losing their charming sheen. “You can leave when I’m done talking to you.”

Your core clenches at those domineering words, and you have to square your jaw before you can bring yourself to insist, “Ransom, get out of the way. I’m warning you …”

“No, I’m warning you,” he says darkly, grabbing your arm and yanking you in hard against him. You gasp and catch yourself with a hand against his chest, but he keeps you off balance as his other arm scoops in behind you and holds you tight to him by your lower back. “Mmm, I like this,” he purrs, fingers finding the laces of your stays and grabbing onto them. He grabs you by the back of your neck with one hand while he tugs at the laces with the other. “Makes a nice handle. Good for moving you where I want you.”

“Get your hands off me.”

He tugs the laces again, jostling you forcefully. “Thought you liked it when I handle you.”

“What I’d like is for you to let me go,” you grit. 

But he only narrows his eyes and sticks his face closer in yours. When he speaks, his breath fans out warm against your lips. “You’re confused, bunny. I should bend you over that vanity and remind you just how much you like it.”

To your shame, his manhandling and his domineering words turn you on, and you know he can tell—he can always tell what he does to you. That’s part of what makes him so infuriating, and so dangerous. “Let go of me,” you say lowly, surprised (and disappointed) when he actually listens, his hands releasing you so suddenly that you stumble back a step in your heels. His eyes bore into you slyly as you huff and right yourself. “What is your problem?!” you fume at him. 

“Come with me to the Governor’s Ball,” he demands, confident and cocky as always, as if the past few minutes and your numerous refusals haven’t even happened. “You have an invitation, I presume?”

You glower at him. “Of course I do, you twat.” Given that your father is the Governor, it’d be odd indeed if you didn’t have an invite. “Awful presumptuous of you that I don’t have plans to go with somebody else,” you snap. “After the way you treated me? I wouldn’t take you as my date to a dive bar.”

He chuckles, and it’s in that low, self-assured way that drives you absolutely bonkers and makes you feel like a “pick me” girl all at the same time. “Oh, bunny. You think I don’t know you better than that?”

You shoulder your way around him to yank open the door. “You don’t know me at all, jerk.” 

You inhale sharply when his hand clamps around your wrist and he shoves into you from behind suddenly, pressing you up against the door and slamming it shut with your combined bodyweight. “I know you better than any man alive, princess,” he hisses, grinding his hips against your ass and kissing your cheekbone in gentle counterpoint when you gasp at his audacity. “Shhh shsh,” he hushes. “Don’t worry, now. You’ll have an excellent time, I promise. Now, you go get fitted for your little costume, and I’ll send a car to pick you up Saturday evening. Say nine o’clock?”

You huff, flustered by what an utterly presumptuous asshole he is (and by the way your cunt is clenching on nothing, being pressed up against a surface full-body by him like this). “You know what your problem is, Ransom?”

He drags his nose across your cheek with a chuckle. “What’s that, bunny?”

You can’t get as much leverage as you’d like, pressed up against the door the way you are, but you do your best and jab back into his solar plexus. And his shocked, breathless grunt is a satisfying indicator that your elbow has met its mark. You turn around and take his face between your hands to peck a kiss of your own to his cheek. “It’s that people’ve been paid to make you think you’re better than you are your whole life,” you whisper sweetly. You kiss his cheek and then let him go, leaving the room before he can regain his breath.

Masterlist

If you liked what you read and feel so inclined, please consider dropping a tip in the Kofi🍵 cup!

This has been a fill for:

AFG Dark bingo @anyfandomgoesbingo @anyfandomdarkbingo

Card: sarahyellow/sarah-writes-stucky

Square B3: "Lovers to enemies"

@badthingshappenbingo

Card: sarahyellow/sarah-writes-stucky

Square I5: "thwarted escape"

@blackhawkfanatic

[searchingfortheuniverse]

Side A - I Hate To Hear That You Won't Come Home

Part One of my gift for @terresdebrume! This one sort of snuck up on me because I wanted to make sure I'd written as much as you deserved for your gift after I'd already finished writing Part Two, so you get surprise bonus Webgott. I hope you like it!

Rated T, mainly for swearing. The title comes from Listen to the Man by George Ezra and the fic can also be found on AO3. This one is intended to be read first, but it doesn't really make too much difference.

Pairing: Joe Liebgott/David Webster, referenced Bill Guarnere/Babe Heffron Summary: After the war, Joe Liebgott seems to have disappeared; Web isn't letting him go that easily.

When the door opens in front of him, David flinches.

It's not that he's actually afraid, or startled, or any of those things. It's just that this is a deeply uncomfortable situation and he doesn't really know what to say.

"... Webster," Grant says, and it's hard to tell if the delay is a result of shock or the brain injury.

"Sergeant. Grant. Uh... Chuck?" David can't help the way he cringes at his own inability to decide how to address this man he's known for years.

"Jesus Christ," Grant says. There's a slight hesitance and a mild slur in his voice that never used to be there, almost a hitch allowing for extra time to think, but other than that he's doing pretty well for a guy who got shot in the head. "I'm embarrassed for you at this point. Come in."

David follows him in the door, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the coat hook Grant directs him to. He finds himself guided to a small kitchen and he watches as Grant makes him a cup of coffee. It's noticeable that one hand can take less weight than the other but David keeps his mouth shut. Eventually, there's a mug in front of him and Grant sits in the chair opposite him at the table.

"So, uh... How's the recovery going?"

David hits himself mentally. What a stupid question. Grant must be sick of being asked that by now.

"It's fine," Grant says, "Living the fucking dream." He sticks a cigarette in his mouth and lights it, then offers one to David almost more out of habit than deliberate choice. David takes one anyway. "What are you really doing here, Webster? You haven't come all the way out here to ask me that. It's not like we were close."

After a moment, David sighs and admits it. "I'm looking for Liebgott."

He's never seen anyone look less surprised than Grant does right now, which... Well. It feels almost like it should be insulting but he's not quite sure why.

"I don't know where he is any more than the rest of the company," Grant says, "So showing up here was sort of a stupid idea." His speech is worst on the S sounds, David notes absently.

"You must have some idea, though," David argues, "He wasn't that far from you. You must have at least an old address or something."

Grant shrugs with just his good shoulder. "Nope. All I know is he definitely went back to driving his cab. Outside of that, nothing."

"I'll leave you in peace, then," David says, because it's not like he and Grant were ever actually friends in a way that wouldn't leave this as the world's most uncomfortable conversation, "You want me to grab you anything? For your hospitality?"

"It was coffee and a smoke, Webster," Grant says, unimpressed.

"Still..."

"If you want to bring Liebgott round when you find him, I won't object," Grant adds, "And you can bring a pack of cigarettes at the same time if you want. Or some more coffee. I probably actually have a harder time with the coffee."

"Sure thing, Sergeant," David agrees, and he leaves as Grant rolls his eyes.

From the moment he leaves, his quest begins in earnest. Grant's confirmed two important details for him: Joe really did come back to San Francisco, and he's driving a cab. So David starts hailing cabs.

It's like the most ridiculous vacation in history. David climbs into a cab, asks the driver if they know Joe Liebgott, gets a negative response, and then asks them to drive him to a popular tourist destination so he can at least make the most of his stupid search for a man who doesn’t want to be found. He's giving up on the third day and about to ask to be taken back to his hotel when the answer changes.

"Liebgott? Shit, I know Joe Liebgott."

It's almost embarrassing how fast David finds himself sitting up straight in the back seat. It would be embarrassing, even, if not for the fact that this is a much smaller step in the search for Liebgott than crossing the whole damn country and so this is probably not at all embarrassing in comparison.

"You do? Do you know where I can find him?"

"Sure do. Saw him not ten minutes ago heading to the Third and Townsend Depot to see if there were any fares down there. If he hasn't had one, he'll still be there."

"Jesus," David says, "Thank God. Can you take me down there?"

"Pal, as long as you're paying, I'll take you wherever," the cabbie says with a shrug and a grin.

Once they've arrived, he flings more notes than necessary in the driver's direction, throws a hasty "thanks" over his shoulder, and disappears into the throng of pedestrians. He emerges again with a better view of the taxi rank, squinting even so slightly as he tries to see—

His breath leaves him in a rush at a flash of a half-genuine smile on sharp features as Joe Liebgott reaches for a woman's suitcase. David doesn't even notice his feet carrying him forward until he's there, saying words that are probably the biggest social faux pas he's ever made (which is really saying something) but which he can't regret because Joe is there.

"Hi, sorry, can you find a different cab?"

The woman stares at him in astonishment.

"What the—?" Joe starts.

"I'll cover the cost of another one for you, I'll pay you extra, but I need this one."

Dumbstruck, the woman blinks. Then, to David's blessed relief, she nods, clearly deciding that arguing with this insane man isn't worth the hassle. He thrusts more of his money in her direction, and she shrugs at Joe before reaching for her case and backing away.

"What the hell is your problem?" Joe asks, clearly livid.

"What the hell is your problem?" David retorts. "I'm not the one who vanished and stopped talking to everyone!"

"No, you just stalked me and cost me a cab fare!"

"Alright then, I'll pay you to drive me somewhere!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

As a final act of defiance, David sits in the passenger seat rather than the back, tilting his chin up stubbornly as Joe glares at him from the driver's seat.

"Where the fuck am I driving you, then?"

David snaps out the name of his hotel, then folds his arms. It's silent in the car for a good few minutes, which for them is quite impressive. Eventually, though, David caves.

"You never wrote to me."

"You never wrote to me either," Joe retorts.

"You never gave me an address!"

"Yeah, and anyone else would think that was a clue!"

"I did write to you," David admits quietly, "I just... didn't know where to send it."

"You– What?"

"I wrote to you, Joe, it's not that hard to understand!"

"Fuck you," Joe says, but it sounds more like a filler, something reflexive.

Once again, that uncomfortable silence fills the cab, and David's reminded forcibly of a jeep in Europe. All they're missing in this awkwardness is Skinny in the back.

The drive seems much longer than it should be. It quickly becomes apparent that that's because it is; a few landmarks pass that David knows are in the opposite direction to his hotel. Instead, they end up on a residential street. His confusion must show on his face, because Joe rolls his eyes.

"Fucking Christ, Web, are you coming or not?"

David blinks at him. It's only now that he sees the house key in Joe's hand. He scrambles out of the vehicle, hanging back slightly until the door's open and then practically bolting inside. He's... Well, he's not surprised. A little incredulous, maybe. He's definitely not surprised that Joe's house is tidy and... normal.

"This is a nice place," he says, and then, almost unable to help himself, he adds, "It's yours?"

He's willing to admit that he deserves the flat look he gets in response. The words he hears next, though, are tired, not accusatory as he'd half-expected.

"What are you doing here, Web?"

Now that it's come down to it, all his words have left him. He hesitates, lips parted as if his mouth has started trying to speak while his brain is still considering, and then manages weakly, "I didn't want to lose you."

"We've been through this," Joe says tiredly, "There's nothing to lose. It was a war thing, Web. Nothing else. It can't be."

"I don't believe you," David snaps, that familiar will to argue with Joe bubbling up inside him.

"Alright, fine, you don't believe me. Now what? It doesn't change anything!"

"Sounds like it's working out for Guarnere and Heffron," David counters.

Joe blinks. "What the fuck–?"

"They're living together," David says, and– There. A flicker in Joe's eye, a hesitation. "They're making it work."

"How?"

"I… I don't know," David admits, "But we can figure it out, right? I want to figure it out."

There's a long moment. David's heart is in his throat, watching as Joe's gaze flicks down to his mouth in a way it usually does when he's about to kiss him. And then, finally, Joe says, "Fuck. Okay."

And then he really does kiss him.

[ultrakatua]

Smut game: give me three hottest paragraphs you’ve ever written. Doesn’t need to be from the same work.

Thank you for the ask!

Won't be the best, and won't be three haha

I think objectively the smut I wrote for Chamber Music is my best by a long shot, if only because it's the most recent, I edited it so much and the entire thing was an exercise at smut. But we've been there. So, this had me do the unthinkable for the sake of variety: reread my old shit.

(I cringed)

Also since I can't shut up I'll say that I've noticed a few things:

-I'm seriously seeing patterns I wish I could unsee

-all my smut is some degree of sloppy and messy

-ALL THE FLUIDS. ALL THE SMELLS (see above)

-also I like to write what I can't find, which lands extremely niche tropes or pairings

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Some handjob from this claudeleth one (context is: she has no heartbeat and gets off listening to his)

She reached inside his pants and she moved her hand awkwardly around him, studying his length with her fingers. Claude gasped at the sudden contact. “It goes ‘Du-dum. Du-dum. Du-dum’,” Byleth murmured, ear pressed against his chest. If she sounded almost curious like a child, there was nothing ingenuous in her gestures. Byleth’s small hand didn’t have the delicacy of a maiden’s. Her skin was not soft, and her movements not gentle. However, no matter how awkward she was, she was earnest, and Claude found that the size of her fist was the perfect fit around his girth. He bit his lip to muffle his groans when she started to jerk him off slowly but, ear pressed against his hot skin, all she seemed to hear anyway was how his heart had suddenly skipped a beat. “Claude,” she whispered, “Claude, you sound like you are going to explode.” It seemed more and more likely indeed with every new twist of her hand. Claude was sure Byleth could even feel his pulse through the skin of his cock. The sound of his blood pulsating strongly in his ears was covering his own groans and the obscene slaps of Byleth’s hand working on his shaft, now so hard and wet it felt like an exquisite burn. Adrenaline melt with pleasure, and Claude’s mind drifted away. For long seconds, there was no more war, no more pain, no more anguish. And no more doubt either, not when the object of his year-long desire was doing her best to please him with her little hand while her lips were kissing and bitting his chest almost obsessively, as if she was trying to eat his heart out. Claude grabbed her hair too forcibly and he moaned obscenely, bucking his hips to meet her hand.

Whatever the hell this is (hate sex?) from a Jinmalos fic I left on anon for a reason (but there's literally 12 fics in the tag so fuck it)

Malos grabs the tip of his cock and he squeezes there with enough strength it cannot feel anything but uncomfortable. As placid he can look, he struggles to hide a grimace. “Come on,” he barks, still holding Jin’s face in place with the other hand. Jin hisses at the defiance in Malos’ eyes and he digs his nails into the strong legs crushing his midsection. “Come on…” Malos orders again, bucking his hips to punctuate his words, but his voice is strangled this time around and the hand holding Jin’s face turns kinder, palming his cheek almost as a supplication. Jin grabs his ass and Malos smiles back at him; the look nothing short of demented. We are both sick, Jin thinks, since the look invigorates him, and he buries himself one last time into Malos, pulling him on his lap and coming within the same breath. He misses the part where Malos lets go of his cock to masturbate furiously again, only feeling the aftermaths of it when he’s spilling all over Jin’s abdomen and his chest in thick spurts, desecrating the precious last memento of Lora that’s sitting there.

I will put that blowjob scene from chap 4 of Chamber Music because I think it's my best? I really wanted the smut to be crass in this one.

With each rough slide of his cock, Tav tasted his arousal dripping down her throat. The more his cock fattened in her mouth, the more she could smell his infernal stench, almost blasphemous, hiding behind the layers of perfume and of sweat. Tav barely registered her tears nor her whines when Raphael’s movements grew more frantic. Drool and pre-cum escaped from the corners of her mouth to drip down her chin as she struggled not to gag. “Is this how you pictured me when you touched yourself?” Raphael hissed. His second hand joined the first behind her head. Tav’s breathing quickened in anticipation and in answer. She closed her eyes. Her throat contracted around him, rejecting his intrusion.

I like the evolution of paragraph length. They grew shorter, but not the prose uh

[delta-orionis]

Tuesday Again No Problem 5/28/24

I noticed I have a handful of new followers, so I'll explain: this is a post series based on my friend @girlfriendsofthegalaxy's series of the same name. I basically round up the media I've been consuming and things I've been making over the past week. With that out of the way...

Listening

I've been listening to a bit of retro synth-heavy music again lately. Near Machinery by Jeffrey Koepper stuck out to me in particular:

I like the way the synths build on each other gradually until it sounds like you're listening to the noises of some otherworldly machine.

Watching

I'm a bit ashamed to admit that I've already watched through Jenny Nicholson's new 4 hour long Star Wars Hotel video twice in the span of a week.

I'm not a Star Wars fan, and I didn't even know this hotel existed until I watched Jenny's video(s) about it. (She has a more extensive vlog on her Patreon, which I also watched). I love Jenny's videos in general; the way she talks about things is extremely entertaining no matter what the topic is. She could talk about literally anything and I'd happily put it on in the background and listen to her ramble for hours about an obscure piece of media I've never heard of while I sit back and crochet. And I have in fact done that. Many times.

Playing

More of Rain World's Expedition mode. More of the same. If I'm being honest I'm putting off playing through Saint's campaign- I want to do it but I'm scared that it will be too hard. @_@

Making

I've been making a lot of things, actually! I continue to work on my iterator amigurumi. I promise I'll post them eventually, I know I'm kind of teasing them at this point. The only real hangup I have is the fact that I hate sewing, and that's the only thing I have left to do.

In other news, though, I caved and made an ask blog for my Rain World OC, Three Stars Above Clouds.

If you follow me you're probably familiar with them. TSAC has quickly become Blorbo From My Brain. I like talking about them and I'm constantly coming up with new ideas, and I figured an ask blog would be a good place to direct some of that energy. Iterator ask blogs are kind of a Thing in the Rain World tumblr fanbase, and after seeing other people have fun with them I became inspired to join in.

I'm legitimately very surprised and happy about the engagement the blog has been getting. It's only been a few days, but it already has about 20 followers and I've also got a handful of asks sitting in my inbox waiting to be answered. I was very scared that no one was going to interact with the blog at all, haha. I'm happy I was proven wrong.

(A tiny part of my brain still thinks it's cringe that I, a mid-20's person in the year 2024, made a tumblr ask blog for my video game OC, but whatever. I am cringe but I am free, etc etc...)

Also- a couple of people have already sent in science-related questions, which I plan to answer in earnest. You fools... this may look like an ask blog, but it is in fact my excuse to do scicomm under the guise of my Rain World OC. Ha!

---

As May turns into June, my work schedule is going to shift from part time to full time for the summer. I expect it to be very draining (though not necessarily in a bad way). I might not have as much energy to draw and whatnot. But I know people don't follow me for Content(TM), so I'm not really worried.

I'll check in again next week!

[illegiblewords]

I want to take a second to talk about Mary Sues as I understand them. And by Mary Sues, I mean all variants unbound by gender or style.

People used to discuss Mary Sues a lot back in the early 2000's. There were litmus tests all over defined by superficial qualities like hair/eye color, number of love interests, whether a tragic backstory existed, etc. Readers would run up to strangers with hate reviews if an OC didn't meet their standards. It was common to accuse disliked canon characters of being Mary Sues too. There were lists of works that were considered guilty of Mary Sue creation assembled for mockery. The whole thing became a form of public bullying and I think it scared a lot of creators into not trying anymore. I suspect it's a huge part of why we keep getting y/n and other open self-insert fics these days.

At some point, the public shifted. People attempted to defend Mary Sues by equating them with all power or romance fantasies then claiming the only reason such characters would be vilified is sexism toward a female default archetype. By doing this, most people stopped examining the phenomenon altogether--not only in understanding what the actual common factor in Mary Sues is, but why Mary Sues are alienating to readers.

That answer was a cop out. I promise that Mary Sues are just as off-putting with characters of any gender, demographic, orientation, whatever. And frankly it doesn't matter if your character is the most generically designed, unassuming, non-tragic shlub of all time--they are still capable of being a Mary Sue if the structural issues remain.

Mary Sues are normal among developing writers. I've certainly made Mary Sues before. They were cringe af and occasionally I discuss them behind closed doors if I want to make someone laugh. Created them in dead earnest as a teen and holy fuck it was parody level. Everything I talk about is as someone who is 0% free from sin lmao.

Before I give my definition of what a Mary Sue is, I need to explain something about characterization that is often overlooked.

There is micro, individual characterization and there is macro, population characterization. Worldbuilding requires characterization too. You need to look at a group's motives, influences, psychology, resources, etc. the same way you would for individual characters while allowing room for varied experiences. You need to know the cause/effect of societal development. It isn't something you can just wave away as 'because I said so' because that dehumanizes the entire population, which makes the world less believable/immersive. A less believable world in-turn strips individual characters of experiences and perspectives that shape who they are. This has a flattening effect and makes characters less believable and relatable too. Tradition, style, and genre def shape how much detail is needed but some degree of macro-characterization is necessary.

With that said, I'd argue that Mary Sues are characters who (rather than having behavior believably shaped by experiences or operating within the parameters of the world they inhabit) define themselves for how they are exempt. It doesn't matter if the exception to cause/effect is positive or negative. Mary Sues are also prone to being the most at what they do. Most ordinary/boring counts. Mary Sues will warp the experiences, perspectives, and desires of other cast members around themselves like black holes without it being acknowledged as abnormal by the other cast members or the narrative. Cause and effect in relationship building through behavior/choices does not apply, a Mary Sue does not start from zero like a regular person. Lore and stories revolve around Mary Sues exclusively even when it doesn't make any sense for that to be the case. Every significant thought or experience of other cast members ties back to Mary Sues too. Positive or negative, Mary Sues are likely the only and most meaningful relationship characters will have. Design elements (when present) tie to exceptionalism and lack of cause/effect.

Being a chosen one or someone with unrivaled power/influence in a particular arena isn't enough to make a character a Mary Sue if it is cohesive within the world. These things also tie heavily to characterization in response to situations as well as the dynamics with others/characterization of others. The existence of Mary Sue tends to preclude any alternate meaningful relationships or experiences for other cast members, and again--Mary Sue is specifically not shaped by experiences in credible ways. They don't experience meaningful internal change. They're pretty much always right or always wrong. And having an exceptional or rare experience (ex. someone did an experiment with odd results on a character) isn't enough to cause a Mary Sue either if that experience or exception remains consistent within the overall worldbuilding/macro-characterization. So ex. if there were similar experiments being conducted on or by others, that would go a long way to addressing exceptionalism. Isekai characters who come from one world to another are not inherent Mary Sues, because the isekai character still carries and is shaped by both their previous life experiences and the life experiences of their new environment. The source world is still part of the overall setting that shapes them. In-universe reality warpers also don't count as Mary Sues because reactions to reality warping tend to be organic and not normalized by the narrative.

There are degrees in how much a character is or isn't a Mary Sue, but lack of cause/effect, absolutism, and exceptionalism are big. The reason Mary Sues are bad storytelling is because they are not credibly human (figurative), diminish the humanity of other cast members, and diminish the humanity/construction of the entire world simultaneously. They lack believable consequences for any choices made--be they positive or negative. Stakes/tension are skewed as a result. Mary Sues tend to be static and they not only break immersion, they alienate readers because it's a form of destroying a world and cast the audience is invested in. There is no reason for random strangers to love Mary Sues. Mary Sues don't come across as authentically alive in any capacity, but more as poorly done caricatures of life.

And the thing is, they often don't work for wish-fulfillment fiction either. Wish-fulfillment (when the reader imagines experiencing the story in the role of protagonist) gets passes on certain technical elements necessary in empathy-based storytelling (when the reader forms opinions of cast members as distinct people) or intellect-based storytelling (the reader is exploring a philosophical or medium-based concept).

In wish-fulfillment, it is very important that the writer creates a main character who many audience members can project themselves onto. Usually such characters are left somewhat underdeveloped to facilitate this. Whether it's a power fantasy (reader imagines having luxury/influence), a romance fantasy (reader obtains an ideal partner), or even revenge fantasy (reader has an outlet for anger without consequences)--in wish-fulfillment it's important that not only the author but a wide range of readers can share in the fantasy. While it's possible to get limited success with some Mary Sues here, I think the extreme, specific, hyper exceptional nature of Mary Sues often distracts. Again, wish-fulfillment finds strength in how well it shares fantasies with audiences. If the audience is so caught up that they can't effectively project themselves onto the Mary Sue (being hyper aware of the Mary Sue's artificiality), that isn't going to work. If the fantasy doesn't resonate with audiences, it won't go as far either.

Imagine taking James Bond and giving him natural purple eyes and hair in a world where no one else has that. He'd never lose a single fight or struggle to escape peril, never wreck one of the fancy cars he's given, never have a single advance rejected. Bond is a power and romance fantasy character no doubt, but his limits are significant in keeping him from being a Mary Sue. There are plots and relationships that have nothing to do with him beyond details in the mission he was assigned and those keep things immersive.

All this said. If you're telling a story for yourself, and only yourself--doesn't matter if your character is a Mary Sue. Once you bring other people in, you have to think about what you're trying to achieve as a storyteller in terms of interpersonal communication. That includes whether the experiences you're crafting for readers are effectively realized.

Mary Sues are a normal part of learning. They aren't immoral or unforgivable. Mostly they invoke a self-centered mindset supposing the entire world/everyone in it revolves around you in some way. Again, I've made 'em lol--think immaturity is a big part of the practice. But in a story where everything revolves around you, that doesn't necessarily share well with readers who aren't you who are still the heroes of their own stories.

Making Mary Sues is a craftsmanship issue. It's like trying to build a chair only for one leg to come out wobbly. It can be your favorite chair sure, but that doesn't make it well-crafted. Certainly no one owes you money or praise for it. Hell, they wouldn't owe those things if it was a perfectly crafted chair but not the chair they were after.

Part of what motivated me to write this is because I've seen certain creators with wobbly chairs. They've slapped on carvings, stains, and all kinds of features--but the chair still wobbles like a motherfucker. These creators don't understand why more people aren't buying their chair. They think people must hate them personally or the material their chair is made from then fly into rages accusing audiences of moral deficiency. It's hit a level of bullying in its own right.

To people like that I say:

Your chair wobbles. It'll do way better if it doesn't wobble. The wobble is fixable. Strangers are not obligated to fawn over your wobbly chair. There isn't something wrong with them for not wanting a wobbly chair. Wobbly chairs haven't done well historically either. You're not an exception, just one in a very long line of wobbly chair makers. Some of those chairs were made of the same material you're using. Some were different. It isn't about the material or your staining, your carvings, any of that. It isn't about you either. Your chair can't support itself--let alone someone trying to sit in it. Even if your prospective customers couldn't make a better chair themselves, they can tell when shit's unsteady and they don't want that. Of course you're making wobbly chairs before you make sturdy ones because you're still figuring chair construction out. This is just a part of the process you haven't mastered yet. It takes attention and practice. If you spent half the energy you use yelling at other people honing your craft instead, you'd probably have better sales.

[k-s-morgan]

Good news, I'm finally done with the chapter of ATLWETD, so it's 99.9% that I'll be updating tomorrow! Editing is also half-done. Here's a final snippet.

--------

As if overhearing their thoughts, Greengrass strode towards Riddle with a delicate package of her own. She gave it to him with a respectful smile, and Riddle accepted it graciously.

“I did everything to convince my parents to let me stay at Hogwarts for the holidays, but they refused to hear it,” she said. Harry cringed at her earnest tone. “I’m sorry. I hope you know I would be thrilled at the chance to keep you company.”      

“I do,” Riddle told her solemnly. “And I understand.”

His voice was so soft, it was almost sweet. Harry resisted the urge to gape; he did gape when Riddle touched her hand.

The touch was brief and barely there, yet it made Greengrass light up. She glowed, her eyes going misty, her smile trembling, and the way she stared at Riddle was downright painful to observe.   

It was such an obvious manipulation on his part that Harry could vomit. He didn’t have to wonder at the sudden softening of Riddle’s demeanour — he didn’t doubt it was all calculated. Riddle’s followers were leaving for two weeks: they were going to spend time with their families, in a normal world, away from his influence. Sending them off with some positive reinforcement was the smartest thing he could do.  

“Hey, Potter,” Avery called him. He was perched on an armchair close to Riddle’s, his eyes narrowed in a challenge. “Where’s your gift? Or do you think Tom doesn’t deserve one?”

The room instantly went silent. To Harry’s amusement, Riddle looked pained at Avery’s comment — he probably knew Harry enough at this point to realise that any answer he gave was bound to be offensive.

“I suppose I could get him something from the kitchen,” Harry offered contemplatively. He quirked an eyebrow at Riddle. “Would you like that? I got dragon-shaped cookies for Hagrid. Maybe there is still a couple of them left. Might have gotten stale, though.”  

He knew this was going too far — there were outraged gasps all around him. Even Alphard looked shocked. Avery spluttered, his eyes burning furiously; Greengrass pulled out her wand, grim and deadly.

Riddle sighed. His fingers tapped against the arm of his chair once, like he was rapidly going through the possible responses and assessing their effectiveness. He couldn’t let an insult like this go, even Harry understood it, but he was also conflicted about holding Harry to the same standards as he would everyone else.

[gaoau]

overacting

earth rots wood warnings — none. word count — 2.4k

prev. — next.

it's not often, but at times Kaito finds that the best person to rant to is [Name]—only those times when he's fed up with his cousin pushing and prodding at his brain. it's been swimming around in his mind since Nanao chose to follow him to Kazemai; same school, same kyudo club, same team. not that he doesn't love his cousin, but it does still bother him.

he kicks the football back at [Name] with a bit more power than intended. she scrambles to catch it before it speeds towards the house while Kaito grumbles, "he's just doing it for fashion." his eyes stray up to Nanao's window. it's not ideal to have this conversation in the [Surname] backyard, but it's [Name]'s sibling the one with a small pair of goals set up outside.

[Name] tries to step into Kaito's shoes to understand where his complaints are coming from. she's only known Nanao for about four years, but Kaito has had to deal with him for as long as he can remember. a people magnet naturally liked by everyone—it's exhausting. he doesn't hate having his cousin around at all, but when it comes to kyudo, it gets under his skin a lot more than he cares to admit. this is his thing, isn't it? why does Nanao have to intrude in this, too?

he hears her humming in thought for a little too long while playing around with the ball. "i see…" she trails off, her tone rather hesitant as she finally kicks the ball back.

"what?"

of course, this is the one moment he manages to pick up on subtleties. [Name] sighs. she has a strong feeling this conversation will escalate if she so much as opens her mouth. but she does it anyway, asking, "have you ever seen him shoot?"

"what?" his brows furrow. if [Name] were anyone else, Kaito's glare would actually make her reconsider her choices. "of course i have."

"no, i don't think you have."

his reaction is explosively immediate. part of him thinks he should bite his tongue. "hah?" he nearly growls, "i knew talking to you of all people was a bad idea."

[Name] figured this would happen. she purses her lips, a grimace settling on her face. "it's not, though. just because i'm not saying what you wanna hear, doesn't mean any—"

"no, it does," he snaps, finally. the football slips right past him and lands inside the goal's net. he turns with burning eyes towards his friend—not quite his friend, but Nanao's. "because you're always picking Nanao's side." his lips twist into a snarl, ignoring [Name]'s perplexed blinking as she tries to intercept. not that he lets her. "because you're all up on him all the time that of course you're gonna side with him. what do you even know about kyudo?"

dealing with someone like Kaito, earnest at heart but awfully rough on the surface, is never easy. it's true that [Name] doesn't mind putting up with him, but she's not necessarily immune to his foul mouth and impulsively sharp tongue. he seems to realize his mistake instantly. her eyes are wide, brows raised, mouth slightly agape in shock. Kaito cringes to himself, especially when he's never seen that look on her face before.

"¿qué carajo?"

"[Name], i'm—"

she stops him before he can fumble for apologies. "Kaito-kun," she calls, motioning to the ball. rather reluctantly, he kicks it back towards her. their game starts again as if nothing had been said, passing a ball back and forth between the two to pass the time. she sighs again, "have you seen his hit rate? or his hands? or his face when he shoots?"

"i—"

with the way his face sours, she can tell exactly where his protests are going. "i'm not picking sides. this isn't about you or him. i'd be advocating for you, too, if someone were being unfair to you like this." she offers him an amicable simper. from his side, it's dripping with pity; it covers him up.

he averts his eyes away from [Name] with a pout. his tone shifts completely, like a child complaining because he doesn't want to swallow his pride and apologize. "i'm not being unfair. it's the truth." he stares at her feet as she catches the ball. "he's always going on about haka—"

although he's watching her, she doesn't give him any time to react. she kicks the ball back at him with as much power as she can muster. Kaito barely dodges, biting his tongue as he hears it slam against the fence. "Kaito-kun," is all she says. he turns back to meet her gaze.

"fine, whatever, i get it," he grumbles, giving up on the conversation as a whole. [Name] isn't stubborn—at least, Kaito doesn't consider her to be. he knows how hard-headed he is himself and she is nothing like that. her point gets across, it's up to him whether he actually gets it or not. "…i'm sorry about what i said, by the way…" it comes out in a mumble that makes him cringe.

"no, you aren't."

"[Name]…"

like cousin, like cousin. she laughs, light-hearted. "it's okay, i don't really mind. i know it's not true." a carefree shrug bounces off her shoulders. if anything, she's used to him spitting shit like that on her face, so shrugging is all she can do. she offers him a weightless smile, catching the ball when he kicks it back. "not everything is about Nanao-kun when it comes to me."

"i know that…" (does he? does he know that?) "also, that was a foul from you."

[Name] rolls her eyes. "i'll do the dishes next time we all cook together."

Nanao was kind enough to inform Kaito about Meulén's unfortunate death. he didn't want to seem too worried, so he refrained from asking about [Name]'s sudden absence, but it was written all over his face—Nanao's words, not his—and he ended up filling him in. in his defense, he'd expected to see her invading his room during the weekend, as per usual, and was more than surprised when she didn't show up at all.

standing outside her bedroom door, he's not entirely sure how to handle a grieving person. this is more his cousin's area of expertise. much to his chagrin, his mother shoved a plastic container filled with Minami's cookies into his hands and sent him on his way to the [Surname] house. [Name]'s mother welcomed him in and now he's made the trek up the stairs, so he figures he doesn't have much of a choice but to follow through.

he's psyched himself up enough. rather reluctantly, he starts by knocking on the door. part of him hopes she doesn't answer, but part of him is also worried. he feels his breath get caught in his throat when [Name]'s voice reaches him, "come in." he already regrets this.

with a sigh, Kaito opens the door and lets himself inside. "…hey, [Name]." she only hums in response. he finds her sat on her bed, her back against the wall as she fiddles with a plastic colored ring. it was one of her bird's toys; Kaito recognizes it instantly because he bought those for her birthday two years ago. "mom wanted to give these to you. 'cause of…" his words die—much like her bird. he can't say that.

[Name] thinks it's common sense to not bother someone when their bird died recently. but she gets off her bed anyway, because everything takes a little more effort with someone like Kaito. "what is it?" it slips past her tongue, sounding a lot more exasperated than she intended. she peers at the container in his hand as he holds it out to her.

"cookies."

her lips purse. she knows instantly these are Minami's cookies. "thanks." she gives him a tight smile. "you could've just left them downstairs, i appreciate it."

"your mom… told me to come check on you." it's a harmless lie. an impulsive one, but very harmless.

fortunately, it makes [Name] laugh. she takes the cookies from him, a soft simper on her lips. up close, he can see how red her eyes are. "you're not supposed to tell me that," her chuckles seem exhausted, "you should just let me think you care about me."

"i—!" Kaito flares up with embarrassment. he leans away from [Name], a blush making his face burn. whether he admits it or not, he has no doubt he would go to war for her as much as he would for any of his friends. "i do…" then he clicks his tongue and sighs. "i doubt giving you my condolences will fix anything."

[Name] puffs a chuckle. her eyes drift down to the plastic ring in her hand. she can't help but smile, both with fondness and melancholy. "yeah, that's true." her smile grows the slightest bit wider as she meets his gaze again. "i'll be fine. it's not the first time one of my pets dies." and Kaito knows better than anyone else, because she tells him all about her childhood pets whenever he asks.

"it still sucks, though. she was a really cool bird." he fumbles over his words, unsure what to say. still, he looks into her eyes with a sincere smile. "i'm gonna miss her, too."

"yeah, she really liked you," she chuckles again. it sounds a bit too strained. she waves the ring to take his attention away from her face. "it's almost like she knew these were a gift from you." it's futile when her voice cracks and Kaito can see the tears gathering in her eyes clearly.

so he presses his palm against her face, covering her vision before her tears spill. he'll just have to pretend he didn't see anything. "come on, i'll leave you now. but make sure to tell Minami if you liked those." he bumps the heel of his palm gently against her forehead and turns to head out the door. his job here is done—plus, he's glad to have confirmed himself his friend is still breathing.

before he can even take a step out of her room, he feels a tug on his shirt. when he looks back at [Name], she nods towards her console. "Mario Kart?"

he doesn't need to be asked twice. "gotcha." he knocks his fist against her shoulder and invites himself into her room. as she wipes her eyes and moves to set up the game, Kaito takes over her bed. he considers how this feels like second-nature.

"sometimes i can't stand Nanao when you're around."

[Name] blinks, recoiling as if Kaito's statement physically slapped her across the face. she looks up from her book and cranes her neck back towards him on his bed. he, however, doesn't look away from his phone. his thumb taps vigorously on the screen to protect his village. he feels her eyes on him, but chooses to pretend it doesn't bother him.

it takes her a moment of processing. Nanao is downstairs getting snacks for the three of them. she doesn't understand where this is coming from when they were all peacefully hanging out just a few seconds ago. "well, i can leave." she sets her book down, shifting to get up off the floor.

Kaito sighs as the losing screen takes over his phone. "no, that's not what i meant." finally, he turns his head to look at her. there's a slight furrow in his brows. "you let him do whatever he wants with you too much."

"ah…" [Name] nods to herself, contemplating her interactions with his cousin. a pondering hum helps her pick apart Kaito's words and what it is he's actually meaning to say. with a shrug, she looks him in the eye, snickering, "it's a little hard to say no to him."

he moves his leg to smack her on the back of the head with his foot. she barely manages to dodge, falling back on her arms while he sits up on the bed. "you should. if you keep going along with him, he's just gonna get a bigger head." laughter tumbles from his lips when he catches the glare in her eyes, glowering up at him.

"rich coming from you, Onogi-senshu."

instantly, his expression flips upside down. "don't," he starts, almost like a snarl, "call me that."

it's [Name]'s turn to laugh, pushing herself off the floor to sit up. "why? because i call Nanao-kun Kisaragi-senshu, too?" she chuckles and reaches up to his face, threatening to flick his forehead. Kaito latches onto her wrist before she can hope to graze him. even if he's safe from getting hit, he still leans back, eyes locked onto her with unspoken discomforts behind the grimace on his lips.

there's a distance he feels [Name] constantly putting between the two. there's an apprehensive pricking on the back of his mind whenever she treats him the same way she treats Nanao.

after a few too many seconds of an impromptu staring contest, [Name] sighs. she tugs on her arm and Kaito loosens his grip on her so she can slip away. "fine, then." she's come to find it easy to read someone like him, especially after four years. "it's also hard to say no to you sometimes, Kaito."

"you—!" he bites his tongue; he wouldn't know how to protest. she offers him a knowing smile. his cheeks burn and he looks out his window to avoid her taunts. "fine, do whatever you want."

"folded like a lawn chair."

"i'm gonna break your arm, [Name]."

"that's [Surname]-senshu for you, Kacchan."

a second passes and then two, before Kaito plants his palm against her face. [Name] exclaims in surprise, trying to pry him off her as he pushes her down to the floor. Nanao comes back a few minutes later to find them both wrestling to strangle one another.

[xxx-inhibitionless-xxx]

Chapter 74 : Day Three Continues ( Aaron, Chad & Jason’s Afternoon Continues part 3 )

 Ohhh, I get it, the realization finally hitting Aaron with a relief and excitement that let him momentarily put aside the discomfort and humiliation of sitting there with Mark and Jason in the cab of the truck completely naked.

 Great, now that we’re all caught up, can we go, Jason inquired with an impatience, he realized to himself, he wasn’t altogether entitled too, hoping the others didn’t take offense. Despite the fact that he knew he could be a jerk sometimes, Jason really did consider Mark to be a friend, and knowing that his frat brothers had all but now included Aaron and his friends as honorary frat brothers, saw Aaron in a new light as well and hoped they too could be friends.

 Yes please, Aaron added to Jason’s urgency with an earnest eagerness, offering Jason a relief that at least Aaron did not pick up on the unnecessary impatience of his comment.

 Alright, buckle up, we are outta here, Mark added. Although he did pick up on the tone of Jason’s comment, he didn’t believe the intent was authentically offensive, and since Aaron also either didn’t notice or didn’t care, Mark decided to cut Jason some slack and pretend that he didn’t notice and forego another ‘seriously dude?’ that was right there waiting to spew forth from the tip of his tongue.

 Mark started the truck and started scanning their surroundings, looking out each window in turn.

 You waiting for an invitation or what, Jason asked with a sincere impatience this time.

 This tiny shit ass road is too narrow, there’s nowhere to turn around, Mark answered only slightly offended at the hostility in Jason’s inquiry, knowing full well that he would have done and been the same.

 Oh shit, Jason replied, the awareness of the nature of the clearing that they were in becoming apparent. It was a tiny single lane dirt road leading up to the fenced in area of the park services power relay station. Jason cringed slightly at the sight of the fence, the fence that he had been tied to, spreadeagle and naked, not too long ago. Yeah man, how the f*ck do the park people get outta here ?

 They get to go in through the gate and turn around, Mark managed to just barely resist the urge to add ‘idiot’ to his explanation.

 Oh, right, Jason acknowledged. Well, since we can’t go forward or turn around, what about just back up the way you came in ?

  This thing is hard enough to drive going forward, Mark admitted, but yeah, that looks like our only option. There’s not much visibility through the rearview to pull this off, Mark continued, and I don’t know about doing it like I would in my car and just looking out the back window myself and trying to steer. This thing doesn’t quite operate or maneuver the same way. See if you guys can turn around and help navigate.

 Mark stifled a snicker at the sight of Aaron and Jason trying to perform the simple task of turning themselves around in their seats to face backwards while Aaron tried in vain to keep one hand covering his junk and Jason not to make physical contact with Aaron. My god you two, Mark finally exclaimed in frustration. Aaron, buddy, we’ve seen it in all it’s glory, so soft, hard, whatever, you don’t need to hide it, Mark addressed Aaron to try and assuage any embarrassment he might still have.

 I know, sorry, Aaron apologized. Force of habit I guess. I’m not exactly used to being in a truck naked. Or any vehicle for that matter. Or with two other guys. Or with any other guys, well maybe Brian, Aaron paused briefly remembering a time he and Brian got adventurous, then abruptly realized that he was both babbling and admitting to things he had promised to keep secret.

 You’re fine, don’t sweat it Nudini, Mark reassured Aaron. Mark then shifted his gaze to look at Jason, seriously dude ? You’re worried about some skin to skin ?

 I was just trying not to make him uncomfortable dude, Jason quipped back at Mark.

 Oh, right, ok, sorry, Mark offered as much humility as he could knowing he overreacted.

 Yeah, I know, Jason offered Mark a bit of reassurance. This is just some crazy messed up shit and it’s getting to all of us I’m sure, so let’s get the hell out of here, Jason added with a nod of his head toward the rear window.

 Right, Mark replied, ok, I’ll go slow. Since your lefts are my right, try and use ‘driver’ or ‘passenger’ to let me know if I need to go one way or the other.

 Hey, good thinking man, Aaron offered in praise of Mark’s insight, adding another layer of respect he was developing for his new friend.

 Ok, here we go, Mark said as he released a huge sigh he didn’t realize he was holding.

 Alright man, head slightly ‘driver’, Jason was the first to offer navigational guidance using Mark’s directional queues.

 Mark eased off of the brakes and applied just a little gas to get some inertia.

 Ok, nice and easy, keep going straight, Jason continued has navigational duties as Aaron realized Jason was going to obviously do the navigating.

 They hadn’t gotten more than ten feet into their retreat when the truck stalled.

 Dude, you probably need to give it more gas than what you are, Jason advised Mark, this things probably not used to crawling.

 Right, we’ll just need to be that much more careful, Mark answered. Ok, one more time. Mark went to turn the key but his heart literally sank to the floorboard as he noticed the gas gauge.

 Oh f*ckin hell, Mark could not conceal his exasperation, that’s not it at all Jason.

 What ? What do you mean, what is it then, Jason inquired ?   Aaron and Jason locked eyes with Mark and felt the utter defeat they saw in his eyes as he simply said “we’re out of gas”.

[vixstarria]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤

Ahh, thank you for dropping this in my inbox! 😄 Don't mind if I do.

Tbh, I don't know if this is weird or uncommon - but I actually like my own writing, and still like most of my fics - narrowing it down to five is hard. The early ones I cringe at a bit at now, as I was still figuring things out back then, but most of the others I'm quite fond of.

In no particular order aside from my no. 1:

Bloodbang Chronicles - I have to go with my ongoing post-game longfic as my no. 1. Mostly humour, but also so much more than that. It's my baby. It's always on my mind. I've been having so much fun with it, and I'm very happy and excited to keep going with it. Check it out.

A night at the inn - my three part Astarion / Tav / Halsin F/M/M smut magnum opus. Gets progressively more unhinged and horny with each part.

Seeing stars - also filed under smut, but it's also got humour, feelings, tenderness, and an insight into Tav's relationship with Astarion building up to his confession in Act 2. It's got a bit of everything.

Confession - written from Astarion's POV, the first time he says those three little words, everyone's favourite, in earnest.

Mark me as yours - also Astarion's POV, scenes from a day in camp in Act 1 when Tav doesn't take him along adventuring. His simple plan is definitely not showing cracks, nuh-uh.

All my fics are about the same 'Tav', Asmodea, so chances are, if you like one of the stories, you'll probably enjoy most of the others.

Alright, now off to raid some other inboxes. 😁

[autumnsup]

Arthurian Musings

(in honor of Velvet Goldmine's 25th anniversary)

Image sources (mostly screenshots taken from the film I believe): fanpop.com; artscenesa.com; screenmusings.org; fanpop.com.

The first few times I watched Velvet Goldmine, I was probably most drawn to Curt as a character, and through him and his mangled perspective, Brian and Mandy. Arthur was just a footnote, a sweet little fanboy cherry on top (or bottom, as the case seems to have been 😉).

But with repeated viewings, and as my understanding of fandom and identity has expanded, I've come to realize that of all the characters, Arthur is probably closest to my soul's reflection. He's a stand-in for the viewer, perhaps, but he's also a love letter to anyone who's ever found themselves forced into hiding from their family of origin and seeking out validation through art and his peers. That he got to meet at least one of the artists he'd adored from afar feels so fulfilling to me, after seeing the rejection he'd gone through at home.

I love watching how his appearance changes from past to present throughout the film, from the colorful stylistic mishmash of his young and out self to the spare muted palette of Arthur Stuart, journalist. As a younger person, I found his open-mouthed stares, stretched-out grins, and crumpled face in tears a bit cringe, but now I just see it as part of who he is, earnest and breathless and hopelessly in love with his idol.

He might be more jaded as an adult, more buffeted about by the winds of personal and social change, but his dogged persistence in finding out the truth of what happened is a driving force of the plot, and without his perspective and memories to guide us, we wouldn't have the same film.

"Give him a mask, and he'll tell you the truth," the saying goes. Most of the characters show this to varying degrees, but none so relatably as Arthur, in my opinion. Our masks can help us carry out the work we need to do in exposing the truth, and Arthur used it to his advantage. I like to imagine that he's able to put the mask aside eventually, once the day's work is done. Perhaps with a cold drink and a certain someone at his side. 🥰

🍻

[jojoblessed365]

The Bachelor and The Bobbysoxer or The Happiest Millionaire

Hi!

So, I'm going to go with The Bachelor and the BobbySoxer, cause A- I'm more familiar with it, and B- it's my absolute favourite movie, so anyone who loves that movie, loves me ; )

Anyway, going into the movie, I loved that the premise is incredibly absurd but incredibly satirical at the same time, because of how relevant relationships with age gaps are today and in that era, and I think that's what the recent American Fiction tried to do, but with race. I also liked that one of the film's core message is the power of charisma- so, in two instances of the film, both sisters envision Cary Grant's character Richard Nugent as a knight in shining armour, but with two different goals- the younger sister Susan, played by Shirley Temple, is taken in by Nugent's voice and his charisma as a renowned "artist", while Margaret, Myrna Loy's character, is taken in, but only after she has experienced Richard as a person (after a conversation on her porch with him detailing that he was earnest and not flirting with her and his attempts to win the overall race for her sister's sake) and not as a troublemaker/criminal. I may be wrong about that last part, but again, it's a moral that charisma is a very powerful tool and you must read it the right way.

I think the jokes have aged well, I love Cary Grant being paired with women his age, and I may come across as offensive for saying this, but when I watch him acting across women who were younger than him (like Audrey Hepburn, Eve Marie-Saint, Deborah Kerr to name a few), I personally cringe. But I also like when the story's self-aware of this age difference and that Cary Grant was aware of this too (?). I really wished that Cary and Myrna had more romantic scenes besides their dance, and those scenes were in their last collaboration Mr. Blandings Builds his Dream House, released the following year.

Personal afterthoughts- I loved the sibling relationship between Myrna and Shirley, it was a little of the opposite of Gilmore Girls, if I'm being honest; the "you remind me of a man" audience-participation game; Rudy Vallhee as Tommy, a man who rather aggressively courts Myrna's Margaret, a big change from the man he portrays in The Palm Beach Story (1942); and the fact that it's very much a screwball comedy, that you can watch it over and over again, like What's Up Doc? (1971), Bringing Up Baby (1938), and The Philadelphia Story (1940/41).

Well, those are my thoughts. thank you so much for the ask. : )

[crediblebombthreat]

Emesis Blue Review (Spoiler Free)

Finished it a few nights ago instead of sleeping.

I've been watching Source Filmmaker animations for a very very very long time now. I enjoy their variety. Narrative-driven short films have been a staple of SFM animation for a long time now. As are ones where the medic's face has three polygons, and he says some garbled mixture of voicelines that makes the demoman scream and explode. I enjoy both types -- in different ways.

There's something charming and human about a good SFM animation! At all skill levels, there's always something that cues you in to the personality of the person (or people) who made it. SFM has a certain "digital spirit" that you don't really see anymore. An open-source tool that invites creativity, playfulness, and collaboration. In that way, it's the closest thing we'll ever get to Team Fortress 3.

Emesis Blue -- underneath all of the horrors, terrors, viscera, and such -- is deeply informed by this digital spirit. It makes a point to be fun. It's very earnest. It's fanfiction. Everything it does, it does unflinchingly. The utter lack of apprehension towards what's considered cringe or gauche can be off-putting![1] But it's attached to such undeniable skill and craftsmanship (craftsmannship?) that even the most self-conscious and critical people should be able to get over it without much trouble.

There are plenty of valid complaints, of course. Are there parts of the screenplay that feel a bit off? Sure. Is the voice acting perfect? No. Could the camera have held a few shots for just a little bit longer? Oh yeah. Did Blutrarch and Redmond's models make me want to punch my computer monitor? Absolutely. But all of these are eclipsed in totality by the cinematography.

Some of Emesis's shots are unlike anything I've seen in an SFM before. Beautiful, striking, stunning. My heart almost crawled out of my mouth when I realized that there are people in the fandom born after 2005 -- and that this might be the first time they've seen competent lighting, framing, and shot direction. Of course, this is in comparison to more contemporary movie making. Emesis frequently gestures[2] towards classic avant-garde horror masterpieces, and, despite how presumptuous that may be, pull it off almost every time.

There's a whole lot to like, and if you're one of the three people who haven't seen it yet, I really encourage you to check it out -- even if you're not into TF2 (which you will be, very soon).

[1] If you're not a regular tumblr user, anyway. Everyone here lives for the cringe and the gauche.

[2] The gesture is more of a beckon than a point, mind. Fortress Films actually understand what made these movies look good.

Spoilers Below

When medic peeled back the medicine label and it was a secret medicine that was different I laughed out loud. Same thing with the spy turning into jerky. That shit had my dying. The scene where soldier shot Blutrarch was shot well, but I couldn't get over how goofy the soldier looked.

I greatly appreciated how they never bothered to explain who the plague doctor was, or what was in the suit case, or what was/wasn't real. It was ambiance. It primed you for certain emotions and sensations, and when it was no longer useful they moved on to something cooler.

Despite the narrative restraint, some shots REALLY could have used some more time. Like the medic accepting a cigarette in the elevator. Just half a second more to pause. Let it breathe.