#edited for some kinder wording

[druid-for-hire]

Hi. I'm so sorry for bothering you:c but I really need all the help I can get. I have a chronic heart condition that doesn't allow me to work my regular hours. Things got serious pretty fast and suddenly, I wasn't able to pay rent. I got evicted 10 days ago, and I'm trying to raise funds to pay off what I owe to my landlord and avoid getting sued, and hopefully find a little place while I get back on my feet.

You think you could help me reblogging my pinned post to spread the word a bit? Thank you so much in advance. And I'm truly, very sorry for having to recur to this.

For other people's sakes, this is their pinned post. I took a scroll through their blog and they don't appear to be a bot; the blog goes a decent way back and posts semi-regularly.

My kind friend, Tumblr is not a good place to crowdfund. It works sometimes, but not reliably. (EDIT: Redacted a bit about reddit boards. They exist, but they need a lot of prerequisites.) In the event that you haven't been able to go looking yet, there are likely also real life, more local, more direct resources out there to help you hidden out of sight. There's a post on this topic, but I'll cut for you the relevant parts (paging through the notes will also probably be useful):

From @/euphoniousracouter:

GO TO, MESSAGE, OR CALL YOUR LOCAL LIBRARY. Libraries are focusing more and more on community resources, support, and outreach. If you genuinely don’t know something or feel uncertain or are in a new situation, a reference librarian will not only help you sort your thoughts through their reference interview but then help you arm yourself with knowledge from reliable and often local sources. It doesn’t even have to be a question to Ask A Librarian. You can simply say “I’m in this situation now. I don’t know what to do next./I’m not confident I know everything I should or want to know.”

From @/dancinbutterfly:

If you're in America, 211 is your friend. It’s the United Way’s database of social assistance resources. When I was doing resource development for my masters in social work 211 was my holy grail. And there’s things that only workers know about that just calling and asking can reach cuz it sets off the social service phone tree. I will say YOU have to be persistent of you want to access these resources. Most of the ngo agencies are most interested in helping the pro-active clients in my experience. But do use the resources. They’re golden.

From @/macaronsandfries:

Also, if you’re in the US: call your State Rep. Part of their job is to help constituents access and navigate state run programs, such as EBT/SNAP, unemployment, housing assistance, and medicaid.

Not all offices are equally responsive (some try really hard to stay on top of incoming calls but are overwhelmed, and some…are not great at checking messages, tbh). But if you can get through to a person (almost always an aide/staffer), they will talk through the issue with you and do what they can to help.

You don’t need to know what programs are applicable to you, they’ll help connect you with appropriate people (including Federal programs if necessary – those offices are hard to get through to, but if you need something like Federal ID docs changed, see if going through your State Rep helps move things along)

afaik some of these are sadly not as immediate as these emergencies tend to be, but they're out there, and hopefully these help. Crowdfunding is still an answer that you have a right to take. Good luck and be well.

[fragmentedblade]

Goodness, apparently Argenti's One and Only is named in Chinese after Rocinante, which is so fitting for him, especially with Himeko's words about him in mind

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

i am living for some angst 👀

especially some satoru angst

Hold me. Console me.

Tags: Satoru x fem!Reader, angst, hurt/comfort, depictions of poor mental health, depiction of a panic attack, Satoru’s a little bit of an asshole here.

An: Same… same. Before you read this and blame me for how fucked this story is, know that one of my moots (cough. cough. @theuniversesnepobaby cough.) was sending me sad angsty edits last night. this is partially her fault too.

Satoru was normally a very doting and attentive boyfriend. He’s the type to beg to be in your presence. He’d kill to feel your touch against his skin. “Casual” isn’t a word in his dictionary. When he loves, he loves loudly.

So when he got quiet with his love, your body started to fill with a sense of dread. Cold and bitter feelings crawled their way between you two. No longer did you two laugh until you were out of breath and red in the face. No longer did he surprise you with gifts or try to scare you when you’re unaware of his presence.

His strong arms hadn’t wrapped around you in so long. The ruthless chill of being utterly alone plagued you, while Satoru seemed fine. He was even taking on extra hours at his job. So many nights he didn’t come back until nearly midnight.

How could he not see what’s happening? How could he not notice how much you’re drowning?

“I’m going out.” His words are flat with no care put into them. He’s telling you because he feels as if it’s obligatory — not because he doesn’t want you to worry.

“Where are you going?” So many times have you tried to reach out. It was as if you two were passing back and forth a candle of your relationship. You had ignited the flame and passed it to him so many times, but each time, he snuffs it out without a second thought — leaving you in the dark. Maybe one more time, you metaphorically light the candle in hopes to kinder your relationship…

“Out.” Flame snuffed.

“Oh.” He’s done it so many times, but it hurts just as bad each and every time. Being single wouldn’t hurt this bad. At least you wouldn’t be getting rejected by your own boyfriend on a daily basis.

“See ya.” He doesn’t even give you a second glance as he grabs his coat and saunters out the door. Another night spent alone. Another night filled with a barely eaten tv dinner and a shitty reality tv show droning on in the back while you doomscroll on your phone.

You two use to watch these reality tv shows together and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Satoru would hold you so close to his body, and he’d whine anytime you tried to adjust. When was the last time that happened? You never suspected the end of affectionate gestures would come while you two were still in a relationship.

You check Geto’s story on instagram. Sometimes, you’d catch small glimpses of Satoru in the back. Sometimes they were at a cafe or an arcade together. Tonight, it seemed as though Suguru was at very packed party scene.

You hold your breath in your lungs as you rewatch the story again and again — searching for a white head of hair. Your boyfriend makes it too easy for you to stalk him. Though, it feels like a fitting punishment for the turmoil he’s put you through.

No Satoru in sight. You sigh quietly before you check Shoko’s story. It was less likely that Satoru would be captured there, but he has made his appearances in the past. It seemed like tonight Shoko wasn’t present at whatever rager Suguru was at. She posted a picture of her beautifully written notes. She must be studying.

Nanami never posts on his story, so you don’t even bother going to check his barren profile. Haibara never features Satoru in his stories, so you skip his as well. This leaves you with one last option.

Your hand is a little shaky as you click on Utahime’s story. You don’t know when it started, but your cheeks and ears were wet with tears already. Your body had some sort of sick sixth sense for knowing when something was wrong, and something was terribly wrong.

You had always had your little insecurities about Utahime ever since Satoru indulged that he had a small crush on her back in high school. Of course, these were just fleeting thoughts. Up until recently, you knew with full confidence that you had Satoru’s heart. He wouldn’t stray from you. 

You didn’t have that same confidence anymore. Satoru had withdrawn, and it seemed as if he took his heart with him.

You hate being right. You wish you were wrong sometimes. On Utahime’s story, she’s seemingly at the same party that Suguru’s at. Her story is littered with pictures of her with other girls that you don’t recognize, videos of the loud music and people dancing in a crowd, and there’s just one last video on her story that makes your heart sink to your stomach.

Your boyfriend’s pretty blue eyes illuminated by the flash from her back camera. He smiled and laughed as Utahime filmed him. His face was littered with wine red lipstick kiss marks. Utahime had a grab on your boyfriend’s collar, obviously trying to hold his drunk self still while she filmed his crime.

It felt like a punch straight to your gut. You couldn’t even think straight, but you knew you needed to keep this evidence in case she deletes it. Your fingers shakily screenshot the story, logging the picture of Satoru covered in someone else’s affections.

He was out there feeling an overwhelming sense of happiness, receiving kisses from another, dancing to his heart’s content, and enjoying his life while you were sat at home weeping over the loss of your boyfriend.

The tv dinner, now cold and stale, was thrown into the garbage, and whatever little bit you had eaten came up soon after.

The picture was seared into your memory. You didn’t have to look at it to know every minor detail. The way his white hair was messy. His glasses were pulled down ever so slightly to reveal his devastatingly beautiful eyes. His coat hung on his shoulders while his muscular neck peaked out from his shirt.

Every time you closed your eyes, you thought about how many kiss marks he had on his face. How many times had he allowed himself to cheat on you? Was this the first time? Had it gone farther than this? Was it Utahime or some other girl?

You cried yourself to sleep, knowing that Satoru wouldn’t even come home to try to console you.

The next morning, you were disappointed as soon as you woke up. You wished sleep would’ve taken your body and whisked it away far, far from here. Instead, you’re still in your bed, sleeping on a pillow that was stained from your mascara.

If you could, you’d rot in bed all day and try to forget the godforsaken video you saw last night, but you had to make a trip to the restroom.

Forcing your weak body out of bed, you let out a small pained moan. You haven’t eaten a proper meal in so long, and you threw up whatever you did eat yesterday. Your appetite was completely diminished. Satoru use to say that food tasted better when it was shared. He always shared his meals with you, unbeknownst to him, helping you maintain a good schedule for eating.

Your apartment was too bright when you stepped out of the bathroom, and it smelled too much of food. The sizzling on the stove finally caught your drowsy attention.

The man of the hour, Satoru, was at your stove, shirtless and cooking something. Sleeping pants casually hung around his hips, and the dimples at the bottom of his back were so graciously being shown off. Did someone else know about those two little dimples? Even though back was facing you, you could already picture his face, littered with those stupid kiss marks.

Making a b-line for the bathroom, Satoru doesn’t even get the chance to greet you. Your hands were cold and clammy as your body uncontrollably heaved over the toilet. You had nothing left to give, but Satoru was taking everything from you.

Hot tears burned your cheeks as they slipped down your face. You didn’t want to do this. You wished you would’ve never saw that fucking video last night. You should’ve given yourself plausible deniability, but now, you had to face the music.

You slowly returned back to the kitchen after trying your best to clean yourself up. Your eyes focused on Satoru. He was finishing up cooking bacon when his eyes finally met yours and drove daggers through your heart.

“Good morning, sweetness. Something wrong?” He asks with so much care in his tone. You fantasize about hitting him — just once. How dare he suddenly care when you have to check out?

You don’t even know what to say to him. Like, yes, something is clearly fucking wrong, Satoru. I’m dating an unfaithful jerk.

“What are you doing here?” You ask bluntly, wiping your face of the remnants of tears and makeup that had stained your skin. He shouldn’t be allowed to see how badly he hurt you.

“I… live here?” He responds in a questioning tone, furrowing his white eyebrows as he studies your face. “Are you okay?” If only he had asked that question weeks ago, then maybe you two wouldn’t be in this mess today.

“No, and you don’t live here anymore.” You snap, causing him to slightly flinch back — not out of fear but out of surprise. He’s never seen you like this before.

“What do you mean, sweetness? I-“

“Cut the shit, Gojo. Don’t act stupid with me. It’s unbecoming.” You interrupt him completely, not wanting to hear him try to act innocent when you have all the proof you need on your phone.

“Woah. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I don’t really appreciate the insult and the use of my government name. I genuinely have no idea of what you’re talking about.” His voice is firm, laced with sternness, so you can see that he’s not playing around with you.

You take a deep breath until your lungs burn. You want to scream at him, chase him out of the house, and light his shit on fire. Instead, you silently go to retrieve your phone. Pulling up the picture of him with kiss marks all over his face, you shove the screen in his direction.

Gojo takes a few seconds to take in the photo, and he lets his shoulders drop. “This is what you’re mad over, sweetness?” He asks in a much more calm tone, looking up at you with almost puppy dog eyes.

“Don’t call me that.” You snap while swiping your phone back from his hands. “I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you, but we’re fucking done.”

“You seriously believe that I would cheat on you?” He asks in that stupid arrogant tone of his, completely ignoring your blunt rejection.

“Why else would your high school crush post a picture of you with kiss marks all over your face!? You look so fucking dumb and in love. I fucking-“ Your throat chokes up as if your body was trying to stop you from saying something you didn’t mean. The words “I fucking hate you” die right there on your lips. Tears fall down your cheeks, and you place your palms over your eyes to hide yourself from his impregnable gaze.

“This, again?” He asks in a frustrated tone before letting out an exasperated sigh, He turns the stove off - abandoning his food before walking over to you. He bends his knees a bit to get on your level. “Look at me.” He demands before his hands go to pull yours away from your eyes.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” You cry out, jerking back away from his presence. Your breath speeds up. The oxygen isn’t having enough time to enter your bloodstream. Your body is vibrating, forcing the air quickly from your lungs. Everything is moving so fast and why the fuck is he so close to you-? He’s suffocating. Fuck, catch your breath. Whyhim?Whyyou?Why?Why?Whatdidyoudotodeservethis???

A gush of air is blown harshly onto your face, and you can feel the bitter cold feeling of something touching your skin. Your eyes see Satoru’s hand holding an ice cube, guiding it along your warm skin on your arm. Your body is so hot that it’s melting faster than he’s moving it.

“Breathe. Match my movements.” Satoru guides in a calm yet steady tone. Your eyes find the way his chest is slowly rising and falling with each breath. You want to tell him to go play in traffic. You don’t need him to ground you. You don’t need him to do anything for you. You don’t need him.

Still, your body matches his slowly. Your breath becomes more stable, and you can feel your heart starting to settle into a more natural rhythm. Your bleary eyes meet his empathetic ones. It’s been so long since your last panic attack, but he remembers just how to calm you down.

It only makes it all hurt so much worse.

“It’s almost over. You’re doing a good job.” He takes his chances at encouraging you. It feels so sickening, more tears flee your eyes. Where had your boyfriend been, and why is he only just now back after he did the unthinkable?

“Sing with me.” It’s an odd request, but it’s something he found that grounds you better than most grounding techniques. Saying repeatable phrases in melodic tone is comforting for your mind.

“No.”

“Come on… Just one time. Your favorite.” He tries again. Metaphorically, lighting the candle and passing it back to you.

You shake your head in response. Flame snuffed. How can you sing with him after what he did to you?

“Come on, don't leave me it can't be that easy, babe” He starts with such a soft angelic voice. You fold in on yourself unable to keep the sob from escaping your throat. What method of torture is this??

“If you believe me I guess I'll get on a plane. Fly to your city excited to see your face.” He continues, lighting that same candle. It’s so small, barely there anymore from how many times you two have tried to relight it.

“Hold me, console me and then I leave without a trace.” The ice cube has completely melted, and his hand is resting on your arm. He slowly guides you to his chest, and you indulge in his warm embrace for just one last time.

“Come on, don't leave me it can't be that easy, babe.” His chin rests on top of your head. You’ve always fit so well in his arms. He’d always tell you that whatever higher power is out there made you specifically with him in mind.

“If you believe me I guess I'll get on a plane. Fly to your city excited to see your face.” His skin is so warm against yours, and your tears are sticking to your chest.

“Hold me, console me and then I leave without a trace.” You finally indulge him, softly joining in on his singing. His body slowly starts to guide you two into a soft subtle sway.

“Come on, don't leave me it can't be that easy, babe.” It’s not that easy. This fucking hurts so bad. Why would your soulmate do this to you?

“If you believe me I guess I'll get on a plane. Fly to your city excited to see your face.” You feel so pathetic — seeking out comfort from the one who hurt you this bad. If your friend could see you right now, she’d slap some sense into you.

“Hold me, console me and then I leave without a trace.”

You’re sniffling softly into his chest, and his hand carefully pets your hair. “Those kiss marks weren’t from Utahime.” He explains in a soft tone. “We were filming a TikTok. The punchline of the joke was that Suguru and Haibara were the ones who kissed all over my face.”

You look up at him with an unsure look on your face, not understanding what he meant. Satoru carefully picks your phone up, and he clicks on Haibara’s Instagram story from last night.

Sure enough, Haibara posted a TikTok of him, Suguru, Satoru, and Utahime. The camera points at Satoru, showing the kiss marks on his face, and the sound plays. “Bro, what happened to your face? Did you do that?” The camera then pans to Utahime to which she mouths the words, “I did not do that.” The camera then pans to Haibara with smeared wine red lipstick on his lips who says, “Then, who did?” The camera is then panned towards Suguru. He also had wine red lipstick smeared on his lips. “Yeah, who?” The two boys start laughing along with Satoru, and the video cuts.

It only comforts your weary heart slightly.

“It was just a stupid TikTok… I should’ve consulted you or warned you… done anything to respect you.”

“This doesn’t take back how awfully cold you’ve been over the last few weeks…” You sniffle out quietly, and Satoru nods his head knowingly.

“I know, sweetness.. I know. I’ve been terrible.” His arms squeeze you a bit tighter — frightened that he was so close to loosing you, still scared of losing you.

“That’s not an apology… or even a reason.” You try to squirm from his grip, but Satoru holds you tighter.

“I’m so fucking sorry, sweetness.” He breathes out a shaky breath, and you realize the shakiness in his voice. Glancing up at him, you feel yourself clam up with the sight of tears in his eyes. Christ, his eyes are somehow even more blue when he cries. “Shit got crazy at work then-“

“You still had time to party it up with your friends. You left me without even telling me you love me.” You finally break away from his grasp. The cheating accusation was only the surface of the main problem.

“You know I love you…” His voice is small, and he wipes his eyes of the tears that are threatening to spill.

“Do I know that?”

“Don’t… don’t say that.. I love you more than life itself.” His shaky hands go to reach for you again, but you move back away from him.

“You’re only doing this because I’m leaving you. If I hadn’t mentioned it, you’d probably still be half assed ignoring me.” You stare at him, and your eyes start to water for the nth time today.

“That’s not…” Satoru bites his tongue, and he runs a hand through his messy white hair. “I came home this morning… saw the uneaten tv dinner in the trash… Your reality tv show was still playing in the background, and I saw how you fell asleep with your makeup messed up… I realized then how much I neglected you… I planned a full day for us to enjoy each other’s presence… Please, don’t leave me for this. I can fix this.”

“How did it feel to look at me everyday when I tried so fucking hard to reach you?”

“It killed me.” He breathes out, and he tries to reach for you again. “Please, I missed you so much. Work was just so fucking much, and I don’t know why I took that out on you.”

You stare at him, and you shake your head silently. “You should go, Gojo..” Your voice cracked as it physically pained you to tell him to leave. Your body craves him more than anything else in the world right now.

“No, please, princess. Don’t do this… I can fix this. I’ll do whatever it takes… just don’t leave me…” Satoru’s on his knees, literally begging you not to leave him. Tears are falling down his cheeks as he bows his head to you.

It’s humiliating, but he’s so humiliatingly in love with you. He’s so dead serious. He’d do anything for you to stay with him.

“Toru..”

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I-I don’t know why I did it. I just pulled away from you, and I don’t know how it happened. You’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened t-to me. Please. I can’t function without you.”

You stare at your boyfriend with concern as his head literally touches the floor beneath him. You don’t even know what to say to him. The thought of leaving him hurts so fucking bad. It steals the breath from your lungs.

“Please don’t leave me… puh…. please stay with me.” He’s groveling at your feet, unable to stop the tears that escape his eyes. The thought of living in a world where you aren’t his girlfriend… he wouldn’t. He’d be a shell of who he once was. He’s nothing without you.

You slowly sit on the floor in front of him, and your hands stroke his soft hair gently. Satoru’s breath slows as he finally gets a grip on his emotions. He realizes just how pathetic he looks. He slowly leans up, and he looks at you. Both of you looked like complete messes, and it was all his fault.

“I don’t deserve you,” He murmurs quietly. “but please, I can make this better… I love you so much, sweetness… I wouldn’t dream of ever cheating on you.”

“I don’t forgive you.” Your voice is barely a whisper. The metaphorical flame is so small and shaky, but if you two both shield it from the wind, it’ll be able to grow once more. “You have a lot to prove me, Toru.”

“I’ll spend every waking minute of my life fixing this. I promise you, sweets.”

and he did. Satoru went back to loving you loudly. He didn’t merely shield the flame from being blown out, he fanned it himself so it grew in intensity. He was back to doting on you constantly, and he did frequent check-ins to make sure you weren’t feeling neglected. He took frequent vacations from work with you. He usually took you two out on holidays to wherever your heart desired, but sometimes you two would use his vacation time to just lounge around the house and enjoy each other’s presence.

Your confidence slowly returned to you over time. It wasn’t easy by any means. It took many nights of Satoru’s consistent reassurance and overwhelming love and support for you to slowly start feeling comfortable in your relationship with him.

He put in the work, nourished your flame, and he never made you feel guilty for having a second thought because when he loves, he loves deeply. Casual is not his strong suit.

[chubsonthemoon]

It is done! This is The Death of Translation, originally written in English by @landwriter, translated into Mandarin by @thirrith. Binding is dos-à-dos, with English version on one side and Mandarin on the other. Bookcloth was handwoven by me, on my rigid heddle loom :3

More under the cut!

Typeset: Fanbinders are Liars

Full stop, this typeset would not have been possible without Eth and all their patience, enthusiasm, and willingness to do even more translating! I reached out to them *checks watch* nearly a year ago in July 2023 (lololol), asking if I could use their translation of TDOT in a surprise bind I wanted to send along with Gloam's author copy of Flower King. They were kind enough to say yes, and even kinder to answer my questions when I reached out six months later in January, when I was finally able to start work on the typeset.

We talked about the many delicious things that are bound to come up when discussing translating not just from English to Mandarin, but also from digital space to meatspace. Some topics I had anticipated, like font questions, translating the colophon, etc. But even with the topics I thought I'd prepared for, there were still things that came up that both surprised and delighted: for example, while AO3's website allows for italics in Mandarin--

--my publishing program doesn't (or at least, it doesn't without needing to manually tilt every character by about 10 degrees). So as a workaround, Eth suggested changing these cases of italics to the font 华文楷体:

Through no one's fault but my own, this ended up being only slightly less work than manually tilting every instance of italics--I wanted to be sure that I got all of them, so I ended up doing a lot of double-checking manually anyway, instead of relying solely on the Search function. There was a lot of cross-referencing with the Word document that Eth was kind enough to provide, as well as squinting and general swearing. I also did the same for the uses of Latin script, manually styling each instance as Garamond to keep it consistent with the English edition:

The only other time I've had to do font surgery this intensive is probably for my typeset for Tell Me About the Big Bang, which I had to port over from a PDF. Folks, hell on earth. Do not recommend XD I remember squinting at my monitor as I had to visually confirm every instance of italics, thinking I will never do this again. Welp, four years later, here were are: fanbinders are liars, LMAO. At the very least, using Eth's Word document at least allowed me to search by styles, so it was a little easier on my eyes. 🙏

Is there a script that I might've been able to use if I was more code-savvy? Probably. But I figured going at it sledgehammer style would be the least hair-pulling way to get the job done, weirdly enough. Still, despite my best efforts, there are a few instances of PMingLiU to Garamond and PMingLiU to 华文楷体 that I know I missed, and I know I missed them because I caught them after I'd printed/cut/folded/sewn/glued (cue more swearing), so Gloam and Eth, my apologies >.< please consider them artifacts of a uniquely handmade object ajslkdjfs

In addition to the fonts, there were also some other fun things Eth and I discussed, like how to translate the notes I usually provide on the colophons! In addition to information on fonts, I also usually include some variation of:

This private, limited edition published by chubsthehamster (Moonham Press, imprint of Renegade Publishing) in 2024. This is chubsthehamster's personal copy. Out of three existing copies, this is the first.

The thing that came up with this, which still tickles my brain to this day, was how Eth chose how to translate "Moonham Press, imprint of Renegade Publishing." To get a better sense of what word to use for "imprint," they asked what the relationship was between Moonham Press and Renegade Publishing, which got me thinking about the relationship between my lil imprint and the wonderful @renegadeguild:

What's all very funny about all of this is that we are now, in fact, going by the name "Renegade Bookbinding Guild," per our most recently updated Code of Conduct. While this renders the wording I asked for out of date (and thus, the wording that made it into the book out of date :'D), I think it's also a testament to how cool the work @renegadeguild is doing--like any artform, fanbinding is alive, with its own evolving language, communities, and ideas about the craft. And I love it, I love it so much. (Was this also a plug for our new-ish website? Perhaps).

There's more I could say here, but this post is already going to be long enough, so I'll move on for now! If you get anything from this section, it's that @thirrith is amazing and very patient and kind, and I'm so grateful that we got to talk shop together. Thank you so much for all your invaluable help with this, Eth! I hope the typeset, though undoubtedly flawed, does your hard work justice!

Binding: Or, SO Much Math. Like, So Much, Guys. (It was worth it, though!)

Whoo, boy! So math was never my strong suit in school, but when I set out to do this bind last year, that wasn't an issue. At first. The dos-à-dos binding, if anything, just requires a little bit of finagling on the usual case-bound format--a bit more math if you want to do an all-cloth cover, like I planned on doing, but nothing I couldn't work out with some trial and error. (My prototype below!)

Then came February, when I took a weaving class with my friend, and then everything kinda exploded.

My original idea was to use some green Duo bookcloth I had on hand (this color, actually)--for those of you not initiated into the Duo cult, Duo is a Rayon bookcloth with a very devoted fan following in Renegade. It's very pretty; the Rayon weave is one color, and the paper backing is usually complementary color, so it has this cool two-toned effect. Duo is in high demand in Renegade circles because sadly, the company that manufactures it went out of business last year. (Although I've heard rumors recently that there's another company making something similar, but the cloth has a really high purchase requirement and is, like, for businesses only I think).

Anyway, I also wanted to have a gold line around the whole book as a kind of bellyband/obi to further connect the two versions of the story (another reason why I chose the dos-à-dos format to begin with heh), as you can see from my scribbled notes here--

But alas! I knew going in that adhering things to Duo is often Problematic, thanks to one very painful experience trying to get some iron-on foil on another bind (the textured surface of Duo just makes it kinda hard to stick or paint stuff on it). So if I wanted a clean, continuous line, the remaining options were to either paint it on a strip of paper that I'd somehow...adhere to the cloth? Or maybe cut different slices of bookcloth and glue them on. I wasn't satisfied with either of those options, though.

Then--the weaving class. I made a scarf, and I love it and I loved making it. But the whole time, I'll not lie, my thoughts were elsewhere.

In short, my decision to weave my own bookcloth kinda came from a few different factors:

The desire to attempt to recreate Duo, that elusive beauty, the one that got away, etc. (I have several yards in my stash, but still). Others have also attempted to recreate it, and I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring.

My current spiral into the deep hole that is fiber arts (it started with crochet, then knitting, then sewing, then weaving, then spinning, and now I'm eyeing quilting! Please help me).

The gold line. It kept bugging me. And when I found weaving, I just thought there was something very neat about the process of actually making the cloth for a dos-à-dos binding from scratch, and especially for this binding. I wanted to bind a story about translation (or rather, the death of it, and yet still the necessity of it--how we must try to communicate, despite of, or perhaps precisely because of, everything that gets lost in the spaces between people, and the tragedy of that loss, and the beauty of what makes it through, and the love always present in the effort regardless), and also, the translation of that story. Weaving is a very meditative process, and with every pass of the shuttle, back and forth, building slowly but surely the fabric that would hold the story that Gloam had written and that Eth had translated, I thought a lot about translation, and the gaps between people, and how we choose our words not just when translating, but when we speak at all. From a design perspective, I used the same colors I would've used had I chosen the Duo bookcloth--green and gold--so the design wasn't too altered in terms of color scheme. But I think the choice to weave the bookcloth--the thing that bound it all together--made the project take on a completely new meaning for me, both in process and in scope, one that hadn't been there when I started. I saw the warp, perhaps, as the original story, laying the groundwork for the weft, the translation; or maybe it was the other way around, with the translation providing the scaffolding for its own, new meaning, choices that Eth had to make with this word or phrase or another building something new, something translated, and the original a live, moving thing that wove over and under each word turned phrase turned story; or maybe it was both. Maybe it didn't matter which was which, in the end. And as I wove, the thing that connected them, that gold line that had started all of this, slowly formed.

All that to say: Good God, was there a lot of math. So much math. That prototype pictured above was actually made specifically so I could calculate exactly how much I needed to weave, lol, because while I certainly had enough thread, I didn't want to have to warp more than once. I'd learned the basics in my class, but the training wheels came off here. I wanted to make my own custom fabric, which meant calculating things like ends per inch, picks per inch, loom waste, shrinkage after washing, the width of that damn gold line, how much I'd need for the hinge, the turn-ins, the boards--the whole nine yards (I didn't actually weave nine yards tho heh). It was all absolutely worth it in the end--so challenging and so, so rewarding!

(And my final reason for weaving the bookcloth? Not gonna lie, It was because I just wanted to see if I could do it LOL. I love trying at least one new thing with each of my binds, and this was it for this project. While I've been bookbinding for a few years now, I'm still very much a beginner weaver, and I'm so excited to continue to learn and experiment! Also, here's a video of me unwinding the cloth from the loom, heh. I used 10/2 Perle cotton in gold and green colors :3)

Also, turns out, you can back handmade cloth the same way you can any other cloth! I backed it using my usual heat-n-bond method, and with some Unryu Tissue in the color Forest. Since the cloth itself is a bit transparent, there are a bunch of really fun fibers you can see when it's held up to the light, but which aren't visible when the cloth is glued down to the boards. Still, knowing they're there still makes me happy :D

Finally, capping all this off, is one final, small detail I really liked: ginkgo leaf endpapers :3 this one's for me and Eth and Gloam specifically <3

Aaaand that's all from me for today, folks! Thus ends (several months late XD) my last Binderary project for the year. This was probably my most ambitious bind to date, and gosh it was so, so much fun.

And, of course, thank you so much to Gloam for sharing your story, and Eth for translating it. I can't wait for y'all to receive your copies soon!

All my love! <3

[n0tamused]

Can we have some fluff pining with Mortefi? Or just fluff in general pre relationship? Pls?

A/N: Hope you enjoy, anon! <3

-Ah, sweet old Mortefi, that grump is not the most open individual when it comes to his emotions. He doesn't even like bragging about his own genius inventions or ranting about the effort he had to put it, let alone be open about something as trivial as love

-Mortefi wasn't raised in an environment with the luxury of such emotional freedom, and for the biggest part of his childhood he only knew irritation and anger. Had he been younger, his approach to his current predicament would've been more aggressive, if nothing else

-But he is a man grown, and mature way past his years, and he knows the fragility and importance of these feelings he harbors so deep within himself

-So, when he began noticing tell-tale signs of love and longing forming and tying themselves around his heart all because of you, he began to wonder when these feelings began. 

-He softens towards this new wound in his heart that he couldn't complain about..he doesn't remember when he last felt this way and it was certainly new and worthy of his curiosity 

-Mortefi will not approach you for a long time in regards to these feelings, he'd much rather bury his nose in his works and overwork himself with endless projects 

-But ever so slowly you notice his lingering presence. It's not overwhelming, and you get rather comfortable with him around. He is always there if you run into any problems, how convenient.

-He still longs to be close to a person, to share company with someone dear to him, and he tries to make it as comfortable for you both as best as he can and as best as he knows how to. This would often be after work hours, inviting you over for deserts, be it at a restaurant or his own place where he makes dishes for you himself

-He isn’t a fan of the fast food industry so you won’t catch him buying anything of that kind, yet if he knows you like a certain fast food brand he may gift you a packet of your favorite snacks, or even better- he’d create something better than that brand. He has no lack of materials or knowledge on this, so in just a few days he’d present you with a box of your favorite flavors, just don’t press the issue too much, he may become a sassy or snappy

-A simple thanks will do.

-He expresses his care through these gifts and acts of service that aim to make your day better and easier and he is noticeably softer towards you, a bit kinder in his word choice. But he also never falters with guiding you through your problems with a firm but caring hand

-At times he may come to avoid too much eye contact with you, especially if he is too caught up thinking about these growing feelings he has

-It takes a long time until he comes to terms he will either have to fess up or learn to live with these feelings. The latter is more probable, as he doesn’t wish to make you uncomfortable by just admitting his feelings when you may not even return the sentiment

-But if you show the same interest back? And state it clearly without any mixed signals? Well, Mortefi couldn’t be more relieved and happy.

-He does go out of his way to make the confession sweet but not too flashy, he is not a man that likes that much attention in general and that hold up even stronger when it comes to his love life

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[rheanyraaaa]

broken pearls Robb Stark x Frey!Reader (oc inspired)

warnings: miscarriage, mentions of self-harming, mentions of past sexual assault and somewhat explicit, foul language.

side note: i’ve never watched GOT but i’ve watched my fair share of Robb Stark edits and have some understanding on what’s going on + have read lots of fanfic and done research so i can’t say this will seem super canon or make any sense.

this is my first time ever writing a fic on tumblr i hope you found it somewhat bearable (not proofread so might be so grammatical errors)

“whose heart is filled with love, God only loves that one person.”

summary: you miscarried recently, from stress of the war and Robb’s affair with Talisa. You thought it would stop after you married, but he still lays in her tent, now you’ve lost your baby. The one thing holding you together

You sit on the furs, on the floor by the fireplace, you thought married life to the Young Wolf would be kinder to you, you thought he’d show you things that you never got to understand, you were travelling with him, you were seeing more world then your father ever let you see. Yet somehow, despite the coldness of the Twins, you missed the halls, you missed your sisters and you missed the familiarity of it all.

Everyone here hates you, everyone here thinks little of you, despite being their Queen, you were practically a southerner after all, you could deal with the cold winds more then good enough, you could somewhat deal with the snares of the onlookers, and the looks of disgust. You didn’t get it, didn’t get why they had to do it, and you thought Robb would protect you from it.

It’s been a couple weeks since you spoke to him, you had argued, it was a big argument, you’d throw your whole jewellery box at him, you had gone hysterical mid fight, and probably threw a shoe at him at some point, he tried to calm you down, so did his mother, but you had spiralled. The words you said were unkind, blaming him for the death of his child was unkind. But you didn’t regret it, no you didn’t regret one word that came out of your usually sweet and nonchalant polite mouth, you had been waiting for a moment to break lose, and you felt like your father when you did. You felt like Walder Frey.

Everyone thinks your insane, and here you are sitting infront of the fireplace, on the furs, looking at how the red fire danced over the burning wood, they are probably right. Your eyes watery, red even, eye bags probably forming, but you couldn’t look away, something inside you was broken and has been broken for a long time, ever since you were fourteen, on a ambushed carriage, and three men deflowering you, each having their moment. You had told Robb this when you thought you could trust you, and he promised you he’d avenge you, but your sure he’s forgotten that promise now; sleeping in that bitches bed, no shame, you thought. She’s taken everything from you and you had every right to feel anger against her, she’s taken your husband, taken your mother in law, and is loved by the soldiers, while you are outcasted and considered as nothing less then the Frey wife.

You touch your now empty stomach, the baby that once thrived there all but gone, it was cold when Robb bedded you, but you liked the way he felt inside you, when he moved, or when you did, or the quiet noises he made, and the thin layer of sweat that covered you both, how he touched you, it seemed more respect then love, and after he made you cum he left the tent and probably went to tend to her. The baby was made out of fake love and duty no less, and died with no sympathy from the others.

Suddenly, the tent flap opened.

“Who’s there?” You asked, not looking from the fireplace, you knew it was him, the heavy boots against the floor made it obvious, the noise of the winds propelled outside and the loud clunking of metal armour made your dig your fingers into your side.

“mh, I want to speak to you,” His deep northern accent rumbled.

“Speak then, or do I have to order you to like a dog,” You grumble, picking at your nails, the fire light illuminating the scars over your wrists.

“She’s gone.” He said, his voice more quiet and soft then you’ve ever heard it.

“Who?” You ask, pretending to be uninterested.

“Talisa.” He spoke again, softly, You turn to look at him, trying not to show the slight joy you felt at never having to see her face.

“Finally. Did the winter chill finally kill her? or did a hint of water or rain burn the witch?” You rolled your eyes, and huffed as you continued picking your nails until they bleed.

“Enough. She’s not dead. I just sent her away from camp. My mother’s word not mine.” He growled, not looking away from you from one moment. “Why won’t you look at me?” He asked once more, as he stepped closer to where you sat.

“I might burn my eyes I’m afraid.” You chuckled coldly, before actually looking at him.

He chuckled quietly, “You have quite the mouth on your, my lady” He said beside you, looking directly at you, his knee touching yours.

“Why is she gone though?” You barely whispered, more sweetly and more calmly then you’ve ever spoken to him in a long time.

“She caused you pain. You are my wife and you are supposed to be my priority, but duty…. well the war and what I loved blinded me. I need to put you first, I was supposed to put you and the baby first. I’ve lost one I don’t want to lose the other.” He sounded… somewhat sad, but also filled with acceptance and much more mature then he was the last couple of months, he had care in his voice and it made you feel fuzzy.

“You’ve made me feel more than alone. Have you now realised whatever pain you’ve caused me? have you now seen the way you’ve treated me, or has your mother needed to coddle you and make you realise yourself?” You replied sharply, you didn’t want to forgive him so easily, you didn’t want him to think he won.

“My mother was always on your side, and I am truly sorry. I want to try this again, and properly, I want to show you love, and I want to allow you to experience such. You are beautiful, you are more radiant than the stars and the moon, and I want to show that to you.” He responded calmly, looking at you softly, all the gruff in his northern tongue seemingly gone, as he quietly took a strand of your hair and played with it. “You lost the baby and it was my fault. I did it. I want you to know that I accept it, and I always will carry it deep in my heart.” He rumbled on.

“But why did you do it in the first place? make me feel so much pain, I thought you’d be a good man.” You softly cried into the palm of your hands, they were red and sore from biting and ripping the skin.

He slowly crept closer to you, swiping your tears with his huge hands and playing with your hair, humming softly as he pulled you into his chest and let you cry into there instead.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry love.” He said over and over again like a prayer, as you snuggled into him, you hated that you cried infront of him and we’re all vulnerable, you promised you’d never let anyone get close to you but he was breaking all the barriers and you didn’t know how to handle it.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me now, nor anytime soon, but for now on I will sleep in your bed. It will be our bed. And if any man gives you one wrong look or one whisper about you then I will have his head on a spike.” He said more rougher then before, his palm stroking your back as you hid your face in there.

“And we will mourn our baby, properly.” His hand splayed across your now empty stomach. “I am here to do my duty of loving you and protecting you, I am doing my duty as King, and as your husband. I had forgotten my father’s teachings but I remember them now, my love.” He said into your ear, as he looked onto the fireplace, as you nodded slowly into his chest, you definitely hadn’t forgiven him completely yet, but he was understanding, and you knew that one day you were ready to forgive, he just needed to show he cared.

[dpr-stay]

Love Lost! | LN4

Lando Norris x Reader

Warnings: A little bit of the feels, jealous!Lando, hurt/comfort, happy ending, a little bit of drunken confessions but not really, childhood bestfriends to lovers bcs i love that trope.

WC: ~3.2K

Hiya, it's been a few weeks. I've been really busy and kinda lost my inspo to write, so this is me dipping my toe back in. Hopefully it's ok. NOT EDITED (not much has changed huh)

There comes a point in every young person's life where they must look back at what they have done and realise how they could’ve done it greater. Done it faster. Done it kinder. Done it better. Whether it be a choice, an action, or some words, reflection and acknowledgement are key milestones in the development of a person's life.

Lando has had many of these moments. Such as when he had first set foot in a kart, he should’ve done it earlier. His debut season, he should’ve done it better. His schooling, he should’ve put more effort in. The realization of his feelings for his childhood best-friend, he should’ve done it faster.

It was all he could think as his eyes caught you at the bar with some random nobody leaning over your side, obviously trying to chat you up. He took a sip of his surprisingly bitter drink as he watched. The drink shouldn’t have been bitter, it was some fruity cocktail he’d bought for you before you’d arrived, but the look you were giving the guy who you were talking to certainly made it so.

The tightening of his chest went unaddressed as his first clenched around the glass stem, his mind begging to ignore the way your smile had shifted from the fake one you gave to creeps to one not dissimilar from the way you smiled at him. An elbow jolted into his side, causing his eyes to draw away from the bar, though his mind remained around 15 feet away.

One of his mates, some guy he’d met a week ago who wasn’t after his money but wouldn’t say no to sixteen free drinks, looked at him concerned. Atleast Lando thought the look was concerned, he couldn’t exactly tell as the guy's face was hidden behind a pair of douchey shades. He shouldn’t think that though, he probably owned at least ten pairs that looked the exact same.

The guy moved his head again in a silent gesture and Lando nodded, hiding his suffering behind the pretense of not stopping this guy from getting laid, returning the silent gesture. He then shrugged before moving on, quickly running up to a group of girls and placing his arms around the shoulders of two, leaving Lando to continue stewing.

Really, it wasn’t stewing. He had no reason to ‘stew’. He’d only discovered he’d felt this way recently, he hadn’t been silently grudging for years. However, as his eyes moved back to the bar and watched as the guy's hand slid from your shoulder to your back, he could definitely feel the pot boiling over within him. 

You hadn’t moved though, there was no indication that you were uncomfortable from your body language, so Lando had to accept that he wasn’t able to intervene. He trusted you as much as he liked you unfortunately, so he knew that you’d walk away or even signal if you didn’t like where this was going. He couldn’t rush in and be a knight in shining armour if there was no damsel in distress, no matter how much he hated it.

He slid down in his seat, trying not to appear too stalkerish to any people at the club as he watched the two of you interact. Last thing he wanted was rumors of him being a voyeur spreading around the media. It wouldn’t be too far off with the way the guy you were talking to was going. His hand was still sliding lower, moving from your mid back all the way down till it met the seat of the chair.

Lando could hardly hear the music pumping through the club, only focused on your body language. One slight flinch or look of discomfort and Lando would take that as his cue to storm over and create such a row that he would be heard in Azerbaijan. 

However, you didn’t move away. Lando could only watch as you adjusted in your seat, letting the guy's hand slide under your behind. You definitely didn’t need any help. The drink tasted almost acidic when Lando next took a sip, forcing himself to turn away from the bar. He came here for a good time, he didn’t need to see you getting it on.

He cleared his throat, though no one could hear him and no one had even paid attention to him in an hour. A quick glance around the club confirmed this, people engaged with their own activities while he was sat, watching someone he was in love with get hit on.

That’s not pathetic, is it? Lando thought it would be more pathetic if he acted on his impulses, walked over and stopped the random guy in his tracks. You’d probably be mad (would you?) and he didn’t think he could deal with it. Especially after watching what was happening in front of him.

I mean, you’d definitely been mad at him before, knowing a person for over a decade does that to someone, but he didn’t know how mad you would be. He’d never been in this situation before, one where he had to put his drink down and sit on his hands to stop them from punching the guy in the face. 

The fact that this was one hundred percent not healthy was all that Lando could think. He shouldn’t be putting himself through this, watching someone else touch you how you wanted to be touched. How he wanted to touch you.

God, he should leave. There was no point in staying here just to torture himself. He was a voyeur, not a sadist. He took a breath before chugging the drink you had insisted you couldn’t have because you wanted to pay for your own and then standing up and lumbering his way to the exit.

Doing the responsible thing, he arranged for an uber as he walked down the corridor to the door. The fresh air that greeted him sent a wave of feeling down his spine. He walked further away from the cue to get into the club, praying that no one would recognise him as he walked.

Luckily, no one did. Lando didn’t know if this made him feel better or worse.

It’s a funny thing, that. Lando normally liked being in the spotlight. Maybe it was growing up always being unwittingly compared to others, but he liked being special. Even in times Lando didn’t want to be recognised, because he truly didn’t at the moment, he still craved that little serotonin boost whenever someone would turn to him with stars in their eyes. 

It felt nice to be revered, nice to be seen as greater, all those things he didn’t consider himself. You’d always provided that for him. He didn’t want to come off as shallow or as a user, but your everlasting presence in his life, your consistent praise, had always made him feel good. 

God, that did make him come off as shallow. It went without saying, he thought, that he always tried to return the favour. The way you always smiled bashfully in response to his compliments always made his day brighter. 

He almost swore out loud into the empty street as he walked. He should’ve realised earlier. He’d never taken himself as the boy-next-door type, mostly because he was always someplace else, but the idea of domesticity with a person who he’d always been around, especially since it was you, made him feel incredibly warm inside. 

A warmth he doesn’t feel often. It had only come around a few times in his life, but the most notable would’ve had to have been around two weeks earlier. He was just lying in bed, you on the phone rambling about whatever you were now interested in.

Every one of his responses were some variation of “yeh” but that didn’t stop you. Eventually you’d tired yourself out and Lando had finally got a word in. He’d made some tired quip about you “never shutting up”. You’d responded in like, a joke about him not being able to keep up. You’d gone back and forth with your banter before eventually you’d both called it quits and said goodnight. 

Lando hadn’t even registered the fact he was about to say “I love you” as a sign-off before you’d hung up on him until the quiet beeping of his phone sounded. That had made him really, truly think about your years-long friendship, pondering about whether he had meant that platonically or romantically.

It hadn’t taken long for him to figure it out. After ten minutes an itching had settled in his mind that he should call you back and force you to continue talking. He missed your voice, even if it was you ranting about something he had no idea about. Even the thought of it had inspired a familiar warm feeling to bloom within him.

The warm feeling had still been present in the club, even if it was accompanied by the crushing weight of feeling mediocre. Lando almost scoffed at himself as he mindlessly kicked a rock as he walked. 

His earlier thoughts ran through his mind, cursing himself for thinking it pathetic to try and stand up for his own feelings. He should’ve said something at any point. Now you were probably dancing with the guy, ignoring the fact that Lando wasn’t even in the club.

That wasn’t true, of course. You were too kind. Something that Lando had always appreciated but made it incredibly hard in situations such as this one. The buzzing of his phone alerted him to this, a single text from you reading ‘Where r u?’

Completely inconspicuous but oh so characteristic. The shorthand made it clear you were busy, you were never one for abbreviations, but Lando refused to think about what you were busy with. He didn’t think you were ‘easy’, god no he wasn’t an ass, but he’d never seen you click so fast with someone to the point that you’d let them put their hands on you like that.

Lando didn’t know how to respond, instead checking the time on the Uber. There was no way that many people were getting Uber’s that it was a twenty minute wait. He could only sigh before scrolling back to your text. 

An answer that properly conveyed his dilemma evaded him, so he just replied with a ‘Going home’ before quickly tacking on a ‘Have fun :)’ because he felt it was rude not to. After hitting send, he put his phone in his pocket before leaning against the wall of the building closest to him, staring straight into the night sky. 

He’d only have a few minutes of respite before a familiar call of his name sounded in his ears. His head swung down out of shock, watching your hasty figure make your way towards him. You were swaying on the heels you were regretting wearing, your purse having your essentials halfway out of it.

“What the hell, man?” You asked as you stumbled closer, the drink you’d bought yourself making your already unsteady steps seem as though you’d fall over if you went too close to a crack in the pavement. 

He could only look on in incredulity as you stopped in front of him, one of your hands reaching for his arm to balance yourself. He quickly reacted, sweeping you into his side, before turning his head to look at you.

“I thought you were going to stay back.” His voice had a tone of question to it and you shook your head, swaying violently side from side as you moved it.

“No, I came with you. Gonna leave with you too.” Your words were mumbled as you spoke them, the drowsiness you felt becoming incredibly apparent. Lando tried not to react, though he found it incredibly hard. The knowledge that you’d never even planned to leave with anyone but him reassured him. The feeling he got from that reassurance made him slightly uncomfortable. As much as it made him regretful that he didn’t act earlier, no one owned you and you could do whatever you liked.

The words you spoke awoke a feeling that had been increasing ever since that phone call, the previous events of the night also hadn’t done it any favours. That feeling was protectiveness. 

“Would you like me to take you home?” He asked and you nodded against his side. He held you there while you swayed, thinking over what the feeling coursing through his veins entailed. Was it right to feel protective over something that definitely wasn’t yours?

Lando was left to ponder this as you both waited for the cab. He didn’t know if that question explicitly applied to this situation. Maybe you weren’t each others in a relationship sense, but you were definitely each others in a friendship sense. Hell, he’d consider himself yours in any circumstance. He just didn’t know if you thought the same.

As the Uber pulled up the curb, Lando walked you both over. Quickly opening the door and guiding you in, he then rushed to the other side and got in the car. He gave the driver the address of your house before leaning back into his seat.

It took approximately five seconds after the car had started that your head fell on his shoulder. He froze, not daring to move a muscle in fear that he would disrupt your sleep. A quick glance down out of the corner of his eyes showed that you actually weren’t asleep, you were staring up at him. Your eyes looked as though they were shining as they stared at him, and he couldn’t help the heat rushing to his cheeks

Your expression looked starstruck, as though you’d never seen him before. He quickly tapped your shoulder in a silent ‘you okay?’ gesture. You didn’t respond, causing him to look down and look at you.

Unknowingly, he had positioned you at eye level with each other. He could feel the breaths escaping your lips as you breathed out, the closeness a feeling he decided he would cherish because of the highly unlikely chance of ever feeling it again.

Or he could call it, lean in and deal with the repercussions. He was tempted, of course, it would be such an easy way to just rip the bandaid off. He wouldn’t have to deal with a confession or the rejection. He could just lean in for a few seconds then open the door of the Uber and roll out, never having to see you again to face the rejection he could sense. 

After a few seconds he pulled the plug, deciding that the longer he held his head so close to yours, the creepier it came off. Neither of you talked the rest of the journey, relying on the old tunes of Oasis that the driver decided to put on.

Eventually, you arrived at your address. One look at Lando convinced him to walk you inside. He’d call another Uber, regardless of wait times.

You opened the door to your building, holding it open for Lando which he acknowledged with a smirk. You just rolled your eyes, the moment from the Uber well and truly passed. Regardless, you both moved to your elevator, moving in as you clicked the button of your floor. 

There wasn’t many people around, it was too late, so it was just you and Lando in the elevator. A space that would normally be full of conversation was unusually quiet. 

Lando knew why he was quiet, he was recalling the moment in the Uber, slightly mourning what could’ve happened if only he was braver. He didn’t know why you were quiet, probably thinking about how weird he was acting.

But, frankly, the night was almost over. Just another couple of minutes and Lando could start the journey home, able to think over how that man had touched you and how he would never be able to do that. He should definitely try to move on. It would be too uncomfortable to spend a long amount of time secretly loving his best friend.

The lift dinged and you both walked over, moving side by side down the corridor till you eventually reached your door. You both paused outside your door. You didn’t make any move to grab your key and instead just looked at Lando, an unfamiliar look on your face. You almost seemed resigned. Lando didn’t know why.

You then sighed before moving to your purse, rummaging for a second before pulling out your key. A quick turn and your door was open. You turned back to Lando, a small smile on your lips.

“Goodnight Lando.” You said sweetly and Lando returned the gesture quietly, pulling you in for a small hug. After you separated, you seemed to hesitate for a second before shaking your head and going inside. Lando watched you close the door and heard it click before he called out one last ‘goodbye’.

Except the words that left his lips were not ‘goodbye’. They were ‘love you’. Completely unconscious slip of the tongue but it resulted in Lando completely freezing. How the hell had he done that?

He couldn’t hear any footsteps from your side of the door and Lando was left gaping as he processed what he said and the fact that you definitely heard. It was way past the time to say it was an accident when he regained any sort of agency.

He immediately turned away from your door, poised as though to make a getaway. However, the sound of your door opening stopped him. Oh god, how was he going to write this off.

He slowly turned, making eye contact with you as you stood in the doorway of your apartment. Your expression was more shocked than blank, but it was definitely on the border. He could see the question in your face, but he could only respond with his completely gobsmacked expression.

He didn’t know what you took this to mean, but you smiled. A bright smile. A smile more radiant than any one he’d seen you give the man from the bar. It took you a second to gather your thoughts to speak, he could see you formulating something to say in your mind.

“I love you too.” Was your response and if Lando’s jaw could drop further, it did. He was not expecting any of this. If he were to confess his feelings, he thought there would’ve been a lot more of his tears involved and a lot more planning. However, here you were, shyly returning his feelings. A smile that matched your own spread across his face and you giggled at his reaction.

“Really?” He asked dumbly, something you’d tease him about later. You nodded.

It took him less than two seconds to cross from where he was standing awkwardly in the corridor to your door frame, and it took him even less time to kiss you.

And, for once, Lando felt relieved that he didn’t do anything a different way.

hope you likey

[chaifootsteps]

there's been another edit war going on with the TV Tropes recap for Full Moon's YMMV recap page

an entry for Unintentionally Unsympathetic that talks about the reaction to Stolas. people kept trying to remove it and then even those who didn't totally agree added it back because it's about a fan reaction & it used direct evidence from the show as support

it's back for good now because it was approved on another thread, but what gets me is that fans keep trying to reframe what people's problem is with the murder family scene in the first place

they talk about it as though the scene has to prove either Stolas called already knowing it was a bad time or have been watching Blitzo functionally the entire time

but while that would be bad, there's already enough in the scene itself to condemn Stolas. the point is that Stolas had every reason to believe Blitzo was not in a position to talk and was very likely in danger, but he not only pressed ahead he proposed a deal that Blitzo should have had more time to think over but was instead put in a position where agreeing immediately just to get Stolas' off the phone was his best bet

at no point does Stolas ask why Blitzo is whispering, about the gunshots, if he should call back or arrange to come to the office when Blitzo keeps telling him he's trying to focus on (in his own words) not 'getting fucked'. he doesn't even care to ask if Blitzo is OK

if it were anyone with a shred of empathy or common sense they'd realize that someone immediately saying 'fine! whatever!' to a proposition like that is a big red flag that they're not giving enthusiastic, informed consent - Blitzo didn't have time to think it through and his 'whatever!' especially gives the impression he would have agreed to anything to keep the book

saying it's on Blitzo to hang up on Stolas (even though he could have called back and the ringtone would've endangered his life even more a second time) ignores the power imbalance - Blitzo talks to and about Stolas in Loo loo land like he expects the owl to drag him off to some dark corner of the park for a quickie whether Blitzo likes it or not. he obviously doesn't trust him enough to know Stolas wouldn't have gotten angry & tanked his business if he'd just hung up, especially as soon as Stolas mentioned the grimoire. (even as late as full moon with so called better kinder Stolas, Blitzo still doesn't trust Stolas not to ruin his business and offers to do 'anything' - doesn't exactly suggest he trusts him even in s2, does it?)

it's just victim blaming - what's stopping Stolas being the one to arrange a better time to talk or just dropping by the office?

Murder Family Stolas gives the impression of someone who does not care whether or not Blitzo is in danger or is able to give informed & enthusiastic consent, so long as he agrees to what Stolas is proposing. and even if Blitzo had been able to think it through, Stolas is essentially demanding Blitzo pimp himself out to him to keep the lights on. there's no way to spin that to make what Stolas does OK - if they'd been having a casual fling outside of work without the book being the direct transactional element (ie Blitzo slept with him a second time because he wanted to not because he was forced to) there'd still be the uncomfortable question of the grimoire looming over them but the whole messy relationship would be a lot easier to fix and Stolas would look way less like a monster

Saving the full post in case it's lost to us.

[tropes-and-tales]

Sweet Like Candy

Day 5:  Sex pollen (Horacio Carrillo x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Dub-con due to sex pollen trope; smut (PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count:  4990

AN:  This was requested by an anon with an excellent memory who remembered when I mentioned a sex pollen Carrillo piece in passing! Also, not edited. I'm sick and barely ran it through spell-check.

It’s Carrillo’s fault, this entire terrible situation.

If he hadn’t been so severe when he first met you, he could have a genial working relationship with you.  You wouldn’t have been afraid of him from the start.  You would have been willing to work directly with him, handed off your lab reports directly instead of filtering them through Peña and Murphy, through Trujillo.

He wouldn’t have gotten grief from Peña to try and make peace with you.  He wouldn’t have gone to visit you, a play at being a softer, kinder Carrillo who perhaps smiles and says thank you for all of your exemplary work.

He wouldn’t have found himself in your lab on this day—the day you’re running tests on a separate case for the Medellín police, separate from the Search Bloc and its pursuit of Escobar. Not testing cocaine at all:  a scatter of innocuous-seeming candy in your workspace.  Supercoco—chewy caramel with coconut pieces folded in. 

Any Colombian recognizes the green wrapper.  Carrillo smiles to see it, slips a couple of pieces into his pocket when you turn away for a moment.

Only this isn’t Supercoco.  It’s a version infused with the distillation of a plant found in the Amazon, then wrapped in the familiar green paper.  A powerful love drug, an aphrodisiac, passed on the sly in the bars and night clubs of Medellín.

It’s Carrillo’s fault.  He’d been so severe when he met you, he tries to make amends now by being casual.  You stare at him as though he has two heads as he asks you about your day, how you’re settling into your apartment, if you’ve had a chance to explore the city yet. 

You answer his questions with your brows furrowed.  Confused.  He’s hardly the same man who barked at you on your first day in Colombia.  A timer in the lab goes off, and you turn to one of your complicated pieces of lab equipment to read the ticker tape being spit out of the machine.

Your back turned, he snags another piece of candy and eats it.  He’s trying to be Casual Carrillo, not the flinty version of himself with a cold gaze and a grim set to his mouth.  He takes a second piece, chews it, feels a million memories from his childhood resurface at the taste.  But then you turn around, see what he’s eating, and your face—usually guarded and wary when he is around—turns to pure horror.

“No!”  You bridge the distance between the two of you, and you’re touching him before he can even register it.  Your hands are on his face, pinching the corners of his mouth, trying to force him to spit out the candy.  It’s pure instinct, like a mother forcing a toddler to spit out something poisonous.  You move on instinct, manhandling his face, and he moves on instinct too.

He spits out the half-chewed candy.

Which doesn’t help with the piece he already ate.  The piece already in his stomach, being digested.

“Shit, rinse out your mouth,” you order him, and you dart to the sink, pour him a glass of water.  You thrust it into his hand, and his heart starts to hammer at your panicky reaction.  What has he eaten?  Poison?  Some terrible, addictive drug?  Something that’ll do permanent damage to him, leave him with a weakened heart or a compromised liver?  Something that’ll shave years off of his life?

“What—” he starts to ask, but you gesture at the glass, so he does as he’s told.  He takes a mouthful, swishes it around.  Spits it out in the sink, then does it again and again.

“It’s some sort of love drug,” you tell him once he’s done.  You sag in relief against the counter.  “Medellín police found a bunch of it in a bust the other day.  The DEA contracts my lab out to the local force, so I’ve been running tests.”

“Love drug?” he asks, his stomach sinking.  “What does that mean?”

“Tests reveal organic compounds from a plant.  Like maca root, only…times a thousand.”

He swallows hard, and you catch the audible gulp, misunderstand it.

“You’re fine,” you tell him, and you gift him a rare smile.  “You didn’t eat it.  And anyway, there’s no long-term side effects if you had.  It just makes the user really, uh, friendly.”

“How friendly?” he asks, using your cutely prudish American adjective for horny, and you give him the anecdotal evidence from the Medellín police about spontaneous orgies in local clubs, and then he tells you the bad news about how he ate a first piece before spitting out the second, and the way your eyes go wide and your mouth forms a perfect “O” of horror would make him laugh, if he weren’t so nervous about what is about to happen to him.

-----

You drive him home in his own car.  There’s no point in taking him to the hospital—the only treatment is to ride it out.

It’s hard to describe the way it feels when the drug starts to affect him.  Carrillo has little experience with any drugs beyond the morphine he was prescribed when he was shot and had surgery.  He remembers the morphine, even years later:  the warm, syrupy calm that spread through his limbs, erasing the pain of his wound.

This…is not that.

Twenty minutes.  Half an hour after he eats that fucking laced candy.  He feels it in his stomach first, right under his rib cage:  warm, but not calm.  Warm, but…alert.  Aware.  If the morphine put his senses to sleep, then this wakes them up.

Wakes all of his senses up, then as the warmth spreads—up into his chest, down into his gut—wakes his senses up even more.  Carrillo’s senses dialed up to a thousand.

Not just smelling your delicate perfume, but smelling the soap from your laundry detergent, the shampoo you used that morning.  The faintly chemical smell of your lab that clings to your hair and clothing.

Not just hearing you—your cautious questions of how he’s feeling, where you should turn next to get him home.  He swears he can hear your heart beating, the pulse and slush of your blood as it moves through your body.  Swears he can hear you breathing, can hear the quiet creak of your jaw as you clench it in worry.

Not just seeing you, the mousy little scientist that he managed to scare shitless her first day in Colombia.  Put the fear of God in you after the last DEA scientist got caught skimming Escobar’s cocaine from the bricks confiscated by the Search Bloc.  His own fault, how he barked at you that first day, and this is his fault too—not following the rules of your lab.  Now he’s not himself.

Now he sees you with the drug roaring in his veins.  The tight clench of your hands on the steering wheel.  The worried set of your jaw, the way you study him out of the corner of your eye.  He sees more, now, too:  the delicate shell of your ear, the tiny pinprick in the lobe of a piercing but no earring because of your lab protocols.  The way the line of your neck disappears into the neckline of your shirt, the curve as it meets your shoulder.  The thin silver chain around your neck, a locket, and Carrillo wonders if you’ve got some sweetheart back home who gifted it to you before you left for South America.

The thoughts rise in his head like carbonation, rapid-fire.  Usually so logical, so cool-headed:  now his thoughts are gummy, sticky.  He wants to lean against the seatbelt and put his mouth on your neck, follow the line of it into your shirt, then pull it aside and keep going.  Tasting you.  Such a sweet, mousy little thing—he wonders if you taste sweet, or if he’d taste the salt of your skin, maybe a bitter spot where you daubed perfume that morning—

“Shit.”  It comes out a groan, pained.  He lifts a hand and presses it over his eyes, and he feels how hot his palm is.  This is bad.  It’s so bad.  He’s not himself; he’s losing who he is:  Horacio Carrillo, the man who is always so staid…that man is fading into the background.  That Horacio is going quiet, ceding control to this other Horacio who is ruled only by want, by feeling.

-----

You manage to get him home, and he is still enough of himself to thank you. 

He’s also enough of himself to bark out that you need to leave:  take his car and go, leave him alone.

But Carrillo never really got to know you.  He put the fear of God in you that first day.  You’ve been ducking him ever since.  He has no way of knowing the type of person you are.

He has no way of knowing that you are the caring sort.  You’re soft-hearted.  You worry for people when they are hurt or sick; you check in on them.  You take care of them.

He has no way of knowing that while you are brilliant at your job and largely level-headed, your heart often drives you and your brain often follows.  Which is why you ignore his orders and follow him into his house:  your soft heart driving you to help a person in distress, when your brilliant mind is perhaps warning you to stay away.

-----

You follow him into his house, and Carrillo is still enough of himself to try and force you to leave.

“You gotta go,” he says, and his usually-crisp English comes out slurred, slushy and rounded off with his Colombian accent.  “Gotta leave.”

He curls his hands on your upper arms, pushes you backwards but not meanly.  Pushes you towards the door carefully so you don’t stumble or trip, but it’s another sense dialed up to a thousand—the feel of you under his hands.  The warmth of your body underneath the crisp cotton of your blouse, the way his fingertips bite into the surprisingly firm muscles there. 

“If you don’t leave, m-might not be able to stop myself.”  He pushes you towards the door, but already that driving want is roaring in him, and he doesn’t stop to open the door and push you through it.

He keeps it closed and pushes you against it. 

He traps you between the door and his body, so close to touching you.  There’s hardly any space separating you.  Millimeters.  Molecules.  Close enough to feel the heat of your body, the magnetism the fucking drug is convincing him is there—

Carrillo stares down at you; you gaze back with those widened eyes.  Nervous.  As scared as you’d been that first day, and it chastens him just a bit.  You probably think he’s a monster.

You take a breath, and the motion makes the locket around your neck move.  It catches the light and draws his eye.  Carrillo takes a hand from your shoulder and lifts the locket from where it lays against your chest.  He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, considering it.

“Your boyfriend give you this?” he asks.

You blink at the question, shake your head faintly.  “It was my grandma’s.”

A dumb thing, but the thought of you having a grandmother—of course you have two, as most humans do—reminds him that you’re a person with an entire history.  A family back home in the States.  Likes and dislikes.  And Carrillo knows none of it.

“You need to go,” he says in a low voice, ignoring the wave of lust that sweeps through him.  “I can handle this alone.”

You shake your head again.  “It was my lab.  My responsibility.  I can help.  I can get a cold shower going and then—”

He silences you.  He puts his finger over your lips, stills them.  The wrong thing to do:  now he knows how your mouth feels, and Carrillo grits his teeth and breathes shallow through his nose.

“If you don’t go, I’m going to want to—Dios, I already…you need to go.”

The last vestige of the sensible, stoic Carrillo wants to open the door, shove you out of it, throw the bolt.  That Carrillo wants to stagger deeper into the house, alone, and strip out of his clothes.  He wants to lay on the cool tiles and relieve the tension as best he can.

That Carrillo is gone.  Silenced, tucked away into a corner of his mind.  This Carrillo doesn’t push you away:  instead, he shifts his hand, traces his finger over the plump curve of your lower lip, and your eyes widen at his touch—

This Carrillo remembers something.  With his other hand, he reaches down.  Into his pocket, where a few pieces of the laced candy are.  The ones he pocketed on the sly and forgot.

He pulls one out.  Unwraps it clumsily with one hand while the other hand remains on your mouth, stilling your words.  Once it’s unwrapped, he holds it up for you to see, like a trainer teaching a dog with a treat.  Then he removes his hand from you, takes a step back.  It takes every single bit of his resolve to stop touching you, but he does.

He’s giving you a choice:  leave, as he’s ordered you to do more than once.  Or stay and join him.

In this moment, Carrillo still doesn’t know anything about you.  He doesn’t know what you’re thinking.  He knows so little about you, only knows that you avoid him, are frightened by his tough colonel of the Search Bloc routine. 

There will come a time in the future when he will be able to guess, with startling accuracy, what you are thinking.  He’ll know you better then.  He’ll know that as mousy as you seem, you have sudden surges of bravery.  Sudden moments of nerve.

That comes later.  Right now, when Colonel Horacio Carrillo gives you a choice, you startle him.  You don’t turn and flee. 

You shift your eyes from the laced candy in his hand to his own eyes, and you seem to see something there that informs your decision.

You don’t flee.  You open your mouth and allow him to lay the laced caramel onto your tongue, a perverse sort of communion.  It’s one of your sudden moments of nerviness, and you never blink once, never look away from him while you chew carefully, then swallow.

*****

It’s morally grey, at best.  The man is not himself.

It’s utter madness at worst.

There will come a time in the near future when he will ask why you didn’t leave.  Why you ate the candy.  You’ll tell him a half-truth:  that it was professional curiosity, how taking the drug would feel.  You’ve never tried the drugs you test in your lab; you always rely on your equipment and anecdotal evidence from those who do inject or smoke or eat the various drugs.  But there is always the curious part of you, the most essential part of being a scientist, that wants to know how it feels.

Why not try it?  It isn’t cocaine or heroin or LSD. 

There will come a time in the further future when he will ask again, and that time, you’ll tell him the whole truth:  that yes, you were curious about the drug.  But more than that:  you were curious about him.  You were terrified of him and attracted to him in equal measure (you blamed the fact that he was usually in uniform), which made for a weird combination of emotions every time you had to deal with him.  The sinking fear in your gut that he’d turn his flinty gaze on you…paired with the fluttery swooping in your gut of burgeoning infatuation.

That all comes later.  Right now, there’s nothing but the sweetness of caramel lingering in your mouth, almost cloying, and Colonel Carrillo staring at you like he wants to devour you.  You inch around him, move away from where you’re trapped between him and door. 

You make your way deeper into his home, and you sit on his couch and wait.  He follows and sits beside you, but he doesn’t touch you.  He clenches his hands into fists in his lap, his knuckles white with the effort, but he doesn’t touch you.

That means something, you think.  Says something about his character, even when he’s drugged.

Fifteen, twenty minutes after eating the laced candy:  you’re ready to be devoured.

*****

Carrillo doesn’t know exactly how the drug works—if it affects men and women differently—but he can guess when you start to feel it.

Your face twists into an expression of concentration, as if you’re surveying how you feel.  Like you’re checking in on your pulse, your breathing, your temperature.  You narrow your eyes, and he wonders if you’re making mental notes that you’ll later print in your small, neat handwriting in the little notebook you keep.

Carrillo?  He’s in hell.  Twenty minutes of waiting for you to sink to his level, and every cell of him aches for relief.  He’s not in any physical pain—whatever formula the chemists use for their so-called love drug, it’s meant to be fun, not painful.  But it’s like pain, the endless want he has, the lust that’s sunk its claws deep into his gut.

The twenty minutes pass like twenty years.

Then you swipe your palms along the thighs of your jeans as if they are sweaty, and you breathe out a shaky, “holy shit,” and he knows you’re finally in the same place as him so he pounces, damned near:  a graceless move, quick, that bridges the distance between the two of you.  He presses himself against you, cages you against the arm of the couch, and when he bends his head to kiss you, you raise up to meet him more than halfway.

He knows it’s just the drug, but you kiss him with a passion he’s never experienced before:  not with his now-ex-wife, not with the handful of girls before her.  Every other kiss before pales in comparison to the heat behind your kiss now:  the fierce way you slot your mouth over his, how eagerly you slide your tongue against his without an ounce of the shyness he associates with you.  He can taste the sickly-sugary laced-candy, but he swears he can taste you too, and when he groans in your mouth, you answer with your own whine.

There’s only a small sliver of him that is still him, and that tiny shred of the sensible Carrillo manages to break away.  You’re both tearing at each other’s clothing—your shaky hands fumbling at the buttons on his shirt, his hands tugging the hem of your blouse out of your jeans.  But he breaks away with every remaining bit of his inner strength, and he gazes down at where you’re awkwardly splayed across his couch.

“Not here,” he pants.  All of this will shame him when he’s sober, he thinks, but he can try to be a gentleman, can claim you on a proper bed and not on an uncomfortable couch.

He stands up, and a wave of dizziness washes through him.  He staggers, and you sit up and reach out to steady him.  You wrap a hand around his wrist and stare up at him.  Your eyes glitter black because your pupils are so wide that the color of your irises is little more than a crescent—but he thinks he sees concern there underneath the lust.

“You okay, Colonel?” you ask, confirming his suspicions.  Even now, under the influence of the drug, he’s seeing your caring nature that he’s never been privy to before.  It sobers him up just enough.

Carrillo nods.  He twists out of your light grip and takes your hand in his.  He tugs you to your feet and feels how you sway against him too.

“N-not here,” he repeats.  A fresh wave of lust courses through him, nearly knocks him to his knees like the incoming tide.  “I don’t…not here, okay?  C’mon.”

You nod and allow him to lead you back to his bedroom.  He keeps his hold on your hand, unwilling to give up the tame touch, and when you squeeze his hand—maybe you’re nervous—he squeezes yours back in reassurance.

-----

That small, quiet voice that was sensible Carrillo is silenced the minute he gets you in the bedroom.  The drug takes him over completely, and he’s almost relieved to cede all control to it.  He’s always so tight-laced, so straight-edged. 

This Carrillo is nothing but id:  driven by desire, chasing pleasure.  He feels like little more than an animal, and he finds that he likes it. 

Your clothes don’t survive him.  He tears at your blouse and the buttons ricochet across the room.  He’ll find them for weeks afterwards; he’ll send you home in one of his plain white T-shirts the next morning, and the sight of you in such a tame outfit will make a curling wave of lust course through him, though the drug will have worked itself out of his system by then.

He tugs at the clasp of your bra, fumbles it but then unlatches it, and he pushes it off of your arms to reveal your breasts, and Carrillo sways closer to you.  He touches you there first, cups the soft roundness of you, and he feels how diamond-hard your nipples are.  He bends his head and puts his mouth to you—suckling, nipping, licking at you, and he feels your hand thread through his hair to hold him there.  He hears the keening whine you loose, the throaty way you say his name.

Not his name.  You whine out Colonel, his stupid fucking title, and he lifts his head.  He stares into your dark, unblinking eyes.  He reaches up a hand and grips your chin, firm but not hard, because even underneath the raging animal lust burning through him, he doesn’t want to hurt you.

“Horacio,” he tells you.  “Say it.”

You do, and it’s no mousy whisper.  Your tongue darts out and lays a wet line on your lower lip. 

“Horacio,” you reply.  You say it carefully like it’s a new word for you.

“Say it again,” he demands, but you only get the first two syllables out before he’s muttering a curse at hearing his name in your mouth, the intimacy of it, and he seals his mouth over yours in a fierce kiss.

The rest of your clothes—your jeans, your panties—fall away as he strips you.  There’s no art to it.  No seduction, because you strip him just as fiercely.  You tug at his belt and undo it, pull it from the loops of his pants with a snap as the leather whips against the air.  You get him out of his uniform shirt and t-shirt underneath it but then he pushes you back against the bed and you fall, naked and gorgeous. 

Horacio pounces.

There is a part of him, terribly small and far away, that worries you don’t want this.  The straight-edged part of him despairs that this is just the drug, that you’ll be horrified in the morning. 

His worrying will be needless.  He’ll wake before you in the morning—the consequence of being in the army so long—but when you finally wake too, you’ll only be a little shy.  You won’t have any regrets, and you’ll prove it to him by climbing onto him, by riding him slowly in the pre-dawn Medellín morning.  And neither of you will be drugged when you do.

Now, he stretches the length of his body over yours, feels the feverish press of his skin to yours.  You open your legs to him, but when he settles between your spread thighs, you hook your feet onto his pants, reach down with your hands, and clumsily try to work the rest of his clothing off of him.

“Eager,” he mutters against your mouth, and your lips are slick, swollen from how much he’s already kissed you.

“Please,” you reply.  You gaze up at him, blink as if you’re trying to clear your head.  “Please, Horacio.”

Then you shift the hand that is already reaching down, and you touch him—your hand slips under the low-slung elastic of his boxers, and your warm hand is on his cock, and the sudden touch makes him jump and twitch in your palm as you grasp him firmer, start stroking him.

“Fuck,” he chokes out.  “F-fuck, cariño.”

If he can be grateful for anything, it’s that he got dosed in your lab and managed to get home before this moment.  You told him this drug was circulating though Medellín clubs and bars, and Horacio cannot imagine succumbing to this sharp, all-encompassing desire in public.  He’s grateful he got you to his bed, where you have privacy.

The first time he fucks you, Horacio gets no further than freeing his cock from the confines of his pants, shoves his uniform slacks and his boxers down just enough for his aching length to spring free.  You moan as you stroke him—he’s slick with pre-cum—but he breaks free from your grip and shuffles forward.  He pushes forward until he’s touching your slick folds, and then he pushes into you, unable to stop himself, but your hands reach down and grasp his ass and pull him into you, and once he’s buried to the hilt, you wrap your legs around him.

The first time he fucks you, Horacio can’t manage intelligible words.  Not in English, not in Spanish.  He can only grunt like an animal, can only breathe harsh, ragged breaths as he thrusts into you.  You’re unbearably wet, unbearably hot.  It’s like fucking some tight, searing thing, and the heat is everywhere—your cunt, your bared skin, your panting mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders.  The heat sinks into his skin, into his tense muscles, into the very bones of him.  It’s like he’s being unmade at the molecular level, broken down into base elements, and his grunts turn to snarls as he fucks you harder, deeper. 

You?  You take it.  You take it eagerly.  You wrap your legs around him.  You wrap your arms around him, and even if he wanted to stop, he’d have to untangle himself from your limbs.  Each jarring thrust where he’s completely buried in you makes you groan, and even you have an animal quality to the sounds he’s pulling from your perfect lips.  When the crown of his cock hits the end of you, you groan, but it’s throaty—almost a growl.

A moment later, he feels a sting of fire on his back where you dig your fingernails into him.  Where you scratch long lines of burning into his skin, like a brand.  He’ll carry those marks for days, feel how they burn under the spray of his shower.

Then you aren’t just taking it anymore.  You start to fuck back against him, lifting your hips an inch off the bed, tilting your pelvis enough to grant him more depth to you.  You find his rhythm and meet him thrust for thrust, until you’re moving not as two people but one.

The first time he fucks you, Horacio has no clue how long it lasts.  It goes by in a blink.  It lasts for hours.  It’s nowhere near long enough before he feels the burning tension at the pit of his belly snap and spill over like molten metal poured out of a crucible.  He can’t even warn you that he’s about to come because it happens so quickly—a particularly deep thrust where he swears he can feel himself breeching the entrance of your womb, where you hiss in his ear some phrase he won’t remember.  The tension snaps, and he breathes out your name, and he comes inside you, brands your perfect cunt with his spend.

But the feeling of him filling you must be the last bit of stimulation you need because you come a beat later too, and the sensation of your cunt rippling against him when he’s already so sensitive nearly makes him cry.

It gives you each a moment of reprieve.  Horacio’s burning lust recedes just enough that he gazes down at you.  He feels a sting of guilt—you’re disheveled, your hair wild and your eyes leaking tears down into your temples.  Your lips are swollen as you struggle to catch your breath, and you look so gorgeously, thoroughly fucked that he leans down and kisses you gently on the corner of your mouth.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You nod.  You reach out a gentle hand too, curl it into a loose fist and run your knuckles lightly over the side of his face.  It’s an oddly sweet gesture, soft, and when Horacio tilts his head into your touch, you uncurl your fist and cup his face.

This is the moment, he will realize later, where love takes root.  This simple, intimate moment between the two of you.  Eye of the storm, where he kisses you sweetly and you cup his face.  The love won’t blossom or fruit for a while yet, but this is where it reaches its tender shoots into him.

But the realization won’t come until later.  For now, the receding tide of lust reverses, comes rushing back in.  He’s still buried in you, still hard as steel, but everything is getting warm again.

“You okay?” he asks again, but he’s already pulling out a fraction, pushing back into you, his hips making small movements.

“Again, Horacio.”  Your thumb strokes along his stubbled cheek, and you nod up at him.  “Again, please.”

You ask so nicely.  He pulls out long enough to finally strip out of his clothes, but then?

Then he obliges.

[solradguy]

Recently I've started to try and study a lot of the artwork for Guilty Gear, particularly the artwork by Daisuke. I was reading your translation of the notes in the XX artbook and I realized that on a lot of the artwork I really liked, Daisuke mentioned mistakes he made. I found this odd since, again, most of them I thought were absolute masterpieces.

I know that people always say "You're your own worst critic", especially to artists, but I guess that it never really set in until I was reading those.

I get nobody's art is perfect (Daisuke is no exception, there are pieces in the artbook that even I could see were rather flawed), but the fact that I am staring in aw at some artwork and I then read that the creator of it was upset that the perspective was all off feels insane. Kinda makes me think about how I critique my own art when I have so many people in my life who think I'm an amazing artist.

I know this is gonna sound stupid and corny but I wanted to get this out of my head since it's been in there for at least a week or two now. Probably didn't word this the best since it's getting a bit late since I decided to stay up to listen to the new (and by new I mean two years old) Red Hot Chili Peppers album while drawing and I thought of this again.

Also thanks for translating the art book. Although the artwork by itself is still great, the comments (as I have stated) were really insightful for me personally. You really are a rad guy, at least in my eyes.

When I first translated Artworks of GGX 2000-2007, I thought Daisuke's harshness towards his art was possibly a Japanese cultural thing, since it's not uncommon for creators in Japan to kind of talk down their own accomplishments ("kenkyo"; [1] [2]). But then I got a bit better at Japanese and read commentary and autobiographical works by other artists—Hirohiko Araki, Kentarou Miura, and Ryoko Kui [3]—and they're much more positive about their creations. They're still humble about it, as any professional generally is, but they certainly aren't as critical as Daisuke is in Artworks 2007. It's definitely odd.

Artworks 2007 is an updated/expanded reprint of an edition that came out 3 years earlier, Artworks of GGX 2000-2004, so a little over half of the captions in Artworks 2007 were written between 2000 and 2004. If it wasn't kenkyo that made Daisuke critical about his art, then, I thought, maybe all the work he had on his plate leading up to the Sammy-Sega merger, which threatened the Guilty Gear IP as a whole[4], had him in kind of a depressive/hyper-critical mindset? That still feels like it could be plausible; his more recent (>2010) commentary is a lot kinder.

It is reassuring knowing that even incredibly skilled artists like Daisuke can still fall into being mean about their own art. Some things never change haha Here's hoping, like Daisuke, we all crawl out of that hyper-critical borderline self-loathing art pit 💪

Thanks for reading the translation!! And for the compliment. Artworks 2007 was my very, very, first large scale GG translation project and I'd like to redo it some day, some of the translations are a little wobbly.... I didn't make a Japanese manuscript for it though, which means I'll have to rescan every page again to get the text off them 😵‍💫

~ https://sakuratips.com/2020/10/20/humble/

~ https://interculturalwordsensei.org/kenkyo/

Hirohiko Araki is known for Jojo's Bizarre Adventure, Kentarou Miura for Berserk, and Ryoko Kui for Dungeon Meshi

~ https://www.siliconera.com/arc-system-works-now-owns-the-rights-to-guilty-gear/

(sorry for the ~ before the links lol tumblr really wanted to turn them into embeds...)

[writingwenches]

Beginnings

synopsis: we meet our peasant girl!OC, Lyn, as she travels to a market to sell her wares were she runs into a supposed prince, who is a bit of a brat lol. (it is alluded to that the OC is plus size and mixed race, but I did write this quick so its missing lots of info bits).

authors note: this is basically an info dump LOL the opening chapter of an oc/au House of the Dragon Aemond/Peasant!OC fic. Very Princess and the Pauper. The main idea behind it being – wanting to introduce more woman living at court in the Red Keep. Targaryen!cest is not my thing, and I think there's a lot to be said about the lack of woman at court and the fact that Targaryen daughters are expected to marry their brothers #oops.

additional lore: More about Lyn, the Lannisters, and Helaena/other characters.

word count: ~3k

warnings: barely edited, ableism, classism, body image issues, misogyny, general medieval sentiments, very AU/fast and loose when it comes to ASOIAF lore (such as I know the Septas teach girls to read, but its more fun for a cute crush to do it)

The road was well built and raised from the dank, mudded ground. The sound of horse hooves pounding ebbed in and out of focus as they hurried by. The Sister Septas never wanted to give the impression of favoritism, so they made sure to never allow the girls in their charge to ride along, if they were old enough to walk, they could carry themselves to the market, it was one of the many harsh lessons the sisters blessed her with other the years, made up of weeks of seven days, each guided by one of the seven gods.

The Day of the Mother was spent serving those in need and Lyn had worn the village paths well. Lyn was no stranger to hard work. Her frame was sturdy and healthy. Her back was wide, good for hauling bales of hey and baskets of stone. Her legs were powerful, easily carrying her the tens of miles to those in need of her services. And, adorning her face since birth, was a black mark of raised flesh below her right eye. Many say it's an omen of her mother’s sins, and a reason to be left to the charity of the Sisters. Whatever it was, it made Lyn easily requested for hired labors.

Most in the Realm would scoff at the offer of manual labors from a woman, but those in need are much kinder. They they are not always grateful, it is not because of her sex but because no one wants to turn beggar. 

The Day of the Crone was for lectures, often on the immorality of allowing one self to be in need or unwanted. For unwanted men of the realm, there was the Night’s Watch. Some unwanted boys are sent as soon as they were old enough to lift a sword. They were raised and trained to be useful along their brothers, forged to the sole purpose of defending the realm and never to be left wanting. 

The Faith recruited woman of fine birth, in want of a life not owned by a husband, and those who’s families were willing to pay handsomely for a life of purpose for their unfortunately female child. Women worked and clawed and won their way into the duty of a Septa, the Faith had no use for useless girls. There was no place in the realm for unwanted girls. Brothels did not want them. They already had enough bastards, and young flesh did not turn enough of a profit. Girls were not wanted unless they were useful, and many unuseful girls found themselves living on the streets or dead in a ditch. 

That was what would befall Lyn is she were ever to be found wanting, of something more, of something else. She was lucky to have been given her place amongst the holy woman of the Faith, even if she was not going to benefit from their handouts much longer.

Lyn was not sure how many baskets she was carrying, she had threaded her arms through as many as she was able and began the miles long trek to Haronfall Port for the market. Though she was not yet allowed to keep her own coin, it was good practice for her future life of trading and bartering amongst the peasants of the realm.

Charity is the only hope for useless girls, and not enough to go around. The Maidenhouse of Haronfall was an ancient structure, run by the Faith for centuries as a place to send discarded girl-children, forging useless girls into something worthy. It was their true calling, regardless of what those girls’ wants. 

Lyn owed everything to the Faith and the Septas, even when she received her lashings. She always deserved them. Six lashes for each offense, as was the law of the land, one for every god of the Seven, counting out The Stranger. It was bad luck to strike a seventh time, unless wishing them death. And the Septas were never that cruel. 

Lyn had received lashing her six lashing for talking back, and being a layabout, for asking too many questions, for being too ambitious, for pride, for stealing bread, for not finishing supper, for lying to protect another, for being too loud, quiet, and simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The same was true for all the girls. Sets of six lashings for each failure on the long list of their life, unless there were seven failures, then eight sets of lashings would be administered. For good luck. 

Lyn was forced to the side of the road by passing carts, hounds barking from the back of the cart as they passed the strange shape of her basket cocoon. The mud is thick and pliable, every footstep loudly sucked from the dank swamp like floor. The hundreds of other feet that had trodded the ground began the kneading. Lyn feels like she is swimming along the the edges of the road.

Lyn surmised most of the Septas had not imagined ending up in such a cold, dank place in the middle of the Kingsroad. The western shores of The Bite was unforgiving terrain, a swamp of brackish, mud-colored water that every structure eventually sinks into. The Reverend Mother often reminded the girls of her life in the southern Reach, of the endless summer days and sweet smelling grass. The wet, grey skies where the North, Riverlands and Vale meet leaves much to be desired for a southerner. 

Lynora was not meant for a life as a Septa, as was foretold since her youth. The maesters and Septons tested the young girls as they came into the charge of the Faith and Lynora, and the other girls of the Maidenhouse, left them unimpressed. She had not shown intelligence, or gifts for art, or sums, or memorizing prayers. So, she was ranked amongst the useless girls who needed to be molded into something more. 

On the Day of the Smith, the girls were instructed to work on their personal projects. Lyn was a skilled basket maker, she harvested, dried and weaved the fibers all on her own. If only the world had been in want for more basket weavers. The Septas assured her there was never a need for an extra weavers apprentice.

“Lyn!” a voice called, her face blurred out by the rising sun. “Have you been to the market yet today?” It was Mads, her fellow ward of the Maidenhouse. 

“No, it is too early,” Lyn answered the obvious question, “How did you–“

“Listen, Lord Ryver sent a raven,” Mads continued, finally coming into speaking distance. 

“But, the Septas hate when he does that–“

“Lord Ryver is playing host to none other than the prince,” Mads could not keep the secret any longer. “I have seen him myself, silver hair and all.” 

Lyn did not bother reacting, as Ryver was a known talltale-teller. “And I am secretly Lady Frey,” she laughed, “The prince is not in Haronfall.” 

“It is fated that you say Frey, because you shall never guess–“ 

“The septa told us nought a week ago of the King’s birthday tourney, don’t you think his son would be there…in the Crownlands, with his father.” 

“Waltel Frey has seen his dragon!” 

Lynora stopped at this. “And we are now believing Waltel Frey?”

“I have to go fetch Wren! She can not miss this,” Mads was the one walking now, back down the road towards the Maidenhouse to spread false whispers the Septas were sure to retaliate for. 

Lyn stepped aside when she heard the call, a two horse cart clomped past with banners of indigo, emblazoned with a proud, white bird. A matching figure sat on the cart, in the place of honor. A woman in a white dress, adorned with dyed feathers and pearls.

It was a strange feeling, knowing someones name, there was an old power Lyn felt creeping from the roots below the swampy road. Lady Hanna Mallister, filled to bursting with another pup for her lord husband. It was sickening the way her belly jiggled as the horse mindlessly aimed for the most uneven path before them. The lady had traveled a week from Seaguard for the monthly market, and Lyn had watched her grow every month with child, enough for Lyn to wonder how many babes were inside her belly this time. 

There was a parodical to bow in the presence, but there was nothing behind the lady’s eyes to notice. Lyn studied her as she passed, searching for something in response, something that could say why this woman would spend half of her life on the road, when so pregnant. 

If there was something to be said about unwanted girls, is that they were unwanted by all. Lyn was glad she would remain unwanted, there was nothing expected of her, so no one would ever be disappointed. 

Sometimes as the Lady Hanna Mallister passed, she would take a passing place down at Lyn. Lyn imagined she was looked at the mark on her face. Many people would say a quiet prayer when they say her, especially those swollen with child. A prayer that their girl doesn’t end up so disfigured and disgusting. Lady Hanna did not seem to say a prayer when she gazed down on her face, the lady did not seem to do anything. 

Lyn did not mind being disgusting and ugly, actually she enjoyed it. Girls did not care about such things as ugly, they cared about her all the same. She knew of the dangers of a beautiful face, the Septas told them every tale that could exist of beautiful girls being dragged away and savaged by men of all ages and sizes. It was horrifying. Lyn was glad that no man would ever want to drag her away or trap her in a tower. All she could promise was ugly children in return. No man wants that. So, she was glad the world was not ruled by women, just like the Septas they would force a use for her in their world, no matter what she looked like. 

By the time she reached Haronfall, long after the Lady of Seaguard she imagined, Lyn had almost forgotten about the tale of the silver haired prince. The other girls of the Maidenhouse fell into step with one another, each of the group responsible for their own wares. Name sharpened knives, Name jarred herbal jams, Name made rope, Lyn wove baskets, and the girls would peddle their wares every monthly market, bartering with connections, always on the lookout for open positions or wanted work. They were not going to live in the Maidenhouse forever, and the older they got, their chances of a comfortable life dwindled. 

His father had thrown yet another grand week in his own honor, tourneys and a great hunt in the Kingswood. Aemond had been forced to sit through enough for one lifetime, even if he was barely a man grown. He could not help but find a quick reason to excuse himself from the festivities, especially with the task of traveling halfway across the kingdom. 

Helaena had been born so closely to his father, the king, that her own name day celebrations were always greatly overshadowed. He could not help but jump at the opportunity to fetch her a gift in the Riverlands…or the Vale…or potentially the North. Flying above the lands on Vhagar, he had noticed a distinct lack of boundaries, like the ones on the Maesters maps. 

Aemond had been stuck in the cold swamplands for nearly a day, and could understand why his studied of geography skimmed over the shores of The Bite, there was simply nothing there. He was glad at the lack of fanfare at his arrival, the Lord of the keep was away, celebrating the King’s name day, and all that was left was his two sons, one near his own age, and the other barely aged out of childhood. 

His fist connected with bone. Blood leaked from holes in the boy’s face. Aemond had wrapped himself on the boy, to pin him to the first and wailed into his face. Aemond could hear the other boy shouting and grabbing his shoulders, Aemond did not yield. He was going to prove himself the victor even if it killed the boy. 

Aemond could feel hands wrapping around his face, his reflexes reacting as if they were clearly going to remove his eye patch. 

“My prince!” Ryver shouted, as if he were about to warn of a fire.

Aemond pulled his punch as Ryver’s alarmed expression bringing him back into focus to the world around them. The bustling sounds of the town. 

“The maidens,” River said, gently shaking Aemond’s shoulders at his confusion. “They are arriving!”

Walton Frey, the boy Aemond had been beating with his bare fists, smiled as blood splattered out of his mouth. 

The young boy, River’s kid brother, barely old enough to be out from his mother’s skirts, offered him a skin of water.

“What?” Aemond could not find any other word to describe his confusion. He knew of Maidenpoole and House Mooton, but they were on the other side of The Vale. The young prince racked his brain for the towns and houses of the area, unable to find an explanation. 

He simply needed to follow the pointed finger of Lord Ryver, as the Frey boy cleared the blood from his face with half the skin of water.

He heard their song first, the same tune he had heard carried by the Septas in King’s Landing when he went light candles with his mother, the queen. He had never heard the tune carried to lightly, with punctuations of laughter, and the crisp voices of youth. 

There were about a dozen of them. 

“The old bats let them come to our markets,” Ryver offered the prince his hand, to finally move Aemond off the Frey boy. “Truely, it is the only thing the market has to offer, if you ask me,” Ryver laughed, ushering the prince to the edge of the weakly fenced in training yard. “The Maiden’s of the Maidenhouse,” Ryver sighed, melting into the fence.

Pesants. The lot of them. Girls dressed in grey wool that made Aemond’s skin itch. They were each different, wearing the same dress, lacking the graceful symmetry of courtly woman. The ladies of court had their places at the sides of their husbands and fathers, offering a gentle voice and soft hand to hold. Women were there to make men better, otherwise, Otto had told him, men would regress into beasts, doing nothing but fighting and burning the realm to the ground. The ladies of court were raised with the knowledge of how to quell thoughts of violence with a simple kind glance. Not that Aemond had ever experienced it himself, but his grandsire had assured him during their many conversations about…urges.

“Ladies!” Waltel Frey called out with a wave of his sore arm. 

Aemond scoffed, it was an insult to the world to call these creatures ladies.

They approached in an uneven form, whoever veered down the path at their beckoning of a Frey. One limping girl was even carrying her own shoes amongst her wares, and Aemond could see mud past her ankles. 

“Lord Frey, do you not have two castles to sleep in, and yet you still choose to be here?” The first girl asked as she reached the fence, knocking on the helmet Ryver’s kid insisted on wearing, Aemond assumed even to bed. 

Aemond did not bother hiding his disgust at the pathetic display of peasantry that appeared before him. During his rides through King’s Landing, the prince had seen more organized gaggles of geese. The cream atop the cake approached, wearing armor of baskets, and a face smeared with mud.

She dropped the baskets at the fence line, releasing a long, labored breath. “So,” she spoke, clearly minded. 

Aemond wondered how heavy baskets could possibly be. 

“Is this your prince, Lord Ryver?” The grey clothed girl looked him directly in this eye, no sense of pretense or reverence. 

Ryver wrapped himself around the nearest fencepost to Aemond, with a wolfish grin, ready to pled his case to the nonbelievers. He had said these girls were raised by the Faith, but Aemond knew of piety, and these girls were a poor example of what a pious woman could be. 

“Are we to believe that he is the only one-eyed, silver haired, man in all the world?” a sceptic asked. 

“How many could there possibly be?” Ryver argued. 

“Yes, but,” a smaller girl interrupted, “he looks like he lost his eye, rather than–?” 

There was a bubbling in Aemond’s chest, as the peasantry spoke about him as if he weren’t even there. He could feel the dragon fire bellowing in his chest, daring them to speak ill of him, ready to burn their pathetic village to the ground. 

“Wouldn’t he had been born that way? They are forced to marry their bothers, after all? Resulting in…such things?” 

Aemond’s mouth was open, without him realizing. The rage at the memory of his defeat at the hands of his nephew vanished and was replaced with the vision of a cyclops babe, writhing in its crib. 

Ryver eyed him with suspicion. 

Aemond could not help but laugh.

[velvet-apricots]

How about some headcannons on Ansbach and Mohg’s relationship? The little we see between them in your fic before Mohg is killed is very interesting ^^

It's a very complex relationship I think. Purely platonic and is a fusion of a mentor/savior bond. Perhaps even a touch of spiritual? Ansbach has a mentor bond with Mohg, while Mohg has a savior like bond to Ansbach (in edition to you know, being his lord and stuff)

I don't think Ansbach was a good person before Mohg. I think he was a deeply violent man masking it behind the coat of arms of a Leyndell knight. But Mohg and the Mother of Truth rended his flaws from his flesh and laid them all bare to him, allowing him to see his true self and finally grow from it. He became a true knight, and though still a killer, he honed his violence into a fine obsidian edge and became a far kinder person as a whole. It turned a sadist into sage, to put it simply.

Mohg thus saved Ansbach's dignity as a person. It's why Mohg's own dignity means so much to him.

I think most very early members of the Dynasty had similar awakenings, but overtime such deeply intimate understandings and embracing of ones self declined until we got what we see in game. Something that only savors the blood and the killing. Miquella hastened the decline, but I do think it was always fated to become a violent cult.

Ansabch's mentor role did not develop until after the charm took hold of them both. As Mohg's health declined due to his increased obsession and the horn messing with his brain, Ansbach became almost like an advisor. Ansbach went from just a pureblood knight to THE pureblood knight. And mohg went from being a lord to Ansbach's dear lord. Mohg placed deep trust into him, and Ansbach was honored by that.

He was the only one left who could offer Mohg REAL advice. Everyone else did their own thing, or were brainwashed into fawning over Mohg's every action. And I don't mean like how Miquella brainwashed people, but how the Dynasty brainwashed Varre and his fellow surgeons. I forget what the word is called, but i saw someone talking about it. Varre's behavior is a deffence mechanism basically.

Of course, his advice could only go so far. Miquella made Ansbach blind to how serious Mohg's behavior was and how the dynasty was falling apart. Oh sure he could notice that perhaps not everyone was as devout but he never really DID anything about it. And by the time he did decide to try and teach his version of the Dynasties teachings, it was already far too late. Just as it was too late to step in when he did on the matter of Miquella. The moment Miquella was kidnapped and awoken from his self-induced slumber, the Dynasty was doomed.

Because Miquella's greatest flaw was that, for all his genuine kindness, he could be just as spiteful as his mother. I went into detail about my thoughts on how all of that went down here. =D

[archivalofsins]

Oh, Yuno's birthday is coming up September 2- Let's worry together.

(Edited: 08/16/2024 10:25 pm Fixed some spelling errors and added some more details that I missed.)

From the start of trial two Milgram has been telling us every way it can that if something happens around Mahiru this trial she won't be able to handle it. Simultaneously Milgram has gone out of it's way to display to the audience that the person nearest to Mahiru is Yuno. As she is the one to engage with her the most in the timelines during trial two.

Even though Shidou is implied to be taking care of her consistently as well.

We actually see Yuno engaging with Mahiru more over the course of this trial and during the intermission of the first. So, I feel it's important to note the individuals frequently near Mahiru since the story has gone out of it's way to highlight how if something goes wrong near her that's it.

This has been done with Shidou a good deal despite him only talking to her once this trial. That's the same amount of times we've seen Futa and Amane talk to her,

23/01/17 (Mahiru’s Birthday)

Amane: Happy birthday. Mahiru-san. How is your body feeling?

Mahiru: ……ah, Amane-chan. Thank you. Yeah, I’m fine. Now I can move around if I use a wheelchair…… It’s all thanks to Shidou-san looking after me……

Amane: I’ll give you one warning. The two of you are dabbling in something tabooed. If you continue to go against the way of nature like this, you’ll just bring an early death upon yourself. Think hard about this.

Mahiru: Amane-chan……? Are you really Amane-chan……?

24/01/17 (Mahiru’s Birthday)

Futa: ……hey. Oi, Mahiru. You’re in pretty bad shape, right……? Isn’t there anything that can be done?

Mahiru: What’s up, Futa-kun? Yeah, I’m not great…… But Shidou-san’s been looking after me…… And he says if we keep going like this, I’ll get much better……

Futa: ……right. As long as treatment continues, huh. …… I wonder how you’re going to be saved.

Mahiru: Saved……? Are you worried about me? …… You’ve been a lot kinder lately, Futa-kun. …… I feel like I’ve been saved just hearing those words from you.

Then despite being alluded to helping her a great deal the only time we see Shidou speak to Mahiru this whole trial is,

23/10/24 (Shidou’s Birthday)

Mahiru: You have a family right, Shidou-san……? How does it feel, being married, having kids……?

Shidou: ……yeah, it’s a wonderful thing. Children…… yeah. They really are hope for the future. When you have your own, suddenly it becomes fun growing old. Since as you grow older, you get to see them grow up.

Mahiru: Ah…… how lovely. It was always my dream to become a bride. Though maybe that seems a bit outdated. I wish it could’ve come true……

Shidou: It isn’t too late. I’m going to make sure you live. So let’s get out of here, and you make your wish come true. ……you still have so much to live for.

Which is pretty much to just trigger a death flag given his track record when it comes to saving people-

"Not dead... Yeah, she's definitely not dead... I finally understand the value of what I've been robbing people of." - "To keep you alive, you are still living."

Shidou, "Trust me Mahiru I can save you. This time will be different."

"“Throw down” it’s ok, that’s enough! Can’t stay away. Please don’t forgive me. That’s why I want this to end “Throw down”."

Those who don't learn are doomed to repeat.

Meanwhile Yuno's proximity to Mahiru has been more than implied. It's been repeatedly shown. Yuno has been engaging with Mahiru since the series began and they've only been implied to have gotten closer. Considering all this emphasis being put on not having anything else happen around Mahiru I think it's reasonable to consider what could happen to those closest to her as well.

This in my opinion includes Yuno since it's been highlighted that she's taken on a pretty understated role when it comes to taking care of Mahiru with Shidou repeatedly.

Hell even before the second trial was even teased actually-

Since before the attacks were even teased,

22/06/22 (Haruka’s Birthday)

Mu: What’s wrong, Haruka-kun? Did something happen? You shouldn’t look away like that when you’re together with me.

Haruka: Ah, s-sorry, Mu-san. Um…… No, it’s nothing. I just, suddenly got a feeling. That something is about to happen.

Mu: Isn’t that because it’s your birthday? Or perhaps it’s a sign the guard is about to wake up again soon? Fufufu, I bet they’ll be really surprised at a lot of things.

Haruka: That, might be true. But, I want the the guard to see. ……the new, me…….

Yuno was there by Mahiru's side. The timeline made this as evident as it could,

22/01/17 (Mahiru’s Birthday)

Mahiru: My birthday…… the day I was born…… But was there really any reason for me being born? Lately I’ve started to wonder that. Do you ever think about stuff like that, Yuno-chan?

Yuno: Eh? Not really. I mean, Mahiru-san, you’re really the romantic type, right? Not that I have anything against that. But isn’t it a bit much to think that everything in life has a meaning? If it makes you happy to think like that then go ahead, but if it doesn’t, then isn’t that in itself meaningless?

Mahiru: : ……you might be right. I’ve always just lived my life like this, so I don’t really know.

Yuno: We’ve all just gone through a bunch of things in life that happened to lead us here. It’s nothing more than a coincidence. Definitely not fate or anything. Probably. Even if there isn’t a meaning, you can still be happy that it’s your birthday. That sort of thing’s all you need in life really. So happy birthday, Mahiru-san.

This is far before the attacks even happened,

22/06/27 (Amane’s Birthday)

Kazui: What’s up, Shidou-kun? You’re looking pretty down. I guess you must be tired, I’ve been relying on you a lot lately.

Shidou: Yeah, I just remembered…… today is Amane’s birthday.

I’m just getting a bit sentimental.

Kazui: Hmm, it’s unfortunate, but at the moment we can’t worry about that. ……you understand, right? There’s something that you need to do right now. And if you tried talking to her your words definitely won’t reach her. Don’t look at me like that. We’ll just wait until the situation changes. Let’s do our best.

Shidou: Yeah. I’ll do what I can. I can’t have a child making a face like that. Even though we’re “murderers”…… we’re also the adults here.

Then they only get closer after,

22/09/02 (Yuno’s Birthday)

Mahiru: ……no, I’m fine. As long as I don’t move too much I don’t even feel any pain. Sorry for making you worry.

Yuno: Oh, really? That’s good then. Mahiru-san, if there’s anything you want then just ask. It’s not like it’s a huge burden, I can just ask for it along with my own stuff.

Mahiru: Ok…… I’m fine for now. Sorry, for making you worry.

Ah, Yuno-chan…… Today’s your birthday, right? Happy birthday.

Yuno: ………… Haha, thanks. Thank you, but y’know. Is it really ok for you to be saying that to me when you’re in that situation? ……you really aren’t suited for Milgram, huh, Mahiru-san.

The timeline continued to display that their closeness was consistent as well. In fact, it's implied to be just as consistent as Shidou's care of Mahiru is if not more,

23/06/27 (Amane’s Birthday)

Amane: What is it…… Kashiki Yuno. Don’t sit so close to me. Go away.

Yuno: Sorry for barging in when you’re getting into your worldview thing. But Mahiru-san’s finally managed to get to sleep. Humour me with some small talk while I take a break. By the way, Amane. Have you ever wished you were never born? I’ve thankfully lived a pretty fun life so far, so haven’t really. But you seem to be struggling with something. So I kinda wondered if you thought like that.

Amane: ……I don’t think that. Being born into this world is the first miracle any person experiences, and is something to celebrate. Even if after birth I was put through trial after trial, the value of that will never disappear.

Yuno: Hmm. Ok. ……happy birthday, then. It’s good that you were brought into the world, I guess.

23/09/02 (Yuno’s Birthday)

Kazui: I heard you’ve been helping Shidou-kun out. ……er, sorry if this comes across as rude, but it’s kind of unexpected. It always seemed like you didn’t care that much about other people.

Yuno: Hmm? What’s with that all of a sudden. I mean, you’re right, I don’t care much. But if there’s someone dying in front of you anyone would do what they could to help, right? And anyway, aren’t you the same? You usually don’t care much either, right?

Kazui: ……I wonder. This old man isn’t as much of a thinker as you are. I mean, until now I’ve been in an environment where it’s all about having physical strength. So I’ve never really thought about stuff like that.

Yuno: Haha, we’re the same in that we’re both liars too. I guess the difference is the reasons we lie. You care about yourself, so lie to protect yourself. I don’t care about anyone at all, including myself.

So Milgram has repeatedly stated if anything happens around Mahiru that will be the end of her when it comes to Milgram,

Jackalope’s “Second Trial Commencement Notice”

"Your judgment was “guilty”, and as such, her ideas were affirmed."

Huh, hold up... I was doing a reread and I kind of copied this from the transcript without questioning it. But um why the hell does it say affirmed? Is this a translation error? Huh, but it doesn't say that for the rest of the guilty prisoners,

Prisoner No. 3: Futa Kajiyama. Your judgment was “guilty”, and as such, his ideas were rejected.

Prisoner No. 8: Amane Momose. Your judgment was “guilty”, and as such, her ideas were rejected.

Prisoner No. 9: Mikoto Kayano. Your judgment was “guilty”, and as such, his ideas were rejected.

This is directly from the transcript.

If it's not an error which it seems rather intentional given everyone else is fine then Mahiru just has this idea that she'll always be rejected that was affirmed by the verdict. Or she doesn't think what she did was wrong and we're the problem. Something that could tie into this line in I Love You,

"It’s ok for everyone else but not for me." - "Tell me, oh tell me why, won’t you just accept me?"

Sorry back on track- Milgram has made it clear that if anything happens near Mahiru that will be the end of her,

"Because she was found “guilty”, she’s lost the raison d’etre of her own existence. Her dejection is something, to be sure! Dear oh dear. Also, as you can see, she’s just battered from Kotoko’s attack. If it weren’t for Shidou’s treatments, she’d be dead for sure. Lost. If anything else happens, she’ll die, that’s a fact. What to do, is all up to you, of course."

MILGRAM / Jackalope’s “Report on the end of Second Trial”

"Prisoner No. 06: Mahiru. “Innocent”, huh? Alright, alright. Ok, so you changed your mind? Or, was it sympathy votes? When you see someone hurting a little more than expected, does it make you want to go with “innocent”? Honestly though, you’d better worry about whether she’s going to last till the Third Trial. Let’s hope nothing happens around her. I guess it’s already too late for changes. Sorry. I’m like the guy on the couch watching the sports highlights and complaining, don’t mind me."

"Let's hope nothing happens around her-"

"……don’t tell me, did this murder seem smaller to you than the murders of the other prisoners? Thought-provoking!"

Milgram has ultimately put Yuno in a very precarious position.

Where she could very well get attacked or attack someone else. To either up the ante for her third trial or omit her character entirely because her reception has been too positive. As well as find a good source of conflict that would cause stress to Mahiru and exacerbate her existing issues.

Since in the the commencement even though they highlight Mahiru's physical injuries Yuno and Jackalope both highlight her mental health as well. Saying that her dejection is really something and Yuno even commenting that she wasn't suited for Milgram.

Jackalope said she'd be lost not die.

So if she's too mentally gone due to the death or possible betrayal but it seems more leaning towards death of the prisoner closest to her there's really no telling how that will impact the song extraction next trial.

Or if they'll even be able to extract anything in regards to her crime. Especially given we've seen first hand what the mental stress did to her song extraction this round-

Plus they highlight that this trial is all about prisoner relationships near the end of the trial commencement,

"And now, as we come to the second trial, I’m guessing a new basis for judgment has introduced itself in your mind. You are also human. You can’t help but develop attachments to the individual prisoners. If you find one “innocent”, another one might be in danger. If you decide to judge one as “guilty”, it may prompt the other to go in a wholly unexpected direction. In this environment of swirling interests, profits, and losses, will you all be able to follow the metrics of your own values, and decide correctly: “innocent” or “guilty”?"

So, yeah there's all that.

[alienisticxo]

Before the Fever - Chapter Thirteen

{Master Chief x Reader series - TV based}

{A╱N} nobody knows how sorry i am that this took me longer than i expected it to. life outside of here has kept me so busy, and i hadn’t been writing as much as i wanted, but it’s finally done! (i edited it, but i may be editing more once i read this entire series back to inspire myself further lol) we finally get into the glorious gloriousness 🫠 thank you so much as always for hanging in! i have this whole series outlined to the end so even if it takes me a little while sometimes, i will never abandon this story, its near and dear to my heart and your comments and kudos always keep me going too! 🥹🖤

Warnings: s m u t. i didn't want to make it as raunchy as I could've, so it's just some passionate smut 🥲

I hope you enjoy! ♡ 

Chapter Thirteen - Stardust

She kissed the corner of my mouth, down to my jawline, peppering me with little acts of love, compassion. It was like she was piecing me back together again, healing the scars on my body and in my mind with nothing more than her touch.

I knew the feeling would only last as long as this continued, and I knew it wasn’t the appropriate thing to do. Not amidst the war we were fighting, not amidst the way we were on the run, but there was nothing at this point that was going to stop either of us, it seemed.

There was nothing that could’ve kept me from acting on my love for {Y/N}.

Love.

That was a hell of a word, meaningless to me, at one point. But suddenly I understood it. I felt it. I knew it. I held it, and I was capable of returning it. It still baffled me, how strongly and suddenly it came. But there was no other explanation for the way I felt for her.

Believe me, I tried to find one.

She loved me. And I could feel it in the way she touched me, in the way she responded to my touch; her soft sighs, her quiet moans. Even more, it wasn’t only in this manner. I felt it in the way she held my hand in the Condor— kept it from trembling. In the way the smile touched her eyes when I told Laera she was coming with me. I hadn’t realized I felt it when I watched her staring up at the blue sky on Halo, the sun beams catching her just right; when she opened up to me that first night on Reach, at her lowest moment under Halsey’s control.

But I know now, and so does she.

This was a new field of experience for me— the entirety of it. But something within me had been awakened, ignited. I let the same long-buried instinct from our initial kiss lead the way, responding to her effortlessly as she gave into me just as easily.

Pulling her into my arms again, I kicked off my boots and lifted her off of the set of drawers, carrying her to the hallway. There was a guest room, I remembered that being offered from my first visit. I could’ve taken her right there, my avidity pushing to take over. But I felt she deserved better— she deserved something kinder.

She deserved everything good I could give her.

Her soft lips found mine again, and I occasionally peeled a hand off of her to graze the wall until I found the correct doorknob; not wanting to break the connection we shared. When I finally did, I swung the door open and closed it shut behind us, picking up the pace to the large bed in the middle of the room.

I hardly had time to register the view of deep space through the window wall just beside us, intensifying the heat of the moment. I’d have to compliment Soren’s home when I saw him again.

{Y/N}’s dainty hands traveled along my skin in a way that was still so foreign to me, but welcome beyond belief. Never having been touched so illicitly, so fully, lent to an entirely different range of sensation in various areas of my body. I was used to Medical’s sterile and concise touch when I was forced into frivolous repairs after battle. They were needed, I was told. ‘Stay still, sit down, don’t move.’ There was no love there. No care. Not like her, not like now.

She touched me like I would break— a laughable thought in any other situation. But she allowed me the space, the breathing room. She took care in every movement, and in doing so, allowed me to feel.

I couldn’t even begin to imagine what was to come. I was too wrapped up in all that she was as I laid her down beneath me, carefully climbing over her. It was easy to notice how tiny she looked in comparison as we shifted to the middle of the bed, my hands on either side of her frame.

She looked up at me through a half-lidded gaze, a strap to her dress falling off of her shoulder and offering an intriguing view that I’d never expected to see. I drank {Y/N} in, possibly for the first time in such a lurid way. She was even more beautiful in a natural state like this. In the vulnerable moment that we shared— that for once, I didn’t mind sharing.

Her eyes gleamed in the starlight, and I was suddenly more lucid than I’d ever been. Her skin was smooth, holding the smallest of details. I noticed a tiny silver necklace that I hadn’t seen beneath her clothing before. It reminded me of the dog tags I only took off to shower.

But the girl surprised me when she reached down, hooking her fingers around the underwear she wore beneath her slinky gown. So easily she tugged them down and off of her legs, her eyes never leaving their fixation. Her expression had changed. There was a daring look in her eye, but it was smoldered with a desperation I’m sure my own reflected back to her. Her hand dangled off the edge of the mattress, dropping the fabric before I felt her soft fingers return to my skin.  

The urges, need, surging through me were wildly unknown and unfamiliar. They were stronger than anything I’d ever felt before, and while I was usually the king of composure, keeping a handle on it felt impossible. I wasn’t naive to the ways of these acts, I’d simply never felt the desire for them.

Until now.

God, did I need her now.

Just her. Only her.

Always.

———

John looked like a god in the flesh above me, his powerful build just outlined enough in the low light of the vivid stars that hung in the atmosphere just beyond the window. He stared down at me through intensely curious eyes, raking over what he could see of my body. I silently hoped he enjoyed it.

The way he reacted let me know that he did.

He was only half dressed, the top gone but the bottom very much in place. Despite the passion of the moment building all at once, our hands and lips finding one another again, clamoring for any amount of skin we could find, it was still quite easy to feel how aroused he’d become. That alone sent me even higher than I already felt, the faint throbbing between my own thighs becoming more and more apparent; hard to ignore or control.

But I was sure I didn’t want to control it anymore.

Together, it was enough to have me decide I’d help him, taking the underwear I wore off and tossing it aside. To egg him on, let him know without words that he was exactly what I wanted, what I needed— more than anything and anyone in this entire universe. To show him that it was okay to keep going, to take it as far as we possibly could.  

And maybe it was bold to assume that’s what was going to be needed; that that’s what was going to come next. But there was no other act of passion we could partake in that would’ve expressed our love for each other any better than that. Without words, we spoke the same language. We felt one another’s burning desire along with our own.

After a few seconds of intense hesitation, John leaned down again, placing kiss after kiss on the flesh of my throat, eliciting heavy exhales from my lungs. I wanted to breathe him, to have him become a part of me, and me a part of him— entirely.

It wasn’t much longer before I felt his hand on my thigh, brushing it higher and higher until he was pulling the dress from me. My body seemed to arch all on its own to offer him an easier way to remove it, and he tossed the silky fabric aside.

I’d never felt more beautifully exposed to anyone than I had to him at that moment. His hands continued to roam, large digits exploring every curve and divet of my form— caressing; taking the time to relish in me as though he’d never have me again.

His hands were excitingly rough, but held the same delicate touch that they had before as one slid up my waist and over my breasts. He squeezed one, and then the other, a gentle fervency in his hold as his lips explored beneath my ear, traveling to the peak of my clavicle.

He trailed lower and lower until he found my nipples, his mouth wrapping around them as he took his time with both, tongue swirling and lapping lightly until he’d been satisfied with the reaction it pulled from me; a soft gasp in the quietness of the night, my fingers digging into his toned back as it contracted under my hands, and my shoulder blades pressed against the bed.

My core grew warmer by the second, and I squirmed just slightly beneath him, unable to get any kind of grip on my need for him. I was a willing victim to the way he worked at me, his lips moving to my rib cage and back up again to meet mine feverishly, as though he’d been teasing himself just as much.

There was no telling how experienced or not he’d been, the thought only briefly crossing my mind as he seemed to bring every ounce of ecstasy out of me with such ease. He almost seemed to know my body better than I did as his fingers found all the right places, his lips kissed all the right spots, assuring us both that I was warmed up beyond the point of simply being ready for what I so desired.  

I hoped he knew that he could have me forever and even longer after as my own hands began to glide down his sides, fingers rising and falling between the ridges of his own torso; the muscles that rippled and flexed beneath my touch growing warmer with each pass.

Finding the bottom half of his under armor, I tugged down on it intently. But getting him undressed seemed like an impossible feat for someone as fragile as myself in comparison.

It was no wonder these Spartans were so well protected.

But John took notice of this right away, his hand reaching down, brushing against mine to help me get him out of the final article that kept any barrier between us.

It was then that I pulled him down against me as much as I could with the height difference, the metal of the tags he wore around his neck now burning my skin in the most delightful way. I inhaled, his natural scent mixed with the soap he used filling my lungs. Concentrating on every sense I could, it was easy to get lost within him.

My lips pressed against the inside of his neck, the stubble of his jaw grazing my cheek as I kissed back along to his mouth. I could feel every single sensation infinitely, every single nerve ending inflamed with a sweet emblazonment I knew only he could offer me for the rest of my time in the universe.

The moment was so intense, so close to the final act of ultimate devotion.

Our problems, our achievements, our standings and otherwise, all fell away once more— even further into the abyss than they had when we’d danced. It was him and I all over again. Every thought was focused on John. Every feeling enveloped in him entirely.

And I didn’t want to close my eyes; to miss any of the reactions he could possibly have to me. But when he held me captive in the euphoria that was his kiss, there was no stopping the way my eyes fell shut.

And so my other senses kicked in, raising goosebumps along my silky skin as his warm tongue made passage into my mouth, grazing against mine in a heated contest of taste.

The heat that radiated in my center only spread; every small movement, every quiet groan between us, building me up further. My fingers drifted down John’s back gently before moving to take his hand. Once our fingers were intertwined, he pinned my palm back down against the comforter, squeezing it in a needy, but gentle way. I returned the energy, knowing exactly how he felt in the depths of my soul.

I lifted my hips to meet his, a soft buck of his own telling me he was just as ready. The friction was more than I could bear as I moaned against his mouth. His large frame shifted over me, repositioning himself as I opened my eyes again. I had to get another look at him. I had to commit him to memory in this moment, just as I hoped he would do with me as his eyes drifted back to mine.

No one had ever made me feel so combustible. No one had ever made me feel so delicate. John’s touch was like electricity, even the slightest brush sending me over the moon a million times as though it was a direct connection to my dopamine supply.

And then, after all of the anticipation, after the moment had been finessed to the point of no return…

I finally felt him…

as close to me as humanly possible, as bonded to each other as we might ever be in any way.

It was as though the entire universe had fallen apart just to accommodate us; the feeling of my life flashing before my eyes, but in the sweetest, most exhilarating way possible. I was inexplicably lost and found in the same second, a blissful reality I never wanted to leave.

My head spun as I felt John sink into me, evoking an immediate  exhale from the very depths of my lungs, followed by a moan I tried my best to suppress in the silence. The largeness of his length shouldn’t have been a surprise, but the feeling was delectably satisfying, impressive, as he pushed into my slick walls.

It was the groan that escaped him that rang in my ears like music— the most beautiful music I’d ever experienced. Never had I heard someone sound so laced with desire and yet, somehow, relief. As though this was the only thing that he’d ever really needed in his entire life, and now it was all his.

He pulled his hips back slowly, his jaw was tight as he hovered over me. His searching gaze never left my face, treating me as though I were the most important mission in the galaxy, something to be sure of; something he had to assure himself of; to know I was okay and taken care of above all else.

My mouth was slightly agape as I held his stare the best I could, my arms reaching to lock around the back of his neck. Pulling him down as close to me as possible, I never wanted to lose him. I would simply lose myself if I came close.

The thought would’ve scared me senseless in any other moment. But I was too far gone to think about how easy losing each other actually could be.

John sunk himself into me once more, deeper this time, with a bit more fervency. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, my back arching, chest lifting upwards. Another soft moan fell from my lips. If I could’ve been any closer to him, I would’ve been.

I needed John like I needed air.

“Oh, John…” I murmured against his open mouth as he leaned in to kiss me, my leg moving to hook around his.

He leaned up just a bit more to gain better purchase, beginning to thrust then. He was slow and calculated, his hand on my thigh to pull me closer as I held my leg around him. I bit into my own lower lip, tugging on it in another attempt at keeping quiet as he carried on. His stare burned right through me, intense and full of a love I’d never seen in anyone’s eyes before— no less staring back into mine.

My breathing seemed to escape me, his own chest beginning to heave. And every time he buried himself between my thighs, my heart felt as though it might stop. Needy fingertips found any flesh they could then, gripping onto him, nails running along his body as I became plagued with the urge to touch, to be touched; to encourage every movement he so beautifully made into me and against me.

The pleasure was so immense, the connection between us so extraordinary, that as we found ourselves irrevocably entangled within one another, my eyes seemed to grow wet on their own. There was no situation I’d ever been in before in my life that felt as striking and deep.. as perfect as this. I was awash with an emotion that, for once, even I wasn’t sure how to navigate.

John’s voice was a gentle growl in my ear as he leaned closer again, his pleasure deriving from me, all me, only me, as he bit into my neck. It was gentle, yet full of haste, my only response being a moan and a show of just what my nails could do to his solid back before wrapping around his broad shoulders.

Though the moment was full of sensuality, vulnerability and broken down walls, I’d never felt more safe.

My hips began to meet his, the blissful friction within my walls radiating wave after wave in all the right places. I was already hot to the touch with him, easily aroused and even easier to get to the finish line. No matter how badly I wanted the moment to last, it was impossible to keep the pleasure at bay. The way he picked up his movements just fractionally so, I got the sense that he was in the same situation.

The minutes felt like hours in the most sublime way as they passed by; as I fought to keep time stretched forever. But when John shifted, his taut member caressing already sensitive spots within me, I felt my control leave. My chest rose and fell, hands exploring his now hot flesh. His hand reached behind my head, and his fingers tangling in my hair with an instinctual ease that didn’t surprise me as he pulled at my roots lightly.

While I reacted to his pleasure, he reacted right back, acting accordingly to my every dead give away. My release was right around the corner, and as I felt the way he thrusted into me just a little harder; just a little quicker, I knew we were on the same track to beautiful oblivion.

His soft grunts mixed with my quiet moans, both of us becoming just a little louder, no matter how badly I wanted to cry out for him. My walls tightened around his throbbing shaft, my swollen bud spiking each time his hips rubbed against mine. The stars seemed to cast their shine a bit brighter over us as he held my gaze, his light eyes burning through me. There was a romance to the moment that I immediately knew I’d never have again.

Not with anyone else, anyway.

The inside of my thighs were coated with my arousal for him, his ease of gliding in and out sending me straight to the heavens. I finally cursed, gasping as I reached out for him again, taking what was mine and claiming it. There was nothing I ever wanted more than to feel every last inch of him, than to have his strong build smother me in the affection he so willingly offered with no sight of being released from it. And when I felt his body tense, his thrusts grow sloppier, more animalistic, carnal, I lost all control I had left just as he did.

When my name fell from his lips like a prayer, I’d never felt more idolized. I only hoped he felt the same as I returned the sentiment, his name leaving a sweet taste in my mouth each time I murmured it back to him.

My mind drew a blank as the knot in my stomach finally pulled free. There was nothing driving me any further other than John and the way he so spectacularly sent wave after wave of ecstasy coursing from my core outward, the sensation washing over every limb as goosebumps rose on my flesh and my breath left my lungs.

My walls drew him in with a euphoric ease, craving him all on my own, the wetness I’d already felt between us only growing as he continued to push through his climax. I rolled my hips beneath him, suddenly shifting into wanting nothing other than to satisfy him just as much as I was being satisfied, to heighten every sizzling nerve ending that connected within him.

His voice was a velvety rasp, his brow furrowing. His breath was hot against my skin as he leaned back down, his lips brushing against my own, suffocating me beautifully with the love we held so deeply and vulnerably for each other. His mouth moved downward, kissing and nipping at my jaw, my neck, as my frame moved with his.

I cursed happily, my voice a saccharine moan. Unable to catch my breath, my body trembled slightly beneath him as I felt another point of pressure building once more. I wondered just briefly if he could handle it to continue, but without much more time to think, I slid back into another peak, my back arching at the pleasurably painful overstimulation. Even if we’d truly been alone, the entire universe might’ve heard the way I wanted to scream, anyway.

My voice was louder this time, though probably still quite quiet in the grand scheme. His eyes met mine again, and I could see the satisfaction written all over his features as he absorbed every ounce of emotion and ecstasy I showed him— that he caused me.

While I wanted to grip onto the comforter, I couldn’t bear the idea of my hands leaving him. I couldn’t tolerate even thinking about being disconnected from his person. And as I rode out my second climax, my walls gripped his length relentlessly, no doubt over stimulating him right back. But he carried on, the look in his eye needing to satisfy me, needing to allow me any pleasure he could, deriving his own pleasure from it.

If I could collect a thought or two, I’d blame the stamina on being a Spartan.

The feeling was blissful as it sizzled into a slow burn, its radiant spread through my veins and under my skin retracting back to my entrance once more like molasses. I was still thoughtless, and John was still very much focused on the task at hand as he slowed to a stop. We were both breathless, entangled within one another as though parting might destroy us and all that we were.

He pulled himself from between my thighs carefully, almost reluctantly so. While the eye contact was still intense, there was something softer about it. Something warm, and sweet. It was as though we were both being dipped back into the world we were in, unhurriedly, deliciously, together. Something had changed, wonderfully so. Where I’d certainly felt like we were two halves of a whole, I now felt like there were no longer any halves at all.

We had simply meshed into one.

Thoughts began to ease their way back into my mind, though hazily so. And I could see the coherence return to him as he caught his breath— much easier than I. It was when a hint of a smirk touched his lips, that I felt myself smile in return.

I allowed my hands to drift from his jaw, down his biceps, dancing lazily over his muscles, absently in awe of what had just happened. I never wanted to move from the spot we were in. I wanted to relive it over and over until we were both spent— and then I wanted to relive it again.

After another beat, John scooped me up into his large arms, pulling me close with him as he laid on his side. We faced each other, his arm draped over me, both of us still coming down from the highs we stunningly inflicted on each other. The minutes felt timeless all over again as we savored what remained, not another word between us.

My eyes fluttered shut just briefly as his hand reached up to brush a few strands of -what I was sure to be matted, now- hair from my face. But as he began to smile, really smile, I felt my heart leap in a million different styles behind my rib cage.

I wasn’t sure I’d seen a full blown smile from him before. It was dazzling, completely infectious. It felt like a secret, or like some kind of hidden talent that the rest of the world was forbidden to see. I smiled in return, and he leaned in to kiss my forehead, the tenderness I was beginning to enjoy shining through.

“I’ll protect you with my life,” he murmured, his expression solemn again.

Be it that his life’s mission was to protect, to potentially die for his objective, or that the seriousness in his tone was unlike anything else I’d heard him say, that sentiment felt even heavier than the ‘I love you’ we shared before our rendezvous. I nodded ever so slightly, my hand reaching up to rest atop his as he held it on the side of my head. I squeezed his hand gently.

“I would die for you,” I expressed softly in return, my tone just as heavy, just as sincere.

And I meant it.

I really did.

-x-x-x-

Tags: @allthelovefromstylesxx, @grimistangel, @guiltgoldglory, @laurenstacy610​ 

thank you guys so much as always!! it means a lot that you look forward to my lil story! ♡

[mixed-kester]

AITA for not giving this guy another chance after he mistreated me?

I (22) have been pining over this person (500+) for over three years now, but it reached a breaking point and I gave up.

I was the one who pursued him because he seemed lonely and lost and he always rebuffed my attempts at making friends, but like the utter dumbass i am, I tried and tried; i even went up to his mom's house and got killed because I wanted to enact revenge for him.

And yes, when i said I wanted to make friends with him, I mean it in every sense of the word. I tried to reason with him, to be like him so he can have someone to relate to. Hell, I even tried to join his weird-ass cult before it dissolved. That's how obsessed I was with him.

Emphasis, of course, on was.

I started having dreams of another guy (24) who's just like him-- only this time, he's a bit kinder. A bit more softer. A bit less like a monster, and more... humane. Well, time "passed" inside that dream and I realized that I liked this person more than I liked that guy, so I wanted to stay with him forever.

Alas, dreams aren't meant to last, and I woke up as a consequence of a botched attempt to repair that asshole's consciousness. (EDIT: Lesser Lord Kusanali gave me admin access. Y'all can't see what it is because I signed an NDA.)

Of course, it's back to this person and not the kind one-- but this time, I knew. I didn't tolerate shit from him-- but when it came to too much and tore a love letter right in front of my face, I had enough and told him to fuck off and die.

So, i hereby contacted an insider from the Akademiya and slept in a medically induced coma for a year. (EDIT: a more accurate term is Dendro-hastened slumber, thanks u/akademiya-tighnari!) And yes, that meant I get to be with that other guy more!

…but for some insane reason, another year with him got cut short by-- you guessed it-- the same asshole who mistreated me. I gave him the cold shoulder, as I did the year before I slept, and told him to fuck off repeatedly when he kept following me like a stray cat. (EDIT: no, I did not have a chance to file a restraining order to the Matra-- he's a nobody in every sense of the word. no records, no anything. I don't even think I knew what his name is.)

He kept trying to talk to me about giving him another chance, but I told him that that bridge isn't even burnt, he dropped an atomic bomb on it and blamed me for making him do it, and told him once more to get lost and get out of my sight.

However, my therapist thinks I should give him a chance as he was her former client as well, and she can see that he has changed. (EDIT: No, I did not force her to violate her patient-doctor confidentiality, stop spamming comments.)

My other friend (26) confirmed my therapists observations. I usually trust his judgment, but I'm not sure I should trust this one. He has a propensity for embellishing truths.

So, am I the asshole in this?

image source

[princeblue]

I’ve been having a writers block and I scrolled some prompts and created this thingie you’re about to see, it’s less than 1k words so I’m posting it here but I didn’t edit this so just!! Take it as you will. I literally just slapped it together to get any creativity out of my system. Also listened to a lot of country making this so now I’m just thinking about cowboy genya.

—

“From the day you were born, I knew I’d hurt you eventually.” His brother whispers one day. When the air is warm but not sticky, when the breeze is cool but not biting.

The curl of the fire had made the air taste like ash, a taste so intimately familiar to Genya that his tongue went slack in his mouth, but refused to move his body away from the flames and burning logs.

Because Sanemi had sat close enough for their shoulders to touch, the most he’s touched Genya since he woke up in the Butterfly Estate, split from his head to his toes and wondering if he was in heaven or if he was in hell.

The boy bites harshly on his tongue, the words from his older brother as sharp as a blade. And the blood mingles with ash and it’s like he’s in uniform again.

“I swore I would never do it, though.” Sanemi continues, avoiding his brother's eyes, but it’s not like he really had to try to.

Genya wasn’t looking at him either.

“Swore I’d never be him.”

Him. In a way it was always traced back to him, maybe if he had been a better man, he wouldn’t have fallen to drinking and drugs, to gambling to poverty to rape. Maybe if he had been a kinder father, his boys wouldn’t have grown up so angry. Maybe if he had used his terrifying strength for his family, their family would still be alive.

Him, that they didn’t even have to mention by name to know who he is.

Warm, fed, happy, comfortable.

Married to nice girls and boys.

And yet Genya cannot imagine that, he cannot imagine his family bigger than the corpses he buried in the ground. He cannot imagine being bestowed peace without bloodshed and death.

Immortal rivers, Shinazugawa stood for.

“What a load of shit,” Genya thought with a humorless chuckle. The silence so heavy he wonders for a brief moment if he heard his mother’s chastising voice in the flames, telling him to not think such naughty words.

“But I still did, not as bad. I could never- do what he did to mom to others, but I hurt you. I hurt you so fucking bad Genya.”

And Genya closes his eyes, pretending that the smoke is what’s making his eyes water.

It isn’t, but Genya was always more imaginative than people gave him credit for.

Because his brother did hurt him, horrendously, horrifically, and Genya forgave him each time.

There is no resentment burrowed in his chest to keep warm.

He just aches.

“It doesn’t matter.” Genya croaks, eyelids parting and watching the way his brothers face crumples. How he looks like he would rather do nothing than throw himself into the fire before them.

Fire was supposed to be cleansing, according to the legends.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” He repeats, his voice no more firmer than moments before. “I’m tired of living in the past, I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you, I’m tired of existing in a limbo.”

Genya looks, really, looks at Sanemi. Sees the way fear cradles in the violet eyes, and wonders how his brother lived every day being so scared, he sees the expectation of rejection, the expectation of hate.

The acceptance of loneliness.

He cannot fathom how after all of this time, after everything Genya did to be with his brother again. Sacrificing his body, his life. Sanemi believed himself too dangerous and unworthy to be loved by him.

He still kept chasing after him when he tried to blind him, and Genya still would have felt alongside the walls to get to his brother.

“Either love me or don’t,” Sanemi crumples even more at the words, at the prospect of Genya believing Sanemi doesn’t love him.

Knowing the extent of his love is longer than the cycle of life.

And yet understanding why Genya would think that, and hating himself so viciously for it.

Each pinnacle of change from Sanemi’s bloody life was always a little boy with a snaggle tooth and the sun in his smile and hair kissed by the moon's endless black night.

A celestial gift and yet Genya thought himself lower than dirt.

The plea is wobbly, Genya no longer blames the wetness of his eyes on the smoke.

“Just don’t leave me alone again.”

How painful it is to be childish, to crave nothing more than to be small again and to fit into his brother's lap and feel safe enough to sleep without worrying about Kyogo, or the next time they’ll eat.

Genya isn’t small anymore, but Sanemi still wordlessly reaches out for his brother and drags him close to try.

He doesn’t fit on his brother's lap anymore, hanging awkwardly off and on the furniture while their legs become a tangled wire of limbs while Sanemi’s hands cradle Genya’s head to his chest.

“I won’t,” he promises, again and again. Each “I won’t.” Punctuated by the gentle kisses to the crown of Genya’s head.

The boy closes his eyes, letting himself melt against Sanemi’s body.

And lets himself believe.