#for catalogue purposes if nothing else

[iersei]

I did my part 🫡

Could I get Lincoln and Taylor being besties

[VOTE GLENN CLOSE IN THIS TOURNAMENT HERE AND GET A SKETCH REQUEST]

they are each other's ride or die !!!

[cjayius]

FEELS LIKE — NISHIMURA RIKI

SYNOPSIS. the three times nishimura riki almost told his best friend he loved her, and the one time he actually did.

pairing. bestfriend!riki x f!reader wc. 0.66k tw. kissing , reader is kinda oblivious genre. fluff ( CATALOGUE )

the first time riki almost told you he loved you, you were in the school library. your chin was propped up in the palm of your hand as you exasperatedly stared down the physics problems before you.

a smile tugged at his lips when you furrowed your brows in frustration, groaning out for the tenth time that hour.

he shook his head at you, pulling your pencil from your tiny fingers. " you're doing it wrong. look, " he could have sworn he stopped breathing when you lifted your head to look at his book, quite literally invading his breathing space.

vanilla and coconut; that's what you smelt like. though it was a bit creepy to smell you, riki promised it wasn't on purpose.

" riks ? did you fall asleep ? " your fingers snapping in front of his eyes made him fall out of his daydreams. your hand brushed gently against his and he tightened his grip around the pencil. any tighter and he would have broken it.

the second time riki almost told you he loved you, he was watching you dance at prom with another boy. he felt a pang of hurt crash into him as he watched you giggle and smile at the boy's words. you only ever laughed like that with him.

" ni-ki, calm down or soon, the whole school's going to know you like her. " heeseung's hand on his shoulder was the only thing keeping him grounded as he clenched his jaw at the sight in front of him.

he ignored your calls as he turned and left without a second thought. he was going to go absolutely insane if he kept these feelings inside any longer.

the third time riki almost told you he loved you, the two of you were watching the sunrise after your graduation. he stared at you in awe; the sunlight striking your face and hair made you look ethereal.

you giggled at the way he was obviously admiring your beauty before turning back to the wonderful view. " i'll miss you when we go off to college, riks. a lot, i mean. "

riki, of course, had thought about it longer than anyone else.

but for now, he opted for wrapping a hand around your shoulder and pulling you close, trying his best to enjoy the moment. he would miss you the most. he would miss his bestfriend.

three years apart had done nothing to the feelings riki had been secretly harboring. the distance had only made them stronger. now he was fresh out of college, and at the moment, watching you run towards him at a scary speed.

" riks ! " he had come to your house even before putting any of his things back; he had to see you. he chuckled as he felt your arms wrap around him, hugging you back without hesitation.

both of you had grown. riki was now taller than the eiffel tower, as you put it, and you had grown into your features. but you were both the same people.

he was the same riki that fell in love with you, and you were the same girl he fell in love with seven years ago.

now, he watched with a smile as you downed a bottle of soju, wiping your chin. the two of you decided to visit your spot, the place you always hung out at when you were still in school.

it was like deja vu, he thought to himself. yet again, he admired you as the wind blew your hair across your face, your face glowing in the evening light.

before he could even think about what he was saying, the words fell from his mouth. " i'm in love with you, yn. " he glanced at you, you paused your actions midway to look at him in shock. " you ... what ? "

no take backs now. mustering up all the courage he had, which was basically none right now, he delicately took your soft hand in his considerably rougher one.

" i love you. i have since freshman year when you hit me in the head with a ball and smiled at me like an idiot. yn, i- " he had never felt as much relief as he did right now, when you pulled him closer and pecked his lips lightly.

" you idiot, why have you never said anything ? all these years i felt like an idiot for falling in love with my best friend. " he breathed out a sigh, finally being able to embrace you, his head resting in the crook of your neck.

his only regret was not telling you he loved you those three times.

taglist : @so-lychee @bambisnc @mellowdyverse

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

Phoenix/Miles 35

in reference to this. 35 - as a lie

Miles Edgeworth, hearing his office door swing open, moved quickly. It only took a moment to open his desk drawer and slip the letter he'd been writing inside. He closed the drawer again, feigning nonchalance as he glanced up at the man entering his office.

Of course it was him. Who else would it be?

"Wright," Edgeworth said. "What are you doing here at this ungodly hour?"

Phoenix smiled, shutting the door behind him. He was wearing his jacket, but removed it and folded it over his arm as he spoke. "I could ask the same thing of you, Edgeworth. Are you really working this late on a Friday night?"

"Unlike some people," he said, "I do not have the luxury of my own schedule. The Prosecutor's Office doesn't stop on my whims."

"What could they have you working so hard on right after we just wrapped up all that SL-9 business?"

"Oh, you mean the incident in which it came out that I'd achieved a conviction using fabricated evidence? The one where the Chief of Police was revealed as a murderer? The one where our Chief Prosecutor was incarcerated?" The very corner of his mouth tipped up in a slight, sarcastic smile. "You're quite right, Wright. I can't think of any fallout from that incident which might require further attention from the Prosecutor's Office."

Phoenix crossed the room easily - he always moved with such purpose - to stand on Edgeworth's side of the desk. He leaned easily against it, an intrusion Edgeworth catalogued and said nothing about.

"Even so, it's not fair for them to make you stay so late," he said.

"Hm. Still haven't lost your idealism, have you?"

"Maybe so," he said, "but if I haven't, I don't want to."

"Sometimes, Wright, I wish I could see the world the way you do."

"It's never too late to change your outlook, Miles."

"Hah." He shook his head. "So what brings you up here, in any case? Are you just visiting to needle me about my late hours?"

"Well, not entirely," Phoenix said. He fiddled with the folds of his jacket, still slung over his arm, before sitting it down on Edgeworth's desk and continuing. "Ema's just left for Europe."

"So I heard. To stay with one of Chief Prosecutor Skye's friends in Germany, if I recall correctly."

"You didn't come to the station to see her off."

Edgeworth turned his eyes away. "I... had the distinct feeling my presence would be somewhat less than appreciated."

"And there it is," Phoenix said. "I came here to see if you were still blaming yourself. Looks like I got my answer without needing to ask."

Edgeworth sighed. "Sometimes, Wright, you are entirely too perceptive. It has been a consistent thorn in my side since you made your way back into my life."

"You know you didn't do anything, right? You're completely innocent."

"I used forged evidence to achieve a guilty verdict. That is enough for me to consider myself beyond forgiveness."

"That's not your choice to make," Phoenix said. "I forgive you. Lana and Ema forgive you. There's nothing you can do about that."

"I appreciate the pep talk, Wright," he said, "but unless you have something of concrete value to say, I'd ask you to leave me to my work."

"I'm not leaving until you're done throwing your little pity party," Phoenix said. "Stop moping."

"I am not moping."

"You're definitely moping. Don't mope. It doesn't look good on you."

Edgeworth gave a long-suffering sigh. "The only evidence I have ever found for the existence of a God," he said, "is that without one, it is astronomically unlikely a man so perfectly tailored to disturb me and my peace would come to exist."

Phoenix laughed.

"It isn't a compliment, Wright," he snapped.

"No, but it's funny," he said. "Sometimes I feel just the same way as you. You're a real piece of work, Edgeworth."

"I have been... made aware."

Phoenix leaned forward, placing a hand on the side of Edgeworth's face. Edgeworth's first instinct was to jerk away, which he successfully resisted.

"Hey," Phoenix said. "You know I'm in love with you, right?"

"I'd realized," Edgeworth said. "And you know I can't return those feelings. Not yet."

"That's alright," Phoenix said. "You've had a lot going on these last fifteen years, Miles."

"Hah. I suppose one could say that."

"Just..." Phoenix paused. "Don't go anywhere. Take as long as you need, but stay right here. Promise me that."

The letter was burning a hole in Edgeworth's desk. "Of course, Phoenix," he said.

"I need you to promise, Miles," he said. Phoenix bit his lip and looked away. "I spent too long wondering what had happened to you. I can't do that again. I need you in my life, in whatever way you'll let me be."

Edgeworth wasn't usually one for impulsivity, but he'd been trying to take the odd lesson from his childhood friend, and that seemed to be a primary characteristic of the way he lived his life. So he did something impulsive. He placed his hand on the back of Phoenix's head, pulled him further down, and planted a kiss on Phoenix's cheek.

"I promise you, Wright," he said, "that I will remain in contact with you for as long as you would like me to."

Phoenix visibly relaxed. "Thank you, Miles."

"Of course."

[sundrop-writes]

why did you delete careful?

i went to go re read and its gone 🔫🔫

Just to clarify for everyone - yes, I did delete it from Tumblr. My series Careful (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader) - has been completely scrubbed from Tumblr, aside from reblogs by other people that I cannot delete.

Why did I delete it? Honestly, the tone of your message really drives home why I deleted it - entitlement from readers, a general unkindness toward me and this work that I have put hundreds of hours into. People being rude in the comments and blatantly misunderstanding the work because of a fanon acceptance of babying Spencer to the point of emotional incompetence and absolutely smooth flawlessness. (So having me prod at his flaws in the fic makes me worthy of such harassment.)

I really wanted to drive home the fact that you are not entitled to fanfiction. Fanfiction is a privilege.

I deleted it because I wanted to make a point: fanfiction is free, and you cannot treat it with the same harsh, unhinged criticism that you would with a piece of media that you paid for. (Especially because fanfiction authors are directly reading your comments, while TV producers/writers and movie producers/writers are not.) If you do not like something in a fanfic that you're reading, click away and forget about it - don't comment on it.

And I really hope that me deleting this fic and people 'missing' it will cause people to take a step back and self examine so that they are kinder and more thoughtful the next time that they comment on a fic.

Writers use their free time to work hard on fics, and there is a huge amount of stress that goes into getting an idea down on paper, making it coherent, editing it - even something like making fanfic covers to embellish our fics to make them more enticing to read. There is a lot of hard work and stress that goes into a fic before it's even seen by anyone, so I don't need the added stress of rude comments, entitled people, and the passive-aggressive 'this is good, but-' comments that people constantly bring to the table.

I really, really loved Careful when it was in my drafts. I was so excited to post it for everyone to see - but after posting it, the comments I received made me resent the fic so much, made me question my entire creative process as a writer, and made me really bitter toward the fictional characters I was writing about, but when I went into the fic, I had nothing but genuine enthusiasm about them.

Making someone develop a deep, vile resentment (bordering on hatred) toward their own fic is really something else. And it made me realize that people don't deserve to read that fic in order to comment on it.

It will not be reposted to Tumblr, but it is still on AO3 - and that is very purposeful on my end, because all my fics are archive locked, so fewer people can see them and read them. I was considering deleting it off every website altogether, but AO3 is an archive for a reason. I may orphan it on AO3 later -or I just hope that I can write enough works that I am proud of and that I love in order to bury it deep in my catalogue so that I don't have to look at it or think about it anymore.

If you really want to read it, go find it there. If you don't have an AO3 account - then idk what to tell you.

Just be kinder and more thoughtful when commenting on fics. And please, learn to support writers in other ways - actually reblog their work instead of just lingering with a blank blog, go back and read older fics on their masterlist, engage with them.

And if you already do these things, this message is obviously not for you. If me saying this pisses you off, then this is probably for you.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Guilty Pleasures

Every sentient being has a secret hobby or interest. Autonomous robotic organisms not excluded.

Megatron

The only one who knows about his little hobby is Soundwave, it's a good thing too, because Megatron would kill anyone else who uncovered his secret.

Despite his general distaste for humans, Megatron admires their creativity, more specifically their literature.

He may be a warrior first and foremost but he also has a love for any all all historical and poetic works.

He enjoys reading and having to decipher the hidden meanings behind the stories he collects.

It fascinates him to read about just how different and how similar Cybertronian societies are.

However he would never be caught dead reading a book written by a human. So he sends Soundwave to fetch him good books whenever there is nothing more important on the agenda.

He is greatly inspired by Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, J.R.R Tolkien, C.S Lewis, and Homer.

He has a whole secret closet in his berthroom filled with dataslates that contain the works of his favorite authors.

He will often read them before falling into recharge, and occasionally he will attempt a little writing of his own if he is feeling particularly inspired.

This has led him to create another secret stash in his berthroom filled with his own stories, ones that mostly illustrate his own life and views on how society should be structured.

(If Megatron's works make their way into the newly rebuilt Iacon hall of records in the future due to a certain Prime, then no bot comments on it)

Optimus

He has a rather unique little hobby, one that like Megatron, he would never be caught dead engaging in.

His particular hobby stems from his base coding as an Archivist.

Since the war did not really grant him much opportunity to work with and organize the data he desired, he ended up developing a tendency to note and catalogue the relationships of bots around him.

In short, Optimus is a shipper.

It was not a purposeful thing, but as time passed and tensions heightened Optimus just started listening in on conversations more frequently and paying extra attention to body language and how other bots interacted with one another.

He found it fascinating and so began to write it all down on a dataslate, and from there it just escalated as he began noting how certain bots reacted around others.

It really began after he started listing known relationships and all the information he had on them (In surprising and almost creepy detail)

Then he started theorizing and creating a whole separate catalogue dedicated to organizing gossip and discerning what was correct and incorrect so that he could get his relationship files properly updated.

In the end he created the most intricate and well informed database filled with information regarding every known relationship, platonic, familial, and romantic that he caught wind of.

But of course that still wasn't enough for his Archivist coding, he needed and still needs a constant flow of fresh data, and so he started playing a role in the relationships around him.

A well placed rumor here, a slight change of orders there, and Optimus's notes gain new additions from either the success or fallout of the event, satisfying his urges and helping his troops sort out their feelings much quicker than they would have otherwise.

To the complete and utter shock of everyone when they eventually find out; it is not Smokescreen, Bumblebee, Jazz, or any other source that has all the tea. No, it's all Optimus, and he knows everything and will gladly play matchmaker for his favorite OTP.

Soundwave

Cats. Soundwave. Loves. CATS.

He thinks they are the best to thing to happen since Primus himself came into being and nothing will change his mind.

His berthroom is covered in posters, pictures, and art of cats.

He has a whole pile of cat plushies that he stole and he adores it, especially when he is having a mental breakdown.

Soundwave also has a whole drive reserved solely for any all and all cat related content on the internet.

He is obsessed, he wants a cat badly, and he is not shy about his desire to adopt one.

However as he knows it would not be safe for a feline to stay on board the nemesis, Soundwave has turned to alternative methods to satisfy his desire to be around the fluffy organics.

Soundwave's solution is to not keep cats on board the nemesis permanently, but to bring them on for a limited time before ground bridging them away.

When he has the chance he collects a few street cats that he has taken a liking to and will keep them with him in his office, taking every measure to ensure their health and happiness.

The cats love him and he loves them, everybody goes home happy in the end.

However on the off chance that someone wanders into Soundwave's office while he is with his court of cats they are met with hisses and a terrifying blank stare from the spymaster.

Everyone on board the nemesis chalks it up to Soundwave being strange as usual and refuses to speak of what they see, lest the spymaster make them disappear.

Ratchet

Despite his gruff personality Ratchet has a rather wholesome secret hobby, that being baking.

He picked up baking from his mentor before the war, the older mech had been fond of the activity due to its simplicity.

Ratchet was skeptical, but out of respect for his mentor agreed to participate.

He ended up developing a fondness not for the energon goodies themselves, but for the process by which they were made and the smiles of those who consumed them.

During the war he made energon goodies and secretly put them in among the rations to increase moral among the troops

For a while a rumor spread about how there was a ghost meandering about leaving goodies for bots who did well or were going through some things.

No one suspected the 'I NEEDED THAT!' Ratchet to be the one leaving the treats. (except Optimus or course, such data would never escape his notice, not with his files constantly needing updating)

Ratchet also got into the habit of making small batches of goodies for Bumblebee every now and then when he was small, mainly to keep him quiet but also because he genuinely has a soft spot for him.

The habit continued even when Bee got older, surprising the scout on occasion when a little baggie of goodies appeared in his rations.

Once on earth Ratchet also ends up becoming interested in the human version of baking and since then has found no end of frustrations with the whole process.

Despite how much it aggravates him, when he has time he tries hard to figure out the intricacies of human baking so that the children won't feel left out out when the energon goodies are passed around (not that he will admit that is his true purpose)

Currently his baking capabilities with human food are abysmal largely due to inappropriately sized equipment and lack of organically attuned taste buds.

But the children appreciate the burned cupcakes he produces anyway, after all, its the thought that counts.

Knockout

In his own words, he is not only an Automobile but an Automobile enthusiast.

He goes street racing when he can but for a mech as interested in cars as he is, only being able to street race is not nearly enough.

And so Knockout collects things, more specifically model cars.

If he likes them as they are, he will liberate (steal) them from human stores and display them on a little shelf he has in his berthroom.

He even has some mood lighting around the shelf to really draw attention to his collection.

His favorite models also have their own little pedestals which spin and light up.

He is particularly proud of himself for setting it all up correctly.

But, oh boy, if any bot on the nemesis so much as looks at his collection funny he will end them.

Those are his models. No touching.

Usually the models he collects are well painted and well within acceptable standards but sometimes he just doesn't like the colorations of his models.

On such occasions he will spend hours, painstakingly using tiny tools to change the coloration of his collectable. Carefully using small brushes and glasses in order to make everything just right.

He always takes great care to not damage the fragile human product. Sometimes going so far as to watch online video's on model painting just so that he doesn't mess up.

Occasionally though, the mass produced models simply don't cut it for Knockout, and so he goes hunting for rare and custom made collectables.

He even set up an account online and liberated (stole) some cash to use to buy particular models from around the globe.

If a human were to see his collection they would be flabbergasted as he has one of the most pristine and extensive model collections known to man.

Bumblebee

Bumblebee never really had a hobby on Cybertron, he was far too busy training for and fighting in a war to really get involved in anything else.

However upon coming to earth and getting roped into earth culture his status as a mech without an interest changed quickly.

Bumblebee swiftly got swept up in the melting pot that is the internet, and there he learned a great many things he wishes he could forget.

But it was also on the internet that he was introduced to video gaming.

He spent countless hours watching gameplays, livestreams, and walkthrough video's, yearning more and more with every video to be able to play as well.

Thankfully his wish was granted when Raf rolled round and helped him get his own gaming system set up, with controllers of the appropriate size of course.

What no one expected however was for Bumblebee to become and absolute boss in nearly every game he played.

Online matches are filled with anger towards Bumblebee's character, but being a veteran of the internet by the time he starts playing, he is unconcerned by the human profanity thrown at him as he leaves his competitors in the dust.

Bumblebee has even made it into the world of E-sports, operating under an alias when online and using a holoform when he is required to turn up for tournaments.

Agent Fowler had a fit when he found out, but since no one suspects Bumblebee's alias of anything other than hacking he left it be.

Little does anyone know that Bumblebee has no fragging clue as to what he is doing.

More often than not it is dumb luck, a lot of ignorance, a healthy dose of stupidity, and his spectacular servo to optic coordination that pull him through.

Everyone around base praises him for his skill when they watch him play, and Bumblebee thoroughly enjoying the praise, refuses to say anything regarding the truth of his gaming career.

[griefabyss69]

Illusion of Grace

written for ‘Charm’ wc: 548 | rated: T | cw: Vampire Eddie, Enthrallment, Scared & Horny

Prompt is from @steddiemicrofic <3

[ AO3 ]

(Title is from the band Ambrotype)

Steve's heart pounds, shakes his ribs as it screams at him to run. The adrenaline of this dangerous game they're playing, of having nowhere to hide, grasps him and tries to rattle an ounce of fucking sense into him.

Eddie's leaning in, eyes bright. Deep, blackened brown surrounded by luminescent red sclera.

His fangs are out, framing his bottom lip, making Steve's heart ache harder, his instincts terrified like a caged animal, and his not-so-latent homosexual tendencies begging him to kiss him.

"Who's charming now?" Eddie asks, black fingertips cupping his jaw.

Steve wants to antagonize him, goad him into another one of their little arguments so whoever wins can claim their stupid little prize, but he can't move.

Eddie told him about it, when he first came back. A vampiric thrall, like hypnotism.

He can only watch his face, breath the air that Eddie isn't exhaling into, and distantly catalogue the way his cock starts to get fuller.

"Those big puppy dog eyes of yours," Eddie says, their noses almost touching. "Look so good when you're scared."

If he could move, he'd be running, just from the chill that drips ice through him, the something is horribly wrong please run that isn't present when he usually needs it, but lights up his nerves now.

Eddie's not a threat, even if Steve thinks that if they kiss then whatever they have to face after will hurt. It would've hurt back when Eddie was still human, too.

He's in love with a dead guy, and he wants to give him his throat.

"Yes, give it to me," Eddie whispers, the sound ghosting over Steve's lips.

Steve obeys without thinking, able to move purely just to carry out the order, tilting his head only to bare his neck.

"Good, you're so pretty like this," Eddie says, closing in a few inches to press soft lips and hard teeth to his skin.

He doesn't feel anything sharp, but he knows it's there, and all he wants is Eddie to sink into him, to open him up, drink him down. If he does that, he thinks he'll have fulfilled his purpose for tonight.

Tomorrow night, Eddie could take him, stake his claim on him again.

Steve wants to be the only one, wants Eddie to be surviving off of his blood, nothing else. Wants to be so good for him that he doesn't dream of finding something better.

"You did so well," Eddie says, pulling back.

Steve can't make any noises, but there's a whine building in his chest, abject disappointment curling rancid around his heart.

Eddie's eyes track over his neck, he looks so hungry, and he wishes he could talk to encourage him to get in there. Take from him until he's sated and just as in love as Steve is.

But instead, Eddie blinks, looks away, and just like that;

Steve's standing in the basement, hard cock throbbing, panting for air as he tries to grapple with the sharp come down from supernaturally charmed devotion to… how he and Eddie are friends.

Sort of.

He'd just been in love with him, but now it's… not wrong, not gone, but a fresh bruise now. The enthrallment was the punch and now he has to deal with what it left behind.

[qvrcll]

hello! firstly, ur writing is heavenly. no joke. i devoured ur entire discography within seconds of finding ur page. twice. i was wondering if u could write some longer elaborations on lo’ak with particular emphasis on his love for physical touch/affection? i would love to read smth that encapsulates the essence of the relationship between him + reader. esp like the dynamic of the relationship. wether or not u think his insecurities implore him to constantly seek touch. if u think he’d pine for it or go to extremities to receive it. possibly even before an established relationship. his jealousy, possessiveness, his thirst for affirmation. any form is fine! wether u’d like to give it a story line (one shot typa thing) or just a long elaboration on the topic in itself. tbh im rlly hungry to hear ur interpretation of it. i adore ur representation(s) and how u flesh out the characters. esp lo’ak. ur mind is so pretty. n ♡

LO’AK + AFFECTION ♡ㅤ°.

synopsis: lo’ak had always chased and chased and chased. so when you finally gave, he found it difficult to catalogue the multitude of touches and stares all at once… well, not completely.

auth notes -> UM HELLO oh my god this ask is just so so so amazing + thank you so much for your interest in my works / thoughts! most of the time they’re nonsensical babble or unorganised lines of hoo haa but i’m glad people enjoy my writing :,) i hope i’ve done your req justice! + let me know if you want more, i absolutely love writing for lo’ak <3

warnings -> slight angst , gn ! na’vi + metkayina reader

characters -> loak sully

gif creds. -> ♡

lo’ak is an overachiever with just the largest slightest urge for approval and affirmation.

he’s so motivation driven to excel his golden-gift of a brother, he’s often caught in imperilment. half of the time, he doesn’t even catch his siblings at his tail, trailing after him precipitately — when did this become a group thing? he’ll think. but eventually, he’ll admonish the thought and rule it as a way to spend quality time with his siblings, away from the poundage of home.

but the sun will discolour and pulse between a mix of a ripe valencia and a pool of mauve coiling just behind the spread of colours in the sky. by the time he’s home, it’s incredibly late — jake is the first to reprimand him. harsh words. hard words. words that make him teeth his lip and fiddle with his fingers till his ears pin against the weight of his braids. in bed, he’ll ponder and turn over the words and make sense of them — i’m just a disappointment. a failure. that must be it, or else i don’t understand why i.. i’m so incapable.

this poor boy definitely misconstrues jake’s words and takes them for justification of his existence as mere fodder — often times, he’ll exclude himself from his family in attempts to find more of what’s different. that means ultimately seeking out friends, connections, approval. love. he’s a confused kid in a big world, far too thin to offer him the space and time for an explanation. the reason for his affliction.

so when his family first seek refuge from the metkayina clan, bodies swollen with days of unforgiving rain and sleepless nights of mummers, he’s a little less aware of who, what, where, when and exactly how.

so when you, the chief tonowari’s child materialises out of thin air in his eye, mouth dilated with a purposeful smile, he registers your position — right, they’re here to guide us. me.

he’ll take it a blow to the gut when his father wrenches him to one side, stabbing the futile words into him, the don’t make me look like a fool boy. be on your best behaviour.

it sullies his mood and strings him somewhere far from the marui pod, feet slack with hurt. wanting nothing more than a rest.

it’s then that there’s more of you with him — “lo’ak sully?” a thin voice branches from the foliage and thickens with purpose when his feet strike against the ground uncomfortably. he’s greeted with you — the chief’s child, golden and emitting from the leaves like a imprimatur from ewya herself: “oh… sorry, i didn’t… i didn’t know-“ he fumbles the the words in his hand, like those countless nights. the heatless nights that ring in his hand, unwarranted remindings of his ineffectuality.

and you’ll sense it, this overpowering tension rooting from every inch of his skin — “i’m not here to nag you, don’t worry. i’m here past curfew hours as well… come…” you signal to your feet.

at first, he’s confused. and then, he’s swollen with happiness that flows straight to his head: for once, he’s not shot down and schlepped home in shame. he’s noted and affirmed — it makes his heart squelch comfortably in his chest.

after that, it’s simple — he looks for you in places he shouldn’t. his family’s marui pod; he’ll unwittingly find recognition in your voice from outside the thin walls. he’s less capable in affirming himself to stake right near your toes — they’ve known me for, what, a couple of weeks. it was probably pity.

yes, that’s right. excuses are his best friend. his companion. an intimate, an option to choose through the blur of confusion.

so that’s why its exalting to him when you first praise him: it had been something with little worth. probably carrying a heavy load off your hands or supporting you when the two of you are habitually tired from training all day: “thank you, lo’ak. you’re incredibly sweet.”

booooooyyyyyy. his ears will nip and crease at his braids furiously, tail whipping around to bind loosely along your waist. you find the gesture incredibly cute — “you think so?” he teethes, eager and raw and fully lo’ak. and who are you, to deny any attempts of it? “i know so.”

other times, it’s less verbal and more strained on eye-contact / body language. to me, he values words. but actions serve a separate design.

actions spring from every nerve, every inch of skin. any bearable bone in a body. so its like a seal on your relationship when you strive to do things with sole senses: squinted, smiling eyes when he successfully holds his breath for more than five minutes. soothing, tender fingers etching circles on his back when he chokes on sea-water. on one occasion, upon his eminence at being able to breathe in water, you had kissed him on the cheek, soft, smooth, lips battered on his skin for less than a second. he’d captured the memory vividly in his brain, somewhere, still idiotically rubbing the area on his face for some revival of the same feeling.

but lo’ak also strikes me as someone who tries awfully hard to gain sympathy, love, attention… pretty much any gateway of endearment. that would include the amplitude of (but not limited to) simple pleasures: words of affirmation, yes. a MUST. he would adore the sound of sweet promulgations from his favourite person, you, when doing the most mundane of activities, i.e. successfully amassing the bond between himself and an awfully obdurate ilu. he’ll be so discoloured with pride and glee that he’ll forget he’s still straining to train and that causes his ilu to flip someways and send him hurdling downwards. still, it’s worth the press, he thinks.

but deep down, he’s blood and flesh and bones. he’s the carnality his parents created from love — he’ll often find himself letting loose in order to garner more scratches and bruises than normal. it hurts, more so, but he’ll carry enough wounds to you for him to feign indifference. he’ll dispel the thought of harassment and put it to blame on the shrubbery and roots of a tree — still, it pays off.

his smile is aching to stay secret when you wrench a woven basket racked with ointments, herbs and other remedies.

he’ll purposely wince and grovel to soften your fingers on his skin

he’s airy and thoughtless when he gazes at you methodically work his misgivings. tongue poked out and hair slightly disheveled from the day: you’ll glance at him and flush—“you’re so close, lo’ak.”

he’s instantly inching away, muttering apologies — he’s seen that he’s over-stepped. and he’s small, again. that boy, in front of his father, eyes and ears downcast at yet another reprimand. but your fingers are… interlocking with his?

“you idiot. i never said… it bothered me,” you push the words out.

it takes a minute to register, like that day he had arrived with sand in his toes and water on his back, gazing at you through the thick of shoulders and faces: “it doesn’t?”

“no, it doesn’t. should it?”

“you tell me.”

“oh, shush lo’ak.”

he’s also jealous — more than his siblings. he’ll grit his teeth more and frown more and tense more when he sees you next to other people. he’s irritated less with you and more with himself with this inconsolable feeling of abandonment. he almost feels sickly with the dwindling hours between each other, hearing your castaway laugh ringing behind him—he escapes to the forest. and you, on cue, find him. he’ll resist first, refusing to make contact. but then, he’ll notice your infelicity, your downturned ears. your low, immobile tail between your legs. and he’ll nearly burst into tears — “i… i was jealous.” together, you work through the exact moment of dissatisfaction, his feelings, this raw and red feeling that was jealousy brooding in his chest.

on cue, to soothe his aches, you’ll rest his head on your lap and curl a finger around a braid. he’s accustomed to your speed now, he’ll briefly stiffen but then melt on your skin, curling into you. he just wants to feel love through himself, not some silly demand or order. so this action hits him best — you loving him through the grime.

once in an established relationship, there’s sooooo much open room for physical touches. it’s more intimate, so you’re shy when hugging him and throwing an arm around him — he finds it cute how you resist and purposely holds you more. definitelyyy a teaser. come on, a son of jake sully? you got me twisted.

he’ll tilt your chin to face him, kiss your neck in close proximity and almost ALWAYS sit with your fingers or his on you.

he loves your voice / eyes. also loves them best, the way they curl and twinkle when you’re drilling compliments into his skull for anything short of mundane or exalting — “my yawne, you did so well”, “my sweet boy, look how well you did”, “i can’t think of anyone better.”

he’s insecure, so some days are harder than most. when he fails on a particular task or fails the skills to attempt one, he’s curling into himself. it’s not visible — it’s internal. it’s in his head, the numerous cogs working to remind himself of his hollowness, his futility. he’s non-verbal by the time you find him, tail crimped between his legs. his eyes are shining and wet, full with unshed tears. when you make your way close, he’s already surrendered himself — “why can’t i do anything right?” “i’m pathetic,” “my dad was right.”

you want nothing more than to eat that terrible feeling lurking within him, diminishing it for his happiness. but this was lo’ak. the bright smiles, eager and welcoming. this was lo’ak, the anger and frustration. this, too, was lo’ak, the grime and jealousy, the stubbornness. this and this and this. you learn to hold him upright—you’ll have lo’ak whole than halved into parts. it’s him you need, you tell him, not a warrior. him.

and he’ll cry, because it’s, too, his first. his first at learning love and compassion. of acceptance and honesty. he’ll see the reflection of him, whole and fully lo’ak, in your eyes and the delightful push of your lips against him melts with his tears.

that, too, he’ll store in his memory.

© 2022 qvrcll ! do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[lemonsrosesandlavender]

Writer Interview Tag

Thanks for the tags, @darkurgetrash and @kimberbohwrites <3 I really enjoyed reading yours! I tag… hmmm, who hasn’t done it yet? @dutifullylazybread @commander-krios and @redroomroaving ? (And consider this a free tag if you want it!)

When did you start writing?

I honestly couldn’t say when my very first act of creative writing was, I feel like I’ve been writing on and off my whole life (barring like 5 years from 16-21). When I was 8 or 9 is the first I really remember though. I kept a diary religiously at that time (yes, it’s hilarious), and also attempted several stories that went nowhere, including a glorious portal fantasy about two children who are isekai’d into a kingdom of cats and have to face off against an evil cat stealing wizard. As you can tell, I love cats, lmao. And I have always loved portal fantasies and isekai. A through-line all the way to Planar Tears!

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

Oooh. Well, there are very few genres I *wouldn’t* read, and I’ve only written so much, so I suppose most genres currently sit in this pile for me? I can’t really see myself writing original sci-fi, despite loving it as a genre, because I think it really lives or dies on having an excellent concept more than a lot of other forms of fiction. Short of being struck with a lightning bolt of inspiration, I think I’d lack purpose. But I love, love, love science fiction. Isaac Asimov, Philip K Dick, N.K. Jemisin, Octavia Butler, John Wyndham, Marge Piercy, Ted Chiang… all of these SF authors’ stories have a place in my heart.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

No-one has yet compared me to anyone. I often realise that I’m going a little too Austen in my work, and gently push myself to modernise - but I guess that speaks to the fact that whilst I admire her, I don’t want to exactly emulate her? I love the way she gently teases her characters, the way she makes clear the contrast between what they believe and what’s actually true without being cruel. But I don’t want to write a pastiche.

On the other end of the spectrum, I recently re-read My Year of Rest and Relaxation and was reminded of how much I love Otessa Moshfegh’s cold, somewhat brutal cataloguing of the world around her character; her sparse but vivid imagery (casting aside a pair of shoes like “dead crows”) and her unlikeable but extremely readable MC. I should read more of her work!

Basically, I love to read and have a wide spectrum of influences, but I’m not aiming to emulate any single one of them. I would say my writing swings between archaic and more efficient depending on whether I’ve read classic or modern literature most recently, because I love both.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I have many. On my phone anywhere - especially the commute - and at home on a laptop, either sat at our dining table (we live in a rental flat in an expensive city, a proper desk would be a luxury), or on the sofa with my girlfriend and flatmate sometimes contributing "suggestions" lol. If I'm in a writing phase, which I have been for a year - every space is a writing space.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Hmmm. I am rarely in a completely creatively fallow period - unless I'm just straight up obsessed with a game/TV show/the gym, in which case I'm busy having a good time in other ways - but I'm not always in the writing zone. I like textile crafts and sewing, and art hobbies generally. I guess that is to say, if the writing muse is not present, I rarely miss it; I'm probably thinking about something else.

(Barring the times when my mental health is fucked, but even then, I'm probably throwing myself really hard into a hobby as a distraction. I'm an all or nothing person). When I'm struggling with writer's block on say, a chapter of a long fic, it's usually because it's not quite headed in the right direction, and I need to backtrack, take stock of where my characters are emotionally, and try again in a different direction. Honestly... I know it's advised against by some, but sometimes I just have to sit down and make myself write just to figure out what's wrong. Just do it, and rip it up later if you have to. (**put it in a separate doc in case you can use it elsewhere. you probably wrote it for a reason. DO NOT TILT OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH AND DELETE YOUR SHIT, NO MATTER HOW FRUSTRATING).

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

Number one is “coming to terms with making mistakes in your vocation, and recognising that you are more than your talent at it.” It’s the reason that draws me to Rolan in the first place, because it mirrors my own life experiences very closely. I was somewhat picked on and harassed in school (shit that many of us have experienced) and built my whole personality around being smart and having my life planned out as a shield against it. I was going to do [thing], I was really good at it, and it was all clear. Not to mention I loved this subject. So when I got into a prestigious university my life was sorted, right? Except... all of the hideous self-esteem issues and perfectionism I'd been papering over came crashing down all at once, and I was in an incredibly unforgiving environment, in a very male-dominated subject where other (male) students would literally be like huh, isn't it weird more women don't study this subject? Why do YOU think that is? I felt like I was worthless, stupid and useless, and that I stuck out like a sore thumb - and I was carrying the weight of every woman who wanted to do my subject and was afraid they weren't good enough. My life plans crumbled before my eyes, and I was severely depressed, alongside other health issues - which my uni did not give two fucks about, at all.

Which is to say, I draw many parallels between my own arc and Rolan's - being an outsider, the precarity of having your own talent validated only to have your entire future rest on it, and being vulnerable to really shitty messaging about how hard I should be working and how it was obviously my fault if I wasn't succeeding already, when they were one of the best universities around. And then I realised I was writing similar experiences with Catrin and SW Tav - discovering, and appreciating, that you're more than this one crutch you cling to, this singular skill that you desperately need to hold you above the maelstrom of life. And I promise that, like Rolan, this has a happy ending - I personally took some years out after battling through undergrad, faced my demons, and returned to the subject that I loved as a far more well-rounded person, better equipped to deal with failure. I'm not perfect, and I never will be. I'm neurotic and perfectionistic and all the rest. And that's probably why I keep writing, and exploring this theme - to remind myself that I want to avoid that trap, and to deal with the ways I feel when I'm in it. I was gonna write about kink here too, but I think this is enough, lol.

What is your reason for writing?

Joy. I love exercising my creative drive. And I love re-reading what I've written!

Obsession. These fuckers, these plot points, occupy every spare inch of brain and will not stop until I vent them.

Learning. Honing my skills is a frustration and a pleasure.

Connection. I'm so, so grateful to have people who read and care about my work. It means the world.

Horny. Um. Yeah. I have no further explanation for this one lmao. Except. Fantasies are amazing, but then writing them down makes them even better because now you're really thinking about the specifics and those specifics come to mind more easily next time you're [REDACTED. CABBAGE STOP. ENOUGH!!!]

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

I can’t pick just one! A balanced diet of comments is the best ;)

I joke but - I love them all. Shouting about the plot? You're invested, and I'm grateful. "Additional kudos" twenty chapters in? You've stuck with me this far, and I'm grateful. I guess if I had to pick a few:

1. Strong emotional responses. Kicking my feet/biting my keyboard/stressed/blushing/screaming - whatever fits the mood of the scene. I’m so happy my writing evoked strong feelings. That’s a good chunk of the point, right?

2. Writing analysis. Picking out individual lines or highlighting certain aspects - characterisation, dramatic tension, etc. The day someone said that I "had a knack for showing character in a single action" and then provided examples, I nearly exploded. Augh. I particularly love comments on my OCs because they're especially precious to me. My own brain children, and you LIKE them? heaven for reader. heaven for reader for 1000 years.

3. “I should be sleeping but instead I read this” AND I AM KISSING YOU. That’s all.

4. Just straight up compliments. "I love this" thank you I'm crying. ahhhhhhh. Cute lil kudos graphics (you know who you are). I'm over the moon you enjoy my work. <3

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Well, I know for certain that a large swathe of my readers perceive me as “the one who writes good subby Rolan porn” and frankly? I love that reputation. If nobody appreciated the SFW elements of my work, I might feel differently, because thoughtful storytelling is also really important to me - but I feel seen in that regard too, so I can delight in knowing my writing has a distinctive flavour. Kinky chilli ice cream, spicy and sweet.

I would also love to hope my readers think of me fondly when they get the next long fic email, and are excited to continue the story. Oh, and I hope my readers enjoy chatting in my comment section, because I do. All I can aim for is to be the friendly author who "rites gud". Fingers crossed I meet that bar :)

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

You know what? I might not have said this once upon a time, but I actually think I’m pretty decent at plotting. I think I wind various threads together quite well, and with purpose.

I think I’m pretty good at observing character too. I hope. I’ve written so much Rolan that he’s really taken on a life of his own, but I do often rewatch his cutscenes (I know, such a chore 😉) and think I have a good sense for him. I also think that although Catrin started out difficult to write, I developed a very distinct character for her too, which I’m glad about.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

90% of what I’m writing is for me. I want it to be the best it can be, for me; I want it to cover the themes I care about. I want to tell the story in my head. Before BG3, I wrote for a teeny tiny fandom, inaugurating its fandom tag, and that inoculated me a little against writing for stats because well, thirty kudos felt like an INCREDIBLE achievement in that fandom.

Also, I want to write my kinky filth and not dilute it. That means actively CHOOSING not to worry about whether people are put off, because they absolutely, certainly will be in cases.

However, I do also care about my readers; I love comments and I want to give them the best story I can. I really enjoy my NSFW prompts; since my tumblr connections know the baseline of what I’m into, they can throw out AMAZING ideas that I love writing and am deeply grateful for. I’ve also definitely pushed harder on fics and oneshots because I knew a particular commenter or mutual was super excited for them ❤️ (shout out to my piss kink cheerleader lol, and everyone who has kindly - or ferally - expressed interest in my longfics).

How do you feel about your own writing?

Mostly very good! I do struggle with writer’s block sometimes, but my particular combination of perfectionism and obstinacy means I don’t tend to publish my work until I’m happy with it. I can see imperfections in my work, especially my past work, but I do genuinely enjoy the process of learning even if it frustrates me sometimes. I really enjoy re-reading what I’ve written later, because by the time it gets out there into the world, I’ve always beaten it into something I’m proud of.

I can't deny that I do, occasionally, get bitten by the little green monster though. Seeing someone else's Rolan writing get called "the best" or whatever has me nursing a tiny stab of pain. And I know it's valid - I'm not *the* best writer of all time, I'm just writing my reasonably-good stories out here, but I can't deny that small oof. (I'm tipsy so you're getting rather honest Cabbage tonight). I'm also very aware that I get many wonderful comments and treasure them, so I just accept my limitations a bit and try not to think too much about other peoples' writing that is along similar lines to my own. You're all writing beautiful stuff and I support you, but I will go NUTS if I spend my life reading closely-related fic. (If I have read your fic, know I fought my inner demons to do it, lol). Idk. I write what I want to write, as well as I can, and I'm grateful that people want to read it. Seriously. You have no idea how much every bookmark and subscription and lovely comment mean to me <3 And all I can do is my best to master this lovely art form and carve out from the marble an approximation of what I see in my head.

[queerxqueen]

I know everyone has been asking you about The Dustin Experiment (and rightly so, that's so cool, and I'm sure you have a lot to say), but I was wondering, what other projects do you offer up to people who have found you as an author through this book? What else in your catalogue do you hope they read? I'm not sure if any samples are out from the book yet, but I'm sure a lot of people (myself included) want to know about your other published work and what those look like! I hope this is okay to ask!

sooooo this is a fun little line for me to walk because the dustin book is technically under a pen name for complicated hand-wavy publishing industry shenanigans reasons.

basically, the dustin experiment is the first book coming out under the J.L. D'Amato name. so the short, official answer is, there is nothing else!!

the longer, unofficial answer is, my debut original novel is coming out in august 2025 under my real name (jamie d'amato), and another original coming out under that name in 2026, both of which were sold and contracted about a year before i got the dustin project. but since IP projects in publishing go waaaaaay faster than the normal glacial pace of publishing, the dustin book would come out before my "official debut" so we use the pen name for the sake of keeping my original debut as my debut, for publishing hype purposes.

but obviously, both with the last name being the same and me talking about it here, the pen name is more of a formality than a real secret. they're just different "author brands" or whatever.

ALL THIS TO SAY, there's nothing under either name that i could point you to that's available to read or purchase right now, even though the dustin book was not my first project.

[cephalopodsquad]

how i wanna push every member of the blackpool combat club onto the ground, in specific detail:

Jon Moxley: he is standing, frowning, at a social event. he does not say a single word to anyone around him. i walk up to him, furiously and with purpose. i put both of my hands directly on his chest and PUSH him, firmly and directly, onto his ass. His face spontaneously begins to bleed. I walk away, knowing that he will find me and put my head through a car window.

Claudio Castagnoli: he is standing with both arms raised above his head, either cheering for something his son Yuta has done or holding a drink and making a particularly enthusiastic toast. i come running at him, full tilt, from AT LEAST 50 feet away, and barrel into him in some kind of tackle-hug hybrid, right as he’s mid-laugh. he’s warm and my arms are around him and i just lie there on the floor on top of him while he laughs.

Wheeler Yuta: he runs by me, probably covered in blood and sweat because this is a punishment run from Danielson. i trip him with a stick. he falls over. he gets up and doubles back around to cut a half decent promo at me. it’s honestly the greatest thing that’s ever happened.

Bryan Danielson: i cold cock him in the face, there’s nothing else i can do. he’s standing there looking like he’s in a rugged Lands End catalogue photoshoot, even though he is actually stood in the middle of a fluorescently-lit low-end department store aisle, and i run past him and punch him square in the jaw. my hand hurts. he doesn’t even fall down, just grabs my arm and forces me to do pushups for not leaving a mark. I am Weak. I am Livid.

[idsb]

The way people relentlessly bring up her billionaire status bugs me because she became one after almost two decades of her career. She earned that. It also doesn’t mean she has a billion dollars in her bank account either. (Are people being deliberate obtuse or naturally stupid?) e.g. she’s not going to sell the rights to her music, since it’d defeat the purpose of her re-recording it. I’m so sick of the “she’s a billionaire yadda yadda” bs. It’s just another excuse to invalidate her. Before that it was she’s got “millions.” Before that it was she’s a “blonde white girl.”

first off I would legitimately argue that she is the ONLY ethical billionaire (that I am aware of), because her status overcomes the trope of "you cannot become a billionaire without exploiting people below you": she literally didn't! it came from good & honest work [insert 'it ain't much' reaction image], just making music and touring it, and literally nothing else. any musician I know could technically become a billionaire the way she did by doing literally nothing different. no makeup lines, no retail empire built on the backs of minimum wage employees selling it, no nothing. just making music and playing it to crowds.

also: exactly, the billionaire thing irks me to no end because it's more than 50% based on the valuation of her catalogue, which she has made abundantly clear isn't up for sale under any circumstances. so it's almost a complete moot point. my cat's leg can be worth a billion dollars, too, but if I have no plans to chop off the cat's leg and sell it, I don't actually have a billion dollars.

[lacewise]

I just had a bizarre experience while researching.

So, for reasons (this will make more sense later but spoilers!), I was looking up whether celebrities had ever worn needle lace in public appearances and I started with Burano and then widened to all needle lace. Nothing came up.

This is weird because I know for a fact celebrities have (especially Italian needle lace, hence starting with Burano), so it’s… just odd it’s not catalogued. (And a little annoying.)

Later, while doing something else, completely unrelated to lace, Grace Kelly’s wedding headpiece happened to catch my eye. It’s dripping (literally, in the front) in needle lace. This was bizarre so I read the caption. The caption is “antique rose point lace”. I have… rarely to never heard that term used before…?

That’s weird because… I’m a lacemaker. I make needle lace.

Maybe I’m just confused though, I am still a beginner to intermediate. So I pull out my lace books and scan the indices. No mention of rose point. I did find an article in a popular encyclopedia that made the common anglophile mistake of assuming Burano only started lace production after 1872. And precious little else explaining the origin of the term or the differentiation (can be hard to find discussion of Italian laces in English, so that’s not necessarily a red flag). So that’s not great. (To give you an idea of how mistaken it is, I read the pamphlet from the Burano Lace Museum in Italy and they, the specialists… yeah they don’t agree. And they, understandably, seem a little terse about the popularity of the error!)

I repeated the search, just to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Grace Kelly’s headpiece still doesn’t come up.

Given the flowery yet vague name, it kinda seems like jargon specifically to gatekeep and confuse. Especially since many needle laces are specifically documented to have “needle lace” nearby for archival purposes. This is all obviously speculation on my part and there could be a good reason for this… but it leaves a sour taste in my mouth, regardless.

Anyway if you know why this is or where I can find articles discussing celebrities wearing handmade lace or antique lace (preferably needle lace but I am getting less and less picky by the moment) please please please let me know. I don’t want to overlook anything in my research!

I am continuously collecting anecdotes like this. There will be a pile of them I won’t even be able to get to after my current research/video is finished. So I’m finding it increasingly hard to buy that handmade lace is one of the few handicrafts academics “respect”.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

bound together

prompt: brass knuckles (alt no.3)

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

here's one i did ahead of time...saw the prompt and had a Vision. it's pre or established ot3. hope you like!

Illya returns to their shared hotel room with a nasty bruise forming on his temple and blood crusted beneath his fingernails. Napoleon knows this because he’d stopped Illya as soon as he’d come through the door, because Illya had been nearly an hour late, because they’d started to think he was hurt, or dead. 

“Sorry I’m late,” is all the explanation they get. “It is taken care of.”

“Happy to hear it,” Napoleon replies. “But what exactly happened?”

Illya raises his shoulder. “Was a fight.”

“A bad fight?” Gaby asks, examining one of his hands, looking critically at the blood. 

Illya gently tugs his hand out of her grip. “Nothing I could not handle.”

Napoleon reaches out a hand to touch the bruising on Illya’s forehead. The marks are evenly spaced, the same shape repeated four times. He knows what made these marks. Knows there must be more of them, hidden beneath Illya’s ever-present turtleneck. 

“Are you dizzy at all?”

Illya fixes him with a look. “I am not concussed, if that is what you mean.”

“But do you feel quite alright?”

“I am fine.”

With this, Illya brushes past them and into the bathroom. He isn’t rude about it, and Napoleon and Gaby had both expected it. 

Still. 

“Those marks on his head…” Gaby whispers. 

“Brass knuckles,” Napoleon whispers back. “How he has managed to avoid getting a concussion I really don’t know.”

“And the blood,” Gaby adds. “I don’t think it’s his, but it must have been quite the fight.”

The shower turns on, and the pair move to the couch. Gaby pours them each a glass of wine while they wait for their partner. 

--

In the shower, Illya catalogues the bruises. Uniform marks across his body, some deeper than others, depending on the severity of the hit and how much fabric had been between his skin and the metal. 

Everything aches. He has, of course, been hit with brass knuckles before, but never so extensively. Usually, they’d come as a prelude to something more, or else he’d been able to very quickly overcome their owner. 

This time, though - it had taken him a while to overpower the four men who had attacked him. He had necessarily given himself up to some punches from one man while taking care of another. 

He’d gotten it done, though. A piece of paper in his pocket, by now already torn up, and blood beneath his nails. Four bodies in varying states of consciousness lying in an alley. 

And him in the shower, rinsing off the sweat and ignoring the aches with practiced ease. 

Once the blood has been scrubbed away, he shuts off the water and steps onto the cold tiles. He dresses in pajamas - he never would have done this before them, but they’ve convinced him that sleeping in your clothes is far too suspicious of an action if someone should happen to knock on your door in the middle of the night - and prepares himself for the onslaught of touches and questions. 

He’s used to it by now. It is still very odd.  

He joins them on the couch, settling between them where they have purposely left a space. 

His arms are bare and the bruises on them are dark and angry. Gaby grabs him by the wrist, looking at the marks with scrutiny, a furrow between her brows. Napoleon scarcely touches him, his fingers light against the sore skin beneath them. 

They both know that his arms are not where the bruises begin or end. 

Gaby pulls his hand towards her, kisses the back of it. “Do they hurt very much?”

Illya shakes his head. “They are really not so bad.” The only thing a bruise can do is ache. 

Napoleon’s fingers are on his face again, touching the most painful of the bruises. “Did you kill them?” he asks, and his voice is scarcely above a whisper. 

Illya shakes his head again. Once, he would have killed them without thinking. Once, it would have been expected of him. 

“Was not necessary for the mission. They were unconscious when I left.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“There were only supposed to be two.” This is Gaby, gripping his hand just a bit too tight. 

Illya shrugs. “Maybe they got suspicious.”

“Lucky you know how to handle yourself,” Napoleon says. His voice is casual but Illya knows there’s worry hidden underneath. 

Sometimes he still cannot believe that people worry about him, now. 

“I am okay,” he says, because he wants them to know that they do not have to worry. That he has survived much worse. That, if he has any say in it at all, he will come back to them again and again. 

This is dangerous. For all of them. To be bound together like this, to care about one another like this. 

It gives them strength, though. Knowing that the others are there. Having people to hold yourself accountable to. Having people who worry when you return late. People who care about what happens to you, who care whether you live or die. 

“I am okay,” he repeats, because he knows that they know what he means. 

They both shuffle closer to him, hands and limbs tangling together, and he scarcely notices the pain. 

thanks for reading!!! hope you liked it :)

[heartofspells]

Holli... How am I supposed to choose between crush, you and along the broken edge?? 😭😭😭 (also a working sentence that. Crush you along the broken edge, yk)

But I'm going with along the broken edge bc I miss the boys

Ahahahaha! I might use that at some point, I won't lie.

But YES, you can have some Broken Edge! I also miss the boys and I'm going to be getting back to them very soon now that things have calmed down in my life (and head, ha!). Have a best boy Remus Lupin speech.

--

Remus remembers, once, when he was younger, too many days and questions in between, thanking the universe for the unthinkable, the never in his wildest dreams imaginable boy it had presented to him like a reward for hardship. He'd never stopped thanking it, not once throughout the years, no matter the pain that had come with all the loss. Never going away, Remus has been willing to fall on his knees every day since, overcome with gratefulness for having simply been allowed to lay his eyes on that dark head and those shining eyes. Even with losing him, with all the heartache that had come after, with that forever pit dug out in the depths of his stomach and the way his heart had always felt lodged just at the base of his throat, Remus had been indescribably better for knowing him, for hearing that ringing, barking laugh and watching that face light up like the first glimpses of the sun after a devastating storm.

Sirius Black – Padfoot – had altered him irrevocably, set his life on a path Remus had never anticipated, crafting his coming days in a way unfathomable before he'd existed within Remus' orbit, even if only for a while.

"Do you believe in soulmates?"

Staring at him, grey eyes guarded but sparking with curiosity, Remus isn't sure what he expects to come from the question. Possibly a bitter, head-tossing laugh raking out of a constricted throat, or maybe a sharp denial, claiming Remus to be mad. Whatever he may have guessed, it would have never been silence.

"Do you, Sirius?" he presses, leaning forward the smallest amount, barely a shift but still there, present and needed in the moment. Remus doesn't wait for an answer. "I never did. I never believed in most of it. Heaven and God, fate, some sort of predetermined destiny. Why would I because what have I ever been given to make it feel logical? Every good thing in my life always got ripped away in the cruelest, roughest way, you most of all. I lost you so completely, just like everything else I could never hold onto, and I told myself that was fine because…none of it was real. Nothing was ever meant to happen, sculpted into existence for a specific purpose. The strings of fortune were never on my side, except maybe for only a handful of months when I was thirteen."

Swallowing thickly, Remus chances a step forward, surprised when Sirius stands still, not offering to move. It seemingly shocks him as well, eyelids blinking over a mystified grey gaze.

"I still don't believe in any of it," continues Remus, voice soft, every part of him open, nothing held back, not ever again. "Not a paradise once we're gone from this world, not in some…some being watching every move we make, judging us, as if anything would ever care that much. I don’t believe things are meant to happen one way over another. I don't believe one part of it, but…soulmates. That feels different, somehow. It feels different because of you."

Shaking his head as Remus steps forward again, Sirius says sharply, "It's just pretty words. It doesn't mean anything."

"Maybe," agrees Remus vaguely, conceding a bit, "or maybe not." Sirius scoffs loudly, eyes shifting away briefly, but Remus doesn't react, watching him closely, cataloguing the pinch to his brows, the crease forming between them, the way his mouth wobbles so faintly that it's barely noticeable but there all the same. "What else could it be except that? We keep getting thrown together repeatedly, bodily running into one another, as kids, in the shop, through acquaintances that shouldn't exist in such a large place but somehow do. You get injured after years of nothing, no major accidents and here I am, searching for exactly you in everyone I've ever accepted, armed with the specific skills you needed in that moment all because of a…a fucking tragedy that tore us apart in the first place.

"None of it should have lined up, not even once, but it did and has, over and over again. You shouldn't have been exactly what I needed in that moment on that wall all those years ago, but you were, and you never stopped," pushes Remus plaintively, feeling breathless now, hands twitching to reach out and simply touch, just to reassure himself Sirius is still real and here. "The universe keeps tossing us together except it's not, it's giving, and for once in my life all I want is to be selfish and take because I want you more than anything else, past, present, or future. All I have ever wanted is you before I even knew you existed. I laid in my bed as a kid, staring at my ceiling, trying to keep the dizziness and sickness away, praying to a god I don't believe in for you, Sirius. Only ever you."

Want a snip?

[exclamania-explained]

Hello, allow me to introduce myself,

I'm Catalogue, the documenter of all things exclamania, whether that be characters, gameplay mechanics, or story, you'll find it here.

I go by he/she, nothing else, please never refer to me by they/them.

Tags:

#explanations - general documentation

#characters - documentation of specific characters

#arcs - story related documentations

#inquiries - asks

#not a documentation - posts that don't comply with my purpose

((#out of character - out of character posts))

I hope you find this useful.

[thedragonagelesbian]

12. candles

Micro Story Prompts

It's the same tonight, as it is every night. Candles and vein dripping scarlet. An altar, an offering, a predator's prayer for more prey, not to satiate his starving Urge--how very selfish to enjoy the feast--but to make more beautiful worship of the bodies.

But it's different tonight. Back stiff, knees sore, words he's whispered like breathing now strangled in his throat as his mind wanders. He ought not dwell on anything else bent before his Father's shrine, but his thoughts flit across his body (not his, not a body, Bhaal's implement and nothing more) and catalogue its aches. Tastes again how he acquired them, not in the pitch of battle but the throes of pleasure.

However narrow the distinction. Teeth and nails and rope and leather and a wicked gilt gauntlet. Memory tender in every sense of the word.

"My Chosen child."

Cyrus flinches.

"Father." He dares to look up just long enough to glimpse the unholy symbol of Bhaal floating above the altar, its eyes bleeding crimson. He ducks his head again. "You honor me in gracing my evening prayers."

The question of why rattles against his ribcage so hard that his voice wavers, despite himself.

"I come to reward you, spawn. The plans you have laid with the other Chosen will yet reap a slow and bloody harvest. It seems only appropriate that I bestow a gift upon you worthy of your purpose." Cyrus does not let himself exhale, and yet his breath is forced from him as Bhaal continues: "I will grant you the mantle of one of my avatars: the Slayer."

"No." The gasp leaves him before he can stop it, and something tenses on either side of his spine. The serrated steel of his wings--Bhaal's first gift to him--threatening to break through his skin. "I-- I mean only to say, Father, that I am unworthy of such a blessing as this. I have not yet earned the-- the honor of wearing one of your guises."

The wings burst. Cyrus' back wrenches and arches, forcing him to look upon the amulet. The candles snuff out in the gust of his puppeted body, and in the darkness, the skull's eyes gleam. Somewhere in their ruby depths, Cyrus can almost see a throne. A body. An outstretched hand folded into a claw.

"And yet you think yourself worthy of rejecting my benevolence?"

"No!" Sharper this time as Bhaal bows him like he means to snap his spine. It wouldn't be the first time. "No, please, Father, forgive me my ingratitude. Please, I forget myself, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Bhaal holds him there long enough to wick tears from his eyes, burning at the limits of a pain tolerance that Cyrus otherwise prides himself on, and then the hand relaxes. Cyrus slumps forward. Presses himself as low to the ground as he can. Stammers more senseless apologies. Tries to retract his wings, but they remain distended and bloody above him, their constant pressure at his scapula.

A warning, Cyrus knows, like the Slayer form. Threat. Reminder.

"Son, am I mistaken in believing that you do not desire this most loving of my boons?"

"Yes, Father."

"You will accept it, then?"

"Yes, Father." A beat. "Th-thank you, Father."

"Good."

Bhaal purrs, and Cyrus' blood--Bhaal's blood, wrought anew--stirs with sympathetic contentment. This is what his body (not his, not a body) truly wants. To be twisted into whatever form of devotion most serves his father.

So why is he sick with terror as he is strung in the air once more? Bones cracking, tendons splitting, skin calcifying, teeth and spines and claws and limbs rupture in so many different directions that he loses himself to a haze of red.

But his heart keeps galloping, trying to outrun this new form.

"In time you will come to see the beauty of the Slayer," Bhaal intones, sermon and symphony to accompany his rearrangement. "You keep your Urge--your birthright--on too tight a leash, in the name of piety, no less. Unslaked, your desires manifest themselves where there should be none."

He can't breathe. Can't feel anything beyond the cloying taste of copper and the pain. Can't think through the growling of his stomach, craving and empty worse than the most unruly hungers of his Urge. But something flashes at those words. A golden spark of an idea. A comfort.

Cyrus cries out his name with a mouth he no longer has: Enver!

"The Slayer will be another means by which you express my will. A better one."