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myeagleexpert · 6 months ago

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𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕨 𝕞𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕘𝕠 𝕠𝕟

Yan!Batfamily x Singer!YN (neglected) Inspired by @@gotham-daydreams's fic, your work is wonderful and makes me think about many things…. One of the things I think about is if they found Reader from her music….

Summary: Despite everything, the show must go on. Warnings: Mention of healing processes, Reader has a trigger in the middle of an important show Mention: Reader as YN, Dick Grayson, Friend!Reader Note: This fic takes place before the events of Not [ ], before they meet Reader and become yandere because of her. Check out and value the original author's work, it's a very complete and interesting fic! < 3 You can find more of this here

“YN! YN! YN!” the crowd screamed her name, the fans excited to see their favorite idol, wanting more of her performance.

The makeup artist was applying the final touches to her vibrant makeup while the hair stylist was reshaping the curls of her wig. The final touches before going on stage again while they were backstage.

“Everyone loved your performance! They’re screaming for you out there!” says one of the dancers excitedly

“The last song was amazing, YN! We can feel the energy here!” praises the makeup artist while touching up the glitter in her eye

“Aaaah that’s great! I’m not nervous like last time so it’s good to see it’s working out!” Yn says while drinking water, her first times on stage had been shy and awkward, but after overcoming that initial barrier today she performs with confidence, dancing and interacting with the audience masterfully.

“1 minute to get back on stage guys!” one of the organizers warned, making everyone there, including YN, mentally prepare for yet another amazing choreography.

You can do it, YN! she started to motivate herself mentally while reviewing the next song.

“M ama ma i make my own mantra……”

Ow, the broccoli loved this song! My broccoli like the choreography!

“30 seconds!”

I should have run for my music career before, the broccolis supported me from the beginning, why did it take me so long to do this?

“20 seconds!”

Ow….. I remembered, because of them…… just thinking about everything that happened at Wayne Manor, YN's vibe and mood drop, the magazine cover smile is replaced by a blank look and under eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

“10 seconds!”

Why am I thinking about them now? They don't even deserve to be in my thoughts. It's showtime, Yn, focus!

“3….2….1”

“Time to go on stage! It’s showtime!” the crew starts cheering and clapping with YN, getting into the festive show mood as they enter the stage

“WHATS UPS BROCCOLISSS?!” YN excitedly greets them through the microphone, the audience goes wild, screaming and raising the show props.

The house is full, today the show is in one of the biggest concert venues in London, with all the floors packed and the VIP area swarming with important people, reporters, cameras, today is a success! YN’s costume shines and stands out in the dark house, with sparkles and sequins that reflect the light in shades of pink and blue, the wig sets her apart like an anime protagonist and the dancers dance with expression and boldness. It's at these times that YN feels on top of the world, not out of arrogance but out of belonging… this is her place, this is what she does best. Her heart is full of joy as she jumps choreographing with the dancers, she feels light even when she sings with all her body and soul. And it's exactly at these moments, when life likes to poke at the wound…

Amidst the lights of the place while YN was catching her breath, she saw out of the corner of her eye, among the many people in the stands, a person suspiciously similar to him… Dick Grayson. The breath she was trying to recover to get into the next part of the song gets stuck in her throat as she remains paralyzed while searching for that man in the crowd.

"It's not possible… it can't be him… not today!"

Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne's eldest son, the first Robin, the boy prodigy… these are some of the names and titles he received throughout his life, but all YN wanted to call him was brother. His image was warm and kind, always hugging the other brothers and helping the new Robins adapt, transforming this time with them into something familiar and a memory to keep in the colorful albums of the mind… but why not me? Why does everyone have the right to his charming smile while I am left with the stiff back of ignorance? Why could everyone spend time with him while I was always the last option?

Why? Why? Why?

And unexpectedly, Yn was no longer a confident singer on the path to success, she was a defenseless and insecure girl who sought affection from her brother. She felt transported to the terrible mansion again in a state of agonizing nostalgia, where her small hands tried to intertwine with his with hope… only for him to let go of her hand with a not very disguised look of disgust.

“Oh YN, I can't stay with you now! I have to go to patrol!” With an unapologetic smile, Dick entered the movie theater where his friends from the Teen Titans were for one of their many hang outs.

Yn knew she didn't have the love of Bruce, her father, but was she so terrible that she didn't deserve her brother's affection?

“Can I really call you brother?”

No, you don't deserve it.

At that moment, little voices in her head conspired with YN. Imposter Syndrome? Who knows? She seemed to be slowly succumbing to the many memories of the mansion, the turned backs and the disgusted eyes, the neglect, the cruelty, the shadows in the corner of the smallest room in the house that seemed to be the only refuge besides Alfred himself, who, despite having done everything in his power, still did not fill the emptiness that the girl felt…

Walls full of gold, silver and bronze medals and trophies from various sports, records and photos with important people would be enough to make anyone feel proud of the honors and merits conquered with their own sweat. But for the innocent girl, they were just poor failed plans to get the family's attention. It is no wonder that, when she left the mansion, she left her belongings and the glories of her childhood in the same room without looking back, with the idea of a new path to be taken.

"YN, you go in now." The manager said through the singer's earpiece, counting the seconds for her to enter the chorus……but she didn't enter "YN?"

She was thinking too much, lost in thought, thinking too much……

Why wasn't it enough? Why wasn't I enough? Why? Why?

"YN, are you okay?"

Why was I so lonely? Why didn't anyone want to play with me?

With great skill, the singer next to YN pulled a remix for the two's song when he realized that something was wrong while the stage management called YN backstage, she went there on robotic stages with her hand on the communicator, making the audience think it had just been a technical problem. They got her water and sat her in a chair.

ł ₮ⱤłɆĐ ₴Ø Ⱨ₳ⱤĐ ₮Ø ₲Ɇ₮ ₵ⱠØ₴Ɇ ₮Ø ₮ⱧɆ₥, ł ₮ⱤłɆĐ ₴Ø Ⱨ₳ⱤĐ ₣ØⱤ ₮ⱧɆ₥… ₴Ø ₩ⱧɎ ₩₳₴₦'₮ ł₮ Ɇ₦ØɄ₲Ⱨ? ₩ⱧɎ ₵ØɄⱠĐ₦'₮ ₮ⱧɆɎ Ⱨ₳VɆ ₵Ø₥Ɇ?

"YN, are you okay?" the manager asked, he had been with YN since she started taking her first baby steps in her music career, it was a worrying scene to see her cold and without answering a word, he frowned as he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder “YN… we are here with you, what is going on?”

₩ⱧɎ ₩ⱧɎ ₩ⱧɎ ₩ⱧɎ ₩ⱧɎ

“Why?…” she murmured, frowning as she looked up, still lost in old memories and some random point on the ceiling. The confused manager turned his head slightly, confused about what she was talking about.

Friend!Reader, who was nearby and recognized what was happening, as he had been by her side several times when this happened, approached and told the manager that he would take care of her.

“Hey, Earth to YN, what happened there?” he said, hugging YN, she didn’t return the hug, she just stayed leaning against him like a corpse.

“Friend!Reader…?”

“Yes, YN?” he asked

“Why, Friend!Reader…… why not me?” and with whispered words she buried her face in Friend!Reader's shoulders, as she let herself be carried away by the contained emotions and he hugged her trembling form tighter.

The wound that was beginning to heal was opening again, like a bandage aggressively ripped off a skin that was being reconstructed. The wound in her mind pulsed with a constant pain, a memory of something that had never been completely healed. Like a poorly made scar on her skin, the pain was a constant reminder of something that no matter how much she tried to ignore it and start from scratch, it still hadn't been resolved.

Like medicines that have a set time until the end of their effect and at some point, the pain returns, that was Yn's focus while she convinced herself that everything was fine and that she had overcome the situation…. sooner or later the effect wears off, and the pain returns. But while she tried to heal, each emotional trigger seemed to rip the wound open again, causing uncomfortable and uneasy feelings…

“I saw one of them, Friend! Reader… I'm not sure, but… I know I saw him! In the corner of the show, my show….” she whispered to him, almost in tears

“Calm down, YN, let's talk about this…”

“He was there! I'm sure the others must be there too… laughing at me, saying I'm not good enough to be on stage… or maybe, maybe he doesn't even recognize me, you know?”

“That's enough, YN!” said the friend, shaking the singer by the shoulders. He hated seeing her like that, so insecure and fragile. “You can stop right there!”

“You're one of the best people I know, and my best friend! You're really good at what you do, you have an excellent voice and you dance really well! YOU'RE AMAZING!” He continued with a smile on his face “And if a family of rich kids didn’t know how to recognize that in you, that’s their problem! Screw them! If I ask anyone out there, they’ll give you a list of 100 reasons why you’re amazing!”

Then he points to the screen that showed the audience singing and having fun.

“Those people do like your music, but they didn’t come because your music sticks like chewing gum” he jokes and is relieved when he sees a smile on her sad face “They’re here because they admire you YN, whether it’s with a YouTube channel or on a social network all dressed up.”

He then puts a finger on her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“So no insecurity here, no self-sabotage, no sad memories… not here! You’re my best friend, and you’re at the peak of your career. So go out there and ROCK!” With that, Friend!Reader gives YN a big hug and gets excited when he sees that her friend is starting to get back to normal.

“What did you write in those diaries?”

“So many things, I don’t remember right now..” you laugh lightly “But now, the ones I hope like my music are my fans.”

“YES! AND WHAT WILL THEY REALIZE WHEN THEY READ YOUR DIARY?”

“THAT THEY DON’T MEAN ANYTHING TO ME!” The two cheer and joke around with each other, with the support of Friend!Reader, she starts to get excited and return to the stage, singing louder and stronger, entering the chorus of the remix.

She remembered the reserved and empty seats of her first shows, all reserved for family, and saw that years later, strangers occupied all the seats in the concert hall. She remembered when she was little, she would rehearse alone in her rooms for school auditions, and now she sings for a large auditorium in one of the biggest capitals in the world. She remembered lame excuses and looks of contempt, and realized that everyone there was looking at her with admiration and love.

Her family wasn't in a haunted mansion, they were backstage taking care of her, they were on stage dancing and singing with her. She knows who the real ones are, so why worry about the ones who aren't? They say that time heals, but in truth, it's the process that heals. It's painful. Agonizing. But when it's over, you look back and realize how much you've come from it.

She sang with every lyric and every syllabary, she intoned the words with truth and determination, she proclaimed from the bottom of her heart with strength to everyone at the concert and to herself:

“HAVE YOU SEEN, COME AND READ MY DIARY THEN YOU WILL SEE THAT YOU DONT MEAN S H I T TO ME”

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Every like, repost and comment is very welcome and appreciated. ♥

@imaginarydreams I hope you like this version of the good ending :D

If any of you want to be tagged, let me know in the comments <3

#bruce wayne #batfam #dick grayson #dc universe #yandere batfamily #batfamily x reader #yandere batfam #yandere dc #batfam x reader #yandere batman #yandere boy #yandere dick grayson #yandere x you

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artifacts-and-arthropods · 26 days ago

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48,000-Year-Old Cave Painting from Indonesia: this painting shows several animals being hunted by tiny figures that are part-human and part-animal (known as therianthropes); researchers believe that this may be the earliest known depiction of mythical beings

This painting was found at Leang Bulu' Sipong 4, which is a limestone cave located on the island of Sulawesi, in Indonesia.

The panel shown here is just one part of a much larger painting that measures nearly 4.5 meters (about 15 feet) long, and it decorates the wall of a hidden chamber that was discovered back in 2017. The full-length painting portrays six animals, including two wild pigs and four anoas (which are small, buffalo-like creatures that are endemic to Indonesia). All of the animals are shown being captured, hunted, and/or pursued by tiny figures that appear to be part-human and part-animal; their vaguely human-like bodies are depicted with animalistic features such as tails, beaks, muzzles/snouts, lizard-like torsos, and horns.

Above: a digital tracing of the full-sized painting, with one of the anoas and several human-like figures magnified

It's possible that some of these animal-like traits represent masks, headdresses, or costumes, but several of the figures also exhibit more extreme features that cannot be produced by simple costumes. Researchers argue that the animal-like costumes would also be useless and impractical as hunting props, given that they mostly seem to mimic small animals like birds and lizards.

Above: two of the figures that are described as therianthropes, both of which seem to be using spears or ropes to subdue the much larger anoa

The original analysis of this painting in 2019 indicated that it was created over 43,900 years ago, but further testing in 2024 revealed that it was created even earlier, dating back to at least 48,000 years ago -- which makes this the world's second-oldest example of figurative art (i.e. artwork that depicts real or recognizable subjects, such as humans or animals).

It's unclear whether or not the animal-like figures actually represent therianthropes, but if they are therianthropic, as archaeologists speculate, then this painting would be the world's oldest known depiction of mythical beings, and it would constitute the earliest known evidence of spiritual or supernatural thinking. It is more than 8,000 years older than the famous Löwenmensch ("lion-man") carving from Germany, which has long been recognized as the world's oldest depiction of a therianthrope.

According to this article:

For whoever painted these figures, they represented much more than ordinary human hunters. One appears to have a large beak while another has an appendage resembling a tail. In the language of archaeology, these are therianthropes, or characters that embody a mix of human and animal characteristics.

"The images of therianthropes may also represent the earliest evidence for our capacity to conceive of things that do not exist in the natural world, a basic concept that underpins modern religion,” said Adam Brumm, study co-author and associate professor at the Australian Research Centre for Human Evolution. “Therianthropes occur in the folklore or narrative fiction of almost every modern society, and they are perceived as gods, spirits or ancestral beings in many religions worldwide.”

These interpretations are speculative, however, and the inspiration for the painting, as well as its significance to the humans who created it, is likely to remain a mystery.

Archaeologists have been aware of Sulawesi's abundant cave art since the 1950's, but dating techniques were not used on the paintings until 2014. For decades, it was assumed that the artwork was less than 10,000 years old, but when animal paintings and hand stencils from seven different caves were finally analyzed in 2014, researchers were shocked to discover that some of the artwork was created more than 39,900 years ago -- predating most of the world's earliest known cave paintings. Since then, archaeologists have discovered and/or dated many other cave paintings from Sulawesi that date back to more than 40,000 to 51,200 years ago.

These discoveries firmly contradict the traditional (and deeply eurocentric) assumptions that had previously been made about the origins of artistic expression, as this article explains:

Previously, the oldest known cave art was thought to have first appeared in Europe 40,000 years ago, showcasing abstract symbols. By 35,000 years ago, the art became more sophisticated, showing horses and other animals.

These latest finds in Indonesia have challenged a long-standing belief that artistic expression – and the cognitive leap that may have accompanied it – began in Europe.

It’s now thought that the capability to create figurative art either emerged before Homo sapiens migrated out of Africa and headed for Europe and Asia more than 60,000 years ago, or that it emerged more than once as humans spread around the globe.

Unfortunately, many of the cave paintings in Sulawesi and other parts of Indonesia are now rapidly crumbling away as a result of climate change. The limestone surfaces of the cave walls are peeling away at an alarming rate, erasing large sections of the paintings in the process; in some caves, patches of artwork measuring 2-3cm wide are vanishing every few months.

Sources & More Info:

The Guardian: Earliest Known Cave Art by Modern Humans Found in Indonesia

Scientific American: Is This Indonesian Cave Painting the Earliest Portrayal of a Mythical Story?

National Geographic: Ancient Cave Art May Depict the World's Oldest Hunting Scene

The Leakey Foundation: Indonesian Cave Paintings Show the Dawn of Imaginative Art

Nature: Earliest Hunting Scene in Prehistoric Art

Nature: Narrative Cave Art in Indonesia by 51,200 Years Ago

The New York Times: Mythical Beings May be Earliest Imaginative Cave Art by Humans

Science: World's Oldest Hunting Scene Shows Half-Human, Half-Animal Figures -- and a Sophisticated Imagination

Smithsonian Magazine: A Journey to the Oldest Cave Paintings in the World

Art Net: Some of the Oldest and Most Revered Cave Paintings in the World Are Under Extreme Threat Due to Climate Change

Nature: Humanity's Oldest Art is Flaking Away

#archaeology #artifact #history #anthropology #cave painting #prehistoric art #sulawesi #indonesia #leang bulu sipong #art #painting #therianthropes #mythology #spirituality #folklore #humanity #mythical figures #or just weird looking art #probably a little bit of both

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chouxsardine · 1 year ago

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Permission to Fall -- Jake Kiszka x reader

Summary: "Don't be afraid of falling, because he will catch you everytime" --Where things became too much at your company's Christmas party and Jake comes to the rescue as the most thoughtful boyfriend that he is.

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x reader

Word Count: 3211

Warnings: descriptions of a panic attack, feet (nothing gross or super detailed), a drop of superstition (let me know if I've missed any)

Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort

Author's note: This is originally an idea inspired by @jakesguitarsolo and written for her. I hope you feel better now, dear. One idea spins into me pulling an all nighter...And here it is. This also goes to whoever feels stressed around this time of the year. Yes, things are tough, but you are stronger. I am so proud of you. If you want to talk, feel free to send me an ask or message. This is my first gvf fic and my first time writing anything for threes years. I really enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it too.

🎧: I am listening to I Need You Most of All by Stephen Sanchez while writing this (you can tell the title is taken from the lyrics)

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Suddenly everything is too much.

But you know damn well that it doesn’t just happen “suddenly”. In fact, shit has been building up for days, or even weeks. You don’t know if it’s the end-of-year frenzy getting into everyone’s head, Mercury is in retrograde, or the depleted Vitamin D levels due to shortened daylight, you’ve had it particularly rough recently, from small inconveniences like your favourite snack being out of stock at the local grocery store for three consecutive weeks to mishaps like you taking the blame for your impotent coworker. You are exhausted, to say the least; you couldn’t wait for the holidays. Not entirely for its cheer, but for the few precious days off. You just need a break from everything.

Now you are stuck in your company’s holiday party. The annual event that you dreaded the most. It involves too many fake smiles, false-hearted small talk, and tooth-rotting-sweet cupcakes that clearly have too much food colouring. All the mental preparing goes south as you stand in the room, the stabbing pain from your high-heels growing more and more unbearable by the second. Too many people.

“Just another thirty minutes, you can do it. Just another thirty minutes”. You hopelessly glance at the clock on the wall, flashbacking to your childhood self squirming in the seats waiting for math class to end.

But of course, something has to make matters worse. The real straw that breaks the camel’s back is your clumsy coworker accidentally bumping into you and spilling her drink on your shoes.

“Oh my god, I am so so sorry, y/n!” She hastily apologizes in a high-pitched squeal. A few people turn their heads toward your direction.

“No, no, it’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Embarrassment. Embarrassment. Panic. Trouble. You try to wave her off. The shoes aren’t even your top concerns right now; you just want her to stop talking and stop attracting more unwanted attention.

“Really? Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to! It’s just—”

“Please.” You take the handful of tissues from her, look her in the eyes, almost pleading, “It’s fine. Please excuse me, I’ll just go to the washroom real quick.”

Once the washroom door is closed behind you, you feel like collapsing right there on the floor. You wobble your way to the sink, arms propped up on the cold marble surface. You don’t dare to look at yourself in the mirror. Your ears are buzzing and the twisted feeling in your lungs tightens. As if a cold hand is wringing a wet towel inside your stomach, as if someone is shoving your head into cold water, you can't breath properly. You try to draw a breath, but end up sounding like a stranded whale. Before it develops into a full-blown panic attack that you can’t handle, you managed to muster the last bit of your sanity and dial that number with trembling fingers.

Jake picks up on the second ring.

“Hi, love. What’s up? ”

Upon hearing his voice, your tears break free. You are sobbing so hard that you have to bite down on your knuckles to keep the volume down. God forbid any busybody out there overhearing sobbing coming out of the washroom. “Ja—Jake—-”You struggled to form a coherent syllable.

“What’s wrong, y/n? Are you hurt?” His voice immediately grows sterner, stripped of of the previous languidness.

To talk under this state feels like squeezing words out of your veins. “Ca—can—you..come p—pick me up? Company—p-party.” You stutter through gritted teeth.

There is some shuffled noise over the phone, a loud bang sounding like he had bumped into something, a silent “fuck” under his breath, then his voice reaches your ears again: “Coming right now, baby, take a deep breath for me.”

You hear the faint beeping of car keys. More shuffled noise. More beeping. That means he has started the car, right? That means he will be here soon, right? You mind is racing and spinning and your lungs are still acting up, only allow silvers of oxygen into your body. You feel like you are watching the world through a distorted filter. A scarier thought jumps into your brain: you whiny puny thing, continue crying and your panic will affect Jake. The roads are slippery now, and it will be all your fault if he ends up in a car accident.

As if being slapped in the face, you manage to suck in a deep breath like a scuba diver resurfacing to the water: “Drive safe please, please Jake, please—I will wait for you.”

Jake makes a sound that is somewhat between a relieved laugh and a resigned sigh. He knows instantly what’s going on in your overthinking brain; you are worried about him. The thoughtfulness must be engraved in y/n’s brain, he thought, always, always putting others in front of herself, even when she’s having a panic attack. And Jake knows you are correct. It is only upon hearing your words that he realizes how hard he was gripping the steering wheel. He recomposes himself, relaxing his shoulder, “Don’t you worry about me, love. I will stay on the phone if that makes you feel better, yeah? Ain’t nothing gonna happen to me.”

“Knock on wood!” You hiss between sobbing, frantically searching for any wooden material around you. Damn it, why is everything so shiny and glassy?

Jake is amazed that he even lets out a short laugh under the circumstances. Yes, his heart aches hearing his girl being a mess over the phone, and he wishes he could grow wings and fly to her side. But meanwhile, he can't help but find you cute like this. He knocks three times on the mini wooden tissue box that he keeps in the middle console.

“Yes, knock on wood. You hear that, doll?”

“Hmm.” You would honestly believe anything now. Hearing Jake’s voice and imagining him coming to you is like brown noise for babies. Your lungs finally decide to have mercy on you, and you can now somehow draw in shallow breaths albeit the pain in your chest.

Jake is relieved as he sees the green lights shining at the last intersection before turning left onto the side road where your company is located. “I’m here. Can you come down by yourself, love? Or do you want me to get you?”

“I can come down.” You say. The thought of him finding you in a messy pile on the bathroom floor makes you wince, even though he’d probably seen worse.

“Okay baby, see you in a second.”

You don’t remember how you collected your coat and pushed your way through the crowded room without many people noticing. The next moment, your sensations are restored, and you find yourself already in Jake’s arms. He's waiting for you in the area between the automatic glass door and the revolving door outside, a place that is warm with air conditioning but won’t attract nosy people. He wraps you in a hug with his wool jacket. His comforting scent fills your nostrils, a powerful pacifier for your naughty lungs. For the first time this evening, you can finally breathe properly like a normal human being. The rush of fresh air makes you release a loud sob like a newborn baby. The relief of seeing him safely standing in front of you and the release of finally being free from the stressful and stuffy environment ushers more tears to stream down your face.

“Shhhh…..you’re okay now, y/n, safe now. I’m here.” His hand wraps protectively around the back of your head as he plants kisses into your hair. “Poor girl, let’s get to the car and go home.”

Home. Home sounds heavenly to your right now. You couldn’t think of a better combination of these four letters in the whole of human history.

On the way back, you curl into a ball on the passenger seat like a battered puppy. Jake holds your hand whenever he gets the chance, his strong calloused fingers gently massaging yours, tracing the patterns on your palm, his thumb brushing the back of your hand, providing warmth. No longer crying, your shoulders occasionally shudder with involuntary sobs that escape you. But other than that, you are falling into a trance. Your gaze concentrated on Jake’s perfect side profile through hooded eyes, watching in awe as the passing streetlights formed patterns of shadow on his graceful nose and cheeks; your mind numb without a single thought.

It is only when Jake wakes you up that you realize you have fallen asleep. The car is already parked in the garage, the familiar and comforting damp smell seeping in.

“We are home now, sleepyhead.” Jake smiles at you, tapping on your wrist to signal you to wait as he gets out of the car and opens your side of the door. Just as you were about to step off, Jake reaches to cradle you by the shoulders and knees, carrying you bridle-style into the house. You hide your face shyly in the crook of his neck, secretly grateful because your feet are indeed sore in those heels.

Jake puts you down by the shoe rack, motioning you to put your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as he squats down in front you, holding your ankles and taking off your shoes. If he did see the stains, he didn’t ask any questions, only cooed when he saw the blisters on your heels.

“Let’s go upstairs and get your makeup off, then we’ll cuddle and go to bed, yeah?” Jake stands up, hanging up your coat before cupping your cheeks and placing a kiss on your forehead.

You never hated makeup more than now, regretting to put it on in the first place, now that it has become the annoying barrier lying in your way to bedtime. But Jake says “let’s,” that means he’s going to do it together with you, right?

“Jake?” You whine bashfully.

“Yes, love?”

You tilt up your chin and close your eyes, “One more kissy, please?”

Jake swears he feels a part of his heart melt right there. Who is he to deny you?

“Of course, as many as my princess would like.”

Stepping into the bathroom, Jake sits you on the closed toilet seat. He opens the drawer, grabs your makeup remover and some cotton pads. He applies some liquid onto the wipes and lifts up your chin.

“Close your eyes for me, love.” The cool liquid on your eyelids makes your eyebrows twitch, causing Jake to chuckle, “I know, I know. Just a little longer.”

You sit quietly, mesmerized and hypnotized under his touch. His movements are almost rhythmic. Is this how cats feel when their owners scratches behind their ears? You fear that if you make a sound, you will actually let out a purr.

Jake continues until most of your makeup is gone. “Hold out your hands,” you hear him say and complied. Two dollops of foamy liquid landed in the centre of your palm, and you opened your eyes to recognize they are your face wash. Jake tugs on your wrist, leading you to stand in front of the sink.

“Can you wash your pretty face now, darling? Wash up, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

You nodded, feeling lighter and more relaxed now without your makeup and even more content when you turn on the tap and find out that Jake has already tuned it to a lukewarm temperature for you.

When Jake returned, he was calling you from the bedroom. You have already brushed your teeth and let down your hair.

You walked into the bedroom and are welcomed by the scent of bergamot and sandalwood from your favourite candle glowing on the night stand. Jake was pulling an old T-shirt out from the closet. It was the vintage Joan Jett and The Blackhearts shirt, the patterns half faded, and materials worn-out soft. You saw him laying out one of his boxers for you too. He knows you always prefer them to your own underwear as pyjamas.

“Come sit, angel.” He patted the bench at the foot of the bed, him sitting across from it on a small stool.

It is only when you walked close that you saw the wooden foot spa basin, with clouds of steam rising from it. As you sat down, he gently took your ankle and balanced your feet on the edge of the basin, so that the hot water is steaming your sole.

“It’s still a bit hot.” He looks up to you. “I put Epsom salt and eucalyptus oil in it.”

“Where did you get this?” You feel like the heat from the bottom of the feet is slowly being absorbed into your veins and rising up to your cheeks. You wiggle your toes nervously.

Jake lets out a giggle, “Well, mum suggested once to Josh about the foot spa thing, said it helps with stress and tense muscles. You know, with him running barefoot on stage and all.” He reaches down to sprinkle some water onto your feet, letting you adjust to the temperature. “But Josh got the fancy electric ones. I thought this is better. More authentic, don’t you think?”

“Uh-hmm.”

“Your nails are all chipped,” Jake looks down, “maybe tomorrow we can repaint them? I saw you bought a new colour the other day.”

Tender. So tender. From his tone to his caramel brown eyes. The light from the lamp illuminates the left side of his face, giving it a solemn, smooth glow like a wax statue. Your heart swells; love makes it rise like Soufflé in the oven. The soft surface rises up until it touches your ribcage, threatening to spill those tears again.

“Thank you, Jake.” You dare not raise your voice, fearing that it will break, “I just got a bit overwhelmed at the party, is all.”

Jake eases your feet slowly into the water now that it’s the perfect temperature. The slight sling of your blisters is soon overwhelmed by the all-encompassing warmth that rises all the way to your ankle.

After a few heart beats, he speaks again. “You’ll always have me, y/n. You are allowed to fall, to break. I will be here to catch you, to piece you together. Whatever you need.”

Finally you were snuggled together in bed. You, a human koala, cling to Jake with your face pressed against his chest. His arm snakes around your shoulder, fingers mindlessly tracing your collarbone, strumming some unknown patterns. His heartbeat thumping in your ear, the perfect lullaby. The steady rise and fall of his chest is like waves, rocking you into a sweet slumber. Your eyelids feel heavy like velvet drapes. There’s still a stubborn voice in your brain keeping you from falling asleep. There’s still one more thing you need to do, even though you understood each other perfectly.

“Jake?” Your voice low like a murmur. Jake almost didn’t hear you at first.

“What is it, babe?”

“I love you.” Those words come out as a slur, and like a magic spell, you fall into the deep embrace of sleep as soon as the last syllable leaves your lips. Now clear of any stress and worries in the arms of your lover, the strained string in you brain that has been holding on for dear life the whole evening finally snaps. You’re out like a light.

“I love you back, y/n, through and through.” He whispers into your dream.

You woke up to an empty bed, the sheet on his side still has the human-shaped imprint. Jake is a night owl; it is pretty common that he just gets up in the middle of the night and ends up doing some random things around the house. Most often it’s him strumming the guitar and experimenting with his ideas for new tunes in the home studio downstairs. But you have also caught him fixing chipped paint on the walls, repotting the succulents in the garage, and pouring broth into the crockpot with chicken thighs and smoked ham hock (“so we could have warm chicken chili in the morning!”; to be honest, it’s indeed delicious; you had two bowls and had to skip lunch that day). Just to name a few, so the possibilities are endless.

You get out of bed, creep cross the corridor and tiptoe your way down the stairs. The lights at the doorway are on; you thought Jake forgot to turn them off. However, as you approach, you see Jake squatting down next to the shoe rack, his back towards you, and a brush and some spray bottles laying nearby.

You move closer and see him holding the clothes steamer near your wine-stained shoes. The heels you wore have a suede tip in the front, and unfortunately, that’s where the wine was mostly spilt on. After a few moments, Jake uses the wire brush to clean the surface. He stops from time to time, holding it further to inspect the result.

You waited until he stops again to make some sounds, announcing your presence. Jake immediately turns around. His eyes softens upon seeing you.

“What are you doing up?”

You go to squat down next to him, kissing his temple before resting your head on his shoulder.

“You just bought these not so long ago, yeah? It’d be a shame to leave them stained.” Jake lets more steam soak into the fabric before brushing them again. “I’m almost done. I saw this trick online, and it looks pretty legit.” It’s only then that you noticed his phone on the side, the screen showing the replies from some Reddit post.

“Thank you, baby.” You rub your cheeks slightly on his T-shirt; the feeling of warm pastry once again fills your heart.

“No worries, doll. I think it’s good for now. Let’s leave them here and check in the morning.” Jake starts putting away his tools before pulling you up and wrapping his arm around your waist, leading you back upstairs.

On your way, something familiar catches your eye. You must’ve missed it earlier.

“Wait, where did you get that?” You stop, pointing at what happens to be a whole case of your favourite snack lying on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, I saw the stores are out of them, so I ordered them online. They just arrived today.” Jake scratches his head, his tone tainted with slight disappointment.“I thought they’d be a nice surprise as stocking stuffers, but…”

You stopped him mid-sentence with a kiss.

“I love you.” This time you said it clear against his lips.

“Oh doll, I love you back,” he smiles, showing the cutest wrinkle on his nose. His hands brush your shoulder as you resume your steps upstairs. “Let’s get a few more hours of sleep now. And when you wake up, you will wake up to some yummy pancakes and a pair of stain-free shoes, huh? How does that sound?”

Oh Lord, that sounds heavenly. That sounds just like home.

“I’d like that, Jake. I’d like that very, very much.”

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

Thank you for reading :) any comments and feedbacks are greatly welcomed and deeply appreciated

(The stain-removing tips comes from malccy72 on reddit :D

If you also feel like reading a smutty (but also fluffy?) piece🤭: Mariner's Complex || Love is a four-legged word || The Lucky Ones

or some Christmas fluff: Ticked (all my boxes)

#jake kiskza x reader #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet fluff #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka fluff #jake kiszka #jake kiszka fic

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hacash · 2 months ago

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Reading your rewatch liveblog just brings to the forefront how Every! Single! Character! In the Terror has such juicy and interesting complicated journeys and personalities and meanings. Even the most minor characters feel so whole and real. And I know we like to whittle them down to jokes for convenience sometimes and that’s fun but it’s always just mind blowing to take the time and really Watch them. Just such vast complex worlds in such tiny lost men. That mus be one of the reasons the show has such quality and longevity; it’s populated by humans who feel very real. I mean, they were, but not every period drama recreating historical events manages to move beyond surface level to this extent. Ugh, I’m gonna have to do a rewatch myself aren’t I. Anyway I am targeting this ramble you because you inspired the rumination. Woe! Terror Thoughts be upon ye!

I'm glad you're being reminded of how heartrendingly good the writing on this show is :D :D I do feel like the writers' insistence to treat every character as being a full-blooded person as opposed to just a prop* makes this an amazing show; as does the fact that even though the showrunners acknowledge that these men were coming from a very flawed place, colonial nonsense wise, they're not just treated as Historical People With Bad Views. We come to understand them and see them as real life people, which is what both history and fiction is all about. I genuinely don't think you can realistically engage with either a historical event or a story until you start seeing the people involved as Proper People, and the Terror does such a good job of that.

(Man, I was just about to write 'I should rewatch it again' and then remembered I'm actually mid-rewatch. Still waiting for my fix-it AU which Kajganich and Hugh make just for kicks with the entire original cast. That's doable, right?)

*I was rewatching Magpie Murders - an otherwise lovely romp about murder mystery novels - the other day and getting very annoyed because the fact that the author gives a side character who never actually appears in the novel a name is treated as something bizarre and ends up being a plot point. Just...IMO that's the sign of Not Great writing. Everyone who features in your work has to at least be acknowledged as being a full person, even if you don't have time to do a deep dive on them, because that's what real life is!

#the terror

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whovi-angel1 · 3 months ago

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Total Slaughter Action

Authors Note:

I am not the owner of this idea or concept. This fic is based on a video by WillySaintWilly on YouTube, whose idea was inspired by Eavee’s Total Drama Island AU, Island of the Slaughtered. All original credit goes to them, I’m just trying my hand at writing out WillySaintWilly’s Total Slaughter Action “requel”, as he called it. I hope you all enjoy it!

PS: fanart is encouraged :)

With that out of the way, here's the first part of the fic. :D

Day Zero

Chris McLean was just finishing up reading the new season’s script: Total Drama Action. With the first season of Total Drama Island being very popular and going off without a hitch, of course the network was going to give Chris and his team another season. This time, it would be movie themed and most of the contestants from last season would be returning, with those who don’t qualify in a different studio to watch the episodes as they air.

This season would be taking place on an abandoned movie lot. Full of various sets, props, and costumes. Everyone was rushing to finish security checks, stock the kitchen, and finish writing the challenges. At this lot, there is a fake cliff, a giant animatronic monster, a big stage, trailers for the contestants to sleep in, a craft tent, and the make-up confessionals. With everyone rushing to get done, no one was really paying attention to everything going on. Along with lackluster security, someone managed to sneak onto the movie set. He slipped away to hide until everyone left.

After a long while, he was finally the only one at the movie lot. It was time to get to work. Putting up his own cameras, loosening bolts, obtaining remote controls, anything he needed to do, he did it now. This was his chance, after all. He found a dark costume and creepy mask in one of the dressing rooms. Perfect for hiding his identity. He wasn’t going to mess this up. Dawn would eventually arrive, and his plan would start to unfold. After he was done setting up, all he had to do was wait.

#total drama #total drama action #chris mclean #island of the slaughtered #total drama island #total drama action fic #fanfic

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bambirex · 1 year ago

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It's A Game We Play: Chapter 3

Pairings: Geraskier, Yennskier, Radskier

Characters: Jaskier, Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Radovid, original female characters, Essi Daven, Priscilla, Ciri of Cintra, Valdo Marx

Additional tags: inspired by Mamma Mia! (movies), crack, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, omega jaskier, alpha geralt, alpha yennefer, beta radovid, awkwardness, jaskier is a good parent, protective jaskier, weddings, found family, post mpreg, fluff and humor, alternate universe-modern setting

Rating: teen and up audiences

Full word count: 7,390 words

Chapter word count: 2,576 words

Chapters: 3/?

Summary: Jaskier's daughter is about to marry the love of her life, and she decides she wants both her parents at her wedding. Only problem is that Jaskier has slept with a little too many people in his youth, so the identity of the other parent is a mystery. That does not stop the bride-to-be from inviting three potential daddy candidates and unleashing absolute chaos in the process.

Otherwise known as Jaskier's terrible horrible no good past decisions leading to terrible horrible no good outcomes. Also known as the Mamma Mia! AU nobody asked for, but I wrote it anyway.

Chapter summary: Geralt, Radovid and Yennefer all receive letters from someone who meant a lot to them many years ago. Meanwhile, Jaskier seeks support from his best friends, oblivious to the letters his daughter forged in his name.

Author's notes: Obviously, the letters found them. Here's some more personal info about the three candidates, and a little friendship sweetness.

Read on Ao3

“Dad! Dad! Are you asleep?”

“Not anymore. You sound like a fire alarm.”

Geralt groaned as Ciri jumped on the bed, hitting him in the side with her knees. Geralt rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a sigh. He only had work in the afternoon, and he hoped he would get to sleep in late for once in his life- his daughter had different ideas, clearly.

“Thank God for summer break,” Geralt murmured as he glanced at his digital watch on the bedside table. “What possessed you at 7 in the morning that you had to scream me awake?”

“I’ve been up since 6,” Ciri replied as she lounged on Geralt’s bed. “The mailman was here.”

“Okay.” Geralt failed to see why that was such a big deal that Ciri had to wake him up for it.

“You got a letter,” Ciri announced as she propped her feet up on Geralt’s lap, ignoring her father’s morning misery.

“Okay.”

Geralt didn’t really receive letters, except for the advertisement mags he definitely did not subscribe to. Ciri called him a hermit, but that was an over-exaggeration: Geralt simply wasn’t too fond of people. He didn’t like big crowds and loud noises, so he tried to avoid them as much as he could. He enjoyed living a simple, routine-filled life: he got up, went to work in the town’s small gym, took care of his clients, then he went home to his farm where he only had to interact with his brothers and his adopted daughter. Geralt was completely fine with this. He didn’t need chaos in his life. The less mess, the better, was what he always said.

“You never get letters,” Ciri pointed it out. Geralt hummed and closed his eyes again, sinking back into his pillow. Even without his eyes open, he could imagine Ciri’s cheeky grin as she said, “it’s because you’re a hermit.”

“Thanks for reminding me again,” Geralt chuckled. “What would I do without you?”

He meant it sarcastically, but he truly didn’t know. Funny how that was, because he never thought himself to be good father material when he was younger. He never believed he could give a child the kind of love they deserved. But as he got older, he realized he was much more of a family man than he originally thought. He lived his life surrounded by his brothers, and while they got on his nerves, he really loved them. Hitting his forties, Geralt realized he had a lot of love to give, and while he never managed to find a partner he was comfortable committing to, he did want a family of his own. He and his brothers were all adopted, raised by a single father who took care of them after their biological families stopped wanting to. It inspired Geralt to lean into the caring streak inside him, and thus, he adopted a ten years old girl, Ciri, four years prior.

She was a sassy thing, a real teenage menace now that she was fourteen years old. She was stubborn and always got in trouble, but Geralt was a patient man. He loved his daughter with all his heart, even when she kicked him awake because of a stupid letter.

“I didn’t realize you had friends,” Ciri continued, poking him in the face with the paper. “Especially from Thanedd Island. Isn’t that a little too far away?”

Geralt sat up so quickly he nearly sent Ciri flying off the bed. His heart sped up inside his chest as he stared at the letter in his confused daughter’s hand.

“What did you say?” Geralt croaked. Ciri raised an amused eyebrow at him.

“Thanedd. Some Jaskier sent it to you?”

The room started spinning with Geralt. He kept staring at the letter, waiting for it to disappear and find out it was all just a dream. Thanedd. Jaskier. Shit. The memories flooded his brain right away. It was twenty years ago, but he still remembered the time he’s spent with Jaskier, clear as day. He remembered the pretty Omega waving him down in distress when his car decided to die under him. He remembered intense blue eyes on him all the while he helped him change his tire. He remembered running into Jaskier pretty much every day after the accident, feeling both annoyed and endeared by his insistent flirting. He remembered the night they’ve spent together, Jaskier in his arms, looking up at him with such adoration like Geralt hung the moon and the stars.

Geralt remembered feeling love like he has never felt before, and hasn’t felt ever since.

But he was scared of those new, confusing feelings, and he ran away from them. He loved Jaskier, he really did, but he was a stupid, young Alpha who wasn’t really okay with himself and who didn’t know what he wanted out of life. So, he broke Jaskier’s heart and his own. The look on Jaskier’s face when Geralt said goodbye to him still haunted his dreams.

He took the letter from Ciri with shaky hands. The envelope even smelled like Jaskier, sweet cinnamon that made Geralt’s head swim. He had no idea what he would find once he opened that envelope, but he had to know. After spending so much time trying to forget Jaskier, he realized he wasn’t able to.

The knock on his door felt like a real salvation. If Radovid had to listen to one more word coming out of that man’s mouth, he would’ve done something that would land him in jail. He had a degree in economics, and the guy thought he couldn’t count?

He should have been used to this by now, probably. Radovid inherited the company about twenty years ago, and all the jealous douchebags thought it was just handed to him. It may have happened a bit suddenly, but Radovid wasn’t just sitting on his throne and making his employees do all the work. He finished college, graduated top of his class, and built a thriving business from scrap all on his own. Most executives were old, uptight Alphas who thought of Betas as a useless secondary gender, so of course, they looked down on him. It was very satisfying to show them that Radovid could do better than all of them- still, having to take part in an online conference with an absolute idiot wasn’t his favorite way to start his day.

“Come in.”

His secretary poked her head inside with a polite smile.

“Hey. You’re still on that conference?”

“I turned it off. What’s up, Kara?”

“You got a letter,” she said as she entered his office. Radovid sent her a confused look.

“An actual, hand-written letter? And it’s not a gas bill?”

“It was sent to you, personally,” Kara said as she handed the envelope to him. Radovid took it with a sigh. He was certain it was a mistake, or maybe one of the execs decided to threaten him and they skipped sending e-mails.

Radovid nearly fell out of his chair when he noticed a familiar name on the envelope.

Him and Jaskier spent a lovely time together on Thanedd Island. Radovid hasn’t met anyone like that Omega ever since. He was sweet, but sassy, dorky but deeply intelligent- and beautiful, the most beautiful thing Radovid has ever laid his eyes on. He could have been just a one-night stand, an adventurous Omega Radovid had fun with, but he was more than that. They didn’t just have sex: they connected. Every look, every touch, every sweet smile was remarkable. He left a mark on Radovid, but he couldn’t stay there with him on the island. He needed to come back home and take care of things. Too much time has passed since then for him to try and seek Jaskier out.

It made no sense. Jaskier must have settled down with someone since then, had a family. He deserved it.

Radovid has entertained the thought, sometimes, but then he always realized he wasn’t cut out for that. He never settled down, never bonded with anyone. His schedule was too packed for that. It was probably pathetic, that he cared more about his mango trading organization than about his own happiness, but he simply didn’t have time for the latter. And, let’s face it, the idea of him as a family man was ridiculous. He wasn’t meant for that.

But Jaskier must have matured since then, must have found himself a gorgeous Alpha or whoever he wanted. He most definitely wasn’t a workaholic, stuck-up businessman with no personal life outside of his one-night stands like Radovid was.

God, what could he want from him after all those years? What could be so important, that Jaskier wrote to him, a personal letter, especially?

Radovid swallowed heavily as he opened the envelope to find out.

Yennefer stared at the piece of paper in her hands. She had half a mind to throw it into the trash. It must have been a prank. Someone must have been messing with her. Because there was no way that someone she slept with twenty years prior would suddenly decide to send her a letter out of nowhere.

And yet, the name on the envelope belonged to the Omega that Yennefer so desperately tried to forget. Jaskier, the fucking moron who tried to seduce her all the time while she did her internship at the inn on Thanedd. She tried to resist him, but then her heart got the better of her and she took him to bed. Yennefer hated to admit it, but no one could ever compare. And she hated it even more, but she may have fallen in love with that ridiculous Omega on that night.

The boy must have put a curse on her, maybe that was why she never managed to find the one. It wasn’t as if she never tried: she longed for a deep bond, someone she could love, and someone who would love and take care of her in return. She wanted children, a family. But she never managed. Nothing ever worked out for her. No one was ever right. Either her partner didn’t want things to be as serious as she did, or Yennefer bailed, realizing she wasn’t with the right person.

Her life was quite the mess, to be completely honest. She was forty years old, mate-less, childless, working as a cook in a small bistro instead of being the Michelin star chef she dreamt to be. Yennefer has given up on finding a happy ending for herself, long before her last divorce was finalized a couple months prior.

She knew what her colleagues at the bistro thought of her, what most people did. Jaskier called her strong, beautiful, and confident. It really sucked that it turned out she was none of those things. Alright, she was hot, at least- she still had that, if nothing else was going on in her life anyway.

And now, this. This stupid letter, and stupid Jaskier. Why the hell did he decide to do this just now, what could have happened that made him write Yennefer a freaking letter after literal decades?

Yennefer twisted the paper around in her hand. She should have probably thrown it away to save herself from the mess it probably contained.

Yet, for some reason she couldn’t explain, she decided to open the envelope anyway.

Jaskier was glad he had such great friends like Essi and Priscilla. He’s met them shortly after he permanently moved to the island. Essi was a sweet Omega who was now married with two teenage kids, and Priscilla was a painfully honest Beta who enjoyed her singledom greatly. Without them, Jaskier probably wouldn’t have survived. They always offered him a shoulder to cry on, whenever he needed it. They even formed a band, “The Sandpipers”, though they mostly just played for themselves and sometimes at the inn, and not really in general, lately. Essi and Priscilla felt like sisters to Jaskier, so of course, he turned to them again.

He told them about what Amaryllis said. They listened to him intently, holding his hand all the while. It made Jaskier emotional, which was a common occurrence, lately.

“I hate that Amaryllis is miserable,” Jaskier sighed. “She wants her other parent to walk her down the aisle, like, where did this even come from? And how could I give that to her? I don’t even know…I'm not sure who it is.”

“Hey,” Essi spoke softly, “don’t worry, okay? Maybe she will forget about it.”

“And what if she won’t?”

“Essi’s right,” Priscilla chimed in, “she will have plenty of things to occupy her brain with. She won’t have time to think about this.”

“I love my daughter so much,” Jaskier whispered, staring down at his lap. “I would literally walk through fire for her. But this? I can’t give her this. And I hate that. I don’t want to ruin her wedding.”

“With what, exactly? Not having someone she doesn’t even know there?” Priscilla chuckled. She wrapped an arm around Jaskier and pulled him closer. Jaskier rested his head on her shoulder. “Look, don’t beat yourself up over this. The past is in the past. You were a slut, so what? It doesn’t matter. You’re a great parent to her.”

“The best,” Essi cooed as she ruffled his hair gently. “And Amaryllis knows this, too. Don’t feel guilty. I’m sure Amaryllis is just a little sentimental with her wedding coming up, it makes sense. But it will be all okay. She’s gonna have a beautiful wedding, and the only tears we will see will be tears of joy.”

“You wanna get your acoustic guitar out, sweet cheeks?” Priscilla grinned at Jaskier. “We could fire up The Sandpipers again.”

Jaskier snorted. “You want me to sing about my feelings? I have a better idea. I have a bottle of…”

“It’s better than trying to drink them away,” Priscilla cut him off quickly. “Do you remember your rendezvous with that tequila?”

“You threw up in a bush,” Essi giggled, “and then you apologized…to the bush.”

“Alright, no drinking,” Jaskier chuckled. He squeezed his friends’ hands tightly. “Thanks, girls.”

Essi and Priscilla enveloped him in a tight hug. Jaskier sank into it with a grateful smile. He hoped his friends were right, and that Amaryllis truly wasn’t in anguish over this. That idea was just horrifying. If everything went right, by the time her wedding came, Amaryllis wouldn’t even remember ever bringing this up.

Dear Geralt…

Dear Radovid…

Dear Yennefer…

I hope you still remember me. I’m the Omega you’ve spent time with on the island in the summer of 2002. I know my letter must come as a surprise to you. I need to tell you something, but I can’t write it down. I’d much rather tell you in person. I still live on Thanedd, so you know where to find me. We have to meet up. It’s a matter of life and death!

The ferries come in every hour on Saturdays. Please, be on the one that arrives at 2 in the afternoon. I’ll meet you at the dock. If my letter found you at all, please, be there, this is very important. And pack enough clothes for a few weeks? I feel like we can't get this sorted out in a day, so be prepared for staying a little longer.

With love,

Jaskier

#geraskier #yennskier #radskier #a/b/o #jaskier #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #radovid #omega jaskier #alpha geralt #alpha yennefer #beta radovid #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #my fic #mamma mia au

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huanyukang · 6 months ago

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Major study of Concept art : Blog 50：（ forefront 9）

An analysis of the supernatural style scene art and conceptual design of Ghost Blows Out the Light (2021)

My initial idea came from the Chinese supernatural adventure novel "Ghost Blows Out the Light" (2006), which is very famous in China and has even been adapted into TV dramas and movies. The background of this novel was arranged by the author in China in 1980, the series follows former Soldier Hu Bayi and his partner as they raid Tombs in search of values The two teams up with an American archeologist after they fall victim to a current, and to release them from it they must seek clubs found among any mycological sites across China . （Chen,2024）

In addition, I also love the TV and movie series "Ghost Blows Out the Light" very much, especially the scene and character designs inside are full of traditional Chinese supernatural elements. Therefore, I want to conceive a game plot about supernatural exploration and adventure, and then fabricate and design the relevant scenes and characters.

Yun Ma is the conceptual designer of the movie "Ghost Blows Out the Light" . He has created many interesting and exciting supernatural scenes and characters based on the plot of the novel "Ghost Blows Out the Light" , such as tomb scenes and mutated zombies. His concept paintings are full of magical realism colors, such as lighting and props. He draws on traditional Chinese religious sculpture and witchcraft styles, innovates and exaggerates to design characters and scenes. His conceptual design ideas moved me and provided me with inspiration to design related scenes：

Especially in designing the interior tomb chamber of Taoist zombies, I learned Yun Ma's conceptual design style, such as using the Eight Trigrams pattern to design the tomb chamber floor plan, and using green tones to express the eerie and terrifying atmosphere:

Ghost Blowing Light (2021) Conceptual Art Design Process:

In the process of film and television production, conceptual design drawings are often an important reference in the early stages of creation, but in practical operation, directors and production teams often make adjustments based on the shooting environment and the needs of the series. The experience of the production team of 'Ghost Blows Out the Light' is a typical example of this dynamic creative process. The original concept design envisioned a scene of a huge fish skull embedded in a mountain wall, which was intended to highlight a mysterious and eerie atmosphere. （Chen,2024）However, when the production team conducted a field investigation of the filming location in northern Shaanxi, China, they found that this design did not fit well in the actual environment.

The Shaanbei region is covered in loess, with a unique western style topography. This natural environment comes with a rough and desolate atmosphere. Placing a huge fish skull in such a background may create a sense of fantasy in a different world conceptually, but it can appear very abrupt and even somewhat discordant visually. This design is completely inconsistent with the historical and geographical background of northern Shaanxi, China in the 1980s, and the audience may feel that this element does not belong to this time and space. This sense of dissonance actually weakened the originally imagined sense of mystery.(Wang,2022) Therefore, the production team decided to make multiple modifications to the scene and ultimately abandoned this design, choosing a more realistic setting scheme.This adjustment was not an easy decision, but was determined after extensive discussion and repeated revisions. The final scene presented in the drama took the crew nearly two months to build. During the construction process, the crew faced enormous difficulties. The filming location is located in a valley with extremely inconvenient transportation, and vehicles cannot enter. All the scenery materials must be manually transported by workers. These workers carry materials step by step into the valley in the rugged terrain, and their daily labor is not only arduous but also full of challenges. In the film, as Hu Bayi and others walked towards the Fish Bone Temple, the audience could see the winding path beneath their feet. In fact, this road was not specially built by the production team, but was walked out by workers transporting materials day after day during the process of setting up the scenery. This road has witnessed the hard work of the scenery team and has become an important component of the realism of the series.

youtube

Ghost Blowing Light (2021) available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xroaf5jxY-I&list=PLMX26aiIvX5rTNhuKV6dhtOPFfVKuRnYI&index=2

In addition to the design and construction of the scene, the production team also encountered the problem of balancing "realism" and "objective reality" when creating a sense of era and atmosphere. When Ma Yun and his team first encountered this theme, they consulted a large amount of information about ancient tombs, hoping to reproduce the scenes of tombs as realistically as possible. However, during the research process, they found that the real tomb chamber was far from the "ghost blowing lamp world" required by movies and TV dramas in terms of size, texture, and spatial layout. Real tombs often appear too realistic and do not match the mysterious and eerie atmosphere that the drama aims to create.

Therefore, the production team must make a choice between "realism" and "objective reality". In the end, they decided to abandon a complete restoration of history and archaeology and instead pursue a sense of "realism" that the audience could feel both visually and emotionally. This kind of "realism" is not limited to the examination of every detail, but through scene design, light and shadow effects, and atmosphere creation, allows the audience to naturally immerse themselves in the story context, as if they were there. (Liu, 2022)This choice is not only to meet the artistic needs of the series, but also to better convey the emotions and atmosphere of the story.The production team of 'Ghost Blows Out the Light' deeply recognizes that the 'sense of reality' in film and television dramas is fundamentally different from the 'objective reality' in academic research.(Liu, 2022) The former is to make the audience feel a sense of credibility when watching, whether it is emotional resonance or visual persuasiveness; The latter is a faithful restoration of history and reality. In the production process, the crew pays more attention to how to create a "realistic" world through artistic techniques, rather than strictly comparing every detail with historical facts.

In short, this emphasis on "realism" has enabled "Ghost Blows Out the Light" to achieve visual and narrative success. Through multiple adjustments to the scene design and careful attention to detail, the series not only presents a nostalgic adventure world, but also allows viewers to stay engaged and feel the tension and mysterious atmosphere of the story while watching. This clever balance between "realism" and "objective reality" not only showcases the professional spirit and creative ability of the production team, but also provides the audience with a unique viewing experience, making "Ghost Blows Out the Light" an excellent work that combines entertainment and artistic value.

reference：

Chen， Qian (2024). An analysis of the Creation of the "Ghost Blows Out the Light" Series of Film and Television Works from the Perspective of Story World. Voice Screen World (06), 89-91(Accessed: 11 August 2024)

Wang， Xiaoqing (2022). Exploration of the Spread of Language Rhythm - Taking Ghost Blowing Out a Lamp as an Example. Famous Works (01), 190-191(Accessed: 11 August 2024)

Liu， Xiangyang (2022). The spatial production and cultural consumption of domestic web dramas from the perspective of "imaginative consumption" - taking the "Ghost Blows Out the Light" series as an example. Contemporary Television (02), 69-73. doi: 10.16531/j.cnki. 1000-8977.2022.013(Accessed: 11 August 2024)

Ghost Blowing Light (2021) available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xroaf5jxY-I&list=PLMX26aiIvX5rTNhuKV6dhtOPFfVKuRnYI&index=2 (Accessed: 11 August 2024)

#concept art assginment #Youtube

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evelhak · 11 months ago

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Thanks for the tag @lilypheria. 💙

Are you named after anyone ?

My first given name is inspired by/a sort of fusion of two grandparent's names and second one is a name that has been coincidentally popular in both of my parent's families.

What sports have you played ?

Mostly I'm a dancer. Ballet for 17 years, folk dance for 8, courses of contemporary, jazz, show etc. here and there. I did horse riding as a kid for a while, and our parents took me and my siblings to weekly track and field competitions for kids where they handed little silver tea spoons as prizes for probably like third of the competitors outside top three so our kitchen was full of them. : D I did kendo in high school for about a year but had to quit because I couldn't yell without losing my voice and the instructor wouldn't let me skip it of course. Just for fun sports that I've done semi regularly at some point are badminton, skiing and downhill skiing. Oh and bowling I guess but that was more like a sporadic social activity. In uni I went to combat classes actively and I've still yet to find anything that gives me such a good rush of like... purely hormonal ecstasy, so I'd really like to get back to that one. (It's different because there's nothing inspiring about the activity itself on an mental/emotional/conceptual level, it's just the way/the rhythm it puts your body moving that causes this insane state for me and I was quite addicted to it). Recently took barre and pilates but the groups got cancelled.

Do you use sarcasm ?

Sometimes. And miss it when other people use it, at least as often.

What is the first thing you notice about people ?

Their eyes, or possibly if there's some very attractive facial feature then that. Or possibly whether they have a kind vibe or not.

What's your eye color ?

Blue-grey.

Scary movies or happy endings ?

Happy endings, usually. But if I'm feeling numb or apathetic somehow, then scary movies, because I need something extreme to push through to me.

Any talent ?

Writing, particularly characters, dialogue and emotionally effective storylines, some say lyrical use of language, too. Visual and abstract pattern recognition. I've always been noted to have some talent for drawing and singing but technically I think I'm pretty average. I've often been called a natural therapist too, I guess that's a combination of high empathy+special interest in human mind+higher than average pattern recognition. Also improving other people's communication. It's pretty ironic for an autistic person, but yes, while I may not often be able to express myself in a way that people would get me, I'm really good at expressing other people's thoughts in a way that the other(s) will understand, spotting why people are talking past each other, and redirecting the conversation. I'm also pretty good at crafting/basically any kind of visual-tactile fooling around creating something. I guess I could say philosophical thinking too.

What are your hobbies ?

Writing fanfiction, ballet, reading, drawing original stuff, fanart and comics. Learning about whatever happens to be my area of interest in humans at the moment, by either reading, watching videos/movies or observing people. Sporadic things include anything creative/artistic from photography to embroidery to low-maintenance nail art to seeing if I can make a hat or a pipe or any prop a ballet might need, using only things that I can find in my room, so that it's a sort of a game. And sometimes I write book reviews and other random stuff, and beta-read/edit for other writers. Oh and sometimes I like to plan (friendly) pranks/practical jokes. Always had a low-key Fae soul in me, haha.

Do you have any pets ?

A cat. (Used to have three. 🥲) I'm used to having a lot of different animals around me, so it feels really quiet at the moment.

How tall are you ?

169 cm.

Dream job ?

Author. Which I succeeded at, soon three years ago! I always wanted to go for traditional publishing, and although I don't live from my book sales and likely never will because it's extremely rare in my small country of five million people, and virtually impossible if you write speculative fiction or for young people, I am happy to be with a small publisher right now. It grants me a lot more creative freedom than a big publisher would. I have published a sapphic NA fantasy novel about dreamworlds and neurodiversity, a realistic YA novel about asexuality and other aspec identities, and I'm currently in the middle of a fantasy series about a mythical music school which deals a lot with mental health, school culture, critical thinking, media literacy, formation of belief systems and a lot more, through a fantastical lens. My goal is to be published in English sooner or later, one way or another, because a lot of my potential audience doesn't speak Finnish.

Tagging @myndless88 and @wannabe-cartoonist-blog. ✨

Tag Game

Thanks for the tag @bruitdevague ❣️

Are you named after anyone ?

My middle name is after my moms dead brother

What sports have you played ?

I did gymnastics for like 10 years and destroyed my body/mental health doing it 💀

I also did volleyball, track, and kumdo in highschool

Do you use sarcasm ?

No I'd never 🙄

What is the first thing you notice about people ?

I have no idea..their vibe maybe?

What’s your eye color ?

Hazel

Scary movies or happy endings ?

Scary movies

Any talent ?

I'm really good at doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result

What are your hobbies ?

My all time favorite hobby is listening to music while pacing around. 11/10 really does the job every time. I also enjoy reading.

Do you have any pets ?

I have (had) my dog peanut but I didn't take him with me when I moved out. He lives with my parents 😫

How tall are you ?

5'3 on a good day

Dream job ?

I do not dream of labor

Literally one (1) minor inconvenience from quitting my current job

Tagging:

@yormuthur @crypticpuffin @punk-pandame @shisuis-left-nipple @alphadogandomega @dykekakashi and anyone else who wants to do this <3

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 3 years ago

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Dusk to Dawn

ʚ Pairing: Thranduil x Male Reader

ʚ Word count: 726 words

ʚ Themes: Soft | Fluff

ʚ Warnings: Kissing | Mentions of burn scars

ʚ Author’s notes: This was loosely inspired by “Dusk to Dawn” by Zayn and Sia.

ʚ Disclaimer: I don’t own the original images in this collage edit. Full credit to original owners.

The sun felt like an unwelcome intruder when Thranduil opened his eyes and an arm snaked across his belly. “Meleth,” he whispered. "Good morning."

When you yawned and stretched like a cat, his eyes traveled over the length of your body, drinking you in. “Good morning, meleth,” you mumble sleepily.

“The sun has made its presence known to one and all,” Thranduil grumbled, too lazy and content to get out of bed. “As always.”

You chuckled even as he continued his grumbling. Thranduil was like this every morning. The moment sunlight pierced the curtains, his eyes would flick open, and the complaining would start. “I’d wish it away if I could, meleth.” Burying your face in your pillows, you try not to wince when your back ached. Thranduil hadn’t let go of you the night before, not stopping till the both of you were spent. “Then we can stay here, in this room, forever.”

He sighed. If only such a thing was possible, then he could be with you without the burdens of kingship weighing down on him. "It is but a dream," he said wistfully as he propped himself up on an elbow. "But it is a beautiful dream all the same."

Tapered fingers going up your spine made you yearn for more than his touch. You were too tired though and Thranduil didn't want to push you into giving more than what you could. "If only dusk could come by sooner," he whispered against your ear, his face resting on your arm. "Then we can be alone again. Shut out the world and leave our worries outside the door."

You were already counting the minutes for sunset, for then the king would be yours, and yours only. No meetings, no emissaries, no supplicants. Just the two of you, loving each other.

"Dusk is but a few measly hours away, meleth." His grumblings of daytime and work and the unfairness of it all made you laugh. "Do not fuss, my love," you reach over and run a finger over his lips. So soft, you thought. Like silk. "Our work will keep us busy enough to make time feel like it's flying by. Dusk will be upon us before either of us know it. "

"But it won't be the same," he mumbled and closed his eyes when your fingers traced a line across the now healed burn scars. "I hate being away from you for so long."

"As I hate being away from you," You sighed dreamily when he kissed those same fingers. "But it is necessary. We both have duties to this kingdom, you know that."

"I know, meleth." Thranduil looked over to the window. The sun had risen higher now, and people would be moving about soon. If only he could arrange a day with you. Just one full day. No distractions from anyone.

Just one day. Twenty-four gloriously uninterrupted hours. And I have no pressing matters to attend to for a day or two.

"Come riding with me, meleth." He asked suddenly. "The forests and roads are safe now, what with the spiders gone. We can go anywhere you like."

Your eyes flew wide open. The forest. The lakes and rivers. The bustling towns and thoroughfares beyond Mirkwood’s eastern borders . Thranduil refused to take you so long as the spiders held sway as he feared for your safety. Now that they're gone --

"Just the two of us?"

"Just the two of us," he promised. "Twenty-four hours all by ourselves. And I'll try to make it a more regular occasion when there is a lull in my duties."

"You must take me to Dale. I've never been there."

He smiled. "I'll send word. Book the best room in their best inn. Then we can walk through the bazaar, sample all their wares..."

"Come back to the inn, drink everyone else to oblivion," Thranduil guffawed. "And then go back to our room--"

"Where we can love each other," Thranduil leaned forward and pulled you in for a kiss. "I like this plan a great deal. I'll get my steward working on it, meleth. Be ready to leave as soon as everything is ready for us. But for now," He murmured and kissed you again. "We must part till dusk."

"Till dusk, meleth," Your eyes closed when he rested his brow against yours.

#thranduil #thranduil x reader #thranduil imagine #reader insert #lotr imagine #the hobbit imagine #LOTR #the hobbit #fanfiction #creative writing #writing #amwriting #writeblr #a world of whimsy writes

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littlemisspascal · 3 years ago

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Fast Cars and Lightning Bolts Part 2

Pairing: Din x Female Reader

Word Count: 2100+

Rating: T for whole series

Summary: “I’m here on behalf of Boba Fett. Suppose, hypothetically speaking, he wanted his company to win the Boonta Eve Classic. You’re one of the only racers still alive who’s done that. So I came to ask you,” she takes a breath, spreads her palms out with an air of frankness, “what does it take?”

Warnings: Racing AU, heavily inspired by the film Ford v Ferrari, dialogue heavy, language, angst, references of death but no graphic details, worldbuilding, Reader and Din are exes, No physical characteristics of Reader described except for having hair + a heart condition (I’m not a doctor, all medical details are fictional)

Author Note: Decided to officially declare this a series. A very relaxed, sporadically updated series--but still a series. Hope someone out there enjoys this 😊 All likes, comments, and reblogs super appreciated 💗

Also please note Part 3 is the original one-shot I posted, but it is now updated to better flow with the events of Part 1 and 2.

PART 1 / PART 3

The sales floor is swamped with customers and staff. Peli’s darting around each of the four corners, finalizing sales and answering questions, returning to your side every ten minutes with a new clipboard of documents needing your signature.

Sunlight filters in through the open windows of the building, a cool breeze toying with your hair, and at Ahsoka’s workstation a radio blares an upbeat tune by The Max Rebo Band. Unlike most car dealerships where employees are expected to wear fancy suits and fake smiles, you prefer a casual work environment full of car enthusiasts like yourself, unafraid to get motor oil on their hands and know the difference between a crankshaft and a camshaft without having to look on the HoloNet.

“Got a Trandoshan interested in Canary Classic and some senator’s son chomping at the bit to test drive our only Canary Moonlight out on the street,” Peli tells you, popping up at your side midwalk around the sales floor.

“Does the kid have a license?”

“I asked and you know what the little punk told me?” Peli nudges you to a halt, propping a hand on her hip with an exasperated expression that has you smirking even before she says, “He doesn’t have to show me a license because he’s Senator Blah Blah’s son. I should recognize him by his looks alone.”

You snort. “Yeah, no. Tell Senator Blah Blah’s son he either shows a license or he’s got to find somewhere else to make dumbass demands.”

Peli nods and turns to leave, only to freeze in place as a Zephyr-J motorbike pulls up outside the entrance. You watch as the rider removes their helmet, revealing a woman dressed in a black jacket with orange stripes and dark braided hair, exuding grace and strength with every movement. When you approach to meet her at the doorway, she isn’t subtle in observing you from head to toe with a quick once-over.

“Lightning Bolt?” She says it like a question, but the way her lips curl at the edges into a small grin gives you the impression this stranger knows exactly who you are.

“Depends who’s asking,” you reply, returning the smile with a cautiously friendly one of your own.

“Fennec Shand.” Her handshake is firm, professional. “Fett Motor Company.”

There’s a beat which follows the announcement, as though she expects you to have a reaction of some kind. It’s only because of your racing background you maintain your neutral expression, remembering what it was like to hide your true emotions from the press and their constantly recording cameras.

Internally, you’re about as calm as a leaf in the wind.

The thing about Fett Motor Company is that, not only is it run out of the desert city Mos Espa where the BEC is held annually, it is also owned by Boba Fett who changed his career from bounty hunter to crime lord three years ago after he murdered the previous Daimyo. You haven’t been to Mos Espa in over a year, but you’ve heard of the positive changes and improvements made to the city under Fett’s control. You’ve also heard some not-so-positive remarks about Fett cars. Their engines are powerful, almost unbelievably so considering the company’s youth, but the heavy weight and clunky shape of their vehicles makes steering a challenge and average speed on the low end compared to other cars in the galaxy.

Let’s just say, it wouldn’t be egotistical of you to claim your Canary could go around a track several laps before a Fett Rancor ever finished its first.

But even though Fett’s cars may not have much of a solid reputation, the Daimyo himself is not one to be trifled with. And the last thing you want is trouble with the crime lord, so despite your uneasiness, you direct Fennec to your office upstairs where you conduct all your important meetings.

If she does catch a glimpse of your anxiety peeking out of your mask, she politely doesn’t comment on it. Still, you linger on the sales floor after she’s left, signing a few more documents for Peli while also using the spare minutes to ready yourself for whatever it is Fennec wants to discuss. You have the distinct feeling it’s going to be a strange ordeal.

Upstairs, you find the woman observing the contents of your shelves. Old trophies and awards Peli insisted needed to be displayed so any potential business investors could see how well-established you are in the racing community. But Fennec isn’t looking at any of them, you realize upon a second glance. She’s found the only thing up there that’s of sentimental value rather than monetary.

“A pink carnation?” she inquires, studying the flower carefully preserved in a glass frame, as beautiful and vibrant as the day it was given to you what feels like a whole lifetime ago.

And that day, just like the flower, will always be preserved in your memory like this: summer heat, first anniversary, a drive down the coast, shy smiles, fingers grazing during the exchange of the pink bloom. So you won’t forget about me when you’re rich and famous.

“Long story,” you explain with a dismissive gesture, pushing thoughts of brown eyes out of your head. You then perch yourself on the edge of your desk. “Now, what brings you all the way from Mos Espa to see me, Ms. Shand?”

“Fennec, please,” she corrects, turning to face you. “I’m here on behalf of Boba Fett. Suppose, hypothetically speaking, he wanted his company to win the Boonta Eve Classic. You’re one of the only racers still alive who’s done that. So I came to ask you,” she takes a breath, spreads her palms out with an air of frankness, “what does it take?”

You lean further back on your desk a little, unable to keep your eyebrows from rising with surprise. Fennec just stares back at you. Not critically like the Twi’leks had done back at Galma, but calmly and patiently. Waiting for you to find your words on your own time.

“Well, hypothetically speaking, it takes something credits can’t buy,” you declare at last.

“Credits can buy speed,” Fennec counters.

“It’s not about speed.” You shake your head because she doesn’t understand, can’t understand unless she’s driven the BEC herself. “This isn’t like other races where all you have to do is turn left and go in circles for a couple of hours. To win the BEC, you need a car that is lightweight enough to reach 200 on the straightaways, but also strong enough to endure thousands of miles across sand and rock with limited breaks. This car has to be the best you’ve ever made and be ten times better than whatever Moff Gideon’s team shows up with that year. And if you’re lucky, that’s just what gets you to the starting line. Then your real problems start.”

Fennec tilts her head in acknowledgment, but her voice comes out a little wry around the edges. “So, you’re saying it’s challenging?”

“It’s not even a track, Fennec,” you say with thinly veiled frustration, and the woman blinks with surprise as your carefully composed mask begins cracking around the edges. “The circuit for the Boonta Eve Classic is made up of large stretches of desert plains, narrow canyons full of twists and turns, and part of the Laguna Caves underground. There are no paved roads. No safety rails. And you have to keep driving for twenty-four hours with an average speed of 130 if you wanna be a serious contender. Twenty-four hours.”

You tap your fingernail on your desk for emphasis, drilling the words into the wood. The Boonta Eve Classic was designed first and foremost as a test of endurance, separating it from all other races in the galaxy where the main goal was simply to have the fastest time. For the BEC, it’s the number of laps a car (and its driver) can handle without falling apart which determines the winner.

“It’s in the middle of summer so heatstroke and dehydration are serious risks. And then once the sun sets, half the race is in darkness. Cars and giant rocks coming up out of nowhere. An explosion of fire if the two collide. A driver stumbling out of the wreckage, bleeding buckets. Maybe they’re on fire too. Maybe they’re your friend.”

Your physical body might remain in your office, but your mind drifts back in time to the scariest, most exhilarating twenty-four hours of your whole life. The stench of sweat and gasoline fills your nostrils, a current of electric adrenaline flowing through your muscles, and your eyes burn from a combination of exhaustion and smoke billowing out from flaming vehicles. One of your closest friends, Omera Jones, experienced brake failure during her 156th lap, crashing straight into the side of a canyon. Doctors said it was a miracle she lived through it with only a broken arm as her worst injury. The fates of three other drivers weren’t so fortunate. Their deaths were bloody and horrific, and their faces, despite being total strangers to you, are forever etched into a corner of your brain.

“Either way,” your voice is quieter now, softer, weighted down with nostalgia and just a hint of trauma, “you have to keep going, hour after hour, until dawn breaks. You’re exhausted as hell, starving, can barely remember your own name or why any of this matters. And then you realize you’re flying by the Dune Sea at nearly 200 miles an hour. Anything goes wrong—blow a gasket or a tire or even a tiny five credit washer—and that’s it. You’re done. The Imperials win again. Like they won last year and the year before that and the year before that.”

You blink once, twice, three times before coming back to the present with a quiet inhale of breath. There are two sides to the BEC in your memories—-one bloodcurdling and perilous, responsible for your deteriorating health. The other extraordinary and invigorating, responsible for your golden reputation. Simply put, the BEC is as deeply interwoven with your identity as your own flesh and bones.

Fennec looks thoughtful, maybe a little thrown off balance, but at least she seems to be seriously absorbing all you said.

“So, yeah,” you tell her, offering a crooked grin. “It’s challenging.”

The corner of Fennec’s mouth twitches. “What I’m hearing is you don’t think Fett Motor Company can build the greatest race car the galaxy’s ever seen? You don’t think we’re capable of winning an event like that?” She steps closer, not unlike a Loth Wolf hoping to corner its prey. “Even if we had the best and brightest partner? Even if we wrote a blank check?”

You meet her stare evenly. “Credits can’t buy first place, Fennec. But maybe,” your crooked grin turns sincere, perhaps a little wider than usual with tentative excitement. “Maybe they can buy the woman who’ll get you your closest shot.”

Later that night, after Fennec’s long gone and your staff have returned to their homes, including Peli who’s already devising several hundred plans for Fett’s future race car, you sit behind your desk holding a torn piece of paper. It’s a bit crinkled from months spent stashed away in the back of your desk’s drawer, but the number scribbled in neat handwriting is still readable. Still makes something in your chest sting worse than a bug bite.

You rub at your forehead, declare yourself an idiot, and then punch the numbers into your comlink.

He picks up on the second ring, saying your name. His voice is marred by the crackling of static, but the familiarity of it freezes you in place. He repeats your name again in the same incredulous way, and you can picture him in his garage, oil stains on his clothes, that little crease between his eyebrows as he tries to figure out why the hell you’re calling him when you swore you’d never do it again.

“Alright, I’m going to hang up now,” Din says.

Startling back to awareness, your grip on the comlink tightens. “No, wait, please!”

He heaves a sigh, but does stay connected. You think of that bond of loyalty again, wonder if maybe you’re not the only one who still feels it. And suddenly there’s all these words bubbling in your throat you want to say to him, but the timing isn’t right, the moment too unsteady.

Choking down the words, you instead tell him, “I need to talk to you. It’s about the BEC.”

A long enough pause of silence follows you think he’s hung up, and then—

“Fine. But you’re buying me dinner.”

#din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #my fic #My writing #pedrostories

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photiniainsummer · 4 years ago

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Dancing with the Dark

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: You've taken to lingering around Dark's office late at night when he thinks he's alone with his old jazz standards.

Or so you thought, until one night you find the door open.

You've always wondered what exactly he does behind it...

It's listen to music. Get your mind out of the gutter. ;)

(second person POV, gender neutral reader)

Word Count: 6860

Author’s Note: No warnings - this is really all just tooth-rotting, tender, slow build romance. There is dancin' and smoochin', though. 👀 Also posted to AO3!

It wasn’t something you had intended to intrude on. The Manor is big, but not that big, and it just so happens that the quickest route to your bedroom means you have to pass Dark’s office suite. As your nights have gotten later and later, trying to keep tabs on Mark and the poor, scattered egos he’s made and dumped, more and more often have you caught soft, crackling music drifting out from behind your sort-of boss’ heavy office door.

At first, you mostly ignored it, noting it with a small smile and continuing to bed. It’s really none of your business what the shadowy man does in his free time, you figured. Plus, you all manage to live on top of one another, despite the Manor’s size, which puts privacy at a premium - who are you to deny him some when he can get it? But as time has passed and you’ve worked intensely together, the original enmity between you two has turned into a professional respect and eventually, you’d hazard, a friendly banter. At least, such as Dark is willing to joke around.

And so, tempted by your mutual softening, and maybe a little curiosity as to what kind of music your ‘leader’ listens to, you’ve found yourself pausing in your path to bed when you catch him playing a record. At first, you only stopped briefly at the top of the stairs with his office across the landing from you, taking a moment to appreciate a few bars of dreamy jazz. It was peaceful, almost magnetically melodic. But you quickly grew self-conscious in your eavesdropping, and, not wanting to seem nosy (despite the fact you definitely were being nosy), moved along to your room.

You crossed the landing to the bit of wall near his door, next, but kept a keen eye on the stairs behind you in case you needed to make a sudden retreat. For a week or so, you took longer, lingering there at the mouth of the short hallway to his office. You would take in a full song before you got antsy, concerned Dark might get up to make a late-night cup of tea and discover you. Even so, you had found it hard to pull yourself away from the lilting voices of his records - time seemed to slow, for just a little while, and you felt you breathed easier, deeper even, once you were back in your bedroom.

Finally, now, and most nights for the last month, you’ve let yourself truly relax just outside his door. He never leaves, not that you’ve seen, and so you’ve taken to resting in the shadow of the short hallway and letting the hypnotic drags of a brush across a snare, crooning voices over a string quartet wrap around you. Dark’s music is never truly jazzy, never truly swinging, and it soothes you like very little else can these days. It’s steady - you think that’s what’s so appealing about it - drawing you in at the end of a long day for a moment of reprieve, floating outside of time in the gentle shade of this corner of the Manor.

You’ve gotten used to it, to be sure. The sleepy, tripping dance of a horn greets you at the end of each long day spent combing through Mark’s videos, hunting for hints as to his next move. The quiet moments spent letting the gentle jazz unwind some tight thing in your chest have become just as much your routine as they are Dark’s - and you understand why he takes the time. Until you started lingering to listen, you were harder up for time alone than you thought with barely a moment to spend in your own head. Everything was focused on maneuvering around Mark, a seemingly endless game of cat-and-mouse that left you tossing and turning and jittering yourself into an exhausted unconsciousness each night. But now, you fall asleep faster, wake up feeling more rested having actually relaxed before bundling down under your covers. You had found a little corner of peace, thanks to Dark. And, perhaps, thanks to your damned nosiness, as the man himself had called it once.

Only occasionally as you lean against the wallpaper have you allowed yourself to think about the man behind the door. For all your collaboration, Dark is still a mysterious, calculating, and distant figure. It’s by his own making, too. He’s been content to work closely with you planning Mark’s downfall, but keeps his own cards so close to his chest you have to wonder if he can even see them now, so to speak.

Perhaps he knows them well enough not to need to.

You’ve learned not to pry too much about any of the egos’ pasts and what they remember of them, unless you’re just in the mood for awkward, dead-end conversations. Wilford doesn’t seem troubled in the moment, human bouncy ball that he is, but responds vaguely - even for him - before up and disappearing for a few days. Google spouts some kind of technical jargon about his assembly warehouse that you can barely keep up with, then focuses intently on changing the subject. The Host only gives you one of his polite little smiles and reminds you that your futures are ‘of a more pressing nature’ than his past is.

The only one you’ve totally avoided trying to bring up the subject with is Dark. Your first real conversation had edged on it, and his reaction - aura practically blowing all the lightbulbs in the room, crackling copies of himself writhing in rage - had been pretty clearly in the ‘not positive’ camp. You’ve not had the stomach to unnecessarily incite his ire, so most of what you know about him, you’ve put together yourself. A vague understanding of his blended nature, the people he was before, their relationships to Mark… But it’s all guesses and deductive work about people long gone from the plane you inhabit. Grasping at shadows and context clues to paint a portrait of how the being, who deeply dislikes the outsize attention his central role as Mark’s primary ‘villain’ commands, came to be.

Yet, you do know some things about what he’s like. That he doesn’t seem to need to eat or take breaks of any kind. That he’s single-mindedly devoted to stopping Mark in his tracks, and intensely methodical about the whole endeavor. Even when you think you’ve caught him reading something for fun, it turns out to be Mark-adjacent. It’s impressive, you admit, but also why hearing those strains of songs sung long ago, finding him doing something unproductive has captured you so. To think of him taking time for himself, doing nothing but enjoying some music… it simultaneously feels incredibly decadent and comforting. For all his hardworking exterior, there are quiet moments Dark takes to relax. Even more than his music, that soothes something in your heart you didn’t even know was tense.

Plus, good lord. The man listens to croony, moony, love-sick music late at night when the rest of the Manor has retreated to their own separate corners. How could you not melt?

Yet it’s impossible for you not to wonder what exactly he does behind his office door. It’s always firmly shut, and even with the proclivity toward psychic abilities in the Manor’s residents, you can’t completely school the curiosity it inspires. Listening to a couple croon about the stars or something equally cheesy from your spot out in the hall, you’ll often picture him relaxing in one of the high-backed armchairs situated near the heavy fireplace. Maybe he’s shut the door to his workspace proper, allowed himself some wine from the cellar, propped his feet up… Maybe he’s truly relaxing, thinking of something altogether having nothing to do with his work. It’s anachronistic enough to your steadfast image of him to be ridiculous, but you also can’t help but hope it exists in some form, protected behind the dark wood that muffles already-quietly trilling piano keys.

This is why, late one night, you’re stopped in your tracks at the foot of the stairs, already able to hear his music. You’d been just about to pull yourself up the stairs by the handrails, eyes bleary from staring at your screen all day when you’d picked out the dreamy march of brass. You’ve only ever been able to hear his records when you’re standing on the landing - is something wrong? Cautiously, you ascend the tightly winding stairs, your thoughts mirroring the spiraling steps as they scramble, chasing away any haziness.

Reaching the landing, you find dancing firelight spilling out across the thick Persian rug there, Dark’s door cracked shockingly wide. The sight is almost obscene, illuminating the spot that has been your shadowy cocoon. It’s only made more stark by the clarity of the music that lilts through the air. You have the keen, embarrassed feeling that you should not be seeing what you’re seeing, that you’re intruding, infringing on something private - even though all you can see of the office is a little bit of wall just inside the door. Even so, the sudden need to stop this, to preserve something personal, quiet, safe for Dark overtakes you. You’re spurred into action, crossing the space on careful feet. You move to shut the door, to right this obvious wrong, but as your hand takes the old brass knob, the music from within murmurs tender thoughts of lovers embracing after an age apart. Even with your goal so firmly in mind, you can’t stop your eyes from flitting over the sliver of his office the crack in the door reveals.

And, oh, what it reveals.

As if intentionally centered for your view, Dark is, as you’ve imagined countless times, tucked into one of the armchairs near the fire. His suit jacket has been carefully folded and hung over the back of his chair, his starkly white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal a bit of the skin at his throat. More is revealed by the tilt of his head as he rests it back in the crook of the armchair’s wings.

You’ve never seen him so… undressed before. You immediately flush, embarrassedly shooing the thought away before it can become anything more than a passing observation. You’re thankful to see that his piercing eyes are gently shut, the breaths he draws steady and quiet. Even his aura is still, nonexistent except for his colorlessness. The dull ring that accompanies him, too, is almost completely silent. Whatever remains is drowned out by the softly crackling gramaphone to his side.

Although you know he doesn’t need to sleep, the tender image of him relaxed enough as to fall into it twists something so totally in your heart that it keeps you there, hand on the doorknob. You know you need to close the door back, and carefully, too, so you don’t pop whatever bubble of peace he’s floating in, but… It’s like having a dragonfly land on the tip of your finger, spotting a deer at the edge of your garden, catching the sun breaking over the horizon and truly beginning to dawn. How can you look away before it ends?

But you’re playing with fire in waiting for this moment to end, and, unfortunately, you get burned.

At least, it feels like you do. Suddenly, Dark’s head comes up, his eyes cracking open, and the cold heat of being caught scalds the back of your neck. You go to close the door, but it’s too late - his black eyes catch yours, and he calls your name. It’s gentle, a distant question, but it still makes your heart sink into some pitiful little depth of your stomach. There’s no way to play this off casually; he sounds truly awake. Either he wasn’t actually sleeping, or you’ve startled him enough to banish any hint of drowsiness from his voice. You’ve ruined this precious little thing, your knowledge of it revealed, and, gosh, you feel miserable for it. But you were called, and so you crack the door a little wider, an apology already on your lips.

“I was just going to shut it for you, I’m sorry,” you offer, quietly, as if trying not to interrupt the music still going at his elbow.

Dark doesn’t immediately respond, watching you with his usually piercing, contrasted eyes. Yet, they’re softer, tired - was he actually sleeping? The gramophone crackles like the low fire nearby. The record playing spins wobblingly, curled with age. The music is even dreamier unfiltered like this, giving the lowly-lit room a hint of unreality. Time seems to stretch between you, and when he finally speaks, his echoing, multi-throated voice only adds to the feeling you’re imagining things.

“...you may come in, if you would like.”

Something has gone horribly wrong. He, or another ego, is dying or has died, you’re certain of it. That, or Mark has figured out your plan to collect them and gotten to one first, maybe Yancy or the Captain, taking them out of the picture or scooping them up for himself. It’s the only obvious explanation your startled mind can offer for seeing Dark so markedly undone - his jacket, his shirt, the door…

Just as quickly, you realize how ridiculous the thought is. Dark wouldn’t look like a rather sleepy cat, cozied up to the fire with his music of choice, much less invite you so casually into his inner sanctum if things had gone to hell. No, there’d be more rending of reality or quick, tense words - a contingency plan thrown into action.

Which means you actually have to deal with being invited into his office late at night, a place you’ve hovered around and imagined for nigh on a month. You force yourself to respond casually, nodding as if this is normal for the two of you as you step over the threshold. He gestures for you to shut the door, and you do, gently putting it to rights before crossing the bookshelf-lined room to join him.

Like you always do. Obviously.

Once near the fire, you can see his aura is beginning to stir once more, the edges of him blurring with compelling darkness. In all the imagining you’d dared to entertain, you have never considered what his face would look like in these moments. His brow is relaxed, his expression open, and though his attention is fully fixed on you, it doesn’t cut through you or hunt for answers. He is merely regarding, the firelight only able to cast dancing shadows across his face for all its warmth. He’s relaxed. Relax-ing .

It’s, again, almost obscene. So much more than you anticipated. It’s one thing to imagine all that you have in theory, a different one to see it in truth, to experience it. And Dark, relaxing, is something you can barely take your eyes off of. He looks so much more like a person, undone after a long day of work, not quite ready to trip off to bed. With his aura so reserved, only mildly undulating at the very edges of him, you could almost dismiss it as a trick of the light, if not for how he absorbs and negates color.

Just a man.

Trying to stay casual, you prop yourself on the chair across from him, chin in hand, and you both watch each other for a moment. Both quiet. Both tired. Except your silence is tinged with subtle awe. At being invited in, at being here, at seeing him this way. It’s like the killer panther that typically stares you down from the shadows giving you a lazy, sun-warmed blink. As much as you try to treat Dark normally, there are moments when you can’t help being amazed - though it’s usually due to his eldritch powers and not him engaging in the simple act of sleeping.

Which begs the question - why leave the door open while he was so indisposed? Mild concern rises again, and you feel compelled to ask.

“Is everything okay…?”

You swear his eyes twinkle, amused. It’s hard to tell with the fire dancing like it is, his face remaining otherwise unchanged. You want to frown, wondering how loud your thoughts have been, but leave it.

“Yes... and no, as always. Nothing has changed, if that is what you mean. There is no need to worry.”

Coming from anyone else, it would be a formality. Your shoulders would stay hunched, your brow might furrow. But when Dark says it, when he speaks more quietly than you think you’ve ever heard him speak, it scatters whatever remaining fears his invitation had kicked up to the wind. You exhale. It is a comfort, but… It doesn’t explain why he invited you in. If you had really ruined his illusion of privacy, would he so readily let you walk over its remnants?

Suddenly, the answer is clear - so simple and obvious as to be startling. You speak before you can question the thought.

“Just want some company?”

Dark continues to watch you, but his gaze loses some of its lethargy. The panther stirs, considering. Weighing. Calculating. Heat rises up your neck ever so slightly - that will teach you to jump to conclusions.

But then he hums and gives an affirming nod. He gestures to the seat you’re leaning on. “Again, if you would like…”

Is that hesitancy?

You really feel like you’re dreaming as you settle across from him. He just wants company. He hesitated. He couldn’t even ask for it. Notably distant Dark, who never joins the rest of you for meals, for after-dinner drinks, who you rarely ever see outside his office… wants company. Although the chair’s winged back curls around you and radiates warmth absorbed from the fire, you find it difficult to relax as he continues to, turning his black-and-white gaze to the fire. Does he want conversation? Comfortable silence? How are you meant to parse what he’s wanting against the background of how surreal it is that you’re actually here?

But little things remind you that this is very much happening - the heat of the nearby fire, the music’s volume being slightly louder than you’d imagined. Although, you remind yourself, you’ve been hearing it muffled by heavy wood until now. It’s still relatively soft, just clearer up close. Your eyes fall to the gramophone piping it out. You’ve seen it in passing, but it registered about as much as the carved wooden globe on the mantle - furniture, meant as a finishing touch for the room. It looks like a true antique, though, its curved neck and ornate mouth lovingly maintained, polished to a shine apart from a few inevitable age spots. It’s close enough to Dark for him to operate without getting up, records tidily shelved underneath.

Your eyes edge back to the man seated so nearby. His slowly awakening aura is gently tugging at your attention, but he himself pays you no mind. That relieves you, somewhat, a silent answer to what his idea of ‘company’ is.

You realize, then, that you’ve never simply existed with him before. Throughout your time at the Manor, you two have only ever been in each other’s company to work or exchange information. There’s always been a goal, something to focus on, to accomplish. But now… there’s nothing. Nothing to do but exist.

Why does that suddenly feel so hard?

You must be thinking rather loudly, because Dark’s gaze slides leisurely from the flames onto you. He tilts his head, but not in that strange drifting motion it sometimes does, gravitating to some sick angle of its own accord. No, he’s just curious. You smile sheepishly, wondering if all your mental spinning has disturbed his peace, made him second-guess inviting you in.

“Too loud?”

Another amused flicker in his colorless eyes. “No louder than usual.”

So tired Dark has jokes , apparently. You give him a look. “Not exactly comforting.”

“To be fair, they are much quieter than when you arrived.” It’s almost a compliment - at least he’s not calling you loud anymore. Letting that be a comfort, you attempt to relax back into the chair. It, like the rest of the Manor’s furniture, feels straight out of a period drama with none of the damage of age. It’s still as soft as it was whenever Dark crafted this bubble of reality.

“It’s hard when you can’t control it - like I have noise cancelling headphones and can’t hear myself or anyone else.”

He hums. “You do not need to explain it to me.” Ouch. You look to the fire, taking the inside of your cheek between your teeth. When will you learn to keep your foot out of your mouth? Dark senses the sudden silence and mildly clears his throat. “I mean… Only to say that I understand you do not have the same ability. I do not hold it against you.”

His voice still has that quietness to it, a low, gentle undercurrent. It’s practically an apology, how he chooses his words. You shift, rubbing your finger joints with your other hand. You’ve been told it looks like hand-wringing, but it soothes you and the soreness there. “I think you saw it differently, when I first got here,” you hazard, just as quiet as you look back to him. Dark is watching you evenly, but something shifts in his brow as he recalls that first day. How different your tones had been, how differently you’d approached the other. You’re only feet from where that first conversation took place, and yet…

“...much was different, then,” he murmurs. “I was, perhaps… harsher than I should have been. I was unaccustomed to the sensation, not at my best.” He seems to stop himself there, closing something that was edging open before looking back to the fire. “I have grown used to it. The sound of your thoughts does not trouble me, but you have also improved at closing your mind. It is impressive, for someone unlike the rest of us.”

Good lord, maybe he actually is dying. You don’t think you’ve heard so many kind words from the man in all your months of living together. His gaze stays fixed on the flames, even as you stare at him, a little stunned. Silence draws out between you, filled only by tonight’s accompaniment. Yet, it doesn’t spark with nervous energy or prickle in pointed coldness. It crackles like ancient records warped with time, old oak burning to warm a place apart from the rest of existence. You settle deeper into the armchair, eyes turning from the shadow you’re keeping company.

He only barely catches your pleased little smile, finding it hard to look at you for too long.

From then on, Dark leaves the door open for you, although cracked much less wide than before. When you call it a night, you make your way through the Manor to your seat near his fire instead of right to bed. Although the weather of the world still reaches you, the place Dark maintains is always just slightly colder, so the fire’s warmth is never unwelcome. Sometimes you talk, sometimes you sit together in silence, but regardless of how chatty either of you feel, there’s always music curling underneath the moment. Dark doesn’t sleep like he did the first night, but he always has his coat off and that softer turn to his eyes by the time you arrive. It’s strange, at first, to see him switch so much between his work and leisure personas, and at first you wonder why he’s not always so relaxed. Surely things would be less tense.

And then you remember Wilford’s incessant gunfire, Google’s underlying objective, the weight of his very existence. Without his steady, cool glare, the Manor would be full of bullet holes, and they’d all probably be dead with Mark free to break reality to his whim. If Dark wasn’t so tightly wound, everything would come undone.

So you enjoy - scratch that. You let him be how he is, in each moment, without comparison. Sure, it’s nice to talk to Dark when he isn’t grinding out words from between his teeth, and seeing him undone has removed whatever distance might have remained between you, but to say you enjoy him…

Christ. Who are you kidding - you really enjoy him.

It really happens without you noticing, and it almost drives you nuts with how cliche it all is. Things just build up - he has a pillow placed in your chair just so for your lower back, you pull the smallest of smiles of him with a well-put observation (and find that his eyes crinkle the same way the other egos’ do) - until one night he asks you to dance.

He’s not quite so blunt as that about it, but it’s essentially what happens. You’re sitting together, having fallen into one of those comfortably quiet moments when a song comes on that you recognize. Not from your time lingering around Dark’s door, but from before you came to the Manor, vague memories welling up of a ballroom dancing class in undergrad you’d taken for fun full of sore toes and sweaty hands. You laugh, suddenly, startled at just how far away that moment feels. You try to cover it with your hand, but you continue to chuckle as something about the ridiculousness of it gets to you, and Dark watches you with some mix of amusement and concern. There’s a little of that predator’s intentionality there - searching for answers. You shake your head as you calm, dropping your hand but still smiling.

“Just… I know this song.”

“Oh?” Read: Continue.

“Well, I… Back in my first year at university, I... well, I signed up for this ballroom dancing unit. This was one of the songs we used, I think.” Dark inclines his head as something changes in his gaze. Your last little aftershock of laughter passes and you settle back into watching the fire lick at its grate, content to let it lie. But Dark continues to watch you. Feeling him still staring, you look back - very little of that soft turn to his eyes remains. He is a man focused. “What?” you eventually ask, shifting under his stare.

“I did not know you danced.”

You fluster, then, scoffing at the idea, eyes falling to the carpet between you. “I… don’t. Unless you count slow dancing, I guess. It was just the one class. Forever ago.”

He’s not content, fixated. But quiet. Considering. Weighing. Then…

“Would you like to?”

You look back quickly enough that you wonder if his aura pulled at you in tandem with your surprise. “Wh. I… Now?”

He nods, slowly. You just stare, trying to process the idea and coming up with no clear thoughts. Then he does something funny - he actually shifts under your scrutiny, gaze flickering away for the briefest of moments before returning to you. That alone is enough to stun you further, Dark looking practically shy, but he explains. “In my day, I was an avid dancer. I enjoyed little else outside of… work. I can show you how.”

You momentarily wonder which of his past lives he means before you find yourself nodding in agreement. Even if you hadn’t wanted to, this is… new. Dark offering so much at such little gain to himself, unfurling those cards from so close to his chest. Refusing now might mean they would never come away again.

“Can you?” Your voice is surprisingly dry, distant, but Dark doesn’t seem to notice, focused on the task now at hand. On you. He only nods and rises from his chair in a smooth motion before offering you a hand.

From experience, you know he leeches color from whatever he touches, even things in his vicinity if his aura is expansive and active enough. Yet, you’ve never had reason to make direct contact, and so you still watch in minor surprise as your hand loses its luster and gains a black-and-white cast when you take his. “It isn’t permanent,” he explains as you stand to join him. “It’s only… plants, that can’t handle it.” He sounds mildly embarrassed, and it clicks why you’ve never seen him in the Host’s garden. The future-sighted ego had probably barred him from the place years ago.

“Oh,” you reply lamely, and he ducks his head somewhat before leading you to the more open space between your chairs and the outer office door. There, he turns smoothly and you’re in position, having used his hold on your hand to subtly guide you closer. Your other hand lands on his upper arm, almost at his shoulder, and he gently shifts his elbow under yours to guide it to rest on top, near his collar. His own hand comes to rest higher on your back than you remember from class, almost on your shoulder blade.

It feels so proper, how you stand, how he holds you… Against the age-old music set to guide you and the Manor’s unchanged decor, you can almost see who he was before - the swish of a beaded skirt, the creak of a heavy cane - but then he speaks, heavy with shadow, and all you know is the darkness in your arms, here and now.

“Just a simple step. You remember a waltz?” You nod - did we dance this close together back then? “Good. Then you know to follow me. Stay relaxed...”

The idea of relaxing flies out of your mind the minute he guides you backward. All your mental energy is focused on not laughing in pure nervous surprise as he seems to get closer and closer before your muscle memory manages to kick in and you’re stepping back with him. You’re slightly out of sync, and he slows just so to catch up with you before he brings you back up to the pace of the song. “Relax,” he murmurs, dipping his head so much closer to yours than feels decent as he speaks, as if sharing a secret. “I have you.”

You certainly do, you think, immediately glad you’ve been practicing keeping your mind closed more often. With all the time you were spending with Dark in his off-hours, you had felt it was only fair that you didn’t overload him any further. That extra practice is coming in handy now as your thoughts swirl behind the dam you imagine holds them back from the general psychic public - your dance partner in particular.

True to his word, Dark keeps it simple, guiding you slowly around the open space, easily turning you in lazy patterns across the floor. And thank goodness for that - anything more complicated and you wouldn’t be able to balance it with how hyper-aware you are of everywhere the two of you touch, the feeling of his firm shoulder and crisp dress shirt under your hand, the skin of his palm against yours - softer than you’d imagined, with calluses inside his first finger from years of pen-writing.

All the same little anxieties bubble up, long-forgotten but haunting you now with a vengeance. Are you gripping him too tightly? Are you anticipating his movements too much? Is your hand getting sweaty, or is that normal? Can he hear you breathing funny? You’ve thankfully settled into a comfortable angle of faces, yours turned slightly to the left and down, eyes fixed firmly on the curve of his shoulder. You don’t think you could trust yourself to make eye contact just now. You can’t say how exactly Dark’s face is turned, though, so focused on keeping your eyes where they are and your thoughts in check that you haven’t looked - nor do you hear him speaking your name until he squeezes you ever so slightly.

You turn, bidden, and you’re practically nose to nose. His stark eyes are already watching you when you meet them, and it steals whatever shallow breath was in your lungs. Up close, you would think you would be able to discern a hint of color in his irises, find that they were really a dark, dark brown. But they are truly, completely black. And they watch you so carefully, thoughtfully, with barely any room to breathe between you.

Your face must betray how the proximity startles you, because you get treated to another of his small, almost imperceptible smiles. Up close. You can see how it pulls at his eyes, and you’re thankful now that you can’t bring yourself to look away. “I… Yes?”

“You’re quiet,” he explains, after a beat.

“Do you… typically talk, dancing like this?” When did your throat get so dry? Dark chuckles, low and only for a moment.

“You can... But I was referring to your thoughts.” Uh oh.

“Oh…?” You try to sound normal, mildly interested instead of panicked, already floundering for what to say. Dark’s eyes flicker across your face, and you feel horribly exposed. As if, through the underbrush, you’ve just caught the gleam of a predator’s gaze.

“The closer you are, the more clearly I hear them. Yet…” He pauses, turning you past a low table. “I can barely hear you at all.” Then his voice grows softer, somehow, and your throat feels like it’s never known water. “Where did you go?”

“I…” You swallow fruitlessly, dropping your gaze back to his shoulder, to safety. What can you say to explain the sudden, obvious gap without blurting oh, it’s nothing, I only just realized I’ve been falling in love with you for the past couple of months when you asked me to dance and now I’m trying not to lose it while you hold me. “I’ve… been practicing,” you try. It’s the truth, at least. But you still can’t meet his eyes, though you feel them keenly observing you. “Didn’t… Didn’t want to be shouting at you, from, well... this close.”

He’s quiet then, focusing on sweeping you steadily around the room. The song has changed, your pace slowing somewhat to match the new one, and he takes the chance to guide you through a slightly more complicated step, jettisoning words in favor of taking you through a lazy spin before you fall back into the same step as before. You think you might have dodged a bullet as you settle into the movement, your gentle contact not so new and mind-reeling as it was when you started. But then he speaks, and the echo of his voice almost covers his words for how low it is.

“I… enjoy hearing your thoughts. Hearing you.” Dark’s hand holds yours more firmly as the one on your back brings you close to his chest. He’s practically cradling you against him, and you turn your face towards his in the moment to keep from being trapped looking away. You’ve never seen him make the face he’s wearing now - so serious, brow pulled just slightly, intent, yet that searching intensity has faded. Earnest . “I… I enjoy you. Unless you want your privacy, you are free to… be open with me. If you would like,” he's quick to add, his signature phrase that feels so much like as you wish.

You’re grateful he brings you to an easy stop, even as the music continues behind you because dancing has become beyond your grasp. Your eyes flicker across his shadowed face, mind scrambling as the dam you imagine creaks dangerously within. How much is too much? You hunt for clues in his expression, his face betraying so damn little like always, but then - then - his eyes flicker ever so briefly to your lips, and your eyes perceive a slightly darker shade of gray unfurling across his cheeks.

So you let go.

You don’t drown him in it, of course, but you allow your mind to open slowly once more. He inhales a forcibly steady breath, eyes searching yours once more as he processes, weighs, and finally draws you completely into him, head turning just so to finally fit your lips together in a kiss that feels like crisp, refreshing relief and wood smoke under a winter moon. You breathe in, feeling how cool he is to the touch, how steady he is under your hands, your kiss, even as his aura constantly roils.

Dark drops your hand to cradle your head and draw you further in, your arm finds its way around his broad back. His lips leave yours and you’re already starting to imagine your next kiss before he interrupts and gives it to you, a low sound in his throat and his hand bringing a tilt to your head that makes you incredibly thankful for how he’s holding you up. You kiss, and kiss, parting and rejoining in soft pecks and long presses that make the old standards you’ve bonded over sound like both the truest truths and palest lies.

Eventually, though, he withdraws, letting you catch your breath, soothing you with small kisses trailing from your lips to your jaw and back toward the joint of it and your neck. He’s adoring and unhurried - though the farther down his lips descend, the less air you can properly draw in. He slows on the softer skin there, hand still supporting your head where you tipped it back for him, and inhales gently as if he, too, needs to be steadied. His voice is a distant rumble, as much in your head as it is spoken. “Is my music really so moony...?”

It’s so sudden, your thoughts laid bare against the hint of his insecurity. A laugh bubbles up and out of you, breathless waves shaking your body. You only hold onto him tighter, and he squeezes you back in turn. You can feel him really smiling down against your neck, the pull of his lips and rounding of his cheeks evident against your sensitive skin. Why had you even tried to hide?

“The fact that you could sing any of them while gazing longingly at the stars should answer your question,” you tease, and he’s laughing with you, settling into just holding you close. “...but I like it. It’s romantic.”

“It was not my original intent, but...what wonderful results,” he murmurs, kissing your throat once more before coming back up, letting you catch your breath properly. How does he make the cheesiest things sound good?

“Mine either,” you admit. His brow quirks above warm eyes.

“No? What, then, was your intent in imagining how I chose to relax?” he asks, a wicked tease coloring his tone. You blink, and then heat rises up the back of your neck, your ears burn. He knew?? The whole time?????

“You could…” Your voice is distant as Dark draws the back of his hand softly across your cheek, fingers trailing the blush rising there. His eyes dip to follow it, watching it unfurl under your skin with the most damnably amused smile you’ve ever seen him wear. Damn him. Damn him, of course he knew!

“You should know doors can do very little to stop me…” You groan miserably. “But I liked it. It was romantic,” he continues, echoing you. It has such buried mirth that it only serves to embarrass you further, so you worm your arms against his chest, trying to push him off. He only chuckles that deep chuckle and holds you closer, lips pressing to your temple. “And so kind of you to want to protect me and my little moment… Did I really look so deliciously undressed...”

“Oh my god. Oh my god!” And here he had been playing coy this whole time! Letting you just dangle all your most embarrassing thoughts for anyone to see! You continue to struggle against him, if only to register your complaint. “You’ve completely ruined this, I hope you’re happy, you insufferable--” He dips and catches your lips again, humming and silencing your insults with his kiss. For all your indignant protesting, it’s impossible not to melt against him, your hands that tried to push him away stilling against his chest before sliding up to meet behind his neck. When he finally breaks your embrace, you huff softly. “I can’t believe you.”

He’s smiling, but sobers slightly as you hold each other, his eyes just taking you in. “...it was a comfort to me, to know I was not alone in my affection… despite all my hesitation in admitting it. I did say I enjoy hearing you for a reason, lamb.”

You’re melting, but then your nose wrinkles. “Lamb?” Dark tilts his head.

“Pet?”

“Why all the animal names?”

It’s his turn to huff, then. “It seems I am not as skilled as Wilford when it comes to terms of endearment.” Your nose wrinkles further, the rotating cast of gushy names the mustachioed man throws around only making you wince with laughter.

“Please, no, I know you can do better than those.”

Dark puffs up a little at that, somehow pleased by the implication. “I’ll have to put my mind to it when I’m fresh, then. But for now…” He draws back, taking your hand into his, the other sliding up your back and into position. “Shall we?”

“Gladly,” you murmur, and he leads you in an altogether different dance.

#markiplier fanfiction #markiplier egos #ego fanfiction #darkiplier x reader #darkiplier #mad market pliers ramblings

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samegirldifferentworld · 2 years ago

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🏴‍☠️💎🩸 DEATH BY DIAMOND🩸💎🏴‍☠️ Happy Halloween, you spooky lot! 🎃👻 This year’s Halloween look is a drag look called ‘Death by Diamond.’ I took inspiration from two places: first, the pirate legend of the black spot. The Black Spot is a mark of death to a pirate. It was originally a proverbial term applied to a pirate who has a death mark by the authorities or other pirates for misdeeds he must pay for with his life. Second, Ellie Diamond. See I’ve joked about if she saw my makeup or cosplay recreations, she’d want to kill me and I’d face ‘Death by Diamond’ - and pirate lore plus Ellie Diamond equals THIS ARTISTRY! 💎🙊🎃 I even included some shots with my @elliediamondofficial lollipop prop replica that I made myself! Trick or treat? 👻🍭 I’ll be doing a full makeup breakdown on my drag insta, @nora_divergent, so be sure to keep your eyes peeled for that! Happy Halloween! 🦇🎃👻 #halloween #halloweennails #makeup #drag #dragqueen #dragmakeup #blood #spooky #spookyseason #cosplay #costume #dragraceuk #elliediamond #pirate #facepaint #creative #doll https://www.instagram.com/p/CkYrJDKI4hW/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#halloween #halloweennails #makeup #drag #dragqueen #dragmakeup #blood #spooky #spookyseason #cosplay #costume #dragraceuk #elliediamond #pirate #facepaint #creative #doll

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seasonsofeverlark · 4 years ago

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you & I (just meant to be)

Author: @rosegardeninwinter

Prompt: This silly, silly ditty was inspired by two (count ‘em! two!) lovely prompts which are as follows “Peeta can’t stop staring at Katniss in her costume :0” and “Everlark meeting at a fancy dress party dressed as a ‘matching’ pair, although they don’t each other - maybe a famous couple but who don’t need the other … Joker and Harley Quinn, Batman and Robin or my favorite: Anna and Elsa from Frozen … Peeta would make a wonderful Anna” - I thought these two went well together, and took a couple of creative liberties to make them jive. Hope you lovelies like! [submitted by @deardiaryithinkiamaghost and @wendywobbles]

Rating: T, for implied Everlark shenanigans

Author’s Note: Thank you to my dear @archersandsunsets for her second pair of eyes on this one and to all the lovely moderators and coordinators of @seasonsofeverlark, the true MVPs. It’s been a busy month, so I apologize for any incoherence. Sometimes, the heart just wants goofy modern AU fluff. Alrighty, Chatty Cathy is done … enjoy!

____________

“Katniss, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Prim exclaims, though it sounds pretty pathetic with her congested, pinked nose. “You make the perfect ice queen!”

“I don’t think that’s usually a compliment,” Katniss says dourly, plopping down on the couch where her sister is situated with several fuzzy blankets, a box of tissues, and a large bowl of ice cream. She can’t taste it very well, but it’s the spirit of the thing that counts. Prim is in denial.

“I wish I could go,” she whines, holding the “o” in a long, dramatic note.

“I wish I could stay,” Katniss shoots back, holding the “ay” just as long.

“No you don’t,” Prim shoos. “You love our friends.”

“I do,” Katniss sighs, plucking at the silver sequined sleeves of her—well, Prim’s—Elsa costume. It’s too long on Katniss, with her sister’s good half inch on her, but it’s all they’ve got. Her original plan was to pull the classic black top and pants plus cat ears, but when it became apparent Prim wasn’t budging from the couch this Halloween, the real snowy blonde princess of the family had insisted Katniss take her outfit.

“You can’t show up to Finnick’s in a slapdash, last second costume, Katniss,” she’d said. “The man lives for Halloween. Don’t insult his extravagance with plastic headbands and tails.”

“I do love our friends, but … I don’t want to go out tonight. I’m tired.”

“Just half an hour,” Prim says. “Snag me some candy, make some pleasantries” — “okay, Jane Bennet” — “and then come home. At least one of us needs to show up. Just pretend to have a social life for thirty minutes, okay? For me.”

Katniss rolls her eyes as she gets up from the couch in a twinkling of blue overlay and snowflake hair pins in her braid. She does a quick once over of her shadowy makeup in the hallway mirror as she grabs her car keys. “What do you want?”

“Chocolate. Anything with chocolate and peanut butter. I’ll save it for when I can experience taste again,” Prim calls back. “Oh, and if Delly’s cousin is there, all of the cupcakes he brought.”

“Mmkay. All the chocolate and cupcakes, coming right up,” Katniss says with a resigned smile. On her way out, she clicks on her phone. It’s just now eight. She resolves to be firmly ensconced in bed by nine at the latest. She gives her sister a wave, keys jangling. “I’ll be back. Soon.”

At ten thirty, Prim looks up from her Harry Potter induced doze to find she’s received a text from her sister.

Staying a little later. Fifteen minutes maybe. Have the treats.

Prim checks the time stamp. The text was sent forty five minutes ago. This might be cause for alarm were it not for the text underneath Katniss’s, from Finnick. It’s a photo, taken in front of a makeshift photo op with purple and silver and orange streamers in the background and cutesy little bat and pumpkin and vampire fang cardboard props for people to hold up. It’s captioned “You can’t marry a man you just met!”

Prim brings her hand to her mouth to catch a laugh before it turns into a cough. Her sister, Elsa costume sparkling in the flash, is pretending to shake her finger disapprovingly at her “Anna” counterpart. The laugh breaks free this time. Prim grabs for her tepid tea to soothe her throat as she cracks up over the really incredible image of Peeta Mellark, Delly Cartwright’s stocky older cousin, in a red braided wig, and strikingly accurate green rosemaled gown, sitting quite comfortably, if amusingly, over his athletic build. He’s pretending to gripe back at Katniss about why exactly he can marry Hans of the Southern Isles. Their mock scowls barely contain smiles.

Prim quickly fires a text back to Finnick: How??? Did that happen???

Finnick’s text comes through a second later: The Lord works in mysterious ways! Idk!

Okay but like?? Yes??

I know!!!!

Some people are worth melting for????

Her cold never bothered him anyway? *finger guns*

Omg.

Katniss arrives back at the house at five to midnight, and Prim pretends to be asleep, watching with one eye cracked half open as her sister unstraps her silver heels and dumps them by the front door, drops her keys into the bowl. Sets down a full bag of what Prim can only guess are cupcakes and sweets.

She’s humming under her breath. It sounds like the chorus of “Love is an Open Door.” Prim wonders if it’s possible that her folk and indie music loving sister actually listened to a Disney album on the way home. Katniss unbraids her hair and shakes it loose, dropping the pins on the side table as she sinks into the squashy chair kitty-corner to Prim’s couch. She curls up, knees to chest, making her look like some sort of ice mermaid as she takes out her phone and taps something on it, still humming. Prim watches her chew her cheek pensively, as if deciding to send the text. She takes a deep breath and taps one final time on the screen, then drums her phone nervously against her lips for a moment. Prim’s nerves are firing with anticipation.

They wait a silent minute. Two. Three. Three and a half —

Katniss’s screen lights up again and she flips the phone up to stare at the reply. Her whole face softens. Eyes, brow, edges of her mouth. Katniss bites her lip and closes her eyes, letting her head fall back onto the chair cushion with a contented sigh. “‘You know what’s crazy?’” she sing-songs in a mumble under her breath. “‘We finish each other’s sandwiches … I’ve never met someone who thinks so much like …” She yawns. “Me.”

“You know,” Prim says, and Katniss shrieks, sending her phone flying to the carpet, “Peeta Mellark strikes me more as a Kristoff than a Hans.”

“Prim!” Katniss yelps, going red. “Wha — what? What do you mean?”

“So we’re done with stupid plastic cat ears for Halloween then I take it?”

[the very next Halloween]

“Whoa. Okay.” Peeta sits up from the pile of cushions at the head of their bed, eyes wide and staring in approval, pupils gone dark. “Katniss Everdeen in cat ears is not something I knew I needed until this moment.”

“Oh sure,” Katniss laughs. “Because it’s definitely the cat ears that are doing it for you. Not these.” She hoists one stockinged leg up onto the bed like a mountain climber posing for a magazine.

“Well, those are certainly part of the appeal,” he teases, reaching for her leg, running his hands up and down the silk tights. “As is this lovely number.” He toys with the hem of her dress, a strapless black velvet thing that falls just above her knee. “Where’s this from?”

“Jo,” Katniss sighs. “She says if I’m going to be a cat, I need to be a Gretchen Wieners level cat.”

“For whose benefit, I wonder?” Peeta muses, cheek nuzzling gently at her lower thigh.

“You wonder?” Katniss laughs, taking her leg away and flopping onto the bed. She glances over at him, eyes sly and somehow soft at once. “I don’t.”

“I can’t help thinking,” he muses. “that this is something of a counterproductive plan on Jo’s part. Because now, I have a sudden and distinct interest in staying in tonight.”

“Oh?” Katniss raises a come hither eyebrow and pushes up on her elbows to accept the kiss he plants on her lips as he crawls over her, urging her back to the headboard. “Is it the cat ears?” She reaches up to give the (already molting) plastic and faux fur ears a flick.

“The Kat ears,” he says. He nips softly at her real ear and she shivers. “The Kat nose.” He kisses that too. His nose nudges her head back, inclining her neck at the perfect angle for him to plant a stretch of kisses down it. “The Kat neck.” His mouth wanders down the front of her dress and he scoots down the bed with it. “The Kat’s cradle.”

“You have that,” she says, hiking her legs up to hug around his middle because her arms can’t reach to hold him. “You’ll always have that.”

“A piece of that Kit Kat bar.” He kisses her stomach. “The whole Kit and Caboodle,” he teases and she laughs loudly, but on a dime his tone is changing, from silly and playful into husky and dangerous, as he moves lower. “Kitten,” he murmurs and her fingers curl in the bedsheets at the name. “Grab my phone,” he tells her, hooking his fingers around the band of her tights, “Tell Finnick we’re going to be late.”

An hour or so later finds the cat ears lost somewhere among the remains of their costumes and a hasty snack of pepperoni rolls cooking in the convection oven. Peeta, festooned in boxers and an old apron, presides over the food like it needs a baker’s supervision. Katniss perches on the counter, wrapped chest to toes in the white sheet she pulled from their bed, feet batting absently at the cabinets.

“This is a good look too,” he tells her, gesturing with the salad tongs he’s using to handle the pepperoni rolls.

“What is? This sheet?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of sexy ghost.”

“Or sexy Roman senator,” she laughs, tossing one edge of the sheet over a bare shoulder. “Sexy Julius Caesar.”

“You’d make a good Julius Caesar,” he says.

“Why?”

“You’ve got that “came, saw, conquered” vibe. Least that’s how I felt that night at Finnick’s party.”

“Conquered?”

“I was gonna say seen, but — yes. Conquered too. I couldn’t stop looking at you.” He snaps his fingers. “Sexy ice queen? Definitely.”

“I’m not exactly sure what kind of Freudian analysis one could make on falling in love with the guy dressed as your fictional sister but — ”

Peeta shrugs as the timer beeps, and he sets to fishing the pepperoni rolls onto a plate for them to share. “I choose to think of it as a metaphor for how the two people you love most in the world are your real, actual sister …” He sets the rolls beside her on the counter and sets his hands gently on her sides. She lets the sheet fall and pool slightly around her waist to cup his face as he leans in to kiss her forehead, very gently, thumbs rubbing circles on her hips. “And some loser who has the luck of … oh, I guess having the same first initial and hair color as she does,” he jokes.

“And the same beautiful heart,” Katniss corrects in a whisper. “I mean that.” She’s rarely so sentimental to anyone except him. She smirks. “And I haven’t even started drinking yet.”

“Well, my pretty kitty,” he starts, wrapping both his arms around her middle and hoisting her off the counter. She rolls her eyes, even as her hands card through his hair. “The night is still young.”

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #autumn #autumn 2020 #rosegardeninwinter #submission #octoberlark 2020 #octoberlark

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