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vodika-vibes · 6 months

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I have another Jango x female reader smut scenario idea~ The reader regularly hires Jango for jobs, there's mutual attraction between them; strong enough for Jango to suavely suggest waving his fee in exchange for her sharing his bed, while she is tempted, she always refuses as it doesn't feel right to not pay him,or to sleep with a client, no matter how attracted she is. He's always gracious and somewhat amused by her refusal, but he always puts the same offer on the table. Because he knows she feels the same and wants him just as much too. Then one job almost goes completely sideways, Jango was completely fine and handled the situation wonderfully, but she realizes she could've lost him forever and throws caution to the wind, practically jumping him with a kiss when he lands, pushing him down onto the bed on his ship and they have the most mind blowing sex they have ever had.

Just Once More

Summary: Jango Fett impresses you, as a man and as a bounty hunter. But, as much as you might want to, you’ve never taken him up on his offer to join him in his bed. Well, not yet, at least.

Pairing: Jango Fett x F!Reader

Word Count: 1905

Warnings: Smut

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: I hope this is close to what you had in mind. It turns out that I had more plot than smut for this story, so I might, possibly, continue this. Maybe.

The holo flickers to life in front of you, and a bright smile crosses your face. Jango always answers holos from you, no matter what he might be doing. “Jango,” You greet him with a fond smile.

“Cyare,” The familiar pet name falls from his lips with ease, and you know enough Mando’a to know that it’s a very affectionate pet name, though you can’t remember exactly what it means. “Are you calling to say that you changed your mind about my offer?”

His voice is light, and conversational, and you can’t help but to lean back in your chair and release a quiet laugh, “Not yet.” It looks like he just stepped out of the fresher, as he’s shirtless and the bottoms of his undersuit are hanging low on his hips.

“How many more times am I going to have to make the offer before you take me up on it?”

You pull your gaze from his chest, a small grin playing on your lips, “Just once more, as ever.”

He chuckles lowly, and you release a silent sigh, he really has no business being as attractive as he is. If only you had met him in, literally, any other way other than by hiring him. Then you wouldn’t have a problem accepting his offer to join him in his bed.

“I have a job for you, if you’re interested.” You offer as you pull yourself out of your, increasingly salacious, fantasies about the man on the other end of the call.

“You do send me to the most interesting places,” Jango replies thoughtfully, “Sadly, I’m on a job already.”

Your face falls, disappointing, but not unsurprising. He is the best, after all. “I see. Well, if you’re too busy, you’re too busy. I’ll comm someone else-”

“Wait, hold on.” Jango interrupts, “What’s the job?’

You glance at him, “Well, you remember the fiasco on Rishi several months back?”

“Of course I do.”

“Right, well this is a continuation of that.”

Jango frowns, “I thought I cleaned that mess up.”

You hold your hands out to the side, “So did I, but I got an incredibly hostile message from the person who runs that basically ordering me to Ord Mantell to deal with this-”

“You’re not going, are you?”

“Do I look that dumb to you?” There’s an amused smile on your lips, “No, Jango, I know a trap when I hear one. But-”

“But-?”

You hesitate, and then sigh, “Since I ignored that message it’s started to feel like I’m being followed.”

Jango’s frown deepens, “You said Ord Mantell?”

“Yeah. On one of the islands.” You rub your nose with the palm of your hand, a nervous habit from your childhood that’s reared its ugly head due to the situation you’re in, “I know you already have a job, Jango, I’ll pay triple your regular rate…just…I trust you the most.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jango replies, “No charge.”

“Jango-”

“Someone’s threatening you, cyar’ika. No charge.” Jango interrupts, and then he glances to the side, and his lips twist, “This Tyrannous guy will just have to find another bounty hunter to do his job.”

You tilt your head, “That’s quite a name.”

“Tell me about it.” You hear the sound of Jango’s fingers tapping against metal, “I’m coming to you. We’ll go down to Ord Mantell together, but you’ll stay on the ship while I deal with this situation.”

All of the tension drains from your body, “Thank you, Jango.”

“Thank me when you’re safe, cyar’ika, not a moment sooner.”

Ord Mantell is a nice planet.

Or it would be if it wasn’t home to con artists, smugglers, and criminals of every background. Oh sure, the Republic makes a good showing of having soldiers garrisoned here, but all that happens is that the soldiers become smugglers, or con artists, or criminals.

Jango leans over the back of your seat as you avoid the major city and head for one of the small islands. The one located in the message you were sent all those months ago.

“That must be it,” Jango notes, his eyes narrowing at the warehouse just barely visible though the viewport.

“I’m not sure how comfortable I am bringing the Orphan in close to that building.” You admit as you tilt your head to look at him, “Options?”

He rubs his gloved knuckles against the back of your neck, the action soothing to you, even if he didn’t mean it that way. “What about over there, in that clearing?” Jango asks, “The Orphan isn’t that big, after all.”

“Mm, that should be fine.” You finally say after you eye the clearing critically. You bring your ship over and set her down in the middle of the clearing, and then turn in your chair to look at Jango.

“Alright, stay on the ship.” He says, as he pulls his helmet on, his voice distorting halfway through his sentence. “Lock it up tight behind me.”

“You think someone will come and attack me?” You ask, your brow furrowing in anxiety.

Jango reaches out and smoothes the line off your brow, “I’m not going to let that happen.” He sounds so sure, so confident, that the anxiety fades away as though it never existed in the first place.

You follow him over to the door, and press the button to allow it to slide open, the stairs lowering as it does so, and you favor him with a small smile, “Happy hunting, Jango.”

He tilts his helmet towards you as he descends the stairs, “Remember, cyar’ika, lock up behind me.”

“Got it.” As soon as he’s on the ground, you press the button to recall the stairs, and you watch as he vanishes into the forest, as the door slides shut and locks. And then you head back into your cockpit and prop your feet up on the console and wait.

Forty-five minutes later, you yelp as your ship is rocked by an explosion. And, for a moment, you think that someone shot at your ship. And then you see that the warehouse, barely visible in the distance, is now burning, and your heart drops into your stomach.

You scramble out of your seat and over to the door, your hand hovering over the door panel, before you curl your hand into a fist and forcibly drop it to your side.

Jango said leave the door shut and locked.

He’s fine, you’re sure. He has to be fine.

Fifteen minutes later, your comm chimes as a familiar comm code slides across the screen, and you smack the answer button hard enough that you’re worried that you’ll break the small device, “Jango?”

“Yeah. Problem solved.” You hear the sound of movement, “I’m on my way back to the ship right now.”

“Are you…what happened? The warehouse blew up!”

“Yeah, it was a trap. I decided to trigger it.”

“You decided-” You trail off, and exhale slowly, “Please don’t ever do that again, I thought you were dead.”

You can hear the smile in his voice, “Worried, cyar’ika?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice is much softer, “I’ll be back in a bit. Promise.” And then the connection cuts.

This time, when you head to the door you don’t hesitate to unlock and open it. And then you descend the stairs and settle on the bottom step and wait, your mind racing.

You could have lost him.

He could have been killed, because of you.

All of a sudden, all of your worries and hesitations about a relationship, or whatever, with Jango seem much less important.

You lift your head when you hear movement from the forest, and Jango steps out from between several massive bushes. He pauses when he sees you, and then tugs his helmet off.

“That’s not on the ship, cyar’ika.” He chides as he heads towards you.

You scramble to your feet and cross the clearing to him, flinging your arms around his neck as you tackle him. Jango’s helmet falls from his fingers as he’s forced to catch you.

You don’t say anything to his comment, though, as you crash your lips against his. And Jango responds immediately, his arms tightening around you as he slides his tongue against the seam of your lips, and then against your tongue as you part your lips for him.

He breaks the kiss before you do, delight sparkling in those pretty brown eyes of his, “So, all I had to do to get you to jump me is almost die?” Jango asks breathlessly.

“Not funny,” You mumble.

“Not trying to be,” His lips capture yours again, and this time he carries you towards your ship, his hands sliding under your clothing as he kisses you. And then a breathless curse falls from his lips as he pins you against the cool metal of your ship.

“Get down, cyare.” Jango rasps against your lips, and you whine in response.

“Jango-”

“I’m not fucking you for the first time against your ship,” He says against your lips, “You deserve a bed.”

You shiver, but slowly drop your legs to the ground, and Jango takes a step away from you. You fight the urge to step back into his personal space, and instead climb the stairs until you’re back on the ship.

Jango crowds into your personal space as soon as the door shuts, his nimble fingers popping the seals on his armor and dropping the metal to the floor. The second he's not wearing his armor, he’s pressed back against you, his hands gliding down your body while his lips trail down your throat.

“You left your helmet-” You gasp out as he walks you backwards to your bunk.

“It’ll hold.” Jango replies as he rips your shirt off and tosses it to the side, before moving his hands to your hips and pushing your pants down your legs. You kick them over your feet and to the side, just as Jango lowers you to the mattress. “Kriff,” He mumbles as he hastily removes his own clothing and climbs over you, “Wanted you for months. Can’t believe you made me wait-”

You lean up and pull him down into a deep kiss, no longer having the patience for him to keep talking.

He chuckles into the kiss and moves so that he’s kneeling between your legs. “Wrap your legs around me, cyar’ika.” Jango orders, a pleased groan falling from him as you immediately move to obey him. “Gonna make you feel so good,” He breathes out as he grinds his hard length against you, “Going to make you mine, cyar’ika.”

“Please-”

Jango slides his hands down your arms, and catches your hands, before pinning them to the bed next to your head and threading your fingers with his. And then, and only then, does he slowly push in you.

“Keep your eyes on my, cyare,” He murmurs, when it looks like your eyes are going to shut with your pleasure, “Keep looking at me.”

You squeeze his hands, “I will.”

And then Jango starts a painfully slow pace, pulling nearly all the way out, before easing his way back in, making sure that you can feel every single movement. “You’re mine,” He breathes, “All mine. No one else will ever have you.”

His grip tightens around your hands, and you squeeze back reassuringly, “Yours.” You agree through a breathless moan. “All yours.”

#star wars #star wars legends #jango fett x reader #jango x reader #18+ fic #nsft #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #f!reader fic #answered asks

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system-of-a-feather · 1 year

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For realsie though, I really wish I could look at the people who are diagnosed with DID and get upset at people "making it look like a fun disorder to have" with some level of sympathy or empathy, but I really honestly think that rhetoric is really honestly destructive as a means for self soothing and one I really just can't stand personally.

Like this disorder sucks ass and the reason it happened sucks ass and recovering with it sucks ass, but I don't see that rhetoric as any better than stating that "anyone who went through that could NEVER recover or live happy".

And I get where that comes from, I do, but at a certain point in trauma processing, stabilization and recovery, things start to click that trauma is over and PTSD inherently is referencing an event that has already passed. Trauma sucks. Severe chronic trauma SUCKS, but that's the past and - while its a LOT more difficult than it is to just say - that past REALLY doesn't have to define the present even a quarter as much as trauma makes it feel.

Of course, I understand and get those who feel like DID is horrible and a hell disorder - I 10000% understand that and its a valid feeling / opinion / statement to make, but to claim that it is impossible to have fun, be happy, and make casual content and just genuinely make the best out of a shit situation; or to claim that anyone with DID would be totally dysfunctional and miserable and unable to do XYZ - it's just... really self depricating and a huge negative self fulfilling prophecy don't you think? Also not to mention a LOT of projecting?

Other people don't deserve you forcing your self loathing and pain onto them. You are allowed to hate your situation, you are allowed to hate your disorder, you are allowed to feel and think and experience your experiences however you want, but a line is drawn when it comes to displacing that hatred, those feelings, those thoughts, and those experiences onto others and demand that they should meet your standards of misery.

I apologize, but I'm not going to pretend like DID stresses me out when I'm really not stressed by it anymore because most of our regular parts are actually decently connected and coordinated with one another. I'm not scared of them and they aren't scared of me. I'm not fighting them and they aren't fighting me. We got trauma but we also got, ya know, a life going and the trauma gets less and less prevalent and intrusive as time goes on so, life's honestly pretty lit and I really love to see other systems heading in that direction.

I think everyone should aim to be happy and at peace with their disorder. I don't understand, empathize, or support the idea that someone had to meet a standard of misery to be "real".

(TW: suicidal ideation and physical abuse mention)

If I take medication that makes it so I don't scrub my hands raw and have panic attacks over having not eaten a salad "recently" thus meaning I am going to rot from the inside out and die, does that mean I am faking having OCD? If I take medication and improve my life so that I only pluck my hair once a month, is my Trichitillomania faked? If I stop having suicidal ideation, does that mean I was faking being suicidal the whole time? If I stop having bruises, does that mean I faked being beaten as a kid?

(TW cleared)

Recovery and peace should and does not ever invalidate the truth of the pain suffered and the struggle overcome. Happiness and joy can co-exist with the truth of hurt, pain and suffering.

Trying to hold the two as mutually exclusive is a huge part of why a lot of people get stuck being miserable. If misery is vital for honoring your pain as real, it is very hard to let that go and let yourself be happy again, because if you are happy, what will attest to give your pain justice? But pain, justice, misery, and happiness - they can all co-exist and honestly, that's a really important thing to learn and understand in my healing journey as it really opens up doors to letting trauma go.

Your pain doesn't define your truth.

Your truth is your truth.

It will stay true regardless of if the pain persists or leaves.

#alter: riku #ptsd #c-ptsd #cptsd #actuallydid #dissociative identity disorder #ocd #physical abuse mention #recovery #healing #syscourse #discourse

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gokartkid · 1 year

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medium-fail actor!daniel pr relationship with model!max au

There’s coffee and a croissant waiting for Daniel when he comes in, which from Christian, means that he’s about to drop the craziest and most off-putting scheme on him.

He starts hypothesising in his brain: a summer of non stop convention circuits with sweaty nerds; starring in a movie where he’ll wear so many prosthetics he’s unrecognisable; creating, fucking, NFT’s in his image.

Christian at least has the courtesy to wait until Daniel is a few bites in to drop the bomb.

“We think,” a pause, for dramatic effect, “that the best thing for your image right now, would be for you to be in a relationship.”

Daniel pauses.

That was actually something unexpected.

“Okay,” he draws out the vowel, “great to know that you’re concerned with my love life Christian. Got a little problem from the get-go, I don’t want to be in a relationship. Thanks anyway, good chat.”

Christian chuckles, like Daniel’s said something mildly funny; it’s the kind of laugh you do to a little kid when you don’t know what they’re on about.

“No, Daniel,” and he has this magic ability to sound accidentally — or not so accidentally — condescending. Daniel leans back in his chair, and takes a long sip of his coffee. It’s hot enough that he can feel its path going down his throat, settling in his oesophagus “the idea is that it would be set up with you and someone that we, effectively, have vetted. You go out for a good while, get serious, and then break up amicably.”

“A PR relationship,” Daniel deadpans. It seemed to be all the rage in the industry right now; young, attractive, instagrammable couples popping up all over the place with mutual benefits in the fame-game. Daniel had thought — naively, it seems — that he would be able to avoid it.

“A PR relationship,” Christian confirms. He has the decency to give it to Daniel straight when they get to the point of it.

“And—“ Daniel rubs at his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel a migraine brewing, purely brought on by this conversation, “why would I do this? Like, I’m really leaning towards a fuck no right now Christian. This sounds like a really shit idea, just being honest.”

“Well—“ Christian’s always been good at keeping his head when Daniel is about to blow his top like this. He leans forwards towards him, hands spread wide and looking completely non-threatening in his stupid knit jumper, “I— we, don’t see it that way Daniel. We think it’ll re-invigorate your brand, generate interest, good promo before your next feature.”

“Uh huh,” Daniel says blankly, “this is still not answering my question Christian, because all of those things are do-able with a regular press circuit.”

Christian hesitates.

Another bad sign, red alarm bells ringing.

“With the awards season coming up,” he says delicately, the precision of a surgeon dressing a wound, “there’ve been a few communications, that in order for you to be a solid candidate—“

“Oh my god,” Daniel says, and the realisation is an anvil coming down on his head, “you want me to date some nothing person for a year to win an Oscar. What the fuck Christian. And, this is a real question, what the fuck are you thinking?”

“In order for you to be a solid candidate,” Christian interrupts him, calm even tone as if Daniel hasn’t said anything, “you need to demonstrate some maturity, and solidity, and a relationship would help you do that.”

“I am fucking mature,” Daniel says, and tries not to feel like a toddler throwing a tantrum as he takes an angry bite of his bribe-croissant, “people can be single and mature Christian.”

“People,” Christian is decidedly not making eye contact with him now, “can be single and mature, if they aren’t coming off the back of a public relationship breakdown. To be clear, by public relationship breakdown, I do mean the restaurant incident.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Daniel says, immediately, “and it’s blown over now.”

“Has it?”

A pause.

Daniel shuts his mouth. He knows when he’s pushing something too far and more than that, he knows when he’s being a bald-faced liar. He switches tack.

“Okay. Who is it then, this hypothetical girl I’d be seeing.”

“Well,” Christian says, and he seems relieved to be back on script, “first of all, it’s not a girl. It’s a man, an up-and-coming model.”

Daniel has to fight not to groan.

“Is this some fucked up revenge plot for coming out as bisexual while I was dating a girl Christian, because I get that you couldn’t generate the kind of narrative you wanted from that but it was still, like, a big deal.”

It’d gotten him on the cover of multiple pride magazines and a Vanity Fair exclusive, which to Christian was like winning the Lottery. Daniel still thinks privately that the social capital of having a bisexual multiple time Oscar-nominated client probably gives him a — perfectly professional — managerial boner.

Christian just laughs again, doesn’t really respond to what Daniel’s just said. It’s a tried and true tactic of his.

“We think you’ll like him,” he barrels on, without interruption, “he’s nice enough Daniel, and it’ll be good for his career too, being seen with you.”

“Sure.”

Daniel has his own thoughts on this, on the YSL-too-skinny-simpering-personality guy he’s already made up in his brain, that he’s about to be saddled with for months. He knows that Christian can read them all on his face but— the most frustrating thing is that Daniel can see how this works too.

He knows the problems the Academy has with him. Daniel isn’t the type — the stupid, oblivious type — to not notice getting nominated three times and never winning, walking into the Dolby theatre and its gilded stage losing its luster every time.

Daniel used to relish coming off as free, and changeable, and real.

It was like a superpower, to be able to do whatever he wanted, get as drunk as he wanted with his friends, as high and wasted as he wanted, and have it come off as a dazzling star in his 20’s living a life that everyone would be jealous of. Only, the articles started to go from fun-loving, to problem-seeking, to commitment-phobic, to photos of him hungover in the mornings sunglasses on and holding up a hand against the paparazzi.

He stares at the grey listless sky, clouds fat with rain and nods along to whatever else Christian’s saying, logistics and press and staged shoots.

“—so I’ll send you his details, and we’ll set up an initial meeting then?”

An initial meeting; what a way to talk about a future fucking paramour.

“Yeah,” he says, phone buzzing with a google alert, “sure.”

#only able to write 1-2k hits rn xxx enjoy #dr3 #my fic #maxiel #f1 rpf #actor daniel au

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hypnostouched · 7 months

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thinking about my aftg trio ships sexual dynamics bc i am first and foremost a smut writer

Andrew dominates Kevin bc Kevin needs to be dominated and bc Andrew refuses to submit to Kevin (andrew doesnt trust him enough but also the 'its fun to say no to kevin' shit). Andrew prefers being in control which is fine with Kevin who is used to giving up control. This is what feels normal and safe for both of them, its borne of trauma from both sides but if its not broke and all of that

Kevin dominates Neil. Kevin somewhat considers Neil 'his' in a way thats probably a bit too raven, he's the one in control of him on the court and that carries over for them. Neil, being the least experienced is pretty okay with this because he doesn't mind being led and is finding out he's a bit of a freak. Neil is a brat because he will never fully respect Kevin's authority in any sense but lucky for him he finds it hot when Kevin manhandles him (both of them do end up getting out of control w their anger issues here and sometimes its just violence and no sex)

Neil and Andrew are messy. Andrew trusts Neil and that fucks him up because it opens him up to wanting things he has long accepted he cant have, and he doesnt know if he can have them now and he hates wanting things Andrew leads, but Neil is very eager. Neil wants to do for Andrew for Andrew does for him. And Andrew does want to let go and Neil promises to look after him. Its slow and messy and painful both of them fuck kevin sometimes when things get rougher bc hes simpler

As ive said, kevin and Riko used to be a lot more mutual but it got weird and mostly about riko dominating. In my Riko survives stuff it swings the other way quite severely and its a lot more of kevin dominating and its not particularly healthy but would anything with these two be healthy. Its a lot more anger based sex but also they missed each other

Kevin and Jean are probably the most normal bc they were moreso like. groping each other in corners and making out in locker rooms in little snatches of privacy. theyre the most like regular people and also the most vanilla dynamic

riko tries to fuck Jean after Kevin leaves but he doesnt like it and doesnt really try again. his fixation on kevin really makes him disinterested in everyone else (kevin and the short angry demisexual strikers)

#aftg #kevin day #andrew minyard #neil josten #riko moriyama #jean moreau #nsft #this is the first time ive drawn jean

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johannestevans · 2 years

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The Precarity of Subscription-Based Income

We’re basically busking online. No wonder we have anxiety about it.

This piece is also on Medium.

So let’s start out by saying that in the scheme of things, I am doing okay. I am not starving, I am not at risk of losing my home, and most months I can afford all the medications and medical care I am prescribed without difficulty.

This is a piece intended for online artists and other creators to work through the emotions of this kind of precarity and insecurity — it’s not intended to make any of my fans or my regular readers feel guilty for not giving me more money, or to guilt people into giving me money when they do not have it to give.

In fact, that mutual — if not near universal! — feeling of financial anxiety is precisely what this piece is about.

I have one novel out, for which I do earn some royalties, but the vast majority of my earnings come from Medium and Patreon. All of my streams of income together — book royalties, Medium, Patreon, and scattered bits and pieces here and there — I earn about $1400-$1500 USD a month most months, sometimes less.

Previously I earned less on Patreon but I was earning more royalties on books then, but as time goes on you tend to reach a plateau on book sales as you reach the organic audience for that book — the only way I’ll get a bigger boost to sales now is if I get very lucky with a review on a big publication or, (this will likely come sooner), I finish up another novel.

Some months I earn more, because I earn a bunch of tips, or there was a big boost of sales to one of my books. Most months, that does not happen, especially now that Twitter has died off as a platform — when I did TweetFics that got big, I was often able to boost my tip jar, but now that Twitter’s lost a lot of its traction, that’s no longer a possibility.

It��s not terrible money. It’s actually more reliable as income than when I worked hospitality as a porter, where between my own chronic illness and injury, and hotels loving a bit of casual “accidental” wage theft, I’d often end up with less pay than I was expecting.

What I make is enough for me to live on, for the most part, and I know I’m very lucky to make that much.

I make ~€1300/a month ($1400 USD a month. About $350 a week), rent is €460 — after rent, I have about €210 to live on per week.

My asthma inhalers cost about €80. My testosterone, which I get every 12 weeks, costs about €80. Normally as per the Irish drugs payment scheme, I can get them at the same time and pay €80 for everything. It costs €35 — €50 to go to the doctor and get my testosterone administered, depending on if I’m also getting bloods done at the same time.

My teeth were majorly fucked up, and for a while the cost of my dental care was fucking destroying me, especially when I had to get surgery to remove some teeth, but thankfully I’m mostly on top of that now. I am dreading, on the other hand, having to start a different med to treat my arthritis or otherwise becoming injured or further unwell — I should be in physiotherapy, but the cost is prohibitive; my counsellor takes a voluntary contribution because I see him through a charity for rape survivors, and thank God, because regular private therapy is pretty expensive.

The cost of groceries in Ireland is… high.

To be honest, the cost of most things in Ireland is high, which is part of the reason I want to move back to the UK — with that said, because of the Artists’ Exemption for artists in Ireland, my income goes a bit further it isn’t taxed, I only my universal contribution. In the UK there’s no similar scheme, and the orchestrated fuel “crisis” where energy companies (and the politicians they went to school with) are hiking prices as high as possible to make record profits is even more hard-hitting than in Ireland.

I would love to say that that the tax exemption exists solely because Ireland is a wonderful place for artists, and because Ireland does so much to encourage its artists to create, to have time to create, to have money to create. Ireland is not perfect, but it absolutely does do that, it does try, and it does better than a lot of places. Ireland has a lot of initiatives in place for artists and I love and appreciate that so much!

But also, artists are often fucking impoverished, and very few of them make enough money to live on. Most writers in Ireland make a few hundred euro a year, let alone enough money to survive on.

I do. For the most part, I do make enough money to live on, and not just survive, but do okay. Yes, I panic about money every other week, no, I don’t put money away in savings or a pension scheme or health insurance because I simply don’t have the money, but mostly, I do okay.

And this is with writing being my sole income, without working another job at the same time. A lot of people are doing this sort of subscription-based work whilst being in full-time or part-time employment at the same time — and a lot of people are like me, who just physically can’t really do that, even though it would lead to mildly more economic stability.

I say mildly more because, let’s face it, wages are pretty low, not remotely in line with the cost of living, many hours are demanded from workers — often unpredictably — and bosses know that workers do not have much other option than taking their worst treatment.

Every time someone unsubscribes on Patreon or Medium, I notice, and I panic a little bit — and the thing is, the difference is only going to be, what, $2 or $3 a month? That’s an incredibly small amount. Yes, some people do subscribe on Patreon for larger amounts (for which I’m very grateful), but most people really can’t afford that much because they are also experiencing the weight of a cost of living crisis, the prohibitive cost of being chronically ill during a worldwide pandemic, the impact of not just wage stagnation but casual workers’ abuses, etc.

The amount people spend to subscribe to my body of work is equivalent to a few coins out of their pocket, and I’m constantly aware that many people can’t even afford that at times, which is part of why I have so much free fiction available and why I never guilt anybody for “pirating” my work.

But when people do unsubscribe and I get that moment of panic, I feel guilty for it — Hell, I feel incredibly guilty for wanting to make more money and working to make more money, because I know that every additional few dollars a month from someone on my subscription services is a real person who’s putting money my way.

And that feeling? That shame and guilt for wanting to make more money, because I want to make enough money to be comfortable and to be secure? That comes from knowing how many other people are just like me or are doing worse, and don’t even have the precarious security of income that I have.

So many of my friends gain their incomes from Patreon, Medium, or Substack, from regular tips on sites like Ko-Fi, or from sites like OnlyFans and JustForFans, etc.

We either earn money per item or piece of material (for me that would be book sales, but for others it might be sales of pictures or videos, pieces of art, online resources, etc), or we earn tips here and there on free content (which are inherently unpredictable, much like tips IRL for buskers and entertainers), or we have people who subscribe monthly or annually for a a regular amount.

As a “content creator”, regardless of what that content is, there is constant fear and anxiety.

Is this content appealing to a wide enough audience? Should I be appealing to a wide audience, or should I aim for a specific niche audience?

A wider audience means more people to market to who might give you money, but a niche audience means that while the audience pool itself is smaller, that audience is going to be more inclined to pay you, because they are starved for content otherwise.

I’m gay, trans, and disabled, and much of my work centres around gay, trans, disabled men — and much of my audience is of similar men or other queer and disabled people. Yes, it’s a smaller niche than the broader straight audience, and we’re far less likely to have as much money as straight abled people, but because there’s barely any work created with us in mind, people are more motivated to shell out for the content they crave.

“Content,” because while I’m an artist and an author and a creator, it’s not just about my actual fic, but also about “content” such as Tweets and asks and advice and funny posts and selfies, all of which are nebulously shoved into the same label of “content” for the social media mill, to be “consumed”.

I resent this language, naturally, because for the most part I don’t think a lot of my social media stuff is considerable enough to be content I would charge for, but also because it flattens all manner of art and material and acts of creation into one marketable word, and while it’s partly done because of the endless tread of capitalist nonsense, it’s also done because capitalism demands artists — and art — be defanged and made marketable.

But another piece of language that I really don’t like and avoid using myself is “donations”. I have a tip jar, and I’m grateful when people tip me, but they are tipping me because they enjoy some aspect of the entertainment work I do, whether that’s my Tweets or Tumblr posts, my movie reviews or commentary, my fiction, my selfies, whatever.

It’s not a donation. It’s not charity. There’s nothing wrong with accepting or needing charity, but it would bother me to solicit charity, because I don’t believe I am sufficiently deserving of it, and if someone’s giving money out of charity, I’d rather they give it to someone who needs it more than I do.

Some cishet people will absolutely feel guilty after reading some posts and be like, “oh, I’m gonna give some money to this trans guy on the internet to assuage my guilt about not doing enough to protect or care for trans people in my actual community,” and that’s annoying, but it’s not surprising — but cishet people’s guilt isn’t something that I really want to play on, because there’s other people who could and should benefit from it far more than I would.

But to other trans and disabled people, I’m absolutely not going to present myself as being on the brink of poverty, because I’m not! God knows there are enough grifters online who present a lot of their solicitations for money as charitable giving, either for themselves or others, in order to spin a profit — and more importantly, there are a lot more people who fucking need to rely on charity and/or reparations from the guilt-ridden who can’t produce the sort of work that I can on the scale that I do.

Which, this year I’ve been publishing a piece every week or so — a piece for me might be an erotic short or other short story, an essay or significant blog post, a serial chapter, etc.

I feel incredibly guilty when I struggle to put out a finished piece a week — ridiculous, given that that’s a lot for one person to put out per week, and is a lot more than many creators manage, but also?

In my back catalogue of published short stories and essays, there’s over 200 completed pieces, most of which are thousands of words long apiece, some being short novellas that are 20k+ long, all featuring a variety of different characters, tones, genres.

This isn’t even mentioning my serial fiction, where my serials together comprise of hundreds of thousands of words of fiction across a few genres and tones.

What do I have to feel guilty for? Why should I feel so much shame for not delivering “enough” to my audience, when I do deliver so much?

Because there’s a constant fear that if I don’t do enough (if I don’t do more than enough), that everyone will unsubscribe and either go to different creators or go to new people entirely. Because it feels like all my success as a creator is based on my personal performance and my goodness as a human being — because when we talk about being a “content creator”, a large part of the “content” being sold is oneself.

You’re not just selling your work: you have to sell your identity.

I have to sell that I’m gay and trans and disabled; I have to sell that I’m sexy and funny and confident; I have to sell that I’m witty and biting, but not too flawed in a way that will make people hate me and change their minds about financially supporting me. There are absolutely people who engage with my work — either initially or over time — because they find me personally sexy, which is fine, I am sexy!

But that’s a lot of pressure, and there’s not really a choice to opt out of that pressure to sell one’s self because of the constant grind of social media, the desperate need to stay relevant, and also to cultivate some form of parasocial loyalty from one’s fans.

So when someone unsubscribes on Patreon, there are so many initial fears — Did I do something wrong? Did I not post enough? Did I post too much of the wrong thing? When I said this, was it read as offensive or cruel? Was it taken out of context? Are people talking about me and deciding together that I’m not worth the money anymore? Do people hate me personally? Was I too gay or too trans or too disabled? Was I too horny, or not horny enough?

I don’t have OCD, but all of the above can really easily feed into OCD spiralling, and for many creator friends of mine who do have OCD and grapple with these sort of moralising self-analytical intrusive thoughts, it’s constant and really difficult not to think about.

And the thing is, those are all the wrong questions to ask.

People might well hate me or not think I’m worth the money, or I might be posting the wrong content at the moment, or they might have outgrown me or grown bored of my work, or they might find me dickish and annoying — that’s none of my business. None of those people are my friends, and they don’t owe me an explanation or an answer to any of those anxieties.

They were paying me money in exchange for being entertained by me, and if for some reason they stopped being entertained by me, then it’s right that they should stop paying and go do something else with their money!

But the more likely explanations for people unsubscribing are ones like this, because many people have limited cash to spend:

Recently I’ve been having to work a lot more hours and I’m not reading as much fiction as I did.

Recently I’m sick and tired and struggle to concentrate on fiction.

I’m subscribed to a bunch of creators on Patreon and Johannes’ work is the one I have the least time for/motivation for, so if I’m going to cut one out, it will be him.

I hate reading fiction on Patreon or I otherwise dislike the platform and so I’m just unsubscribing from all the creators on there.

I used to read a lot of this guy’s TweetFic because it was so easy to read, but his other fiction is harder for me to get into, and I can’t justify the cost for work I’m not engaging with.

I’ve read through all of this guy’s back catalogue quite quickly and I’m going to unsubscribe and come back to his work in a year or two when he puts out more work.

For a while he was writing fic about specific characters or in a specific genre that I enjoy, but he’s currently focusing on other things. I will return when he does my favourite things again.

Johannes is posting too much and I’m finding it overwhelming and it’s making me guilty that I don’t have time to keep up, so I’m going to unsubscribe and come back when I have more time.

I’m unsubscribing from Patreon so that I can subscribe on Medium instead.

Or many other reasons.

In short, every single person who is subscribed to me and my work on one of these platforms is a person with their own vastly complicated life and potential reasons for subscribing and unsubscribing. While I’m sure a handful of them might well be unsubscribing with the intention of punishing me or “voting with their feet” to go elsewhere, for a lot more, I’m sure it’s not really a thought.

It will be as simple as “I am spending money on this. Am I using my subscription and engaging (and enjoying engaging with) what the subscription is for? No? Then I will unsubscribe,” which all of us do all the time, and is quite natural!

This will be the case for people who subscribe to me for fiction, but also who subscribe to any other creators for art, for video essays or other videos, for essays and media analysis, for critical commentary, for pornography and erotica, for tutorials, for all manner of creators who earn money from individual subscribers.

How do we cope with that?

How do we remember that, when everywhere we go we’re blasted in the face with the principles of Hustle Culture and Grind Culture and whatever other awful euphemisms that are pushed at us? Where your identity is the work you create and the value you have, and whenever you’re not working, you must feel shame for being alive?

Once I have the trick of it, I’ll be sure to share it around. In the meantime, I do think that transparency and thinking out loud about the reality of the mental toll can help a bit.

If you can’t economically support your favourite creators, do remember that just sharing their work with others or engaging with it — via review or recommendation or just commenting and so on — also really helps them because that engagement boosts their reach to others through you, but also like…

I don’t think you should ever feel guilty if, for any reason, you can’t do that either. So many feelings of guilt or shame are already preyed upon by commercial forces for the purposes of gaining access to some of your money, and on social media, your attention and your emotion are reached for in the same way, and it just sucks.

In an ideal world, things wouldn’t be the way they are — in the world we live in, my goals are to make more money by reaching a broader audience and delivering a broader variety of work to click with that audience, and doing my best to avoid making anyone feel guilty in the meantime.

That’s the crux of it, I think — as a creator, I feel a lot of those horrible feelings of guilt and shame and anxiety because of the way our economy and my financial precarity exist, and what I don’t want to do is pass on those horrible feelings to fans so that they’ll give me money. Rich people use that cycle of emotion to accumulate as much wealth as possible — normal people just do it to fucking survive, and if I can survive without contributing to it, that’s what I’ll do.

#hustle culture #marketing #content creation #patreon creator

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etherealspacejelly · 17 days

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You wanted asks so here’s one

How’s your week so far and do you get annoyed by one person reblogging like a bunch of your stuff bc it’s all over their dash?

(What’re you talking about this totally isn’t all about bc your posts are all over my dash and I reblog so many of them and I feel like it’s annoying)

But it’s an ask so :]

-Oz

my week so far has been ok. i had a doctors appointment and i switched banks (because fuck barclays) and i went food shopping yesterday. ive been playing the sims 4 a lot recently, thats been fun.

and ofc i dont mind. i have several mutuals who will literally scroll through my blog liking and reblogging stuff as if its their dash and i find it endearing. like ah, you like my wares! come come, there is plenty more!

the people who reblog a bunch of my posts who arent my mutuals i end up recognising their urls. there are plenty of people that when i see them im like oh hey its you! even tho i have uhhh *coughs* 2661 followers *coughs* but yeah. i know my regulars

take you for example! i see you around a lot so even tho we arent moots i still recognise you in my notifs. just scrolling through my notifs from this morning, i recognise people like iamshmolfrog, lyrasringofstardust, and dontbe-lasanya

so yeah. dont be afraid to interact with my posts a bunch. i dont mind it at all. and it helps me to recognise my followers!

also my posts are good and i am the most correct person on this website. feel free to prev tags me when i make a really funny joke because im hilarious. you're welcome

#inbox #ask #inbox open

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pastelprince18 · 1 year

Text

✨🌸INTRO🌸✨

✨Hello their my beloved little fellas, Names Ray [Nicknamed not real name]! I usually post my art weather being doodles, wips, sketches, paintings or finished pieces being fandom stuff or my own projects [which is rare because I am so shy to share my very own content and don't know how people will act, maybe someday I will talk about it] I would appreciate if you do see my art anywhere to DM me and NOT harass anybody <:] , but if you do share my work PLEASE CREDIT ME!!I IT WILL ME A LOT TO ME /Gen✨

✨ Short Info✨

💖Ray [Perfered] , Raylin, Pastel

💖Adult

💖 Puerto Rican

💖 Demi Girl [She/They/Her/Them]

💖Lesbian, Ace

💖Taken

💖#Kbyeart is my arttag

💖Self-Taught Artist

💖Can Be a bit too talktive </3

💖Gamer [if you like to add me on switch lmk CLOSE FRIENDS ONLY!!

💖COMMISSION CHART HERE If intrested please dm on my platforms: Instagram, Tumblr, Discord, Deviant Art, and Twitter all under the same name :]

💖Can get anxious meeting new people either too shy or too excited

⭐️Interests⭐️

🌸Mario Rabbids Series

🌸Rabbids Invasion

🌸Cuphead

🌸Sanrio

🌸Spongebob

🌸Mario.Bros

🌸 Pastel, Hospital, Nostalgic Core Aesthetic

🌸Carebears

🌸Regular Show [Been a while but I still love it <33]

🌸Plushies

🌸Pretty Blood

🌸The Bad Guys

🌸Happy Tree Friends

🌸Rayman

🌸BFB

🌸Inanimate Insanity

⛈DNI⛈

Proshipper

Basic Racism,Bigots,Homophobics, Transphobic

Art Thief

Discourse Accounts

NFT’s Cryptic

DDLGS

Cringe Culture [Ya know the people who say “THATS CRINGE EW”]

You harass me or any of my friends/ mutuals. That is automatic block

Also Spamming inbox + Dms will be blocked

Dream SMP Fans

Fetish Artist

Vizpop Fans

HH and HB stuff, I don’t wanna hear nothing of that shit, please block me or i’ll block you I don’t nothing to do with it or see it on my damn feed /srs

🍒BYF🍒

As stated before I do talk a lot, I usually ramble about my own HC, Oc Stuff, Ships, Ideas or even things I really enjoy from games, shows movies ect. I hope you are prepared on what I will share here. And just know it is for fun and I would love for ya’ll to also share your ideas <3

I tend to have depressed episodes sometimes, if you do see me writing things on here mainly at night, its where I can show during that time since I feel bad for venting too much to friends. I feel bad even venting out just to let steam off, sorry for advance :’]

I open request when I feel like it weather being I am art blocked, have no ideas or no motvation. IT IS A RARE MOMENT, PLEASE DO NOT SPAM MY INBOX!!! IF I HAVE NOT DONE UR REQUEST I WILL GLADLY DO IT WHEN I AM FREE

Speaking of the first one. Do not spam inbox please, I have gotten that lately and I tend to get anxious or annoyed since I can't always answer stuff, I do have a job and I tend to get sidetrack, even if I am not in the best mental state please do not be on top of me, I do not like that.

My art takes quite a bit to post weather being a painting or digital art, I work 5 days a week and usually it drains me where I am at. usually cause of that my motivation drains fast. I know I say I promise to do things and I will keep that promise, even if its months too late I'll try to work on it <3

Don’t call my art hot or sexy if I don’t know you at all and especially if you’re a minor- I don’t like when people in general call my art hot or sexy [Unless you’re my close friend than idm <3]

Thank you all for dropping by and hope to get to know most of you all :’]

#ray rambles

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asteria-argo · 1 month

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If you are looking to ramble about Disaster Prone Teenagers, I’d love to know what both of their families look like in this AU?

Like for instance- does this mean that Eddie has oldest sister problems? Is she roped into babysitting her baby sisters all the time? Is most of their family still in Texas? Does her dad travel back and forth? Did he even make it to her quinceañera?

Assuming Buck’s home life is similar, what about the Maddie-and-Doug situation? Is Maddie perhaps keeping her sister at more of an arms length, more afraid of what Doug might do if Buck were to run her mouth around him? Does Buck still have a motorbike at that age that she rides around like a jackass? Does she have the exact same haircut?

My Most Beloved Mutual Readwing I am kissing you on the mouth I love you SO much for this ask. Their family situation is one of the main things that I am rotating in my brain constantly since I first came up with this AU a few months ago.

We'll start with Eddie, because I love her a lot and she means everything to me. Eddie's family, her mom, dad and two sisters are all still in El Paso. She moved to LA for what was supposed to be one summer after a Traumatic Event that is a whole post on its own to live with tia pepa and her abuela and then she just... never went back?

She has that Eldest Daughter Syndrome where she'd been raising her sisters since she was barely in double digits and moving to LA was the first time she really got to just be a teenager without the burden of being the second parent while her dad was busy with work. The deal was always that she would go back to El Paso eventually, but the more time she spends away the less she wants to go back. She definitely has a lot of guilt about it, because she feels like she's abandoning her sisters, and her parents don't really help with that because they want her home regardless of the fact she's happier in LA.

As for the Quinceanẽra, after a brief amount of research I have discovered that around the time the Traumatic Event took place would have been when she was supposed to be having it, so there's some fun angst potential there where I think Eddie ended up missing out on that milestone. There's also some solid potential for a hurt/comfort fic where she finally gets to have it, just a little later than normal, but I would have to do more research into it before writing anything like that since I'm not that well versed in the cultural significance of Quinceanẽras. Clipboard Buck helping her best friend plan her Quinceanẽra is a very fun potential fic in the verse though.

And Buck, oh the Buck of it all. Buck's family life is actually a lot different in this AU, unlike Eddie's whose is mostly the same just adjusted for teen angst instead of grown up angst, mainly because Daniel lived in this AU. At least until Buck was about 14.

It changes everything and nothing at the exact same time. Buck grows up being constantly micromanaged, not because her parents are worried about her, but because they don't want something to happen to her in case Daniel needs her. Daniel, being a reasonable person, thinks this is absolutely insane and does his best alongside Maddie to give Buck a semi regular childhood despite the pair of them having their own issues with their parents. Then, Maddie meets Doug, and it's just Daniel helping keep Buck afloat in their house.

When Daniel is 22, and Buck is 14, he goes into kidney failure. He doesn't survive, and their parents blame Buck, who refused to donate one of her kidneys too him. The first time Maddie sees Buck since she moved to Boston with Doug at 19 is at Daniels funeral.

Maddie and Doug move back to Hershey after Daniel dies. Things get steadily worse over the next year, Doug proposes to Maddie and they get engaged at the same time Doug becomes more outwardly abusive, the Buckley parents become steadily more neglectful of Buck in their grief over Daniel, which leads to Buck spending more time with Maddie in order to get away from them. which opens the door for two things. Buck sees how terrible Doug is to Maddie, and Maddie sees how terrible their parents are to Buck. This culminates in the two of them running away to LA together the night of Maddie and Dougs rehearsal dinner, after Maddie sees Doug get violent with Buck, because while I don't think she would be ready to leave for herself, I think she would for her baby sister.

As for Bucks hair I genuinely have,,, so many thoughts about it. I think Buck is a very stereotypical pretty, feminine cheerleader archtype. She's got this long, curly blonde hair that has always been at least mid back length since she was 10 years old, which is why when she chops most of it off during a Dramatic Moment and gives herself the classic bisexual bob it's a major deal for everybody involved. Which is in itself it's own fic about self image and expectations ect ect that I can and will get into eventually.

#This isn't even all of my thoughts on their families #it's not even half of them #I have so many #Disaster Prone Cheerleaders #asteria answers asks #wip stuff #I have thoughts about Maddie's relationship with Daniel and Doug and Buck in this au #and how that all plays into each other #I have thoughts about Eddie and her sisters and the guilt she feels for how much she resents them and loves them at once #about her relationship with her dad #and the pressure put on her to be a mother to kids that aren't even hers #to kids that are supposed to be her PEERS #by a dad whose barely there and by a mother who is always looking over her shoulder #and the CHRISTOPHER OF IT ALL

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oatmilktruther · 6 months

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16 and 46 for the ask challenge! For 46 I'm curious about your style both narratively and in voice (yours is so unique and I'm obsessed with it) and maybe how you went about developing it (if you even can answer that idk).

16. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

LOL technically i have so many because none of them are really abandoned but off the top of my head the ones that i consistently think about… vampire stede, lesbian car guy ed, regency marriage of convenience and mutual pining, and fight club not Fight Club. the regency marriage of convenience one is the one im most craving to finish because i havent seen anyone else write marriage of convenience/arranged marriage in a way that really hits the spot but basically my concept is Stede and Ed meet and become friends as teenagers and as they get older Stedes parents are pressuring him to marry someone with a title to give their family legitimacy (which Ed has) and Eds parents are pressuring him to marry anyone at all (he is trans and they are worried no one will want him because hes not “a proper young lady”) and Ed knows Stede would never expect him to be anything but Ed, so he asks him to marry him so he can just live his life and Stede of course says yes. Thus ensues years of mutual pining (and Ed of course living his best life and getting to Ye Old Transition in peace). im regular about this idea and gender and intimacy (lying)

46. How would you describe your style? (Character/emotion/action-driven, etc)

omg thank you for being so so kind this means a lot to me it feels good to know i offer something unique. i would say it’s very emotion driven but primarily because i get so incredibly anchored in the character whose POV im writing from. like i am an emotional person myself so when i get down to writing something im living in my characters head and feeling all their feelings so i can put them on the page. most of my plotting is driven by how its going to make the character feel.

and my voice is most often a variation on an Ed Teach ADHD special, though sometimes its the Stede Bonnet Autism Express, but as i mentioned in an earlier ask the thing that unites them most often is a sense of rhythm. And the main way that i developed this was just listening to so so so much music while im reading and writing and also reading a lot and basically absorbing a lot of language, most especially lyrics, and then actually being auDHD myself. so like a combination of the way i am a rabbity erratic thinker naturally and having absorbed so much musicality and lyricism and rhythm into my brain while associating it with “regular” written prose ive just tried to imbue as much of that as possible into my writing. and then the other thing is like. i get bored easily myself so like. i really dont want to get bored writing and i really dont want my readers to get bored either. so every time i write something new i want it to feel new in general and new for me and i want it to have as much motion and dynamism as possible. well i talked longer than i meant to but i hope this is coherent. thank you again for the ask and for being so kind 💖

#m #ask game

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pikmininaplane · 3 months

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Hello dear mutual LB lanuel Bals third of its name, i do not know a SINGLE thing abt d20 i only rbed because a mutual drew that and i thus extend the official invite to feel free to info dump to me abt it (PLEASE !!! only if u want ofc peeposhy) and also where should i start if i were to try to get into it (asking for me)

thank u and have a great ballsy day <33 uwu

Oh em gee it’s Moo Peng my beloved tumblr dot com mutual haiii ^w^ And thank you SO much for giving me an opportunity to talk about this >:D This might get long tho

D20, aka Dimension 20, is a RPG (mostly D&D) show that you can watch on Dropout (smaller American streaming service, but it has really good content <3), though some seasons are on Youtube!

There are 21 seasons in total so far, but each one is its own campaign (well, except for the 3-4 sequel seasons), which means you can absolutely jump right into a later season and still get what’s going on :] Also the seasons range from 20 episodes to 4, so you don’t always need to find the emotional resolve to sit through 20 2-hours long episodes lol

The fanart you reblogged is of Ayda, a character from Fantasy High, which is basically the poster child of D20 – it was the first season, and it later got two sequel seasons, Sophomore Year (which is the exact one Ayda is from) and Junior Year, the most recent season, as well as two spin-off seasons with locations/characters from its world (Pirates of Leviathan and The Seven (it’s kinda funny actually because I know you’re a PJO fan and, well, I often see posts about it in that season’s tag because of the name X))) Mostly it’s about a bunch of teenagers in a fantasy 80s-esque high school trying to solve mysteries and going on adventures!

Fantasy High is not my personal favorite, however – the medal of honor goes to A Court of Fey and Flowers and Mentopolis, respectively the "fey regency/romance" season and the "Inside Out but as a film noir" season <3 But there’s plenty I love!! There’s a space opera season, a "Game of Thrones but with food" season, a heist season, a furry murder mystery season, a fairytale horror season… the list goes on! It even featured a bunch of drag queens on a season :D

There’s only four seasons available on Youtube, unfortunately, but they’re all really good so here they are:

Fantasy High

I’ve mentioned it before, so I won’t elaborate, but I’ll add that it’s 17 episodes long!

Fantasy High: Sophomore Year

Also mentioned before, but I’ll add that this season was recorded live on Twitch so while it’s a lot of people’s favorite, it has occasional problems (especially audio-wise). 20 episodes long

Escape from the Bloodkeep

Lord of the Rings parody – the villain lords find themselves scrambling when not-Sauron suddenly dies and they’re forced to work together to bring him back :3c 6 episodes long, features Matt Mercer of Critical Role fame

The Unsleeping City

Urban fantasy, turns out there’s a whole magical side of New York that regular people can’t see, and a group of unlikely heroes band together to face the bad parts of that magical side >:3c 17 episodes long, there’s also a second season of it but it isn’t out on Youtube unfortunately :(

The next season, Never Stop Blowing Up, is coming out in like a week and a half, based on the trailer, it’s going to be a Jumanji-like 80s action movies parody and I am!! Very excited!! :D

#moo my beloved comment ça m’a fait trop plaisir de voir ça dans mon inbox <3 #also si ça t’intéresse… de temps en temps j’organise des watch parties des saisons pas sur Youtube dans un serveur Discord privé…#je pourrais t’inviter… just saying….. 😳#asks

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yeastymuffin · 6 months

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It is well into thursday afternoon, the curse of living in Europe i guess, but I'll still post something for the wip wednesday. Thanks for tagging me @paperstomach!! :D

I don't know which one of my mutuals are working on stuff, so if you see this, feel free to share your wips (even if it isn't wednesday) and tag me in it if you want some feedback or just a fun comment ^-^

I have two things I am working on at the moment (three if you include my thesis 🤐) so I'll post both. One being a sapphic Victorian-esque ghost story about a haunted hotel near the beach. The second being my recently revived medieval Brittana fic inspired by this piece of art by @katimanki

At the bottom, below the 'read more' link, is the first chapter of the Brittana fic. It's like 5k words so enjoy! (@unholy-fabray you seemed interested so I'm posting this for u <3)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Premise: Addie and Dolly are riding horseback on the beach. This is the first time they are being honest to eachother about what they are dealing with (Addie being mentally unwell, and Dolly caring deeply for her)

Addie shared a look of deep earnest. A heaviness settled upon hers shoulders. The weight of which her companion shared, for she halted her steed, letting the silence beg for Addie to answer the unspoken question.

“I want to be emaciated.” She said at last. “To feel the same kind of instinctual hunger the gulls feel as a need to drive them up into the sky. That way, and that way alone, could I explain why I feel the way I feel.”

A breath of silence fell between them. The gulls sailed low today, feeding on what tiny creatures hid beneath the surface of the sand. Dolly watched the birds with a naïve kind of curiosity as they spread their wings to glide up each time a wave got to shore with the intent to wipe away all that was before – the rhythm of which never seemed to tire.

“Well then, it must be so.” She spoke. Her face contorted in a stern frown. “But only long enough for you to explain it to me. Then, afterwards, when you sink away in the despair you cried out, let me raise your chin and fill you with love. Let me fill you till it comes out of your nose, and I will wipe away the snot, and hold you, and tell you all can be well. If only you let yourself feel it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

AAAAAND THE GLEE FIC:

Long Live: chapter one

Throughout the evening the regular folk enters the taverns until a lively buzz of songs sung by drunk rumbles through the streets. Every so often, when a drunkard is kicked out for becoming too rowdy, a passerby would be able to distinctly make out the lyrics of the drinking song as the words roll of tens of stumbling tongues. Where each tavern poured their own ale, so were the songs and festive hymns hand crafted and specific to the place.

The Vulgar Elderberry, known by locals as the most disorderly and unrestrained pub of the city, where middle-aged men go to pick fights and prostitutes make a humble fortune, is as busy as usual. At every hour of the day there is a group of drunk men, but as soon as the sun goes down the benches and stools fill till the early morning sun peeks over the horizon.

Santana, who might as well be wearing Hans Christian Andersen’s red dancing shoes, is having a blast. With only a bat of her eyes a new drink finds its way to her hand. Men are at her feet with every sway of her hips or twirl of the skirt. And they are at her feet in the literal sense since she is up on her third table of the night. Drunkards are watching her from below, tongues nearly rolling out of their mouth and on the sticky surface of the table which has seen the spillage of many a beer.

On the table next to her is a blonde girl she has seen a couple times before. She does not know her name but somehow they always end up at the same tavern and decide to entertain the guests together. Though it is clear the girl does this on a regular basis, dancing into the early hours of the day, Santana thinks she is decently able to keep up in her drunken haze.

The regular bard is strumming away on a lyre, his beautiful song drowned out by the intoxicated attempts of the patrons singing along. Santana has reached the point where the loud chants do not sound loud anymore and the world is engulfed in a blanket of bliss. Yes, this means she sometimes misses a beat or nearly hits one of the guys who is sitting at her table in the face when she kicks her leg up, but hey, she is at the Elderberry. Any visitor is bound to come home with multiple bruises.

At a dark corner of the bar she sees someone dressed in a dark cloak and a blue tunic. The guest has had two mugs of beer at most and has been looking at her intensely all night. Santana, being a glutton for attention and praise, dances harder for every guy staring at her but tonight she has been dancing for this visitor and this visitor alone. Sharp eyes ogle her from under the hood, face inexpressive no matter how suggestive her dancing gets.

If anyone is sober enough to pay attention to the relatively tall visitor in blue, they would notice how out of place the person is. Not only does the person look too old to still be dressed as a squire, the light blue fabric of the tunic is too expensive for any commoner to wear to a pub like this. A night without a fight is rare, and though people like to show off their riches and power in any social setting, the average response to vanity in the Vulgar Elderberry is a punch to the throat. To wear a light blue dyed linen tunic is asking for trouble.

Santana’s eye fucking gets interrupted when she feels a slosh of beer hit her feet. Still dancing, she looks down at the two guys who just toasted too zealous for the state of their motor control. Their spilled toast is all over the table. She shouts a string of curse words at them and not so subtly stomps in the pool of beer, trying to splash them back.

Too drunk or turned on – or both – to care, the men wipe the drops of beer from their face and out of their beards. Two pairs of lust filled eyes look at her, not registering the thundercloud that is forming above Santana’s head. The bald one barks at her like a dog, which encourages another fellow at her table to howl at her. All night, men have whistled and jeered at her but now most guests are unable to remember how much they had to drink. The last bit of Santana’s rationale takes over. Too much exhilaration will lead to men grabbing her for a dance and trying to suck her tongue out of her mouth, which is the last thing she wants.

Helplessly, she looks over at her blonde friend as she twirls, which may not be the best thing to do as she is certain she would trip if asked to walk in a straight line. Still, Santana never said her rationale was logical or the most efficient. After a couple twirls, she finally meets the eyes of her friend who frowns at her, asking what is wrong. Santana nods to her feet where one of the men is trying to grab at her dress to smell it. The girl nods, having understood the cry for help, then looks at her own crowd of drunk men and smiles teasingly.

“Me and my friend here are kind of getting bored.” The girl shouts. Santana is barely able to make out what is trying to say despite their close proximity. The men at her feet perk up, ready to serve this nymph anything as long as it gets her to keep dancing for them.

One guy jumps up on the bench and props one of his feet on the table. He extends an arm and reaches out for the girl. She places her hand in his outstretched hand. He grabs it tenderly and kisses it. Despite the softness of the kiss, which feels out of place seeing the tavern they are in, it is the lewdest thing Santana has seen all evening. She gawks at the sight. There might as well have been two people going at it doggy style on the table next to her.

“Two ale for these lovely broads who have been entertaining us all evening.” The guy screams at the bar.

“It’s on the house!” the bartender yells back as he puts two large mugs on the dark oak surface of the bar. An ocean of hands reaches out to bring the mugs to their destination.

A hand grabs Santana’s lower arm. Ready to fight off a man who cannot keep his hands to himself, Santana spins around to face her assailant, fist in the air ready to punch a bloody nose. To her surprise, it is the girl. She is leaning dangerously far forward and beckons for Santana to join her on her table. Assisted by a steady tug, she jumps over to the table. Delighted when her shoes do not stick to the table top, a luxury her old table did not have.

The girl does not let go of her. Repositioning her hand instead and intertwines their fingers together, her other hand finds Santana’s waist. The blonde turns her head and screams something at the bard. Santana is too drunk to hear it, overwhelmed by the sudden close proximity and the intense brown eyes the girl has.

“Dance with me.” She says. And Santana does.

Never before has she danced a peasant partner dance. After a minute of stepping on toes and legs tangling in skirts, she understands the rhythm of the dance. She smiles brightly at her partner when she figures it out. The girl grins back, all shiny teeth and pink lips.

Beneath her, the men’s clapping slowly increases. Santana dances like it is the only thing she has ever done in her life. Her body moves on its own, keeping up with the pace that grows faster by the second.

They hop and twirl and shimmy. Without looking away from the girl, Santana knows her whirling her red dress and the orange dress of her partner creates for an impressive sight. Two flames growing brighter and brighter in an endless waltz until they burn up together.

They dance on and on. The muscles in her legs are screaming at her to stop, but Santana cannot help it. If this is where she dies, dancing on a table in a disgustingly dirty tavern, so be it. May the heavens find her exhausted soul and realise that for once she enjoyed what she was doing with every fibre of her being.

One of the gods must have heard her death wish, as in the next second one of Santana’s feet slips off the table and she nearly tumbles into the lap of a sweaty, overweight guy. The only thing keeping her on her podium is the blonde girl who instantly drags her back on her feet.

The delirium of her aching body is taking over, or perhaps she is a lot more drunk than she thought she was. An all-consuming laughter bubbles up from her stomach and leaves her body. She looks like a maniac, but she cannot find the energy to care. There is no one here able to scold her for her unruly behaviour. The chest pressed against hers starts moving in shocks. The girl, too, is laughing hysterically.

She needs a full minute to get her laughter under control. Suddenly, as the last hiccups of her giggle die down, she realises she is still clinging to the girl who is sweaty and hot under her grip. A droplet of sweat rolls down the girl’s neck and pools behind her collarbone. Aware of the heaving chest pressed against hers, and the inappropriate intimacy Santana lets go. Albeit hesitantly.

The girl smiles at her, bright eyed, then turns to the men at their feet. “Where are those beers? I feel hot!” She knows exactly how to play a crowd.

“Yes you are!” A guy screams from a couple tables over.

A large mug filled to the brim is pressed in Santana’s hand by the girl. Her head is spinning. If she drinks this and keeps on dancing, she will sleep in the gutter tonight. Having sweat off half of her body weight, Santana takes a big gulp of her beer. She cringes when the lukewarm liquid fills her mouth, having expected the beer to be cold.

“Chug! Chug! Chug!” A guy with a sophisticated moustache chants. He must be a notary of some sorts during the day.

The blonde nudges Santana with her hip and lifts her mug suggestively. Not really caring much for her future self, Santana lifts her own mug with a devilish grin. They toast clumsily, spilling a fair amount as the mugs hit and start chugging.

From across the room, Santana makes eye contact with the peculiar visitor as she chugs her beer. Wanton from dancing, Santana decides to do something she has never done before. With her free hand, she undoes two buttons of her dress, showing off her cleavage. Nearly finished with her beer, she pulls the mug away from her mouth ‘accidentally’ spilling the remainder which drips down her chin and disappears between her breasts.

The cheers of the crowd beneath her leave her cold. Still, Santana bites away her smugness. She caught the visitor biting her lip and fumbling with the belt, hands restless from seeing Santana act all licentious. The victorious smile on her face is hard to supress so she turns to her still nameless friend and focuses her attention on her.

Her heart is running in circles behind her ribcage and kicking up a storm. A heat is growing from deep within and burns her up from the inside. It is dizzying. Santana feels like she can puke at any moment.

The girl says something.

“What?” Santana asks confused.

“It’s Quinn.” The girl repeats. Santana blinks. She does not remember asking the girl for her name, but she must have. Whilst she struggled to keep the content in her stomach inside, her body must have taken over and made small talk. Like when her mind goes away to that special place where she can run away on the back of a horse and ride into the sunset, while her body is talking about the current affairs of the kingdom with some stuck up duke.

“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” Quinn asks. Her eyes warm with worry. Santana wishes she can take her home. Quinn seems like a person you can be truly honest with, who would not judge you for the demons in your head.

Santana shakes her thoughts away. She forces herself to take a couple deep breaths. “Yeah, I’m good. The dancing wore me out.” She says. “I’m San- Rosario. Rosario San Cruz I think we’ve met before.”

“Quinn Fabray.” Quinn grabs her hand and spins her around. The soft fabric of Santana’s red dress undulates in graceful waves as she twirls. “We have. I remember because I never had a dance partner that’s able to keep up with me the way you do.”

“Why thank you.” Santana says demure, instinctively bowing elegantly as she takes the compliment. As Santana comes back up she bites her tongue to keep from smiling too hard. Though it’s too late. This Quinn girl has already brought out her cheek dimples. Santana hates them. She is usually pretty good at showing off a certain emotion when really she is feeling something else, but when her cheek dimples show, everyone can see she is truly happy in and out. Information which she prefers not to give away.

Quinn takes Santana’s mug with one hand and holds her other hand up invitingly. “May I have another dance with you, Rosario?” She says with an accent mocking the highbrow and royals.

“But of course you may.” Santana grabs the hand, responding in the same accent.

Quinn regards her, then pecks a kiss to each of the mugs and throws them behind her without looking, like a bride throwing her bouquet. Men dive after the mugs, deeming them worth more than jewellery. Not even a peregrine falcon diving after its prey is as fast.

The bard is playing a joyful song, Quinn sings along softly as she leads Santana. Santana cannot fully commit to the dance however, she keeps one eye on the men fighting over the mug - not trusting it will simply blow over. The tension she had tried escaping by going here has returned. The tiny demon running around in her skull is pulling on all the strings, creating doom scenarios of what could happen. Ranging from a simple barfight to a dragon ripping the roof of the tavern and burning them all alive.

“Stop thinking.” Quinn points out sharply. “This is the third time you’ve stepped on my foot and your eyes keep darting to the side. I know for a fact you’re not distracted by a handsome knight.”

Santana frowns at what Quinn might be implying. “What? I totally like knights.”

“Yeah, who doesn’t?” Quinn lets go of her for a second to do her own little freestyle whilst she stares at the guy whose hand she kissed earlier. “But I don’t see them here. Just enjoy the moment. Worries are for tomorrow.”

Quinn’s hands find her body again and she leads them into a high tempo waltz. Santana gets twirled around again, seemingly Quinn’s favourite move, and lets her thoughts fly away from her as she spins around.

In anticipation of the dip Quinn leads her into she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Arms stretched out dramatically, she fully trusts the hands around her waist to not drop her. Her long, dark hair nearly brushes the table top. Her flair for the dramatics is appreciated as whistles and shouts fill the air, shortly drowning out the music.

Then she is pulled back up, rougher than she expected. A yelp escapes her mouth as she crashes into Quinn. Instinctively, her feet position themselves so she is ready to waltz away but the lead does not come. Quinn is looking at something behind her then hisses in her ear. “Duck.”

Before Santana can ask what is going on, firm hands grab her shoulders and she is pushed downwards. With a thud she falls on her ass on the table top. Tears jump in her eyes at the sharp pain that shoots up her spine. Her skin will be bruised for a week. One foot is in the lap of a passed out drunk guy. Carefully, she tries to remove her foot and crawl of the table. A heavy body crashes into her and nimbly slides off the table.

“There is no time to be nice.” Quinn chides. Rudely, she drags Santana to her feet and checks her over. By then, Santana realises the side of the table they are on is empty, aside for the passed out guy. The gears in her head are turning as she looks around. People are chanting, not the regular songs, but cheering and howling. Instead of the low notes of a mostly male choir, deep aggravated grunts fill the air.

The chanting, together with the groups forming between the tables click in Santana’s head. There are fights happening. Multiple.

“I knew the mugs were going to cause trouble.” Santana says to no one in particular as she looks at the fight at the opposite side of the table. A shoe flies through the air and hits a guy who had previously nursed his beer unbothered. Agitated from the beer that spilled all over his tunic he grabs the shoe and throws it back, hitting a different bystander in the face. The bystander makes a face that can only be described as an toad blown up with anger, and stalks towards the guy with heavy steps, nearly stumbling over a nearby bench.

“Good for you genius. We have to go.” Quinn snipes. Her hand locks around Santana’s forearm. With difficulty, Santana keeps up with the swift pace with which Quinn moves through the maze of tables and drunk, fighting barbarians. The closer they get to the exit, the rowdier things become.

The tavern has been filled to the brim the whole evening. Multiple fights are breaking out and escalating. In the chaos of fallen benches, mugs flying through the air and people being pushed over or stumbling away in a drunken stupor, it is hard for two women to fight their way through the crowd. Quinn pushes herself in the slowly moving stream of exiting people, attempting to pull Santana with her.

“Wait!” Santana shouts at Quinn. “I’m missing someone.”

“Forget it.” Quinn shouts back over her shoulder. “We need to leave now or a guy unruly from fighting thinks he needs a victory prize.”

Santana looks back but her vision gets blocked by two tall guys behind her, seemingly brothers. All around her are sweaty bodies. The air smells of barf and wet, dirty clothes. Her arms are pressed to her body. If people are not careful she will be crushed like grain in a mill. The only thing that is keeping her from fully panicking is the death grip Quinn has on her.

All of a sudden the pushing from behind stops, but before she can look behind her to see what happened, a strong arm wraps around her waist. She is yanked out of Quinn’s grip and dragged backwards. She screams in surprise, then a second animalistic scream leaves her throat fuelled by pure anxiety.

Quinn was right. A burly guy who has had too much to drink thinks he owns the world and anyone in it. In order to truly feel like the king he is, he needs his little princess to entertain him. And he has decided Santana will be that princess.

Her whole body stiffens. She is a drawn bow ready to let go. This is yet another guy who thinks she is only good for one thing. His audacity is as big as a dragon and his regard for the thoughts and feelings of others is as true as the existence of gnomes – just a fable. He is a dirty pig, just like the rest of the scum that fills this tavern each night. In a blind fit of rage, she turns around and punches the guy square in the face. Then adds another punch at the nose, for good measure.

Instantaneously, the person lets go of her and grabs at their face. Then throws the hood they are wearing off their face. Two angry and confused blue eyes stare back at her.

“Santana, what the hell?”

“Oh my god Britt I’m so sorry.” Shocked, Santana clasps two hands over her mouth.

Brittany, her self-acclaimed bodyguard and partner in crime, is standing in front of her. Blood seeps from her nose and between her fingers down her chin, dripping on her sky blue tunic. It will suck to wash the blood out later.

“What did I tell you? If something happens. You find me and we take the back exit.” Brittany’s tone is razor sharp despite her the slightly nasal tone from pinching her nose. It cuts through Santana’s heartstrings. Never before has her friend ever been this angry with her, and Santana has gotten entangled in big messes.

Santana nods quietly. Even her mother’s tyrannical scolding has never hurt as much as this. She grabs Brittany’s clean, outstretched hand and lets herself be lead outside. Whether Brittany has threatened the bartender or has found a way to pull some strings Santana does not know. Regardless, they exit through a hatch in the basement through which the beer barrels are transported.

The side street is quiet. There is a light drizzle but Santana refuses to wear the cloak Brittany offers her. She tells herself it is because Brittany will need it later on, as she will face the elements face first as they ride back home on their horse, not because she feels ashamed therefore refusing any comfort.

Brittany holds her close as they walk to the stable. The bleeding has stopped, but she sports a dark red moustache on her upper lip. More smears of blood cover her chin, cheeks and hand. Santana’s ears are buzzing and the ground sways like the sea. She hopes she will not have to puke later the evening, or worse, wake up in the middle of the night and having to find a tub to puke in. Besides her obvious drunk ailment, she is aware of her exhaustion. She just wants to cling to Brittany as she rides, maybe cry a little, and lay in bed.

They do not share a single word until they reach the stable. By that time, her intensely beating heart as calmed down, and the rush and fear from the last few moments in the tavern feel like a dream. In spite of that, Santana still knows it really happened. With every step she takes, she is reminded through a growing bruise on her ass. She sighs as Brittany pulls her pockets inside out for a pair of keys.

“I’m sorry.” Punching Brittany square in the face is not something she ever thought she would do. The shame and hurt inside her do not subside. On the contrary, they keep growing. Santana knows she did something very, very wrong.

Brittany sticks the key in the lock and pushes open the heavy stable door. “I should be sorry. For stealing these keys of the stableboy. He probably got into a lot of trouble for losing these.” Brittany jingles the keys. She grabs a burning oil lamp that hangs on a nearby hook and turns it up, leading them to Fleetwood.

The gelding is chewing his hay loudly. Being the glutton he is, he attempts to take a couple last bites as Brittany pulls him from the stable. Santana watches with her arms crossed as Brittany tightens the girth. She is swaying lightly on her feet, too intoxicated to stand still. They left Fleetwood in his tack with the knowledge they would be back within a couple hours and wanting to leave as soon as possible - maybe even fleeing from a scene.

“After you, my lady.” Brittany bows elegantly as she lets Santana get on first.

A bit unstable, Santana climbs on the back of the tall, grey dappled horse. She has climbed on many a steed with a dress, but alcohol is a consistent humbler and makes even the greats question their skill if they consume enough. Once she sits secure with both her legs on one side Brittany leads the horse outside by the reins and locks the stable again. She then pushes the keys through a gap between two planks of the door.

It is as if they were never there.

Santana is staring at the stars when she feels the saddle underneath her shake. Brittany climbs on behind her. She watches as Brittany makes her red dress disappear by pulling the dark cloak over her legs, protecting her from the cold of the night. A warm hand splays over her stomach, pressing her into the squire’s body. Unconsciously, Santana chooses to believe Brittany wants to feel her close, and that it’s not an act to keep her from slipping off the horse’s back.

With the slightest pressure of Brittany’s feet, Fleetwood takes off in the direction of the castle. His heavy hooves echo through the narrow city streets, a nuisance to anyone who is not vast asleep. Santana cannot muster up enough energy to care, both her body and mind exhausted from drinking and dancing.

“I danced the whole night.” Santana mumbles as soon as they reach the edge of the city. Fleetwood steps sound muffled on the dirt. The words fall off her tongue with difficulty, the muscle too ungainly to pronounce words properly.

Brittany nudges her cheek with her nose. She hums. “That you did.”

“And, I made a friend.”

“You always make friends. You’re very charming.”

“Yeah but, she’s a real friend.” Santana turns to face Brittany, since she is sitting sideways on the horse she does not have to turn much. Nonetheless, the hand around her waist clings on tighter, making sure she does not fall off. “Like… We talked. We had a connection.”

“Sounds amazing.” Brittany deadpans, her focus on the dark trail ahead as she encourages Fleetwood to counter.

“You don’t have to hold on so tight.” The grip of the hand on her hip is bordering on painful. “I’m drunk. Not dumb. I can sit on a horse.” The grip slackens, albeit a little bit.

By the time they reach the castle, Santana is sure she is not imagining the tension between her and her best friend. Normally, Brittany would guide Fleetwood in an easy canter once they leave town until they reach the open field. From there, they would watch the lights on the castle walls grow bigger, Fleetwood walking at his own pace.

Brittany would reminisce about funny figures she saw at the bar or how she won the rigged game of dice. Santana would giggle, perhaps even laugh vehemently in that way only Brittany can make her laugh. She would ask how she did it, how does one cheat the cheater. Brittany would stay silent, and smile a smug smile that makes Santana melt like cream on a warm cake. In those moments, with her head nestled underneath Brittany’s chin as she listens and the light of the stars guiding them home, Santana feels normal.

Any sane person would argue it is extremely dangerous, two girls on a horse in the middle of an open field at night. Raiders or anyone who is uncivilised enough to attack random people could easily sneak up on them and overpower them. Perhaps it is exactly that, the fear of being raided, something any peasant on a trip fears, is what makes her feel normal. Between the castle walls, there is always one pair of eyes on her at least. Where the most vile thing that can happen is someone dropping her new gown on the floor. There, the things she fears most being Miss Corcoran’s lectures about taxes or her father finding out about her nightly escapades, which don’t seem so bad when compared to being held at knifepoint in the dark.

Besides the couple sentences they spoke at the beginning of the ride, they have not talked at all. Brittany forced Fleetwood to canter home without taking a rest, making no effort to enjoy the nighttime through laughs.

Santana feels like an intruder as she watches Brittany remove the tack and makes Fleetwood comfortable for the night. She lingers in the walkway between the stables and pretends to be busy with one of Fleetwood’s neighbours. When the horse retreats her head and there is nothing around Santana can distract herself with. She mumbles an apology.

“What?” Brittany sticks her head out of the stable she is in.

“I’m sorry.” Santana repeats, supressing her usual jeering. She never repeats an apology. She barely even apologises for things in the first place. So, if Brittany can simply accept her apology that angry feeling in the pit of her stomach will go away and they can both sleep soundly.

For a moment they just stare at each other. Brittany’s face is blank, but Santana knows she is thinking. She can tell by the way Brittany keeps tapping the handle of the bucket she is holding with her index finger. She is bothered.

Brittany sighs deeply, closing her eyes for a moment. “It’s okay. It just… hurts.” She flashes a forced smile.

They confronted the problem, talked about it, and Santana apologised. Perhaps not in that order, but it doesn’t matter. Things are a-okay again, starting now. There is totally no reason for tension anymore, Santana decides.

“Yeah.” Santana lets out a shaky breath. “Let me at least clean you up.”

As response she gets a smirk that blooms into a toothy grin. And now Santana knows things truly are okay again.

Quietly Brittany shuts the door that leads to the kitchen. Santana lights up a discarded oil lamp and searches for some rags in drawers. Which, despite the light of the lamp, is hindered by darkness. She grabs the empty air next to a handle on multiple occasions. Once she finds a clean rag, she dips the cloth in a vat of water that stands off to the side and walks back over to Brittany who perched herself on the table. Next to Brittany is a tray covered by clean cloths, the surface of which billowed by the pastries underneath.

“Do you really think they’ll miss one or two?”

“Mercedes worked really hard on them. They’re for the feast tomorrow.” Santana puts the oil lamp on the table and brings up the damp cloth to brush of the dried blood. “Or tonight, I guess.”

“Another one of those stupid dinner parties? Didn’t you have one a couple days ago?” Brittany scrunches her face. The cold cloth uncomfortable against her skin.

“I did.” Santana responds factually. “My parents are inviting all the princes from neighbouring kingdoms and hope I like one. That way no more stupid knights die from Sapphian. Apparently she already has 110 documented deaths since she first appeared, not counting the peasants she kills when she raids the nearby towns. Half of those deaths are our own knights.”

“Never come between a dragon and her treasure.” Brittany says solemnly, then grins.

“You’re so weird.” Santana scoffs, feigning annoyance.

Brittany wraps her legs around Santana’s waist and pulls her close, locking her feet together at the ankles. “You love it.” She teases.

Santana hums in agreement. She ignores whatever Brittany is doing with her hair. She assumes the squire is braiding the strand of hair, judging by the repetitive tugging on the left side of her forehead. When she deems Brittany clean, she grabs a dry part of the rag and wipes off the damp skin.

Brittany pulls a face of disgust and lifts her head backwards, away from the dusty cloth, and wipes her lips with the back of her hand. “It’s good. You know I hate that.”

“You prefer staying wet?”

Instantly, she regrets her word choice. Brittany bursts out laughing. Santana punches her lightly in the stomach, directly in a patch of dried blood. She wipes her knuckles clean, an annoyed frown on her face.

“The gods punish immediately.” Brittany smirks. She sits back, leaning on her elbows. She has this smug twinkle in her eyes that messes with Santana’s head. She hates it, and Brittany is very much aware of that. The legs around her hips tense up, squeezing slightly in a teasing manner.

Brittany stares at her for a while. The light of the lamp reflects in the corner of her eyes and highlights a few loose strands of hair. This observation jogs Santana’s memory. She looks down to see a tiny, messily braided tuft of hair. She picks it up to get a closer look.

“You know Tina is going to brush it out in the morning, right?”

Brittany shrugs. “’s our little secret.”

For a few seconds Santana simply stares at her. “I am way too drunk for riddles right now.”

“I meant,” Brittany sits up and reaches over towards the tray of pastries and grabs two, “that only we know who ate these.” She bites into her enthusiastically, spilling crumbs all over the table and her lap. She presses the other one to Santana’s lips, waiting for her to bite it.

Santana gives her one of her ‘are you serious’ stares but bites when Brittany keeps pressing. She moans obscenely when the flavours of the icing and the berry filling blend in her mouth. She stuffs the rest of the pastry in her mouth.

“These are so good.”

“Told you we should try them.”

Santana rolls her eyes. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she plants them on Brittany’s warm thighs. “You always want a bite of everything when there is food available. You’re always hungry.”

“Yeah, but these are Mercedes’ pastries, so they make me like, extra hungry.” Brittany waggles her eyebrows.

“Weirdo.” Santana says through a yawn. She wants to touch the tip of Brittany’s nose lovingly but instead presses her finger into the cheek beside it. She frowns, annoyed with her own failure to perform a simple task. Brittany watches her for a moment, then jerks into action.

“Let’s get you to bed, my lady.” She says solemnly. Her feet untangle and drop to the side, finally freeing Santana from her leg trap.

As they sneak to Santana’s room, Santana anticipates getting her cuddle on; The only thing that will help her survive the tedious dinner tomorrow.

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