#i wrote my way out | writing

[flameleadsarc]

right where you left me

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist Characters: Roy Mustang, Maes Hughes, mention of Gracia Hughes, mention Chris "Madame Christmas" Mustang, mention of Elicia Hughes. Trigger Warnings: Major character death, war, genocide. Summary: You met someone, and she wasn’t me. I should’ve been happy for you. Why couldn’t I move?

Read on AO3 or below:

“I’ve met someone. Her name is Gracia. Roy, I think you’ll really like her! She’s incredible! She…”

Your words became background noise with the rest of the bar chatter. The seat cushion underneath me felt stiff when, two minutes ago, I knew it to be soft, and the lighting above us was too bright when I knew it to be dim. My vision clouded in milliseconds as tears threatened to pour out of my eyes like waterfalls, and I thanked a deity I didn’t believe in that I learned not to cry. Out of everything that ever caused me to cry—burns from practicing alchemy on the Hawkeye estate, minor scrapes and bruises when I ran around Central, punches to the face from fights in the schoolyard—this was direct. A heart didn’t have the ability to fracture. It wasn’t supposed to. But, that didn’t explain why I felt pieces of mine shattering on the wooden floor of the bar.

That might take some work to clean up. It didn’t break evenly, and I couldn’t control where it fell. Sorry, Madame. 

I should’ve been elated you met someone. You were smiling. I heard it in your voice, how it rose when you describe meeting her at a coffee shop, and she gave you the time of day. I should have congratulated you on having the courage to ask her out, teased you about wanting to buy everything from the florist when you didn’t know what she liked. Pink or white carnations would do. I knew flowers, you said, and I should have felt honored that you trusted me with this information, that you came to me and none of our other buddies from the academy first. I should have been happy.

It should not have taken a sizable effort to smile back at you. I hoped you didn’t see that it took me several seconds into you regaling me with this information for me to smile. I knew what to say, though: get her a white carnation or two since they were relatively inexpensive, they would compliment her green eyes, and they meant, among a few things, innocence. The weather should be fine on the night of your date, but you should bring a coat just in case she gets cold. A little cologne goes a long way, and you don’t need to overdo it. Brush your teeth and iron your clothes before your date so she sees you care about yourself. Ask her about herself, what she likes to do, what kind of music she likes, what she cares about, and spend more time listening than talking. She’ll like that. 

“I knew it was a good idea to talk to you. Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

“Could you pick my heart up off the floor and fuse it back together? I’m not sure how you would do that. Perhaps you could tell me you loved me once?”

I knew better than to say that aloud. No, I just shook my head.

“That favor can be treating her well, all right, Hughes?”

You smiled back at me, and that felt like your boot crunching into the shards of my heart on the floor and breaking it more. When you left, and I stayed in the booth in the corner of the bar, you walked right past it. The second the door of the bar closed, and you were on the other side, I let my smile join it along with the tears I held in. They slid down my cheeks, the salt stinging my eyes, and the bar around me stopped existing. The sound of clicking heels and faint music became silent, and the walls around me blurred. I didn’t hear footsteps approaching, nor did I feel the light squeeze on my shoulder from the Madame. The unfinished drinks in front of me—one of them mine, and the other yours—sat untouched collecting dust. I collected dust.

You met someone, and she wasn’t me.

I should’ve been happy for you. 

Why couldn’t I move?

Our clothes changed as armies and time marched forward. Blue uniforms covered by white cloaks to block out the desert sun, I almost didn’t recognize you. Your eyes saw the death that your hands caused, and it changed you just like the fire forged me. Did you see the smoke from nearby sectors? Hear the stories of the demon who left no survivors because his flames left no escape routes? That was what our own soldiers called me, and they did little to hide it. I couldn’t blame them, not when it was the truth.

You didn’t call me that when we met again. No, you somehow found a reason to smile at me, like seeing me alive was a victory and enough to celebrate. After all, so many of our classmates and comrades died on this battlefield. 

For a few minutes, I let myself believe that I was your reason to smile, and I was happy to be alive. As death cornered us from every side, the smell clinging to our too-clean uniforms, and sand for miles in each direction, and gunshots, artillery, and screams deafening us, I felt my shoulders relax for the first time in months. My heart, glued back together, beat in my chest like nothing ever happened to it. I could talk to you. I felt like I could breathe. 

“There’s a letter for you.” A messenger for you, not me. I tried to ignore the writing on the envelope. It was nothing. It was fine. 

“It’s my ‘beautiful future.’”

My heart fell, and I stopped breathing.

“Gracia… Your woman?”

It shattered again on the wooden floor of the bar, the glue I used not strong enough to hold it together. Those words I uttered felt like someone else puppetered my body from far away. It was in the desert in Ishval having a conversation with you while the rest of me sat in the bar, our drinks unfinished on the table. Was the desert heat making it difficult for me to breathe, or was it you rambling about the possibility of another man making a move on your girl? Did the sun temporarily blind me, or were those tears threatening to blur my vision? 

No. Not here. You were still in front of me. I had to wait until you left me again. 

What words came out of my mouth next? Cruel ones, I’m sure. I learned pinpoint accuracy with fire. I could kill you where you stood in seconds, and no one would find your ashes. The only one who’d know would be me. 

Irrelevant. You didn’t die. You lived. I could never hurt you like that, never mind kill you. 

You’d survive this. You’d go home. You’d go back to her.

You met someone, and she wasn’t me.

I should’ve been happy for you.

The sand stayed in our boots long after we left the desert. White cloaks went into storage as we received promotions for surviving and causing death, the latter prioritized. At my corner in the bar, I didn’t tell you how heavy those stars and bars felt on my uniform or how the red on my gloves might as well have been blood. It’s not what I originally stitched them with, but, when you’re at war, you make do. I kept those thoughts to myself, drowning them in expensive whiskey my Lieutenant Colonel’s salary could afford. 

Besides, you knew those thoughts already. You had similar ones. You just swallowed them in favor of something better. 

“Roy, I’m asking you to be my Best Man. There’s no one else I trust more than you.”

I stitched my heart back together like the medics did so many soldiers on the front lines. It was stronger than glue. After all, we had to be sure our soldiers could go back out there and fight. My heart ached at those words, sure, but it didn’t fall apart. I did something right this time. 

It was almost easy to smile at you, say yes, and say I would love nothing more. I’ve been an actor my entire life, and this was another role assigned to me. That was all this was. I knew how to play this part with precision. The difference here was that I could use pinpoint accuracy in a suit as opposed to my suit, and there would be no gloves required. No one would die. Instead, new life would blossom, a new family—your family. 

I did as much as you let me. Gracia loved the carnation from your first date, so I ensured you had some present along with other flowers such as baby’s breath and roses. You invited her family and yours along with some friends, and I made sure those invitations got out. The cake came from a bakery I knew and recommended in Central while her family was more than gracious enough to take care of the reception hall. We tried on suits together with the knowledge I would be teaching you how to tie a bowtie over and over again. It was another part of my role, and I accepted it. I prepared for it.

Every step of the way, you counted down the days, babbling about how you looked forward to married life with her, and the stitching on my heart held together. I was proud of my work. 

I was so proud of my work, in fact, that I thought it meant I didn’t love you anymore. All it took was you on the day of your wedding to prove I was a damn fool. With your bowtie on straight, I started working on mine, and I didn’t notice you staring at me. 

“You know, Roy, you better let me return the favor someday.”

I dared to look up at you: my first mistake. Your hazel eyes had a soft glow to them, almost on the verge of tears. I imagined there would be a lot of crying today, which was why I kept a handkerchief for you in my breast pocket right next to your ring. Did you need it now? 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I hope I get to tie your bowtie for you one day.”

“That’d require you to remember how.” Was I missing something? I always tied my own. There wouldn’t ever be a time when I would need you to—

“When you find someone you love enough to marry and spend the rest of your life with, I’ll remember how!”

Oh.

My stitching hadn’t been enough. I felt it come undone in milliseconds, and my heart fell out of my chest and to the wooden floor of the bar. Unfinished drinks on the table, a seat cushion that no longer felt comfortable underneath me, the radio playing jazz in the background, chatter from clientele—I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t hear anything but my heart breaking. My vision started to cloud from what I surmised were tears. 

I couldn’t let it. I couldn’t cry. Then you’d ask why, and I’d have to conjure up a lie good enough to convince you, and I didn’t have the heart to do it. 

So I didn’t. I forced a smile as I shook my head. 

“Don’t worry about me, Hughes. Just focus on your big day. We don’t want to keep Gracia waiting.”

A part of me wondered if you let me shift the conversation. You moved on, and you married your future: Gracia. You did cry that day, and you borrowed the handkerchief I had in my pocket. I stood by, smiled, and I made a speech at some point like a good best man. I kept a copy of it written down in case you wanted it as a memento. You liked to keep photographs and memories of things to hold onto. You could look at it again in a scrapbook as you remember this day, and, maybe then, you’ll see what I meant when I told Gracia she was a lucky woman.

You met someone, and she wasn’t me.

The train departed the next day for East City, and that was where I stayed. My duties as a Lieutenant Colonel weighed heavily on my shoulders, and they grew with each passing day. Unrest in the east since the war ended meant I had plenty to do. The violence only slowed. Once I managed to snag myself a promotion to Colonel, those duties only grew in size, and I could hardly see past the mountains of paperwork on my desk. I promised you that I would climb to the top, and I wasn’t going to stop until I made that a reality. 

Still, almost every day without fail, I managed to answer the phone when you called. You babbled in my ear about Gracia and her cooking. Her spinach quiche was amazing, so I gave you that. It was better than what we had at the academy. As stupid as it probably was, I won’t forget when you stole the last one from me in the mess hall. Who would have thought that quiche of all things would lead two people to becoming best friends? Did Gracia learn how to make it just for you?  

When she began to glow from pregnancy, I never heard your voice that elated. You were almost singing, Hughes. I tried not to let my heart sink while I listened to your melody over the phone. After all, I learned a new method of putting it back together. Glue and stitching weren’t good enough, so I resorted to what I was best at: alchemy. I fused my heart together with fire, and it endured listening to you tell me about a child I wish I could give you. Unfortunately, all I knew how to do, Hughes, was kill, and your daughter deserved better than that. Elicia was a beautiful name. Thank you for telling me. 

This technique endured better than the last two. When you came to East City because of Scar, I didn’t feel my heart break as I looked your way. No, as the rain broke overhead after our dalliance with Scar, you stood next to me, and I felt at peace. I wondered if you missed how I glanced at you while you spoke. For just a few seconds, nothing else in the world mattered. You were there, and you wanted to keep me, the Flame Alchemist, safe from harm. Scar killed several State Alchemists, including Brigadier General Grand, and we all narrowly escaped that encounter. Yet, you stood next to me with no alchemical abilities, and I felt safe. 

My heart was fine. Nothing could break it. 

“There’s a call for you on an outside line from Lieutenant Colonel Hughes.”

Weeks later, I heard those words alone in my office, and I knew I was wrong. 

Three things struck me as odd when I heard the phone operator tell me you called. One: you either knew I was working at Eastern Command late, or you hoped I was. Two: outside calls were only for emergencies, and you knew better than to use your family as one. Three: again, it was late, and you were supposed to be home.

Something happened. You let yourself get deep into what the Elrics were researching. You found something dangerous, and you called me. In an emergency, you trusted me first. 

I pretended to be agitated when I answered. When you answered, you knew I wouldn’t be. 

You didn’t answer. 

“Hughes?”

I could hear you breathing. Low, shaky. Why weren’t you answering?

My heart, put back together with stitches and glue before I finally got the nerve to fuse it together with my own flames, beat too fast. Where were you? This was your emergency code? Please—

“Hughes…”

I thought I heard footsteps. Were they… retreating? 

“Hey!”

No. I could feel my heart falling. I couldn’t let it. I had to keep breathing. I survived Ishval. I could survive—

“Hughes!”

Those were retreating footsteps. Faint, but I could hear them. But that meant someone left. Those weren’t your footsteps, were they? You wouldn’t just call and leave me on the other line. No, this had to be important. You wouldn’t use your emergency code for nothing. This was… but… that meant… someone left you… Someone—

I couldn’t hear you breathe anymore.

No.

“HUGHES!!”

I didn’t scream your name in the bar like I should have. I should have. 

I sat right where you left me, but I wasn’t… I wasn’t in the bar. A phone in my shaking hand, tears cascading down my cheeks. No one squeezed my shoulder to reassure me everything was all right. I couldn’t hear the chatter from women serving clientele nor the music they liked to listen to on the radio. There weren’t two drinks in front of me, one of them yours and the other mine. I was alone in my office, and—

And, when I looked to the floor—

There was nothing there.

This time, not glue, stitches, nor my fire held my heart together. Nothing I did was strong enough. Not a single piece of it remained. 

Maes, you broke my heart for the last time. 

[hawksightsarc]

If they weren't a girl, maybe their father would notice them.

The same thought crossed an addled mind nearly every day. In the mornings, they stood in front of the mirror in their room to dress for the day. Dresses couldn't protect against skinned knees as well as pants could, so they stayed hidden in the closet. Ribbons and clips meant for long hair remained there as well as they learned to cut their hair short like the boys in town. It was easier to maintain too. Short hair didn't get caught in branches when they went hunting, nor did it take as long to wash when they got home. Being a boy... it would be easier.

Alas, those changes didn't work for they father. He yelled, "Daughter," when he wanted their attention, his voice echoing off the decrepit walls of the estate that he could afford to get fixed, but didn't want to. Not once did he say their name. Those two syllables seemed to be too much to ask for. His demands were typically for food, coffee, or chores, and they had to be done. If they didn't feed him or take care of the house, no one else would, and they didn't want him to die.

Did they? They considered the possibility a few times. Guilt cornered them without fail as soon as the thought entered their head, forcing tears out of amber eyes. How dare they think something so horrible! He was their father. They loved him. No one should ever want anything bad to happen to their parents.

But couldn't he just take care of himself for a change? Take care of them? Love them?

Maybe if they were a boy, he would. If they were his son.

Their morning routine became slightly longer. They needed the time to wrap bandages around their chest and ensure they fit just right. A few of times, they didn't, and they paid for that mistake with labored breathing, aching sides, and bruising. But, once they finished getting dressed every morning, they gazed at the person in the mirror with a smile. This look... they could get used to it. Being a boy might be feasible. Now, they needed to lower their voice when they spoke, which was rare, keep their hair short...

Father needed to notice them now. No, notice him now. He was trying for him. Surely this effort could be rewarded with something. Then, in an ideal world, Father could be patient enough to teach him alchemy. Daughters couldn't learn it, he said, but what about a son? He could be the heir to the alchemy he worked on for years.

That day came at long last, and a young Riza almost wanted to jump for joy. Olive eyes stared into amber, making contact for perhaps the first time in years, before he looked him over. He noticed him. This was it. As long as he didn't get too ahead of himself and ask for anything, he might have a shot at just a little more---like an actual conversation.

"My research is complete." Oh! Riza's eyes widened at this statement. The research Father spent years on---his own form of alchemy---was finally done. He put so much of himself into his work, and he could now say it was complete. What now? What was the next step? Publishing it? No, Father was too secretive for that. Teaching it to someone? But who? "It is time I entrusted you with it."

At the time, Riza did not know what to do other than resist the urge to smile. With his father's serious gaze upon him, he remained calm. Finally---finally---he allowed him into his world. This was the measure of his love. Not in words or gifts, but in alchemy.

"I will not let you down, Father."

Oh, what a fool he was. They were. She was.

The process took days, and every bit of it was painful. Riza fought her instincts as she forced herself to stay still. Tears pricked her eyes for hours, but she didn't dare cry out. Father wanted to trust her with his life's work. What a huge honor that was. He didn't say it in words, but this was his profession of love for his only child. At long last, he saw her as worthy.

That thinking didn't last. After the first couple of days, mostly filled with silence, Riza wondered why this needed to be done. Each word he inked into her skin was another she couldn't read, much less put into practice. She wasn't an alchemist. Would this... would this make her an alchemist? No, that was silly. He wanted his research to be safe, and thus he trusted her with it. Nothing could be on paper because of how powerful it was. In the wrong hands, it would bring nothing but destruction.

Not her hands. She couldn't learn. No, some other alchemist, someone her father taught and trusted, would need her to show her bare skin to reveal the secrets of Flame Alchemy to them. Only then would his technique see the light of day. He would not teach her.

Mornings came and went. The tattoo needed to heal, which meant she couldn't wrap bandages around her chest anymore. It was red against her skin even without the irritation. Fabric rubbed against the ink and caused her to wince in pain with each step. Alas, she kept going. This pain was manageable. Besides, she had a father and a house to care for. Soon, another alchemist would join them, and she would need to add that onto her list of duties.

She didn't look in the mirror anymore. There wasn't anything worth looking at.

[hawksights]

tag dump #4

[flameleads]

tag dump #3

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[macksartblock]

beware of burnout it's so real i'm afraid

also bc ended up making my writing into a font to avoid killing my hand as much and bc I saw Caden do this, I thought it would be fun to see who y'all think it suits lol

[silverwhittlingknife]

So you're a go to source for all things Dick&Tim bros and you tend to write primarily from Dick's POV. So, odd question, but if you were to summarize their relationship from his POV in FIVE panels which panels would you pick? Keeping in mind that one specific aspect of their relationship that you love needs to be clearly represented by each panel (loyalty, trust etc). I hope this is a fun challenge and not an annoying question so if you don't want to answer that's cool! Have a wonderful day!

No more talk. The same thoughts run through two minds... (SotB 29) / You're my equal. My closest ally. (RR 1) / I can't stop thinking how much I rely on him. (GoG 3)

25 Feelings Dick Has About Tim

This was such a kind ask & a cool challenge which I totally failed; here are TWENTY-five panels of Dick's POV on Tim sdfdsfds Look, I got carried away! Marcia and Cindy! The boys!!

OKAY SO BEFORE I GET TO THE PANELS A FEW NOTES:

WARNING THAT THERE ARE SOME NEGATIVE EMOTIONS IN HERE because I love conflict but but but you gotta remember those are not the final word!! They are complicated people and sometimes they get mad at each other BUT ultimately their relationship is so hugely important in both their lives & they love each other and rely on each other so much -!!! <3

Also I have CONCLUDING THOUGHTS at the end about what Dick's POV leaves out (mostly: a lot of Dick defending & protecting & supporting Tim, which Dick does instinctively but isn't very self-aware about most of the time)

I have loosely organized my list into 5^5 format (5 categories with 5 examples each!), so if you want to skip to a relevant one, here are the categories!!

Below the cut:

I hate him and find him infuriating (#1-5)

On second thought, he's endearing & fun (#6-10)

Grief is complicated & he's all tangled up in mine (#11-15)

I love him & think highly of him (#16-20)

I rely on him & though it's hard for me, I trust him (#21-25)

I hate him and find him infuriating (#1 - 5)

1) He thinks he’s so smart and can psychoanalyze me and Bruce, but he doesn’t know me at all, he should get lost (New Titans 61)

2) He thinks he’s so smart and can psychoanalyze Bruce but he doesn’t know Bruce at all, he should get lost (Gotham Knights 26)

3) He is so nosy about stuff that is MY business (Robin 0)

4) He sounds like an insincere suck-up half the time... but okay, fine, if you push him he's got a sense of humor about it (New Titans 65)

5) I'm sure he's a better vigilante than me. It's my fault for being a failure, but I resent him anyway. (Nightwing 9 - Dick's having a nightmare)

On second thought, he's kinda endearing (#6-10)

6) He worries too much and gets anxious so easily, but it makes him fun to tease (Robin 67)

7) I'm not that competitive - okay, so maybe I'm a little competitive, I gotta make sure he doesn't get a swelled head (Prodigal)

8) I'm supposed to be his favorite! It is not cool for him to be fanboying over my not-girlfriend's not-boyfriend!! (Birds of Prey 19)

9) We have fun together. I can kick back and relax when it's just the two of us. Plus I get to boss him around a bit. (Prodigal)

10) He’s always trying to reassure me, and I guess it's a little comforting, but also he doesn’t really get it. Or me. He makes excuses that he shouldn't, because he doesn't understand that I suck. (Nightwing 64)

Grief is complicated and he's all tangled up in mine (#11 - 15)

11) He reminds me of everything I try not to think about. Sometimes the memories are so strong it hurts to look at him. (Batman 441)

12) WHY IS HE BEING IMPOSSIBLE ALL OF A SUDDEN??? THIS IS SO FRUSTRATING (Nightwing 139)

13) We're the same. He says all the things I don't let myself think about. It's like arguing with myself. (Nightwing 139)

14) He thinks he gets to tell me what to do but he doesn’t, fuck him (Battle for the Cowl)

15) Life sucks, so what. I sucked it up so he should too (RR 1)

I love him and think highly of him (#16 - 20)

16) He’s the closest thing to a brother I’ll ever have.  If someone hurts him I will hurt them harder. (Nightwing 6)

17) I can't handle the idea of losing him. (Nightwing 97)

17) He’s so good and I’m not. I'm afraid I’m bad for him. (Nightwing 110)

18) He’s better than me, and it’s kind of a relief because I know no matter what he’ll be okay. (Gates of Gotham 3)

19) In my head he’s the responsible one.  (Gotham Knights 10)

I rely on him, and though it's hard for me, I trust him (#20-25)

20) I know I have to trust him but I'm afraid he'll make the wrong choices and get hurt (Nightwing 139)

21) I'm sure I know what he should do because I see myself in him - not that I can take my own advice, but he should (Blackest Night 3)

22) I trust him.  When I’m losing my grip on things, he pulls me back. (Gotham Knights 10)

23) I want him to trust me (Red Robin 12)

24) He can tell when I'm lying. Sometimes he sees my weaknesses better than I wish he did. (Detective Comics 874)

25) He’s always there when I need him. (Teen Titans / Outsiders Secret Files)

Final rambling thoughts:

TIM: Uhh, okay, so I'm just skimming this list - do you really trust me? you're not just saying that? - but anyway, I'm confused because you left some stuff out? Like some stuff that's kinda important? DICK: No? I think I got everything? TIM (starts counting on his fingers): The time I was having a bad day but then I called you. The time I got captured by Two-Face but then you saved me. The time I fell off a train but then you saved me. The time I fell off a building but then you saved me. The time I fell off a different building - DICK: I feel like you're trying to make some kind of point but I'm not sure what it could be.

SO THE THING IS, I put 25 panels in here and not a single one has Dick catching Tim when he’s falling!!! But I think that's a central motif of their relationship from Tim’s POV, not Dick’s. I love Dick, but in some ways I think he is spectacularly un-self-aware.

And I think he especially has a lot of blind spots about Tim. He kinda intermittently gets that Tim admires him, and he enjoys it in a playful I-get-to-boss-you-around way. But Dick tends to consistently underestimate all of his own good qualities & skills, and he meets Tim at a point in his life when he's especially down on himself & his abilities. And so he's unable to see his own influence on Tim, & therefore unable to fully understand a lot of Tim's priorities and loyalties and motivations, because you can't actually understand Tim without understanding Dick's impact on him. There's a fascinating moment in Bruce Wayne: Murderer when Dick's completely blindsided & upset to discover that Tim doesn't entirely trust Bruce, even though this has been a definitive fact of Tim's whole thing ever since he showed up with his Batman needs Robin theory, and Barbara has to actively remind Dick of the obvious-to-everyone-except-Dick fact that a lot of Tim's loyalty is to Dick, and Tim loves Bruce but feels free to be more wary of him. (And to give Bruce credit: this is not something he ever begrudges.) But anyway Babs points this out, and Dick manages to sorta process it for about five seconds, but he cannot actually accept it into his worldview so instead he discards it at the speed of light and goes off and has an argument with Tim instead sdfsfdsf

All of Dick's virtues - Dick's kindness at the circus and Dick's determination to fight through grief and Dick's rigid sense of morals and Dick's vigilante skills and every time Dick has ever backed Tim up or listened to him or protected him or saved him from something or just been casually kind to a stranger in Tim's presence etc etc etc - all these things loom really large in Tim's mental story of Who Dick Is, and What Dick And Tim's Relationship Is. Tim meets Dick before he meets Bruce, trusts Dick more than Bruce, aspires to be Robin instead of Batman. And so in Tim's default version of the story, Dick is the super-special and admirable hero and Tim is... nobody in particular, a tagalong outsider who's barely managing to be a hero, not part of Dick and Bruce's family and not part of their story, who, if he's VERY LUCKY and tries REALLY HARD, might be able to fight his way to proving himself and offering something to Dick that Dick will value, if Dick doesn't get fed up with him first.

But that's not Dick's version of the story!!!

Dick's version of the story is almost the exact opposite, a story where Dick's an outcast failure black sheep who's screwing up everything he tries, and meanwhile Tim is The Sudden New Perfect Robin Who's Better Than Me And Probably Bruce Loves Him More And Probably They Gossip About What A Loser I Am, mixed with a complicated edge of Tim Thinks He's So Smart But He Doesn't Know Me/Us At All. Dick gets much more attached to Tim over time, and Tim gets unnervingly better at the know-it-all psychoanalysis so then Dick gets to have complicated feelings about him being right instead of just annoyance at him for being wrong, plus Dick's relationship with Bruce improves a lot, so Tim stops feeling so threatening. But Dick never fundamentally changes his basic theory of their relationship in which Tim is highly impressive and capable, and Dick is not so much.

And so asking Dick about Tim is kinda like if you asked George Bailey to tell you about Harry Bailey in It's A Wonderful Life; like, you'll be there for five hours while he tells you how great Harry is, and how accomplished Harry is, and how he doesn't really get how or why Harry does the things he does, and maybe George does feel a little resentful or jealous sometimes, but that pales in comparison to all his admiration and trust for Harry who he loves so much, who's better than him in so many ways, and he's not gonna openly gripe but secretly he can't help but feel sometimes like he's such a failure in comparison to Harry, a perfect person who emerged fully formed from Zeus's head with all the virtues and also all the accomplishments, etc. etc. etc. --

-- and he will not actually remember the part where he changed and saved Harry's whole entire life unless you literally send him to an alternate timeline in order to force him to remember it. <3

[save-the-villainous-cat]

What about a sub!villain who tries to play the part of the suave, dominant villain cause they’re afraid of vulnerability… and an actually dominant hero who sees through it and flips the script. Could it also be spicy please?

Also, your writing is amazing and it makes my day better! Thank you so much for sharing it! I send you hugs!

"You may think you're deceptive. But you are not." The end of the villain's dagger nearly buried its way into their own skin. Although the villain couldn't recall when the hero had gotten a hold of it during the fight, they were quite pleased with the result. (The result being the hero on top of them, still panting from the fight.) "Your effort is quite delightful, though."

The villain cracked a smile.

"Oh, you want to ravage me so bad..."

"Your imagination doesn't even come close to how bad I truly want that," the hero answered.

There was something in their presence that stirred the villain in an exciting way. Was it their body? Their personality? Their morals and their desires? Usually, the villain considered themselves to be talented when it came to reading people and analyzing the relationships they had with them.

For better or worse, it was different with the hero. More confusing. More dangerous.

At this point, the villain was playing with fire - they didn't know exactly what their relationship with the hero was nor where they stood.

"I loathe you for being my only weakness." The hero let the blade dig into the villain's chin until they looked up. "And destroying you would probably bring me some peace."

"Oh." The villain had never heard such a blunt statement coming from the hero. At least not something this personal and...open. It nearly made the villain sick to their stomach how casually the hero had mentioned it.

Slowly, the hand which wasn't holding onto the dagger travelled up the villain's arm until those cursed fingertips found a shaking wrist and grabbed it.

"But what am I without you? What is Orpheus without his muse?"

"You're so charming today..." The villain tried to sound as flirty as they could but their voice was inexplicably trembling.

When had the hero decided to be so horrible and seduce the villain? And why on earth was it working?

"How does that make you feel?" the hero asked, their voice nothing more than a whisper. They freed their index finger from their grip around the villain's wrist and slowly, agonizingly, let it travel upwards. The villain took in a sharp breath, surprised by the hero's actions.

It felt a little too intimate. Nearly immoral.

The villain felt quite stupid for blushing, after all, it was just the hero's finger rubbing against their palm and their breath on the villain's neck.

"I'm..." The villain tried to concentrate but it wasn't that easy anymore. They closed their eyes, close to defeat already. "Sorry, what do you mean?"

Did the hero have to level their weight on the villain's hips? Did they have to say these things? Startle the villain like that? Couldn't they just flirt, try to kill each other and go home after?

Did the hero have to whisper something this close to a confession into the villain's ear?

"How does it feel to be my only weakness?" the hero murmured. Their grip loosened and slowly, their hand began their conquest towards the villain's fingers. "How does it feel to mean so much to me? To occupy my thoughts during the day? And my dreams during the night?"

Hell, the hero was dreaming about them?

"What are you doing...?" Suddenly, the hero let their fingers entwine, squeezing gently and for whatever reason, the villain took in a quick breath.

"I believe we both know you crave a superficial relationship. Something that makes you feel superior and secure. But I can tell you from personal experience that those relationships don't work out in the long run. They will make you feel miserable. They will make you feel worthless. If I want you, I will want you bare. And there is nothing I desire more." Their lips were close to the villain's. "In your own time, of course. You strip. Figuratively and literally, obviously."

"I- You-"

"I am always willing to help, though." The hero smirked lazily and squeezed the villain's hand. "There is no reason to feel ashamed. Or to feel weak. After all, you have me in your hand."

The villain couldn't say anything.

It had started as a normal fight. With the usual flirting.

And now, the villain was actually thinking about opening up to someone. To talk about all their horrible fears and the self-doubt. About all their mistakes and regrets.

This had to be some new weapon or master plan to turn the villain into a good person. Whatever it was, the villain feared they would think about this encounter for the months to come.

"I will keep this, though," the hero announced. They held up the villain's dagger and pushed themselves off the villain. "Everyone needs a memento of their beloved, don't they?"

All the villain could do was stare as the hero blew them a kiss and vanished into the night.

[blindmagdalena]

i'm thinking about john killing someone in front of his s/o, but that was about to kill them so his violent is seem a protectiveness. to be seem bloody and not be feared....

18+ 2.7k homelander x reader, established relationship, gore, blood, morally grey reader? shower sex, fingering, praise kink, breast play, dirty talk, rough sex, count down, needy/possessive/yandere HL, reader is nondescript with f!anatomy.

Homelander is breathing shallowly, eyes wide—wild—blood dripping from his chin and from the stray strands of hair that fell forward when he lunged. He's elbow deep in a man's sternum, and his other hand is wrapped tight around his broken neck, the bones like fragments of glass poking out from beneath rapidly cooling skin.

It all happened in an instant. One second, the man currently in his hands was grabbing you by the hair, a knife swinging wildly towards your throat, and the next he was dangling from Homelander's grasp, heart slowing against his knuckles.

He laughs through his teeth, licking his lips reflexively. The blood is sour, contaminated with god knows what, but that hardly takes away from the thrill of the moment.

It's been a while since he held the gaze of someone whose life he just claimed. Long enough that he forgets where he is, and who he's with.

He drops the man to the ground like a wet sack of potatoes, innards spilling out from the hole his arm leaves behind. In the man's hand, Homelander sees something that sets his teeth on fucking edge: strands of your hair ripped from your scalp in that limp, dead palm.

"You stupid motherfucker," he growls through a crooked sickly smile, lifting his boot to crush the hand like it were nothing more than an insect. The man's heart has long since stopped, but the rapid pound of another is still loud in his ears.

Yours.

Slowly, he turns around to look at you. You're cradling your skull where you'd been grabbed, tears gathering in your wide glassy eyes, the shock of it all catching up to you. You're staring intently at the corpse, watching blood pooling out from beneath it.

You've never looked at him with fear in your eyes before, but that's precisely what he sees when your eyes meet his. It makes him bristle internally. What was he supposed to do? You were in danger, and the way you screamed will follow him into his nightmares.

He could have lost you just now. You could be the one soaking in a puddle of your own blood, losing your life to the press of nothing more than a flimsy metal blade. While Homelander has always been logically aware of your humanity and the tender vulnerability that entails, nothing has ever put it so viscerally in the forefront of his mind as a freak incident coming so close to erasing you from his life.

He did what he had to. You'll understand. You have to understand.

"Hey," he says, hands raised to you placatingly, as if coaxing a spooked wild animal. The blood just makes his crimson gloves look glossy. He blocks your view of the body. "Hey, it's alright."

Your terror is palpable in the race of your heart and the sour smell of adrenaline coursing through you.

He reaches for you with the hand that isn't drenched in viscera, but before he can take hold, you beat him to the punch, throwing yourself into his arms, your own wrapping tight around his middle, hands clasping together beneath his cape.

Caught off guard, Homelander's arms hover awkwardly for a beat before he returns your embrace. He'd been certain that he was the source of your fear after a display like that.

"He just-he tried to kill me," you rasp, tears overflowing, spilling down your cheeks, wetting his suit further. "Yeah, yeah he sure did. S'alright, he's not gonna hurt you again," he coos, stroking your back with one bloodied hand, the other cupping the back of your neck. He kisses the top of your head as you cry, working the shock and fear from your system. "Ssshhh, shhshh."

Looking over his shoulder once, he lifts you up into his arms and takes off gently into the night sky, keeping you gathered close as he flies, carrying you far away from the mess spilled all over the pavement.

Not his problem. His focus is you.

With your face buried in the crook of his neck, he can feel your tears rolling down into the collar of his suit, can smell the sea salt sweetness of them. He's never let you see that side of him before. When the shock wears off, will you see the moment for what it was?

Will you realize how much he enjoyed it?

Landing on his balcony, your arms are still tight around his neck. Neither of you have said a word since take off. He's not sure where your head is, other than the fact your racing heart has slowed to a more natural—albeit still nervous—patter.

Inside, he sets you down gently on your feet. Your balance wavers, and he settles you with his hands on your hips, staining your clothing with smears of dark blood.

He's almost afraid of breaking the tenuous quiet, but he needs to know where your head is. When you glance away, are you looking towards the door, planning your escape?

His hands tighten reflexively on your hips, and your eyes spring back up to meet his.

"You okay?" He asks quietly, warily.

"Yeah," you say, though it's hardly convincing.

"You're in shock," he says, touching the side of your face. Enough of the blood has been wiped on your clothes that it doesn't transfer much to your skin. "You remember what happened?"

Maybe your distress will leave you malleable enough for him to shape the incident just right. Make sure that you remember first and foremost that- "You saved me," you say, cutting his thoughts short. "That man was trying to hurt me, and you... you saved me."

His brows lift, surprised to hear you say it first. "Yeah. Course I did."

"You were so..." You trail off, gaze moving along his features.

Apprehension prickles from his spine all the way up to the back of his neck. He's accustomed to being scolded for his brutality by Madelyn, or looked on with thinly veiled disgust by Maeve.

They're both long gone from his life now, yet he finds himself waiting with bated breath for your response, his throat tight under the gripping hands of the ghosts of his past.

"Amazing," you exhale, banishing his specters with the sweeping wind of your breath. "God, I've never been that scared in my life, but you reacted so fast. No one has ever protected me like you do," you say, cupping his blood spattered face in your palms, smearing it into thin pink swaths across his skin with your thumbs.

He breaks into a slow, pleased smile. "Well, you've never been with anyone like me before."

"No," you agree. He can still feel a slight tremor in your hands, your body still coming down from the adrenaline high. "And I never will."

That strokes his ego deliciously. He likes the finality in your voice, the dreamy way you're looking at him, even as the smell of blood hangs heavily in the air. He almost kisses you before he remembers he's got the blood of some random thug all over his face.

"I need a shower," he says, lips close enough that his breath teases yours.

"Me too. Guess we'll have to share," you say, feigning resignation.

He grins. "Uh oh."

In the bathroom, Homelander makes quick work of undressing, but you're faster. You're already in the large shower, steaming water pouring down from above. He steps in with you, letting the water wash over you both. The water turns pink as it carries the blood away, and then sudsy as you both soap and shampoo the mess of the day from you bodies.

Once he's rinsed, he slips in behind you, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling into the crook of your neck. "I love you," he says at your ear, trailing kisses down to the lobe, to your neck. He loves the feel of goosebumps rising against his lips.

"I love you, too," you respond as you have a thousand times before. Maybe more. He stopped counting when he was sure you'd never stop.

"How much?" He prompts, hungry for more. Your praise and assurance after a moment of such uncertainty has only made him desperate for more. He wants to wring more pretty words of admiration from you, hear more of just how good he is to you.

He can't help but color your answer with a slip of his hand between your thighs, toying with your clit.

The touch earns a shivering sigh from you. "So much. More than I can stand sometimes," you say, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

"I thought you'd be scared of me after seeing what you saw... What I'm capable of," he murmurs, pillowing the reminder with deft, wet fingers. "Are you?"

You shake your head. "No, m'not, mmm... You'd never hurt me," you say, breath hitching as his fingers slip in further, fingertips stroking the lips of your pussy.

"Never," he echoes, his other hand slotting over your throat just to feel each noise you make. He pulls you back flush to his body, presses his hardening cock to the curve of your ass with his a shaky groan. "I liked it," you admit quieter, moaning when he slides his middle finger inside you. The confession stirs something primal in him, makes him growl out a rough little noise against your skin, grinding his cock into you.

"I wanted to rip his fucking guts out for touching you," he says, working another finger into you, savoring the slick, velvet feel of you around them. "For trying to take you from me." His words make your cunt quiver. He can't help himself, has to pull them from you just to taste you, sucking the nectarine sweet flavor from his fingers, rolling his tongue between them, hungry for every ounce of it.

He moans around his own fingers when you reach back and take his cock firmly in your hand, jerking him slowly. "I want you inside me," you say, your legs spreading slightly, back arching into him. "Touch me until yours is the only one I remember."

Fuck. Yes, that he can do.

You let go of his cock, and he wraps an arm around your waist, guiding himself between your wet, soft thighs. You close your legs, earning a breathy noise from him as he rocks between them, the warm, wet heat of your cunt a tease along the top of his cock.

"Take me," he murmurs fervently at your ear. "Wanna be in you, feel you, fuck you, make your pussy mine."

Shuddering against him, you reach down between your legs. Pressing your fingers to the underside of his cock, you push it up as he moves forward, the thick head of it catching on your entrance and splitting you open in one long, slow thrust.

Christ, you're so fucking tight. He can feel your muscles contracting, flexing, pulling him deeper. Your cunt feels made for him.

No one will ever take you away from him.

His right hand goes across your chest, cupping your left breast and rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger while he braces you tighter to him. He rolls his hips slowly at first, relishing the tight, slippery pull of your cunt before he begins to pick up a proper pace.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" He grits out, the slap of naked skin against skin loud in the shower. "Tell me how good it feels."

"Feels like being fucked by the fucking sun," you moan, gripping his arms, useless for anything other than taking his cock when he holds you like this. "Hot, you're so hot inside me, and I can feel... I can feel you holding back, it's like you're vibrating," you say, voice catching with every solid thrust. "It's like... it's like getting as much as I can take from something so much bigger than me."

He doesn't know what he expected to hear, but it isn't that. The idea that you can feel the true gravity of his power behind each restrained thrust drives him wild, makes him want to give you more, but he knows he can't. Not without breaking you. Sweet, frail, human thing that you are.

If he could, he would break you apart, fuck you until you fall to pieces in his hands, and then he would put every single fragment back where it belongs, but he can't. If he breaks you, he will lose you.

He needs you to survive him.

"Fuck, fuck," he rasps, holding you that slight bit tighter, lifting you nearly off your feet as he arches his back, lifting and dropping you onto every thrust of his hips. "M'gonna come," he says, voice reedy. "Come with me, let me feel you. I know you're close, can fuckin' feel it. Touch yourself for me, sweetheart."

Immediately, you drop a hand to your clit, the tips of your fingers brushing where he's pounding into you. The touch must be electric because you jolt against him. "I am, I am," you whine, rubbing yourself, the pleasure making you squirm.

"M'gonna count us down, alright? And you, mmmgh, you're gonna come with me," he says, already fighting to hold himself back. Your cunt is only getting tighter the closer to release you get, making it hard for him to stay focused.

"Five... four," he manages to say, desperately holding onto his final tethers of control. You're beyond speech now, reduced to nothing more than desperate, needy noises as you finger your clit, not even bothering to try and hold yourself up while Homelander mercilessly bounces you on his cock,

"Three... two..." His words are strained, balls drawn up tight, cock throbbing in the slick grip of your cunt. He needs to come so bad it makes his toes curl, but he won't let go until he feels you coming undone.

"One..."

One, two, three more thrusts, and you're screaming his name, knees curling up, your whole body tightening like a vice. The spasm of your orgasm rips his clean out of him, has him gasping into the crook of your neck.

He comes so hard his vision goes white, every movement halting, his focus purely on the ardent pounds of his cock emptying deep inside you, flooding you so thoroughly that the excess spill back down his shaft, his balls, mingling with the hot water and making him shiver from head to toe.

When he can, he takes in a deep, shuddering breath, easing his hold on you, though not by much. You're all but limp in his arms, panting, head lolled back against his shoulder. He lets the water run on the two of you a little while longer, savoring the aftershocks of your release before gingerly slipping out of you.

Carefully, he rubs the water between your thighs, tenderly cleaning you, kissing your neck, your shoulder.

"That was..." You trail off, words half slurred, and then you just laugh softly, the marvel clear in your voice.

He laughs, too, his own voice frayed. "Sure was."

The two of you put as much effort as it takes to get dry before making your way to bed, slipping beneath the cool sheets and rapidly warming them with your bodies, Homelander's in particular. He's always run hot, and you seem extra appreciative for it tonight, wrapping your arms around his waist and snuggling into his arms.

"I love you," you mumble sweetly.

Homelander draws the covers up over your shoulders before slipping his arm around you, drawing you into the warm, safe circle of his arms. "And I love you," he purrs, gently rolling his knuckles up and down your back.

You look peaceful, he thinks, watching as you begin to drift to sleep. He's sure it helps that he wore you out so thoroughly, but still, he'd anticipated that the shock of the evening would still have you worked up. It could be that you're still processing, that the trauma will return in nightmares that follow you into the night.

Maybe the threat of a rat simply makes less of an impact when you're cradled in the jaws of a lion.

Regardless, should you sleep fitfully or peacefully, he will be here.

No force in this would can keep him from you.

[momowoah]

I could write an essay on Doctor Odyssey and how the fantastical aspect of the ship isn't due to it being the purgatory or a dream but rather linked to the metatextual plot of the show and how the Odyssey is meant to be an in-universe representation of what the show aims to be in our reality, a direct answer to the effects of the COVID pandemic on our world that aims to create an atmosphere of escapism in a medical environment to create hope and happiness while still acknowledging current events. The weekly themes, along with the very goal of the show, are the strongest indicator of a meta narrative, very clearly designed with the show's weekly nature in mind. They wouldn't work as well in a show designed for streaming. Captain Massey himself says the ship is carefully built to show itself as a heaven to its guests, explaining the unrealistic scenarios and vibe of the show, but by focusing on the emergencies that happen on board the show allows the viewers to explore the cracks in that illusion and creates a place in which both serious themes and mindless fun can be equally approached. We see that contrast in 1x06 when the screen cuts from a threesome straight to the suicidal hotline screen; the episode successfully indulges in the hedonism of the cruise ship established early on without detriment to its more serious storyline, which includes one of the best portrayals of panic attacks I've ever seen on tv. Although both concepts are more clearly separated throughout the episode, the cut-off from one to another at the end is jarring, reminding the viewer of how both concepts coexist both in the Odyssey and in real life. As silly as it might be at times, the show isn't mindless, but rather a well-executed reminder that there is light at the end of every tunnel, and that maybe that light comes in the form of a Ryan Murphy network tv show about a throuple solving medical emergencies on a cruise ship.

[flameleadsarc]

He trapped himself in his room most nights. No, he didn’t want to bother anyone with his restlessness, how the insomnia made his mind wander down the halls and straight out of Wonderland. It wasn’t fair. His body stayed trapped within these four walls while his mind… it got to be free. 

This room didn’t have many of his belongings in it. Why would it? Like his tent on the front lines, this room served a single purpose: to temporarily protect him from the elements until he received his next set of orders. Admittedly, the bed here was more comfortable, and he didn’t miss how the sand found its way into his blankets, socks, hair, or everything else in existence. He also did not feel the stinging cold at night nor the overbearing heat during the day. For better or worse, he was safe here. His body suffered nary a scratch since he arrived weeks ago.

“I’m almost surprised you’re not trying to know everything about this place.”

His mind, though…

“Then again, you were always mopey without me, Roy.”

He let out a sigh. This wasn’t real. Hughes, donned in the white cloak all of them wore in Ishval, wasn’t standing in his room. He wasn’t really there, and he didn’t have a bandage covering his cheek. The last time they saw each other, he was fine. Perfect. Why was he appearing to him like they were still in the desert? They weren’t. This was Wonderland, not Amestris. 

“You know why. C’mon, use that head of yours.”

Right. Another sigh left his lips, and Hughes shook his head as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. 

“Sigh all you want. That’s not gonna get me to leave. I’m just as stubborn as you, maybe more. Here’s an idea, though: you could try talking to me.”

“Why? You’re not here.” The words came out muttered as he let his hands rest on his lap. “Besides, you always talked enough for the both of us.”

“Because you let me. Look at it this way.” Hughes moved to sit down next to him on the bed, inches away from Roy as hazel eyes stared directly at him. “You can either talk to me, or you can keep thinking about how this world is like Ishval. All you need is the white cloak. You still have it back in Amestris, don’t you.”

“I do. And it was heavy.”

“You’re telling me. I know they designed it for the nights too, but they really expected us to wear it with the uniform every day?”

“I sure as hell didn’t.”

“Of course not. And like anyone was about to tell the Flame Alchemist to wear his uniform properly.”

“You would’ve.”

“Just to see what you’d do.”

Both of them started laughing. Small chuckles, nothing like the loud guffaws they let out when one or both of them had too much alcohol at Madame Christmas’s—usually on Roy’s dime because he could afford it. After all, he was the one with the larger salary. But, right now? After God knew how long without any humor between the two of them, the laughter was a welcome change. After a minute, Roy looked up again into those hazel eyes, and he let out another sigh.

“I wish you were here. You’d be figuring this world out better than me. Faster than me too.” 

“I was always faster than you.”

“No need to rub it in.” His smile faded as his eyes traveled to the floor. “I… I miss you.”

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the call you missed. Don’t think about the phone booth. Don’t think about Elicia and Gracia. Don’t think about—

Too late.

“I miss you, Maes.”

Silence answered him back. As Roy brought his gaze back to his side, he saw nothing there. His right-hand man was nowhere to be found. In his typical insomniac state, he talked to a ghost instead of the real thing. The real thing hadn’t been here for months now. Almost a year. 

Roy closed his eyes as his hands covered his face. He never fell asleep. Why did he still have nightmares when he hadn’t even slept? At least if he had a nightmare, he would have a good reason for weeping. This? The streams pouring out of his eyes made no sense. Talking to ghosts made no sense.

The answer was simple: the nightmares never stopped.

[harbingersglory]

hii could i req an soft dom arlecchino x sub/fem reader?? something w a really needy whiny reader n maybe like a mommy kink or thigh riding IDK tysm for ur time !

{☆} characters arlecchino {☆} notes drabble, fem reader, sub reader {☆} warnings 18+ content

"Slowly, doll. We're not in a rush." Arlecchino reprimands lightly, squeezing your hips with just enough force to keep you unmoving on her thigh– she was still being gentle, but the subtle warning in her tone spoke to how easily she could push you against the desk and turn you into such a mess that you couldn't even remember your own name..just that you were hers.

But the barest hint of stimulation from her slacks pressed against your throbbing cunt had you twitching, barely able to form words. All you could think about was the scorching, twisting need building in your stomach, desperation for relief slowly climbing until you'd think she was doing this on purpose to drive you mad.

"Please– 'm a good girl, right? I've been good.." You choked out, only to be met with the rough, husky laugh echoing in your ear that made you feel dizzy with a rush of need, her nails gliding along the skin of your hips as she pressed you down even more firmly– you couldn't see her face but it was easy to imagine the crooked smile twisting her lips at the way you inhaled sharply and tried to buck against her thigh.

"Shh. I know, doll. I've got you, just relax." She murmured in that sickly sweet tone that always had your knees buckling, the raspiness of her voice sending shivers down your spine. It was almost impossible to relax with her so close, the notes of metal lingering on her skin despite how well she presents herself– but you trusted her, despite how you know you shouldn't.

"There we go. Good girl." Arlecchino's grip on your hips loosened just enough for you to move if you so wished, and oh did it take every ounce of restraint to not do just that..she hadn't said you were allowed to, and you weren't about to spoil her good mood by being a brat. Not tonight, anyway. "Do you want to cum, doll?"

The fervent nod you offer in place of words draws a laugh from her lips, one that is almost mocking, making your face flush in embarrassment– but the sudden tap against your hip makes your mind go blank to the point you forget it all together, focused only on the feeling of her thigh rubbing against your cunt as you bucked against her thigh, the fabric slick and wet against your inner thighs. You'd have half the heart to be embarrassed about that, too, if not for the sudden brush of her thumb against your aching, neglected clit. Just that small touch has you speeding up your movements, practically drooling as you whimpered like a dog in heat.

"That's more like it, doll. Such a pretty girl." Arlecchino hummed, her other hand trailing up your stomach, between the valley of your breasts and ghosting across your throat before settling on grabbing your jaw in a firm, yet almost tender touch as she tilted your head to the side just enough for her to pull you into a burning kiss. It left you lightheaded, grinding down against her thigh as she claimed your mouth as her own, her thumb still ghosting over your clit sporadically.

She'd spent so long teasing you, constantly touching you but never where you needed her, that you already felt like you were going to snap like a wire. She must've been in a really good mood, then, when she pulled away from the kiss with an almost predatory lick of her lips, yet she settled on pressing kisses to your skin rather then the usual sharp bite of her teeth as they sunk into the curve of your shoulder.

"Are you close? Go on. I want to see your face when you cum– you look the prettiest when you finally break apart, doll." Arlecchino mused idly– as if she wasn't talking to you while you continued to rub your aching cunt against her thigh, chasing your own release through shaky, strained breaths. Her thumb swiped over your lips, brushing strands of hair stuck to your skin from your face– at the same time as she swiped her thumb more firmly against your clit, creating a vicious contrast that had you both melting at the barest hint of almost softness from her and the touch of her hand between your legs, dragging you into an orgasm that leaves you trembling and, had she not shoved her fingers into your mouth, screaming, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes.

"All done, little doll. Take it easy." She murmured, voice so quiet you almost didn't hear it, thumb swiping across your cheek to wipe away the stray tear, her hands pulling away to settle on your sides. "You did well– good girl. Let me take it from here."

[fellshish]

A bad writing teacher can really mess you up even if you know they’re wrong

[studyblr-perhaps]

20/08/24 || Tuesday

Happy belated Rakshabandhan to the ones who celebrate! (For the ones who don't know what it is, its a festival when sisters tie an ornamental band on brothers wrists in exchange for protection. Now it's symbolic and we tie the bands in exchange for gifts lmfao). I got a watch as a gift from my cousin brother!!! At the perfect time too, cause I forgot both my watches at home while coming back to uni.

My thesis work is finally moving a bit and it's equally daunting as is exciting. I'm looking forward to the coming year haha.

[atmospheral]

Distantly, he hears Sanji say it. "You know that's not Ace." And he knows this. The wavy hair, the freckles, the slight furrow of his brow even in unconsciousness. How could he not?  Even now, white-haired and black-winged and strung up in green fluid, he is Luffy's brother. And he hears himself reply. "I know. But I'm still taking him with us." - if i could see your face once more

seraphim ace AU inspired by @lunisoular's amazing art (1, 2) and also by the fact that ace was offered a position as a shichibukai (which he turned down)

black-haired seraphim!ace under the cut:

[abrandnewshadow]

my husband wanted to cheer me up so he out of nowhere wrote me this insanely era accurate bullets yaoi and i'm sobbing

(takes place as they're leaving hellfest 06/22/2003)

"It was a surprisingly pleasant July day as the van rattled its way west bound on I-90. The mountains to the south were barely a hill from this distance, the rolling farmland whistled by through the barely cracked window. The air-conditioning would be on had it still worked, but the breeze would have to suffice. Suddenly the vehicle jolted to the side with a loud whack as the tire briefly left the road over a pothole before quickly slapping rugged pavement once more.

“What was that?” mumbled a voice from the back. The curtain drawn shut to block out the light. They had barely slept in three days. 

“Just a pothole, this road out of Syracuse really sucks. Go back to sleep”

The voice mumbled some more before falling silent. 

“I might like him better when he’s asleep,” Gerard said to Ray. He flicked his cigarette one last time before dropping it and rolling up the window.

“I should probably get some sle-” he was quickly cut off as Frank roared from behind the curtain.

“Seriously? You hit me in the face with that stupid cigarette!”

Gerard hadn’t realized he wasn’t the only one enjoying the breeze. 

“That isn’t the only thing I’d like to hit you in the face with” Gerard groveled quietly to himself. It was exhilarating to speak it out loud, even if no one else could hear him. 

“Sorry little guy, go back to bed,” he said.

Hellfest had been an intense three day fiasco. The crowd had been overwhelming, the lights and sounds felt like a blur. It was through all this chaos and turmoil that he had one thing keeping him planted firmly on the ground. As much as he didn’t want to admit it to himself, and certainly not to the others yet, Frank had become his rock. His punk. His own personal brand of crack. Frank may not have known it yet, but Gerard intended to find out if his feelings were more than his own.

He couldn’t help but hear Geoff’s lyrics in his head, “we’re betting on our own lives, making up for all the time we lost in this house of cards.” Feeling unsettled by the thought of the time he missed, the time he hadn’t spent with Frank. He was getting ahead of himself, this was all just a fantasy. He needed a distraction.

“That Thursday sure knows how to get the crowd going, don’t they?” he tried to break the silence.

“They really have some punk moves,” Mikey piped up, sensing things felt strange."