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minkkumaz · 1 year ago

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DISASTEROLOGY

hyunjin dreamed of you and the things you'd do together, and not one soul knew about it. he finally draws up the courage to show you his intentions

PIERCE THE VEIL series

PAIRING hwang hyunjin x gn!reader WC 1.1k TAGS friends to lovers. lovesick hyunjin. confessions. smooching. slightly angst. fluff. suggestive implications. OMI NOTE i think out of all the members i struggle with writing hyunjin the most. i literally dwelled on this for so long but honestly turned out better than i expected. @skullverse, my ptv twin. this one is for you my schmookum wookums bc ik he's ur fav!!

a single finger traced over hyunjin’s abs, making him take a sharp breath. there were a million different kinds of fun, but that was only a figment of his mind’s eye. when he was tucked in between his sheets, a tainted dream resurfaced every night.

but this wasn’t true, no, it was completely impossible. nobody knew that he dreamt about you, the dates he’d take you on, and the way he’d hold your hand so perfectly that not one person would get a single idea besides ‘they must be together.’

this was his imagination, and when he wasn’t happily rested within it, the world felt like it was at end.

often time’s he’d wake up in a cold sweat. running a hand through his hair to detach the pieces that stuck to his forehead. his shirt clung to his body, lacking the touch of you underneath.

hyunjin sighed, looking over to his blinking alarm clock that had a small sketchbook next to it. you were meant to come over soon to spend some time with him since days like that came rarely. one quick nap later and he was soon reminded of how badly he wanted you, yet couldn’t have you.

it was everything. the way your lips parted slightly when you were confused, how you stabilize yourself by holding onto his shoulders after he teaches you choreography, or maybe when your hand brushed against his as you walked alongside him.

a low groan of annoyance fell from his lips, moving from his spot on the bed to freshen up in the bathroom. looking in the mirror was only a reminder that today was supposed to be the day he’d say something to you; imply that he wanted so much more than to just be friends.

all he saw was his fear looking back at him. out of every drawing he’s ever made, he could never sketch out a coherent idea of how he fell victim to your spell. so instead he settled with drawing you. just you.

it was now or never, right?

picking up his phone from the charger, he sent you a text to let you know that it was okay to come over. it wouldn’t take very long, as you didn’t live too far. in the meantime, he pushed down these possessive thoughts and cleaned himself up.

the clock felt like it was ticking slower than ever, but that was just a misconception when he heard the gentle knock on his door. thousands of butterflies awoke in his stomach, and he had never been more nervous than in that moment.

he walked over to unlock the door and let you inside. you were cozy in some pajamas, with a jacket hugging your body.

“hyun!” you grin, reaching your arms around him in a hug, enabling his hands to snake around your waist.

“hey, i haven’t seen your face in awhile.” he ruffled your hair gently.

“pff, only because you’re too busy with tour.” you tease him, pulling away to follow back to his bedroom.

“okay maybe i was a little busy! but i have a present for you from when i was on tour.” he tells you, grabbing the sketchbook on his night stand and handing it to you.

“for me?” you flipped it open to see an image of yourself laying prettily on the first page.

every pencil stroke dug into the paper, getting only the finest of details. you lower yourself back on his bed, still admiring the drawing.

“do you like it?” he smiles at you.

“do i like it? i love it oh my gosh!” you bounce slightly on his mattress, giddy with endorphins.

you place the book next to you on the comforter, reaching your hands out to pull him towards you in another embrace. in the midst of this all, he falls against you on the bed.

all you could do was let out quiet giggles with the boy on top of you, his head stuffed in the crook of your neck.

he lifted himself up, leaning up on one of his forearms. his free hand traveled to your face, moving small strands of hair that were blocking your vision. a pink hue played across his cheeks; this position felt too similar to the ones in his imagination.

“i don’t know how you were able to get all those details of me. you even got one of my moles!” you beam from underneath him.

“you’re just on my mind all the time, how could i not?”

“uh huh, you’re too busy being one of the most desired men on the planet.” you joke with him, failing to realize he was being serious. your expression shifts when he doesn’t laugh.

“did you know that i dream about you, y/n?” he says tenderly, grazing his fingertip over your jawline.

“wh– pardon?” you mutter.

“there’s so much i want to tell you, but i don’t want to scare you off.” he looked intimidating, towering over you. but there was so much care in his words that it confused you.

“hyunjin.. you could never scare me off. i value all of my time with you.” you respond calmly, trying to mask your flusteredness.

the line he drew down your face stopped, instead drifting down your neck and across your collarbones. a shiver travelled down your spine.

“are you sure that you mean that, y/n?” his voice was composed sweetly.

“i mean it.”

“whenever i draw you, i think back to these daydreams i have about you. about us. we did so much together, but none of it was real.” he stopped, “it made me second guess things a lot. but i figured that even if the world was ending, shouldn’t we spend the rest of our time in love?”

“i– i don’t know what to say.” you lay below him with a shocked look on your face, but you were far from scared. you were curious.

“don’t say anything. just imagine us, please?” there were undertones of distress in his words.

“i like you, so much. but i don’t want to ruin things between us. i was so terrified.” you confess, biting back a frown.

“you won’t ruin anything, my muse. you’re anything far from poisonous. things will be okay.”

“how will i know for sure?”

hyunjin looks into your glazed eyes, you were looking like you were about to cry. this only made him smile more.

he leaned down closer to you, until he was only inches away from your ear. you could feel every inhale and exhale sliding down the side of your neck.

“you’ll know if you stay. i want to create something beautiful,” he whispers, “then destroy it.”

© 2023 minkkumaz, all rights reserved support your writers by reblogging + giving feedback! it is greatly encouraged and appreciated. thank you! → why feedback + reblogging is so important. ~ (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ if you'd like, donate to minkkumaz ! PIERCE THE VEIL series

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dont-offend-the-bees · 21 days ago

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Hi, it's Quill! For the fic writer asks, can you please answer 40, 56 and 65? 😘❤️

HELLO MY FRIEND THANK YOU 💛💛💛

40. If someone were to make fanart of your work, what fic or scene would you hope to see?

Ooooooh, now THAT'S a toughie. And and all art of my fic would be recived with literal tears of joy, but let's narrow it down lmao. Discounting my horny ass just wanting aaaallll the art of my smutty side account fic (and tbh more horny art of the Cat King in general), I think it would be lovely to see art of Lonely Bones, considering how much time and feeling has gone into it and considering I think you could have a lot of fun with moody compositions. Somewhere Beyond the Sea is only on it's first chapter but especially from chapter two onwards it's gonna have so many fun and whimsical things/characters to draw! I'd also be an absolute GLUTTON for more of mine and L and H's 1920s poly boys as seen in Keep Me Warm, Love Me Long, Be My Sunlight, but that's a bit more niche!

If I had to pick one singular scene, I think I'd melt like butter if someone drew Charles in subspace getting therapeutically, nonsexually dommed by Edwin with silly cat's cradle games in ’Cause You Cut Through All the Noise. I'm so fond of that fic you have no idea.

56. What’s something about your writing that you pride yourself on?

Character voices!! I need to rewatch DBDA again soon to refresh my memory lest I drift into made-up voices but generally speaking I think my dialogue characterisation is pretty fun and believable!

65. Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

I am looking forward to each and every aspect of the 1920s AU I'm working on with @dear-monday and @tw0-ravens, but especially the Thomas dialogue/arc/letters. I'm also huuuugely looking forward to writing my Edge Chronicles AU, but mostly for the world, vibes and character backstories especially pertaining to Edwin -- I'm currently struggling a bit with finding the actual plot, though! I'm also SO excited for the rest of Somewhere Beyond the Sea, there's going to be so much fun and whimsy and fantasy and sweetness, I'm really excited for the bits I've added as well as the bits I'm adapting from the source material!

Get to know your fic writer!

(And because you asked me to talk about WIPs, here we go, a very short, rough snippet of the Edge Chronicles AU from my notes app -- flashback to Charles and Edwin's first meeting!)

It was freezing cold in the prowlgrin roost. Maybe not up in the nests and the roosting poles, where the big old beasts dozed by the light of the burning braziers, the lucky sods. But down in the straw and the muck the winter chill was biting, creeping through every crack in the ancient slats. Charles was huddling down pathetically, dragging the ratty old prowlgrin tarp tighter round his shoulders, when he heard a creak. Louder than the wind through the slats, slower. The door. He froze, holding his breath. The air had... changed. It was crackling with something, making Charles' hair stand on end. And then, footsteps. Charles shrank back, tried to make himself small. But the shape that stepped into the roost wasn't any boy that he knew — anyone who might be looking to finish what they'd started. It was... strange. It was like looking at those old barkscroll woodcuts from way back; those odd, early academic knights with the leather armour, all tooled and riveted. Like something out of a fairytale. It looked at him, right at him, and pulled off its leather helmet and underneath was just… a boy. Not like any boy he'd seen, though. Pale, worryingly so, and gaunt, eyes the most piercing blue he'd ever seen; unearthly, iridescent. Like open, uncharted sky. "I was looking for the library," said the boy, softly, hoarsely, like he hadn't used his voice in a good long while. "It used to be here, did it not?" Charles frowned, for a moment too confused to be scared. Of all the things to be looking for! "Not anymore, mate. Moved it 'cuz of the rot, didn't they? That was what, thirty years back or summit." "Thirty years..." he hummed like a rumbling storm. "Right. If you might point me in the right direction — I have some very important reading to do.” Charles was starting to think the dunk in the lake had frozen his brain. "It's three in the morning,” he said, baffled. The boy knelt before him, and raised his hand. Charles watched, horrorstruck, as his long, slender fingers lost their shape and stretched, vaporous, into elongated strands of crystalline cirrus. "It is rather pressing," said the boy, deadpan.

And some of my tests of the art style so far 😊 this AU's gonna take me a WHILE with the illustrations as well as the writing lmao

#dead boy detectives #mr. bees speaks #ask game #my have to do the rest later after i'm done taking my dad to birthday lunch jfdkbgdafs #and i will also send some asks while i'm about it!#thank youuuu 💛💛��#my fanfic #my art

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pocket-watcher · 8 months ago

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Two men who can hypnotize with dance decide to mesmerize each other for their own purposes. They pair up, dance and fall into a trance from each other.

Ooo this is such an interesting concept. Hypnosis through dance? Let me see…

The room was packed.

Of course it was, Caleb thought.

He watched nervously as the crowd mingled and the quartet finished their number.

It was a special mission. Locate the target, coerce him into joining Caleb back to HQ.

Caleb scanned the room.

The only problem was how slippery this particular target had proven in the past

Laughter, dancing, even a few couples who had clearly forgot they were in public… but no sign of Leo.

Would Caleb spot him in time? He had to. It was all riding on him to bring the bastard in willingly.

Okay, maybe willingly was the wrong word. Hypnotised to comply, if we’re worrying about semantics.

Everything was in place. Special gear, decoys littered through the room, and a comm in his ear which he could ask for backup if needed.

Not that that was an option. He had to prove he could do this alone. He’d be the one to take Leo down.

Speak of the devil, Caleb spotted Leo topping up his champagne with some blonde woman’s glass whilst she was distracted.

Caleb scoffed at Leo’s audacity, at which point Leo caught his eye and winked, placing the empty glass back in her hand and b-lining towards the dance floor.

His hair flowed behind him as he effortlessly weaved in and out of the crowd, never breaking eye contact.

Perfect, Caleb thought.

Intersecting Leo was easy. Caleb simply swept him off his feet.

Literally.

A leg to trip him up, a hand on his waist to steady him, and the two were dancing.

All according to plan.

He rocked Leo back and forth in perfect 4/4 time. Together and apart, spinning him in dizzying circles.

Around and around.

Back and forth.

Caleb pulled him in close, and by the way Leo lingered he could tell the other man was starting to feel the effects of his dance moves.

Spin.

Dip.

Was Leo clumsy from the champagne and twirling or was he giving in?

Leo’s half-lidded stare was locked on Caleb. The only thing in focus being his iron stare. Bringing him deeper. Drawing Leo in.

The two kept up their mesmerising momentum.

Not only that, but the subliminal lyrics Caleb snuck into the performance (thank you for the performance, Madeline dear, your voice is siren-esq) had Leo eating out of the palm of his hand.

Perhaps it was too easy.

Caleb watched as the other man’s head rocked, eyes unfocused. Now, just to invite him into the corridor when…

Leo pulled Caleb close, taking the lead suddenly.

What?!

Had that just been an act?

Caleb felt his confidence falter.

Leo closed the proximity suddenly, leading to Caleb taking a sharp inhale.

And he recognised the scent a moment too late.

Sneaky bastard, Caleb thought whilst he still could.

Caleb felt the world around him slowly drift out of focus as he glared daggers at Leo. That cocky smirk, who the hell wears a drugged-up cologne like that unless-

Unless…

Gliding.

Spinning.

Caleb’s head was spinning.

He kept his stare.

There were doubles of Leo’s golden-brown eyes now. His laughter was like honey. Caleb found himself laughing along, unsure of the joke.

He needed… someone… there were eyes everywhere… why wasn’t someone helping him?

Leo dipped him deeper, making Caleb’s stomach drop suddenly. His face was red. He’d drank too much? Wait, no. That’s not right. He never drank on missions…

The music had ended a while ago. Or had it? Leo tucked a curl behind Caleb’s ear, masterfully removing his comm and crushing it under his heel.

Instinctively. Robotically.

Next went the watch; Leo’s skilled hands like butter and it was off Caleb’s wrist and into his champagne glass, crackling and fizzing.

Still never breaking eye contact.

But, if Caleb’s senses weren’t melting together into endless bliss, maybe he’d notice that Leo was slower than usual. Sluggish. Distracted.

Both men too preoccupied with trancing each other they’d barely noticed their own state before it was too late.

Falling over each other, they sleepily made their way out of the gala.

Mission complete.

#I always love hearing your thoughts so please let me know!!#watcher's stories #watcher writes #watcher answers #hypnok1nk #hypnosis #mind control #brainwashing #hypnotized #mindfuck

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catbountry · 8 months ago

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Does anybody else remember Pandora? Not the box, or the fictional planet where James Cameron's blue alien cat people live where there's a literal mineral called "unobtanium" that can only be harvested from that particular planet. My man literally called that shit "unobtanium," fucking portmanteau of "unobtainable" and the "-ium" suffix for newer elements. No. That has absolutely nothing to do with anything else I'm writing beyond this point. This is a post about music.

This is a post about the customizable internet radio station Pandora. And also it's going to briefly cover ClickRadio, it's going to talk about my experiences with YouTube Music, Spotify, my own iPod and how I find and listen to music, and how it's a core part of my creative process and I put a bunch of music references in pretty much all of my creative work. None of it being musical, by the way. I can barely carry a tune and I can't play any instruments more complicated than a kazoo.

It also got really long and rambly, look, I'm high, I'm sorry. You've been warned.

It's 2001. I'm in high school. My life looks like this drawing I made a few weeks ago.

Music is a big part of my life. The internet was a lot slower. It would take several minutes to download an .mp3 file of a song that was only about three and a half minutes long, so I would listen to the radio a lot. But the thing about listening tuning into radio is that it's not the internet. You can't pick which song to listen to whenever you want. If you want that, your best bet is to own the songs you want on their physical CD releases, or risk exposing your mom's computer to a million viruses. But in order to skip a song, you have to press a physical button to skip a song. And of course, if you're listening to the radio where you can discover new songs, you can't skip the latest Limp Bizkit or Disturbed track with the vain hope that maybe they'll play "One-Armed Scissor" by At The Drive-In or "Go With the Flow" by Queens of the Stone Age, or any single off of Kid A. Everything you hated the most, hated more than Britney Spears or the Backstreet Boys, was all lumped together under the formless "alternative rock" label, which weirdly included hip-hop artists like Eminem, House of Pain, Beastie Boys, Cypress Hill, Gorillaz and Outkast; all stuff that I guess radio stations looked at and thought "yeah, this can appeal to white people."

You know I heard Dynamite Hack's version of "Boyz N The Hood" before I ever heard Eazy-E's? That should be a crime. That should be considered a human right's violation. Fuck you, Dynamite Hack for introducing the entire world to the concept of ironic hipster covers hip-hop songs which led to the fucking white people with ukeleles versions of Tupac songs. I am so glad that we, as a society, have all come together against these dynamite hacks and decided this was cringe and something that belongs in the past.

But this isn't an essay on awful YouTube music trends of the early 2010's, this is listening to music in the internet age in the early 2000's.

In 2001, ClickRadio launched. It was a desktop application that allowed you to listen to radio stations via the internet, but it had something real radio stations did not; if a song like, say, Dynamite Hack's cover of "Boys N The Hood" came on, you could click a thumbs down button and it would let out this cartoonishly loud "thud" and then that station would never play that song for you again. And if they played a song you really liked? You could click a thumb's up button and it would play that song more often.

I cannot understate how fucking mindblowing an idea this was in the early 2000's. Yes, ClickRadio would slow down your computer as the Neopets Flash games you would play gringing for Neopoints to get a Halloween brush for your Lupe that you named after a member of your favorite band. Anybody else do that?

No? Just me? Okay then.

ClickRadio would quickly get enshittificated, within only about a year or two being filled with more and more unskippable ads. I went back to just loading up MP3s in Winamp and playing music that way by the time I was in college, but it was a pain having to listen to whatever song I had physically on my hard drive, or a few years later, going to YouTube to see if somebody uploaded a crusty version of a NoMeansNo song with a Spanish-speaking DJ speaking in the opening bits of the video. Not ideal.

But then Pandora showed up.

I don't remember where I first heard about Pandora, but after Napster, there were a bunch of music start-ups hoping to be legitimate in the eyes of artists and record labels. Clickradio was just a radio station. But Pandora... was an experiment of The Algorithm.

You see, Pandora started what is known as the Music Genome Project, a way of organizing music into hundreds of different subgenres across five large umbrella genres; Pop/Rock, Hip Hop/Electronica, Jazz, World Music and Classical. What Pandora did was use this as a way to allow users to craft their own custom radio stations. And not only would it play the stuff you liked, but it would be tailored to a seed artist or song; you put in Nirvana, you get a lot of 90's alt rock radio faire, but then maybe it plays Mudhoney. Maybe it plays Sonic Youth. Maybe it plays Melvins, and you like it. And when you give a thumbs up, you hear more and more artists in similar subgenres. And let's say you've been looking into obscure or underground music for years before you start using Pandora, and suddenly you're introduced to artists you never would have come across more organically. And buddy, you'd bet my Pandora station was a fucking hodgepodge of hundreds of seeds, which allowed me to discover highly influential /mu/ core bands like Swans, Animal Collective and Neutral Milk Hotel, but also bands that are so obscure that their Spotify listens are in the lower four digits at maximum and maybe a couple tens of thousands of views on YouTube. So many songs I found through Pandora are from bands that I very rarely hear a lot of people talk about, but they've made songs that have just lived in my brain for decades.

And for a couple years, I'd be listening to Pandora radio while writing up new TF2 fanfiction to terrorize TF2chan with. Certain songs would come up so often because I specifically bookmarked them. I didn't really know a lot about shoegaze before Pandora, but now I own a physical copy of all three of Slowdive's albums, and you fucking bet "When the Sun Hits" was in heavy rotation while I was writing Respawn of the Dead.

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Yes, this was playing while I was writing out Respawn of the Dead, chapter by chapter. And so was "Beautiful Plateau" by Sonic Youth, "The Sound" by Swans, "Dead Flag Blues" by Godspeed You! Black Emperor and "End of the Line" by Murder By Death. And also this song by a band called The Clock Work Army, which split up and reformed into another band called Calico Horses, and I know this because I found this out while trying to track down a song that would play constantly on my Pandora station and it has, as of writing this sentence, 2,588 listens. And it might have more by the time you read this because I might just put it on loop because oh my god, I love this song so much, it hits so perfect for me, why don't more people know about this song?

It's not on YouTube, where I usually tend to listen to music, since I'll go through a rotation of songs that I call "work songs." I put on music while I write, and some songs are just so perfect that I can listen to them on loop with a very select number of songs that just never, ever get old for me. My neurons in my brain light up as though I was hearing it again for the first time.

Swans, Sigur Ros and The Dillinger Escape Plan are all artists who I found through Pandora that I've had the privilege to see live. By the time I was just discovering bands because I had a bunch of friends and mutuals with similar taste in music to mine, Pandora was slowly getting more and more ads. It was getting to the point where the free service would, if you were lucky, play only three or four songs before playing an ad. And when the length of those songs can span anywhere from less than three minutes for much of my beloved 80's and early 90's punk, to up to a half an hour for post-rock, noise, or ambient music. And the number of ads that played between songs had increased. What was just one every half an hour or so was now two to three for what could potentially be only after seven minutes of music. Pandora really doesn't like it if the music you like includes a lot of songs that are longer than an episode of The Simpsons.

I never hear anybody talk about Pandora anymore. Spotify is THE name in internet music streaming, and it favors listens of entire albums and other people's playlists. I don't like Spotify; sometimes I just want a specific song from a specific album. I could make a playlist of these "work songs," but I like when YouTube notices that I'm listening to music, and in the recommendeds, there's another song that I've listened to on repeat. Why yes, I would like you to play "Classical Homicide" by Dälek for me again. What's that? An hour loop of Deadmau5's "Professional Griefers" featuring Gerard Way? Yes please. I apologize for nothing. That dude's way better than Skrillex.

God, do you guys remember the Deadmau5/Skrillex shipping that was all over Tumblr in the early 2010's. I remember it. I remember it so hard. Everybody shipping them and the members of Daft Punk, posting Steam Powered Giraffe (blech) and Die Antwoord (lol) on my dashboard. In Die Antwoord's defense, they had some pretty funny music videos.

I got AdBlocker for YouTube, so the ads aren't a problem there. I mean, I could make a playlist for Spotify of my go-to songs, but I'd have to deal with ads. And there's something nice about YouTube's robots that sell my precious data to faceless corporations at least having the courtesy to be like "You look like you could use another stream of 'Anything (Viva!)' by Foetus. Or Scraping Foetus off the Wheel. Or... whatever, fuck it, it's J.G. Thirwell's band, okay? It's the guy that does the music for Venture Brothers."

Foetus was introduced to me through a friend but it was Pandora serving me up more of their music that made their albums "nail" and "Flow" ones that got the honor of Being Downloaded onto my iPod so I can Listen to This in my Car. I still use my iPod and even if there's albums that I haven't gone back to in years on there, I like having them there. I haven't listened to the soundtrack for Panty and Stocking in ages but having access to it so that I can FLY AWAY NOW, FLY AWAY NOW, FLY AWAAAYYYY on a long drive? I like having that option.

I still buy CDs so I can burn albums onto my iPod. My iPod doesn't have ads and switching between artists doesn't mean I have to flip through a CD binder. I also try to buy albums off of Bandcamp. Especially for smaller artists, or artists whose work I love enough to want to give them my money. I don't want to listen to ads. It throws off my workflow, shakes me out of the trance-like state that is pure, focused creativity. Whether it's working on comics or thinking about things I want to do in those comics, I'm usually listening to music. Sometimes the same album, hundreds of times over. I admit I haven't listened to that much King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, but I've listened to Nonagon Infinity front to back more times than I can count.

Nowadays it feels like I don't have a lot of friends who share my taste in music. I've so fully entrenched myself in fandom circles that I've been exposed to the average person's taste in music and I'm like "oh yeah, most people aren't as big of a fucking nerd about this as you are." You know how hard it is to get people who aren't music nerds to get into The Residents? Everybody I know that likes them already knew about them before we met, and people who had never heard of them before they met me usually find them deeply weird and never get fucking obsessed with them like I have. I own a physical copy of, not their original version of their album The King and Eye, which is an entire album of them covering Elvis that sounds like this, but the fucking remix of that album that does shit like this to their covers of Elvis songs. And you know what? I love both versions, but that remix of their cover of "Surrender" is a work song.

Listening to music is the only way I can guarantee that I'm actually working on something and not playing with my phone. I guess what I'm saying is... it sure would be nice if Pandora existed like it did back then right now.

Especially because I stopped cleaning up a page of my horrible Deltarune fan comic (MASSIVE Dead Dove warning, not even kidding, the entire story hinges on some very upsetting topics) just to write all this down and make sure there were links to every song in this essay. And like... I've even used the comic as a not-so-clandestine way into tricking them into listening to my music before. Whether it be directly namedropping bands and songs, writing about a specific character's taste in music and using that in the story somehow, or literally just making the title of one of my comic installments... this.

It is really good. 686 listens on YouTube. Absolutely criminal. And the example above? That's me not putting in hundreds of references into the comic and wondering if anybody else has noticed them.

I guess what I'm saying is that I am a huge music nerd, even though I always feel like I'm getting into artists super late (unless they're like Death Grips, but that was only after The Money Store had come out), but I fucking hate Spotify. I want more physical releases that can be preserved digitally, and I don't have the money to get into collecting vinyls as a hobby. All the vinyl I own is toys, and uh... I own a lot of those.

Thank you for reading through pure, uncut music autism mixed in with nostalgia and griping about capitalism because that's apparently where my head is at all the time when I'm not daydreaming my little stories or making up video essays in my head that will never be made. That's why I do stream of consciousness Tumblr essays full of minute details that absolutely are not necessary, but this is how my goddamn ADHD brain works. Now you know what it's like to be in my Discord server.

That post is, of course, pinned in the music channel.

As it should be.

... Fuck Pandora, I don't even fuck with it no more, I miss Grooveshark, weh, my playlist on that site was eight hours long before they shut it down in 2014. Devastated. I was in the middle of using it when it went offline.

Okay now I'm done for real, sorry.

#non fanfiction #tl;dr #Youtube #Spotify

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miela · 6 months ago

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Dear Reader

Hey, Hey, Heeeeeeyyyyy

Long time no update, eh? I hope you're all doing well! Let me know down in the comments I miss all of you truly.

Let's get this out of the way: No, I'm not here to tell you that I won't be continuing the fic. I certainly am going to. Really I just wanted to give you guys updates on what's going on and why my hiatus took 7 plus months unexpectedly. I won't go into the nitty gritty details of it all but I will give a general idea because it may result in other hiatuses (I’m working around trying to find a way to prevent that though).

Firstly, I have been dealing with chronic pain for the past few months. I feel it in my back, knees, neck and hands mostly. Which you can imagine, prevents me from typing, drawing or doing much of anything as much as I would like to. At most I can properly type a few paragraphs at a time before my fingers want to give out. Regarding my hands, I have no idea where this stems from (certainly not me cracking my knuckles as a teenager, not that can’t be it…), but I’m doing different things and exercises that have been helping me. For the rest of my body, I couldn’t tell you but I’m working on doing better health practices to keep myself functioning.

Secondly, I’m a uni graduate (yay). And I have been STRUGGLING at finding a job in this post-pandemic economy. I’m not even gonna go into the absolute outrage I feel about this. Either way, I got a small job at a cafe that lasted a month and it put me in such a depressive state that I just recently was able to pull myself out of it (it was seriously THAT BAD, guys). And on top of that I’ve been feeling like a failure for not being able to find a job in my field. Either way, I’m in my Miles Morales era and doing my own thing.

There’s more to it but those are the main ones. I have been thinking about this story NON-STOP so don’t worry I haven’t given up on it. I promise I will be back. I’m going to be writing, but I probably will be updating slower than usual. I want to improve in my writing and make sure the chapters are the best they can be for you guys to enjoy (literally I was reading Manacled and Crimson Rivers and the writing is soooo good that I was mad at myself for not being at that level even if I did have a decade long writer’s block LMAO). If you sent in any request for me to write, I haven’t abandoned you guys either! Don’t worry! I SEE YOU! I will give you your requests!

Speaking of, I am planning my next fic (literally ignore my trello I have to organize it honestly). It’s going to be Marauders Era one. I have a few ideas of what I want to do but I am excited to write it! More OCs to come! (Disclaimer: FUCK JKR, Let’s all steal the wizarding world and make it lgbtqia+ AF).

Anyways, I didn’t say all this to gain pity. Please don’t pity me. I just wanted to keep you all updated on what's going on.

It’s good to be back! I missed all of you.

(Literally i'm such an asshole for leaving ya'll on a cliffhanger like that. I am SO SORRY. Literally tf is wrong with me fr.)

Tags:

@i-love-mommy-wanda @riordanness @peterdarlingg @thecrystalclarity @brckenmemories @paleprincesssxo @blackcanary130 @kindlover @i-have-no-life-charlie @melodicheauxxlovesfood @hufflepuff-n-fluff

#mae yaps #miela speaks #shattered memories

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 6 months ago

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It was certainly the longest and the least tethered to reality -- and showed that Trump, an elderly man in decline, is unfit for the presidency.

JILL FILIPOVIC

JUL 19, 2024

I hope that you were not, like me, required to watch Donald Trump’s speech at the Republican National Convention on Thursday night (and into Friday morning), and were instead doing something more enjoyable: Going out with friends, sleeping soundly, driving hot fireplace pokers into your eyes, literally anything. The former president rambled on for more than 90 minutes in a speech that was incoherent, wildly digressive, and often bizarre without being at all entertaining.

Anyone who managed to stay awake for the whole speech could only draw one conclusion: This is not a well man, and this is not a man fit for the presidency.Subscribe

Donald Trump has never been a coherent or linear speaker, and during his 2016 campaign there was much speculation about how mental acuity and cognitive health, not to mention the smattering of personality disorders he appears to live with. But then he won, and he held office for four years, and when he ran again in 2020 his flaws were familiar and so didn’t garner as many headlines — “Donald Trump still an unhinged maniac” wasn’t exactly new, and so it didn’t make the news.

But now we’ve had a four-year-old break from Trumpism, and when the former president reemerged on stage at the RNC, he exhibited all of his previous flaws, plus a marked decline: He was slower, even less coherent, less connected to the crowd, less tethered to reality. It’s hard to overstate just how bad his speech was. If Joe Biden gave a speech that colossally disjointed and tortuously boring, the headlines tomorrow morning would all be about just how severely he has deteriorated — and how Democrats are crazy for running him.

Trump is an elderly man in decline. He has always been a narcissist, the kind of guy who will ramble on and on because no one in his life has ever told him no. Eight years ago he made clear he was living in his own reality, and has long put forward his own facts and his own version of the truth, all of which is pretty well divorced from the reality in which the rest of us live. This in and of itself should be disqualifying. For most Republicans, though, it was not. Eight years ago, Trump was exciting. He stuck it to the establishment. He was actually very funny (I know someone will get mad at me for saying that, but the guy — and especially his crude insults — is not exactly crafting sophisticated comedy, but he is funny). He was, as has been observed many times over, the Id of conservative America, willing to cast “compassionate conservatism” aside for something more muscular and aggressive. He gave an angry, coarse base permission to hate immigrants, hate feminists, hate racial justice activists, hate the coastal elite (except for Trump himself), hate all of the people who don’t look like them or think like them and who had in recent decades challenged their position at the top of the social and economic hierarchies. At the time, this was all very fresh and new. To people like me, it was shocking and appalling. But a lot of American voters do not see the world the way I do.

Those same Americans, though, have heard this song-and-dance before. The same way that Trump’s insanity doesn’t garner headlines because it’s old news, Trump himself may be less magnetic because it’s also familiar — and now aped by so many Republican politicians.

All of this is to say that Trump is far from invincible. He is, by any reasonable measure, a weak candidate. His RNC speech made clear just how weak he is — and how much weaker he has gotten since 2020. And with the right candidate opposing him, Democrats can make clear just how mentally unfit he is to run the country.

Trump is surrounded by yes men in a movement more akin to a cult than anything else. These people will stand by him. They will deny the obvious reality in front of their faces. That can be beneficial: They can flood social media with heavily-edited videos and insist that their invented narrative is the truth; that may persuade some voters.

But Democrats’ broader (although far from universal) refusal to deny the reality in front of them is a strength, too. It means Democrats can pivot and adjust. This, in the worst-case scenario, can result in chaos. But it can also mean getting off of a path that only leads us over an obvious cliff. Elections are not won only by turning out the most engaged and dedicated portion of your base. Right now, I fear that’s what both parties are banking on: Republicans are hoping MAGA loyalists will propel a clearly declining candidate across the finish line, while Democrats are hoping their voters see that the stakes are high enough that they would vote for the corpse of FDR over Donald Trump.

Trump’s biggest fans are also either delusional or dishonest, and I doubt they will admit that his speech was an abject disaster. But the rest of us should say exactly what we see: A man who is simply not cognitively, emotionally, or temperamentally equipped to sit in the Oval Office.

xx Jill

#RNC #TFG #Jill Filipovic

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apocalypticavolition · 8 months ago

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Let's (re)Read The Dragon Reborn! Chapter 12: The Amyrlin Seat

I hope you weren't expecting me to take a long break and come back with a long chapter, because this entry is shorter than Moiraine! And yet I still manage to casually drop spoilers for late in The Wheel of Time, so you probably shouldn't keep reading if that's a problem.

This chapter starts with the Flame of Tar Valon icon because it's a POV of the very flame herself: Siuan.

For the hundredth time since being told that Verin had returned, she readjusted her stole on her shoulders without realizing what she was doing.

It's funny that it no longer quite fits her now that her successor Egwene is in the Tower. IIRC, her other successor is present as well...

A small Tairen rug lay in front of the table, woven in simple patterns of blue and brown and gold. A single drawing, tiny fishing boats among reeds, hung above the fireplace. Half a dozen stands held open books about the floor. That was all. Even the lamps would not have been out of place in a farmer’s house.

Siuan parallels with Rand quite well here, two leaders of the world who came from low places and prefer simple lives.

The tall Aes Sedai, as tall as most men, was second only to the Amyrlin in the White Tower, and though Siuan had known her since they were novices together, sometimes Leane’s insistence on upholding the dignity of the Amyrlin Seat was enough to make Siuan want to scream.

On the other hand, we get hints that Siuan isn't a perfect leader. Considering that Egwene's arc is all about upholding the dignity of her position even in the lowest of circumstances - and that it ends specifically on "belief and order lend strength", Siuan's chafing against Leane's respect is something of a mark against her.

“Begin where you will,” Siuan said. “These rooms are warded, in case anyone thinks to use childhood tricks of eavesdropping.” Verin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and the Amyrlin added, “Much has changed since you left. Speak.”

A little foreshadowing of how badly things have gone offpage.

Mazrim Taim is in the hands of our sisters in Saldaea, and the poor fellow in Haddon Mirk, the Light have pity on his soul, was taken by the Tairens and executed on the spot. No one even seems to know what his name was. Both were taken on the same day and, according to rumor, under the same circumstances.

I love the lampshading, poor Tairen bastard. I suspect that the suddenness of the falls of these False Dragons has a great deal to do with how poorly this particular iteration of the Third Age is doing against the Shadow: barely enough time for fate to squeeze them in even though at least Taim is necessary to the Pattern and as soon as Rand gets moving reality literally tosses them aside. In other turnings of the Wheel, the falls of the last False Dragons probably happen a little slower than the speed of causality.

“What do you mean? He is to fight Tarmon Gai’don. The Horn is to summon dead heroes from the grave to fight in the Last Battle. Has Moiraine once again made some new plan without consulting me?”

We see again how communication is breaking down among the light; Moiraine has made very few plans except when she's been desperately trying to patch the main plan together while Rand and the Shadow are busy tearing it apart. Yet still Siuan blames her due to the distance and time separating the pair of them.

“So long as Mat lives,” Verin went on, “the Horn of Valere is no more than a horn to anyone else. If he dies, of course, another can sound it and forge a new link between man and Horn.” Her gaze was steady and untroubled by what she seemed to be suggesting.

Of course, just because Siuan isn't a perfect Amyrlin or fully trusting of Moiraine doesn't mean she's evil either. It would be a lot easier for the Tower if Mat were to die that very day - and under the circumstances, few would even think it a deliberate failure of the Aes Sedai. But Siuan keeps Mat alive just the same.

“An apt metaphor, Mother, the lionfish. Once I saw a large shark that a lionfish had chased into the shallows, where it died.”

Verin wasted her life researching the Black Ajah. She should have taught Egwene how to tear Siuan's fish metaphors to shreds instead.

“That is already causing us trouble, Verin, and will cause more as the stories spread, and grow with the spreading. But I can do nothing about that. I am told these people are gone, Daughter. Do you have any evidence otherwise?”

This is another big mistake of Siuan's, as the Seanchan will indeed return very quickly, take a huge chunk of the inhabited continent, and enslave plenty of Aes Sedai and other channeling women before things are over.

But we're nowhere near that yet. Next time: Siuan interviews the Wondergirls!

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #siuan sanche #leane sharif #verin mathwin

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sealinth · 1 year ago

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Hello, Guidelines and Info

This is a Sideblog

Hey, I'm Mar! Any pronouns you feel like is good. I'm gonna be calling myself a woman, a guy and whatever I feel like. Muses here!

Here you'll find more about Me, and How and What I write :) Português lá no fim!! (em construção)

I write in english and portuguese

Born in 1995. Will only write with adults, and all preferably 21+, ideally 25+.

Blog title is sea + labyrinth, because i was thinking of concepts i like and mashed words together like my brain works less than a bot. naming blogs is really hard. But this works (even if it sounds like a pokemon name)

I'm a huge nerd and am usually going on about a book, a game, a series or whatever else really

Timezone is GMT -3

I'll be liking from a blog called "mar0la"

Writing Hows

I've been writing for 11 years now

Only via discord! Love a cute organized server :)

Will only move to discord after we decided on plot and characters. I don't like having my discord full of people that don't talk to me and having to clean it every once in a while :/

Can use tupper or not

Can do short replies but would rather we have at least a full paragraph to work with. That said, if writing too much brings the rp to a halt let's just write :)

Only write OC's. I prefer to write males or masc coded people. favored dynamics are, in order, mxf, nbxf and fxf

Usual style is what I think it's called literate with like 2 or 3 paragraphs usually

I have a little trouble with certain letter and words sounds so it's possible I'll be making mistakes like trading "will" for "you" or stuff like "brief" for "breath". I usually pay attention but it happens, so let me know and I'll edit the reply

I don't currently want to join any groups as they take too much attention

Will be replying at least once a day but I usually manage to squeeze in 2 or 3 replies. Depends on partner speed too! :D

I will let you know if I'm in a particularly busy period of my life and we can either do shorter replies or wait a bit. Of course all the same goes for you!

OOC Communication

Love plotting and headcanoing together

Playlists, graphics, pinterest boards, art or just memes - whatever we talk about with our characters is fun

That said I truly would like to make friends and made some greats ones writing so I'll be open to talk about other things as well

It's a habit to say good morning and good night for me (if my adhd let's me remember) precisely because it keeps the rp and the partner fresh in my darn brain (and it's polite and I enjoy it :) ). It's not in any way, shape or form a sign that I'm pressuring you to write, ever

If you take longer to reply (always beyond 24 hours) I'll be asking if everything is okay and that's it

Writing Whats

Plot comes before anything for me and I'm looking to create worlds together

Also love romance, love shipping and that's always what I'm looking for the most, but without forcing anything and just having fun and seeing if the characters hit it off

I'm an artist and as such I'll always be more inclined to draw my characters or just stick to the descriptions on text

If you want a irl faceclaim from me, I'm probably just going to pick one from your own wanted opposite list

A partner can draw, have an irl faceclaim, use picrew or whatever other means they want of presenting their character

I prefer fantastic plots in some way or another over slice-of-life things. That means if the setting is modern there's got to be something else going on

It doesn't mean I won't write slice-of-life, it's just harder and I get slower

My favorite setting are fantasy (low or high), scifi stuff and I'd like to try at least one fresh apocalipse here and there tbh

I don't focus on smut ever, but I can write it if you really want to. Otherwise it's all fade to black and headcanons

Trigger Warnings and the such: I have no triggers for content except characters that smoke weed, specially if they keep talking about it. Otherwise it's all good. We can always talk about content deeper depending on the sort of rp we're planning to do!

WON'T WRITE: Serial killer/slasher, incest, abusive/toxic/mean spirited relationships im general - I'm all in for complex, angsty, grey area ships. Stuff like too much devotion or forbidden love and all. Just not obsessive, destructive, controlling etc

Ok I can't think of anything else so whatever you need to know, ask me!

That's all! Thank you for reading all the way here :)

#mar!personal #i'm putting mar in my tags now so they don't show up in the og tags hopefully

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heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 8 days ago

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The way I fell in love with this fic immediately!! OP has such a fantastic grasp on words, and pacing it fr had me completely entranced with the story. Jason and the reader felt so fleshed out and real that I just wanted to tuck them both into bed and tell them it's all going to be alright! I talk about my fav parts below the cut:

All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The stakes here are already giving me anxiety, mentally had to check if I had any high-stakes projects to take care of (I do not) but I am immersed and still feel like I do

Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

Ugh this is so visceral, I can literally feel my chest tighten at this scene (But I'm also thinking about how terrible Gotham traffic is, like I know every other day you have to change your route home because some rouge decided to rob a bank and crash their getaway car)

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

ooooh, ow, that's heavy. The day has just been so awful and all you want is just a moment to yourself and when you finally think your space is safe there's another issue to deal with and there's blood on your cream carpet. What's worse is that you don't him to be consider an issue, but in the moment when you're already so drained and exhausted and he's only making things harder, it's difficult to consider him as anything else

Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.” He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap.

Ahhh, sobbing because it's not even an 'I'm sorry' and maybe normally you don't need it to be, but today it's just another thing drawing you closer and closer to breaking

But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Love this little insight, if it's not you, then it's no one, and he's been coming around long enough for you to know that

It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep.

!!! This line is such a standout for me, poetry fr

You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

I looove the tension building here, it feels like bubble about to pop, a scream about to break the silence

You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

SOBBING, wow, no words for this other than we all definitely need to cry

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.” You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him. After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—” “Okay.” He goes quiet.

This whole interaction is written incredibly, it has me sucking in breath and my eyes going wide. There's just this heaviness with it, both of them are trying in their own way, but nothing is going to make you feel better right now. And there's an ache that they're both messing up? Like, maybe you're not going to want him to come back after this. Or maybe he won't want to, and the whole tentative relationship you've built will just vanish

Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

oh no

OH NO

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

!!! OP!!! OW!! I'm going to go stare into the void, but YOU need to go stare at a wall and think about what you've done

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

I gasped, but it's so true to his character for him to shut down when hurt

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

Art

In awe of your way with words here, I can feel the hurt and the comfort with every line

Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch.

oooh, this action feel so big, so much, a line that you want to cross but neither of you are ready for

you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

Yeah, wow, that's fantastic. This gets right to core of knowing Red Hod and wanting to know who's underneath, it's so compelling and I eat it up every time

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could. You know why.

SCREAMING, I want to give them the world and wrap them up in blankets! Seriously, this fic is just so, so good. I loved every line, and I don't think I blinked the entire time. Jason felt so human, flawed, but still kind and good. Incredible work as always, OP!! 💙💙

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is type A and suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep.

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe. There’s a half-pint of ice cream left in the freezer, you remember, and store that information for later.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow.

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam.

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing.

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?”

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not.

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly.

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered.

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

#jason todd x reader #rae's fic recs

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pavlovianfuckery · 1 month ago

Text

i'm not as think as you drunk i am

A/N: Re-uploading all my fics after having a slight mental breakdown and deleting everything, bone apple tea and all that anyway

AO3

The Master-masterlist

Fandom Masterlist

Summary: Is it a booty call, is it a date? Nobody knows, but I sure had fun writing it.

Pairing: Blaine DeBeers/F!Reader

Notes: banter, kinda soft piv sex, no use of y/n

Length: 4500~ words

It's late and he's drunk. Not four sheets to the wind, but enough to make him slightly softer at the edges. Curled up on your worn down old couch, the table littered with half-empty takeout containers, you can almost imagine that this is something like a date. You'll take him to bed, of course, eventually. Or he'll take you. But right now, this is...nice. Not that you're entirely sure what this even is anymore because these booty calls, regular as they have turned out to be, traditionally do not include wine or food. Or him sprawled out against the cushions, nonchalantly swinging his feet up to rest in your lap.

"Oh, so I'm a piece of furniture now?" Wrapping a hand around one of his ankles you briefly consider tickling him, but that's probably the alcohol talking and you doubt it'd go over well.

"That depends." He pops an eyebrow at you, drawing the words out a bit. "Do you want to be?" You know he doesn't mean it literally but the images leap into your mind anyway and the thought of being made to serve, restrained and casually used, makes your cheeks flood with heat. Hiding behind your glass, you hope that he doesn't notice it, but either he's more perceptive than you thought or it's you who's not very discreet because you can practically see the gears in his head turning. It's a bit slower than usual but not by much and then he chuckles, eyes widening. "Wait, are you into-"

"I swear, if you're going to poke fun at me I'll fucking sit on you." That sounded way better in your head and it doesn't have the effect you had hoped for.

"You really need to work on your threats, doll." He drawls, thoroughly unimpressed, "I could give you a few pointers if you'd like."

"I'm sure you could." You put down the glass with perhaps a bit more force than planned, then dig your nails into the sole of his socked foot, making him jerk away.

"Watch it, or I might use you like a foot-stool or something." Sitting back from you with a smirk, he hastily adds, "But you'd probably like that."

The fact that you know that he's goading you doesn't keep it from working. Straddling his lap you trap him between the full weight of your body and the back of the couch. As threats go it really leaves something to be desired but it's not a bad position to be in, all things considered.

"Why do you have to be so mean to me, hm?" It's only mostly the alcohol that has you gliding the tips of your fingers over his collarbone, sliding them up to gently wrap around his throat. You've always liked his voice, but being able to physically feel it when he speaks sends a hot little shiver through you.

"That doesn't sound like a 'no' to me." Putting a hand across the small of your back, he pulls you a bit closer.

"It's not," As you bend down to kiss his neck, you can't quite resist the urge to pull his shirt to the side and bite down at the join between neck and shoulder, muffling your words against his skin, "but you don't have to be such an asshole about it."

"You looking for an apology, or...?" He trails off, all but melting underneath you as you suck at the sensitive spot high on his neck.

"You offering one?"

"Fresh out of those, actually." Slipping his hands up under your skirt he squeezes your thighs, fingers dimpling the soft flesh. "Keep doing that..."

It's hard to reconcile the image of the cold and calculating killer with the man who so readily leans into your touch as if it's the most natural thing in the world. It's something you try not to think about too hard and you're not really sure what that says about you, but it probably isn't good.

He's all easy smile and loose limbs as you reach up to lightly scratch your nails across his scalp, not caring that it makes his hair point in at least seventy-five different directions. Moments like these are what makes you dread what will happen once he gets tired of you like you know he eventually will, and thinking about it makes something ugly twist in your chest. He probably won't even notice it when he crushes your heart in his hands like it's a small bug, but you keep offering it up anyway, so hopelessly drawn to him and the mask he wears in equal measure. It reminds you of how you always wanted a pet tiger as a child, something vicious to everyone else that would still let you cuddle it at night. It's ridiculous of course, because this isn't a cartoon or fairytale. He's not a pet and he's not yours, not really.

You admire the bruises slowly blooming in your wake. It's a shame they'll go away so quickly but that does seem to fit the pattern of your life lately, everything you want slipping between your fingers like smoke. Giving his hair a gentle tug you half expect him to fight you, so it's a nice surprise when he simply gives in and tips his head back. Even when he's just humouring you, the vulnerability of the gesture still pleases some base and altogether animal part of your brain.

"You always this bossy when you're pissed off?"

"'m not pissed off," you mumble in between littering his neck with little nips and kisses, "but do you really have to tease me all the damn time?"

"Funny, I thought you liked being teased." His voice turns breathy and a bit higher pitched in what is obviously an imitation of you. "Please touch me," he whines, "oh please, I need you, I'll do anything, just please let me come..." Hearing those words out of his mouth like that sends a rush of heat through you and you're not quite sure whether to be mortified, turned on or a bit of both.

"You're such a fucking dick, you know that?" Sneaking your free hand under the hem of his t-shirt you pinch the soft skin of his side hard enough to make him jump and let out an involuntary huff of laughter.

"Stop that," grabbing your wrist he pulls your hand up, trapping it against his chest. Letting go of his hair you go to do it again with your other hand, just to end up with both hands splayed against his chest as he grips you tight. Even if you were upset for real it'd be hard to stay that way when he's like this, relaxed and smiling and enjoying getting under your skin perhaps a little too much. For a moment you waffle between wanting to throttle him or kiss him, but end up settling on the latter.

The kiss is a bit clumsier than usual but no less sweet for it, and as he finally loosens his grip you waste no time putting your hands right back under his shirt. Gliding your fingertips across the familiar planes of his chest you toy with the thought of having him like this, right here on the couch. You're certainly dressed for it, all you'd need to do is get his fly open and pull your panties to the side. It's incredibly tempting, knowing that he could be inside of you in just a few seconds. As he grabs your hips and rubs up against you, your already fragile sense of self-control starts to crumble. You can feel him through the denim, lovely and hard and all for you. It'd be so easy, and it takes almost every ounce of willpower to pull away.

"Bed?" Between his roaming hands and eager mouth it's getting hard to think, let alone talk. "Don't want to fuck you on this stupid couch."

"Does it feel like I'd mind?" He just tangles a hand in your hair, pressing up against you again. You groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

"No, but I do." It's less about the couch itself and more about not wanting to rush. Any other night it'd be fine but right now you just want to pretend, even if it's just for a little while.

Actually making it to the bed is not as easy or as quick as it should have been, but it's hardly your fault. With the way he keeps crowding you against every available surface, tugging at your clothes and mouthing at every inch of exposed skin, it's impressive that you make it at all. It's a graceless stumble every step of the way, and when the back of his legs hit the edge of the mattress all it takes is a small push to have him on his back. He moves to sit back up nearly straight away, but you put a hand on his chest.

"Stay."

"See?" He leans back on his elbows with a lazy grin and watches as you undress. "Bossy." It doesn't take long but you try to make a bit of a show anyway, feeling the weight of his gaze on you the entire time.

"You like?" The time spent agonizing over the choice of underwear doesn't seem to have been wasted, and you let him get a good look before undoing the clasp of the bra, letting it fall to the floor.

"You could say that." He watches as you slowly slide the panties off, inch by inch until the lacy garment hits the floor, leaving you bare. Seeing his knees open a fraction wider and his breath growing heavy at the sight of you is certainly an ego boost, one you've sorely needed. "Fuck, doll..." he breathes, hands clenching on top of the covers. "Do you have any idea how badly I want to taste you right now?"

"Yeah?" You step closer, putting one leg on either side of his knee. "C'mere, then." He gets close enough that his breath wafts over you before you rake your fingers through his hair again and pulls his head back, tutting. "Not like that." Rather than shake your hand off he watches with rapt attention as you slip a finger between your soaked folds. Usually you wouldn't push him around like this but between the lust and the alcohol he's pliable enough to let you, even if it's only in such a small way. He could turn away as you tap his mouth with a slicked-up finger, but he doesn't. "Open."

He's so pretty like this, looking up at you with naked want in his eyes as he lets you slip the tip of your finger between his lips. Chances are he'll get you back in some petty way later, but then again he might not, and right now you can't quite bring yourself to care about which one it's going to be. As you let him go he leans in to put his mouth on you, but rather than let him you put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

"You don't want it?" He frowns, skimming his hands over your thighs.

"And give you more to tease me with? I'll pass. Besides," you sigh, hooking your fingers in the neckline of his shirt, "I have plans." Maybe 'plans' is overstating it, but it'd be nice to just once be somewhat in control rather than him fucking you incoherent just to turn around and tease you about it afterwards.

"Do you, now?" As he pulls you down for a kiss, you can taste yourself on his lips. From there it's something that's only half a fall as he scoots backwards on the bed, dragging you down with him. Rather than let him get on top, you scramble to get back on his lap and in the end you manage to be just a bit quicker.

"Just be nice," you giggle, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt. It'd be quicker if he did it himself but he lets you pull it off, helping you along when you fumble. Even though you know very well what this is, the casual intimacy of it still gets to you. The way it makes his hair more mussed than usual has your heart softening in your chest until it feels like it could stick to your ribs like taffy, and the alcohol only carries a small part of the blame for that. Then his hands are on your waist, holding you still as he bends down and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth. As he swirls his tongue over the sensitive nub you can feel your core reflexively tighten, clenching around nothing. It's a sweet kind of torture and as you slide a hand around the back of his neck, you're not sure if you're trying to push him away or pull him closer. "I said be nice," you gasp, giving his hair a little tug. He hums and drags his teeth on the way as he reluctantly lets go.

"You saying this isn't?" He presses a sloppy open-mouthed kiss to the tip of your other breast, not giving you a chance to respond before closing his lips around it and for a minute you simply rock in his lap, savouring the delicious little shivers running through you. It makes you ache and despite trying to hold it back, a small mewl manages to slip out as you go to push him away. You had hoped to hold out at least a little bit longer but your hands move almost of their own volition, reaching for his fly and popping the button open. As much as you enjoy the tight jeans in theory, being the one trying to get them off is nowhere near as fun. Thankfully he doesn't let you struggle for too long, actually co-operating for once as he kicks them off, pulling the socks off too while he's at it.

It appears you're not the only one to put some extra thought into the choice of underwear because the black boxers encasing his hard cock is a step up from the usual. It might be a small thing in the grand scheme of things, but you appreciate the effort all the same. He throbs under your hands as you cup him through the thin fabric and for a few drawn-out seconds, you're the one desperate for a taste. Pulling the boxers down has his cock springing free, hitting his belly with a soft fleshy sound, and as you wrap your hand around the base of it his breath grows heavier in anticipation. When you can't deny yourself completely and dip down to swirl your tongue over the swollen head it makes his hips buck, and the shaky little moan you draw from him goes straight to your core.

Straddling him again and capturing his lips in a kiss has him swearing softly under his breath. With no barriers left it's difficult not to give in right away, especially when he's sliding so deliciously between your folds, groaning into your mouth when he narrowly misses your opening. All it takes is a soft push to have him on his back and spread out underneath you like a work of art, letting you see every expression as you grind down on him, making his tip rub over your clit. Even as he grabs your hips with a frustrated noise and angles his hips to try and slip inside you keep doing it, rubbing against him over and over until you're both soaked in your shared juices.

Finally taking pity on him, or perhaps both of you, just a slight change of angle has him pressing at your entrance. Easing down on him torturously slowly makes his fingers dig into your hips, and apparently yours isn't the only patience starting to wear thin because he keeps trying to impatiently thrust up into you. Holding yourself above him on trembling thighs, you splay your hands over his chest, gently holding him down.

"Don't move, just let me," you bite your lip, slowly sinking down inch by inch until he's buried inside of you up to the hilt. After holding off for so long, having him pressed so deeply into you makes your walls flutter weakly and you have to force yourself to be still for a few seconds. When you leisurely roll your hips he moans, but other than tensing up as you move he stays still, or close to it. For once he's letting you take what you want without having to beg for it, and it feels so good. Hands gliding up to cradle your breasts he lets out a long shaky exhale, brows furrowing as he glances at where you're joined.

"You should fucking see yourself right now..."

Maybe it's the wine and maybe you're reading too much into it, but the way he says it has your heart skipping a beat anyway, the yearning rising into your mouth and throat an almost tangible thing. He's filling you up so perfectly and as he rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, his name tumbles from your lips in a whimper.

"B-Blaine..." The slow build of pleasure is so delicious and it makes you want to savour it as much as possible but trying to keep the pace gentle proves difficult, even more so as he sneaks a hand down to let you grind against the pad of his thumb. "I... oh, you feel so good." You do your best to drink it all in, every moan and gasp falling from his lovely mouth, every expression on his face as he lets you use him like this. Every detail to be filed away and kept close, because you want to remember this. "You're so...fuck, you're being so good to me..."

It's the sweetest kind of ache and it just keeps building and building until you almost can't stand it, so tense and ready that you're almost pushing him out. How the fuck are you supposed to ever want anything else when the way he's looking at you right now makes it hard to breathe?

"That's it, that's my sweet girl," His voice is so soft as he talks you right up to that razor's edge, still barely moving. "You can come, go on..." It almost feels mean, because he never talks to you quite like that. That tiny grain of doubt chafes at you just enough to keep you from tipping over, but only barely. It hurts, enough to make your chest heave in a quiet sob and a few tears sting the corners of your eyes. Through it all he's still talking, all gentle encouragement, and the worst part is that it works, keeping you right there on the cusp.

"I want, I need..." You're not going to beg, you're not. A few tears spill over as you dig your nails into his chest, panting. In the end, you don't need to beg. He just spreads his legs a bit wider and uses what little leverage he has to thrust up into you again, slow and gentle and deep, exactly how you need it right now. When you finally come it's like a tide pulling you under and you sag as it washes through you, nearly collapsing. The waves of pleasure have you convulsing around his cock until you're almost dizzy with it and for a second you think that you might start really crying, it's so overwhelming. As it starts ebbing away you bury your face in the crook of his neck, boneless and wobbly as you pull his scent deep into your lungs. It feels as if your brain has been stuffed with cotton wool and it takes you a few seconds to even notice how he's throbbing inside of you, still hard.

"Sorry," you kiss his neck, feeling a bit embarrassed. "'m sorry..."

"Don't be." A quick roll has your positions flipped, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as he grins at you. "Not done with you." You're too spent to really argue as he gets up on his knees, pulling you with him. Then his hands are at the back of your thighs, pressing down and spreading you open until you're almost folded in half like a piece of flesh-and-blood origami. Everything is almost too sensitive and as he gives a few experimental thrusts the tip of his cock drives right into your sweet spot, drawing a garbled noise from you. He wastes no time in abusing the angle mercilessly and thoroughly until he's got you keening underneath him, drooling helplessly into the sheets.

"I'm, I''ll," gasping, you fumble for words that feels as if they're actively fighting against you. Everything just feels so much. "I'll make a mess," you finally sob, too overstimulated to do anything but go limp and take whatever he gives you.

"Good," he moans, voice low and rough and positively filthy as he hungrily watches his cock slide in and out of you, "Really fucking want you to." Before you can even respond he's rubbing at you again, every stroke of his fingers bringing you closer and closer until your entire body feels like a spring that has been coiled too tight, right on the edge of snapping. It's humiliating how he can tear you apart so utterly.

"I want it," the words slip from your mouth in a desperate, drawn-out little whine, utterly pathetic. Then he's slowing down, and you think you might actually start crying.

"Yeah?" He has the audacity to laugh at you, breathless and lovely and utterly infuriating. "Ask nicely, then." He drives into you, watching your face as you absorb the words. "Just say 'please'." Whatever tiny shred of dignity you have shrivels up and dies, because it's just too much.

"Please," the word slips out so quickly and so easily that you're nearly ashamed, but it doesn't matter, nothing does. The only thing you can think about right now is how he feels inside of you, so close to giving you what you need. "Please, oh please..." It's wavering and drawn out and probably makes you sound like a broken record but apparently it's good enough because he's moving again, rubbing into that one spot until your entire body feels as if it's filled with static, buzzing and needy. You can feel him throb inside of you and it has the fuzzy thought floating through your mind that if he comes now and leaves you hanging, you're definitely going to cry. The way he's got you pinned down and spread out means that he can see every twitch as you fall apart around him and somehow, that's the thing that really pushes you beyond the point of no return. You want him to see what he's doing to you.

This isn't like the first time, this is sharp and urgent, almost painful in its intensity. As the first little spasm hits and you gush around his cock, the noise bubbling up through your throat isn't quite a scream. Through it all you're dimly aware of him hushing you, fingers digging into your legs as he fucks you through it. As you start to come down from your high he's still going, but he can't be that far behind. It makes you ache to touch, to pull him close, but your own legs are in the way and he's keeping you pinned down. Not that being able to watch is a bad thing because he looks a gorgeous mess like this, jaw slack and brows knit together in concentration as he loses himself in you. When his release hits it bends his body like a bow until he's hunched over you, gasping and tense and pushing into you as far as he can go.

He's trembling as you wrap your arms around him, not caring about the thin sheen of sweat making you stick together. Somehow it feels like overstepping to hold him this close but you run your fingers through the wild halo of his hair anyway, letting him be the one to pull away first. It takes longer than you expect it to, long enough for him to go soft inside you and his come to start seeping out, but you don't mind. Pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder, you can't quite hold back a giggle.

"My legs are killing me." He's already nearly slipping out but it still feels like a loss when he rolls away, perhaps because you know he's going to leave. He always does. Stretched out next to you and still a bit out of breath, he looks nearly as spent as you feel as he heaves a deep sigh. For a long time he doesn't say anything and then, there it is.

"I should go."

"Not yet." It's not 'no' and you're not asking him to stay, so it's fine. Rather than respond he sighs again and closes his eyes.

So he lingers, after. Lets you rest pressed close, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, gently tracing the contours of his face. He looks softer in the early morning light, dozing in the afterglow. As you run a finger over the fine lines around his eyes his lids flutter, eyelashes tickling your fingertips.

"What're you doing?" He hums, scrunching his nose at you.

"Nothing." Touch feather-light, you trace the thin line of his mouth, pausing to press a quick kiss to the scar by his bottom lip. Everything about this moment feels indulgent and almost selfish but until he tells you to stop, you're going to let yourself have this one small thing.

"Doesn't feel like nothing." His breath puffs against your fingers and he's still not looking at you, which somehow makes it easier.

"Just...thinking."

"About?"

Voice thick in your throat, you hesitate, and then-

"That if you're not careful, you're going to make me fall in love with you." It's flippant and a bit rushed, as if that makes it less terrifying to say. The seconds tick by unbearably slowly and then he frowns. It has your heart sinking in your chest, but it's not like you expected anything. Turning over you're glad that he's not looking, because that would definitely make it worse. Any minute, the mattress is going to dip and he's going to get up and leave. As you feel him shift behind your back you try to steel yourself, as if that's going to help. Then his arm slips around your waist, his breath tickling the back of your neck.

"You should go to sleep."

After the initial disbelief dissipates you have to fight the impulse to try and weave your fingers together like you're in some sappy romance novel. Instead, you gently wrap a hand around his forearm, ruffling the fine hairs with your fingers.

"Okay."

And for once, he stays, at least until you fall asleep.

⁂

The Master-masterlist

Fandom Masterlist

If you liked this spicy snack even a little, please consider supporting your local smut-slinger and hitting the reblog button on the way out, perhaps even drop a comment if you're feeling generous, it really helps with the motivation side of things a lot!

#izombie #blaine debeers #x reader #smut #my shitty shitty writing (affectionate)

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mari-roleplay · 9 months ago

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Rain World

Here's the list of characters that I feel the most comfortable writing. Includes a short interpretation of them and few headcanons I have about them

---Hunter---

I may be a bit biased, but this campaign broke me emotionally and mentally.

Interpretation of story:

Hunter is a purposed organism, created by No Significant Harrasment. His goal was to reactivate Moon by delivering a special neuron fly. However, the Iterator had been tried to speed up the process to bring Moon back as fast as possible, which caused rot to start develop within Hunter's body. Nontheless, Hunter was still send on a mission regardless of his health. As time progressess animal's condition worsens, he times to move slower, and suffers from seizures, and hallucinations. Against all odds he completes his mission successfully, bringing Moon back to functional state. However what happens with his body as his time runs out...

Headcanons:

While loyal to NSH, I think Hunter would partially resent him. You wake up with a parasite living within you. The only other person that is alive, is capable of doing anything is the robot that speaks to you. Wouldn't you blame them if you didn't know what was going on? Even a little bit?

NSH while adores fauna and flora, he treated Hunter a bit colder. Their reasoning to do so was because they belived, that they already hurt the creature, if he got too much attached he would feel even worse for doing so. An Iterator who can't create even a simple slugcat correctly...

While calm and harsh on the outside, Hunter is internally panicking just as much as we are when a King Vulture or a Red Lizard shows up.

Scavangers don't like him not because he's hostile to them, but because they can see the rot. They can see something's wrong with him, and they're rather be safe than sorry.

While at begining he could survive of fruits and vegetables with no issue, the rot inside made his hunger grow more and more, so now he must consume meat, because nothing else is filling enough.

Will take care of a slugpup if he finds one, but will leave them most likely with a Moon. Internal heartbreak throughout the whole travel

---Spearmaster---

Heavily modified purposed organism originating from a very distant land. Createdy by Seven Red Suns they follow the Iterator's instructions. Over the time they have traveled the world many times. Often caring inside their body pearls with sensitive informations. One of the pearls they have delivered caused a tragedy. The other pearl was rewritten and served a purpose of a final goodbye from Looks to the Moon. A sad consequence of one too many informations shared.

Headcanons:

The reason why Scavengers are so scared of them at begining is because, Spearmaster is so modified, they look like they crawled out straight out of uncanny valley

Cheiftain simulator goes brrr. Literally all you have to do is sit in front of the toll and create them a bunch of spears

While they can communicated via gestures, they had a bit of a hard time understanding Iterators before they were given a mark.

Communicates with Scavengers via drawings

While nice to Scavengers, they are pretty much a public enemy number one to all the other animals.

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kvothe-kingkiller · 2 years ago

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Edit: No longer looking for Alpha Readers but I’m keeping this up for posterity and info

I’m looking for alpha readers for an ongoing fantasy project which I am currently releasing chapter by chapter. I’ll also make a post when I finish it in case you are the type to prefer to read it in one go.

You do not need to have editing skills or experience. I am only looking for basic commentary.

Blurb: In an unsteady time of peace following a generations-long war, Mila, an 18 year old farmer, finds herself unexpectedly thrust into the world of nobility upon discovering she can wield a power thought only to be possessed by the upper class. Struggling to find her feet in this new environment and shunned by those around her, she juggles learning about her abilities, her identity, and the truth of the war behind the propaganda. When her equally ostracized mentor gets a tip about a plot to assassinate one of the country’s leaders, it’s down the dysfunctional teacher with a shady past and his apprentice who can barely control her powers to prevent the country from falling back into conflict.

(This is adult fantasy, not YA)

tags/highlights/themes: non-european-based fantasy world, adult fantasy, many queer characters and relationships (including aces), discovering sexuality, struggles with mental health and addiction, physical disabilities, dealing with trauma and taking responsibility, race relations, eat the rich, government propaganda, political intrigue, war is for money, war hurts the most vulnerable, etc

more info under the cut but if you’re interested or have questions, please DM me

(scroll down for info about setting, plot, and characters. content warnings and ‘rating’ under plot)

General Info:

Like I said, no experience needed. All I want to hear about is what you like/dislike, what is clear/unclear and any theories you have (for foreshadowing). You can be as detailed as you want or you can leave a single sentence comment for each chapter, anything helps.

This is a first draft to be clear. I want alpha readers so I can make large changes to plot before rewriting everything for the second draft. On one hand it’s still fairly rough, on the other hand you don’t need to know anything to help. I just need opinions on plot and pacing and characters and foreshadowing etc etc. Again I am still writing it, I usually do ish a chapter a month sometimes faster sometimes slower. The chapters are usually ~10k, and I already have 27 out. (it is long)

This is going to be done through google classroom (yes, google classroom) because I need it to be inaccessible to anyone not invited and because I want people to be able to comment without being influenced by others and google classroom was literally the only thing I could find to do that for free. This does mean that whatever name you have on google will be seen by me and possibly others, just as an fyi. Also I have to add you to the ‘class’ but I can send you the prologue first if you want to try-before-you-buy (tho be aware the prologue is a bit more action packed than the start of the plot)

misc. pros for doing this: it already has art! because I do be an artist as well and I only ever draw my characters because motivation be finicky. Also, if you get through the entire thing I’ll do a commission for you (for free). plus I’m always looking for art ideas so if you say ‘it would be funny/cool if x did y’ then chances are I will actually draw it lol. also, free book ig?

Setting:

Magic: Low fantasy with scarce/rare magic. The magic is called forging and is basically element magic but I wanted to explain all the hand movements people do with those so I incorporated more rules and ‘science’ to make it more rigid. there are ten basic ‘facets’ (air fire water stone earth wood iron copper blood bone) and people can be born knowing any number, or special different ones, but it gets exponentially rarer with more facets. the magic is genetic and mostly confined to the upper class and has become a way of oppressing the lower class. this actually gets addressed rather than mentioned then ignored (cough, korra, cough)

Culture: The culture of the main country, Odrad, is based on african, middle eastern, and mediterranean cultures, with a bit of southern asian. However most of that is simply due to the setting being dry and hot, and so developing dark skin and loose clothing and making most things out of stone and plaster due to the scarcity of wood. Religion is polytheistic based around an all mother type goddess and the god of the sun with the biggest festival being the start of the wet season. Other important countries include Acrait, the biggest on the continent, which is more south asian based, and Sheiro, which is steppe-type culture. Odrad is an ex-monarchy ruled by a council that has morphed into capitalism and feudalism’s horrid little baby with ‘nobles’ controlling everything.

Queer Culture: First of all I use the word queer a Lot lol so if you aren’t into that, might not be for you. There is oppression since I am one of the queers who prefers an overcoming story than a setting with no oppression, but it is similar to current western culture in the sense that it’s not Horrible (so no like legal death sentences for gay sex etc), not As bad as it used to be, is worse in rural areas, and is rapidly changing in the cities. for the most part people hide their queerness but there is underground culture. Most of the characters are queer so there’s a lot of rep including ace and nb

Plot:

So far, it is Long. I am 200k words in at chapter 27 and probably only halfway through and this is only the first book. A lot of the first bit is just Mila’s struggles at the school where she’s learning forging. It is taking a turn into much more political intrigue than I planned but I’m leaning into it. so just know that its long and not just constant action, there is a lot of downtime since I enjoy my character interactions and developments and fluff etc.

It is very R rated. Mostly due to dark subject matter, blood/gore etc, and lots of swearing (I come from a family where they’re just used as emphasis words really lol, so that’s somewhat leaked in...and it’s a first draft so I can’t be bothered to spend that much time removing them). There is a Lot of discussion around sex but no actual sex scenes. It has many things which could be triggering so just lmk if you want me to warn you about anything specific. It is dark and has dark themes, however, it is not a grimdark vibe, the vibes are actually fairly light all things considered. The characters have a lot of bantz and mess around and have fun, so it’s much less constantly serious than most ‘dark’ adult fantasy. I wanted to make them more relatable as people rather than just ‘whatever badass magic user’ (they’re actually mostly fairly pathetic pft)

General CW list: violence, gore, emotional abuse, abusive relationships, child abuse, sexual harassment, bullying, homophobia, transphobia, racism, ableism, frank depictions of mental illness, alcohol/drug use, addictions, intrusive thoughts, self harm, suicide ideation/attempts, war, war crimes, torture, mind control

CW list of things mentioned and discussed or that happen but not shown directly ‘on screen’: rape, pedophilia, forced pregnancy

Characters:

I’ll just give a very brief (and not great) description of the main three

Mila: (pron. ‘mee-luh’) the MC, disaster lesbian but more in a cringe fail way than a messy bitch way. tiny (4′10) but v powerful, just can’t quite use it yet. country kid way behind on the times. needs a break so badly

Ardev: imagine if you gave a wet rat the power to take over the world but he couldn’t be bothered. gay/ace and has so many things deeply wrong with him. short king

Endel: the only competent one. bi. BDE. femme. a slut. perfect at everything. his biggest flaw is that he likes Ardev. also has things deeply wrong with him.

thx for reading and again, DM if you’re interested or have questions <3

#ymg #young mans game #my writing #my characters #i Will be self reblogging this many times so watch out

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mellowdiplomattrashpsychic · 3 months ago

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Ok so- I just thought of this randomly as an add on, but you know the ghosts that do mental damage? (*cough* spectra *cough*)

Well- what if Amity could too? I imagine her as a kid with chaotic energy. Like- a psychotic villain with only 1 thing holding their moral compass together.

Amity Park is a "middle of nowhere" town turned city (if they counted the ghosts as legal civilians). And in most AUs, none of the Supers can hear the shit going on over there, the magic welders either ignore or don't sense/know about anything going on there, and none of the Justice Leaguers found out about a media blackout or whatever.

What if it wasn't because of GIW? I mean, they'd only enter the scene later on, so there's ample amount of time for people to report before the blackout.

What if the reason why the GIW are incompetent isn't because the literal government branch is actually stupid?

What if Phantom's plot armor and extremely quick power evolution isn't just the luck of the draw?

What if Amity had been taking control of it all?

In a lot of fanfics, Lady Gotham bestowed some of her power to the bats, her protectors. Had helped here and there with stray gunshots and whatnot.

What if Amity had bestowed her power, which is a lot stronger due to her lack of curses and illness, to Danny? And with his connection to the dead, it only amplified it more.

What if she used her powers to affected the minds of the GIW? Hallucinations, red herrings through elevating her ecto-signature in random places away from Phantom, disruptions in their communication tech, maybe even physical atmospheric pressure to make them slower and run out of breath quicker.

What if she shielded her city long ago to keep away those who meant harm? Lady Gotham is extremely old, centuries at least if you think about Gotham City lore (I think at least). So I wouldn't down that Amity would've seen the witch trials. That she got angry for her own people and banned all outsiders.

What if the reason the Drs Fenton only found Amity because a distant relative was from there and the connection reached them? Maybe since Jazz and Danny are considered pure Amitians/Amity Parkers because they were born there, Amity had helped keep them alive and unharmed from the danger of their parents. Though this incidentally distanced their parents from them for their own protection.

It just feels like that if DC and DP are the same world, the GIW would be more competent if they were a real branch of government. I mean- DC plays mind games for lots of rogues, antagonists (Amanda Waller), etc. So I'd think that there's more to it than that if it's a mixed dimension.

As for titles for Amity...

Well, Lady doesn't fit with how young she is. It also just doesn't sound right to me. Lady Amity.

She can't outclass Lady Gotham either. So calling her other synonymous titles to Lady could end up referring to Lady Gotham as a lower class to her.

Dame Amity. Feels a bit too... fancy.

Little Miss would end up being a good one. I don't really know, though. Little Miss Amity. Little Miss. The Little Miss. Ms. Amity. Mistress Amity. Idk...

So- what if we ignore the royal side of things? Maybe-

Saint Amity. The Young Saint. I kinda like this one.

Priestess Amity. Not that one.

Abbess Amity.

Prioress Amity.

Idk. But I like to think of divine titles for Amity. You know the whole thing with "Father" as the Christian/Catholic God? What about The Infinite Realms being the Mother.

Yandere!ish Amity being extremely close to "mother," thanking her for the present of Danny Phantom being one of hers but also one of Mother's. Like a little brother to her maybe. Yandere!ish Amity asking Mother,

"What should I do with the infestation, Mother? If I get rid of them all at once, I'll be back with you but... the infant wouldn't be very happy with that now, would he?"

Idk, I could see Saint Amity being a bit crazy. And then she finds Lady Gotham and feels a different type of connection to Mother. A sort of strength that she admires.

The Lady Gotham is just- she doesn't care about the realms or mother. Maybe she once did but loved her children, her city, much more.

And Amity could understand it somewhat. She's growing attached to Danny and wanting him to succeed as a human. So much so that she bestows more power to allow him to protect but also finish the fights quicker. To be able to not find those "intruders" difficult to fight against.

I know this was meant to be a little more wholesome and that I trailed off a bunch, but it would make sense for centuries old spirits to see things as fleeting. See them more as passing entertainment. So when/if they do get noticed, they get a bit too... fond.

The spirit of Amity Park and Lady Gotham

Amity was a strong spirit. stronger than any city her size or age had any right to be, but she was, and she was going to make it matter.

Gotham was old, she was strong but sick and cursed so she couldn't do much but make her shadows that much darker, enough to be unseen, make her sounds that much louder enough to be unheard, guide the debris or a stray bullet a little to the left so that it would only graze not kill. even sick and hurt she was stubborn and she would make it matter.

Amity was younger than Gotham, most were, but Gotham was impressed with her. just like her Protector Amity was way too strong and way too young and very ambitious and protective of Hers.

they had that in common, Gotham was protective, Possesive. Her people were hers and hers only if they weren't Amity's first she couldn't take them, she would.

Amity was like her people, she was adaptive, sceptical but friendly, hard to gain trust from but loyal if you did. Amity was like her Protectors, she was determined and protective, she was fun but serious.

Gotham was like her people, she was a survivor, untrusting and brash, stubborn but flexible. Gotham was like her Bats, she was curious but secretive, protective to the point of possesivnes, calculated but quippy.

Amity was young and her form reflected that, she looked like a pre-teen like most her Protectors, her wheat blonde hair in star clipped twin-tails, a replica of the Ops Centre for a hat, eyes bright green and glowing freckles dusting her cheeks. her clothes were bright like her houses, always having funny accents and accessories and teared holes, her nails were painted but always chipped.

her laughter was loud with explosions and honking of cars and her voice was chipper and cracking.

Gotham was mature and so was her form, her hair black, iridescent and dripping like an oil spill, her face sickly pale(or ashen) and eyes solid yellow with bat shaped pupils (they were blood red before, just like her lips are) she is always dressed in black, blending with her shadows, clothes elegant but ripped and dirty, bloody pearls on her neck, black claws dripping oil like her hair, breath fogging with smog.

her laughter had clanking of weapons and banging of shots, her voice was raspy and strangled.

Amity looked up to Gotham, her determination and stubborn persistence to protect Hers, her funny quips and sarcastic comments.

They weren't too far by city spirit standards, they were on the same continent after all. And Amity could be that much farther, that much closer, just on the other side of the veil. Amity was in the Realms once, she knew the way back.

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tarydarrington · 3 years ago

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Veth doesn’t know who she’d expected to be waiting on the other side of the knock at the door, but if she’d had to guess, Essek Thelyss wringing his hands like a worried grandmother would have been near the bottom of her list.

“Oh,” she says. “Hi?”

He bobs his head, almost more a quick bow than a nod, tenting his fingers in front of his chest. “Good afternoon,” he says, with the distinct cadence of someone who has repeated the words to himself in the mirror all morning. “I hope you are well?”

“I’m all right,” Veth answers haltingly.

The two of them stand there for a moment, awkward silence hanging between them. Then, finally, Essek gives her a nervous smile.

“I do not wish to impose, but, ah…” He gestures past her. “May I enter?”

“Yeah. Sure.” She steps aside, and Essek gives her a grateful nod before walking - walking? - past her into the living room. “Take a seat, if you like.”

He takes the invitation, perching gingerly onto the very edge of the armchair they keep for their larger-sized guests. Veth follows him in, shutting the door behind her and wondering if this isn’t all a very strange dream. Essek barely meets her gaze as she circles around to stand before him. She leans forward, narrowing her eyes.

"What is this? Why are you being weird? Did something happen? Did Caleb die?"

"No!" Essek reins in his volume, pressing his palms together in apology. "No, certainly not. It is simply…"

Veth raises her eyebrows to prompt him.

"Well, I, ah…" His fingers draw little circles in the air, as though he can pull the words out like a spell. "I have read that it is custom in the Empire to request the blessing of a guardian if one wishes to…" The pained look on his face stretches even further. "Court."

Veth blinks at him. He’s serious. He has to be. That face, all pinched up towards the middle, reminds her of the way the neighbor boy looked when he admitted to breaking her dining room window. It looks absolutely absurd on the former Shadowhand.

"Well, I'm sure he would be flattered, but even with the slower aging, Luc's a little young for you."

She can practically see the joke fly over his head. "No," Essek blurts hurriedly, eyes blown wide with mortification. Veth might have laughed if she didn't feel a bit guilty. "No, I…" He brings one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut, and she suspects he's rooted out the sarcasm.

"If you're talking about Caleb," she says as a peace offering, "I'm certainly not his mother."

"No." Essek presses his palms together again, this time in his lap. "I have considered ways to make a meaningful gesture regarding his parents, but…"

He shakes his head. Veth can fill in the blanks. She wouldn't want the beginning of a new relationship to be tangled up in past trauma, either.

"So," he continues. "I had thought, perhaps, that as his closest friend, you might be a suitable alternative."

Well, that’s… She isn’t sure if it’s flattering, exactly, but she’ll accept the show of respect. She takes a moment to scrutinize him as he watches her apprehensively. Essek and Caleb. Caleb and Essek. It makes a certain kind of sense. Once, years ago, she might have railed against it; despite his growth, it’s still difficult sometimes to look at Essek and see anything other than her husband’s former jailer.

But lately, these last few years, Veth has been at home. She’s been with her family, the most important people in the world to her, and Caleb… well, he’s been off on his own adventures. And without Veth there to look after him, it’s been on Essek’s shoulders to make sure he comes back from said adventures alive and whole. Which he has, so far, without fail.

And that look Essek is giving her, as though if she says no, it might actually dissuade him?

"First of all," she begins with a sigh, "you’re not at court. You’re not courting. You're dating."

At the look of confusion on Essek's face, she takes a deep breath.

"You'll take him to have a meal together, or to see a play, or to watch a lecture. Don't do the lecture thing, that's a bad idea. That would be a terrible date." She pauses. "Although, with you two, maybe."

She can tell from the look on his face that she's losing him, so she waves her hands. "Nevermind that. Disregard all of that. The point is, you'll take him to nice places and do enjoyable things together."

Essek shifts uncomfortably. “I… don’t know if I can do that,” he admits. “I cannot be seen outside of the confines of his home or areas outside of the Empire.”

Veth frowns. “Well, you’re going to have to take him somewhere. You have disguises, right?”

Essek seems to consider it. “I do,” he says. “I suppose it would be worth a small risk, from time to time.”

“You’re darn right,” Veth agrees. “And don’t skimp, either. Caleb deserves the best.”

Essek nods entirely too seriously, as though he’s filing all this away in his mind. Veth makes a mental note to pester him with a progress report in about six months’ time.

Not one too rigorous, though. It’s hard to imagine prodding at him for entertainment’s sake when he looks so pathetic.

“Is there anything else?” he asks tentatively, when the silence persists.

“Well, let’s see.” She runs a finger over her chin, theatrically deep in thought. She already knows her answer. “Do you care for him?”

“Of course.” The sincerity on his face almost makes her feel bad about this. “More deeply than I have ever cared for anyone.”

She shouldn’t ask. It’s probably not something he’s discussed with Caleb himself, yet, if they’re only just now getting together. It would be prying, even for her. “Do you love him?” she asks, anyway.

A little, lost smile turns up one corner of Essek’s lips, and it’s almost a whisper when he replies, “How could I not?”

A pang of something that has never quite left Veth’s heart smarts for the first time in years, and she looks away with a matching smile.

When she and Caleb had been traveling with the others, people tended to hem and haw when she brought up how amazing Caleb was. They thought he was talented, sure, but it sometimes felt like none of the others could see the unquenchable light in him. But looking at Essek’s face, at the way his eyes are shining, Veth can’t help but think that maybe, finally, somebody gets it.

"Alright." She reaches out, and before he can flinch away, pats his hand. "You've convinced me. You have earned my permission to have regular sex with my adult, human son."

“I…” His brow furrows. “Truly?”

“Yeah, go nuts.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Caleb’s a grown adult. He can make his own choices, and if he’s choosing you, then good for both of you.”

Essek blinks at her like she’s just handed him a full pardon from the Bright Queen.

“I mean, obviously, if you hurt him, you will have all of us to answer to,” she says. “But you’re the guilt guy, so I think you’ll probably have yourself to answer to, first.”

"I…" He clasps his hands together. "I expected more… what is the word? Pushback.”

Veth braces her hands on her hips. “You know what? Fjord and Jester didn’t even tell me they were dating until I literally saw them kissing, and Beau and Yasha were barely better.” She jabs a finger towards Essek’s chest, ignoring the way he startles at the movement. “So you have just made it to the top of the Winter’s Crest card list.”

Essek presses his steepled fingers against his mouth, but not before Veth catches the bashful smile spreading there.

“Thank you,” he says. “Truly, I… This means a great deal.”

“Heck yeah, my blessing’s worth a lot,” she replies with a grin. “You know what? Tell Fjord that. He doesn’t have my blessing. I’m gonna make him work for it.”

This time the joke doesn’t pass him by, and she can read in his small smile that he’s grateful for the show of familiarity.

“I should hope he will rise to the occasion,” he says, and Veth gets the feeling he isn’t just talking about Fjord.

#shadowgast #veth brenatto #essek thelyss #mine #mine:fic #i really wish i had executed this concept better because i really liked the concept #but i promised myself i would finish one of my billion little ficlet chunks so here is this #veth #essek

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