#my writing i guess

[fatehbaz]

Y’know about notorious housing costs and homelessness situation in Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Los Angeles, the Pacific coast of the US? In 2023, Portland and San Francisco are both moving forward with major multi-million-dollar projects to outlaw “street camping” while opening “city-run mass encampments.”

The mayor, 14 April 2023:

San Francisco is site of arguably one of worst situations in the US, where thousands units are completely inaccessible, and people pay over $2000 a month to live in closets or dorm-style high-density shared rooms, and upscale coffee shops and restaurants require phone apps or payment receipts for people to access restrooms. The W!!pedia page ��Homelessness in the San Francisco Bay Area” is over 120,000 bytes in size and 12,000 words in length.

In April 2023, the city announces its grand plan: A “five-year plan” costing $600 million to “cut the number of unsheltered homeless in halve” in five years. So not a plan to put people in homes, but just to get them off the street, qualifying them as part of the strange designation of “the sheltered homeless” (they will still be homeless, but they won’t be “on the streets,” and will be “sheltered” by a city shelter or camp).

Get them out of sight, put them out of the way on an island or something:

In 2022, the city estimated that over 20,000 people are homeless in a calendar year.

And that’s only within the formal city limits of San Francisco and doesn’t include the rest of the Bay Area (which contains millions more people in Oakland, San Jose, Richmond, etc.) 

The rest of the Pacific coast?

In late 2022, Portland, its mayor, and its city council announced a major initiative to ban and outlaw “street camping”. Portland will simultaneously by opening “city-run encampments” or  “sanctioned mass homeless camps.” In early 2023, Portland begins this project:

March 2023:

Hmm.

One of the most popular homeless related questions on Q/uora, as if were a “valid question” about how “you must earn your existence through work”, and not a sickening disregard for life:

Hmm.

Like:

[emmg]

I’m indecisive, so I’m gonna ask for 8 paired with 10 please!

Humble that Devil in a sexy (maybe also disturbing) way 😩🔥

*pulls out a cigarette* As they say, let's go, let's fucking go, I guess.

Let's make this devil suck toes and cum in his pants.

She perches on the edge of the bed, one leg bent at the knee, resting lazily against the frame, while the other stretches out, firm and commanding, pressing down hard, testing his patience. Her toes trace their way up his thigh, each step deliberate, slow, pushing into the softness of his body—soft in a way that makes her smirk beneath her breath. He needs to lay off the wine, she muses, amused, as her foot settles firmly against the center of his chest. 

For a moment, her mind wanders. If anyone were to see this scene—this moment, this power, this intimacy—Raphael would lose his mind. He’d break her into a thousand pieces, drag her across the sharpest edges, if not worse. The thought of him stripping her skin to ribbons makes her lips curl in distaste. But how fortunate, she reflects, that the door is locked, the world outside blind. 

He shifts beneath her, as though attempting to rise, but she presses harder, forcing him back down with a frown that speaks more than words. 

"You know," she begins, her voice distant, her eyes drifting away from him and toward the newest portrait hanging on the wall—its grandiosity too much, too loud, too Raphael. The vibrant, boastful colors, the look of triumph. Raphael Triumphant, she’s named it, with more than a hint of sarcasm. "I prefer how you look," her gaze flickers back between the painting and the devil underfoot, her voice steady, "there."

His hands dart up, desperate, wrapping around her foot like a lifeline, his fingers gripping her ankle tightly. "You wouldn't have the art without the subject, mouse," Raphael teases, too comfortable despite his position, sprawled beneath her. 

She narrows her eyes, the corners of her lips twitching as she presses harder against him, watching the tension ripple through his frame. Her foot moves swiftly, slipping past his hands, higher now—pressing into his throat. She feels the tightening of his muscles, the way his breath comes in shallow, strained gasps, and it sends a thrill through her. All those years of honing her body—climbing, stealing, slipping into places unseen—it’s served her well. She’s flexible, controlled. 

She pushes harder, just enough to feel the wheeze of air as it escapes his lips, then slides her foot higher, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with the ball of her foot. Her movements are slow, measured, teasing, until she plants her toes firmly against his mouth, silencing him. His lips part beneath her, but she doesn’t need him to speak. Raphael always has too many words, and she’s had her fill of them. 

"I think," she says, her voice softer now, a trace of amusement playing at the edge of her lips, "I think," she repeats, a giggle escaping her as she feels the heat of his breath tickling her skin, "that the devil in the painting would do a better job at fucking me." 

She doesn’t give him a chance to respond. Her toes press deeper into his mouth, feeling the wetness of his tongue as he opens to her, a low groan escaping his lips. His mouth is warm, hungry, and he takes her in willingly, sucking at her toes with a devotion that sends a spark of heat through her. His tongue laps eagerly, sliding over her skin, coating her toes in his saliva. The sensation makes her pulse quicken, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she watches him. 

She pulls her foot back just enough to smear the slick wetness across his cheek, then lets him take her back again, granting him access as his mouth works feverishly, worshiping her. His lips suckle, his tongue licks, every movement filled with desperation to please her. 

"You," she murmurs, her voice soft but charged with tension, "are such a tease." The words leave her lips, almost involuntarily, as a moan breaks through when his tongue weaves between her toes. The sensation is electric, pulling at her, but even as her body responds, her mind drifts, her gaze sliding away from the devil beneath her to the one framed on the wall. The painting of Raphael—proud, powerful, and commanding. That devil is the one she craves. That devil is the one she would gladly kneel for, give everything to. 

Her fingers, which had been digging into her thigh, white-knuckled with tension, loosen their grip. Slowly, deliberately, they slip between her legs, seeking the heat that pulses there. The movement of her foot on his chest stills. She no longer presses him down, the weight of her control momentarily lifted. She knows he feels it, the shift in power, the sudden pause in her attention—but for the moment, she doesn't care. Her mind is elsewhere, focused on the familiar touch of her fingers, on the slick, aching need between her thighs. 

She touches herself in the way she has tried—so many times—to teach him. He never gets it quite right, never learns the way her body responds. But she knows, and as her fingers find her swollen clit, she sighs, her hips arching involuntarily, lifting just enough to slide her fingers deeper. The heat floods through her as she sinks into herself, her body responding instinctively. Her eyes stay locked on the painting, on the figure of Raphael—that Raphael, the one who would ruin her in all the ways she craves. 

In her mind, it’s not the devil on the floor with his tongue and teasing mouth that’s touching her. It’s the one on the wall—the devil who would bend her over his desk, papers and contracts strewn carelessly beneath them. She can almost feel the weight of his hands on her hips, the sting of his palm as it cracks against her skin, the bite of his teeth as they sink into her flesh. He would fuck her like no one else—hard, fast, then slow, punishing, and worshipful all at once. He would call her good and a whore in the same breath, his cock buried deep inside her, sliding in and out, taking her apart and putting her back together again with every thrust. She can feel it so clearly, the way his hips would snap into hers, unrelenting, as he fucked her into the hard wood of the desk, the way he’d groan her name as he came inside her, filling her completely. He’d fuck her until she couldn’t stand, until she was begging for him to stop, and even then, he wouldn’t.

He’d keep going. She can feel it, the way he’d harden inside her again, the way he’d thrust deeper, harder, even as her legs gave out beneath her, her body too sensitive, too wrecked to keep up. He’d release inside her again, thick and hot, filling her up, and he’d just keep at it, his hips relentless, his cock pounding her, his teeth in her shoulder, pulling at her hair, taking her. Cum would be dripping down her legs, mixing with her own slick as he fucked it back into her, his fingers dipping down to gather it all up, his hand reaching around to shove those fingers into her mouth, making her suck them clean. 

When he was finally done, when her body was a shaking, trembling mess, when she was too weak to even stand, he wouldn’t let her rest. No, he’d push her to her knees, shove her face into his cock, and tell her to clean him off. And she would—gods, she would—her mouth sliding over his softening cock, licking up every last drop, swallowing it down like she couldn’t get enough, her tongue dragging over his skin, her lips sucking him clean with the kind of reverence she only reserved for him.

And if, by some obscene quirk of his infernal anatomy, he hardened again—his cock stiffening in her mouth just as she started to pull away—he wouldn’t let her go. He’d grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her back onto him mid-release, his cum already spilling, hot and thick, splattering across her cheek and lips. The first spurts would land on her skin, but he wouldn’t stop there. No, he’d shove her face back down onto his cock, forcing her to take it all, to drink him down, the taste coating her tongue as more of him, musky, too hot, overwhelming, flooded her mouth. 

He’d make sure none of it went to waste. His hips would jerk forward, thrusting roughly into her throat, not caring if she gagged, not caring if she struggled, just needing to feel her mouth around him. He wouldn’t stop until every last drop was forced down her throat, his cock pulsing against her tongue, the saltiness of him overwhelming her senses. His grip in her hair would tighten, guiding her head as he fucked her mouth twice, three times more, his cum still leaking, his body writhing with the aftershocks of pleasure. 

Her lips would stretch around him, her throat working desperately to swallow it all, the wet sounds of her choking and gasping for air filling the room. And as he finally finished, his cock softening in her mouth, he’d pull out slowly, dragging her face across his length, the remnants of his release still smeared across her cheeks, her lips wet and glistening and cracked. But she wouldn’t move—wouldn’t pull away. 

In the aftermath, with his cum still trickling down her chin, she would stay there, at his feet, her breath ragged, her mouth sticky and sore. And then, with trembling lips, she’d whisper his name—Raphael, Raphael—her voice breathless, almost broken. Her tongue would dart out, tasting the last of him on her lips, and she’d lean forward, pressing soft kisses to his thighs, her lips brushing against his skin like a prayer.

Her eyes would be wide, looking up at him with worship—like a sinner begging for forgiveness, like a worshiper at the altar of their god. She’d kiss her way up his legs, her lips dragging across his skin, her breath hot as she mouthed at his fingers, his hands. Her face, smeared with his release, would be a mess of devotion and lust, her eyes filled with adoration as she kissed him—his thighs, his hands, his cock, whatever she could reach. 

No. That devil wouldn’t be content with kissing her foot. 

"Making me come to that painting," she finally breathes out, her voice thick with pleasure, her thighs clenching as the orgasm rolls through her, her body tightening around her own fingers. Her chest rises and falls in shallow gasps, riding the wave of sensation as her cunt clenches around her fingers, milking the last of the pleasure from her own touch. 

Finally, she turns her gaze to the real Raphael—the one on the floor, not the grand, painted devil on the wall. He’s watching her, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, curiosity and lust darkening his eyes. As he begins to push himself up, she doesn’t hesitate. Her foot snaps out, slamming into his chest, way harder than she meant to, but the jolt of power, the raw force, makes her pulse quicken. He crashes to the floor, his head cracking against the hard surface with a sickening thud, the horns on his skull making a sharp cracking sound as they connect. 

The impact rips a guttural hiss from his throat, but there’s a moan tangled in it too, and when her eyes flick down, she sees the obscene bulge straining against his trousers, swollen, throbbing. A fresh wave of heat floods her body at the sight of him, pathetic and needy, sprawled out beneath her. The room reeks of him—his sweat, sharp and musky, clinging to the air, the unmistakable scent of his arousal thickening around her. 

Indulgent, generous even, she lets her foot slide down his chest, grazing his skin just enough to keep him desperate. Her heel drags across his abdomen, not quite touching where he needs it most, her toes brushing over his thighs, down to his knees, making his muscles tense and twitch with every inch she covers. She pauses there, watching him squirm, watching his hips jerk up as if trying to find her foot, to make her press where it aches. 

And then, just when he looks ready to beg, she presses her toes against his cock—hard. The response is immediate. His body jerks, and the noise that comes out of him is pathetic—a whimpering, choked moan as his hips buck up against her foot, seeking more. He’s hard, so hard, twitching under the pressure of her foot, and for a moment, she just lets him suffer, lets him grind helplessly against her. 

His hand flies up, desperate to press her harder against himself, but she kicks it away without even glancing down, a smirk curling her lips. His eyes are wide, pleading, sweat slicking his skin, his hair sticking to his forehead. 

"Raphael, Raphael," she coos, sweetly, softly, "Beautiful Raphael." She can see the shame flicker across his features, as beautiful in his pitifulness as he is in his narcissism, his body trembling with need. He’s disgusting, he's pathetic, she loves it, loves his face, loves all the wretched parts of him that need to be bled and flayed and devoured. 

"Do something," he growls through gritted teeth, his breath ragged and shallow, "before I drag you down here and fuck that mouth of yours until you’re finally silent." His voice is rough, dripping with lust and frustration even as he threatens her. He shudders beneath her foot, his hips jerking up again, desperate for more pressure, more friction. 

“Well, maybe if you beg, I’ll consider it,” she whispers, absentminded, knowing he won’t, but the mental image almost enough to make up for it.

She tilts her head, considering his words. With a sigh, she obliges—because she knows he’s not bluffing. If she pushes him too far, he will pin her down and take what he wants, but it’ll be over too quickly, nothing more than a few frenzied, sloppy thrusts and a quick release. One-sided pleasure. He’s still stronger than her, and when he finally loses patience, it will all come crashing down in a jumble of power and frustration. 

It’ll be messy, desperate; it’s never smooth with him when he’s in this state. She's been through the motions before, knows exactly how it will play out—his hands clawing at his ridiculous belt, swearing under his breath as he fumbles with the too-many buttons on his expensive trousers. His impatience would turn into frustration, and when he finally gets his cock free, it won’t be slow or sensual. No, he’ll shove it into her mouth with no hesitation, no grace—just raw, animalistic need. 

It would be awkward, the angle all wrong, her throat tightening in protest as he slams into it again and again, each thrust brutal yet faltering. His hands would grip her hair, yanking her forward as he drives his cock deep into her throat without giving her a chance to adjust. Her gag reflex would kick in almost instantly, her throat constricting around him, saliva rushing up from the depths of her throat, not from pleasure but from the violent force of him. Her lips would stretch painfully around his girth as he fucks her mouth with reckless abandon, hitting the back of her throat every time, making her choke and sputter. 

There wouldn’t be any rhythm, no pace she could control. He wouldn’t let her. He’d just use her, thrusting into her throat with no care for the mess he’s making. Spit would pool around her mouth, dripping down her chin in long, sticky strands, soaking into her skin as she gasped for air. She wouldn’t get a moment to breathe—he never lets her. He’d thrust harder, faster, until her throat felt raw, her stomach heaving with the force of it. 

His hips would start to stutter, erratic, as he got close, and she’d know it was almost over. He always finishes too quickly. And when he finally came, it would be a messy, graceless release, his cum spilling into her mouth in thick, salty spurts. She wouldn’t even have a chance to swallow before her body would revolt, gagging as she pulled away, coughing and retching, all of it spilling from her lips. Some of it would splatter on his expensive shoes, staining the leather, a small satisfaction. 

Oh, well. It's good for him then that she's feeling benevolent. Good for her that he won't reach that point.

She presses her foot harder against his cock, feeling the heat of him through his trousers, the way he twitches under the pressure. His hips meet her in a rhythm now, thrusting up into her, chasing the pleasure. Sweat beads on his brow, mixing with the sheen already glistening on his chest, the salty scent of it filling her nostrils. His breath comes in gasps, each one louder, more desperate than the last. His mouth hangs open, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, a glistening trail of saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth. 

She rubs her foot against him, slowly, torturously, grinding her heel into his cock as she watches the tension build in his body, his skin flushed, his muscles taut. His trousers are soaked with sweat, the heat of his arousal unmistakable now, seeping through the fabric. Every thrust of his hips is a silent plea for more, for her to push harder, to finally give him what he’s begging for. 

And then, it happens. His lips start to move, muttering something low and guttural, in the dark, ugly language of the Hells, and she knows he’s close. His hips jerk erratically, and she feels the sudden wet heat of his release, the way it spurts against her foot, soaking through his trousers. The dark stain blooms across the fabric, spreading quickly as he groans, his body convulsing with the force of it, and still, she doesn’t stop. 

She grinds her foot harder into the wetness, rubbing his humiliation into him, smearing his cum across his crotch, making sure it’s unmistakable, undeniable. The musky, bitter scent of his release mixes with the sharp tang of his sweat, thick and heavy in the air, clinging to her skin. She presses harder still, pushing his cum deeper into the fabric, spreading it, marking him with his own filth. 

"Little mouse," he breathes, his voice weak, barely more than a whisper. His tail thunks against the floor, twitching reflexively—something she’s come to recognize as instinctual, something he doesn’t even notice he’s doing.

"Hm," she hums, her eyes floating away from him, back to the painting on the wall. Her foot slides back up his body, trailing over the sticky wetness on his trousers, up his chest, until she reaches his chin. With a sharp press of her toes, she tilts his head back, forcing his mouth shut, sealing his pathetic groans behind his lips. 

[jessiedressesup]

lil snippet of a kevaaron thing below...

part 1 part 2 part 3

The first time Aaron hears the word ‘bisexual’ he’s 20 years old. In his defense, he grew up with a vaguely religious mother, very religious relatives, and when he escaped them he was kept isolated from everyone by his twin brother. He didn’t exactly have the opportunity to broaden his horizons and meet different kinds of people. Still, it’s embarrassing.

It happens because of a guy named Miles, who sometimes joins Aaron in the library for study sessions. Miles and his boyfriend broke up a few weeks ago around the same time that Kate and Aaron split, so their quiet studying took on a more commiserating edge. Or it did until Miles shows up with a new girl who kisses him before saying, “see you later, babe,” and sauntering out of the library, ponytail bouncing with every step.

Aaron stares at Miles while the other man pulls out his textbooks. It’s none of his business, but he can’t help but ask, “So, are you straight now or what?”

[sunny-porridge]

Young Link

Link was not dumb.

He knew when he was being followed, and he definitely knew when he was being treated as a child.

He could still feel the deafening sounds of the day’s battle in his ears. His nostrils were filled with the smell of burning grounds, burning flesh, monster blood and Hylian blood and–

And it was a full moon tonight.

And it would be midnight soon, in seventeen minutes and twenty two seconds, to be precise.

[evil-quartett]

By your side

I'm by your side. The words Vincent once spoke to him. Had they any value left? Now that his broer was gone?

Theo knew he was insignificant. He'd known the second he saw Vincent paint for the first time. Still, it hurt when Vincent abandoned him. He knew it shouldn't hurt like this. He should be happy! Vincent would continue painting, better than he'd ever had before. He'd reached his goal, had he not? In the future, his broers art would be appreciated and sold like it should have been from the start. Theo wasn't needed anymore. Vincent had found love, inspiration, and appreciation. That had been his life goal. Now he could rest.

But he didn't want to. For the first time in his life, Theo was truly afraid. He'd never known how mich he relied on his older brother. Never.. until he lost him. And his purpose with his broer.

I'm by your side. Just close your eyes. And Theo did. Desperate to see Vincent. One last time.

[uldahstreetrat]

3 for the kiss prompt 👀

The pad of their thumb tracing your lower lip, dragging downwards a little; the hitch in your breath when their eyes flicker from your lips to meeting your eyes (also requested by @bnuuywol)

"Thank you again for inviting me to dinner." Anais said, gently stacking plates and cups from the table. "It's always nice to see the girls. Especially under circumstances that aren't so dire for once."

"It was their idea, actually." Gaius replied.

"You mean it was Allie's idea," She smiled sadly, "I'm sure Mitnu still doesn't care much to have me around."

He took the stack of dishes from in front of her and carried it to the sink. "She only pretends like she doesn't. It was her idea, Allie just planned it." He was sure they had both planned it, well before they ever brought it up in front of him. His daughters were all too quick to excuse themselves for the evening after dinner as well, leaving him and Anais alone. He could only imagine why.

He knew why.

Gaius looked over to her where she had sat back down at the table, nervously rubbing each finger on her hand in turn. Things between them had been awkward for a while now. He only had himself to blame. He looked instead to where his coat hung by the door, the masks of the ascians he had slain still hanging from its belt. Anais wasn't like them. He still regretted the things he had said to her before that was clear to him. "I-"

"Am I trying too hard to be a mother to them?"

He looked back to her in surprise, eyebrows raised. She wore a look of deeply embarrassed concern, rubbing her hands across each other in an even more anxious manner than she had already been. Gaius couldn't help but laugh, a deeply unnatural sound coming from him.

"Don't laugh at me!" She sighed in distress and got up from her seat.

"I'm sorry, I didn't- I don't mean to-" He shook his head and composed himself, looking down at her. Anais stood in front of him now, arms crossed and frowning. "They love having you around. Both of them. I can promise you that much."

She took a deep breath in and sighed. "I worry overmuch. I know." She smiled up at him softly before tilting her head at him quizzically, "Oh, hold still, you have something on your face."

The moment her hand met his face, Gaius froze. He couldn't think as her thumb traced the bottom corner of his lip. It felt like time slowed down at her touch, gently caressing his face.

"Hm... I guess it must have just been the light," Anais looked up from his lips and met his eyes. She, too, froze in place. For an eternity they stood there, transfixed on one another's gaze, before finally she pulled her hand away. "I'm so sorry! I don't know why I-"

Gaius grabbed her wrist in one hand and her waist in the other and kissed her. To his surprise, she kissed him back. Wholeheartedly. She placed her hand once again against his face, keeping it there even after they pulled away. Her face was flushed and those eyes that already shone like stars sparkled even more.

"Well, I, um-" Anais stumbled over her words, her lips moving but unable to form something to say.

"Stay the night with me."

She smiled. "I'd love to."

[afterdarkprincess]

Aftershocks Part 2??? I guess???

Look idk what happened, but I didn't do any work today and instead I wrote this.

Part 1

Post Summerslam Tribal Combat SamiJey

AKA why the fuck Sami didn't help our boy

---

Earlier that evening-

Sami paced wildly in the locker room. He could barely look at the actions taking place on the monitor, Kevin stared at it with fury written all over his face.

Kevin had no love lost for the Usos but no one deserved a beating like this from their younger brother.

Sami’s heart raced in his chest. Someone had to help Jey, someone had to even the odds. Everything in him was screaming to run out there, to protect Jey.

He could hear the crowd begging for Solo to stop as he sent his older brother crashing through a table.

It was the same feeling he had when Paul handcuffed Kevin to the ropes back at the Royal Rumble. The helplessness and pain of watching someone he loves be broken down and beaten. He couldn’t sit idly by, and this time it wouldn’t mean betrayal to someone else.

At least not exactly.

“I know what you’re thinking of doing, and I just wanna say I do NOT agree with it.” Kevin’s voice cut through the thoughts racing in Sami’s head.

“I can’t not go out there, Kev. I couldn’t do that to you and I can’t do that to him.” Sami ties his hair back into a bun, mentally preparing himself to head out there.

Kevin shook his head, “What is it with you and him? I’ve known you for decades and he hated your ass like 6 months ago.”

“I don’t know how to explain it man, but I have to do this.”

“Well I’m not gonna mop your face up after Roman busts it again. Or Solo. Or Jey.”

Sami laughs, “Noted.” Clapping a hand on Kevin’s shoulder as he passes, Sami moves to exit the locker room and head to Gorilla position.

As he heads out the doorway into concrete clad hallways, he nearly runs into a quick moving figure clad only in black. Sami’s hands come up to touch the strangers arm, make sure there’s no harm done.

“Sorry Pal, didn’t see you there.”

The figure turns and stares at Sami’s hands before looking up and locking eyes with the redhead.

His face is covered with a black bandana, hood thrown over his hair, but Sami Zayn has spent enough hours with Jimmy Uso to know those eyes anywhere.

And they are dark, bags under them as he stares wordlessly into Sami’s eyes.

Sami pushes in closer, looking over his shoulder, “What are you doing here?”

Jimmy pulls down the bandana, eyes blazing. “What are YOU doin’ here, uce? Thinking you gon’ play the hero, huh?”

“Jimmy, I can’t just let Jey get beat like that, I-“

“And why not? He told you he don’ need you no more! We don’t need you no more!”

“I know he doesn’t need me, but I still… care about him!” Something else almost slipped out, something Sami’s barely been able to process. But that doesn’t matter now.

Jimmy’s eyes narrow in rage, “Of COURSE you do, didn’t matter none when it was my ass on the line but when it’s JEY the honorary uce comes runnin back.”

“That’s not true-“

“Ain’t you listenin? It don’ MATTER. This is family business, you have no part in this! I gotta do what I gotta do and this’ll be over.”

But why does his face look so dark and conflicted?

“Jimmy, what do you have to do? You’re going to help him, someone has to help Jey.” Sami knows he’s not blood. He was reminded of it every day for months how could he forget? Maybe Jimmy was right, but he couldn’t walk away without knowing someone was in Jey’s corner.

“Yeah, Uce,” Jimmy chuckles. “I’m gon’ help him.”

Something doesn’t sit right. “Are you sure? I could-“

“Man what is WRONG with you? He don’ WANT you no more.”

The words stung. Like a super kick to the face.

How could Sami ever compare to Jey’s brother? His twin.

Distantly the crowd roars. Sami prays it’s momentum for Jey.

He dips his head, “Okay. I-I get it. Please, just.. help him.”

Jimmy doesn’t say anything else, just adjusts the bandana to cover his face again and pushes Sami back towards the locker room.

Kevin looks over at him as he enters the room. “You come to your senses, did you?”

Sami shook his head, “Something like that”

“Well, whatever it was, looks like he didn’t need you anyway.” Kevin gestures to the screen, unaware of the salt he just rubbed into a wound.

But sure enough, Jey had gained some steam. Solo was down, put through the announce desk, and Roman looked rough.

He watched, heart full with pride and a small glimmer of hope. Maybe things would be different with Roman dethroned. Maybe they could go back to the way things were before.

Jey set up for the Uso splash, and Sami wondered idly why there hadn’t been any music queued up yet. Surely Jimmy had made it gorilla by now, why hadn’t he come out?

Jey stood over Roman now, stunned and out cold from the splash.

Suddenly Jey’s leg goes out from under him.

And there stands a figure in black.

Jey looks up in confusion, recognition, then the grief and hurt of betrayal.

Sami is frozen in shock.

“I gotta do what I gotta do and this’ll be over.”

---

The match ends. Roman’s disgustingly familiar music plays, though there’s no showboating this time. The tribal chief looks tired and worn, and shows no pleasure in the result.

The wiseman of course is beside himself spouting validation to Roman.

Jey remains in the ring.

The cameras don’t much care for privacy, and the naked grief on Jey’s face is open for anyone to see. His face is wet with tears and sweat.

He clutches his arms to himself and makes no move to leave the ring.

Sami fears that he’s injured, but knows deep down that Jey is going through something worse than an injury.

How could Jimmy have betrayed his brother? His twin? Why?

Sami’s thoughts raced, replaying his conversation with the older twin earlier, every interaction both on and off camera for the last few years.

Nothing about it was adding up, Jimmy wanted out of Roman’s grasp as much as Jey.

A flash on the monitor caught his eye, pulling him out of his head. Some officials were in the ring now, medical looking Jey over for signs of injury.

Jey’s face remained skyward, staring unseeingly at the lights above while Adam Pearce called his name.

Jimmy’s reasons didn’t matter right now.

The urge to see Jey with his own eyes was strong, he just needed to feel that beautiful tanned skin under his fingertips for a moment, to know he was okay.

Jimmy might have been right. Maybe he hadn’t lied about Jey not wanting to see him. And if Jey chewed his ear off or super kicked him again, Sami would take that. It would be worth it.

Next time (If I keep writing, who knows???) what will happen when Sami finds Jey??? Cute shit probably!!!

[grandlovescheme]

20 questions for fic writers

Tagged by @luthien-under-bough, thank you! I love talking about fics and the process of how I write them, so this was fun to put together :)

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

28

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

459,900

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Now exclusively House of the Dragon, specifically Daemyra

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

High Hopes

Let's Ignite Under the Ember Skies

You're Ripped at Every Edge (But You're a Masterpiece)

If I Could, I'd Get You the Moon

The Dominoes Cascaded in a Line

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, I try to always respond, even if the comment is to an older fic. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed or don't even know what to say when someone's being way too kind to me lol, but I always want to let people know I see them and appreciate them so much.

The only time I don't... is when I see someone's binging my whole fic, so then I only respond to the last comment, once they're all caught up.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

This is easy, as I only have one fic without a happy ending - All and Then Most of You, Some and Now None of You. I love daemyra too much to not give them HEA as much as possible

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

This is hard to pick... Because all of my fics, apart from that one, end teeth rootingly sweet 😂 Perhaps Dominoes. Or perhaps fighter!au, which you guys haven't read yet but it's very fucking happy!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Sometimes. Though it is much much better now that I disabled anon asks.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do! What kind I write... Hmm, tbf I think I write pretty vanilla stuff, even if I do try to explore some kinks here and there when it fits the story and the characters. I guess my kind is focusing on the feelings most of the time, and the emotional connection.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I don't, or at least I haven't yet. We'll see if muse ever strikes this way!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of, so hopefully not

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

A few times in a different fandom

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, not yet, but I'm definitely open to the idea. I definitely wrote a bunch of stuff based on my fandom friends' crazy ideas and prompts with their help, so that's halfway there, I guess

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

No couple had ever taken over my life and thoughts the way Daemyra did, so, the answer is clear!

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Soulmates AU? I was once so excited for it, wrote a bunch of notes and even the first two chapters, but now I'm kinda... not feeling it :(

16. What are your writing strengths?

I spent the longest on this question. I think it's the emotions I try to convey in my fics, good or bad.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Now this is much easier. Plot! Intrigue! If you guys haven't noticed yet lol, I write fics heavily focused on romance only, and the development of Daemyra's relationship, because I just can't pull off anything more than that.

I'll probably never write a fic where people will wonder what'll happen next, what that and this means, what this person's motivations are... Because I'm unfortunately not wired that way. But I learned to accept that, and I have fun writing my silly romances with no real plot <3

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've done it myself a few times and I like to see it in other fics, too. Especially in HV it's delicious to see in the canon-verse. Though I always struggle with how to write the translation - right next to it, in cursive, in brackets, in the final notes?? That's always a head scratcher

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Eh, probably Twilight? I don't remember writing anything before that, so must be it

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Probably still High Hopes, even after all this time 🤍

This was fun! I'm tagging some of my writer friends if they wanna join and haven't yet, @ar-feyniel, @eschercaine, @calenlily, @fiora-miriel and anyone else who wants to! :)

[zephyrbreeeze]

Wordflow

cw: Trancey language

Words are wonderful tools. Used the world over to instruct, to inform, to educate, there is no limit to the amount of information and power they can convey.

Words can pull your attention, your imagination, your mind to whatever they direct, Be it the flowing stream of thought as ideas and consciousness begin to drip and drop from your mind or perhaps the words washing away tension in your body like a tide gently gliding over a layer of smooth stones. taking away the stress like the tides carry away any loose fragments of dirt and sand as it drifts back out to the deep sea.

And as words gently guide your thoughts out of your mind, tension out of your body, they can just imprint meaning and wants behind in your mind, just simple subtle direction that your conscious mind cant help but ignore the words and simply slip deeper into flow of your thoughts being gently washed away.

And just like how words can direct the mind down into a malleable state, like that of shorelines as they are inevitably shaped by the ocean tides, Words can pull away from your mind. Leaving you a little bit more relaxed, left with less tension, as the tides of words pull away from the shape of your mind and leave you to slowly rise awake ready for whenever the right words begin to flow freely again.

[ryderdire]

I see this idea that disability support (for physical disability neurodivergence and anything in my limited experience I’m unaware of) is so limited “because the people who need it should pull themself by their bootstraps and work yada yada”

and I see this and think “but I’m not always capable of that and some people can’t just full stop “ And if they can’t then isn’t the whole “anyone can work hard and become comfortable” flawed? I mean we know that it’s provebely not true. But, even so if it was true.

Isn’t it horrifying that in a system where earning enough money can be life or death, (or even a ton of suffering or peace ) an entire group of people are relegated to not being able to make enough money?

What does that say about us?

Our system?

Maybe for some people it’s eaiser to say their just not working hard enough because it feels impossible to change a system.

Or even because they don’t want to believe a system they dedicated so much of their life too could be so fundamentally broken.

I Dunno. It’s actually kinda sad.

[fatehbaz]

front page news for years now, "the homelessness crisis", newspaper printing letters to the editor from homeowners fretting about the "freeloaders" and how "dirty" homeless people are, the city progressively worsening their cracking down with ordinances. biggest issue in the city. apartments $675 in 2015 though unchanged go for $1500 in 2024. few months ago, significant new ordinance further criminalizing visible homelessness and banning people from parks and trails. multiple "community groups" now that hold events and pool money for advocacy, except they're not raising money to help poor people, they're raising money to pay for ads and banners and posters to say "keep them out of our neighborhood". imagine: in their free time, they go out of their way to attend potlucks, to get together, to talk about how much they don't like homeless people. it's that much of a priority in their lives. the place is reputed as by far "the most progressive city in the region". huge "enlightened (white) liberal" identity thing. many nonprofits.

this week, biking to work through middle class single-family neighborhood full of municipal employees. recoil and frown when i see the first yard sign: "no camping in parks! protect our children! protect our neighborhood!" but encounter more. many more. practically every other yard has the sign. these are administrators, plumbers, public school teachers, receptionists. people you interact with on a daily basis, who often have power over your well-being, who you hope would have your back, and these are the feelings and beliefs they are harboring.

very next morning. the big front page newspaper headline was the city announcing new contract, massive budget and payment to "private security force" to supervise several neighborhoods. giving them the power to issue warnings under city's new ordinances. (this is not the first year the city has paid mercenaries either. they've been doing it for about 5 years. they stand on street corners, tackle and remove "uncooperative" people from shelter vicinity, flaunting armor and weapons, glaring at passersby.) newspaper explains that someone on city council did try to add an amendment. they proposed that maybe the private security force (1) should not carry firearms, and (2) should at least wear body cameras if they were going to be a private company, interacting with the public, with the legal power to issue warnings. but nope. amendment rejected by 7 of the 9 councilors. the private contractors will carry guns and will not wear body cameras.

"most progressive city in the region" full of nonprofit careerists and liberal civil servant types cannot afford to put beds in shelters. cannot afford better social services. but they can apparently afford to pay massive sums to armed mercenaries. they will act with haste to introduce criminalizing ordinances. they will go out of their way even in their free time to rally and shout about keeping "dirty" people away from "our parks!"

[emmg]

Smut game: give me three hottest paragraphs you’ve ever written. Doesn’t need to be from the same work.

oh ho ho *lights up a cigarette*

alas, the great purge of 2023 initiated by my self-esteem made me delete most of my stuff off ao3 so all of these will have to be from my recent (read: Raphael-related) sin escapades, the parts I remember having fun with.

from pretty things

As the pressure inside him builds, he pulls out, watching her gasp for air, her face flushed and eyes too-bright, her lips ruddy, cracked, swollen. His hand wraps around his cock, stroking it hard and fast, the sight of her worn, exhausted face undoing him. With a few more rough pumps, he spills over her, thick ropes of cum splattering across her face, hotter than her skin can bear, the heat of it making her flinch as it hits. Redness blooms beneath the surface, her flesh flushed and irritated. 

He smears it across her cheeks, her jaw, pressing it into her skin until it clings to her. He pushes his thumb past her lips again, deeper this time, making her gag, and when she finally understands, she sucks his fingers clean without hesitation, obedient and quiet. He leans down then, dragging his tongue over her face, licking away the remnants of his release before pressing his lips to hers, forcing a kiss that tastes of sweat, cum, and wine, feeding it back to her as he swallows her soft, broken gasps. 

from mirrors

But none of them know what happens behind closed doors. None of them see this devil kneel—not that he would ever admit it, nor would he call it such. Yet, kneel he does, right there before the bed, his pride momentarily set aside as he hikes up her skirts, his hands firm and greedy. He slips her undergarments off while she guides him with sighs, his fingers tracing her thighs, his breath hot as he lowers his mouth to her core. He presses his lips there, teasing, worshipful, before his tongue slips inside her, just the way she likes it, just the way that makes her moan and grip his horns like reins.

And none of them know how the power shifts, how the dynamic twists, when she slaps him—if his hand happens to pull her hair just a little too hard, and she responds with a sharp crack across his cheek. That makes him harder than anything else, makes him tremble, makes him lose control. His cock strains against the confines of his clothing, and within moments, he’s undone—coming so quickly, so pathetically, his body shuddering, his breath ragged as he moans her name, collapsing against her like a defeated thing, trembling, spent, a sweaty heap. His composure, always so sharp and polished, shatters, his arrogance stripped away, if only for that fleeting moment. The wet sign of his pleasure blooms on his trousers, a dark stain of his humiliation, while she lies there, untouched by it all. Physically unsatisfied, but mentally victorious, she watches him fall apart, knowing that for all his power, all his devilish charm, this is where she owns him.

from TDITD

Her hand moves instinctively, grasping his wrist with deliberate intent, her thumb and pointer finger circling his skin as she drags it down, pulling his hand lower, pressing his fingers back into the heat between her legs when he retreats a bit. A jolt runs through her as she feels the slick wetness coating his skin—her wetness, seeping into him, into the ridges of his fingerprints, beneath his nails. She shivers at the obscene intimacy of it, the way he’s covered in her, soaking him, branding him.

There’s something primal in the way she guides him, a need to control it, to show him exactly what she wants, to make him feel every inch of her. But she doesn’t stop there. Her own fingers join his, slipping inside herself alongside his, and it’s obscene—filthy—the way they move together inside her. His long fingers stretch her, her own pressing in beside them, and the sensation is overwhelming, her inner walls clenching and fluttering around their combined touch. The pressure, the slick heat of it, makes her head swim.

My stuff is very...not healthy, so check it out at your own risk lol...

[jessiedressesup]

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

“How do you know the difference between when a guy is like, objectively attractive and when you’re attracted to him?” Aaron asks, and his mind flits to Kevin and his green eyes and sharp jawline before focusing back on Miles.

“Uh,” Miles says unhelpfully, brows furrowing. “Um. I don’t really know… I guess it’s like… Okay so, like, art, right? Or nature, like a sunset. I can look at those things and know that they’re pretty, but I don’t wanna kiss Starry Night. Looking at a sunset doesn’t make me horny. You get me?”

Slowly, Aaron nods. Miles looks relieved, and the conversation halts. Aaron stares at his textbook for hours and retains nothing.

-

He tries not to think about it. Throws himself even harder into his studies, into exy, into anything that will keep his mind busy. But he can’t escape his thoughts at night, staring up at the empty bunk above him and trying to sleep.

Aaron has never had to question his sexuality before, because as far as he knew you either liked girls or you liked boys, and Aaron has always undeniably liked girls. He got his first crush around eleven and discovered he liked their long shiny hair and dainty hands and long eyelashes. Later, he discovered he liked their short skirts and low necklines, soft thighs and big tits. And even later than that he found he liked the way they tasted, the way they felt, the way they convulsed when he was knuckle deep and flicking his tongue over them. 

But.

But now that he knows liking both is possible, things he’d brushed off before are suddenly recontextualized. A few tense friendships with boys in middle and high school, before Andrew entered his life and cut him off from everyone. The way his eyes would wander sometimes, idly noting a man’s wide smile or large hands, how he’d sometimes want to be around or impress certain guys.

He’d explained this away as loneliness or being drawn in by someone particularly charismatic. He feels so stupid, now.

And of course, there’s the Kevin of it all. But if Aaron doesn’t want to think about his (possible) (likely) bisexuality, he definitely doesn’t want to think about Kevin fucking Day.

[sunny-porridge]

art, or perhaps a prayer

When the mailman had shown up that afternoon as they were settling for dinner, Legend didn’t think too much of it.

When said mailman handed out the stack of letters to Sky, all helpfully addressed to “Link”, he got to work helping the Skyloftian to figure out which letter belonged to which Link based on the script, the paper, the seals, or any other hint he could find.

When he reached the last one, written in a vaguely familiar script, he stopped. It was not addressed to Link.

It was addressed to eight Links.

—

[evil-quartett]

Rain

Life. Was that truly what he wanted? Didn't he forfeit his right to on the stake? Yet the traiterous Count refused to let him, defied fate to save him. Why? There were so many vetter men, men who didn't have blood on their hands like he did. No, he didn't deserve life. But he didn’t deserve the mercy of a quick death, either. He had to satisfy fate, atone for the Count's crime. And this time, there would be no rain to lessen his pain.

He'd been ready. Ready from the moment of his unjust ressurection. But then she entered. Who was Mitsuki? She was an angel disguised as a human, reigniting the spark he'd lost long ago. The light she shone gave him the Illusion he had been wrong. Even the Count opened up to him, telling him of a desperate voice inside him begging to live. Jean started to hear this voice himself. Everything was fine. It had started to rain.

But every rain will stop eventually. His stopped the moment his comrade returned. The soldier's mind lost to madness, he erased the light that had been shone to Jean. He erased it with the blood of his love, Mitsuki. And now Jean stood on the stake again. That moment, surrounded by the heat of the flames engulfing him, he truly learned His fate could not be defied.

[uldahstreetrat]

vague bits of writing I've started drafting for the beginning of Q'ihnn's journal if anyone is interested \o/

---

3 Sun, 4 Umbral Moon

Momodi had me helping some fresh adventurer today, a thaumaturge. Apparently she made a rather fiery entrance to the city and the Flames didn’t want her looking for work unsupervised. Most of the work was rather insignificant - handing out pretzels to guards, delivering a pumpkin, killing some coblyns, keeping some poor bastard from getting himself killed at the hands of the Blades. But parts of it were… odd. Papashan asked my help finding Lady Lilira after she had wandered off again and while it was easy enough to know she would be at the Sultantree, we were attacked by voidsent while we were there. Worse yet, this adventurer collapsed after the fight. She wasn’t hurt, it was that same stupid curse that I have. The odd visions. I saw it too, and once it would have made me collapse as well. She’s new to these. I hope they treat her kinder.

Equally troublesome was the appearance of the man named Thancred. I’ve seen him around on occasion and though supposedly he’s a scholar, he certainly doesn’t act the part. Frankly he seems like someone Ophianne would associate with, which is reason enough for me to be suspicious of him.

He appeared twice today, both at the Sultantree and after we were ambushed by the Blades and some strange golem. Both times the adventurer and I were struck with visions. I certainly hope he stops appearing so suddenly.

The adventurer and I are both lodged at the Quicksand for the night - while I would usually go home, Momodi insisted. I’ve never been able to tell her no. I fear I’m stuck with this thaumaturge for a while yet, and while I would prefer to keep her at arms length, as simply someone I’m handholding for the time being, it must mean more that she too is plagued by what plagues me. Perhaps I should start using her name. Allienea Shepard. A strange woman.