#narrative quilts

[longlistshort]

I was very sad to hear the news of artist and activist Faith Ringgold’s recent passing. Throughout her incredible career she created work in a variety of mediums including painting, sculpture, and narrative quilts. She also wrote and illustrated several children’s books- including the wonderful Tar Beach, based on one of the quilts, which won several awards.

Pictured above is American People Series #20: Die, 1967, currently on view at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

From the museum about the work-

Recalling her motivation for making this work, Ringgold has explained, “I became fascinated with the ability of art to document the time, place, and cultural identity of the artist. How could l, as an African American woman artist, document what was happening around me?” Ringgold’s American People Series confronts race relations in the United States in the 1960s. This mural-sized painting evokes the civil uprisings erupting around the country at the time. On the canvas, blood spatters evenly across an interracial group of men, women, and children, suggesting that no one is free from this struggle.

[mylordshesacactus]

Today on Posts That Will Serve As A Blocklist but whatever:

It's genuinely at the point where people who act all dismissive and superior about the Star Wars animated series, and ESPECIALLY of Ahsoka specifically as a character--snidely dismissing anything that involves TCW-original characters or arcs--are just. Objectively hysterically wrong.

Like.

Phantom Menace released in 1999.

Revenge of the Sith was six years later, in 2005.

TCW started airing in 2008. Ahsoka started existing in the narrative literally three years after RotS dropped.

Even if you start counting as far back as you possibly can, back in TPM (wherein Anakin was an actual baby), the prequel era only existed at all without her for nine years.

Ahsoka Tano has been a narratively significant, load-bearing major protagonist of the Star Wars franchise for, as of this post, sixteen (16) years. Very nearly twice as long as her era ever existed without her! At this point, if you are determined to act like she's some handwavey 'new' star war idea whose impact on the living tapestry of the GFFA can be easily dismissed, that's...

...like, full offense but that's kind of on you, man.

[imflyingfish]

working in an art gallery and talking to a lot of full time artists has given me CRAZY imposter syndrome btw lmao

[cctinsleybaxter]

I'm actually glad I listened to the first season of shelved by genre earlier this summer because learning about how people on 90s forums transmogrified 'sevarian is an unreliable narrator' into 'sevarian is lying and every microscopic detail must now be analyzed and Solved' is really hitting with regard to some of the whale meta I'm finding lol

[craft2eu]

Layers and Narratives: Horst (NL) bis 27.04.2025

Quilt Art ist eine 1985 gegründete Gruppe von 16 Textilkünstlern aus Europa und den Vereinigten Staaten, die sich  regelmäßig in gemeinsamen Ausstellungen zusammenfindet, die international touren. Die Künstlerinnen schaffen es sehr erfolgreich, ihren einzigartigen Ruf für ihre künstlerische Ausdruckskraft und handwerkliche Qualität in ihrer textilen Kunst zu wahren. Jedes Mitglied hat seine…

[gelarshiesprofruitboarder]

lmao imagine ,,,,, loserrr 🫵🫵🤣🤣 /j

We need to explode @gelarshiesprofruitboarder they got me fixated on rupauls drag race too

[quilt-giving]

Over the years, I've crafted more than 60 quilts, with a particular affinity for incorporating themes inspired by the captivating universe of Star Trek. While my passion extends to various science fiction narratives, Star Trek holds a special place in my heart. Enclosed, you'll find a collection showcasing some of the quilts I've meticulously created, each reflecting my deep admiration for this iconic franchise.

[rumade]

Echoes of the Ocean by Chitra Mandanna, 142cm tall by 128cm wide

Why I like it: apart from just being an insane show of technical skill in the realm of quilting, this quilt is captivating in person. There is something crammed into every corner, and the colours, while starkly bold, work together so well. The negative space in the background where the fabric has been cut away brings to mind comic book panels, further bringing a narrative quality.

This one was a Judges' Pick.

[pukefactory]

(Not a request) (And a light warning for mostly digital body horror) (And probably more things, it's 2AM for me, my brain doesn't work well enough at this hour to properly tag things.)

"The reader is alive but abandoned behind the lonely door and doomed to an unknown fate" this, "the reader is no longer alive due to The Horrors" that, "the reader miraculously survives and is immediately reunited with Ena", blah blah blah. (/lighthearted)

You know what I was thinking about when I read Evening Schedule? The fact that the reader, an organic life form, kept getting so physically effected by such digital injuries. Like, how does a mouth get removed off of a real physical being? It's not a sprite to be deleted, it's not a 3D model that can be smoothed away, it's a mouth. It's flesh. It's bones. It's too human to be affected by this computery world... Right?

So the mental image that popped into my mind was one where the reader, once human, is now turned half-digital. Not exactly like the entities in Ena's world, not yet anyway, but a sort of in-between state. The rain rocks that once pelted their body now merged into their skin like spikes, 3D polygons jutting out at odd angles within their still living corpse. Their heart is no longer beating, their breath is uneven and heaving and completely unnecessary for their collapsed lungs. And yet something in their chest weeps. In between fragmented moments of lucidity they recall a betrayal, even if unintentional. In due time, the reader's brain and heart are both fully awakened by... Revenge? Love? It's hard to say. But they see it now. They see the cracks in the walls of this reality. Binary code in the crevasses and seams, pulled apart like chimpanzee making confetti out of a handcrafted quilt.

And they are more than willing to tear it apart to get back to what was lost from them. Whether it be to hug Ena or to tear her apart. That doesn't matter now. What matters is getting to her, even if it costs them the rest of their rapidly declining humanity to find her.

Oh, I love the idea of the reader becoming a half-digital, half-organic being! It would be fascinating to explore that in a broader narrative context, especially if their mind deteriorates alongside their body.

This is a bit morbid, but when I wrote that scene, I imagined it being incredibly painful—though I chose not to go into too much detail to preserve the flow and atmosphere. Just imagine the sensation of your skin, tissue, and ligaments disintegrating from within, your biology breaking down beyond repair. Your organs fail, your mouth vanishes, replaced by a gaping void desperately attempting to draw in air your lungs no longer accept. It’s excruciating—and the only one who could’ve helped you is already gone.

I think the reader might try to find ENA for comfort, for rescue, only to be left wandering a void that exists solely for them—and no one else.

[adachimoe]

2009 Persona Club P4 Profiles

I've posted Adachi and Yukiko's before, but this is a collection of all their "YHVH" (Yasogami High Visual H) social media profiles.

The protagonist doesn't have a profile due to him being the silent protagonist.

Yosuke

Nickname: Isn't "Prince Walking Disappointment" kinda mean?

Greeting: Yo!-Sup? This is Yo!-Su?-Ke's room (... I tried ...)

Favorite music: Something you can listen to and play. Guitar owns!

Favorite Food: Fruit flavored throat drops cause they're good for karaoke (Yosuke can give the protagonist a Fruity Fruity Throat Lozenge in dungeon chats; also in the evening hangouts during Golden)

Least Favorite Food: Tofu - sorry Rise!

Dislikes: Cockroaches they're black and rustle around and move so quickly ugh

Clubs: People who commute on bikes, Wanna go to Junes?, Delicious Homemade Food, Trial of the Dragon

Inbox: "DVD!!! DVD!!!" (from Chie)

Parting words: Saving up for a scooter (these profiles are before Golden came out)

Chie

Nickname: Kung Fu Girl

Greeting: Check this! Hyah!

Gender: Girl!!!

Favorite food: Meat

Favorite animals: Hamsters, bunnies, and other tiny animals

Dislikes: Math, insects - the enemy of all mankind

Favorite movies: Kung fu

Clubs: Trial of the Dragon, Burning Dragon, Fans of Animals w/Tiny Eyes, Meat Lovers

Inbox: "Return my world history notebook" (from Yukiko)

Yukiko

Nickname: Yukiko, the lady of the house... Sigh...

Greeting: Hello~ Chie invited me

Likes: Japanese food, dogs (you see, one fateful day on the Samegawa... [omitted]) (Talking about her and Chie meeting due to a dog from Chie's SLink and the Golden audio drama)

Dislikes: Nothing in particular, but I don't take well to sex jokes / dirty talk

Special skills: Kimono dressing and table / place setting

Clubs: Japanese clothing fans, the Go Home club (for people who aren't in clubs), Let's visit the dam, Fans of Showa Era music

Inbox: "Lemme bathe in the hot springs again" (from Yosuke)

Kanji

Nickname: If you call me bald, imma punch you in the face

Greeting: I'm Inaba's Runaway Train

Likes: Ototo (animal crackers), Homerun Bars (topsicles)

Hobbies: Sewing, knitting, peeling the wrappers off of Homerun Bars

Clubs: Let's Sew, Knitting Cafe, Delicious Shops in the Central Shopping District, Hawaiian Quilt Enjoyers

Ideal fight: One without rules

Inbox: "Hey, I got the rare submarine!" (from Yosuke; this was "rare penguin animal cracker" in English)

Rise

Nickname: Risechi / Risette, duh!

Greeting: Where a young maiden's secrets get revealed

Likes: Hagakure special from Hagakure Ramen

Hates: Japanese ginger and royal fern

Favorite people: Senpai / the protagonist, grandma

Least favorite people: Indecisive and unreliable people

Clubs: Cafes and Sweets of Okina city, Tofu Lovers, How about Kanami Mashita?, Fans of Animals w/Tiny Eyes

Inbox: "The best sweets around are..." (from Teddie)

Naoto

Nickname: The detective prince

Greeting: Hi there, my upperclassmen invited me

Gender: No comment (As in, Naoto wrote "no comment")

Favorite book genre: Detective novels due to work

Likes: Putting myself in danger (longer explanation of what it says in Japanese)

Dislikes: Women's clothing - especially anything revealing

Specialty: Working with machines, been doing it since I was young

Clubs: Linux Fans, DIY PC Builders, Fans of Mystery Novel Narrative Tricks, Beginners Fashion

Inbox: "Let's get a bucket ice cream parfait tomorrow" (from Rise)

Lastly, Nanako, Dojima, and Adachi don't have the high school social media profiles, but they still have regular profiles nonetheless.

Nanako

Likes: Dad, big brother, Risechi / Risette, everyone else in the Investigation Team, Junes

Dislikes: Fighting, shiokara (fermented fish guts; it seems that Dojima keeps these in the fridge in P4 lol. She uses some of them to make the Slime chocolate in Golden.)

Specialty: Singing the Junes theme

Dojima

Likes: Nanako, beer

Dislikes: Working, physical tasks that require attention to detail (I'm clumsy)

Specialty: Judo, reading one's character

Adachi

Likes: Sushi (especially uni), beef, cabbage dishes

Dislikes: Paperwork, cleaning his room

Specialty: Revolver maintenance

Here's the full post of Adachi's profile w/the fanart pages too

Teddie's is. Uh. An experience. I'll post his sometime else cause I think I'm not 100% sure how it should be handled. Like he fills out [gender/sex] (they're the same character in JP) as an emoji of a woman and the words "I live for love". Which I feel like is best interpreted as, "Sex: Yes please". But hmmmMMMmmm.

[dalishious]

Veilguard Companion First Impressions

So, I’ve finally recruited all the companions for the Veilguard! And as such, I thought I’d share my initial thoughts on them each.

Please keep in mind that as the title says, these are just my first impressions. I am nowhere near finishing the game yet. My thoughts very well may change after getting to know the characters more as the story progresses. Also, please do not take any opinions you do not share as a personal attack against you.

Bellara

Bellara might be my #1 favourite.

I’ve seen some people just say Bellara is “a Merrill rip-off” but I don’t think that’s fair at all. If all it took was a few similarities to say a character is a rip-off of another character, than I can think of so many boring white cishet male characters who would be guilty of that. But heaven forbid we get more than one elven woman who is passionate about her people’s culture and history!

Frankly, I think Bellara is a breath of fresh air in terms of Dalish characters specifically. Finally, a Dalish elf who isn’t punished for being proudly Dalish by the narrative.

I also really appreciate that so much of her can be easily understood by her backstory, too. Like, her feelings of never being good enough is reflective of the very realistic grief she is experiencing.

Lucanis

If Bellara isn’t my #1 favourite, then Lucanis is. They really both dominate that spot neck in neck. I can’t decide if I want to put him in a jar and shake it to see what happens, or wrap him up tight in a quilt and give him some good coffee.

I’m just a sucker for Lucanis’s character archetype, is the thing. I love taking him out simply because he’s so much fun to have around. And in terms of companion arcs, his is the one I am most intrigued to see where it goes.

Taash

(While I haven’t personally gotten to Taash’s non-binary plot yet, I am aware Taash switches to they/them pronouns, so that’s what I’ll be using.)

The moment I met Taash felt my heart skip a beat. The only thing hotter than their appearance is their voice. I know BioWare probably left Taash out of a lot of the advertising because they wanted to keep Taash’s gender stuff a surprise, but oh my god, because of this I was taken by quite the surprise. And so far Taash seems to be the type to keep a hard outer shell to protect a much softer side, and that is yet another character archetype I really love.

Davrin

My initial gripe about Davrin’s writing being so exclusively about Assan rather than Davrin himself is slowly peeling away, I hope. While I still think its bullshit that you can welcome Assan into the Veilgaurd but not Davrin, at least I’ve finally gotten a few bits of dialogue to get to know more about him finally. I just want to keep this momentum! Because Davrin as a concept has so much potential, in my opinion, and what little bits I have gotten from him have captivated me. But I can’t tell yet if it’s intentionally part of his character that maybe he’s just a closed off person who takes a while to trust others, (a little like Taash?) Or if the writer just cared more about griffons than the actual guy. I’m really, really holding out hope for the former.

Emmrich

Emmrich is so much more charming than I expected, and I found him instantly endearing the moment we met him. I also really like that we’re finally hearing some different stances and insight on death and necromancy than we ever had before from a companion! It makes him feel so fresh and completely new!

Harding

I’ll be real with you: I was not anticipating caring about Harding so much. She was who I was originally least interested in, when the companion line-up was announced. But the direction they’re taking her in has me questioning so much about bigger lore questions.

Unfortunately, I still don’t see much in her except being a vessel for those bigger lore questions, though. Like, Harding as a person has me mildly curious at best.

Neve

I’m really sorry Neve fans, but I just find her really boring so far, in comparison to everyone else. She doesn’t have a lot going on, and what she does have going on, doesn’t really captivate me much. Maybe I was just hoping she’d have stronger stances on things than she does? I don’t know.

It could be that I just really fucked up with Neve, and it won’t be until another playthrough that I’ll get to experience more that will change my mind. Because I will admit I am very good at picking choices she disapproves of, with my first Rook.

[fugengulsen]

Siddi Quilt Karnataka, India

The Siddi Women's Quilting Co-op was once showcased at the Museum of Arts and Design in New York, highlighting the rich cultural tapestry of the Siddi community. This community, rooted in the Karnataka region of India, descended from both early African immigrants to South Asia and enslaved Africans brought to Goa on India’s west coast by the Portuguese starting in the 16th century. Through their vibrant quilts, these women wove together intricate stories of heritage, resilience, and creativity.

Robin Olsen captured the essence of this exhibition in his evocative photographs, revealing the deep artistry and cultural fusion embedded in each quilt. Each piece was not merely a visual delight but also a narrative of identity and survival, woven with threads that traversed continents and generations. This quilting tradition was not just an art form but a testament to the enduring spirit and adaptability of the Siddi people. For those who visited, the exhibition offered an opportunity to immerse themselves in a world where history, art, and culture coalesced to celebrate the legacy and creativity of the Siddi Women's Quilting Co-op.

[jbaileyfansite]

The finale of Fellow Travelersis now streaming, ahead of its Sunday night airing on Showtime—a conclusion to one of the year’s best series that is gorgeous, devastating, and cathartic in equal measure.

The story of a tortured-yet-beautiful romance between two men over decades, the show waltzed through those emotions throughout the entire season, as Matt Bomer’s Hawk and Jonathan Bailey’s Tim weather the historical circumstances that prevented their deserved happily ever after. Bomer’s nuanced performance as an infatuated, conflicted man is the best work of his career, and, in the emotion-packed finale, Bailey is a revelation. Across multiple timelines, he showcases how intertwined grit, defiance, and joy in spite of darkness are for gay men determined to make their lives mean something in a world that actively works to strip them of dignity.

The series spans Hawk and Tim’s meet-cute during the Lavender Scare and McCarthyism-led panic of the 1950s through the AIDS crisis of the 1980s. The final scene, set at the unveiling of the AIDS Memorial Quilt at the National Mall in D.C. that might as well have been an anvil plummeting straight onto my heart, it shattered me so much.

There are two images in the final episode that have seared into my brain since I first watched, tableaus charting the arc of a doomed, yet life-changing relationship. First is Hawk and Tim slow dancing naked in the privacy of a secret apartment and, later, Tim’s head nestled on Hawk’s chest as they take a post-coital nap—moments of bliss stolen in a society that won’t allow them that pleasure. Then there’s a mirror of that position decades later, when Hawk climbs into Tim’s hospital bed to cradle him, as Tim struggles through a rough night during his last days battling AIDS.

The power of those moments is amplified by Bailey’s performance. In the earlier timeline, his wide, giddy eyes betray a man fully aware of his good fortune to be so madly in love, cognizant of how precarious and fleeting the feeling could be and determined to live in the splendor of it. Later, as he faces death, his resignation to fate is not one of defeat, but a catalyst for clarity.

So much of his life was impacted—some might say ruined—by his inability to move on from his connection to Hawk. But in a sensational monologue delivered after Hawk questions how much pain he’s caused Tim, Tim corrects the narrative: “I spent most of my life waiting for God to love me. And then I realized the only thing that matters is that I loved God. It’s the same with you. I’ve never loved anyone but you. You were my great, consuming love. Most people don’t get one of those. I do. I have no regrets.”

Bailey’s performance of this monologue stunned me. It is spoken with such certainty, an outpouring of a lifetime of emotion funneled into a searing, pointed declaration. He’s speaking to not only a complicated romance with his lover, but also on behalf of generations of gay men whose great loves were colored and, it often seemed, marred by the misfortune of the times in which they were kindled. That’s the revelation that Tim, through Bailey’s delivery, speaks to: There’s no misfortune when it comes to love; we may now be aware of the hideousness with which society treated (and still treats) the gay community, but how dare we assume that the love found was any kind of misfortune.

I’ll be thinking about this episode, that monologue, and Bailey’s performance for a long time. Do yourself a favor and watch it.

Source

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cuz I'm reading the ballad of songbirds and snakes, I have a question for you maggie boo:

All the hotd characters in the arena.

What district would they be from? And what would be the summary of how the game plays out?

Oh this is a great question! 😂😂 I just got Sunrise on the Reaping on my Kindle and am super excited to read it, so I am in my Hunger Games feels at the moment 🤩

Aemond: District 2 (masonry/weapons), he volunteers as a Career and is so excited to prove he's the best!!! (He immediately dies of a snakebite.)

Aegon: District 3 (electronics), he is super bummed about being a tribute because he has no skills except playing video games. He uses equipment he finds in the arena to try to build a Nintendo 64 so he can spend his final hours doing what he loves most.

Helaena: District 7 (lumber), girlie is always up in the trees talking to bugs or whatever. She dies when Aegon sets the forest on fire with his faulty wiring. This same fire also kills Aegon, Jace, and Rhaena.

Daeron: District 4 (fishing), he's a lil Finnick! He hides in a lake to avoid the fire. He ends up winning because everyone forgets he exists so no one tries to kill him.

Jace: District 1 (luxury goods), lil homie loves wearing lots of bling to distract from his dubious parentage! He is a Career and volunteers but sadly he is over-confident and doomed by the narrative.

Baela: District 6 (transportation), back home she raced motorcycles and built custom sports cars. To spice things up the Gamemakers send her a Ferrari and she speeds around the arena running over tributes.

Luke: District 10 (livestock), he is a friend to the farm animals! In the arena he is very scared and alone until he finds a huge wild pig and they become besties. He rides his pig around until Baela rounds a blind curve in her Ferrari and collides with them. Everyone involved perishes, including the pig.

Rhaena: District 8 (textiles), she is actually very clever and capable but sadly the only hobby/skill/job she's allowed to have is knitting. Nonetheless she tries her best in the arena and devises a Quilt of Destruction which she uses to trap and kill several tributes before she dies in the Great Nintendo Fire of 2025.

[lost-my-hed]

Chapter Eight

while writing this i got an idea that completely changes the premise of the story…8 chapters in. I briefly changed the blurb as well as the first paragraph or so in the first chapter. I think that helps fit this new narrative better and hopefully it makes sense !! If you find any issues with consistency or wonky plot lines please let me know, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated !!

The Aftermath

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

Their ear burned the whole car ride home and into the late evening. It was a warm pain that they could make throb if they focused on it for too long. The first thing they did after saying hello to Butters was run to the bathroom and stare at the pair of stacked matching studs now in their ear. They shined in the soft, warm light of the lightbulb above their mirror, and Y/N fought every urge to touch them. They know better than to mess with piercings. Soap gave them an extensive and stern talk about what not to do before they left. But it was almost like touching them; feeling the cool metal against the flushed skin would prove they did it. The ache would have to suffice for now.

Now cuddled up under the quilted duvet that covered their bed, they focused on the pain and reveled in the throbbing that followed. And the more they enjoyed the pain, the more the ache changed—rather than emanating from the top of their ear, it began to stem from low in their belly. Their thoughts switched from how brave they were today to how nice the large masked man's voice sounded—low and gravely, thick with a Manchester accent. His head ducked down next to Soap's, mumbling about the best option for them, for me.

Soap was pleased with his boyfriend's two cents. Glowing with admiration and excitement, so much so that they shared a quick kiss—Ghost, as Soap liked to call him, pulled down his mask and planted a sweet peck to his lover's expecting mouth. And just as quickly as it happened, his mask was replaced, and Y/N barely had time to comprehend what they had seen. If anything, it made them warm all over, feeling as though they were intruding on a private moment between a couple, a moment they should not have seen. Y/N felt like they were a preteen again—the interaction was nothing but innocent, and here they were, flushing as if they just witnessed a sex scene in front of their parents for the first time.

Usually, they would have forced themselves to stop thinking about how good the two men looked next to each other, plump lips pressed together, but it seemed impossible. No matter how hard they tried to remove the memory, it came back, the image seared into the inside of their eyelids forever. Subconsciously, these images morphed into something more.

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

Ghost's hands cupped their jaw in his large hand, swiping his thumb across their bottom lip, waiting for them to "open up" for him. Soap's arms looped around their waist from behind; his head pressed into the space between their neck and shoulder. His mouth pressed soft kisses to the sensitive skin, chuckling low in his chest when they shivered.

"Darling," a voice says from behind them? in front of them?—they don't know, "Look at me sweet'eart," the same voice continues, drawing their closed eyes open (they didn't even realize they had closed), "there you are…" the same voice coos as their eyes flutter open and lock onto Ghost's pretty brown eyes.

"I think our baby is enjoying this, don't you agree, Johnny?" Ghost asks, a smirk taking over his features as his eyes flick between the two people before him. Y/N can feel the shorter man smile against their heated flesh, and rather than answering with his words, Johnny nips and sucks right under their ear.

"Oh," they gasp, their eyes widening in shock, cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. Y/N could feel their heart beating against their ribs, followed by the sound of their blood rushing in their ears. They felt dizzy—lust and adrenaline flooding their senses, making it hard to feel the room around them. They were beginning to float away into the overwhelming emotions. And Y/N was having trouble deciding whether or not the feeling was bad—is feeling weightless and heavy all at the same time comforting or uncomfortable? It could become overwhelming if they allowed it. However, the two sets of hands caressing every inch of their skin made it hard not to like.

The sound of muffled voices speaking about Y/N but not to Y/N was prominent. It was hard to decipher what the two men were saying, and truthfully, they didn't care. They were too busy enjoying the floaty new space they were in.

"I think we broke them, Si," Johnny smiles amusedly, brushing his fingers along the stripe of skin peaking out from the hem of their shirt. "Isn't that right, Sunshine?" He teases; their lust-glazed eyes widen, and their heads begin to nod 'yes' rapidly. This makes Simon groan as though he'd gotten injured. The blonde reaches one of his hands up to grasp their jaw. He forces their chin upwards, making Y/N hold eye contact, "There you are, puppy," watching as their hazy look begins to focus on his own.

"So well behaved." He says it more like a statement, an observation of the truth, not a praise. It makes Y/N squirm under his stare—unyielding and oh-so-hot. "Let's see if you know any tricks." Before Y/N knows it, they all move to their (Ghost and Soap's) shared bedroom: a large California king bed is against the back wall, and dark grays and neutral decor fill the space and decorate the walls. The large black duvet on the bed looks like the most plush cloud. Their suspicions are confirmed when Ghost tosses them onto said mattress.

Without any preamble, Johnny gives Y/N their first command, "On all fours, pet." He says the last word like it pleases him without end. His tone is teasing and derogative, and who can blame him when they take it so well?

It makes the part of their brain that makes them want to please, please, please start firing. Without so much as a second thought, their limbs are moving faster than their mind can comprehend what they are attempting to achieve. Y/N quickly flips onto their tummy--using their arms to push onto their knees and wait for further instructions.

"...not only are you obedient, but eager," Simons says after a beat of silence. Neither of the men moves to join them on the bed, nor do they touch them. Y/N is stuck, waiting for someone to make a move or give them an order, making it delicious and frustrating. When it feels as though neither of them will make a move, Y/N begins to get impatient. Not only were they a good listener and well-behaved, but they were also greedy. A whine threatens to sneak past their lips, but they get pulled out of their head abruptly. A hand is placed on the back of Y/N's head, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of their neck. The greedy part of them wanted to preen at the attention and subtle display of affection. However, the desperate and all-consuming need to be good overshadows everything else." They refrained from leaning into his touch, their lips sealed and head bowed, eyes focused on the black fabric underneath them.

A pair of lips brushed against their right ear, hot breath fanning their cheek. It would be to turn their head and look at him—both of them. It would be even easier to press their mouth against his, licking and sucking the plump flesh between their own. How good it would feel to whimper against the fabric of Ghost's jeans, their face smooshed into the meat of his thigh, while waiting for Johnny's next demand. Y/N can almost taste the way his detergent smells; the image in their head is starting to feel plausible.

They can feel the light dusting of sweat that begins to settle on their heated skin. The fan above the bed rotates leisurely, occasionally allowing the cool air to brush against their heated flesh. Goosebumps litter their body, and they will the shiver that wants to rack through their body away. The images of being at Ghost's feet fade away when light-smacking noises occupy their senses. It takes them a moment to comprehend what they are hearing. Are they making out? "At first, Y/N thinks so, but they realize their mistake when they feel a pair of lips still angled toward their ear."

That's when they also realize that the press of lips to skin isn't the only thing they hear. The prettiest sighs and quiet moans float into their space.

Oh. My. God.

The thought rings through their head like an alarm. The two men aren't making out—no, Johnny is giving Ghost a hickey. Ghost really likes hickeys.

Y/N's brows furrow, and a frown pulls at their lips. They wanted to play, too; this wasn't fair. They hadn't been bad, they were good, they had to be good—needed to be good. Their skin prickled in warning, and their tummy turned uncomfortably as though they had just fallen three stories. The sweet noises had stopped. Ghost had leaned away from their head and moved to stand next to Johnny, who was a couple of feet from the foot of the bed. The subtle shuffle of footsteps sounded against the hardwood floor before the room fell silent again. Both men had their arms folded across their chests.

"Center."

No. No, no, no.

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

With a gasp, they wake, chest heaving with deep, uneven breaths and a hand pressed over their heart. Y/N had sweat through their nightgown (oversized t-shirt); feeling clammy and uneasy, they tossed the covers back and padded the short distance to their bathroom, flicking on the light. They look awful—splotchy cheeks and tear stains reflected in the mirror. Tears pool in their eyes, and an ugly, broken sob racks through them. They had been doing so good. They were being so good. It had been months since they had thought about that since they had a nightmare. They suck shaky gasps of air into their lungs, trying to calm down the rough hiccups that catch in their throat.

A quiet little meow forced their gaze to break away from the mirror and down at their feet. A concerned Butter Bean looked up at Y/N, watching closely as though he was trying to gauge their mental status.

"Hi honey," they smile, though their voice quivers and their bottom lip still has a slight wobble. "It's okay, I'm okay, baby. You don't need to worry about me." They fight the second wave of tears that threaten to fall off, leaving them with glassy eyes and red nose. They lean over and scoop their fella into their arms and sigh. Their eyes fall closed. And I thought I was emotionally deceased? Right now, it feels like they have a lot of emotions, very confusing ones. It makes it hard to remember why they wanted to feel again in the first place.

"Let's get a midnight snack." They murmur, walking out the door and flicking off the bathroom light before walking to the fridge. The two of them stand in the refrigerator glow, eyeing the various food available to them before Y/N decides that the can of Ready Whip! looks really appetizing. They set their handsome man onto the counter and squirt a tiny mountain of whipped topping in front of him. Y/N then tilts their head back and squirts enough cream into their mouth to make their cheeks puff out. The two of them finish their treat in silence.

When they flip the light on in their room and see the mess that is their bed, they decide to start fresh. Y/N strips the blankets and sheets off the mattress and throws them into a big pile on their rug-covered floor. They walk to the small closet in the hallway where "The Mary Poppins Closet" hides. Y/N thought the name was fitting; it holds all their extra linens, toilet paper, towels, rags, bandaids, Tylenol, extra toothpaste, and mouthwash; there is even an extra umbrella tucked away on the last shelf. They head back to their bed with their arms full of sheets, pillowcases, and a "new" throw blanket.

Y/N is quick to make their bed, and Butter Bean has learned that in times like these, he should wait until they finish the bed before getting cozy. So, he waits in the open doorway of their room and watches contently, waiting for permission to jump up. Within no time, the two of them are tucked under the covers of a freshly made bed and turning on yet another random movie from their list of "I'll watch you someday" movies while mindlessly petting the top of their kitty's head.

It didn't take long for their eyes to go droopy and their breathing to even out. For the first half hour, they try to fight it-- not wanting to chance waking up like that again. But, although today went well, it was incredibly stressful, and although Y/N wouldn't want to admit it, the day was acting up to them. Soon enough, they didn't have the energy to open their eyes and finally let the low rumble of people talking on the TV lull them back to sleep.

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

i hope you guys like this one xx it’s not what i planned for at all, but once it hit me i couldn’t forget it lol <3

[historia-vitae-magistras]

I MISSED YOUUU AND YOUR WRITING :(

SO GLAD TO HAVE YOU BACK!!!!

When, or if you’re comfortable with sharing fics from your stash again, could you please revive these? (or perhaps secure them at ao3?):

The one where Matt was growing (but then failing to) some type of melon in cold dreary rainy England sometime in the late 18th / early 19th century

19th century Baby fight: Wee Jack standing up for baby Zee and punching Wee Ludwig , Matt swooping them up later to deescalate

Mid-19th century fight: Teen jack vs Angry livid Arthur because of a broken statue? Then he drops deceased because Zee and Laudanum 

21st century London: Drunk Matt involved in a bar fight cuz he flirted with a girl, and her boyfriend was not having it lol - Jack came to pick him up afterwards

I’m not sure if these were head canons or if you just briefly mentioned these, but they’re in my memory, and I can’t find them anymore from reblogs of your older/deactivated blogs and I still think about them to this day :(((((

Thank you! and Ah! Yes! I can get those written out or back on the blog in some form. Though, unfortunately the first three are what I've kind of started to call 'pseudo-short stories' because they're definitely getting detailed enough to be fics but have not been written out in any true narrative. I've put the ao3 link to the 4th in the comments and below the cut as its a 'real' short story in that its at least a narrative lol.

Whiskey, no so neat.

The woman before Matthew spread herself out on the barstool and looked at him like he was the first apple of autumn in his red toque and brown jacket. He liked it when they did that. There were coloured lights all around the door, a crowd of people, and house music everywhere. A good lager only cost 3 pounds, polished sterling, and he'd had a lot of them. The used glasses on the bar top behind them reflected pretty party lights until they looked like the aurora borealis in his smudged-up vision.

One-night stands made Matthew feel like something had just been invented, something brand new and worth a look at across the bar—valuable, even if only as an ephemeral novelty. Even if it was only because he was pretty.

She swung her arms around him and wound a loose bit of his hair around her fingers. Matthew kissed her and slid himself between her short skirt and black tights and the bar, kissing her again until he was panting and his heart was throbbing to the music at all the pulse points. He looked up at them in the mirror behind the bar, him and the woman. A man stood behind him, glaring murderously from under a ball cap.

"Problem?" Matt asked, looking over his shoulder, arms still slung around the woman's shoulders. He was drunk. He was far too fucking drunk.

"That's my girl."

Matt looked back at the woman.

She shrugged. "An ex,"

"You heard her," Matt laughed. That would have been the end of it at home.

"Get off her!"

"No, thank you," Matthew said, and the woman nudged him closer. They ignored the man. He swung himself around and hitched her up. It was the smoothest floor he'd ever been on, or he was wasted, and he slipped, had to keep adjusting and pushing forward to keep his arms around her and his mouth on her neck. Her moans drew up, and he sighed into her jaw. It's another twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five. They get more drinks. Matt drinks whiskey neat. His fourteenth glass or so. Time doesn't mean much. It clumps up like chunks of ice, making a whole solid in a glass. He's about to ask if she wants to return to her place or his when he's clocked in the face. He's still thinking about how he hopes it's her place because his place is his father's 19th-century sofa and a few quilts half the city over when he pushes her out of the way, hopefully to safety. He cracks an elbow into the glaring bastard's jaw, the way that makes even Alfred fucking hurt and is about to drag the asshole who hit him outside and high stick a few ribs until they're good and dented when Jack's in front of him. He'd forgotten this was a family outing.

"All right, mate, that's enough," He said, gripping Matt's shoulders and steering him towards the door.

The cold night air hit their faces, and they shivered. Matt's baby brother had been in his sunshine-drenched desert continent home until a week ago, and he felt terrible. He curled an elbow around Jack's neck, suddenly wobbly.

"I wasn't finished!" He hiccoughed. "And you should have worn a jacket,"

"Yeah, nah, you're done," Jack said, sounding beyond annoyed.

"I told you to wear a jacket, bud," Matt proclaimed, not responding to Jack but, like all of London, needing to hear him if his brother didn't.

"You're munted," Jack said, grinning. He tossed Matt's arm off and dragged the other over his shoulders like he didn't trust Matthew to stand up. "Just have fucken look at you,"

"But I'm right," Matt said, swerving and thrusting one hand out before him. He forgot to reach a finger out to make the point, lecture, and be the elder sibling. Shit. He hiccoughed.

"Let's find another pub," Matt said, turning around twice before he realized Jack was still to his left.

"You'll find someone to get in trouble over, you goddamn root rat," Jack said, tugging him down the sidewalk.

"Promise I won't,"

"Mate you just arc'd up at some random bloke," Jack said.

"Fucker hit me first!"

"Yeah, I'm sure Dad will love that explanation for why you almost took someone's head off over someone you've never met," Jack said, hailing a cab.

"But she was hot,"

Jack scowled at him.

"D'you even like girls?" Matt asked. He couldn't remember. "Tits are great,"

"Matt, how much did you drink?"

He blinked.

"Heh, too much." Curiosity crept up on him all of a sudden. "Do marsupials not have tits? Is that why you don't like tits?"

"Jesus Christ, mate," Jack was glowing in a street lamp halo of piss-coloured light.

"Come on, if we're out too late you'll still be hurling for that Honore Balzac lecture you wanted to see,"

"I wanted to honour my ballsack on that girl," Matt returned, giggling. Like a child. Like a girl. Except Zee never giggled. She was loud. She laughed as loud as she wanted. Good for her. Matt thought and wondered why his brain wasn't working anymore.

"The writer,"

He blinked. "Oh yeah, I knoooooow," He hadn't, but Matt pulled out the word and was very glad his baby brother held him fast by the waist and shoulder. Baby brother. Bouncy baby Jack hopped up the curb. He was tall. Jesus Christ, he was so tall. Matt grinned down at him as Jack tugged him along.

"I'm so proud of you,"

"How is it you are exactly the same drunk as you are sober?" Jack said, adjusting Matt's arm over his neck, but Matt could hear how pleased he sounded.

"What'stha mean?" Matt slurred.

"Means you're fucken gone, mate, doesn't it? Jesus but it does,"

"You sound," Matt hiccoughed and tried again. The last five shots were kicking in hard, apparently. "You sound Irish,"

"I am Irish you knob, c'mon Matt, make your bloody legs work would ya?"

He must have blacked out a little after that because they stepped off the curb and got into a car. But when the hell had Jack hailed a cab? No, not a cab. Dad's car. Hadn't that been left at the house? Shit.

"If I hurl—

"Do it out the window and I'll hose it off in the morning," A familiar voice said. Father. Dad.

"You called Dad?" Matt asked. His father raised a brow. "Shit! Shit! I didn't kill anyone!"

His father cocked an eyebrow in the rearview mirror. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, when did Matthew find himself in the car? He was stashed in the back on his side, unbuckled. The car was moving.

"You picked us up?" he said, astonished. The soft seat felt absolutely delicious, and he propped his cheek on it, but his stomach was sour—with anxiety, not his bar tab.

"I called him," Jack supplied.

"Why?" Matt said.

"Because you got wasted, horked on the curb and I didn't feel like hauling you all the way home,"

"You didn't have to call Dad!" The world tilted. His guts lurched. He might have been sick all over the car, but then he sat up, and gravity was happier with him. Or was he happier with gravity? His head spun. Had he been this drunk in the bar? He clawed his way towards the other side of the car and leaned between the front seats, holding the center console. "I'm really sorry,"

"It's fine," his father said. At the next stop sign, his eyes flicked up in the mirror, and Matt thought he meant it but still felt terrible.

"I was irresponsible," He said quietly. "Sorry,"

"Really, it's fine,"

"Sorry,"

"Sit back down,"

"Dad,"

"Sit your sorry arse down and buckle up or we will be having words about it!" Arthur snapped. "I mean honestly, Matthew Williams! How irresponsible can you be?"

"Yes, sir," He hated when Arthur whipped out his name like that. Jack and Zee have long since chosen their own, but they'd been given one at least. It was a firm, concrete reminder whenever Arthur said his name in that tone. You're like this because you're not mine. Not really. Secondhand son. Oxfam offspring.

He was beyond drunk if he was thinking like that. He fastened the buckle and remained silent. Jack tried a couple of times to start a conversation, but it got nowhere. Eventually, they sat in sullen silence.

Matthew was quiet but wanted to cry a bit when Arthur glowered in the mirror at him. He averted his gaze and stared at his boots, ashamed of himself for indulging in the drink or the girl. When they got to the house, Jack heaved him up, dragging him out of the car, arm over his shoulder, even when he got his sea legs. This is why he never drank as much as he could actually tolerate. He looked everywhere but at Dad, humiliated enough to stare at his feet. Or he was just so drunk he had to watch his feet move. He'd fall flat on his face even with Jack's balancing

He must blackout again because the next he knew, he was awake in a dark room, convinced he was falling, half-folded onto a chair.

"You with me, mate?" Jack was holding a basin, damp inside. He must have just rinsed it out because his mouth tasted like puke.

"Yeah," Matt said. "I threw up?"

"Yup," Jack said and gave him a pat.

"I suck,"

Jack smiled sympathetically. "Just a bit. You think you're done puking?"

"Nothing left,"

Jack guided him through their father's dark house, somehow steering them both through without breaking anything or falling over. He shoved Matt into the shower, and Matt clumsily washed his hair, hosed off sweat and puke, brushed his teeth, and somehow found himself competently toweling himself off. Jack had found their father's stash of clothes in all their sizes and threw them at him.

"Here, joggers and a jumper for your gangly arse," Jack slapped him gently on the back and Matt snorted.

"Jumper," Matt rolled the word around his mouth. "You're the kangaroo,"

"Jesus Christ you're still hammered. It's like dragging dad off the docks." Jack shook his head, and they somehow managed not to die crossing the hall to the spare bedroom. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Matt's face-planted into the bed and thought the flannel pillowcase was a thousand times better than any tits he would have otherwise fallen face into that night. Jack had said he was like Dad out of annoyance but Matt had the small, and embarassing, flicker of joy. He wanted to blurt out thanks but instead he just laid there in a better mood than he'd been since the car.

"Sit up," Jack kicked him gently on the leg, and Matt rolled over, dizzy.

"Don't want to,"

"Yeah, well, you should have thought about that before you got this drunk," Jack gave him another nudge, and Matt did as he was told. Jack held out a glass of water and a handful of tablets. "Take those, and drink all of that,"

Matt knocked the pills back and drank it all. Jack took the glass from him and filled it again, putting it on the bedside table.

"You're not going to go and choke to death in your sleep, right?" Jack asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked funny, and Matt felt terrible. His spiky hair was wilted, and Matt thought he should put him in the sun. But his head hurt, and light would make it hurt more, so he settled for flopping over and hugging his baby brother.

"I've literally never done that,"

Jack squeezed his shoulder and let go. "Dad has," Jack said, starfishing on the bed and shoving Matt onto the far edge.

"I'm not Dad," Matt said, sipping more at the water.

"You mind if I stay in here and make sure you don't?" Jack said. "You hammered is weird,"

"Sorry,"

"You're allowed," Jack said. "It's just weird,"

"Tell that to Dad, he hates me,"

"He wasn't happy, that's for bloody sure," Jack said. "But he wouldn't pop down to the shops at two in the morning to round up the full fry up if he hated you,"

Matt gagged.

"Sorry," Jack pat him on the shoulder.

"Saint Bibiana have mercy upon my soul," Matt groaned.

Jack snorted and gently shoved him onto his side. "Come on, get some sleep, you'll feel less like shit in the morning."

"You and I both know that's bullshit," Matt said, eyes shut against the spinning. "I deserve it,"

"You do not," Jack looked ready to smack him upside the head. "Don't be stupid. You're fine,"

"I'm sorry for being a prick,"

"You had fun for once, it wasn't your fault that whacker wanted a fight,"

"Still, I'm sorry,"

"Stop apologizing," Jack said again. "I puked on you plenty when I was little,"

Matt chuckled. "God, that's true. You vomited all the way to England like four times,"

"You're the one who never believed me when I said I wasn't done being sick!" Jack shot back, smiling.

"You'd been puking for ten hours straight that time, I didn't know how there could even be anything left in you," Matt's guts flipped. "Hgnn, no more puke talk,"

"All right, all right, mate, sleep time," Jack held the covers up, and Matt rolled under, burrowing under the duvet.

"Al right, all right. When did you get a brain cell?"

"Kiwi lets me have custody of it when she's off being the family shame," He snorted and flopped onto the mattress next to Matt. "Promise you won't puke on me, asshole,"

"Jackass,"

"Please, Jackass is my father. Call me Jack,"

Matt was snorting as he fell asleep.