#or misspeak occasionally too

[svsssfanonarchive]

I want to express my gratefulness for those who comment, or debate, or correct, or provide context on my posts. Something like this has to be a sort of collaborative effort, after all-- since I have not been in this fandom for too long, much of fanon history itself is something I haven't lived through and am less familiar with-- so I really do need help learning where all these things come from to make my posts more informative.

Furthermore, sometimes I can word things in ways where my meaning isn't entirely clear, but I can't tell this until I get a comment on my post debating something, when I can realize that "oh this didn't come across the way I intended," whether it's in agreement with a debate or even just a slightly different interpretation, after which I can go back to edit and make it more clear for readers.

I'm really just doing this sort of thing for fun, but I do want it to be an accurate resource-- so I'm always thankful for those that will help me to make it more accurate！

[trainerethan]

I imagine red having dyslexia and a stutter. He's very smart and knows many a word but they just. Come out wrong. Struggles in school and has trouble getting help since he doesn't speak often and when he does he stutters/mixes up his words. Which just makes him frustrated which makes it harder to articulate himself. Vicious cycle.

[theladyofbloodshed]

Epilogue

Thank you so much to my Nezriel lovers who have read along with this <3

In five hundred years, his family had learnt that they would find Azriel immovable. Feyre Archeron was still learning that fact. Her barrage of questions continued, even after Rhysand and the others had warned her off of it. He could turn himself to stone quite easily. It was his job to crack secrets from others so he knew how to bury his own deep and not reveal them.

‘Where is my sister?’ Feyre tried again, as she intercepted him on the stairs.

‘Not here.’

It was at least the seventeenth time she had attempted to interrogate him.

She rolled her eyes whilst forcing out a sigh. ‘No more vague answers. Tell me where Nesta is.’

‘It’s none of your concern.’

‘She’s my sister.’

‘She’s my mate,’ Azriel countered.

Feyre pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘She is somewhere safe, at least?’

The accusation irked him. Yes, Azriel would keep his mate safe. Did Feyre expect him to dump Nesta in the Illyrian mountains alone to fend for herself?

Carefully, Azriel peeled her fingers from the banister to try and move past her.

‘I could just go in your head to find out, you know.’

Something cold and deadly gripped Azriel’s heart. Even Rhys didn’t go in his head. He lingered at the edges perhaps to pass on a message, but he wouldn’t dare to delve in fully. Azriel wouldn’t let him.

High Lady or not, Feyre had no right to threaten that.

‘You go into my head, Feyre, and you will regret it.’

The very thought of somebody pushing against his mental walls and rifling through the most intimate memories of his life made him feel sick. Azriel had buried his childhood deep into his memories. Even he refused to remember those times. The shadows on his shoulders were poised to strike, making Feyre realise her misspeak.

Colour dotted on her cheeks. ‘I wouldn’t. I only meant. I am worried about Nesta.’

‘She’s safe,’ he said, moving Feyre’s arm to her side and edging past her down the stairs.

These were the kind of conversations that Azriel was protecting Nesta from. Better she was in Illyria with only his mother than to be prodded and pecked here. Nesta didn’t need to be examined or interrogated. Amren was asking him daily when Nesta would return because her magic would need more rigorous training. Rhys had asked in a roundabout way whether anything was to come from the Carranam bond she shared with Eris – to which Azriel asked whether Rhys had hit his head badly during the war. They didn’t need to know that Azriel had been in contact with Eris frequently at Nesta’s request. They were hashing out the details for training her magic through letters as that seemed the best way not to wrap his hands around Eris’ throat and kill him. The snake, of course, was insistent upon Nesta training on Autumn Court ground, claiming that if he was spotted in Illyria and word leaked to his father then his life was in danger. There was not a chance in hell that Azriel was taking Nesta to Eris’ court. He had expected Eris to demand something in payment too. The fact he hadn’t unsettled Azriel more. Perhaps their prolonged contact and the shared magic to his mate was enough of a punishment.

As for his beautiful mate, he saw her usually twice a week, sometimes more often. Azriel savoured every moment with Nesta. With autumn biting into Illyria, they often took walks together beneath the bare trees or followed the stream until her hands became too cold and Azriel would winnow them back. His mother joined them occasionally. If the weather was poor, they’d remain in the house talking or going about their day with the other’s company. Nesta would read curled up with her head on his thigh while Azriel read through reports. His mother would potter between rooms either at her loom or sewing something. It was a steady, peaceful existence. A handful of times, Azriel had stayed the night – but only at Nesta’s request. He wanted her to decide the pace for everything. Their nights together were not spent in solemn silence, but in sudden rushes of passion. Nesta’s hands would scramble at his clothing to strip him bare then they’d kiss and hold each other with such fervour as though they’d never have the chance again. He loved to hear her moan. He lived for it. Nesta with damp hair from bathing, colour flooding her cheeks as she rocked beneath him was fast becoming his favourite view. Azriel could spend the rest of his life between her thighs.

‘Your sister ambushed me again yesterday,’ he said against her sleep-mussed hair.

Nesta made a murmur in acknowledgement as she burrowed against his bare chest in the bed. ‘Tell her that I am on the moon.’

‘Is that where you would like to live? Should I build you a house there?’

‘You’d build me a house?’

‘A palace.’

Azriel wrapped the quilt around her shoulders to keep out the cold as they languished in bed. He had always been an early riser – if he slept at all. It was something new to whittle away the morning in a sleepy haze in bed. He found that he enjoyed it. One of them would make tea then return to the bed. One would forget their drink in their dozy state and it would grow cold. Another would bring breakfast then they’d start their day around noon. It wasn’t every time, but he treasured the mornings with Nesta.

‘Feyre would like you to come to Solstice.’

Nesta let out a breath like she was deflating. There hadn’t been an outright no.

‘I should like to spend the morning with your mother then – if it suits you – come late in the afternoon.’

‘Will you stay the night?’

‘I suppose I can manage that,’ she said. ‘And could you return me to Illyria in the morning – before your snowball battle.’

‘Battle?’

‘I believed it was a serious event.’

Azriel nodded. ‘It is. But a battle suggests that Cass and Rhys have a chance of winning. It will be an annihilation – as it always is.’

Nesta groaned then sat up on the edge of the bed, her bare back exposed to him so Azriel couldn’t resist trailing his fingers along the nubs of her spine.

‘I have a meeting with Lord Evra,’ she announced, yawning and making a show of stretching her arms in the air.

Never in his wildest imaginations could Azriel have predicted he would see a Nesta Archeron so unguarded and carefree around him. After her initial trepidations around nudity and their bodies, she had no problem doing her hair in the mirror completely nude which he was certain was a form of torture for him. He had thought himself unbreakable. For five centuries, Azriel had been called stubborn. With his mate naked in front of him, Azriel quickly crumbled. He’d go to her, kiss her body and take her to the bed at least once more before they began their days. She seemed delighted that he couldn’t resist.

‘How is it progressing?’

‘Well,’ she stated, giving a brisk nod. ‘His sons are… surprisingly nice.’

‘You’ve met them?’

‘Not all,’ she clarified. ‘The younger ones who haven’t married. Ezra and Balthazar.’

Azriel sat up in the bed and raised a brow.

‘Oh, hush. I do not think there is a soul in Illyria who has not heard by now that we are mates.’ She dressed in a simple dress, thick for the cold weather then added extra layers while she spoke. ‘Balthazar will meet me here to walk together.’

He had expected her to attend Storm’s Rest and break down the Camp Lord with her iron spine and quick, clever tongue. Nesta had made Beron Vanserra be quiet and pay attention, so he did not doubt her abilities with Illyrian males either. But, she had surprised him entirely, by confessing that she had gone for a more traditional route. Nesta had baked many items with his mother’s assistance then taken them to Lord Evra to introduce herself. She’d blushed when she admitted she may have mentioned being the Shadowsinger’s mate and the High Lady’s sister to get an audience with him. Azriel did not care whose name she mentioned because this had given her purpose.

‘Will you come again this week?’

‘Yes. Tomorrow evening. Does that suit?’

Nesta inspected her nails. ‘I shall have to check my busy schedule of reading and embroidery, but I’m sure I can manage to see you.’ She leaned across the mattress to kiss him. ‘I must go. Take care.’

From the window, Azriel watched Nesta depart with Balthazar, the son of the Camp Lord. He kept a respectful distance as they walked. The urge to be possessive rankled him but he tamped down on it. Forced it away. He had no reason not to trust Nesta. Whilst he knew what Illyrian males could be like, she was adamant that not all males were the same and Azriel was proof of that.

His mother knocked at the door so Azriel pulled the blankets over his body before welcoming her into the bedroom.

‘Do you remember my friend Marsella?’

‘She’s near Iron Crest?’

His mother nodded and perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Her daughter will have a baby soon. Her husband died in the war. She’s asked if I can be there to help with the delivery and the days after the birth.’

It was common in Illyria for the females in a family to come together for a birth. They would take turns waking with the baby during the night or cook for the mother so she could rest.

‘I can take you.’

His mother smiled brightly then departed to pack a bag before he delivered her to Marsella’s house. The female insisted upon feeding him despite Azriel’s protests then he was given a dress for Nesta because she’d heard much of his mate from his mother then he was needled with questions about his mating bond and when they would move to Illyria and when they would have children and when would they have a mating celebration.

Azriel was quite ready to crawl into a hole when he returned to Velaris. Still, he brought the good news that Nesta would attend their Solstice dinner for Feyre’s birthday so he was left alone from their questions so he could be in peace.

‘Where are the rest of you?’

A shadow curled upon his shoulder but each visit to Illyria left him with less of them. He knew where they were. Curled up at the bottom of Nesta’s bed. He’d claimed she was spoiling them by letting them tuck into the bed next to her so they had responded by absconding from his ownership to be with her.

The following day, Azriel winnowed to Illyria and was greeted by a layer of snow. More was falling heavily with the promise of a cruel winter incoming.

Nesta met him at the door and scolded him for winnowing without a coat or gloves. He found that he liked her fussing. Liked the way she clasped his hands to feel their temperature or rubbed her hands down his arms to warm them up.

‘Come with me,’ she said, taking him by the hand and leading him to the dining room.

Upon the table was a spread of food. Pumpkin soup had been ladled into two bowls with cream spiralling from the centre. Thickly cut, fresh bread was upon a cutting board with a slathering of butter melting into the pockets. Nesta had also made a joint of beef that was ready to fall apart with accompanying buttery potatoes garnished with parsley, an assortment of vegetables, as well as a platter of different pastries and cakes. Candles were scattered throughout, their golden light flickering upon the walls.

‘Nesta.’

A hesitant, almost nervous smile was upon her face.

‘This is me offering you food. You are my mate and I would like to spend all of my life with you, Azriel.’  

He reached for her hand and held it tightly. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I was sure the moment I realised I could lose you during the war. I want a forever with you. We deserve our happiness. We deserve to be together.’

Azriel kissed her deeply so that her body pressed to his. Nesta Archeron was his mate. She had chosen to keep their bond. He clutched her tighter, lifting her off of her feet to spin her.

‘I love you,’ he said, kissing her again.

‘I love you too. Now, eat, before it goes cold.’

They sat beside each other at the table, trying each dish. Azriel couldn’t wait to boast to Rhys that his mate had made a full three-course meal for their mating bond rather than heating up soup.

‘Your mother wrote to me,’ she said casually. ‘She’ll be away for a week, a week and a half. Do you think that’s a substantial amount of time?’

‘You planned this with her.’

Nesta gave a coy smile in response. ‘Marsella’s daughter is due to have a child, but it fell at the perfect time. We might have practised recipes together in anticipation.’

‘You really didn’t need to make all of this for me.’

‘I did,’ she said, most seriously. ‘Of course, I did. You have given so much to me, Az.’

A little thrill went through him at that. It was rare for Nesta to call him anything other than Azriel. Once or twice, she had called him Shadowsinger, but hearing her call him Az did something to him.

‘You have been there for me at my lowest. You have known what I needed before I did. You deserve nothing less than this.’

Her fingers wound through his hair as she leaned across to kiss him.

‘I am grateful to the universe for making me yours. You are the closest to the heavens that I will ever be. I love you,’ Nesta said. ‘And I look forward to spending my life with you, Azriel.’

[pedropascallme]

Learn A Thing (Or Two)

Pairing: professor!Damien x f!Reader

Summary: "He caught your gaze as he continued his lesson, and you tried not to crack under the knowledge that he, too, was waiting for the clock to strike four o’clock. As he spoke in the fast, calculated manner that usually came about when he was lost in thought, you decided to take a small risk, instead of dwelling morosely on the way the class was eating away at your time with him."

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI) implied age gap (Damien is his actual current age, reader is 20-22), student/teacher relationship, biting, spanking, p in v, oral (f receiving), dom/sub dynamics, brattamer!Damien, dirty talk, degradation, praise, mild exhibitionism, one (1) singular use of the word 'daddy,' reader gets gagged, mentions of German literature (obviously), I have never thought about refractory periods ever, if I missed anything please let me know!

AN: He's baaaaack!!!! This was inspired by as ask from the lovely, one and only @hedoublehell !! It took longer than it should’ve for a fic of this caliber BUT it is done now and it’s for YOU!!!!

Damien was a skilled lecturer. He was capable of holding an audience of students at full attention for hours on end, never misspeaking, and only occasionally finding himself veering into digression.

You loved hearing him talk, hearing his voice echo around the fluorescence of the lecture hall while his words flowed with ease and enthusiasm. What’s more, you liked the way he looked doing it: button-down shirt hugging his arms in all the right places, leaning back nonchalantly on the table in front of the room. His head tilted to the side as he listened to someone in the back row speak their mind, and you enjoyed the glimpse you got of his neck straining at his tie.

All of it made you more than just a little aroused, and you could feel yourself beginning to slump in your chair. You were happy to listen and nod along, but displeased that he insisted on using up the full two hours of allotted class time.

Fridays were the worst to get through. By the time you got to his class, you were burnt out and ready for the weekend to begin, itching for the day to wrap up so that you could get him all to yourself for the next sixty-or-so hours. It was a little selfish, you could acknowledge that, and perhaps a bit immature, though you felt anybody in your position would feel the same way—you couldn’t just bag a man like Dr. Damien C. Haas and not spend all your time waiting for a moment of stillness so that you could grab him by the collar and kiss him until your lips were puffy.

You weighed your options: engage in the conversation happening around you, sit pretty and listen well, then jump on him the moment you got him alone; or act out to make the time go by faster. You'd done it before, yearning for him and making it a problem for the both of you while he tried to keep his composure at the front of the room. And though he could chastise you for it, you knew he liked when you got a little bratty. No matter how many times he’d punished you for acting up in class, talking back and arguing his point a little too zealously in an effort to make him slip up, you knew he’d be content to see you do it again.

He caught your gaze as he continued his lesson, and you tried not to crack under the knowledge that he, too, was waiting for the clock to strike four o’clock. As he spoke in the fast, calculated manner that usually came about when he was lost in thought, you decided to take a small risk, instead of dwelling morosely on the way the class was eating away at your time with him.

You waited for his eyes to flicker over to you again, before slowly uncrossing your legs. You flashed a glimpse of your clothed core. Removing your gaze from him, you opted instead to glance back at the clock, as if to remind him of the time constraint and what awaited him. You crossed your legs again.

Any outsider would've seen it as something as simple as you shifting to get comfortable, but you saw Damien squeeze his hand around the edge of the desk he reclined on. You knew the gears in his mind were turning, steadily thinking up an appropriate consequence for your action.

You played with the hem of your skirt, the picture of innocence. He cleared his throat, calling your name. You straightened back up nonchalantly, fingers still toying with your skirt. 

“Did you want to say something?” He cocked a brow, taunting you silently. He was daring you to give yourself away, to misbehave again. Not as a student—he knew you’d never risk a smudge on your reputation of academic prowess, and he appreciated and respected that—but as a lover.

“Oh, yeah, actually,” you played coy, tapping your pen on your desk before bringing it up to let the cap rest on your bottom lip, “You keep saying that the Ring cycle is a marvel of German artistry, but isn’t it true that Wagner was more inspired by the Norse sagas than he was by the German literature?” You put the pen down and watched as it rolled over your desk. You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and made eyes at him. “So couldn’t you say that, overall, it’s really the epitome of Western European storytelling?” Again, you uncrossed your legs, keeping them spread for just a fraction longer than you had before. You wanted to ensure that he got a good look before you daintily crossed your ankles.

The way his jaw ticked said everything. You just smiled, waiting for his answer.

He’d been mistaken to call on you; he put all his cards on the table. He had to give you his undivided attention, unable to tear his eyes from the space between your thighs while under the pretence of hearing you out.

“Well—well yes…but I think it's easy to see how it can be both important to Germany and to Europe at large,” he smiled, collecting himself and his thoughts, “Though you do bring up an interesting point; Der Ring was a real turning point in the understanding of a quote-unquote Germanic culture as it’s understood in history today.” Several hands went up around the room, and even as he scanned the class, his focus was still on you.

You checked the clock again and let your expression speak for you; we’ll be here all day if you let us keep talking about it, you smiled, wouldn’t it be easier to deal with me now, before I get even more distracting?

“You know...it’s gorgeous outside,” Damien sighed, glancing at his watch, “Let’s continue this conversation on Monday.”

You’d won the battle, and the taste of your victory was made sweeter by the knowledge that he’d be making you pay for it soon.

“Don’t we have forty minutes left?” Someone behind you blurted, and you heard a few sighs around the room, half-muted by the sound of bags zipping shut.

“Happy Friday,” Damien shrugged, and the room was soon buzzing with gracious thank yous tossed haphazardly over the shoulders of students as they dashed out to the hallway, eager to begin their weekend. “You still have to do the assigned reading!” He called after them, and several of the students he was more familiar with laughed him off.

You pretended to follow the example your peers had set, shoving your things into your bag. You rose from your chair, and Damien knocked on your desk gently, leaving his knuckles on the wood when you looked up at him.

“I’d love to hear more about the perspective you shared,” he played as the doting professor, and not the man that wanted to fuck you where you stood, “Why don’t you come up to my office so we can talk.” He began to walk up the aisle that led out of the room, before shooting a glance back at you, “Unless you have other plans?” His smile was wide and inviting, but his eyes gave away his desires, lighting a fire in your stomach. You slung your bag over your shoulder, trailing behind him.

You caught up quickly, shuffling along next to him through the long, empty hall.

“Professor,” you were saccharine, purring, “Did you dismiss class early just so you could spend time with little old me?”

“You’re being a brat,” he whispered through gritted teeth, placing a hand on your lower back as he walked you to his office.

“You love it,” you shot back; punishment was imminent no matter how badly you acted out—within reason—and you were having too much fun to lose the attitude now. “Unless that’s just your campus ID in your pocket.”

“That, and I’m happy to see you,” he muttered, unlocking the door to his office and all but pulling you into the room behind him.

You stood with your hands clasped in front of you, watching him lock the door and awaiting further instruction. He tossed his keys onto the desk, and they landed on the wood with a tinny sound that echoed slightly. You squinted, momentarily lost in the noise, which left you unprepared for the way he came up behind you. Suddenly, he had an arm wrapped around your midriff, his other hand flying upwards and gripping your jaw, leaving you to lean your head back against his shoulder.

“So impatient,” he nipped at your ear, and you whimpered at the low timbre of his voice. “You know that?”

“You were the one who called class off early, Damien.” You felt his fingers press harder against your cheeks, the flesh of your mouth rubbing against the dull outer grooves of your teeth. “Is it because you couldn’t wait till we got home?” You pushed your ass back against him. You let a whine catch in your throat when you felt the way his cock was straining against the confines of his pants. “Needed to drop everything for me now?”

His thumb stroked your cheek. “College building is the best place to teach you a lesson.” He kissed your temple, “I think someone needs to learn some manners.”

“Yeah…” You tilted your head back further against him, trying to find his eyes.

“What was that?”

“Yes, sir.” You quickly corrected yourself. You sighed happily when you felt the hand he had on your waist creep under the hem of your shirt, grabbing at your bare skin.

“Do you need me to remind you how to behave?” He leaned down to ghost his lips over your neck, “Help you learn some patience. Teach you not to flash me while I’m trying to do my job?”

“Yes—yes, sir,” his hand had found its way to your chest, and he tweaked at your nipples alternately. “I’ll be such a good girl.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose. “Good girls don’t show their teachers their panties.” He tightened his grip on one of your breasts, and you hoped that each individual finger would leave an imprint deep enough that you could make out his fingerprints. "Especially not while they're wearing them."

“So take them off for me…” You whispered, lips parted and finding yourself less and less able to ignore the way his cock pressed into you.

He took a deep breath behind you, exhaling a soft growl.

“Please, sir,” you knew it would take more than that to get him where you needed him most, but you were more than willing to go through the motions. Tentatively, he removed himself from you, guiding you forward to face the bookshelf that took up the entirety of the far wall in the office.

“Put your arms up, baby,” he instructed, a hand on your elbow guiding you to stretch until your palms rested on the wood, your fingers bending to hold the position. He pulled you back by your hips, forcing you to bend. He pushed a knee between your legs to spread them, and when you felt his thigh against your cunt, you mewled. “You ok? Do you think you can stay like this?” He dragged a hand down your side.

“Yeah,” you mumbled into your shoulder, “I like this.” 

He nodded. “Good. Good, baby. That’s my girl.” He pressed a kiss to the back of your head before kneeling behind you.

Damien flipped up your skirt, placing both hands on either side of your ass and kneading gently before he let them drag downwards over your thighs. You moaned loudly when he bit down onto the supple flesh, and although the sound was intoxicating to him, he knew the risk it posed.

“Have to be quiet for me, baby,” he reminded you, “What would people think if they heard your pretty noises coming from my office?”

“I don’t—” you gasped when he bit into you again, “Probably think you’re a good lay.” That earned you a spank on the thigh.

“Or they’d just think that you’re a whore,” he ran two fingers between your legs and over your clothed cunt, groaning at the feeling of the soaked fabric. He pressed the fingers gently against your clit. “Are you a whore, baby?”

“Just—just for you, sir.” You squirmed at the friction.

He spanked you again, and you yelped much louder than you should have. His fingers moved from your clit, both hands working in tandem to slip your panties down your legs. He rubbed a hand against your calf, helping you step out of the fabric once it had pooled around your feet, and taking the panties in his fist. He stood, moving to stand next to you.

“You’ve been awfully talkative today,” he brought his thumb to your mouth, and you sucked obediently on it while he spoke, swishing your tongue back and forth. “I think I should shut you up. Is that what you need, baby? Do you need daddy’s help to keep quiet?” You nodded, and the smile that etched itself onto his face looked downright devious. “Open. Open wide.”

You let his thumb slip from between your lips, opening your mouth and letting your tongue loll out just enough that the tip of the muscle hung over your bottom lip. He placed a hand on your jaw, keeping your mouth open for him while he stuffed your panties inside. The fabric sapped your mouth of any moisture momentarily, before your salivary glands began working double time to combat the dryness.

When you looked up at him, Damien let a moan slip past his parted lips. “God, look at you,” he let his hand slip from your face, and it settled on the nape of your neck, “Pretty little slut, gagged with her own soaked panties…” His hand moved from your neck, running down your spine. He watched you arch under his palm, “You’re going to be quiet for me now, right?”

“Y—ss—r,” you choked on the wadded-up fabric in your mouth, words meshing together, garbled.

He moved behind you once more, kneeling so that his face was mere centimeters from your core. He grabbed handfuls of your ass, kneading the flesh with both hands as he spread you apart. The tips of his thumbs barely grazed your entrance where they sat on either side of your slit, pulling and pushing the meat of your ass. All at once, he pressed his mouth to you, lips parting for his tongue to swoop over the moisture escaping from your hole. You gasped, throwing your head back and letting out weak sounds, muted by the lace between your teeth.

“So good,” he licked his lips, savoring your flavor, “God, it tastes so fucking good, baby. I think you get sweeter every time.” He dove back in, fingers pressing into your thighs as he traced your folds with his tongue. “And so fucking wet, Jesus Christ—did you get wet like this just teasing me?”

You nodded, flimsy moans escaping the obstruction of the panties as you arched further into him. You tried to get him to use his fingers, to fill you up with him and let you feel the stretch that you loved so much, but this wasn’t for your pleasure—it was for him. All day he’d been waiting to have you to himself, all day he’d been watching you act out, and now he just wanted to bury himself in you; coat himself in your need and remind you that he was in charge. He needed to get his fix of the delicacy between your legs.

The wet noises that filled the room were pornographic, and if people could hear it from behind the locked door, you knew they would have no questions about what was happening. Damien licked stripes up your slit, punching his tongue into you, lapping at just the right spot. He was enjoying himself; groans left his throat in the moments he could bear parting from your core, muttering your praises between flicks of his tongue.

He stood back up; the buckle of his belt jangled, followed by the sound of his fly coming undone, and then his cock was pressed against you. The warm, taut skin of his length slid between your ass, and you sighed gleefully, jutting your hips back against him. The thought alone of having him inside you made your clit pulse. 

“Think you can take it like this? Without me getting you ready with my fingers?” He asked, his voice a sinful whisper. You didn’t know how to respond; you could, you knew you could—but even if you couldn’t, you would try. You made a noise of uncertainty, wiggling your hips for him. “Yeah, you’re going to.”

You bit down on the fabric in your mouth when he pushed into you. With one fast, hard thrust, he bottommed out immediately, and you cried out, still muffled by your makeshift gag. He groaned behind you, letting you get used to the familiar, wonderful stretch of his cock as he watched you swallow his length.

“Good girl,” he commended you, chest heaving, “Look at that, so tight, taking all of me.” He pulled his hips back slowly, his hands finding your waist. “Knew you could do it.” He thrust back into you, just as hard as he had the first time. You were thrown forward slightly, elbows knocking against the bookshelf. You squeaked, the sudden ache in your arms and legs countered by the way his cockhead nudged the most delicate spots inside of you.

When he set the rough pace you'd been hoping for, your moans became more wanton. You found it harder and harder to stay quiet; the spit-saturated panties that hung from your lips sagged on your tongue and became more malleable, and any noise you let out easily found its way around the cloth.

Damien squeezed your thigh. “Quiet, baby,” he cooed, “Much easier to get fired on a tenure track than you might think.” He was laughing, purposefully channeling his energy into finding your g-spot so that he could watch you battle with your voice as you tried to mute the effects of the pleasure he was bringing you.

You let your head fall to the side, resting it on your shoulder as all of your attention fell on the way his cock pressed against your walls. “’M s—r—eey,” you tried to use your manners, the material in your mouth keeping you from engaging in proper etiquette.

He delivered an especially sharp thrust, and your knees bent beneath you. Maybe he took pity on you, maybe he just wanted to make sure you stayed still, but he reached forward, hand coming to a halt just as the tips of his fingers grazed your chin. “Open, baby.” You did as he said, and he removed the makeshift gag from for mouth. “Good girl, keep it open for me.”

He unraveled the panties, cold and wet in his hand after soaking up all the moisture from your tongue. He shook them back out into their original shape before twisting them into something more akin to a rope. He looped your head through his arms, both hands holding either side of the now stretched-out panties as he placed them back into your mouth. He kept his grasp on them, tugging you back against him for leverage to fuck into you.

With your head pulled back, you were forced to arch as far as you could manage, resulting in a delectable change of angle. You could feel all of him; every ridge and vein dragging within you as the tip of his cock repeatedly licked at just the right spot, causing you an overwhelming surge of bliss despite the slight sting at your cervix.

You knew you couldn’t scream, but you wanted to. You wanted so intensely for him to hear how much you were enjoying the way he manhandled you. You let whimpers fall quietly from your lips, gnawing at the gag as he dragged your cunt over his cock, pulling you into him. Your arms, still pressed against the shelf above you, threatened to drop as they struggled from lack of blood flow, but you were too lost in the haze of lust as it circled your core to recognize any discomfort in your fingers.

Damien pulled you backwards with the gag, your ass flush against his hips, his cock stretching your walls. A wave of your arousal gushed over him. The gasp you let out was drowned out by a rumble from behind you, rising from his chest; proud of himself for being able to make you respond like that, proud of you for being able to take what he gave you so well. He repeated the motion, nearly pulling out of you, before quickly pushing himself back inside the waiting warmth of your cunt. His moan came out rushed, tinged with amazement, and you wanted to bottle the noise.

“Fuck—” He removed your gag, tossing the fabric onto the floor. You licked your chapped lips, drooling. “Need to touch you, baby.” He placed his hands on your hips, leaning forward to kiss between your shoulder blades. He paused, pressing his cheek against your back, “If you make a fucking sound, you don’t get to cum. Ok?” His lips felt soft against your back, his words cutting, his voice sweet. “I’ll fuck your pretty mouth instead.”

You nodded, mouth shut but eyes wide, afraid he’d make good on that promise and leave you high and dry. Even though you loved going down on him, feeling the weight of his cock on your tongue as he pressed into the back of your throat, you thought you’d explode if he pulled out of you now.

“Good girl.” You could feel his nails making crescents on your skin, his hands hungry for you after being allocated to holding your gag for so long. He removed his grasp from your hips, trailing his hands upward to slip beneath your shirt and grab your breasts. He moaned when his palms grazed your hardened nipples, quickly moving to roll them between his fingers. You bit back a whine, closing your eyes and enjoying the way he played with you.

His pace was unforgiving, and slick dripped from you to create a filthy sound that served to heighten that of skin-against-skin. You tried to focus your breathing, fighting the moans that threatened to escape your mouth as it hung agape.

But when his hand began to sink lower, fingers dancing over your stomach until they fell to your clit, you let out a strangled noise, unable to hide the pleasure that shot through your veins the moment the pads of his fingers made contact with the swollen bud.

"Fuck—like—just like that, oh my god," you disregarded his rules and his warnings, unable to contain your delight.

Damien was quick to deliver a sharp smack to your ass. “What did I tell you, hm?” Another spank, this time to your thigh, "What did I say?" His hand moved from your clit, palm pressing into your stomach.

“N-no sou—nd,” you choked out a whisper, “I’m sorry, sir—I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll be g—be a good girl for you, sir. Promise, I’m sorry.” Tears welled in your eyes and you bit your bottom lip; you craved so badly to cum on his cock that you’d say anything to make sure he didn’t fulfill his prior threat of disallowing you to finish.

He bent forward, pressing a hand to your cheek and forcing your face against the bookshelf. “What else are you sorry for, baby?”

“Being a br—at,” you grit your teeth, swallowing a sob of pleasure as you quietly moaned your apologies, the hardcover book spines pushing against your cheek. “I was a—I was a brat, I was acting like a whore, sir. I’m sorry, I’m reall—y sorry.”

His strokes became slower, more intentional as he pressed his chest against you. He crowded you against the shelf, drawing his hips back barely an inch before gently thrusting back into you. It did nothing to relax the fire in your lower stomach, still hitting the delicate spot on your front wall that made your vision go white around the edges.

“I could stop right now,” he cooed, voice quiet, cloying, “Leave you right on the edge.”

You tried to shake your head, eyes darting back to throw him a pathetic look from your peripheral in a hushed plea. “No…” The forced silence you’d endured had caused your voice to go hoarse, “Please.”

“I know, baby,” he pulled out of you until just the head of his cock rested against your entrance, barely penetrating you, “You wouldn’t like that at all.”

“Please, sir,” a tear slid down your cheek. You needed to feel all of him. You needed him to feel all of you; to know the heights of pleasure you were able to reach thanks to him. “God, please, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” He mused, voice gravelly, still moving his hips just enough to make you clench around nothing, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. “Then shut up and take it.” He punctuated his sentence with a rough thrust, spearing you on his cock and watching your eyelids flutter over the whites of your eyes as your pupils rolled back. You opened your mouth to scream, before quickly pursing your lips. “You know I’d never do that to you, baby,” he panted out behind you, moving the hand he had pressed against your cheek and opting now to hold your hips steady, “Can’t deny myself the opportunity to see my pretty girl cum for me.”

You let out a shaky breath, smiling against the fabric-bound books you rested against, sure to have indentations on your cheek when you moved. Damien’s grip was tight, but every thrust still managed to make you veer forward. You felt the coil in your abdomen tighten, a spring being pressed down into your core.

He knew you were close, the telltale flutter of you around him and the dazed expression on your face gave you away. His hand sunk back down over your stomach and his fingers brushed your clit. He watched you knit your brow and clench your jaw as you tried, straining, to follow his orders.

“Good girl,” he pressed two fingers to you, “Wish you could see how beautiful you look, finally listening to me.” He lessened the pressure he applied to your clit, and you whined, “Are you going to keep listening, baby?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Pushing himself as far into you as your anatomy would allow, he paused his ministrations; his fingers hovering over your clit, his hips still. “Gonna stop being a fucking brat? Stop acting out in class—stop acting like a slut and trying to distract me?”

"Mhm," you nodded vigorously, lips parted to allow the panted breaths you took in and out.

“I don’t think you’re telling me the truth, baby,” he smiled against your skin, and you whimpered helplessly beneath him. “But—fuck—” he felt your cunt squeeze down on him tighter, “But I wanna see you cum for me, anyway. Taking it so good.” You breathed a sigh of relief, and he chuckled, pressing firm on your clit and beginning to move again, “Keep being good for me, baby—come on.” He urged, rubbing circles over your clit, his other hand keeping your waist in an iron grip as he rolled against you.

The spring that had been coiled so perfectly within you snapped. You felt your thighs tensing, limbs shaking as the chill of your orgasm washed over you like a cold, heavy rain after a drought.

“That’s it,” Damien heaped praise onto you, still rocking his hips into you, relishing the way you pulsed around his cock, “That’s my good girl. What do you say?”

“Tha—nk you, sir,” you croaked, “Thank y-you for letting me cum.” You felt dizzy with glee, your body in a happy medium between heavy and light. You relaxed against the shelf, trying to savor the way his cock continued to drag within you, heightening the already overwhelming pleasure that ran through you from head to toe.

“Fuck—you’re welcome, baby,” he moaned as it became increasingly harder to stave off his own high. “Christ—shit, you feel so good,” his movements became more frantic, “Gonna cum, baby.”

“Yes—fuck, yes. Please,” you moaned, pushing your hips against him in time with his thrusts, “Inside. Please, inside.”

“You don’t deserve it,” he growled, “Be good for me like this, I’ll fill you up as much as you want later.” His hands were all over you, frenzied sweeps of his fingers grabbed at as much of you as he could, “But you don’t deserve it after your fucking attitude today.”

“Fu—god, please,” you knew that any effort in trying to convince him was futile, but you couldn’t help but beg.

“Gonna paint you, baby. I’m gonna paint you with my cum.” He was groaning through his words, hands finding purchase on the globe of your ass and squeezing hard, “Cum all over your ass and let it drip down your legs, get your pretty skirt all messy.”

His snarled tone and the frenzied motion of his hips had you keening for him, and just as the fire of your first orgasm had fizzled out, you could feel your second approaching.

“And you’re going to take it, aren’t you? Gonna thank me and beg for more.” Damien was smiling, voice smooth, but his movements proved how hungry he was for his own release.

“Ye—s,” you moaned, “Ple—ase.” His words made you feel weak in the knees, unable to form a coherent thought after hearing the filth he muttered to you. He felt so deep in this position; his cockhead pressed kisses to your cervix while his balls, drenched in your slick, smacked heavy against your clit.

“Bratty fucking cumslut.” He moaned, and it was all you needed to reach the apex of pleasure once more. Damien cursed behind you, too caught up in his own enjoyment of the moment to have expected your second orgasm. He delayed his own gratification for a beat longer to enjoy the way your walls throbbed around him, to feel the way you trembled.

He pulled out seconds later, fisting his cock and spilling onto you with a throaty moan, watching intently as his spend dripped over your ass and down towards your shaking thighs.

“Fuck,” he muttered after regulating his breathing. Once he had tucked himself back into his pants, he swiped a finger through a rope of his cum on your ass, rubbing it into your skin. He brought his hand to your lips and you licked the digit clean, humming around him, not missing the way his breath hitched when you circled your tongue around the pad of it.

When you released his finger with a wet pop, he placed his lips on yours, wrapping both arms around your midriff. His only thoughts now centered on showering you in affection; he led you in a soft, fond kiss, mouths closed to enhance the tenderness between the two of you.

He held you tight, letting you curl into his chest. He reached to flip your skirt back down, and the fabric clung to the mess on your thighs. Slowly, he backed up, arms still wrapped around you when he lowered the both of you into a chair by the desk, pulling you into his lap and petting your hair.

“Is it bad that I think it’s…it's kinda hot that you have the spine of Tristan Und Isolde indented into your cheek?” He chuckled, fingers coming up to trail a feather-light touch over the texture that had etched itself into your skin.

“No, actually,” you laughed quietly, shoulders bouncing, “I was hoping you’d dig my new look. Thinking of doing the cover of the German to English dictionary on the other cheek.”

“God, you really know how to drive a guy wild.” Damien pressed kisses to the top of your head, and you hummed.

After a beat of silence spent nuzzling one another, he cleared his throat, “Was that alright?” The biting tone in his voice was gone, replaced by tender whispers and soft kisses aimed at your scalp.

“You always ask,” you muttered into his neck, “And I’m always more than alright.”

“I—I know,” he dropped his chin onto the crown of your head, “But what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t check with you…”

You pressed your face into him, smiling against his skin. “Boyfriend?” You echoed, and you felt him tense a little beneath you.

“Is that—I just kind of figured…but if not, that’s fine, we don’t have to—”

“Boyfriend…” You giggled, and you could feel his heartbeat pick up against you where your body pressed into his. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, well,” he laughed quietly, “You’re a little intimidating.”

“Intimidating?” You perked up, grabbing at his cheek, “Your cum is running down my ass. I'm effectively glued to your thigh.”

He groaned, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’ll do laundry when we get home.” He stared at you for a moment, eyes up close gazing into your own. "You know, even when you only do it to act out, you say some really fucking smart stuff."

"Yeah, well...I learned it all from my favorite professor." You giggled

“Pretty, smart, perfect girl,” his eyes closed as he sighed.

“I'm all yours,” you confirmed. Your eyes closed, too, as exhaustion began to catch up with you. Damien let out a happy noise. You spent a few minutes contentedly slouching against him. Then you forced your eyes open, leaning on his shoulder and pressing a kiss to his cheek, “Let’s get out of here."

“You have somewhere to be?” He smiled, teasing. He helped you ease yourself onto your feet.

“Yeah,” you turned to face him, straightening out, “Gotta do laundry with my boyfriend.”

"Well, then" you watched him puff up slightly, tongue between his teeth as he grinned, "We should get you home to the lucky guy."

[limerental]

ficletvember 2024 - day 4

meve/reynard post-canon gooey fluff with a touch of chivalry/praise kink

A sleepy Reynard misspeaks, inspiring Meve to indulge in sharing a silly girlhood fantasy.

It's a simple slip of the tongue one morning, a misplaced word heavy with sleep. Both the Queen and her consort are slower to rouse these days, loathe to leave a warm bed for their duties in the winter chill of the castle.

Reynard in particular has never slept so deeply, rising slowly to consciousness with little sighs and grumbles rather than snapping alert, and Meve delights in it, rolling to her belly to tuck her face against his sleep-warm shoulder and trail her fingers across the span of his chest as he mumbles nonsense and groggily protests her occasional whispered requests that he wake.

Some mornings, she wakes him more pleasantly, rising to straddle him or slipping beneath the bedcovers, but the hour is already late enough that the servants meant to dress and feed them and prepare them for the day are likely growing antsy waiting outside their shared bedchamber, as they’ve instructed them to do.

In truth, tradition dictates separate bedrooms, which they maintain for the occasional sleepless night, but they’ve gladly shirked tradition and wasted far too much time to sleep apart.

As much as Meve would love to lie here beside him half the morning, to allow Reynard as many moments of peaceful comfort as he deserves after everything, both of them have too many responsibilities looming.

Meve prods him in the ribs and rises on an elbow above him, giving to the impulse to press a brief kiss to his jaw, rough with the previous day’s stubble.

“Reynard,” she says, “it’s time you woke. What ever are you dreaming about?”

“Urgghhff,” he huffs, slack brow tightening as his eyelids flutter, gaze unfocused. “Hmmph?”

Meve prods him more insistently.

“Up,” she says. “No more lazing about.”

“Mmm,” Reynard hums and blinks open his eyes. She knows she’s gotten through at last when he stretches, groggy but conscious, and reaches for her, touching a hand to her cheek as she looms above him. He appears so openly besotted as he looks up at her, that Meve feels her face grow hot. His thumb strokes her cheekbone, as gently as though touching thin-blown glass. His eyes drift shut again.

“Reynard,” she says, her voice hardening into the sharpness of an order. “Wake up. On your feet.”

He’s fully awake at once, stiffening to sit up with covers pushed aside.

“Yes, Sir,” he tells her firmly, realizing only a moment later what he’s called her by mistake. “I mean… Your Grace… err… Meve.”

Meve giggles breathlessly, deeply amused by his mortified expression as much as the slip of the tongue, and she forgets their waiting duties and antsy servants and rises to straddle his lap, planting a hand flat against the ridge of scar tissue at his sternum to tip him backwards against the pillows.

“Call me that again,” she says, laughing. “Sir Meve, hmm?”

“M-my apologies,” stutters Reynard, “if I’d been more awake, I wouldn’t’ve–” Tutting over his embarrassed flush, she catches her fingers in his greying hair to kiss him soundly in apology for the teasing. 

“Oh hush. I must confess I like how it sounds,” she says even as she coaxes Reynard’s hands to grip her hips, her own hand stealing between their bodies to cup his morning erection. There’s truly no time for such intimacy, but then again, all of Rivia and Lyria can wait beyond their bedchamber as long as she wishes. 

“Meve, we should–”

She shushes him and kisses down his throat and does not hesitate to lift her hips and settle him inside her body, delighting in his quickening breath and pinched brow as much as she had his relaxed slumber.

“D’you know as a child I yearned for th’ day I’d be knighted and all would have to call me sir rather than princess?” She rocks back as she speaks, tangling their fingers together at her hips. “My mother had to inform me of th’ proper title. Unfortunately, Dame doesn’t have quite th’ same appeal.”

Reynard laughs, breathless. 

“Call me it again,” she says.

“Sir,” says Reynard, “yes, Sir.”

His hips move up against hers, and she remembers as a girl dreaming of gleaming armor and glorious battle, of earning the respect and adoration of doting tournament crowds. Of being powerful and important, far more than a simple princess destined to be married off into the meek servitude of matrimony and motherhood. 

Gripping tight to lean against the leverage of clasp of their hands and Reynard��s raised arms, Meve tells him every foolish fantasy, even as he responds in turn, muttering praise against the skin of her breast, looking up at her through dark lashes as they move together.

The repeated, earnest whispers of sir warm her thoroughly.

They laugh together, sweaty and spent.

Meve knows she has no need of the fanfare of admiring crowds, though these days they wait anywhere she goes. She cares only to have earned the respect and doting adoration of this man beneath her, who would follow her into any battle and indulge her any silly fantasy.

[adhdo5]

2) I am wondering abt. What does o5ver sound like. references or just Descriptions in general

I have definitely answered this but it was years ago and idk what I stand by out of that so

1 - Extremely low range, tends to speak lower in that range as aforementioned. Resting bitch tone; generally unemotive outside of yelling at people. Extremely commanding and no-nonsense 2 - Fundamentally an outdoor voice. Also speaks generally lower in her register, but is possessed of a pretty wide middle-scale range. Whenever she isn't projecting it sounds like she's specifically hushing herself, which is part of her overall emoting as visibly restrained until she snaps. Also very commanding 3 - Also middle ranged; strays into higher/softer tones less as a feature of range and more of prosody. Contagiously calm and authoritative in that "what's wrong, you can tell me and we'll get it sorted" calm rather than in the commanding fashion of 1 and 2. Tone gets drier and/or icier when caught off guard enough to not hide disapproval but is generally 4 - Possessed also of a wide range but leaning more toward the lower side; extremely conversational and friendly, but this is a new and evolved form of customer service voice. Very pleasant, has a great talent for sounding like he's indulging you or confiding in you because he just considers you so nice to be around. Smile usually audible in his voice. Smooth and sweet 5 - Constantly shouting and/or speaking loudly. Extremely clipped, sometimes stilted in cadence in the drill sergeant direction. Slightly higher range relatively; constantly speaking in his belting register. Brassy 6 - Similar range used as 4, though slightly lower. Variable amount of gravel. Animate enough to be natural, but notably drawly even when not doing the voice™. Constantly audibly unhappy. This is distinct from 1's resting bitch voice because it is not a failure to emote 7 - Changes somewhat every time; variable struggles with forming certain sounds on small scales. Generally stays raspy, higher-ranged, and strangely cadenced, but unnaturally audible despite the lower/raspier quality. It doesn't always seem to be properly coming from their mouth 8 - Mid-high range, tends to use higher register; talks fast and animatedly. Darker timbre. Strained quality. Audibly distraught. Always speaks as if he has something better to be doing and you are making him run late for that something. Harried. 9 - Also mid-high range, also brassy; poor volume control, usually too loud or too quiet. Also speaks quickly, sometimes stumbles over words/misspeaks or says things in strange cadence. Friendly and affable 10 - Also lower in range. Occasional flat affect. Rarely raises voice above indoor-conversation volume even when she should. Very dry and often bloodless. Sometimes audibly rehearsed. Also has trouble actively emoting vocally 11 - Avoids speaking whenever possible. Extremely limited range on the lower side; rarely speaks above a whisper when he does. Poor enunciation. Generally extremely reserved emoter 12 - Higher range, usually pretty restricted, tends to stray higher with emotion. Animate; speech is not as fast as it used to be, but still quite quick. Enunciates sometimes exaggeratedly to compensate for occasional slurring caused by various experimental amnestic/mnestic side effects. Not a very exaggerated emoter but usually enthusiasm or lack thereof are audible 13 - Also higher range. Extremely animate both in volume and pitch. Very bright but very clear timbre. Also a good projector; voice absolutely carries. Exaggeratedly emotive; Pinkie Pie tier. Commands attention but not necessarily obedience

[in-inertia]

how many languages do u kno??

I speak Ægirian, Iberian, and Victorian entirely, or almost entirely fluently. I still occasionally misspeak in Victorian, as my speech is still a little too rigid. I'm proficient enough that my mistakes largely come from the more subtle details like tone and implication, rather than mechanical errors.

I know Yanese, Sargonian, and Higashian well enough to read it and speak full conversations without much issue, but the nuances are often beyond me. Yanese in particular is a language I've struggled with on occasion, just because of how dense it seems—though, given Lungmen's ubiquitous cultural influence, I'm also exposed to a much wider berth of Yanese literature than I am Sargonian and Higashian. I'm sure I would also struggle when attempting to dive into the finer details of their bodies of literature.

I'm learning Ursus, but I'm not quite where I'd like to be to call it a language I speak.

[thewatercolours]

Shop talk! Shop talk! Took me a minute to think of a few questions and I'm gonna throw them out there, don't feel obligated to answer all of them.

Is there any music/background noises/etc that you listen to to get into the writing groove? Does it depend on what you're writing?

Do you have your own set of guidelines when writing?

Has there ever been anything that you wrote that you've been genuinely impressed/proud of? Anything that when you look back you know you could revise?

Has there been anything in your work that made you go 'yeah, this is definitely inspired by [author/artist/movie/show]'? Who would you say is your biggest inspiration when you write?

What is your writing process?

Thanks for the awesome questions! Here we go overthinking, but having fun doing so.

Is there any music/background noises/etc that you listen to to get in the writing groove? Does it depend on what you’re writing?

I do love listening to music while I write, especially to ease into the process. I have a hummingbird sort of mind and music settles me in. Occasionally I’ll put on some KQ soundtrack, but more often I’ll shuffle my likes or put on a daily mix. That being said, I write with better quality without music, or if the music is tune-outable. I think it's because I’m very sound focused when I write. I listen for narrative sounds I like in my head. I listen for character voices and intonation as I try dialogue out. With Graham in particular, I make it a rule that I have to imagine game model Graham saying it in Keaton’s voice (even if he’s not human in the specific scene) and if it doesn’t come naturally, I go back to the drawing board. I do this better if there’s no music - but unless I’m already in deep focus, silence distracts me, so I play it by ear. I sometimes have used ambient soundscapes for my original writing. I should give that a try with fic.

Do you have your own set of guidelines when writing?

Ooh, I could interpret this question quite a few ways. Nothing formal or verbalized, but let me see if I can think of some of the norms I keep to when writing KQ. (These are just my take - other approaches are valid!)

1) Suffering, corruption, and evil are real, but hope, unselfish love, and joy are more powerful, and they get the last word.

2) Graham (or any POV protagonist) always takes an active role in his own story and makes the choices that push the story forward. Obviously some scenes will be more reactive, and they'll get thwarted in their efforts, but they can never merely be the victim/the observer. A scene where they’re completely passive needs a redo.

3) If a chance to slip in a game or fanon reference arises, it more or less must go in.

4) Anything that feels especially indulgent gets to stay. In writing in general, this is a bad policy. But I never regret it in the context of my fic. Besides, I tend to get confirmation in the comments that those parts a) feel the most like my writing, and b) are the parts they especially enjoy too.

I want to have more, but brain is glitching. If I push on further, I will accidentally unlock "I spent my teen years and early twenties devouring every writing blog online" mode and start getting opinionated about narrative psychic distance and such.

Has there ever been anything that you wrote that you've been genuinely impressed/proud of? Anything that when you look back you know you could revise?

Oh, I could revise everything. As you may have noticed, I get especially cringed out by how (er, I'm gonna be nice to myself here, i swear) by how overwritten my writing tends to be despite my efforts. (To my horror, some of my favourites from the Top Ten are among the worst offenders.) I was raised on a diet of rather old-fashioned books, and absorbed some of their flaws without the genius to enliven it. And sometimes I'd like to go back and take a good old backspace key to some of the things the characters say and do. But we don't restart the play when an actor misspeaks a line, and we still take the bows and smile at the audience, because it's all about joy, not perfection. And I wouldn't want my friends to get embarrassed by their old work. So I'll try, trudgingly, to get better, and not blush.

My healthiest form of being proud of my work tends to take the form of, "Yes! This story FEELS the way it's supposed to! I feel accomplished!"

... But admittedly I get MUCH more proud when a really nice comment comes in, and I reread the fic twice imagining it through the eyes of the commenter, and spend the next week revisting the comment and the fic. Right now I'm insufferably vain about the stupid toolbooth scene, because I'm still riding the high.

Has there been anything in your work that made you go 'yeah, this is definitely inspired by [author/artist/movie/show]'? Who would you say is your biggest inspiration when you write?

Well, first and foremost, you guys. I get lots of story ideas just from mentally riffing off your creations until it morphs into something different. But honestly, it's all a patchwork quilt of stories and shows I love, and it would be very hard to disentangle them! Um, let me see if I can think of conscious influences on specific scenes. I will say that Nelia is based a tiny bit on Molly Grue from The Last Unicorn, and her time living in that awful gladiator place was inspired by the chapters at Haggard's castle in both the book and the movie. And I vaguely remember that maybe the Well fic was meant to read a little bit like Frances Hardinge's style? (Maybe not specifically? But reading Hardinge a few years back was what got me back into writing after a bad time in my life, and I think my pale imitations of her have shown up in everything I write since, mostly without meaning too.)

What is your writing process?

Reinventing the process, or at least the rituals of the process, is the name of the game for me. Varying it up helps this scatterbrain stay interested! So I could just say, "I don't have one." And I might just - I've rewritten this paragraph as few times to try to pin it down, and I can't, so - writing's weird and different every time. Sometimes a ficlet gets written in a mad dash into the wee hours, and sometimes it percolates for months and gets dragged out over weeks. Sometimes lots of checking the walkthroughs for accuracy, sometimes throwing caution to the wind. Sometimes obsessive editing, sometimes editing's optional. Sometimes scented candles and making my writing area pretty and special teas. Sometimes just plop into the oddly uncomfortable armchair and pound it out without regard to atmosphere. Sometimes brainstorm with my brother, sometimes secrecy and suddenness.

[thetomarrylibrary]

Lost & Not Found (15)

‘‘ Tomarry time travel fic, where Harry and Tom bonded, so when Dumbledore pulled Harry back to the future it made Tom go crazy. It may have been mpreg as well. ‘‘ [ FOUND Visionary by BC ]

‘‘ Harry and Death help Tom. Harry has the cats he practiced with and one of them is a hairless one he named Voldemort, Tom absolutely hates that cat and Voldemort the cat impregnates Tom's favourite cat. There's also another scene where Tom and Harry give an interview to tell the masses a fake story on how they met by saying they were kidnapped by death eaters. ‘‘ [ FOUND The Red Cobblestone Road by TwilightsDawn ]

‘‘ Harry is the Divination teacher and wears exclusively ugly sweaters, frequently with llamas on them. Tom is the DADA teacher and it’s in Riddle era. Tom spends most of the fic pretending to hate Harry. ‘‘ [ FOUND Teaching History (Is Old News) by You_Light_The_Sky ]

‘‘ Harry is the Master of Death and he starts putting Voldemort’s horcruxes back together again and makes him saner and less unstable.Tom tries to kill him multiple times after he gets his soul back but Harry just comes back. It’s explicit, and also Harry changes after becoming MoD (he’s more attractive - his genetic prime). Tom and Harry (Hermione helps by reading over it) also come up with a contract. ‘‘ [ FOUND The Definition of Insanity by Anacharis ]

‘‘ Tom is the mob boss and Harry works in a bookstore called "marauders" where Sirius and Remus owned, Harry sang, that's why Tom called him the songbird. ‘‘

‘‘ Harry and his children time travel due to an apocalyptic event, with the help of ritual that a werewolf shows them. The children end up with Tom, who adopted them, in order to anchor them in this time. When Harry finds them, he marries Tom. ‘‘

‘‘  Tomarry fanfic with an Alice in Wonderland AU. The author posted it on AO3, but they had the fanfic linked to a Google Document. I think in the end Harry ends up stuck in Wonderland. ‘‘ [ FOUND Pyrrhic Victories by MayMarlow ]

‘‘ Harry and Tom are the same age in their fourties. Tom is forced to join as a WW soldier because of some crimes. Harry ends up looking for him and joins the military as well. They finally meet, but in the end, there's this kind of cult who make a pact with the devil using Tom's body. Then they meet Lucius and Draco, but got tricked. At the end, Harry makes a pact with the strongest demon named Mort. ‘‘ [ FOUND God of Nothing by machiavelli ]

‘‘ Harry is the master of death, in the same timeline as Tom. Harry didn’t go to Hogwarts with a wand, and when dumbledore asked him in class in front of everyone where it was, he said "Germany". His classmates and Dumbledore (who got annoyed), thought he was joking, but he was referencing Grindelwald's movement and where he currently had  the Elder Wand. I believe he dropped out at some point ‘‘ [ FOUND October by the carnivorous muffin ]

‘‘ Young Tom and Harry growing up together on Privet Drive in a foster home. They both attend Hogwarts, and while people now assume Tom is Voldemort's son (including Lucius Malfoy), the author occasionally has Tom misspeak (mentioning an orphanage instead of his foster home), so its implied that he's Voldemort himself. Might either be slash or gen. Possibly old and incomplete. Can't remember if it had bashing of any sort either, POV was Tom (it might have included some Harry POV moments, too). Tom has no idea who he really is, but he and harry are definitely friends, if not friendly all the time. ‘‘

‘‘ GoF AU. While everyone ignores Harry after his name comes out of the goblet, Harry feels this darkness growing inside him - it turns out to be a weak horcrux. He visits Voldemort's study every day while he's at Hogwarts. The second book shows Harry as Voldemort's second hand and consort ‘‘ [ FOUND Descent into Darkness by Athey ]

‘‘ Fem-Harry, who went back in time and adopted Tom Riddle. She was also quite independent in the story, and Gellert Grindelwald was interested in her. There is also a brief mention of her and Tom travelling around countries ‘‘ [ FOUND crawlersout by slex ]

[corvidexoskeleton]

may I also get 1, 2, 9 and 11 for Darryl?

and 1, 4, 6, 10, 13 for Derrick?

ty <3

😘

Darryl:

1. Does your oc have any secrets? Whats their biggest one?

Honestly, probably the hitman stuff that she did before the war. It's not that she's ashamed of it or anything, she just knows that other people wouldn't Get It and knows that it could significantly impact the way a lot of people see her

2. Does your oc have any embarrassing memories?

Who isn't embarrassed by the stuff they've said and done when they were younger? I'd imagine that the majority of them would be your standard Embarrassing Memory, like misspeaking or getting things mixed up, or looking back on something she did that she knows thinks was embarrassing. She gets embarrassed less and less as she gets older and simply stops caring

9. How much shame does your oc feel about themself or their past? Do they brush stuff off and feel carefree, or stay up at night recounting mistakes?

She tries to avoid dwelling too much on things she's done and mistakes she's made, and while there's always gonna be some things she'd be ashamed of, she'd rather just own up to the major suff and accept it if she can. Granted, her attempting to do so won't exactly stop her from dreaming about certain aspects, or occasionally laying in bed thinking about them before she passes out

11. If your oc could go back in time and change one moment from their life, would they, and what moment would they change?

She would want to go back to when she was a young adult and try to take little Derrick and leave their parents the first chance she got

Derrick:

1. Does your oc have any secrets? Whats their biggest one?

There's probably a lot of stuff he'd want to keep secret, but I'm tickled by the thought of his biggest secret being something benign or so old that it's not really worth keeping a secret at this point, like something extremely minor he did when he was younger that was so mortifying or terrifying to his little kid brain that he was determined to take it to his grave, such as accidentally losing or breaking something that belonged to Darryl, or their parents

4. Are there any secrets your oc has shared with other characters? If so, who, and what secrets?

Derrick strikes me as someone whose open enough about stuff that he wouldn't have too many genuine secrets, and that the ones he might have would be significant enough (to him, at least) that he wouldn't dream of telling a soul about them unless he really trusts the person or had reason to

Confesses the minor little kid fuckup he did that he refuses to tell Darryl to his gf/Danse and they're just like??? What's so bad about that?

6. How does your oc react to being told someone else’s secret? Do they lock it up tight, or spread it around?

Very solemnly and seriously promising to keep it to himself and, depending on what it was, most likely forgetting what they even told him

10. Is there anything your oc wants or likes that they have to keep secret, like a guilty pleasure? Anything that would get them ostracized, attacked, or just insulted for saying it out loud?

Oh he absolutely strikes me as someone who would have his fair share of guilty pleasures, just more along the lines of relatively harmless stuff like food preferences or maybe a weird kink

13. If your oc had one day where they could do anything without being caught, what would they do?

Be an absolute lazy bastard and not do a single thing without having to worry about other responsibilities

[xiubaek-13]

Request: Can you make an EXO reaction when you try to speak Korean but you mistake a word and the sentence turns out being smutty? Please? Thank you!

D.O. – He would help you improve your Korean by teaching you words for different foods and things in the kitchen. He’d be cooking you dinner and then he’d point at an object or ingredient and you tried to name it. He would feel so proud of you when you got the right words for object and ingredients he pointed at, the knife “Kal.”, and the chicken “Tak-gogi.” He would be torn between correcting you and laughing when you misspoke because he found it cute and endearing. There was one exception and that was when you misspoke and said something rude. Then he had to either laugh or respond with something ever dirtier, like the time you tried to compliment his cooking and said “Neo gochu joha-hae” and he choked on his drink, his eyes almost bugging out of his head. After he finally stopped laughing he finally explained to you that whilst gochu does mean pepper it’s also slang for penis so you had pretty much told him that you like his penis.

Kris – He would try to teach you Chinese as well as Korean and when he went into teacher mode he refused to utter a word of English until you worked out the words. He’d take you to China with him when he visited and show you the places he loved and teach you small phrases then laugh as you struggled with the pronunciations. He knew you were still trying to grasp Korean so throwing Mandarin in the mix was just cruel. When you flew back to Korea he’d be the one to pass out in your bed and forget which country he was in. You would try everything to wake him, poke him, shake him, call his name, kiss his forehead and even take the blankets off him but he would refuse to get out of bed until you told him to wake up in the correct language. He wouldn’t respond to Korean or English because he’d still think he was in China until the jetlag wore off. When you whined “Yah! Kris! Jiào chuáng shēng! (to moan during sex)” he’d be awake fast and would roll over and pull you into bed with him. “I think what you mean to say was jiào xǐng (to wake someone up) but I think I need to show you the difference so you learn only to say jiào chuáng shēng around me.”

Suho - He would constantly correct your Korean and try to come up with fun ways for you to remember how to pronounce things correctly. When you would misspeak he’d let you know what you said wrong and how to fix it in the future. Sometimes you’d have to remind him to take a step back from being a teacher and just be there for you. So sometimes he’d bite his tongue and let you say the wrong thing, but that would be very rare. He’d try to be funny instead of correcting you but when the words you misspoke had a double meaning or could be interpreted in a more adult way he’d flirt with you. It worked like a charm the time he’d taken you out for a walk in a park and you’d commented on the scenery. You’d said “Meosjin dali” meaning nice bridge but the same words also meant nice legs so Suho had turned on the charm and responded with “Yes they are” whilst running his hand down your leg.

Sehun – He would mess with you and play along with your misspeaking. He loved that you tried to learn and speak more Korean around him but he’d find endless fun teasing you for messing up words or saying something rude unintentionally. He’d sometimes be serious and correct you if you were in public and he’d apologise for you if you were speaking with someone when you messed up but as soon as you were in the privacy of your home he’d laugh and tease you endlessly. He still wasn’t over the time you were in a department store and you asked a storeperson to take you to the mops but you’d said “Geolle delyeoda jwo” which was technically correct but it could also mean ‘take me to the sluts.’ The look the poor store assistant had given you before he shook his head and led you to the cleaning aisle was priceless so Sehun constantly brought it up. “Jagi, why are you looking for sluts? Are you trying to spoil me? It’s not even my birthday yet.”

Kai – He was the type to forget to correct you because he was too busy laughing at what you’d said. He’d be frozen in place, clutching his sides as he laughed at whatever incorrect words came out of your mouth. If you laughed he’d keep laughing but if you pouted he’d try to calm himself down to explain what you’d said wrong but it would take him a few attempts because he’d keep laughing whenever he tried to explain your mistake to you. There was the time you had tried to tell him about how you’d seen a transformation in him but instead of saying byunsin you’d said byungsin (a very strong swear word for idiot). He’d looked at you, crestfallen while you tried to work out what you’d said wrong. When you finally got him to understand that you had meant a change not whatever you’d actually said he perked up then broke out in a fit of laughter.

Tao – Since Korean wasn’t his first language he’d only be able to correct you occasionally. When he’d lived in Korea he had studied hard and had learned from his own mistakes (That one time when he called Xiumin oppa was embarrassment enough that he was much more careful with his words and pronunciations. When you told him you were trying to learn Korean he’d started to speak more Korean around you even though he was a bit rusty. Most of the time he would encourage you to learn but when you got it wrong he was definitely the guy who would laugh, loudly. When he’d gotten out of the shower one night you tried to use your Korean skills to compliment his body. You had placed your hand on his chest and said “Jjookjookpangpang” when he giggled and shook his head. “No, that isn’t for guys.” He’d pull you close and run his hands down your sides as he spoke. “It’s to compliment a female's curves. So Y/N, the term applies to you. Now allow me to show you just how much I appreciate your curves.”

Chanyeol – The reaction king could not hide it when you said the wrong thing. He would try his hardest to keep a straight face but more often than not he’d drop to the floor in a fit of laughter. If you said the wrong thing in public he’d try to cover for you instead and then he’d take charge of the conversation until it was back on track. He was never prepared for when you misspoke and it was dirty. He’d get flustered and try to form a response but he’d be the one to blush and then he’d avoid telling you what you’d said. You affected him so even though you didn’t mean to say it, his mind went to the gutter when you misspoke like that. Slowly he would flirt back until you worked out that you’d said something dirty instead of what you meant to say. The day you asked him to help you nail something was when he lost it. You had said “Baghida” which was wrong since it meant ‘to be nailed’ but it was a term he associated more with sex than with DIY home repairs as it also meant ‘to be fucked’. He pressed you against the wall and explained exactly how he would nail you.

Chen – In public, especially in formal situations he’d look out for you and would cover for you whenever you misspoke or pronounced something incorrectly but in less formal situations or when it was just the two of you he would be an endless tease. Forever cheeky and insinuating something from anything you said incorrectly, no matter how minor. You weren’t safe if the word had more than one meaning as well, even if it was slang that you had no way of knowing. He teased because he cared, and also because he found your reactions hilarious. One night when you’d gotten home from a seafood restaurant you put on a sing song voice and sang “Jongdae jogae joh-ahae!” He knew you were trying to be cute and sing Jongdae likes clams but he was not going to let the double meaning pass. Not when it was this perfect. He pushed you back on the bed and lowered himself between your legs. “Jagi, you are right. I really do like vagina. Let me show you just how much I love it.”

Lay – With his sense of humour he’d have some fun with you messing up the language since he does it a lot as well. He’d smile and chuckle at you and sometimes even play dumb about your mistakes. He’d tricked you once into saying Juraji in front of the guys which sent them back into fits of laughter as they remembered how that broke them when they were filming. There would be times when he would misinterpret what you were saying like the time the two of you went camping and you asked “Nan maltagi haeboja?” You’d literally asked if he wanted to try horse riding but because he lived with a group of testosterone filled guys he only knew the slang for that term so he thought you’d asked if he’d like to try with you being on top. He rolled you over so that you were straddling him before he responded with “Nan maltagi joahae.”  You’d work out what you’d said wrong later.

Luhan – Even though Korean is not his first language he had a better grasp on it that the other Chinese members. He’d send you off to his tutor and help you out when he could. He’d watch as the others laughed when you got something wrong and he’d laugh if it was a really funny misspeak but mos of the time he’d just let you know that you’d gotten it wrong and patiently wait while you tried to figure it out before he helped you. When you accidentally swore he’d scold you and tell you his lady shouldn’t swear in public. There was the time he’d taken you to a restaurant and he asked you which dish you wanted. You replied with “Ssibal” while pointing at number 18 and the look on his face was priceless. He apologised to the server and correctly ordered “Sipal.” He groaned and then scolded you for swearing at the server, reminding you just how important pronunciation was. When you’d gotten home he’d wandered off to his studio to work and after a couple of hours you entered and asked “Neoji spotsi eohdiya? (What are you doing?)” He knew what you meant but he felt like teaching you a lesson since you’d misspoken a lot today. He smirked and pulled you down to his lap “Jagi, why don’t I remind you where yours is instead then maybe you’ll work out what you just asked me?”

Baekhyun – The wordiest member of the group would find your misspeaking adorable and hilarious. He’d make up words to teach you just to mess with the members. He would earnestly try to correct you and teach you once he’d stopped laughing but he’d start to mess with you once he got bored. Euphemism king that he is he’d exaggerate whenever you said anything with a double meaning or a slang meaning. He would watch as you got frustrated over your fumbling of the language and he’d try to cheer you up with simple word play. Every now and again you’d render him speechless when you said something that had much dirtier connotations. There was a day when you’d struggled so much with speaking that you blurted out at him “Aish, ibeulo haejwo! (I need your mouth)” Baekhyun tried so hard to keep his face neutral as he worked out where you went wrong since you’d basically just yelled ‘go down on me’ at him. Eventually he figured out that you meant you needed his linguistic abilities but his mind was definitely elsewhere as he licked his lips and dragged you to his room.

Xiumin – He would act serious in public, the perfect gentleman. He would apologise profusely to whoever you were talking to when you misspoke and explain that you were still learning. For the most part the two of you had a system when you were in public so that you refrained from giving him a small heart attack by unintentionally saying something rude. It was a completely different story when it was just the two of you though. Away from the public he would smirk and act out whatever phrase you said to show you when your words would be appropriate to use. You had picked up on this game pretty quickly but he always held the upper hand. He made sure you knew what tone to use when saying “Bballi bballi hae” or “ssege hae” He’d enjoyed showing you the results of accidentally implying you wanted him to do it faster and harder. That resulted in you not being able to walk properly the next day. His favourite one of your slip ups so far had to be “Nan eolgurae ssaneungirl joahae*.” He’d pushed you down on your knees and told you “Sweet girl, that is not the correct way to ask for a face to face talk. I’m going to show you what you told me you liked instead.” Then he unzipped his pants.

*it’s a slang term for I like cumming on the face.

[thegrabowskis]

i love when mike roasts rich and rich tries to respond but he misspeaks or mispronounces something and mike just corrects him in the calmest, least bothered way possible, thereby completely invalidating rich's comeback. it almost makes me feel bad for rich but i know they're legit buds so it's ok.

The bullying occasionally makes me a little uncomfortable too, but it’s also super clear that they love each other very much. If it was a true Issue it wouldn’t be in the videos.

[whisperoftheworm]

Jay you said you’ve written from a kids perspective before? I’m trying the same but it’s hard ): it’s fine if you don’t but can you offer any advice for it?

Ok so I got halfway through writing all this, changed app to screengrab and then tumblr, a terrible application deleted this all so forgive me if this isn’t as detailed as I was intending ok thank u. Yes I am on mobile, no I haven’t seen tumblr on desktop in four years, yes I am aware this is not ideal.

So I’ve never really given writing advice before, so who fucking knows how coherent this will be. I think one of the biggest tips I can give in regards to writing children (or anyone for that matter) is not to do it in a vacuum. Observation is your friend, and if you have kids in your life that you can observe and see how they act, react, do things then that’s a good place to start.

That aside, another great thing to do is remember that children are actually people too. They may not be quite there as adults, but they still have their own thoughts, emotions, feelings, and all that jazz. On a personal level, the characters I’ve written, Oscar and William come from a traumatic, sheltered upbringing, and are on a level, different to most kids (making me rethink all this now but I’m this far in but fuck it). They’re seeing the world a lot more than they ever have, so there are a lot of new things for them. In a sense that rings true for a lot of kids, so a dash of wonder and confusion is often useful.

Inner Monologue:

This sounds a bit like I’m contradicting myself but it’s important to remember that kids see the world as more objective and black and white to your average adult (especially vulnerable traumatised kiddos but that’s another kettle of fish).

I’m going to reference some of my own stuff a few times here btw because I’m a narcissist.

This is from a recent draft but it seemed a good example. Oscar is seven, so a lot of his thoughts come off as quite scattered and short, flipping between the only two things he cares about in this moment, his dinosaur and William. Keep it short, keep it objective, but also keep it inquisitive to a degree.

Another example I could find is one from Will’s perspective. He’s the same age as Oscar, and is royally piss scared of water, watching his best pal out in the sea. Like many kids, he’s got a very vivid imagination, and the whole sea monster thing felt natural that he’d think that.

Dialogue:

If you’ve ever spent time around a child, you’ll know that they ask a lot of questions. With my characters’ ages and personalities taken into consideration, I tend to keep their dialogue quite short with no more than two or three sentences at a time. They tend to state the obvious and give more of an explanation than needed at times — which is also useful for exposition. Save yourself from that and just have your small character explain exactly what they’re doing.

Here he’s drawn a wee picture and is showing it off. He’s gone into detail about it while also being the same kind of insecure need for praise that kids, being kids, often need.

Some other things about writing kids and their dialogue is use of names. Kids tend to use names more than adults in conversation, which I also find helps to keep the flow going through long bits of dialogue without having to add a million speech tags. Furthermore, for one word answers and yes and no questions, keep it short for them. Have them nod and shake their heads, even keep them silent when it’s a question we already know the answer to.

Also while we’re here: Baby talk. Just don’t. It does entirely depend on the age, but if I have to sit through clearly written lisps and i’m a widdle baby uwu then I will be sick. The occasional misspeak and mistake is fine in my opinion. Making them cute is all well and good, helping readers develop an attachment to them by making them sweet is also great. But just don’t overdo it. I feel like this rings truer more for writing girls than boys, but that is again, a whole nother kettle of fish.

Just extra stuff that I can’t be arsed to make another subheading for:

Kids are gross. Remember that they are gross. Oscar likes to tell his grown ups whenever he’s done some kind of bodily function, which from my experience is the seven-year-old boy experience.

Kids get attached easily. Whether it be to caregivers or toys/objects, it happens. William has a stuffed rabbit that rarely leaves his sight. Don’t be afraid to make them fall in love with stuff, because having him hold onto his rabbit when he’s nervous for example is one of my fav ways to convey him.

Don’t reduce them to being cutesy and nothing else. I’ve probably said this like three times now, but it’s Super Important. Make them cute, but make them more than that.

—

This is all I can physically manage writing about this at the moment ngl. This took like two hours of distractions and smoke breaks and being in quarantine and tbh I’m not sure how much sense this makes. But thanks for the ask, anon you’ve given me something to do today.

[holywomandrowninginpleasure]

How many ways can one hiss?

Before Bisca joined the Shadow Adders, the organization had been made up of only snakes. While one could argue that Bisca joining wouldn’t change that fact, either at the time or after she adapted, there was still a language barrier upon recruitment. The Shadow Adders, much to their benefit, spoke nearly exclusively in Linna, their native tongue. Plenty of non-native speakers learnt this language simply because snakes were known to be the third least trustworthy residents of Capitol City, Arachni and Felus often being too difficult to learn due to a complex syntax and legal jargon, respectively. But while spiders and lawyers were arguably more dangerous, Arachni speakers tended to laugh at even fluent speakers for minor misspeaks, and lawyers would chide you for not zeroing on the exact connotation with precise diction. It wasn’t really worth the ridicule, especially when one considers that snakes were the type to speak their plans aloud, as if presuming no one around could speak their native tongue. This was a half-truth, as snakes could be just as prideful as the spider and the lawyer. The presumption was that no one could speak their language as well as they could, and they were often right. 

Sarcasm is one of the more muted aspects of Linna, something that no handbook or tutor can really teach. For one thing, it was inherent to the snake dialect of the language – leaning into the history of untrustworthy snakes, of having lies and deception easily seen through, snakes started telling people dastardly plans to their face in a kind of twisted honesty. The Shadow Adders, for example, used Thieves’ Cant to make deals behind closed doors, but Linna out in the open “when no one’s listening” to break deals and end relationships. After all, a swift unexpected retaliation would be devastating to the Shadow Adders, whereas a hasty and expected retaliation would be playing into their hands. This had the secondary benefit of helping to identify any snake that would betray the others for personal benefit, if one snake couldn’t detect the second meaning behind another’s words, the former clearly wasn’t intent on trusting the latter. Often times, the latter would invite the former out for drinks with the rest of the group to improve group cohesion. A dark trust based on mutually assured destruction.

This was the greater of the two linguistic hurdles Bisca had to make when joining the Shadow Adders. The other one being, of course, Bisca’s inability to speak Common. Having freshly uprooted, Bisca only had an inherent grasp of Gramin, a common language for most flowers and low-to-the-ground plants. Gramin consists of both the whistling of the wind through the grass as well as earthy rasping, vocally fairly similar to hisses and abrupt snaps of Linna. However, tonally, the two could not be more different.

The vine the black sheep of Gramin speakers, the language was primarily built for and by people pleasantly basking in the sun they could get, not those who would strangle the trees to get more. As an aside, a majority of the time Arbor is mistaken for Gramin, someone attributes the confusion to either a bush or a vine – with the most interesting case being one where a vine was choking out a tree and passerby thought their shouts were being used to relay obscenities to the other. Regardless, Gramin has stayed a naturally bubbly language thanks to the tone of the general speaker base – muting the gravely tones unless one wants to sound displeased or annoyed, a rare occurrence for the majority of the native speakers. That’s why, if you hear a plant say something that sounds like it swallowed broken glass, you should regret what you did, and be wary of retaliation from the plant’s companions.

So how did Bisca learn Linna? Slowly, steadily, and personally. I’ll spare you the details, but note the distinct quirks of her speech. There’s the obvious elongation of consonants, whether it be through whistling or hissing, usually both. There’re the sharp contrasting tones to draw attention to certain words, snapping when she’s more jovial, rasping when she’s more irritated. But more strikingly, Bisca took the body language central to Gramin and applies it to all of her speech as only a snake could. That, of course, refers to her mannerisms and the way she carries herself. Modern Gramin uses body language to change meaning very obviously - to specify and to accentuate the point, to make it easier to understand. Bisca, however, uses unspecific body language; movements akin to shrugging, slanting one’s body mass, and of course – gesturing with a firearm. While normal Gramin speakers might point directly at someone, firearm occasionally included, Bisca tends never to gesture directly at someone – often settling for making circles with her hand in their general direction, even when saying  things like “this guy over here,” the emphasis she puts is on the location. More broadly, Bisca’s body language is often far more loose and vulgar thanks to her time with the Shadow Adders.

There are many more distinctions, so I’ll go beyond skipping the details and summarize. Bisca took the tone from Gramin, and uses it to say things that only a snake would say, creating a sharp contrast between tone and apparent meaning. Adding onto the relatively vague use of body language, Bisca borrows the rapid-fire pace of Linna for her speech, often leaving people playing mental catchup. All of this leaves Bisca with a dialect all her own, whether speaking Gramin or Linna her words jump from slow consonants that can lull listeners to rapid fire statements full of (what Bisca thinks is) biting wit and rude claims (that Bisca doesn’t really pay much mind to). Add in vague diction and one is left with speech rife with possibilities for duplicate, and opposite, meanings. However, while the Linna of the Shadow Adders makes it impossible to detect when a speaker is being sarcastic or not, Bisca’s dialect is a complete 180 – it’s hard to tell when she’s being serious or not. Though, it’s more of the same, in much the same fashion as the Shadow Adder’s Linna, it takes a trusted ally to understand Bisca’s doublespeak.

Bisca took these quirks with her as she learnt Common, and later, Thieves’ Cant – and in shaping her tone and speech, also shaped her personality. Hard to follow and connect with, Bisca’s unique speech patterns are a large part of why Charisma is her weakest stat at base.

[clubpassim]

Women In Folk - Cindy Howes

Hi there!

Katie here, thanks for tuning in for another entry in the Women in Folk Blog! Today’s interviewee is Cindy Howes!

Cindy works at 88.9 WERS at Emerson College in Boston as the Marketing and Promotions Manager. She hosts on Folk Alley, which is a 24-hour folk radio station, as well as Basic Folk, her folk-music podcast. Cindy actually grew up in the area and went to Emerson College for radio. When she first arrived there, she was told she had to pick a show she wanted to work on, and what she told me might come as a shock to some…

 “In high school, I really liked 90’s alternative music, but unfortunately, they didn’t have any shows like that. I knew a little bit about folk music because my friend’s sister took us to Club Passim to see Mark Erelli, so I thought, ‘this is close to what I like, I’ll put this down as my second choice.’ My first choice was a metal show, but they ended up giving me my second. The two were very different!”

Metal. After which we mused about how different her life would have looked like if she had ended up as a metal radio host.

After graduating from Emerson she wound up in Pittsburgh working at public radio station WYEP for 11 years, but as fate would have it just this past February she moved back to Boston to rejoin the WERS team. Welcome back, Cindy!

Another fun fact about Cindy is that she worked at Club Passim as a night manager for 6 months after college, which further solidified her place in the folk world.

(The next part of the interview discusses her role as a woman in the radio industry)

[full interview under the cut]

Club Passim: Talk a little bit about your experiences as a female in a male-dominated profession/field.

Cindy Howes: I feel very lucky. When I was working at WYEP I had some really great co-workers, specifically Rosemary Welsch who has worked there for 38 years. Just having her presence on the programming staff and having her general influences was very inspiring to me and helpful in an immeasurable way. There are some really wonderful women in the industry, but...it is a lot of men, you know?

Most of the men I come across are professional, but occasionally you do cross paths with people who aren’t. Having to navigate those situations isn’t always the simplest. You have to ask yourself, ‘What is safe for me in those situations? What is appropriate to do, yet still makes me feel safe and comfortable?’ That’s the conversation we’re starting to have now.

I’m an older millennial, but still, in my generation, things were different from how they are today. Younger generations just won't tolerate unequal treatment and disrespect, and that’s awesome! It’s really exciting to see this cultural shift.

CP: Do you notice a difference in how you’re treated by artists, venues, audiences, and industry professionals before vs. after you interview them/they hear an interview you do?

CH: Yes, though I’m not so sure if it has to do with gender. I think it more so has to do with ego.

In public radio, you have to fight for recognition. Every little bit counts, and when someone misses something or gets your name wrong, that can be really upsetting. Musicians will sometimes underestimate the quality of the interview they’re going to get from me. They’re used to other radio stations asking them the same 10 questions, so when they do an interview with me, they’re usually pleasantly surprised by the substance and depth of the questions.

I will say though, I am frequently told when meeting someone in person that I don’t look the way I sound on the radio. I look different than what they expected I would sound like. I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing! Usually, they assume me to be older than I really am.

CP: What do you do in a situation when you feel disrespected by the artists/co-workers you’re surrounded by?

CH: I have to weigh the situation. If it’s something where I don’t want to rock the boat, I’ll work through it and try not to take it personally. I’ve found that when that stuff happens, it’s usually more about the other person than it is about me. Also working in radio and the media industry, you have to learn to let a lot of stuff go, so it’s just a matter of figuring out what battles you want to fight.

I’m normally pretty calm; I usually won’t explode at someone. Although there have been times where something disrespectful or hurtful is said to me and I’m so affected by their comment that I’ve had to give up an interview I was about to do. If a situation like that arises, the first thing I do is remove myself from having to be in public so I’m not distracted and don’t misspeak. 

CP: In your opinion, how can men be more aware or informed about their women peers and co-workers?

CH: By intently listening more. Try to put yourself in marginalized people's shoes to see what it’s like to give up your privilege. I definitely have privilege myself, and so I try to do it too. I imagine what it would be like if my appearance was different, my skin color was different, my country of origin was different. Everyone should try to think outside of themselves more.

CP: Do you find that your co-workers do a good job with this?

CH: I’ve seen progress for sure. All my co-workers are wonderful now. In the past, some have been better than others. Women radio hosts were usually on in the mid-day and evening, but never hosted the morning show or afternoon drive; the most popular show times. However, when I arrived in Pittsburgh in 2007 things were already better. In Pittsburgh, they now have 1-2 stations that have women on in the morning. While it’s still not ideal, it has gotten a lot better for women. I don’t know if I can say the same for people of color, though.

CP: What message do you want to display as a woman in the radio business?

CH: Treat women like people.

CP: What words of wisdom/encouragement do you have for aspiring women in this field?

CH: It is not your fault. Things will happen to you and you will feel like you’re being treated differently, treated lesser-than because of your gender. But know that it isn’t your fault and that things have been changing for the better.

CP: Any final remarks?

CH: I have a feeling that women who are in their late teens/early twenties right now are much smarter and more confident than before. There’s a lot more body-positivity these days which is beautiful to watch. They walk with confidence through this world. In my generation, we were very insecure, and it showed.  

The more that young women realize their worth, the better off we all are going to be.

                                                          ~

Powerful words, spoken by a powerful lady! Thank you, Cindy. What an inspiring and uplifting interview this was. While it is crucial to talk about our negative experiences, it is just as crucial to recognize how far we’ve come and the ground we’ve covered together. Conditions for women have definitely improved in the passing years, but there is still much to equalize across genders, color, and borders. 

So remember to check your privilege; there are always folks who have it worse than you do. 

Thanks again to Cindy, and thank you for reading! Stay tuned for the next installment of the ‘Women in Folk’ blog!

Katie

[oppressiveliberator]

Topic Meme: His mental state (I’m curious, seeing as he thought my very-real muse was a hallucination)

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Ghetsis is well into his 60′s approximately--which honestly, according to my father’s nurses and such, wasn’t that old.  Nonetheless, the guy’s had two severe psychological breakdowns resulting in stress-induced strokes.  A stroke cuts off the oxygen to parts of your brain and when that part eventually suffocates or is otherwise heavily damaged from lack of oxygen, I’m sure you can imagine what that’ll do to somebody’s body let alone someone’s brain.

On top of that, there’s the dementia.  That’s why he perceived Brett as a hallucination at first--Brett was out of place in an otherwise normal setting, a child he didn’t recognize in his hiding place.  Normally the Shadow Triad prevent any intruders or threats from getting anywhere near the hideaway, assuming one even stumbles into the magic slip space that puts you on the same plane of existence as it in the first place.  So.  Strange child where a strange child would, logically, not be?  Probably a hallucination.

(A lot of rambling under the cut, talk of mental illness, physical illness, disability, real life parental death. . .just a lot of stuff, probably a lot of nonsense, some of it a mite personal as a former caretaker. I’d’ve put icons in to space things out but.  I’m kinda tired after writing all of this lmao also I have to fast for a thing tomorrow so I’m just gonna. Head off once I post this and gets oem rest.TL;DR: google ‘symptoms of dementia’ and ‘effects of stroke’ and you’ll get a good idea of Ghetsis’s mental state at any given point in time.)

At least a small child is the least of his hallucinations.  He has them now and then, or otherwise misperceives reality or misspeaks about his perceptions, and they can vary from little things to big things.  They’re usually nothing major--something is there that isn’t or he hears sounds that aren’t real.  Sometimes he sees people or his mind misproccesses one person or thing as another(sometimes he refers to the Shadow Triad as N, Anthea, and Concordia for example) and he just kinda rolls with it sometimes.

Other times he tries to ignore it until it goes away or tries to ‘fix it’ one way or another. Major things are more along the lines of that he’s displaced from where he actually is, is floating, his environment is drastically changing--stuff that majorly impacts his ability to proceed.  But it’s usually like.  Galvantula crawling on him or voices and things like that.  Stuff that you might notice him responding to, but that can be dismissed or that he shrugs off.

If he hallucinates something detailed and realizes it(because, y’know, it doesn’t make sense, for example,) he usually just rolls with it until it ends--his mind doesn’t take well to being ignored or dismissed and can ratchet up the awful if it isn’t acknowledged, hence why he decided ‘well, there’s a hallucination child here, i’d better just acknowledge him’ lol.

In general, Ghetsis’s memory is not good.  Oftentimes it’s inconsistent--sometimes he remembers some things but not others, sometimes he remembers everything, sometimes he doesn’t even know who he is.  Now and then he’ll remember things in one state of mind, forget them in another, and if he goes back to the previous state of mind or a different one, he has no problem remembering the previous thing.  But he has no control over this.  While he mostly remembers more recent years events, he might struggle with some before them--or he might randomly drop one memory or process or another.

Sometimes these memory lapses result in things like not remembering what year it is and as such not knowing how old he is.  He may interpret himself as being younger because his mind just. . .receded back to that point in his understanding.  If you ask him where he is, he might say he’s at the Harmonia Estate even though that’s completely off base.  He’ll give you a radically incorrect number if asked for his age.  He’ll say he has no children.  He won’t remember what Team Plasma is.

Sometimes his mind reconciles things like his height in relation to other people and things and he doesn’t question them at all.  For example, he could see N and his mind says ‘that’s Natural. That’s your son.’ but rather than ‘he’s in his early 20′s. he’s the hero of ideals. he betrayed you. he abandoned you. you hate him. you miss him. you wish you had your son back’ his process says ‘he’s seven years old. he’s just learning to read. he learned to do a cartwheel yesterday. he’s having a hard time with the studies Gorm is going through with him, but for now he’s okay with the others. He falls down everytime he gets on his skateboard but he always laughs and gets back on it’ and he’ll treat N as though he’s a child.  He’ll acknowledge that N is getting big or getting heavy if he has to acknowledge his appearance, but his mind’ll just kinda.  Make that make sense to him.

There’s not really any way to snap him out of this--sometimes he can be led back to a proper psychological state, other times you’ve just gotta wait it out.  Ideally, let him sleep and he’ll be better when he wakes up.

There are days where he’s in clearly awful condition.  Sometimes he can’t talk or acknowledge anything, just completely unresponsive.  Other times it seems like nothing was ever wrong with his mind in the first place.

As you can imagine, that’s mostly just processing things. . .his already horrifically inconsistent personality that he changes to befit the situation and person he’s speaking to is now even more inconsistent and he’s got little to no control over it.  Oftentimes he’ll be himself to some degree.  Other times he might be horrifically depressed or lost and reclusive or sorry and miserable. . .sometimes he’ll be emotional and wild--and he’ll lash out aggressively if anybody tries to help him, even if he clearly needs it.  He might not remember his interests or his relationships with people or be able to focus. . .he’s all over the place, although I’m still kinda tentative about portraying it.

A lot of it is inspired by my dad and his condition when he was alive and I was taking care of him. So while sometimes I may laugh at it sometimes or occasionally use it for comedic effect, honestly part of me does want to portray a lot of these struggles he has realistically--but I’m also a very ‘laugh at everything because what else are you gonna do be miserable all the time?’ type of person(or i try to be--I find it important to see the comedy in everything because honestly life is ridiculous and there’s no reason not to laugh at it or enjoy it as long as you also accept the severity of it) and I worry I’d portray something too comically or be interpreted as making a joke even when I’m not.

. . .But, yeah, Ghetsis’s brain is fucked up basically.  Look up what happens to stroke or seizure patients and the effects of dementia and you’ll get a decent grasp of what it’s like to be my Ghetsis in the present day.

Despite it all, he’s still Ghetsis. . .but between age and arrogance and madness, he’s lost a lot of his ability to give a fuck and he just.  Does whatever he wants within his ability. Boundaries? Filters?  Often completely absent.  So sometimes he’s Ghetsis--master manipulator, King in personality and intentions, regal and serious and calm and strategic and careful and classy and elegant and deceptive--and sometimes he’s Ghetsis--Professional Fuck-Upper of Shit who constantly has Break My Stride by Matthew Wilder playing in his own head who just does whatever and exists to piss people off and have fun.  But the thing is?  Ghetsis has always been somebody even his closest people couldn’t tell the personality of.  What he’s like, who he is, it escaped even the sages.  It escaped everybody that this man was evil for literal years.

So in a weird way, he’s exactly the same. . .just a little more extreme and spiteful. Normally he’s a liar because it helps him fit smoothly into society without suspicion, but now sometimes he’s brutally honest and you realize how disturbed he is, how fucked what happens in his head is.

. . . . . .And yet.  He’s bounced back from so many things before.  He’s been a radically confusing and difficult and inconsistent person before.

Sometimes you can’t help but think ‘this is a trick too.’ 

Either way. . .he’s a mess.  You’ll almost always still be able to see that he’s Ghetsis in his thoughts and actions and words, but sometimes he’s. . .different. Sometimes that’s just Extra Ghetsis, and sometimes you see what’s beneath the Narcissism and he cries and apologizes and struggles and lets himself be helped and asks for help and says he just wanted to help let him help how can he help he doesn’t want to be useless he doesn’t want to be broken let him prove he exists and functions even if it’s just to himself.  Better yet, let him die. He can’t live like this anymore. He’s not living. He hasn’t been living for years, he’s a broken, worthless entity and he just doesn’t want to be anymore. Those’re still rare sides of him to see--you’re more likely to get completely unresponsive, mute, dissociative, confused old man type Ghetsis than self-loathing Ghetsis who regrets his actions and who he is and has been and what he’s done.

But yeah.  Ghetsis’s mental state is.  Not great! It’s much worse than he lets on most of the time! His physical state is pretty poor, too, although that varies too.  Some days he can walk without assistance, some days he needs his cane, a walker, a wheelchair, some days he’s bedbound completely and if he tries to use his leg(s) he’ll just wind up falling down.  Sometimes he can speak with little to no problem, sometimes he can’t do anything but mutter nonsensically, sometimes he can’t even make sounds.  He’s just. . .not well.  But somehow he’s still recovering.  One could suppose it’s simply because he’s Ghetsis and he’s always been a little. . .powerful. Ethereal. Magical. Special. A cut above the rest.

Like my dad, he’s been told or had his caretakers told many, many times he probably wouldn’t make it more than a few years, months, weeks, he’d be lucky if he lived through the night.

But Yveltal be damned, he’s still here.

And he’s gonna be here for a while, I imagine.

If he gets his way, he’ll be here forever.