#or the descriptions are just kind of clunky

[iridescentis]

you ever get to a point when you're writing a oneshot or chapter or whatever and something is not quite right but you can't really determine what so it's really hard to improve it through editing??

im happy with pieces of it sure but im about to just start from scratch because it is not working

[sodacowboy]

I get the feeling that being able to intuitively/accurately guess a word in english based off from similar words isn’t something you can do unless you grew up speaking english lol

[xxacademy]

BLOODIED HANDS OF A LOVER'S MISFORTUNE —THRONE OF HIS OWN PART II

Leon Kennedy x Agent!Reader (she/her)

-> READ PART ONE

Summary: Blood, wine, fangs, touch-- his touch. Leon Kennedy made you his princess. He put you in pretty dresses, and put is mark on every part of you. But, it's time to face the reality of your situation. You are not Leon's princess, you are his back up. Now you're forced to do your job, and come face to face with the chaos of the vampire court.

Word Count: 2.5k

Content warnings: blood/gore, reader gets drugged and restrained, weapons, vampires, typical violence and themes associated with resident evil, i shamefully reference one of Leon Kennedy's cringiest one-liner's.

a/n: i had so much fun writing this!! action & horror elements are the best. i think i could write descriptions about blood and wounds forever... it's so strangely fun (?) anwaysss im playing re4r again and i cannot get leon's kicks outta my brain, lol. i hope you enjoy, and as always thank you for your patience. i am a full-time student and i have a full-time job, so writing can take me foreverrrrr.

Leon sits among the vampiric overlords while you sit alone, drinking a cup of tea, wearing yet another tightly corseted Victorian monstrosity.

The servants were undoubtedly kind to offer you clean clothes and breakfast, but that didn't make you want to leave any less. The uneasiness lingers dense in your stomach.

Last night was... Indulgent, to say the least. But the welcome has been overstayed, and you're antsy to leave the vampire's den. Hopefully, Leon will be quick to end their little conclave.

── ･ ｡☆*☽*☆ﾟ.──

You awoke suddenly to a loud clank beside you. To your groggy surprise, your tea cup had fallen and shattered at your feet.

The idle warmth of the fireplace and the cozy living room must have lulled you to sleep. Despite your mind being deep in a heavy fog, you found the strength to look around the room and confirm that you were still, in fact, alone.

You meandered to the heavily draped window and peeked outside. You prepared yourself to be blinded by searing bright snow, but... Oh, dear god.

The sun was setting. You rubbed your eyes in harrowed disbelief. The sun was fucking setting.

How could it be? It was only just morning. You couldn't have possibly slept the entire day.

Your hands were trembling mess as you squatted down to analyze the shattered tea cup. You grabbed a piece of jagged porcelain and brought it to your nose, breathing deeply.

You caught an unmistakably bitter note buried underneath aromatic peppermint. A sedative herb most definitely was used to lace the tea. You felt ashamed; how could you be so naïve, falling for such a novice trick?

But, there was no time to dwell. You scoured the room for a weapon. The only object that stood out to you was a particularly pointy piece of metal off an ornate candelabra. You ripped out the half-melted candles and bent the metal into a makeshift weapon, poking it into your skin to test its sharpness.

This should work, and if it doesn't? Well, It will, you told yourself.

Jaunty candlestick weapon in hand, you headed for the door, which was, unsurprisingly, locked. You analyzed the clunky metalwork and quickly determined it was an old-fashioned skeleton lock. You pulled several pins from your hair, fashioned them into impromptu Allen wrenches, and began picking the lock.

After several attempts and numerous broken pins, you finally jimmied the door open.

You set out into the gothic night-veiled estate, creeping through the labyrinth of hallways. Your heeled shoes and sweeping gown made stealth damn near impossible, but you had no choice but to make it work.

You followed the networking corridors aimlessly, pressing your ear to closed doors in the hope of finding Leon.

You heard pattering footsteps coming towards you, and in a desperate attempt to hide, you angled yourself behind a column of an archway. But as the person passed, a white-gowned servant, she stopped dead in her tracks and turned on her heels to face you.

Glowing red eyes met yours, and a mindless, other-worldly voice flowed from her: "You made a very grave mistake, chérie." The servant lunged at you, unarmed, fangs bared.

The candlestick you weld plummeted to the ground, and you grabbed the servant by the wrists and held her firm, straining to keep her away as she thrashed with all her might.

You threw her down by twisting her arm to the ground and holding her in place by firmly pressing your heel into her sternum. She cried a blood-curdling howl in pain, thrashing under your foot.

"Where is he? Where is Leon?" You demanded, rage filling your wavering voice.

The servant snickered, flashing small, jagged fangs.

"Tell me!" You demanded for the last time.

She was hysterically laughing now-- It was useless to attempt to communicate with a mindless thrall.

You reached for the candlestick and quickly bent over the thrashing servant and slit her throat with the sharp metal edge.

Hot blood spilled down her virgin-white dress, but her glowing red eyes stayed fully conscious. "You're a fool," she mocked, her fingers laced around your wrist.

You sunk your heel back into her sternum, this time with much more force, causing her head to smack against the floor. She hissed in pain. Blood was still pouring from her neck as you forced her hand off of yours. You repositioned the candlestick in your hand, aiming it for her heart.

You held her still by wrapping your hand tightly around her neck and drove the weapon through her chest. Her head lulled to the side limply, and her glowing eyes dulled- she was dead, finally.

You took a moment to catch your breath, staring at the woman's lifeless body. You couldn't recall a single vampiric servant from the previous night, so why now?

As you began to regain your composure, you looked down at yourself, pretty dress all covered in blood. It was an honest reflection of how terrible the last twenty-four hours have gone.

Regardless, you grabbed your blood-drenched candlestick and began creeping through the hallways once more. No one else seemed to be coming for you now. You were utterly alone as you tip-toed through the darkened estate. Utterly alone-- besides the gut-wrenching feeling that you were being watched.

The oil-painted portraits that decorated the looming walls felt like they saw everything. They saw you massacre that servant, they saw you lie to their rulers, they saw you drunkenly court your colleague. Maybe it was your own internalization showing, but you couldn't shake the feeling.

But you felt relief when you spotted a warm candlelit gleam emanating from the crack of a closed door. It had been the first trace of light you'd seen in these gloomy halls.

As you approached the door, you heard overlapping voices talking and laughing. It sounded like a blend of English and French was being spoken, adding to the dissonance.

You ever so gently pressed your ear to the door, attempting to make out what was happening. You couldn't understand a lick of the French being spoken. But you overheard something in English: "When are you going to get the girl?" a mysterious voice asked.

Another more familiar voice replied. “Quand nous en aurons fini avec lui.”

The King.

They must have Leon here. Your stomach dropped.

What could they possibly be doing to him? And the girl, that has to be me, right?

You don't know how it happened or how your cover could have been blown. What if they killed Leon?

There's no way you'd be able to defeat them on your own. Your mind traces all the rational options to go about this, but you conclude there is none. There is only one way.

You draw a quivering breath and open the mysterious door.

To your surprise, you revealed a grand banquet hall swarmed with almost the same lineup from last night's soirée.

The creak of the door caused all of their necks to turn to you instantly. The first thing you noticed was a sea of glowing crimson eyes. All the Lords have been turned now.

The King's stark pale skin and deep blood-red eyes burrowed through your soul. The pointed corners of his mouth raised in an impish smile. At the King's side was Leon, his arms bound and his head hung limp.

He had been draped and displayed at the hands of the merciless creatures that stalked this land. A centerpiece to their dastardly festivities.

"The bunny makes its way to the wolf's den. It's almost commendable." The King squinted, his head reaching forward in his throne to get a better look at you. "It looks like you even found someone in my estate to prey on. How scary."

"How did you find out?" You kept your words steady and firm.

The King laughed, "Ah, this is a good story."

"Go on," you said, taking a step closer.

The King shifted in his chair and took a sip of what was presumably blood from a crystal glass. "I had one of my men doing perimeter control on the south end. He made it all the way to the road, where he saw a car a few meters away-- and chérie, cars do not drive on that road."

Your heart sunk.

"He found a car and stopped it. I could tell you who he found, but I think you might already know. But in case you need a refresher, it was a United States agent with a very detailed file about you and Mr. Kennedy in his car."

You tried to close the gap between you and the King, but two guards restrained you by your arms after throwing your makeshift weapon to the ground.

"You bastard! You bloody bastard! What did you do to him? And what have you done to Leon!?"

"You're going to love this ma chérie. Leon is on the path to grand ascension— he'll become one of us soon. As for the agent that brought you here, he was at lunch the following day. Not exactly my taste, as I prefer the sweet blood of a woman, but he sufficed."

The room erupted in laughter, and long fangs taunted you everywhere you looked. Even the men who held your arms laughed at you.

You tried to break free of their grip, but they outmatched you. The men lifted you by your arms and dropped you before the King's throne. They pushed you down by your shoulders so that your knees crashed to the ground.

You hoped Leon would look up or say something. But he just rested on his knees, head down, in unwavering silence.

Your voice cracked, "And what about me?"

The King clicked his tongue, scanning your blood-soaked figure with heavy lids and a cocky glint in his eye. "You're simply too... Beautiful to just let go."

You rolled your eyes, "Give me a break! You think I'll just go along with you, easy as that?"

His lips formed into a cruel smirk, "I do."

You noticed earlier that the men who restrain you have swords attached to their hips, which could quickly turn the tide of this unlucky evening. The answer is, how?

"Just you wait, little dear." The King arose from his seat and picked up Leon by the collar of his shirt.

The King was tall; he easily towered over everyone in the room. His raven black hair flowed long down his back, extenuating his gaunt appearance.

It appeared that Leon had also been drugged. His body was limp, and he barely resisted as the King pushed him up and threw him into the arms of guards.

The King cleared his throat, demanding the room's attention to himself. "Good evening, everyone. You all know Leon here; He was incredibly loyal and fearlessly dedicated to our cause. But it's recently come to light that he and his darling little girlfriend are federal agents for the United States military."

The crowd murmured their feelings in disgust. "I know, this is very disheartening. But, I have a fitting punishment for the traitors."

The King dragged on about how he planned on turning you both into vampiric slaves, doomed to a life of servitude. But you couldn't care less. He clearly underestimated you.

You notice Leon begin to come to consciousness. It started with his hands forming into fists and then him rolling his neck from side to side.

He lifted his head, sunken blue eyes meeting yours. You were kneeling on the ground, dress blood-soaked and arms forcefully restrained by guards, all before him, to save him.

Leon's eyes darted to the swords the men beside you adorned, and then they darted back to you. He raised an eyebrow as if asking if you saw what he saw.

Yes— you mouthed the words, and Leon nodded.

"Ahh, you're awake." The King forcefully grabbed Leon's neck, digging his talon-like nails into his skin. "Your time has come, Kennedy."

Leon remained silent in the wake of the King's cruelness.

The King yelled for more guards, and they arrived holding a small box upon a velvet pillow. The King opened the box, taking a sizeable, needled syringe between his fingers.

That's how they're doing it, and Umbrella parasite, of course, You thought to yourself.

The guards holding your arms tightened their grip as the King approached Leon, flicking the serum vial menacingly.

"Let the coronation commence!" The King exclaimed to exuberant cheers.

In a quiet voice, he said to Leon only, "I wasn't planning on the girl being here, but how sweet is it that your lover gets to witness your rebirth?"

Leon scoffed, staring at the King directly, sizing up his foe. "We'll see about that."

The King was unphased as he closed the gap, reaching the needle closer and closer to Leon's neck, and when he was in range, Leon charged his leg and landed a devastating kick to the King's chest.

He went flying back and fell to the ground with wind-knocking ferocity. The syringe skidded across the marble floor, far from the King's grasp.

Before anyone could react, Leon freed himself from the guard's grip, flipping one of them over his shoulder and slamming him to the ground. He kicked in the other guard's kneecap, sending him down instantly. Leon stole both swords from either injured guard and pointed them at the King.

Sweat dripped from Leon's brow, and his skin looked washed out and pale. But he stood tall in the wake of the tyrannical leader. The people around began to stir. Some remained frozen in shock, and some readied themselves for a fight.

This was about to get very ugly, and you needed to break free. With your knees pushed into the ground, it was difficult to maneuver against the guard's strength.

You hastily attempted to drive your elbow into the stomach of one of the guards. He deflected it. But you tried again, aiming for his knee. You landed it this time.

"You bitch," the guard grunted as he stumbled back. The other one grabbed you by your arms, lifting you to your feet and placing you into a headlock.

Leon reacted swiftly by throwing one of his swords in your direction. The guard flinched as the sword propelled through the air, seemingly aimed right at his head.

But, you caught the sword by its hilt and wasted no time driving the blade through the belly of the guard who restrained you. The other guard, who was still reeling from his punched-in knee, was next. It was light work for you as you twisted the blade through his chest.

Leon called for you, requesting your backup as he fought off the vampire spawns. They had Leon surrounded, protecting their King like devoted honey bees.

You axed through the crowd, driving your long sword through the hearts of fresh vamplings. Leon held his own impeccably well. He pushed away hungry fangs with ease, kicking and slicing the hoard.

You joined Leon and pressed your back against his as you fought against the opponents from behind.

Through ribbons of blood, chaos, and murder, you gritted through your teeth, "What's the plan?"

"Kill the King and run," Leon grunted.

"Where to?"

"The cabin."

"You got it; I'll follow your lead." You couldn't hide the smirk that formed across your lips. It felt good to finally be reunited and dishing out justice.

Leon chuckled exasperatedly, "Just stay alive, sweetheart, and we'll all be singing kumbaya later."

part three coming soon xx

!! tag list -> @g4ys0n @elijahsprincess

[norraexploradora]

The Tragedy of the CX Troopers and the Missed Opportunity to Teach Us All an Important Lesson

A deeper look into how the CX-Troopers were handled in the Bad Batch and the narrative surrounding them that unfortunately got dropped in season 3

I want to start off by applauding the Bad Batch for the brave attempt to tackle dark topics throughout the series and presenting them in a way that is appropriate for families to watch and discuss with their children. Most of series is successful in being just dark enough to raise tension but to also keep things suitable for a child’s first glimpse into the harsh realities of life. However there still a few places that missed the mark.

The one I wish to cover today is the inconsistent narrative surrounding the CX-Troopers. I’m not here to say it was bad writing per se, but if a dark topic is discussed in a family oriented tv series, it is best to commit adequate time to truly flesh it out so the messaging is clear. Subjective is great in a mature series like Andor, but kids lack the life experience required to read between the lines.

And yes, exposition does make dialogue sound clunky at times, but there is a reason why most cartoons in the 80s had the kind of ���The more you know” lesson after each episode. The Bad Batch was no different. Tech’s speech in the Crossing and his encouragement to Omega at the end of Retrieval are perfect examples of this.

In my opinion, there was an opportunity for an important lesson to be learned from the CX Troopers that was brought up but left unfinished. These shadow operatives could have been a way to show the viewer how anyone can be “brainwashed” either by force or by clever manipulation.

One operative in season 2 called himself a “Believer” which seems to evoke he was forcibly submerged into a cult-like indoctrination. It’s also why I prefer to use the phrase “coercive persuasion” or “forced persuasion” instead of brainwashing as they are a more accurate description of the process that has been historically implemented by governments, cults, and captors in order to make good people believe in or do horrible things.

Dr. Hemlock’s use of forced persuasion on select clones to turn them into CX-Troopers is a interesting look into the real world and well-documented cases of brainwashing within fascist regimes; especially in wartime settings. It is common and disturbing tactic implemented in moments of great despair and something that deserves more focus within the narrative if it is to be brought up as a major plot point.

Most of the brainwashing aspects in the Bad Batch were rapidly glossed over probably due to time and budget constraints, and not so much by the dark and disturbing imagery. One can easily get the “idea across” without showing it explicitly. (Like Crosshair having his hand chopped off. We didn’t see it but yeah, we get the gist).

I will say however, that despite the mystery surrounding brainwashing in the CX-Program, one of the more poignant moments was Captain Rex telling a caught CX Trooper that he was still their brother and that they would help him. It was a beautiful show of compassion and introduced new plot element; that the soldiers who undergo forced persuasion could possibly be reached or even saved.

It’s not a stretch to believe that the Bad Batch would take this route given the series had built up “we don’t leave our own behind” as one of the main themes. It would also be safe to say that saving fictional heroes from brainwashing gives us hope that real life survivors can recover from such trauma.

It was one of the many reasons fans were led to believe that the mysterious CX-2 operative could have been Tech or Cody. The focus on this particular shadow operative gave rise to speculation that he was different, that there was something coming to shed light or hope that a lost soldier could be found and rescued; something that would make sense of it were a character we already cared greatly about.

Alas, CX-2 was kept a mystery box that gave no insight to the tragic nature of his existence nor gave us a reason to mourn his death. That is why the battle between the Bad Batch and Hemlock’s Batch of secret operatives felt rushed and incomplete to some viewers. There wasn’t proper time for the story to breathe beyond “One Batch is good, the other Batch is bad.”

There were simply too many dropped narratives throughout the final season that reduced the whole CX Trooper plot to a video game-esque final boss battle. Don’t get me wrong, it was an amazing fight, beautifully animated, terrifying, and intense; but nevertheless, it felt hollow because the build-up went nowhere.

At that’s exactly where the narrative around the tragic nature of brainwashing got lost.

It’s important for you to know that I’m not saying the Bad Batch killing these operatives in the final fight was wrong. I’m also not saying that they should have tried to reach out to save these Shadow Operatives in the middle of of a life and death situation. It’s just unfortunate that we were never given a reason to feel anything other than relief that the CX-Troopers were killed.

And yes, this is a show about the Bad Batch and not brainwashed mystery troopers, but I stress, the writing set up these characters and introduced a very dark and disturbing concept to young viewers. With more time and effort spent on the narrative, it could have been an important lesson that applies to real life.

Coercive Persuasion is not a fantasy concept. It is very very real. Sleep deprivation, isolation, abuse, constant interrogation, drugging, shame, and humiliation, are all various means to break down a person’s will and forcibly persuade them into believing anything.

One can simply look to how many people get forced into false confessions by unethical police practices, or those who end up committing atrocities due to cult leader manipulation. A more common and less obvious example is social media outlets designed to spin conspiracy theories; coercing people into believing anything they want, like like the Earth is flat and microchips were put in Covid vaccines. By preying upon people’s anger and fear, these sites cultivate distrust and can lead one to extremist thinking.

This is real world, dark and scary stuff that needs to be handled with serious care and consideration of bringing it into an animated Star Wars series.

So given more time and budget, how could this lesson be shown through the story of the Bad Batch? How could these brainwashed operatives been presented in a way to that is scary but still gives younger audiences a way to sympathize with them?

Shedding more light on a terrifying process would remind us the CX-Troopers are victims and despite their terrifying nature, they still deserve our compassion and empathy. So giving the operatives more of a backstory is a good start.

For Example:

Showing the transformation of at least one of these operatives before the final battle would provide more emotional impact after their demise. Having kids clearly, and not subjectively, understand that under those cool costumes there used to be good men is such an important lesson. It reinforces the narrative that the real villains aren’t these soldiers but the regime that warped their minds and forced them into mindless monsters.

To be clear, this a a family series and I am in no way implying that a clear visual of lengthy torture would be acceptable. There are already hints through Crosshair’s PTSD and that is enough to get the idea across.

My suggestion would have been to place the sniper clone who eventually became CX-2 in the cell next to Crosshair while on Tantis. The viewer gradually sees these two men go back and forth to their cells after these conditioning sessions and the witness bond that forms between them. Crosshair is forced to see CX-2’s identity slip more and more away after each session until he is no longer the person he once was. The sadness and loss of seeing this man lose his identity not only leaves a mark on Crosshair, but by the viewer as well.

The scene of the shadow operative watching Crosshair on Tantiss and the one shadow operative calling him “brother” would have made more sense in retrospect. In addition, having an emotional and clear connection between Crosshair and the man who became CX-2, would have given their epic fight on top of the waterfall more emotional weight. CX-2’s line “You could have been one of us. You made the wrong choice” would be more resonant to the viewer. CX-2 would literally be a sniper shadow operative that Crosshair could have become verses a subjective mystery box.

To further this narrative and Crosshair’s character arc, making the above change to the story could have also opened the door to Crosshair eventually saving this lost brother. Omega’s determination to never give up on Crosshair could have resulted in Crosshair reaching out to CX-2 and eventually getting through to him before the final battle. It would have been so emotional and fulfilling.

And yet…as lovely as that would have been, I realize the above scenario would require at least one additional episode; which the animation team probably didn’t have the luxury or the budget to do. So I’ll offer another solution:

Adding a few minutes here and there during season 2 and the beginning of season 3 dedicated to Hemlock’s treatment to the CX-Troopers and other Clone prisoners would give the viewer a clearer picture into the nature of the CX Program. The result would be that the feeling of triumph wouldn’t be seeing the shadow operatives lying dead on the floor but knowing that the experimentation on the clones at Tantiss by Dr. Hemlock was finally over.

So in conclusion:

It’s a shame that the shadow operatives were left a mystery and simply became foils and metaphors. The fight at the end was nothing more than the Batch having to kill or be killed and it failed to showcase a serious topic with less black and white thinking.

With more time, the writers could have explored the tragedy of forced coercion. Discussing a difficult subject in a manner fit for young audiences could leave them with awareness when they are faced with a similar real world scenario.

The CX-Trooper plot could have also been a good way for a parent to discuss what coercive persuasion does to people; especially in today’s world where social media is rife with bad people luring in youth and manipulating their anger and fear into extremist thinking.

Think about it.

How does someone get so isolated that they fall prey to extremism and they end up committing acts of terrorism? How does one get indoctrinated into a cult and become so brainwashed that they take their own lives or the lives of others at the behest of a cult leader? How would an innocent person sign a confession of a crime they didn’t commit?

These are all good questions that people often ask after horrendous real life events and can regularly be seen on the daily news and social media. Having a fictional metaphor for scary real world issues that children could easily understand would be exactly the kind of thing Star Wars was created for. It was also created to give children and all of us hope.

So in the end, the lesson should have been that people who fall victim to brainwashing aren’t weak or gullible. They have been put through extreme duress and put through unethical means of isolation and manipulation.

And if there is hope for even one of the CX-Troopers to be saved, we as a society should have empathy and try to reach out to those in our own lives who have been a victim of coercive persuasion before writing them off.

Disclaimer:

One thing I’ve learned in life is that platforms like Twitter are not places for deep discussions and good faith arguments. You have a set number of letters to get your ideas across and interpreting the meaning or tone always leads to misunderstandings.

That is why I’m coming to to Tumblr to discuss my deep dives into season 3 of the Bad Batch. I am the type of person who doesn’t like angry, confrontational sparring over ideas.

My goal is to shed light on a different perspective; not to make anyone agree with me, but just to understand that we can all watch the same show and interpret things differently due to our own life experiences. By explaining my viewpoints, I’m showing you into my thought process. You are certainly free to disagree but I’m not trying to change your feelings on the matter, nor do I wish for anyone to forcibly change mine.

We can all exist in the same space and I encourage anyone who has a different view to write an analysis of their own instead of arguing in anyone’s comment section. Be kind and respectful and most of all, remember this is fiction and subjective interpretation. There are so many things to be really angry about in the world and Star Wars is the least of our worries.

Cheers and as always, May the Force be with you!

[answer2jeff]

fixer-upper. // lip gallagher

lip x biker-girl!OC

warnings : public sex, oral (m!receiving), praise kink, light to rough hair-pulling, unestablished relationship, intense and obvious flirting, porn with plot and detail, mentions of smoking (tobacco), cursing, OC is just as full of herself as Lip, knows she's a bitch, kinda has a weird sense of possessiveness over him?? clunky and overly detailed writing with a journaling/diary style.

authors note : trying something a little different! using the first person POV with an original character. first time writing this way—still getting the hang of it <3 this is REALLY long...sorry.

song : beauty school.

disclaimer : you can picture the OC however you like! her name is really just used for aesthetic purposes. there isn't much description on her appearance other than the fact that her hair is long enough to put it in a ponytail. enjoy!

Great. Fucking great.

One of my tires is punctured. The visor in my helmet is cracked. My elbows are etched with surface level scratches and dried blood. And the engine cover of my bike has finally snapped off. I had it coming. It was an old piece of rusty junk from my cousins garage sale from 2012, anyway. But it had charm. I knew I was gonna miss that bike for the good couple of hours, possibly days, I would reluctantly end up leaving it in a repair shop down the street from my apartment.

I can hear the squelch of skin, the seal between my hot breath and sweaty skin breaking as lift my helmet from my head. I hope to feel a rush of cool air, but the humidity tells me to go fuck myself. I'm pulled over onto the curb. I can't totally remember how I got there; being in the middle of the street on a scorching summer day wearing denim shorts that chafe up my inner thighs and rub my skin until it is raw and red and unbearably itchy, was not my vision for today. My handlebars are loose. That would explain it.

If I just take it to Born Free Cycles, leave it overnight, and come back in the morning, I can act like this whole thing never happened, and I'm not horribly irresponsible.

40th West View Ave.

Oh. I'm close actually. Barely a block away. I should go there now. I can call Mikey and have him drop me and the bike off at the garage. I'll see that kid with the grown out buzz-cut and black motor grease on his knuckles that somehow always transfers and blots on his face. Specifically on his strong jaw and right before the peak of his hairline. I wonder if he notices. Maybe he doesn't clean it off because it gives him edge that he doesn't need. Like the nickname on his name tag on a black uniform hadn't given his thirst for trouble away already. And the circles under his eyes are almost the same shade of smudged charcoal grey.

I wonder if he notices.

—

"So the engine cover popped? Just—" he shrugs, looking up at me as if I can't understand him "clean off?"

The sunlight bleeds in through the open garage door. It shines behind Lip, casting a shadow that makes his face hard to see perfectly. But I know the look he's conveying. His eyebrows are raised but drawn slightly closer together, his teeth are gnawing at the inside of his cheek so he can stifle a smile and the laugh that will follow soon after, and his blinks remain slow. I try not to smile too. But I fail.

I've only been here about 3 times, really. The first time was to get handlebar grips from Eddie. That was when I saw Lip. I chose not to make any kind of move, but it ate at my insides until the second time. That time was with Mikey. I was preoccupied with the blue-eyed kid, propped up on a workbench and throwing mindless flirty implications at him while he took long drags from a cigarette, to remember why Mikey was even doing there and why he dragged me along with him. His laugh, the playful eye-roll after I complimented his sweat-laden blonde curls weighed down by heat humidity, told me he was on board.

But I wasn't done.

I knew this time I'd pounce for what was mine.

"Yeah," I breathe out, crossing my arms and peering down at him, "And I mighta' been redlining the RPM a little too much. Probably fried the fucking thing."

Lip nods, the corner of his mouth curling up just a bit. He beckons his hand toward himself, telling me to kneel down beside him to inspect the bike. "This things kinda old, huh?" He teases, turning his head to me and finally letting a real smile break. It warms something in me. I shrug. He glances at my white tank-top, covered in black stains of dirt and oil.

"It's not great, no. It's a piece of shit. But it's cute!" I play along with him, taking the hairband on my wrist and twisting my hair into a high ponytail. Lip huffs though his nose, shaking his head and laughing again.

The next couple of minutes are filled with him telling me things I already know. Things I was too exhausted to manage on my own, defeating the whole purpose of why I was here. Fuck the bike. I know what's wrong with the bike. I know it's an old piece of junk and it's barely salvageable. You should know why I'm here. And maybe you do. But you should do something about it.

Lip has this way of speaking to me that feels ridiculously sweet and overly 'cool.' I know it's just his cadence and his cockiness, but I like it. I like that he thinks it makes me swoon. Partially because he's right, but mostly because I've mastered hiding it. He doesn't see my heart pound or the rising heat in my abdomen when he cracks his knuckles or puts a hand on my shoulder and let's it travel down to the small of my back when I crouch down beside him to look at another motorcycle he's trying to save. I'm almost certain he convinces himself that my gestures are nothing more than a meaningless flirt. I simply find him attractive, as does everyone. Nothing more.

But he's got it all wrong.

He knows my intentions somewhat well enough to the point where he can't not flirt back, though. He knows I haven't stopped him from letting his eyes travel from mine to my lips whenever I speak. He likes that I let him light my cigarettes for me. But he doesn't know this isn't just for fun. I'm so hyper-aware that it isn't out of the kindness of his heart. And neither are his compliments and lame jokes he makes to impress me. He treats my attraction to him as fact, but my genuine interest as a possibility.

Again, he's wrong.

I can't wrap my head around how he could reciprocate my efforts without ever pushing the envelope and asking to exchange numbers, or if I had a boyfriend, or maybe he had one of his own. No, no. He'd tell me if he had a girlfriend. He is, above all else, loyal.

Lip's what I want. I meant when I said his hair looked nice. I meant when I gave him a 20-dollar gratuity and a peck on his cheek just for giving me a repair cost estimate on my shattered headlight. I smile any time he says my name: Maeve.

Hey Maeve, back so soon, huh?

Hand me that box, Maeve.

Y'alright, Maeve?

Yo, Maeve, wanna bum one?

Maeve, Maeve, Maeve.

—

"Think you'll be back tomorrow to pick it up? No rush, though. I can keep it 'till you're ready," Lip asks me, leaning against the wooden workbench littered with microfiber towels and tools. His swell arms are crossed to his chest. I nod, coating my fingertips with a thin film of spin while I fish out some cash from my beat up faux leather wallet.

"A-huh. Thanks," I hand him 6 twenties before glancing at the opening of his button-down uniform.

The corner of my mouth lifts itself into a knowing smirk, my hand on my hip as I shift my weight to it, making my chest stick out and my spine bend correspondingly. My lips hang open a measly centimeter apart before I draw the bottom one between my teeth. I watch him sort through the cash, biting down harder on the flesh of my lip when he freezes.

"Looks like you're a good 15 short," he barely mumbles, looking up at me through his eyelashes. His brows narrow down to me again. I click my tongue coyly. I step closer to him, my hand, with fingernails painted black, pushing the cash in his palms down and his arms down with it.

"About that..." I pause, tilting my head with a look of naivety and not bothering to push away the strand of hair that has fallen from my ponytail and over my eye. Instead, I wait and let Lip set the pile of cash down and draw the curtain of my hair open to reveal my face. My stomach twists on itself, and I can practically feel his chest rising and falling with every anxious breath in my own lungs.

I beg to whatever higher power lies above us in this garage that a kiss will work. Not that it usually doesn't, but my form isn't as confident as it typically would be. The guys I wrap around my finger aren't as driven as Lip is. And God, none of them are part of my tantalizing daydreams nearly as often as he is. I picture his rough hands exploring me, squeezing and rubbing over the valleys of my skin. I imagine his breath is hot with the taste of mint and cigarettes. Every part of me wants to know if my predictions are accurate. If he's the type to sink his teeth into my neck and shoulder blades just to apologize to the reddening skin with open-mouthed kisses. The anticipation kills me. It's enough to swallow me whole.

"...Maybe I can pay you back a different way?"

I barely whisper and Lip scoffs, glancing away from my gaze, scanning the area just for it to be completely empty. He comes back to me. His eyes go a little wider than before. Almost to say, 'oh shit, you're serious?' I stick my tongue between my teeth and tug on his uniform, feeling the fabric rub between my sweaty fingertips. My eyes watch Lip's adam's apple bob as he swallows a breath.

"Yeah?" He thumbs my bottom lip and pulls it down, his free hand traveling down to my hip and pulling me closer to him, "what were y'thinking, Maeve?"

"Mmmm," I hum while pressing my hand against his chest while the other cups his cheek, and I let the pad of my thumb graze over the grove of his defined cheekbones. "Dunno yet."

My teasing is much to Lip's dismay, but he handles it quite well. It's sobering to see a guy as seemingly self-involved and easily impressed play into my mind games. It only pushes me further, and he knows it. I crash my lips into his, my hands anchoring themselves on his shoulders for support. He sighs into me, a hand reaching down to hook a finger through the belt loop of my shorts and drag me closer to him. His hand cups my cheek and pulls me into his mouth to let his tongue slip past my own. And he tastes just as I expected. Minty, smoky, and mine. I practically grind my self onto him in complete desperation, feeling him harden under me. Every roll of his hips threatens to send me over the edge. And fuck, his muffled groans of pleasure against my mouth that ring in my ears are hypnotic. But even with his sturdy, growing buldge forcing the fabric of my shorts to press roughly on my clit, I need this to last.

Blissfully and ever so slowly.

I finally pull away to catch my breath, the buck of our waists slowing down. My head feels fuzzy and heat rises in my cheeks when I open my eyes to see how flushed Lip's face is. Even the tips of his ears have turned a little red. I smile, giggling like a teenager who just kissed her crush in a closet at a house party as a dare. He laughs back in a way that asks 'what are we even doing?'

"Thought you had a boyfriend."

I pause, my eyebrows knitted. I try to think of who he could possibly be referring to.

Ah.

"Who? Mikey?" I try not to laugh, looking around to the imaginary audience to check if they're really hearing this nonsense too, "ew, no. He's like my brother."

Lip lets out a breath of relief he almost didn't realize he'd been holding. It surprises me. Probably a lot more than it should. But hey, for the other 3 times I've been here, I kept asking myself why his flirting was just as intense as mine, but he never asked for my number or made a true move on me. To think that my friend had been unintentionally cockblocking me with his ridiculous height and horrid American traditional tattoos all over his arms, and it wasn't because the guy had a girlfriend...it's almost funny.

"Oh," he replies, his eyebrows raising. Now both of his hands rest at my hips.

"What? Is that why you left me hangin' when I did this?" I press a kiss against his cheek, my palm rubbing over his shoulder to pull a chuckle out of him.

"I guess so, yeah. Just didn't want him to kill me for getting to close t'you," he kisses my cheek, smiling again.

"Geez. Mikey wouldn't hurt a fucking fly. He just...looks scary. Plus, nobody tells me what to do."

"Noted. Glad to hear that, actually."

"Mikey is—" I pause, biting the inside of my cheek "a sweet guy."

"Uh-huh."

"Too sweet. And I hate the aftershave he uses. He's—he's entirely too much."

"Mm."

"Whatever. Shut up."

"Didn't say anything," he shrugs, trying and failing to act clueless.

Fuck. He's fucking glad. He's glad I don't have a stupid-waste-of-my-time-cockblocking-boyfriend on my hip who's constantly watching my every move and stopping me from giving all of myself to Lip. Hell, I'm glad too. Very glad. With one swift movement, I take matters into my own hands again. I undo every last plastic button on his uniform, snaking down his chest and abdomen. I latch onto his neck, biting the skin and sucking a bruising hickey. He shivers beneath me and wraps his hand around my ponytail, huffing breathless chuckles and slowly getting more and more frustrated with my agonizingly slow, torturing pace for foreplay.

I bend my knees to begin my descend to the ground, kissing down his torso. My hands travel down his sides. Lip gently lets go of my hair to lean back into the workbench, never letting his head reel back so he can carefully watch me tenderly adhere to his needs while anchoring his hands behind him for support. I giggle to myself, relishing in the affect I have on him.

Shit. This is risky. Screw it. Pretty girl without a boyfriend who tips in 20 dollar bills and blowjobs? How could I say no? No part of me wants to back out, Lip's mind races, his grip tightening on the wooden slab as he clenches his jaw.

I wonder if he's nervous. Or maybe he's done this time and time again: fucking a girl right in this garage. Possibly bent over this very work bench. Those girls must've been so easy. I can bet on my life that they were never as fun, never as wet, never as needy as me. This would be different. I wouldn't give him everything he wanted and more that quickly. A girl deserves to have her fun. She deserves to watch the overly confident guy she's fancied for weeks, who continues to play hard to get, squirm and writhe with every slight of hand she gives him.

And that's exactly what I'm doing.

"Y'having fun down there?" Lip chastises me, chuckling lightly to himself as he tilts his head down to get a better look at my face.

My kisses stop right above the waistband of his jogger pants. I look up at him pleadingly through my lashes, my eyes big with lust and cunning seduction. I pull the middle of the waistband down just so I can drag my tongue across the exposed skin just centimeters away from his cock. The curls of his happy trail tickle my chin, but the full body shiver and the shaky exhale of "fuck," as he tries to keep his composure, makes it so worth it. He finally shuts his eyes, head reeling back. I lick my lips and smile, cupping his groin before he can even think about looking back down and feeling the blood rush to his cock again. His twitching dick underneath my palm sends me sitting on my heel, ready to slowly rock my hips down into it to fill my desperate need for friction. My cotton panties are definitely soaked.

I can't waste any more time.

I remove my hand from his crotch and quickly pull his pants and his boxers down with them. They pool at his ankles, and his cock strains hard and leaking sticky, crystal clear pre-cum from the thick and aching tip. My mouth nearly drops. I admire every vein, letting my hand wrap around the base of his cock once I've spit into it as makeshift lubricant. I'm so lost that I don't even register Lip peering down at me, swallowing impatiently.

"My, you're so worked up, Lip. And I haven't even started." I don't bother to look up at him as I rub my hand up and down his shaft, worried his pretty face will distract me. But I can picture him perfectly.

"Fuck you," he huffs through a struggled laugh, covering his mouth as he groans in pleasure at the feeling of my hand squeezing his cock every once and a while as I slowly pump him up and down.

"Later," I retort. I bite down on my bottom lip, looking up at him again for permission. He nods, almost as if he's able to read my mind. My eyes shut and my stomach flutters. Soft lips cover the head, swirling my tongue over the slit. His tip leaves my mouth with a loud pop, and I lick a bold stripe along the thickets vein I can find.

"Jesus, fuck, Maeve!" He writhes, his breath hitched in his throat by me hollowing out my cheeks and taking nearly 3/4 of his total length into my mouth. Moans of pure bliss at the feeling of his cock enveloped by the wet warmth of my mouth echo through the garage. I fear he's too loud, but I decide not to care. Not now.

My hand pumps the rest of his cock that I don't fit into my mouth at the moment, while my free hand reaches for his. My eyes remain closed and my sucking maintains a steady pace as I bob my head up and down his cock. I grab his hand and set it on the top of my head, but he hesitates.

"W—you sure, Maeve? I don't wanna hurt you," he swallows, accidentally bucking his hips into my mouth and running his unoccupied hand through his sweaty curls. I detach myself from him, wiping the mixture of pre and spit from the corner of my mouth and finally looking up at him.

"You won't," I take a deep breath, "I won't let you. I'll tell you if 's too much, kay?"

"Okay. Maybe just—" he clears his throat "tap my leg 3 times? And I'll...uh—I'll let go? Yeah?" He looks beautiful. Flushed, bare, and oh so needy for my touch. I wish I could keep him like this forever. He's so compliant, so understanding. But part of me knows that once I let him do this, it'll show me the side of him I've really been praying to see.

I nod, smiling contently and feeling myself blush when he twirls his fingers around my ponytail again. He bends over just the smallest bit to cup my chin and smile back. The pad of his thumb grazes over my skin before he lets go. I take it as my sign to go back, pressing my hands against either of his thighs and feeling clit jump with excitement when Lip tugs at my hair the moment I take his cock into my mouth again. I bob my head up and down, my eyes rolling back when his tip hits the back of my throat. Tears prick at my waterline as I struggle not to cough.

I grow even more desperate. My hand dives into my shorts and I slide two of my fingers inside of me, unfortunately never living up to the potential size and feeling of Lip's. The continuous ram into my gummy and tender spot causes me to fall apart, whining with his dick occupying the space in my mouth.

"Oh my God," Lip nearly whines, his grip tightening as he guides my head up and down his dick, but it's so gentle it never startles me, "so fuckin' good, baby. Jesus, fu—ah..keep doin' that. Yes, fuck.."

My tongue swishes over and under his cock in mind-numbing patterns, and I can't help but let little muffled moans escape my throat and vibrate against him. He almost can't contain himself: bucking his hips and practically fucking my throat. I do my best to cancel out the occasional gag so quickly he won't feel guilty and possibly stop.

Use me, I think.

Usually, I'd take the lead, never letting a head pusher take the role. But not this time. Lip's so pent up, so stressed with the complexities of his life. This is a kind gesture. One that involves tears of struggle spilling out of my eyes and streaming down ky cheeks. But fuck, I love it. It's filthy. It's nasty the way I nearly suck him dry. I can't remember the last time a blowjob was this fun.

"Such a good girl. Y'know that?" He looks down at me, biting his lip as his eyebrows knit in pleasure and desperate need to cum down my pretty little throat, "how'd you get so fuckin...so fuckin' good at this, baby? Shit—feels so good."

He babbles over and over again, and I'm taking strategic breaths through my nose and speeding the pace of my fingers as they thrust in and out of me so I don't stop him from releasing the way he absolutely deserves. Finally, he pulls my ponytail tighter than he ever has, warning me that he's about to cum, but by the time he tells me, it sends down my throat. He groans out, releasing my hair and going limp. I swallow the salty substance, blinking out the last few tears in my eyes and sliding my fingers out of me.

—

Lip: 1 message.

Hey. 11:47pm

Hey. Miss me already? 11:52pm

Something like that, yeah. 11:56pm

What's up 11:58pm

I get off early tomorrow. Just wondering if you wanted to come by the shop and hang out for a bit? 11:59pm

Sure. See you then. xoxo 12:03am.

—

current taglist : @lemmejustpulloutmylightsaber @sexyyounglatinoboy @febris-amatoria

[writingwithfolklore]

5 Writing Rules I Like to Break

                Listen, I am firmly of the belief that writing doesn’t have rules. There’s no one way to do it—no one schedule or technique or tip that’s going to work for everyone and produce perfect narratives. Which is a good thing! I think if we all had to write exactly the same way, our stories would end up looking very similar.

                So while in general I tend to say throw out any and all rules (and yes, even including the advice I give on this blog if you so desire), here’s 5 common writing rules I specifically and intentionally break, and why:

1. Write what you know

I already talked all about how I tend to ignore this advice here if you’re interested. The TLDR version of it is that you can absolutely write things beyond your scope of knowledge (in fact, I’d guess that’s where the majority of fiction comes from) as long as you write it genuinely—this rule should be instead ‘write what you feel’.

2. Don’t edit as you write

Booo!! Okay maybe it works for some of you—if so, by all means continue (this applies to all the rules I’m about to mention, so just keep that in mind). Editing as I go is how I get back into the swing of things in a new writing session, and also allows me to try a scene a few different times to get the most I can out of it. I tend to believe that words are words even if they’re edited, rewritten, or even deleted.

If your goal is to finish your project as fast as possible, I imagine going back to edit before you’re finished your draft might slow you down. However, I also imagine editing as you go might save you an entire draft. Whatever works for you here is what you should do, but I personally love to edit as I write.

3. Avoid ‘said’

At least I think a lot of you guys are with me when I say that ‘said’ is sometimes just the best word to use. Using lots of descriptive words like, ‘yelled’, ‘begged’, ‘exclaimed’ can be distracting. When the dialogue speaks for itself, the ‘said’ disappears into the background of the scene, while necessary for grammar, it’s a formality for the actual storytelling. As well, I like to experiment with said by adding a descriptor afterwards. ‘Said quietly’ ‘said through a laugh’ ‘said without taking a breath’ etc.

4. Avoid adverbs

Here’s what I’ll say about word usage in general, as long as you pick your words with thought and care, you may use whatever words you want. Words have different specific connotations, and not always will avoiding the adverb have the same impact. For example, changing “he laughed lightly” to “he giggled.” We may have removed the adverb ‘lightly’, but ‘giggled’ holds a completely different connotation. It evokes a sort of immaturity, not unlike the ‘schoolgirl’ stereotype. If we don’t want that connotation, in this case, laughed lightly may be better.

                So don’t count out adverbs for the sake of it. As long as you’re choosing your words with intention and you understand the meaning behind them, you can experiment with a world of adverbs!

5. Never use passive voice

This one I didn’t realize was important to break until quite recently. We tend to be taught that passive voice automatically equals bad and I’m here to tell you that isn’t true. Passive voice should equal focus on action. Active voice equals focus on character. There may be certain sentences in which focusing on either the character or the action is more beneficial.

For example, “the alarm was pulled by Alice” (passive) kind of sounds clunky and wrong, whereas “Alice pulled the alarm” (active) is much more effective.

BUT “Alice was dragged out of the way” (passive) focuses on the action of Alice being dragged, rather than “Something dragged Alice out of the way” (active) focuses on the something that is doing the dragging, which in a moment of action, may take away from the pacing.

As long as you choose your voice with intention, both passive and active voice can be used to create strong, effective sentences.

                What are some typical writing rules you tend to ignore?

[ani-iu]

[𝟑] 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐃 | 𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦 × 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: annoyances to lovers; forced proximity; mutual pining; developing relationship; religious imagery & symbolism; explicit language; misogyny; Adam being Adam; he falls first and harder; sexual tension; eventual smut; religious guilt; explicit sexual content; clingy Adam; happy ending; light angst; character study; not canon compliant. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: a gory description of a character's death, stalking, suicidal thoughts.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6,4k.

// what do you think it takes to get into heaven, little ballerina?

𝐘ou were always told that, after God, you should fear men.

The saying never sat right with you. Why did you have to feel that way about either of them? Wasn’t God supposed to be loving and kind? What is there to fear? And then there was the man. If God didn’t frighten you, why would you feel any different about someone created in His image?

In hindsight, you should have simply listened to what you were told instead of burdening yourself with insignificant whys and hows. Sometimes there is no deeper meaning to the words, only a bitter reality — that man is the most terrifying being out there, and God allows him to be that way.

And as much as you desperately want to forget and move on, that reality keeps coming back to haunt you.

Once your ears pick up the faint yet still persistent erratic beat of drums on the other side of the wall, not even the simple pianissimo notes filling the air with the help of a clunky CD player can drown the noise out. And although it doesn’t seem like the other dancers mind the disturbance too much, to you, it causes more than a few misplaced steps in a carefully crafted routine. 

The percussive sound slowly merges with your heartbeat, simultaneously pounding inside of your ribcage until even the clamorous voices of girls inside the studio become overshadowed by the dulled thudding.

Your body becomes frightened to the point you are unable to move. Just like all those times when you would sit with your back against the front door, motionless, and only the sheer forcefulness of the frantic banging — which always started with a deceptively light knocking — would manage to make your body noticeably recoil.

You never tried hiding somewhere in your home because, as hard to comprehend as it may be, the safest you ever felt was when crouching down behind that door. Knowing where he was and what he was doing made you feel like you were in control of the situation, even if you weren't.

Either way, there was no point in trying to hide from him — he knew you were on the other side. You could feel the perverse and sick pleasure seeping through the cracks with every loud thud that human flesh made as it collided with the door's wood, drawing frightened gasps from you.

You kept thinking about all the acquaintances and faceless passersby you might have offended, leading one of them to take such action against you. You never learnt what you did, because one day it all simply stopped.

But even after one year of complete silence, you still can’t find peace. To everyone around you, your stalker simply disappeared, and you need to move on, but you know it’s not that simple. You are just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was quiet before the storm.

At present, by the time you stumble into the claustrophobic locker room at the back of the studio, you are hyperventilating. Your uncoordinated walk, unbefitting of a coryphée, causes you to miss the entrance, bump into the left side of the doorway, and then bounce to the opposite side, hitting a small table. The sequence of events leads to an empty glass falling and breaking into shards before your feet.

Just like that, the sharp sound snaps you out of your panic attack, and it’s quiet again — only a faint classical piece, barely audible, provides some sort of background noise to the dimly lit room and your overworked brain.

Like a child enthralled by the first snow, you maintain eye contact with the sharp shards of glass. Indeed, in various sizes and shapes, the shards shimmer on the ground beneath the fluorescents, resembling snowflakes.

Mesmerised, you bend to pick one of the pieces — the biggest one, so perfectly curved and seemingly broken off at a perfect angle, giving the edge a slanted look. It would be easy, so easy to just— fuck!

You loudly gasp and put your finger into your mouth. The blood from the freshly acquired cut coats your taste buds with a sickly sweet metallic flavour, and your stomach churns with disgust for yourself — repulsed by your own inner thoughts.

Stepping back, you bump into the edge of the table again, but this time grab it to stabilise yourself. You couldn't believe that you even possessed such thoughts somewhere within your mind. Sure, you could blame it on the moment of weakness, but it was also no excuse to contemplate hurting yourself!

You needed some fresh air.

Still slightly dazed, you scan your surroundings for the exit door, only now spotting another person in the room with you. The girl’s grey leotard and matching threadbare leg warmers tell you her name even before she can take her head out of her locker. It's surprising that she remained unfazed by all of the commotion that you have caused.

"Rina?" You try, but it doesn’t get her attention. "Hey, Rina! I’m going for a breather!" 

This time, she at the very least reacts, simply giving a thumbs up and going back to whatever she is doing without sparing a single word. She doesn’t even pull her head out of the locker.

That is enough for you as your hands push the heavy back door of the dancing studio, revealing a seedy alleyway — far from the glitz and glam of the imposterous fairytale fantasy that is ballet. But the state of your surroundings matters very little when you lurch over the railing and dry heave. One deep breath after the other, and you almost calm yourself until a voice shakes you to the core.

"Wow, hey, black swan. You okay there?"

An involuntary shiver runs down your spine as you turn your head to the side to look at a raggedy-looking guy crouched down on the bottom steps that lead to the bar next door.

At first, you ignore him. You distract yourself by slicking a few errant strands of hair back into your bun, but when you notice that he is still waiting for an answer, you feel guilty for unwarrantedly giving the stranger a cold shoulder. You know you don't owe him a conversation, but...

"Got a cigarette?" You brush the sleeve of your leotard against your lips and straighten yourself up.

The guy smiles at you and places his half-smoked cigarette between his lips while pulling a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his jacket. Definitely a musician, you silently speculate. Not to mention the pair of drumsticks peeking from the back pocket of his ripped jeans.

He taps the pack and presents you with a stick, which you take. You place it between your lips, and when your eyes flutter towards the stranger, he already has a lighter waiting for you. So, you lean over the railing, jutting your head so he could light it for you. 

You inhale the smoke, and the simple word of gratitude comes out of your mouth like a puff of smoke that follows it, "Thanks. You work here?"

"Heh, yeah. I play the drums for extra cash." He points his thumb behind him at the back door of the bar.

Called it, they all smoke the same brand.

"Thought you looked familiar."

He chuckles at that, and silence falls between you two. There is no need to break it; however, you can't shake the feeling that his silent stare gives you until he clears his throat and tries to restart the conversation again. 

"So, you’re here for the long run, huh?"

"Sorry?"

"Many ballet dancers have brief careers, or at least that’s what I heard! But your clothes look new. My sister wanted to be a ballerina—"

"What little girl doesn’t?" You cut him off, not liking the way the stranger analyses you, but at the same time, you can't help but berate yourself for assuming the worst from him.

"My point is," the brunet says, flicking the cigarette he’s smoking downward a few times to get rid of the excess ash. "That shit is expensive. You come from money, then?"

"Why? You want me to sponsor your shitty band?"

"Ouch," he chuckles, and stubs out his cigarette, having the gall to try and act coy. "It’s not shitty. And don’t you like that sort of music?"

At that moment, his voice grows lower, bordering on sultry at the end, if not for the insinuation his words carry. They stab you deep into your gut like a knife, and his cockiness seems to be twisting the blade to inflict more damage.

Most people, upon first meeting you, guess that because of your profession, your taste in music is just as classy. And even if, at one point in your life, you would have dismissed the man's words as light-hearted, perhaps even slightly flirty teasing, having a stalker changes a person's perspective on many seemingly insignificant things.

The man wasn’t just a familiar face or someone working in an adjacent building that you might have seen a few times in your peripheral vision to somewhat recognise but still view as a stranger. No, the man had been the source of all your suffering for the past three years. Even in the entire year that he was gone, he still didn’t fully leave — the damage he did to your psyche is irreversible, and no amount of punishment will ever be sufficient. 

You hold your breath, trying to remain calm, but standing so close to him is making you lightheaded. How long was he going to play with you?

"So, um, I was wondering—"

You don't wait for him to finish what else he might add once the awkward silence proves too uncomfortable for him — turning around so quickly it makes your head spin and your stomach curl in on itself. 

You need to get away, and you need to do that now. 

He scrambles onto his feet, the movement followed by the gritty sound of gravel and a desperate call of your name, which you didn't give him. The false saccharine tone is gone, in its place, a commanding warning of what he might do to you if you don’t listen.

You tug on the horizontal crossbar on the back door with frantic urgency, but the latch doesn’t budge. The metal is cold and dotted with raindrops from the morning storm. You hear him getting closer, but you don’t dare to turn and look how close he is. Too close. He will always be too close to you, and there is nothing you can do.

Your eyes blur with tears as you finally manage to pull the heavy door open.

"Rina—" 

But as you come face-to-face with her, the fellow ballerina's unblinking eyes cause you to lose your voice mid-speech. The milky whites of those round eyeballs stare back at you with a sick familiarity — as if you had seen something so bleakly empty before.

You can’t blink either. Blinking would mean you could escape those eyes. Blinking would mean you—

That’s when the whiteness blinks back at you, and that’s when your world falls from its axis — all of this is not real. It's not happening right now; it's just a memory. The stalker behind you won’t catch you, and Rina is not your friend but a lifeless stand-in for a real version of her.

You are in Purgatory.

You are dead.

Suddenly, a familiar figure invades the blank canvas that your view has become, pacing back and forth in a complete state of disarray across your line of sight. You didn't even notice when you got back from... whatever that was. 

"Can you fucking behave for one second?! Fuck, I was about to call Sera!"

The sudden loudness of Adam’s voice pierces the staticky ambience of the void, making you jump in your skin. In a blink of an eye, he towers over you, taking you by your upper arms and shaking your pliant body for good measure, as if the action will magically put your scattered thoughts back into place.

"I—"

Patient, the man is not. He doesn't give you a chance to think, not to mention put together a decent sentence.

"What did you fucking read?!" Adam shakes his hand in front of your face impatiently, which only makes you annoyed. "Hey?! Are you there?" 

"Fuck off, Adam! Can you let me digest everything first?!" You smack his hand away, but that’s when he takes your face into his grip, claw-like black fingers digging into your cheeks and pulling your face closer to his. You scrunch up your nose and furrow your eyebrows as you glare the beast in the face.

"Tell. Me. Everything. This is no longer the time to be petty. Forget everything that happened up to this point and speak, or keep acting like a brat, and I will have no choice but to tame you like one."

"The only one who needs to be tamed is you." You mumble back as best you can while having your lips puckered up like a fish from the way Adam squishes your cheeks. He clicks his tongue but lets go of your face, silently praying that you would start talking about things that matter right now. And you do, because Adam is looking uncharacteristically serious enough for you to comply. It's not as if you don't want to know what the hell was with that nightmare sequence of a memory. "I swear I didn't read anything! You gave me the colouring sheet, and the drawing on it triggered my memory. But it was different from other times. I used to just sort of hang around in the background while it all unfolded in front of me like a movie, but this time I was reliving it. I didn't even realise that I was in one. At that moment, I lived through my past like it was the present."

"It wasn’t all that bad, seeing you are still your insufferable self."

"It’s like looking into a mirror, isn’t it?" You hum, however, there is still something bothering you. "But I have to ask, is the Purgatory an entity and not a place? I feel someone watching me in my memories, and I highly doubt it's God."

Adam stays quiet for a moment. You stare at one another in complete silence until he breaks off the eye contact by turning towards the desk and picking up a page from the pile that is now smaller than it was when all of this began — the unread pile — only to shove said thing in your face. "Doesn’t matter. I need you to do one more thing for me."

However, you turn your head away just at the right moment.

"No, I don’t want to."

"It’s not what you want!"

"Leave me alone!"

"Stop being so difficult and do as you are fucking told!"

"You don’t know how it feels, Adam!" You cry out, facing him once again. He doesn't say a word as he silently stands with his hand on his hip — the dreaded document still in his grasp. "Watching yourself suffer and not being able to look away! My life was miserable! I had an active stalker, and I had to move around, leaving friends and family behind, only for him to find me over and over again! I don’t want these memories! I don’t want to remember anymore! I was happily oblivious until I got a taste of curiosity. I see why it killed the cat now."

"Listen—"

"Did I kill myself? I did, didn’t I? That’s why I’m in Purgatory, right?"

"Pull yourself together, woman! If that were the case, you would be in Hell. No questions asked. It must have been something more convoluted." Adam tries to reason with you, and surprisingly, you don't argue with him, but from the way your eyebrows pull towards each other, Adam knows that everything he just said was nothing but empty words to you. "Well? Are you calm now?"

You nod, and Adam raises the page with a memory again to your eye level, which in turn causes you to screech as if blinded by the sun. And here Adam thought he made progress with you.

But something is not right.

"It's empty." You deadpan. 

"You don't say."

"How did this even happen? I thought you were in charge."

"The memory took you along with the ink on the document. It all evaporated in front of my fucking eyes! Only when you started reliving it did the words reappear one by one. If you are not living through it, I can't see anything. All of the remaining pages are like that." The angel gestures towards the piles. "Nothing like this has ever happened before. The Purgatory... it is an entity of its own — a type of archaic angel, and we are inside of it. But it does have a very black and white view on things, and that's why it needs to have someone who can supervise it."

"Look at you, acknowledging my question when it suits you." Your words are directed towards him, but instead of focussing on Adam, you look to the side, as if by some miracle the Purgatory just spawned the most beautiful scenery for your starved gaze to feast on. It's your petty attempt to piss him off some more for not telling you about the Purgatory when you brought up the topic to him. And speaking of the dreaded place, it looks like Purgatory needs someone not only competent but compassionate as well for it to do its job efficiently, and they decided to put Adam in charge of the whole place? He was about to send you downstairs without a second look!

"You should trust the first human a bit less, little ballerina."

By now, you know that the silence, no matter how short-lasting it might be, is like an open invitation for the shades to make themselves known. Their soft, silky, siren-like voices are akin to the ripples formed by a stone skipping across a pond — each undulating circle, bigger than the others before it, mirrors the way their voices grow louder. Sure, you have gotten used to their breathless, nonsensical whispers, but they have never provided commentary for the conversations you have with Adam.

"There’s no point in trying to pass through anymore. You’re already too damaged. Just like us."

Adam is saying something in the background — you can hear his voice but not the words he’s speaking all the while you continue to stare off into space, unblinking.

"You should stay. It’s a better fate than the off chance of falling to Hell."

"...Is that so?"

It looks like you interrupted Adam mid-speech.

"What?"

"The pages... they are that way because I didn't follow the rules, right? It's all my fault." You speak again after a minute of silence, right before Adam has a chance to. That's a surprise, usually, he's quite quick with his responses, so he must agree with you. Coming up with a soothing lie requires more time than speaking the ugly truth. "Then what's even the point? Just leave me here. I’m already a damaged soul. How useful would I be in Heaven, if I even went there in the first place?"

There is an air of despondency around you, and Adam's stomach drops as he searches your face for something. "…Is that what the shades are telling you?"

Your silence is enough of an answer for Adam.

"Come on, where did that sharp tongue of yours go?" He chuckles, but his smile is too weak and doesn’t infect you. "I’m not leaving you here." The angel declares stubbornly. 

"Stupid choice, really."

Adam is about to argue with you when he notices that, although you might be speaking to him, your eyes move to look to the side at something that is not there in the flesh but rather in spirit. Without wasting any time, he grabs your chin and redirects your gaze back towards him. "Eyes on me."

You don't argue with him. "So, how am I even supposed to trigger the memory if the memory page is empty?"

"Okay, let's see. Is there a dominant smell that you would associate with the previous memory?"

Rotting trash… piss… vomit… the herbal stench of alcohol from broken bottles mixing up with sewage water…

"Cigarette smoke?" You question as if Adam would now. However, he blindly takes your suggestion and goes with it, completely trusting your intuition. With a snap of his fingers, Adam summons a lit cigarette, making you panic.

"Wait! I don’t want to go back to that memory! Adam, don’t you dare send me back—!"

Your desperate cries fall on deaf ears as Adam takes a puff and blows the acrid smoke right into your face, causing you to choke on it.

Inhale. 

Exhale.

Inhale.

You exhale the puff of smoke as you lean against the driver’s side door of your car, mentally preparing yourself for the day before driving to the studio. A pack of cigarettes is still in your non-dominant hand as you look at it, deep in thought. That’s all you seem to be doing these days — getting lost in them.

A picture of a single opaque cornea stares back at you from the squished and torn box as you take another drag of your cigarette every few minutes while maintaining eye contact with the warning label. The cigarettes you are smoking were once your father’s favourite — he buys stronger ones now. When you bought your first pack, you got so overwhelmed by the variety that you picked the ones you had seen your dad purchase when you were younger. Years later, you still smoke the same ones. It’s the last thing about you that is consistent.

"I feel like an imposter at everything I do." You flick the butt of the cigarette to the ground and stomp on it before unlocking your car and getting inside. At one time in your life, you lived a walking distance from the ballet studio; now it takes you an hour of driving through the desolate countryside roads to get there.

Is it all worth it? You don't know anymore.

But even if the drive is long and boring, at least you know that nothing can get to you while you’re in your car, and if someone were to follow you, you could quickly get to safety. To you, boredom is good because it's safe, and your boring, metal safety bubble is the highlight of your horrible days.

Until you hear the click of a gun behind you.

You look in the rearview mirror only to see the man you have been trying to outrun this whole time. The reflection of his wild stare as he holds the barrel of the gun pressed into the skin at the back of your neck is like a nightmare you wish to wake up from. You weren’t secure anywhere, not even in your car. What more can he ruin?!

"You finally opened the door."

His voice cements the nightmare as reality, and your face scrunches up as the realisation of your situation's direness throws you into a whirlwind of despair. You don’t swallow down the scream fuelled by unadulterated hysteria anymore. You throw it up, making the small space of your car impossible to be in.

You don’t want to die. But perhaps your only escape from this — the ultimate solution — is death? Maybe it isn't, but in that split second, you seal your fate.

"You got into the wrong car, fucker. You want to kill me?! I will take you with me."

Suddenly, you press on the brakes, causing the man to jerk forward and lose his grip on the gun. Not wasting any precious time, you press down on the gas and force the car to swerve off the road into a guardrail at full force.

"You crazy bitch! Stop!"

The least you can do now is pray to God for your soul to find salvation. You close your eyes and tighten your grip on the steering wheel, feeling at peace despite your fear of pain and the unknown that awaits you. A death by your own hand will never be as painful as the one done by that monster's. You know for sure that he wouldn't grant you the pleasure of eternal rest inside a cold, dark casket. No, he would torture you, and you will not give him that satisfaction.

The next time you open your eyes, everything in your body hurts — no, burns. The way that ice burns. 

You don’t yell, don’t plead for help — the only sound coming out of you is this sickening hissing sound of a punctured lung as your chest moves up and down with every strained breath your body forces you to take in its efforts of clinging to life.

Near you lays the man's body, mangled without recognition, or it looks that way; the vision in your right eye is gone, so it's hard to tell for sure. Inadvertently, you drag your limp arm towards your face, only for your fingers to disappear inside an empty eye socket. That means that the milky eyeball in front of you, covered in gritty pavement crumbs, is your own. You stare at it until your vision blurs, and all you see is white.

You drown in it. In that white… blinding... emptiness.

"You killed someone."

It's impossible not to hear his growing acrimony towards you as he vocalises your sin. Adam’s voice is the epitome of nothing, devoid of its usual obnoxious tone and a barely noticeable rasp, which becomes more prominent when he hasn't spoken in a while and disappears as soon as he clears his throat.

"He was going to kill me! I—I had no choice!" Your hands shake as you put one palm against your mouth in absolute horror of what you just relived, but you also feel the need to defend yourself against the angel. "I didn’t want to die, nor did I want to hurt anyone! Even if that someone was a person that wished harm upon me! I had dreams, I had a future! It just—" you choke back on tears. "At that moment, I felt like that was it."

You wish you didn't have your memories back. Trying to explain yourself to Adam felt so humiliating, as his imposing height forced him to look down on you. You felt unworthy of his presence.

"You—" Adam feels his throat tighten. He isn't upset with you — he is furious at Sera.

As soon as you mentioned feeling like you were being monitored in your memories, Adam knew that it couldn't be Purgatory because it simply doesn't have consciousness. It's a dormant entity that — when it came into existence — was given simple instructions to either condemn or forgive. A certain seraph, on the other hand, not only had the motive but also a multitude of eyes to assist her. Perhaps Sera's curiosity was piqued by Lucifer’s brat’s childish delusions regarding redemption. That would explain why he couldn’t simply send you down like he did with other souls. You weren't special — you were a test subject. Despite being a truly good person who lived a virtuous life, you committed the ultimate sin, which is a direct ticket to Hell. Yes, you killed a terrible, poor excuse of a human being, but you had no right to do so because it's not up to humans to decide who lives or dies.

Sera wanted to see if Adam could judge a soul without bias.

Adam doesn’t believe in second chances. In that regard, he was no better than the archaic Purgatory. But who could blame him for seeing things as absolutes? Adam had a first-row seat to see what second chances amounted to. Eve, a woman who was created specifically for him and a literal second chance at love, betrayed his trust and left him, just like Lilith before her. But now, the normally clean-cut line between sinful black and divine white has become blurred into an uncertain grey, and as Adam looks at your terrified face, he realises that he doesn’t have it in himself to let you fall. 

No, Adam couldn't send you down to hell. Your doe eyes are too bright, and your skin is too fragile and porcelain-like, almost brittle to the touch — it would break the moment you stepped into the Pride Ring. You looked angelic, even as a human. He couldn't even begin to imagine how beautiful you would look with a pair of wings and a halo.

"Adam?" The said angel could practically hear your lips quivering. He didn't realise he had left you there with your thoughts, which were no doubt eating you from inside. "Adam, you must have someone you care about! "Please imagine them in my place, and then pass judgement on me."

Adam does have someone he cares about, and that’s why he is already thinking about his first kill for the next year’s extermination. You can't read his twisted, vengeful mind and interpret his silence as a sentence to eternal damnation.

"Oh," you say, your voice lower than usual. Not even in the afterlife do you have autonomy. You were stupid for trying to fool yourself into believing that you did. "I’m going to—"

"Shut up!"

You stop yourself mid-sentence from his outburst.

His next words are much softer, like hot milk soothing a sore throat. "I won’t let you go there."

However, before Adam can declare his final verdict on your soul's fate, the Purgatory acts according to its own evaluation. The white ground, which had not a speck of other colours on it this whole time, suddenly begins turning red — bleeding from underneath your feet and growing into a big puddle that surrounds you like spilt blood. You feel the heat emanating from it, and then it cracks.

"NO!"

Just as the ground gives in underneath your weight, Adam catches your wrist.

"Adam!"

"You are never going there." He declares, but you don't miss how his voice trembles a bit at the end. You look away from him and down towards there that he’s talking about, but Adam digs his sharp claws into the skin of your wrist, successfully bringing your attention towards the hurting part of your body. "You keep looking at me. I won’t let you even get a glance of that wretched place!"

And then you have the nerve to smile at him, "I think the choice is already made, and you don’t have a say in it." You ease your hand out of his hold. "I’m sorry that we got into that argument. I didn’t mean to. But you did say that my actions here won’t affect my fate, so I guess that doesn’t really matter."

"Don’t you fucking dare release my hand! You hold onto it, bitch, or I will get you something to be sorry for!" Adam tugs your dangling body up by your hand and hugs you tightly to his chest, wrapping his golden wings around you securely like a safety blanket for good measure. His face presses against the top of your head as you hear his voice booming in your ears. "Evaluation has determined that this soul is worthy of Heaven!"

Only when Adam sees the familiar surroundings around the two of you does he allow himself to loosen his grip on your body. Thank God that Purgatory doesn't have any influence on angels, because otherwise, he would have thought that he's dreaming this all up.

"Happy rebirthday, gorgeous. Welcome to Heaven." The greeting is nothing like the one he gave you when you first met in Purgatory.

But when he doesn't get any kind of response, not even a twitch out of you, his fingers gently stroke your cheek, hoping to get some kind of reaction out of you to make sure that he wasn't too late and didn't accidentally bring a shade into Heaven.

You are shaking like a leaf under his touch — terrified, still gripping onto Adam’s robes with white knuckles as if the possibility of falling is still there. As if you can’t feel the white wings sprouting out of your back and don’t see the shimmering, iridescent glow of your halo above your head casting a subtle shine on your hair. Your skin tone is a few shades lighter than it was when you were in Purgatory, but for the most part, you still look more or less very human. Adam is quite certain of that. After all, there is nothing in his way that could hide anything unusual from his eyes.

"I don’t have anything on." You finally tilt your head to look up at the first man with those big, infuriatingly beautiful eyes of yours.

"I have eyes, angel."

A thin layer of golden blush coats your face as you press yourself against Adam in hopes of hiding away. "Don’t look!"

His hands, resting on your naked hips, barely noticeably move up and down your body and supply Adam's starved mind with the most vividly descriptive images that no amount of ogling could ever successfully manage to capture.

"I won’t."

Adam would love to stay like this forever, but Heaven isn't a time capsule like Purgatory is, and although in the afterlife time is meaningless, there is more tedious bureaucracy to be done.

"Do you mind if we take a more scenic route? I doubt you are in any shape to use a portal."

"Walking is fine, but, Adam, I'm naked." You hiss, as if what you just said is the most blasphemous thing Heaven has witnessed. The real sin is that Adam can't enjoy the view.

"I will carry you, no worries."

He could conjure something for you to wear, but Adam doesn’t specialise in dressing up women. He has significantly more experience in undressing women, but that's unnecessary since you're already naked. And what you don't know won't hurt you. You can't be mad at him for not dressing you up if you don't know he can do that with a snap of a finger. But the lack of clothing doesn't seem to bother you too much.

Mesmerised, you peek your head out of Adam's embrace to look all around yourself. Having become accustomed to the stark whiteness of Purgatory, you are overwhelmingly awestruck by all of the pearlescent colours surrounding you. Heaven looks quite futuristic, unlike anything you imagined. Truthfully, you don't know what you expected — perhaps something more traditional-looking, Gothic even. It looks as though everything is made out of vibrant stained glass, from the sharp-looking corners and pointy sky-piercing roofs to the glassy ground. The entire promenade resembles a hall of mirrors at carnivals, easy to get lost in.

The building you two enter is commodious and bears a striking architectural resemblance to a Gothic cathedral, while still maintaining the soft pastel colour scheme of Heaven. The sound of Adam's heavy footsteps travels through space, catching the attention of small animal-like creatures who, you guessed, work here.

Adam carefully lowers you to the ground until your bare feet are flat against the cold marble. His next move is to open up the cocoon he made out of his wings, a decision which you are against until you notice that you are already dressed up in a white linen tunic that reaches your knees and completely hides your arms under its moderately wide sleeves.

While you are busy guessing where the clothes came from and wondering why you haven't felt them on your skin until now, Adam can't help but curse himself out inside his head. He couldn't believe he got jealous of the freaking cherubim getting a chance to see you naked that he took it upon himself to dress you up. But all self-deprecation disappears when you turn to face Adam with an excited smile. For a minute, he fears that you somehow read his thoughts.

"Well, do I look worthy of Heaven?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?" Adam shrugs, grabs you, and twirls you around to face a shiny column. It's the first time you see how you look after becoming an angel, but nothing surprises and excites you more than the wings — soon you are arching your back and twisting your neck just to look back at them.

"I can fly?!"

Before Adam has a chance to respond, the small cherub guides you by hand towards the front desk and offers you a leaflet. "Everything you need to know will be found here! And if you have any questions, don't be afraid to contact our headquarters. That's why we are here!"

"Oh, I thought," you are about to turn towards Adam, but the cherub swiftly seizes your attention once more.

"You’re in Heaven now, which means that you are under the care of our department, dear, not the first man. And after we are done with a few more documents, you will be free to live your afterlife as you please!" The little creature gestures to a desk behind them, and you noticeably shiver at the sight of the paper pile. Not again…

You turn back to Adam, feeling an ache in your chest that is difficult to ignore. You got used to Adam’s presence. As much as he could be an annoyance, he is the reason you are safe here.

"Oh, so... I guess this is goodbye? Will I ever see you again?"

"Hm, I don't know. I’m a busy guy, and you're not the only angel in heaven. You're gonna have to make an appointment if you want to come for a chit-chat." However, based on the way your face falls at his words, Adam’s joke is seemingly not as amusing as he thought it to be. With a sigh, he outstretches his arms, and you move in for a hug without any hesitation. "You are losing your edge, angel. Don't tell me you got attached or something."

You remain silent in response, then, after a few minutes, slowly move back and offer a small wave as a goodbye.

"Bye, Adam."  

I'm a huge fucking hypocrite, Adam thinks to himself as he watches you go.

"Bye, angel."

[eliotlime]

End of October Update

There's got to be a less clunky way for me to title these things but maybe I'll figure it out after a few posts.

Anyway at the top of the order I want to say that uh... the Abacelsus zine is not happening by halloween unforch.. I just started school part-time and it being part-time is still kicking my ass! So tentative release date will be on 11th November unless something else happens....

On the plus side I'm done with the cover so all that's left is the back page and cramming all 24 pages full of drawings 👍

-> As I've said at the end of my previous post I want to make more blog style posts so here's me trying to do that, more under the cut

🔐Abacelsus Zine

I'm still deciding on whether i want to print it A5 or B5 but I'm leaning towards A5, though for the digital release it doesn't really matter lol

As mentioned, I'm done with the main cover so I just need to fill this entire thing with stuff, I said 24 pages but really the total page count is 30. I'm just not counting the cover and the blurb stuff.

I'm half taking a break with this at the risk of burning myself out and half paralysed with starting it. Plus I've kind of been more into Axl & I-no hilariously but I'll always love A.B.A. I think the lack of any real info really lends her well to interpretation which is always fun.

I've never really been one to engage in fandom so I'm probably going to be doing my own thing. That being said if anyone has any suggestions feel free to drop them in my strawpage or ask box :)

🥤 Strawpage & General Socials

The bugs make my pages so decorative, I gotta draw more bugstyle guys.

Speaking of strawpage, I made one of those! It was really fun, I have a short OC info tab with descriptions of some of my main guys. I'd love for you to check it out.

This kind of acts as my ask box for twitter since there's not one there and apparently it's basically my main social media site these days so I'm just mirroring my experience here over there too.

Hilarious timing considering that it's basically collapsing on itself once again, I'll probably still be on that damn site until it implodes but I also have a Bluesky account for those that care about it.

The sky follower bridge extension is really useful for bulk following people from twitter to bsky

I'd love to post there more but there's not a queue function and that's very important to me as someone who is not American and lazy to remember optimal timings.

Did you see? I also have a new pinned for this blog! Wanted to make a new one for a while now, always thought the old one was so freaking long. All the old info is still on my about and faq page though I don't know who actually looks at those.. a relic from years past..

☹ School

Sigh, like I mentioned earlier I'm doing school again! At my big age, but I'm having fun so far! It's part-time but it's still kicking my fucking ass! It's the main reason why I'm a little disoriented this month honestly.

Do you like it? I spent an entire Sunday making my class miro board look niceys and then proceeded to get nauseous from cybersickness afterwards LOL

I'm doing a UI/UX course and I have to say the funnest part about it is making personas, it's like making OCs. Don't particularly like writing though.. but also that's a lie considering the numerous amount of paragraphs in this blog post alone haha

🎁 Merch

I've also gotten confirmation that I'll be boothing again next year in Febuary! So I gotta start locking into making more stickers and general merch. I say this a lot but I do need to look into opening an online store because I just have tonnes of stickers and stuff lying around waiting till the next time I do a convention which is kind of a shame.

Oh, but I will say that if you are from Singapore and would like anything from my previous convention catalogue feel free to shoot me a DM on instagram and I can mail it to you locally, shipping's $2 SGD.

➰Closing Thoughts

All in all, been kind of busy this month with school and various loose threads from September but overall I think I'm doing better! I've also been cooking lately and truthfully that's my biggest achievement this month haha, been also getting really into canned fish. Yummy!

Oh and a last thing is that I've been itching to animate again so I'll end this post with a WIP of a gif I did last night/morning. I almost always never finish my animations but here's hoping this one actually makes it to the colouring stage haha

No prizes to anyone who can guess who these two because of course.

Thank you for reading! I know I can't expect everything to be done in a single month but I just wish I could do everything without getting tired or cybersick! If you'd like to support me, here's my ko-fi page and my itchi.io & gumroad as well.

If you have any questions or just generally want to talk to me, my DMs and askbox is always open! Any professional enquires can be sent towards my email as well: eliotlime@gmail.com

XOXO, Stay weird!

-Eliot :)

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hello. I'm writing fanfiction and I'm very thankful for your blog, it is helping me alot.

So one problem I'm finding in my writing is that paragraphs don't feel "flowy", they feel "choppy" and dull. Like there isn't a flow between the sentences, and it feels like they are shoved together. Here are examples from my writing to make it clearer:

1.In his 25 years of life, Sara was the only woamn to occupy his heart and mind. Every woman looked dull in comparison to the divine torrent that was her. She had full possesion of him, and she didn't even know it.

2.And today was his first event as a teacher. The event was taking place in 'X school' this year, but he was sure next year it will be in 'Y school'. He trained his students well enough to beat 'Y's' students.

Did you feel what I'm talking about? Or is it all in my head?

Writing Feels Choppy/Not Flowing

It's hard to tell overall flow from a few snippets, and when a paragraph is separated from the rest of the narrative, it can be difficult to tell whether something is an issue or is clarified in the surrounding context. Here are some potential issues, though, if it helps to give you an idea of what to watch out for to make things feel less clunky. Just keep in mind, this is my subjective interpretation with limited context, so use your best judgment if it feels it doesn't apply:

Paragraph #1 - "In his 25 years of life, Sara was the only woamn to occupy his heart and mind." This is probably clearer with the surrounding context, but as a snippet, going from the pronoun "his" to the name "Sara" was immediately confusing. But, as long as it's clear who "he" is prior to this sentence, it's fine.

"the divine torrent that was her..."

This is certainly an evocative description, but without any context it feels a little clunky. As long as there is context for why he'd think of her as a "divine torrent" and what that means to him when he describes her that way, it should be fine.

"She had full possession of him, and she didn't even know it."

I see what you're trying to do here, but "full possession" feels a bit heavy in a paragraph that otherwise feels like it's trying to be romantic. So, I think that lack of tone agreement makes it feel a bit clunky. If that's your intention, to illustrate a love that has obsessive and even dangerous qualities, that's fine. Otherwise, you might consider rewording to something that fits the romantic tone a bit more, something like: "She held his soul completely, yet she didn’t even realize it." Paragraph #2 - "And today was his first event as a teacher. The event was taking place in 'X school' this year, but he was sure next year it will be in 'Y school'. He trained his students well enough to beat 'Y's' students."

Using a present tense word like "today" or "now" in the past tense is tricky. It doesn't work great here because we go from the present tense "today" to past progressive "was taking place" to past "he was sure" and "he trained," so it's kind of all over the place. Also, using both "today" and "this year" to refer to the event in question is confusing. Also, it's confusing that he's at the event at X school today, but he's focused on his students beating the students of Y school next year, at an event that hasn't even been decided for sure yet. You could shore things up a bit by doing something like:

"Today's event, which was his first as a teacher, was taking place at X school. They had the best team in the state, so he knew the odds of his students winning were slim. He was sure next year the event would be held at Y school, and he was confident his students were trained well enough to beat Y school's team." So, some general tips:

1 - Make sure the sentence/paragraph makes sense within the surrounding context. 2 - Make sure you have tense agreement within the sentence/paragraph. 3 - Make sure your evocative descriptions have meaning.

4 - When using pronouns rather than names, make sure the subject (who the pronoun belongs to) is clear.

5 - If your character should be focused on the present events, make sure their thoughts and feelings are relevant to what's happening.

Happy writing!

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[bomberqueen17]

it came from the notes

Ha I reblogged this post a bit ago and happened to see this in the notes from @uxbridgeenglishdictionary

[image descriptions: tumblr tags reading #also hi bomberqueen17 #love your work #is your Morvran demi]

HA yes. Busted. He is, because I tend to write demisexuals into everything I write. He's more of a Trauma Ace than me, and his specific manifestation of demi is not quite like mine, but yeah that's him. Sexual Attraction Isn't Real And They're Making It Up, he thinks, Or Maybe I'm Just Broken, Probably That's It, Glad Everybody Else Is Having Fun But I'm Better Off Out Of It, and then he gets hit with the Oh She's Competent stick really hard and doesn't know what to do with himself for a good while.

Wait till he realizes that like almost every demisexual I know, he's bi too. Actually I feel like there should be a different word for that entire mode of attraction, because it's not a separate thing at all. "Demi-bisexual" sounds really weird and clunky and not right but almost every person I know who manages to figure out they're demi also has, as a feature of their specifically-demisexual mode of attraction, the major component that the things that will tick their boxes until they hit the "attraction" tipping point tend not to include gender as a salient or primary point (or, I think in many cases, as a point at all). For me it's someone being funny, really smart, into me, a huge dork, good at witty turns of phrase or at least corny puns, and reasonably kind, and whether they have a penis or a vulva or neither or something else entirely, I really don't care and genuinely don't have a preference. And that experience (not the specifics but the generals) is so common, even universal among people I talk to who are demi, that I almost think demisexual probably implies some flavor of bi, too, largely by definition. I'm not really worried about the label, I really feel like it's an "if you know you know" kind of thing, but like. We know.

For Morvran, his specifics are "competent, terrifying, niceys to me", mostly I think, though we'll have to see. (I haven't actually written in a male character for him to get pantsfeelings about, as such, but I have some ideas, which I may or may not wind up exploring but just know, it's there and it's a thing.)

I was hesitant over making him demi because I was worried that sex-repulsed aces would be disappointend and like, ok, but my beta was like "dude there's nothing wrong with being demi and it's not letting down the side" and i realized that was definitely an internalized kind of self-loathing demiphobic instict right there, astutely pointed out. I should write a sex-repulsed ace character sympathetically sometime, and I will (probably I have?? idk I do tend to digress into porn a lot so it's hard to say, and I don't fuckin remember), but I've let my id lay the groundwork for Morvran's demi awakening and it would be weird to not do that.

*deep sigh* as I've said before, I'm a pony of a limited number of tricks but they're like, good tricks, mostly, and there's no harm in trying to learn new ones but it's also not like a bad thing to use my favorite ones. It's not like the world is completely drowning in nuanced, informed demisexual representation.

[cowboyemeritus]

Il Suo Campione (Copia/Reader)

Chapter Eight

Series Masterlist

Summary: Copia learns the horrible truth.

Content Warnings: references to gang violence, drug abuse/addiction, brief mention/description of a corpse

Read on AO3

notes: hey everyone! sorry updates are getting farther apart - i've been having some problems staying motivated. seeing all your support for this story helps, though, so thank you all so much :)

as of right now i'd say this is about the halfway point of the story. i genuinely do want to finish it, so please bear with me while i sort out this writer's block issue.

i feel like there are a few clunky parts of this, but i got to the point where i felt i just needed to publish it lol. sorry in advance. i hope it's somewhat interesting, at least.

a few people have asked to be tagged when new chapters come out, so if you want in on that lmk!

thanks again! feedback is always welcome. you all are the best :)

Copia has struggled to keep you off his mind since the night of the match. The evening’s events had only confirmed his growing suspicion that there is something seriously amiss with you. It’s easy for him to look back and recognize you’ve always been quiet and detached, yet constantly on guard and prone to bouts of explosive rage. Whatever, or whoever, instilled that in you had exited your life long before you met. What is new is the hate he saw reflected in his bedroom mirror, and the shame in your eyes when you lost. From his experience being Nihil’s son, those are feelings with which Copia is intimately familiar. They’re easy for him to recognize and treat accordingly in others. The rest he’ll have to work on.

He ties not to think about the emptiness in your eyes as you watched Diego bleed out on the cold, dirty concrete. Something tells him that’s out of his wheelhouse.

Copia’s cheek is still tender from where Mary had hit him. For the scrawny creature that he is, the greasy punk can sure pack a punch. As much as he wants to drag him through the streets for it, he really should have seen it coming. Mary is the protective type, and Copia certainly didn’t help himself by neglecting to call or make your whereabouts known until the next morning, returning you to your bother concussed, battered, and zoning in and out of reality. Copia knows he deserved it, at least in part.

“You don’t know anything about her!”

Mary is naive; he doesn’t know half of what goes on in the dark recesses of this city. He hasn’t had to make the painful choices, the sacrifices, that keep this kind of business flowing. But, he’s right. Copia has no idea who, or what, you really are. The notion is starting to eat at him.

Heaving out a sigh, he pulls into Secondo’s driveway. The crunch of the gravel under the car makes him nervous; he’s always convinced there will be glass or nails or something sharp waiting in there to fuck up his tires. He holds his breath as he drives up to the house and parks, slowly letting it out only once he’s certain nothing has popped. Stepping out of the car, he looks up at the blocky, brutalist home, a shock of gray against the blue sky and rich green of the surrounding pines. In a very childish part of his mind it looks like some sort of supervillain lair, an ominous thing ready to swallow up all who dare enter. Considering what business-related activities occasionally go on inside, it’s not a far off comparison.

Copia groans. He’s not as bad as Nihil, but Secondo has always been the runner-up for family hard-ass. It’s a product of their childhood, he thinks. Secondo and Terzo were so close in birth they were raised like twins. As they grew up, someone naturally had to balance out the ambitious, reckless energy of the third brother. While he’s no stranger to debauchery, at his core Secondo is a calculating, exacting man, brutally efficient in everything he does. Seldom does he waste time with pleasantries and fluff.

The garage door begins to lift, the racket startling Copia. As the panels slide upwards more and more of his brother is revealed. First, it’s his shoes, fine Italian leather polished to hell. Then, his slacks, starched and pressed like he’s having tea with the Queen. There’s a clean, white dress shirt and then Copia is looking Secondo in the face. He doesn’t appear as put together as he usually is, something a bit haggard about him. The creases under his eyes are deeper, a dusting of stubble across his jaw. From behind him two men appear, each holding the end of a large mass wrapped in sheets. As they pass by him, carrying the bundle out of the house, Copia instinctively knows that Diego will be resting in peace from now on.

“Come in.” It’s not quite a command, but not an invitation either. Copia would have preferred a “hello.” Sheepishly, he follows as his brother turns and walks briskly to the door separating the garage from the rest of the house. It’s a short journey. As with all of Secondo’s things, the space is staggeringly neat, no boxes of junk colonizing the floor like at his home. He glances over at one of the parked cars, a 55 Coronet, and smiles to himself, remembering when it was new. It had been bright red back then. Secondo’s face had been a similar shade as he sat in the back seat, knuckles white while Primo gave Copia his first driving lesson. With every jerk of the vehicle a new vein appeared on his forehead, Terzo lauging harder and harder until he’d nearly pissed himself. They went to the creek after that, Copia battling nausea from a cigarette, his first, that he’d bummed off his third brother. That had been a good day.

At some point in the 60s, Secondo had the coat changed to black. By the 70s, it had been involved in so many crimes he’d stopped driving it altogether, the plates removed and shredded. Now here it sits, gathering dust, a relic of more innocent times. As Copia crosses the threshold into the house, he finds he’s not smiling anymore.

Despite his home’s harsh exterior, Secondo is a man of taste. A sensualist. His decor reflects that, all dark leather and silk, shelves lined with antiques and souvenirs from his travels. His office, however, is the only room that actually looks lived in. It wouldn’t be a surprise to Copia if he slept in there. There’s very little in the way of mess, but with a trained eye, he easily picks out the hints of disorder that are hidden around the room like Easter eggs: crumpled wads of paper on the floor by the wastebasket, a coffee cup perched precariously on the windowsill, the contents long cold. The decorative pillows on the couch could use a good fluffing, and there’s a quilt, the once colorful fabric faded, folded haphazardly and draped over the back. Maybe he has been sleeping here.

Secondo clears his throat, putting an end to Copia’s scavenger hunt. He looks across the desk at his brother, suddenly feeling like a child again. From the expression on his face it’s clear he’s in for a scolding. Copia holds back a groan, crossing his ankles and tucking them beneath his chair. He’d better get this over with.

“Is this about what happened the other night? I don’t have any details other than-“

“The girl,” Secondo says. “This is about her.” Copia is stunned. For a moment he stares at his brother, blinking, before even trying to open his mouth.

“I-” Suddenly he feels a bit flustered. “What- The fight? I know w- she lost, but…“ His underarms are uncomfortably sweaty. Terzo said he’d work on it. Perhaps he’d been drunk that night after all, the bastard. “What did you think?”

“She is far too attached to you. That is what I think.” Copia is taken even farther aback.

“Excuse me,” he sputters, quirking an eyebrow at his brother. “But I do not understand why that’s any of your business. Do Primo and Terzo’s,” for a moment he’s stuck on what to call you, “associates need your approval now too?”

Secondo rolls his eyes. “This is different,” he insists. “She is different.” Copia can’t meet his brother’s gaze, eyes darting to the window. Outside, a small, gray bird perches on a branch, preening its feathers. It looks up suddenly before taking flight, a blur of brown and white in pursuit. Copia swallows, crossing his arms.

“There is nothing wrong with that, fratello,” he grumbles, not sure how much he can defend you beyond that. He knows what his brother really means. But is this what he called him here for? To critique his choice in women? “And you’ve had your fair share of weird girls-“ He jumps when Secondo bangs a fist on the solid wood of the desk.

“Fucking Christ.” For a moment, there is something unreadable, but deeply frightening, in his eyes. He lets out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. The tension in the room is palpable, thick like tar and just as foul. Wordlessly, Secondo rises from his seat, shuffling over to a beat-up, old filling cabinet in the corner of the room. Flecked with rust, it is, perhaps, the only common-looking thing he owns. From his pocket he produces a set of keys that clink together as he unlocks one of the drawers. Copia can just barely see that it is full of documents, organized into neat folders. Carefully, he reaches into one of the files and produces what appears to be a newspaper clipping. He looks back and forth between Copia and the paper for a moment, the conflict surprisingly plain on his face. With another heavy exhale Secondo settles back in his chair, placing the slip face-down on the desk. With a look that says “I told you so,” he slides it over. Copia takes a shaky breath, feeling his brother’s eyes bore into him. Leaning slightly forward in his seat, he gingerly turns it over.

He’s confused by what he sees.

The cutting is of a portrait, taken in a department store studio. There are two people in it. One is a man in his early thirties. His face has a gauntness that immediately tells Copia he’s a user, his skin pale and slightly jaundiced. He smiles but his eyes are tired, the creases around them deep and the circles dark. He’s strung out, only just holding himself together for the sake of the little girl next to him. As his eyes drift over to the child, who cannot be older than four or five, Copia feels his blood turn to ice.

Even twenty years younger, the girl in the photo is unmistakably you. He would recognize that face anywhere. Still, it takes a moment for him to fully process exactly what he’s staring at. That smile… You look too innocent, too happy to be, well, you. Whoever this is, she is a copy, a sick fabrication of the person you could have been. It’s just not right. It’s uncanny.

“I don’t…” Copia tugs at the collar of his shirt, finding he’s in desperate need of oxygen. As the pieces begin to click together, a knot of dread settles deep in his stomach. “Why do you have this?” Secondo sits there with his arms crossed, eyes full of more emotion than he has seen from his brother in a long time. There’s anger, pity, and shame there. Copia says nothing; he already has half the answer anyway. “W-what…” Unable to find the words he sighs, letting the breath out slowly. A few strands of hair have fallen in his face and he brushes them back, steeling himself. With a look to his brother that he hopes conveys resolve he straightens in his chair. “Tell me. The whole story.”

Without breaking eye contact, Secondo pushes his readers further up his nose. When that hand comes down the tip of his pointer finger is resting on the forehead of the man in the photograph. “One of ours. Started dealing to pay back some debts. I am not sure who he owed, or for what. I never knew him personally.” There’s a moment of understanding, an unspoken agreement between the two brothers. They don’t know, but they know. It’s too familiar a story, one Copia has heard hundreds of times to the point where he’s sick of it.

And yet, the show goes on. The coffers must always be full.

“He tried to make a deal and it went sour. Nearly got us busted. Fuck, I have never seen Nihil so pissed.” A memory resurfaces: his father, fists still shaking, setting down a pair of bloody brass knuckles on the breakfast table. They never managed to get the stain out of that tablecloth. “The numbers were already suspicious. It did not take us long to find that he had been skimming off the top for his own use. He stole from us, fratellino.” In this line of work, that’s enough to justify almost anything. Secondo glances back down at the photograph. “So we did what had to be done. Those were father’s orders.”

There is a long moment of silence between them. Copia is reeling, still trying to make sense of this devastating information. This can’t be. This has to be some cruel joke. He looks down at his hands. They’re far too clean. A disturbing thought crosses his mind. “She was there?” Secondo shrugs.

“We did not see her.” An even worse thought rears its head.

“If she…” He swallows, not wanting to accuse his brother but needing an answer. “Would you have… You know.”

Secondo shakes his head, gazing out the window. The disgust bleeds through even the most minute shifts of his face. “No. Not for anything. And certainly not for Nihil.” Copia feels his shoulders drop but is still on edge. His brother is never this forthcoming and it’s overwhelming. It’s all too much.

“I see,” he says, feeling a little sick. We made her this way. Before he can stop himself the image of you lying on that old boxing mat, confused and hurt, flashes through his mind. You had told him you were sorry. Whether he wants to laugh or cry at the cruel irony of that he doesn’t know.

This is all my fault.

“Does the old man know?”

“No,” Secondo grunts. “And he never will. But the girl has to go.” Copia is stunned, then enraged.

"I won't let you touch her."

Secondo waves him off. "I meant she should skip town."

“Still, why?” The anger returns to his brother’s face.

“Vengeance, Copia. What would she do if she were to find out the truth? She may already know. For all we know, she could be feeding information to the Giordanos as we speak. That would certainly explain why all our fucking product is going missing.” The insinuation lights a spark inside of Copia.

“You think I don’t know the people who work for me? That I share Family secrets for pillow talk?” He scoffs, crossing his arms. “I haven’t told her anything about the business. She is innocent in all of this.”

“Then all the more reason why she must go. You will get her killed, if she does not kill you first.” Logically, Copia knows he’s right, but the implication that he can’t protect himself, that he’s become your unwitting fool, just makes him feel like a child. If he had wanted that, he would have gone to Nihil. And there’s another, deeper part of him that knows he can’t abandon you now. Not after what his family — what he — has done to you. His heart aches at the thought, despair beginning to take root. He has to make this right, but how? How do you even begin to repair damage like that? It seems like an impossible task.

“Why would you tell me this,” he mutters, still staring at the beaming little girl in the photograph. He can’t recall ever seeing you smile. Have you even felt happiness since that day?

“Because we are family. I have an obligation to protect you.”

Copia grunts, angry and sad and ashamed. He glares up at his brother. “When has that ever mattered?” Secondo furrows his eyebrows.

“It has always mattered.”

For a moment, Copia forgets himself. “Where was that rhetoric when Terzo-” He stops, pressing his lips together. Across from him, Secondo sits silently, but there is the faintest trace of hurt in his eyes. Copia wants nothing more than to curl up and vanish, to turn into a little bug and crawl away. “I’m sorry, I-“

“That is all I had to say,” Secondo states, unwavering. “I strongly suggest you take my advice. You can be on your way.” Copia knows it’s not a suggestion. Nodding, he rises from his chair. Secondo stays seated, skimming over one of the papers littering his desk, no longer paying him any mind. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye, mind racing as he sees himself out of the house.

When Copia gets back in his car he sits there a while, his head in his hands.

[sundrop-writes]

Miss Nectarine

Donna Troy x Fem!Thick!Reader

Miss Nectarine, jawbreaker sweet.

Summary:

Ever since the old Titans have come 'home', Donna has been swimming in stress and grief over the friend they had lost the last time they lived at the Tower. She unintentionally found the perfect way to combat that grief when she accidentally walked in on you in a very revealing situation.

Donna Troy x Fem!Thick!Reader. Friends to Lovers. Smut. Set during Season 2, Episode 7.

Word Count: 2,600

DC Titans Masterlist | AO3 Link

Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: this is such a random fic lmao; this is primarily smut; this fic does feature spoilers for the canon if you haven’t seen the show before and you want to watch it spoiler-free; mentions of Titans!Bruce Wayne’s intense paranoia; mentions of background (past) Dawn/Dick; mentions of canon violence (no in-depth descriptions); mentions of Donna/Garth (but I never outright state in this fic that Donna and Garth were romantic in the past or if they were just friends - I like them better platonically tbh); mentions of Donna’s grief for Garth as a best friend; this uses the ‘caught masturbating’ trope - Donna accidentally walks in on the reader masturbating and all the lustful feelings she has ever felt for the reader come flooding toward the surface; there is no hard dom/sub, but Donna is more dominant and the reader is more submissive to Donna’s orders and whims; the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina; she reader is described as fat/plus sized (through a very loving gaze - Donna is very turned on by her body); accidental voyeurism (Donna watches the reader masturbate for a while); clitoral stimulation (the reader masturbating); the reader calls Donna ‘D’ (because that’s a thing in all my fics now); very clear consent is established before Donna touches the reader; mentions of Donna manhandling the reader slightly (using her superpowered strength, but nothing that would be incredibly unrealistic); oral sex/pussy eating (Donna giving, reader receiving); I believe that’s about it. 

A/N: This is named after the recent song Miss Nectarine by Ashnikko, which is about someone struggling with their attraction to women and I fucking love the song so much - the second I heard it, it captured my heart. I highly recommend listening to it. Also, I feel like this fic is not my best work. Idk. I wrote it with a really awesome inspiration in mind (Donna lusting after a thick girl) but I couldn’t really get the writing flow down, and I feel like some parts of it are clunky. But I know that sometimes we should stand behind work that’s not our best, and people still might enjoy reading this. So, here you go!

...

Titans Tower was a place that had a lot of usual features. Things that no other home would ever need. 

The large serenity garden in the center of the house that never seemed to bring anyone serenity. (It was likely just there because the Tower had been built for people who were city-dwelling chronic night owls, the type of people who never saw plants in their natural habitats, and needed a simulated one in the middle of their million dollar condo.) The large, state of the art training facility. The medical bay, stocked with all kinds of equipment and medication - including a freezer filled with spare blood, in all of the original Titans blood types. Which is something that would be insanely creepy to any outsiders. 

And among the more peculiar security measures: none of the internal doors in the house had locks on them. All the bathroom doors, all the bedroom doors, the doors to the training room - none of them locked. 

To a certain extent, Donna understood why. 

The place had been designed by the most paranoid man on the planet - at least, that’s what Diana often called Bruce, and Donna had to believe it wasn’t an exaggeration, because Diana didn’t really believe in hyperbole. There were cameras in every single room, endless security protocols to breach the Tower from the outside - most of which Donna likely didn’t even know about. The place had been designed around its own unique, state of the art surveillance system. 

So, there being no locks on any of the bathroom doors or bedroom doors was just another… quirk. Something implemented for security purposes without ever considering how inconvenient it would be for a person to actually live with. 

It was something implemented with the idea that locks put barriers between the members of a team, and those barriers can create secrets. Secrets cause friction. A team should be one solid unit. That, and it can be dangerous, taking away precious life saving seconds if someone is locked in their bedroom while sick or injured and a door needs to be smashed up in order to get to them. 

At least, that’s what Bruce had in mind when designing the place. 

Back when all the original Titans had moved into the Tower, knocking became the most easily upheld rule in the household. No matter how much they argued over who did the dishes or complained about certain people making noises at ‘impolite’ hours - above all, it was a sacred practice not to barge past a closed door without asking first. 

And as Hank taught them, whenever someone wanted privacy in their room, as a kind of ‘do not disturb’ sign: a sock was to be wrapped around the doorknob as a universal signal that the person inside did not want to be bothered. It was a good old fashioned standby that he had learned while living in a frat house that had shitty, broken bedroom doors with locks that often failed. It came in very handy whenever someone wanted their privacy to masturbate uninterrupted, to unwind and sob without question after a particularly hard mission, or - when Dick and Dawn coupled up - to fuck like rabbits without anyone else barging in on them. 

Somehow, being back in the Tower, it was easy to forget that sacred law of knocking. Something about taking a five year hiatus from living in the strangely designed condo and wallowing in the tense emotions that being here brought back to her - Donna was more focused on the stress of Deathstroke and Doctor Light, everything around her old home that reminded her of the dear childhood friend she had lost the last time she was here. Her mind was a mess, and sadly - it was easy to forget about something as simple as knocking. 

Over the past few days, her mind had been occupied by far too many things. 

Doctor Light’s ‘escape’, and then his strange, untimely death. Deathstroke suddenly showing up again, and the moral conflict of harboring another one of his kids in the Tower. Which was made even worse when she considered that he would be an emanate danger to her - and to everyone else. 

All of this stress was topped off, brought to a boiling point when Donna had walked into her room after doing some yoga and meditation with Dawn (trying to calm the rockiness of their minds) and she found a bottle of orange soda on one of the bookshelves. Not just any orange soda - the orange soda. 

Her memories of Garth were painful enough - she didn’t need to be reminded of him like this. She wasn’t sure if someone was doing this to fuck with her, or if someone had put it there to try and comfort her. As an attempt at reminding her of the good parts of her past. If that’s what they meant, it wasn’t working. 

As soon as she found it, Donna rushed down the hall to your room to confide in you. She simply needed to share this strange occurrence with someone who wasn’t going to jump down her throat with conspiracy theories or brush off her concerns. She needed a shoulder to lean on, maybe cry on. Maybe she needed to reminisce about Garth when she had banned speaking his name since she had re-entered the Tower. 

She thought nothing of it when the doorknob to your bedroom turned under her palm with absolutely no resistance. 

She found herself standing in your doorway, holding the bottle of warm soda in one hand, staring down at it like it was a bomb about to go off. With her other hand still poised on the lockless doorknob, her mind filled with stale grief over her lost friend - when she heard it. 

A soft moan. 

Donna’s head shot up toward the noise, mostly an instinct of her training. The sight she was greeted with instantly shifted all of the energy in her body from confused, saddened, and hurt to pure, blinding lust. 

You were laying in the middle of the bed, your head propped against several pillows, making you look like a fantasy, purposefully displayed and laid out for her - and you were touching yourself. Your oversized, comfortable shirt was shoved up to sit underneath your chin, revealing your gorgeous tits, bared so perfectly for the eye to consume. 

Your lounge shorts with your panties tangled inside them were tossed off to sit around your ankles, clearly in a haste to partake in the act of ‘self care’. (Something different than the calming yoga Donna had been doing to take her mind off things, but just as effective.) This left your wet, wanting pussy out in the open, completely visible for Donna to see, and she even swore that she could smell you - a pungent tang in the air that drove a carnal hunger deep inside her. 

The thing was, as much as Donna had acknowledged in the back of her mind that you were attractive, and funny, and cute, and that your strength when facing enemies put an undeniable heat in her gut - she had never truly looked at you with this much lust boiling inside of her. Not until now. Because she had never truly seen you until this moment. 

Well, up until this moment - she had seen you as a friend, as a companion, as a fantastic warrior, someone she always wanted by her side. But this was the first time she had seen you as a potential lover. As someone she so badly wanted to fuck. 

With you laid bare to her like this, so desperately humping your own fingers and intimately visible, she couldn’t help but to stare. 

Two of your fingers worked furiously over your swollen clit while you held a lip between your teeth, clearly trying to hold any noises tight inside of your throat. This was something that made Donna even more desperate to hear your sounds, to hear what kind of moans or whimpers you would make for her. 

Your breasts bobbed in the air as your chest heaved - two beautiful mounds with peaked nipples, zagging lines of stretched skin where reality had quaked to prepare for your gorgeous muchness. This caused her eyes to trace down your quivering stomach; her gaze following the smooth rolls of your body that perfectly guided her eye down to the beautifully fat mound of your cunt. Your pussy was dusted with hair that was absolutely dripping with your need - so utterly soaked that you were beginning to form a small stain on the comforter below you. 

Perhaps best of all - the wideness of your thighs perfectly framed your clenching hole, clearly so needy and yet untouched as you rubbed sloppy, increasingly loud circles on your clit. It was a space where Donna wanted to slot herself and be smothered by the perfect dimpled thickness of your thighs, wanted to feel the endless warmth there, encasing her in everything that was you and barring out the stresses of the world. 

She stood there, frozen in place for too long, simply admiring you. 

She still had her hand on the doorknob, standing in the doorway, and with your eyes screwed so tight with pleasure and concentration, she knew that you hadn’t seen her yet. 

Part of her wondered if she should approach you. If she should be so bold as to assume that you would want her in your bed. 

But when she glanced down again, she saw the orange soda bottle. And something in the back of her mind was reminded of that haunted past. Something that said she was never meant to be happy. Something that told her living in the moment only fucked things up. Everything she had done back then, it was karma, that-

“Donna.” 

You said her name like it was the sweetest song. 

A soft, delicate moan coming from your lips - not an accusation, not a griped yell for her to get out. 

When she looked back at you, your eyes were even tighter with pleasure, your back arched slightly off the bed, displaying your breasts in an even more perfect way. Your fingers worked more furiously on your clit, clearly trying to make yourself cum with even more intent. Your other hand came down to hook under your knee, lifting your leg up in a way that spread your thighs even more. This made Donna breathless at the visible wave of slick that leaked out of you and the way your fingers dug into the fat of your thigh. 

It almost made her jealous of the act. She should be the one grabbing your thigh. It made her entirely tempted to charge over there and simply take over.

“Fuck, D.” You sighed breathlessly. 

It was clear in her mind: you hadn’t caught her. You were thinking about her as you were getting close. 

Donna’s own pussy throbbed between her thighs, and as she clutched around the glass bottle so hard she swore she heard it crack. In that moment, she could almost hear Garth’s voice in her mind. He was chanting, telling her to ‘go for it’. Telling her that the concept of ‘karma’ was bullshit and she had to make her own fate. He would have told her that she was stupid to pass up an opportunity with ‘such a hot babe’. If he was a ghost, supposedly haunting the Tower, he would probably be her wingman in this. 

Maybe it was his ghost, with a hand on her back, guiding her toward you. Whatever it was - in that moment, Donna felt the impulsive Atlantean side of her take over. 

Or maybe it was the fact that she needed to turn away from all the grief - for the first time since entering the Tower, Donna needed to make herself forget about all the ghosts that haunted the halls. She needed to hold onto something real, something good that was right in front of her - she needed the real, tangible now.

She stepped fully inside your bedroom, shoved the door closed behind her. It was only with that quiet slam that you actually came out of your personal, lustful bubble. There wasn’t enough time for shock to take over as Donna abandoned the mysterious orange soda bottle on your dresser and strided toward the bed with intention and purpose in every single movement. You snapped your legs closed around your own hand, suddenly feeling shy under her ravenous gaze. 

“Yes or no?” She asked you firmly. 

She placed a knee on the end of the bed, looking at you with heat blooming across her cheeks. Her own chest shifted with puffs of hot breath as the lust rapidly increased her heart rate. 

Of course, she would never do anything without your explicit consent. 

Even though shock was still barreling through your system, unsure if this was a fantasy or not, perhaps a strange illusion blurring into reality - you managed to squeak out a reply. There was only one possible answer you could think of when she was looking at you like that. 

“Yes.” 

Donna nodded firmly and then moved onto the bed. Before you could blink, she had hooked both her hands under your knees and, using her enhanced Amazonian strength, she pulled you down the bed toward her. This caused you to let out a sharp squeak - a sound of delighted surprise at the fact that she could move you around so easily. Nobody else that you had been with ever could. 

She placed both her hands on your inner thighs and spread your legs open like you were a book that held all the answers to life’s most demanding questions. She was glad that her hair had already been up in a low bun, because it was out of her way as she held your legs open with impressive force and dove in. 

Years of unrealized lust for you came rushing out of her, concentrated on the tip of her tongue. Feelings that she had been holding back through intense, well-trained self discipline began to pour out the minute that her tongue met your mound. It was a demonstration of her sheer power painted in front of you as she flicked her tongue over your needy clit, fucking you hard and fast. She couldn’t help but to moan loudly at your taste. Sweet like a nectarine. 

“Fuck!” 

You moaned out, unable to take your eyes off the sight of such a gorgeous, goddess-like woman between your thighs. Your mind almost unbelieving that it was real - barely able to comprehend how perfect she looked with her pretty pink lips pressed against your cunt and her tongue working in hard, fast circles as she fucked you in such an utterly demanding way. 

“Oh my god, Donna!” 

Your muscles quaked with the effort, but you were unable to move even an inch to shut your legs around the intense, overwhelming stimulation that she provided. Heat shot through your body from that one point - from that beautiful place where her lips were sealed onto your cunt. 

Donna felt the spasming of your legs, felt the heat pouring off you in waves, and she reached over with one hand and worked two fingers inside of you. This was entirely easy with how slick you were, open and ready for her. You moaned sharply and your face was twisted into a gorgeous pinch of pleasure when she glanced up at you through her lashes. 

There was just one more thing that she wanted. 

She popped off your clit with a filthy wet noise, causing you to whimper. 

“Cum for me,” She demanded sharply. 

You couldn’t help but to follow the order. 

When you fell apart underneath her touch, you couldn’t contain your screams. Everyone in the Tower heard you.

...

If you enjoyed this fic, check out my DC Titans Masterlist for more of my other fics!! And please consider reblogging and commenting on this fic to tell me what you liked about it.

[freeuselandonorris]

Fic ask game: how do you approach writing the balance between the character’s internal thoughts/feelings vs the physical sensations they’re experiencing? I feel like in my own writing I’m always yoyoing between the two and it’s so hard to make it balanced/immersive. You always manage to convey character headspaces so strongly and I’m wondering about the process for that

ahh thank you anon, that’s such a lovely compliment!

i actually pretty rarely directly describe thoughts and feelings. generally it’s quite a clunky way of pulling the reader into the narrative, because it can just end up as reportage, where it just ends up as a kind of list of “lando felt x. oscar did y. lando felt z.” - obviously i’m vastly oversimplifying here but pace-wise, you see how there’s nothing actually moving the narrative on? where i do use it, it’s where a character IS stuck in their own head, usually on their own, and we’re not meant to be seeing the story move on yet.

so for instance, in the first section of it’s just self-defence until you’re building a weapon (sorry, AO3 is down again so i can’t link, i’m using my gdocs here!) you have a lot of lando’s thoughts and feelings because he’s in a mental spiral, and he’s not talking to anyone else about it yet:

It’s there, the feeling, as he drives into parc fermé, huge and heavy and bad. He breathes, in-hold-out-hold, moves his thumbs through the familiar pattern of button-pressing and menu-scrolling to put the car into neutral. For a minute he thinks he might burst into frustrated tears, in which case he’s gonna have to find an excuse to stay in the car a bit longer before someone sticks a camera in his face – but then the anger and adrenaline drain abruptly from his body like pulling a plug out of a sink full of water, and he wants very badly to see Oscar.

but as soon as oscar makes an appearance in the next paragraph (i.e. driving into parc ferme next to him), we’re into the bodily: lando’s out of the car, he feels like someone’s dumping freezing water down his back, his chest’s aching.

this ‘bodily’ description — describing the physical sensations rather than just reporting on what’s caused them — will instantly make your writing more immersive. it’s a good twofer because you can describe actions at the same time (i do massively overuse adverbs!) but also it’s just a lot easier for a reader’s brain to unconsciously ‘feel’ the clench of an anxious stomach or that low-belly kick of lust when you see someone you really wanna fuck, rather than you telling them “he really wanted to fuck oscar” and the reader having to work out for themselves how that feels, ygm?

so if you contrast that quote above ^ with this one from some poor sucker at the bottom of the lake:

There’s a sort of tussle, afterwards. Lando drags him down and Oscar allows himself to be dragged, or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, Lando ends up pinned, Oscar’s soaked gym shirt in his mouth, Oscar’s hand shoved inside his shorts. When he comes, an uncontrollable noise rips itself from his throat, and he bites down to muffle it. In the rush of sensation, he barely even notices he’s doing it.

we’re getting a lot about both of them with no direct description of what either of them are thinking until right until the end. i use quite violent verbs — dragged, pinned, shoved, rips, uncontrollable — and they do the job for me, without me having to spell it out. we can tell how they’re feeling, that they’re both half-feral and not really thinking straight, that they’re pissed off with each other as much as they want each other, the frustration and the way they can’t leave each other alone.

something else i like doing occasionally is to use a ‘thought metaphor’ (a term i have just invented, i’m sure there’s a proper technical term for it):

Oscar nods, dry-mouthed, watching the way Lando’s face sags with relief. He tips forward until he’s braced over Oscar’s body and moves his hips in a slow, muscular roll. It makes Oscar think of nature documentaries: one creature, pinned down by another.

so at the end there i could have just said “oscar feels pinned, like something from a nature documentary” and it would’ve worked pretty well, but by having him think of something adjacent (animalistic sex -> nature documentary, and then looping back round to -> THEREFORE they’re both creatures) you can kind of do something a bit more exciting that allows the reader to go OH okay, instead of just telling them. if that makes sense??

okay this is already far too long so i’ll stop now lmao BUT i hope at least something in here was useful??

ama about my fics!

[cellarspider]

19/30 A quiet moment

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We return to a movie that has monetarily developed a sense of childlike wonder, Prometheus.

You would think a movie about reaching out to aliens that created humanity would contain more of that, but this scene is all there is, mocking me eternally. This entry will be image-heavy and light on main text. Check the image alt-text for secondary analysis, should it interest you.

Y’know what’s a great movie? Contact.

[Video description: A trailer for the movie Contact. It’s a dense 2:27, and has good audio coverage of what’s going on. In fact, the audio design is impeccable. Whoever made this trailer was damn good at their job.]

Based on a novel by Carl Sagan and directed by Robert Zemeckis before he descended into uncanny motion capture hell, Contact is a thoughtful science fiction drama that follows a scientist searching for extraterrestrial life who receives Earth’s first message from space. It deals with disagreements around religion, and whether it’s compatible with the pursuit of science and wonder at the natural world. It deals with the messiness of human response to this situation, but ultimately ends on a hopeful note. But before it gets there, it can be eerie and tense, both from the ambiguity of the aliens’ intentions, and what humans might do to each other in response to the mere possibility of the signal being real.

Y’know what would’ve been a great horror movie? Precisely that premise, adapted to the Alien setting. Dedicated and marginalized and thoughtful people who devote themselves to reaching out to the stars, slowly learning that what they find there might be wondrous, but it is also unfathomably destructive.

This scene is the only one that captures something of that feeling. David goes off alone to investigate a sign of life elsewhere in the ship. He finds thousands of dormant urns, the promise of horrific destruction. And he finds what seems to be the command center of the ship. He’s dwarfed by the scale of it, looking like a child sitting behind the wheel of a car. And with a little prodding, he activates a hologram that shows the Engineers before everything went wrong.

He watches in complete silence, taking everything in, reveling in the swirling patterns of the ship’s star map, reaching out and catching a weightless little hologram of the Earth in his hands like a soap bubble. Its meaning is sinister, but the sheer experience of the moment is beautiful.

And then the hologram cuts out, drawing attention to a single stasis pod, where a still-living Engineer lies dormant.

This is the best scene in the movie. It wordlessly conveys the kind of wonder and joy of discovery the way the rest of the movie’s failed to do, it conveys information about the stakes and dire intentions of the Engineers in a non-explicit manner that could logically flow into the rest of the plot without clunky exposition, and it adds a further twist to what’s going to happen next.

David has just discovered that the Engineers were preparing to go to Earth, two thousand years ago. They were bringing death with them. One of them still lives. And David smiles. 

This is a fragment of a much better film, lodged deep in the runtime of Prometheus. It’s followed immediately by Holloway’s death, which failed to inspire much response in me at all, but this moment was beautiful. 

And next time, we’ll get to the best piece of horror in the movie. We have reached the summit of Prometheus. We’ll be tumbling back down the slopes soon enough, but for now, let’s enjoy this.

Citations for alt-text rambles:

https://youtu.be/uhHIM-1IZ_4 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uranus#Axial_tilt

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[toastytoaster22]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Tagged by @wingsonghalo

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

47!

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count?

753,979 holy shit

3. What fandoms do you write for?

These days just Mob Psycho 100, but I have written for Digimon Adventure and Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle as well.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

A little surprised by number 5 here! its such a teeny fic compared to the others.

Issho 2. Break 3. A Mother Muses 4. Socha 5. Stars on My Ceiling

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try! There was a big gap in 2022 where i had a newborn and zero time and energy, but usually I try to get a thank you out to everyone.

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

I'm the "happy ending guaranteed" author so very few of my fics end sad, but I do have a Digimon fic called Hugs Are Like Vitamins that is an exception to the rule. Very sad ending.

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

The end of Issho is probably the most satisfying ending, but I am unsure if its the happiest. Honestly, Stars on My Ceiling is cavity inducing. Effervescent is also painfully sweet. Chapter three of Into Bloom. all of these are pure fluff.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Extremely rarely. It has happened, and I don't engage. Deleted! Goodbye!

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

You know, I don't consider Leaps and Bounds smut. Its a fic that has a lot of explicit sex in it, but the story is about learning to be comfortable in the bedroom. If the sex is sexy, that's a bonus hahaha

10. Do you write crossovers?

I haven't yet, but I think about them sometimes...

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge. Here's hoping it stays that way.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Two, I think! Break was translated into Russian by @teawithbread!!! Thanks so much!!

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

No, I think I would be a nightmare to work with actually. I have had people ask and I politely decline.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

I am not very into romance in general, so I have to say TeruMob. They're basically the only ship I care about. I enjoy the idea of TaKari in Digimon but more as soulmates... could be platonic or romantic. They are inseparable no matter what.

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

My Never Hopeless sequel, A Dream In The Dark. UGHHHHHHHHH its only on ff.net bc i am so ashamed of dropping a project. I do still have the BINDER i wrote all my notes in though so perhaps when I am 80 I can dig it up and finish it.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Children! Hello! I write realistic children! And connecting readers to memories they forgot they had, apparently. Its a frequent comment topic.

I'm very good at describing hard to describe emotions and I think my pacing is good. I like writing endings that punch you with a final line to tie it all together. I'm a sucker for that shit.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I slow down dialogue with a few too many movement descriptions, I think. I just really like body language aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

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

I am too tired to really think this through. For the most part, seeing as I am writing for shows that are originally in Japanese, I try to keep food names accurate. I try to translate words unless they have no english equivalent like genkan. Foyer or entryway doesn't feel the same? I also tend to keep specific titles in japanese, seeing as they can get awkward or clunky when changed to english equivalents.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

On Ao3 it was Digimon and that's all you're getting out of me.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

I love all my children equally (Issho). But no seriously Break is insanely good and when i have Nightjar finished I will feel like its my new favorite child. Usually its whatever the last thing i wrote was.

UUUUUUUUU Tagging @ygodmyy20 @sodasexual @babovens @and-devi-remains @fizzy-champagne

[clarabowmp3]

is it bad that i literally cringed when I read that "veins of pitch black ink stuff" and that whole thing she wrote in the very first post of ttpd.. it feels like she just put random words together so that those people on tiktok and stuff find it "poetic"..like it's literally not?

omg YES yes at first I was just so intrigued/swept up in the excitement of it all but once it wore off…😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 it’s literally just more-descriptive-than-normal language, which doesn’t give it any poetic value AT ALL btw (at least in my book atypical vocab =/= poetic), her most poetic songs to me are so subtle and the poetic value is INHERENT in the atmosphere of the song/simplicity yet aptly chosen vocab!! The veins of pitch black ink lyric is SO clunky and ironically reduces any potential poetic value just because of how aggressively she is trying to force the poetic vibe

tbh it also feels like a midnights “doubling down” in the sense that pre-release she implied that it was very introspective (sleepless nights), and it feels like she’s digging her heels in even deeper with ttpd. Ofc it’s her music, she’s free to do wtv it wants, but it also feels like she’s deliberately erasing any and all sense of whimsy or lightheartedness to her albums, like everything is about her being tortured. When it’s a few songs, like on midnights, it’s still palatable (at least to me) but to have an entire album on it feels as though she’s taking herself too seriously in a very ‘I am 14 and this is deep’ kind of way which just isn’t fun to entertain so much

and omg the lyrics released with the bolter and the albatross editions?? Not poetic AT ALL literally the most generic statements and I’m sorry but they genuinely make her sound so insufferable as if she’s always victimising herself. I get that some experiences can make you feel certain ways but she’s 34!!

And on top of that I find it soooo icky how she’s orchestrating this entire release to make things worse for Joe for such a prolonged period of time. She picks the lyrics to be released, the reference to the group chat in the album title, like it all feels so immature. Even if she isn’t encouraging her fans she has to know what the more rabid ones are like. All in all I’m just not having a great time w this album release both in terms of quality and her behaviour :(