#rode micro

[pin-k-ink]

catharsis // sakusa kiyoomi

tw ⇢ touch-starved!reader, minor self harm, kinda angsty, hurt/comfort

wc ⇢ 1.4k

a/n: this was more to comfort me than anything else. since i usually burst into tears whenever anyone hugs me, which is something that happens once or twice a year

The faintest of marks marred your delicate skin - a cluster of faded scratch lines circling your wrist. Easily missable, had Sakusa's sharp gaze not caught the blemishes as your sleeve rode up. An infinitesimal crease creased his brow as he mentally catalogued the observation.

In the years he'd known you, Sakusa had unconsciously compiled a detailed dossier on your habits and quirks. The way you absentmindedly tucked stray strands of hair behind your ear. How you worried your lower lip between your teeth when deep in thought. That enigmatic scratching motion was new, at least new enough to pique his curiosity.

He made a point of scrutinizing you more closely over the following days and weeks. An invisible audience member watching you go about your daily life, searching for the trigger behind that restless tic. At first, there seemed to be no discernible pattern. You scratched your wrist idly while reading, while chatting with friends, while zoning out during class.

Then one day, Sakusa's watchful eyes caught the moment it happened. You were walking down the corridor engaged in cheerful conversation with Komori, your hands animatedly miming some story you were recounting. As you passed Sakusa, your fingers twitched almost imperceptibly, beginning to extend towards him before stuttering to a halt. In that aborted motion, your nails grazed your wrist and you resumed scratching - an unconscious redirect of your habitual tactile tendencies.

The realization hit Sakusa like a sledgehammer to the solar plexus. You were a tactile person, always hugging, patting shoulders, playful nudges. Everyone received your casually affectionate gestures...except him. Your ingrained impulses continued to reach out only to be forcibly quashed by the visible barrier of his obsessive personal space.

Sakusa's revelation unlocked a floodgate of memories, instances now glaringly obvious in hindsight. You were indiscriminate with your platonic affections - hugging Iizuna enthusiastically after a game, tucking yourself snugly against Komori's side as you chatted.

But with Sakusa, your boyfriend of nearly a year, your tactile instincts faltered. He witnessed it happening in real-time now that he was actively watching for it. Your hand would rise, fingers outspread as if to graze his arm or push back his curling fringe with tender familiarity. Then, an infinitesimal flinch, a micro-expression of remembered restraint flashing across your features. Your hand would abort its trajectory, retracting with mechanical rigidity as you unconsciously scratched faint lines into your wrist. A silent reprimand, punishing the part of you that still yearned to breach his carefully guarded personal space.

The ache in Sakusa's chest was an unexpected affliction. As someone who meticulously maintained crisp boundaries, he had never conceived that his shortcomings could so starve his girlfriend of something so fundamental. You gave your affections so freely to others, yet around him you were forced to subsist on meager scraps, furtive glances and aborted caresses the only intimacies he permitted.

With surgical precision, Sakusa began dissecting every interaction, analyzing your body language like a master shogi player scrutinizing a board. The way your eyes would linger wistfully on mundane couple moments - a simple hand-hold, a casual arm around slim shoulders. How, when thanked, your instinct was to offer an effusive hug before catching yourself at the last moment with a jerky smile and tight nod. Always denying yourself, policing your most fundamental love language to avoid trespassing his boundaries.

The more Sakusa observed, the more his gut twisted with guilt-laced regret. You were starving, yet continued to nourish everyone around you with the generous tactility he had inadvertently conditioned out of your interactions.

When someone from his team scored a spectacular point, you swept him into an exuberant hug, squeezing tightly as you jumped with joy. Sakusa watched the brilliant smile gradually dim, your arms slowly slacking until you gave one final pat on his back before releasing him. As if the brief contact wasn't enough to slake your profound thirst.

With Komori, your hugs lingered a beat longer, your cheek nuzzling into the crook of his neck as you savored the proximity of a trusted friend. Sakusa caught you burying your nose in the soft fabric of Komori's shirt, inhaling deeply with your eyes drifting shut - inhaling the simple human scent you'd been deprived of with your boyfriend.

Even alone, your hands sought substitute solace. Sakusa tracked the restless way you'd play with the ends of your hair, wrapping thick strands around your fingers to stroke and fiddle with. Or how you'd cross your arms tightly, creating some semblance of an embrace by running palms along your own forearms. Paltry imitations to temporarily assuage the perpetual starvation he had inflicted upon you.

The realization congealed like a lead weight in Sakusa's stomach. His issues, his boundaries had turned your most fundamental needs into an unforgivable deprivation. You had always been selfless in respecting his limits. But at what cost to your own heart and psyche? Sakusa felt like a monster, systematically stripping away something as essential and human as physical affection.

That oppressive guilt propelled him into action. If he couldn't fully satiate your needs, he at least had to try meeting you partway. You deserved that much after all the thoughtful accommodations you had made for him.

Sakusa's stomach was in knots as you settled next to him, textbooks and notes strewn between you for your study session. He steeled himself, determined to start making amends.

When he finally understood a tricky concept, relief and pride bloomed across your features. "Sakusa-san, you got it!" you exclaimed, hands raising in an abortive movement before wilting back to your lap. A brilliant smile plastered on, you gave him a small nod of encouragement rather than the congratulatory hug your body had instinctively begun.

Something inside Sakusa shattered at the subtle denial. How many times had you squashed such impulses? How many hugs, pats, and casual caresses had his aversion conditioned out of your loving nature over the months?

You blinked owlishly as Sakusa stared at you, expression inscrutable. After an endless moment, he finally spoke in a low murmur. "We've never even kissed, have we?"

"O-oh!" You flushed, hands fluttering nervously. "You don't have to force yourself, Sakusa-san, I understand. Really, it's okay, I don't need-"

He cut off your reassuring babble by cupping your face with gentle reverence. Holding your widened gaze, he brushed his lips across your forehead, then each fluttering eyelid, the apples of your cheeks, finally coming to linger achingly soft against the seam of your parted lips.

When Sakusa finally pulled back, you were dumbstruck, lower lip trembling. Your brow knit, chin crumpling as you blinked back the first shattering tears. A cracked whimper slipped free as the dam burst, soft sobs wracking your frame.

"Shhh..." he soothed, thumbs brushing away the streams of tears. Sakusa pressed his forehead against yours, cradling you against his chest as you soaked his shirt. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he rasped, voice splintered with uncharacteristic remorse. "You deserve more, so much more. I'll do better, I promise."

Sakusa held you through the cathartic deluge, his solid frame a grounding presence as you released years of pent-up deprivation. He murmured a litany of hushed reassurances, achingly tender sentiments you had long ached to hear from his usually taciturn manner.

As your sobs tapered off to occasional hitching breaths, he pulled back just enough to frame your blotchy face in his large palms. His thumb brushed the lingering tear tracks as he searched your reddened eyes.

"I've been blind," he said gruffly. "Selfish in my boundaries without considering your needs. You've been so patient, but I can't allow this to go on any longer."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he shook his head firmly. "No, let me finish. I'm...not good at this sort of thing. Intimacies. Displaying affection openly." His gaze flickered away briefly before locking on you again with renewed determination.

"But I'll try, for you. We'll go at my pace, find ways for me to...indulge you." The faintest of smiles played at the corner of his lips. "Maybe start with proper dates rather than holing up to study all the time, hm?"

You gave a watery smile at that, nodding as you brushed at your eyes. Sakusa's thumb traced your cheekbone tenderly.

"Be patient with me," he murmured. "I may fumble and misstep as I figure this out. But I want...I want to take care of you, too."

Leaning in, he brushed a featherlight kiss against the apple of your cheek before enveloping you in a cautious, almost tentative embrace. You melted into his arms, reveling in the novel warmth and firm reassurance of his touch as you burrowed against his chest contentedly.

It was a start, you mused. The first blossoming of Sakusa opening himself up to your world of affection and intimacy. You would savor every treasured gesture, because you knew - he was finally letting you in.

[tobiasdrake]

Ranma 1/2 reboot episode 4 opens with a deep cut.

Yeah, we're opening on the Ranma 1/2 SNES fighting games they used to have. Because fandom's like that sometimes.

(Now release a modern one.)

I was wondering if it'd be Ryoga or Shampoo introduced next.

(Because I don't actually remember the order they introduce characters in. XD)

Was hoping for Shampoo but I'll gladly take Ryoga. I hope we get to Ukyo before the end of the season. I don't expect we will. But I hope so.

IT BEGINS

Ryoga's legendary inability to find his way. This is a character who can be justified for crossovers by just wandering by. How did he get to Middle Earth? He's just that fucking lost, that's how.

My very first Ranma 1/2 experience, before I knew what the anime was, came from my cousin cosplaying Ryoga at an anime con. He rode an elevator up and down for like an hour just screaming, "Where's the door!?"

I need y'all to properly appreciate the route Ryoga took to Furinkan High School in Nerima.

Do you see that black circle? That is Tokyo. That is where he is trying to go.

The red circle is Shikoku. When he stops the boar and asks for directions to Furinkan High, this is where he is. He's got a long way to go.

The blue circle is Hokkaido, the second place where he stops to ask directions. He has made a complete journey from one end of Japan to the other without ever running into Tokyo.

He's just. So much fun.

"RANMA OUR TIME FOR DESTINED BATTLE HAS COME"

"...who are you again?"

Is pretty much the story of his life from here on out.

Ryoga is kind of a big deal. Of all of Ranma's rivals, he's the rival. He's the guy. Kuno's really more of a recurring nuisance and Mousse is more quirky than anything. Ryoga is the guy who really keeps Ranma on his toes.

Together, these two boys have a very long journey ahead.

...

Which only makes it more amazing that their rivalry is founded in something so petty and ridiculous, but that is the way of Ranma 1/2. Ryoga is homicidally furious because he was supposed to fight Ranma, but Ranma only waited three days for him to arrive at the vacant lot behind Ryoga's house rather than giving him the four days it took him. Ranma stood him up. The coward.

And all over a curry bun.

This is the magic of Ryoga Hibiki. He is an utterly absurd buffoon of a man who takes himself deathly serious. Blissfully oblivious to how entirely ridiculous he is.

He is the Tom to Ranma's Jerry but he thinks he's Vegeta.

Technically, it's his curse that he's so furious about. But. Like. He was already mad enough to follow Ranma to China. With his sense of direction. So pinning it on the curse is deflecting. Ryoga has a longstanding enmity towards Ranma born of a million micro-aggressions compounding into a spongey hatred that can't be easily untangled.

You can't just give him a bunch of week-old bread and then it's all good.

He doesn't even remember he's mad about that. Longstanding hatred eventually loses sight of why it ever started to begin with.

(And besides, Ryoga has more recent things to be upset about.)

I like the subtle build-up they lay out to the revelation that Ryoga too has a Jusenkyo curse. Starting when he says this.

It's interesting that he knows that. He should only know that Ranma stood him up and then left town. But he knows Genma took Ranma to China.

There's also his primary weapon that he fights with for most of the episode.

The story lingers on the fact that Ryoga's umbrella is ridiculously heavy. Even Akane can't lift it. The intense weight of the umbrella serves as a yardstick to show how incredibly strong Ryoga is.

And, later, how strong and determined to protect Akane Ranma is.

But there is one more interesting fact about Ryoga's umbrella that the narrative lets slip past without remarking on it: The fact that it's an umbrella. It's almost as if he's afraid of something in particular.

Something you might use an umbrella, specifically, to protect yourself from.

(Again, the way Ranma 1/2 integrates the malevolent effects of something so universal and ever-present as water into its storytelling, comedy, and action is so much fun.)

And it's in the way he takes personal offense at Ranma's comparatively benign curse.

Like. Yeah, Ranma has to suffer gender dysphoria sometimes but he did get off easy. At least he stays human. Other curse-bearers face a variety of drawbacks that Ranma doesn't have to deal with.

Nobody is going to try to cook and eat Ranma.

Of course, human misery is not judged on a curve. Ranma can be miserable with his gender dysphoria and be better off than other curse-bearers. Both of those things can be true.

But the way Ryoga loses his shit over Ranma's curse is another piece of well-placed foreshadowing about the true nature of his grudge.

Lastly, something I find... interesting... is this moment.

I need to unpack this. Ryoga's razor-sharp belt comes spinning down and slices off Akane's hair, with the implication that if she hadn't turned around to yell at Ranma just now, it would have been her head.

Ranma fucked up yet again in the middle of their argument and hurt Akane's feelings with the stupid-ass shit he says. Leading to Akane storming around, then whipping around to argue with Ranma right at a critical moment that saved her life.

But what really makes this fascinating is that it wasn't Ryoga that almost killed her by accident just now.

It wasn't not Ryoga. But it wasn't just Ryoga.

Ryoga brought the razor belt. But it was Ranma who kicked the belt out of Ryoga's hand. Ranma who sent it up into the air, and nearly brought it down on Akane's neck by accident.

It wasn't Ryoga that nearly killed her. And it wasn't Ranma either. It was the fight. And it was, specifically, a kick that was meant to end the fight, an attack Ranma threw in self-defense because the realization that he hurt Akane's feelings made everything Ryoga's about right now stop mattering.

When Ranma threw that kick, he no longer cared about whatever this shit is. He was trying to fix what he'd just screwed up with Akane, only for the unforeseeable consequences of choices he didn't realize in the heat of the moment that he was even making to suddenly come down on her like a razor blade.

It was his cruel words that put her in that spot and his shortsighted reflex that sent the blade into the air. But it was also his attempt to apologize that made her turn around and saved her from a much more grievous injury.

I don't.

Really.

Know what to do with that.

It's just. Interesting.

[oopsiedaisiesbaby]

Micro idea/prompt: Ken Lemmons confesses his feelings for Curt Biddick to the Buckies, and his fear of being inadequate in bed since he's only been with a couple of people and he himself is only a teenager.

They agree to *ahem* teach him, but they also find his fumbling touches endearing, and he turns out to be really good at some specific things

This “cute unedited ficlet” turned out significantly longer and a smidge raunchier than I meant it to😅 I hope this fits your vision though! I also combined some previous asks that I’ll link to later when I eventually put this up on AO3! Thank you for the brain rot 🥰

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Hair Pulling, Light Spanking, Praise Kink, Cuck Bucky (Kind of but Maybe Not Really?), Ken/Buck/Bucky

“How do you like to get fingered?”

A not so innocent question, but entirely earnest and genuine. Ken had almost felt a little guilty when he watched Buck choke on his powdered eggs at the question.

Maybe asking it in the crowded officer’s mess where dozens of other men could hear wasn’t the best idea. Ken wasn’t deterred though. He refused to feel any type of shame about trying to learn how to please an omega. Especially when the omega that would be on the receiving end of such information was Curtis Biddick.

Ken had taken longer than he would have liked to admit to his feelings for the handsome pilot, 7 years his senior. Curt’s pursuit of him had been relentless though and was eventually enough to convince Ken that it was okay to be stupid in love with the older omega.

It still didn’t solve Ken’s problem of being an inexperienced 19 year old alpha. He was no blushing virgin, but he had nothing to on Curt’s 26 years of raunchy stories of passionate, rough, wild sex.

This was the love of Ken’s life, his future mate. He just wanted to make sure he was enough for Curt.

Which brought Ken to where he was now.

In a king sized hotel bed with Buck and Bucky as Buck rode Bucky like a bull. Tears streamed down Buck’s face while Bucky used the leverage of his feet being planted on the bed to meet every roll of Buck’s hips with a thrust of his own.

Buck was wailing every time Bucky’s hip met his ass. Bucky was grunting and whimpering with each snap of his hips.

Ken was unbearably turned on.

He had never realized that two people could fuck like feral animals and still be making love. It was rough, wild, passionate. Everything Curt banged on about at nights at the pub and O-club.

However, the absolute love and devotion Buck and Bucky had for each other was evident. The way they clearly trusted each other with every fiber of their beings, the smitteness that sparked in their eyes every time their gazes connected.

This hadn’t been what he intended to happen when he’d marched into the officer’s mess and asked Buck about being fingered. It didn’t come close to what he had imagined would happen when Buck and Bucky dragged him outside and asked: “What the hell, Lemmons?”

After stuttering out his embarrassed admission that he felt inadequate and unprepared to bed Curt, Ken did not expect this when they had offered to teach him, mirth dancing across their faces. He had expected a lecture of sorts, maybe even some lewd drawings from Bucky. Ken had shown up at the hotel room door with a notebook.

Ken had not been prepared for this.

His fingers were still sticky with Buck’s slick after Bucky had demonstrated then coached him through exactly how to finger an omega. His tongue was still ripe with the taste of Buck’s pussy.

While he hadn’t been able to make Buck come with his mouth like Bucky had, or like Ken had with his ‘clever, talented’ fingers, Ken would never forget the experience. Buck’s raspy, honeyed voice crooning about how precious and eager he was. Bucky’s nasally but fond tone as he pet through Ken’s curls and told him how cute he was.

Ken would forever melt when he remembered them praising how good he was doing despite him fumbling around like a nervous virgin.

“No!” Buck cried out, yanking Ken out of his aroused musings.

Bucky had pulled out and was rolling Buck over onto his back.

“It’s okay,” Bucky soothed, a low purr accenting his words. He brushed Buck’s sweaty hair back as he settled between his legs and started to jerk off over Buck’s prone form. “Kenny’s gonna take care of yah. Ain’t that right, Lemmons?”

A roguish smile and wink were tossed Ken’s way before Bucky’s focus went solely back to Buck.

“Now, you saw how we found a rhythm and I was still giving it to him even though Buck here was in charge?” Ken nodded, lips parted in awe as Bucky leaned down enough to wrap Buck’s dick in his fist alongside his own to Buck’s apparent delight. “Soldier?”

Ken had forgotten to verbally answer but the barked check in had him snapping to attention.

“Yes sir,” Ken answered, voice thick with arousal as he watched Buck writhe against the sheets while Bucky shuddered between his legs. The sound of Bucky working their cocks together was slick and loud.

“That’s what you wanna do when you’ve got incredible omegas like Buck and Curt,” Bucky explained, voice growing ragged. “They’ll show you what they need if you just pay attention.”

“Yes sir,” Ken agreed easily.

“We’ll always let them lead unless they ask otherwise. It’s ‘cause we love ‘em, right?” Bucky panted, the flex of his bicep was frantic. “Because they can take care of themselves, but they trust us to help them.”

Buck’s keen cut off any response Ken might have had. He watched, mouth filing with saliva as Buck’s knees snapped tight around Bucky’s hips, his head tossing back against the pillow as he came for the fourth time that evening. His rich honey scent spiked, flooding the air and making Ken’s knot ache.

Apparently, it had Bucky feeling just as turned on because he made a concerning choking noise, his muscles tensing impossibly tight. Ken’s worry was cut short as Bucky’s warm whiskey scent peaked and intertwined with Buck’s to create a smell that was both mouth watering and comforting all wrapped into one.

He saw Buck reach down between them. Bucky hissed and used the hand not already between them to pin Buck’s before leaning down and whispering to him between sweet kisses.

“Promise I’ll knot you real good later, doll.” Ken felt like he was intruding on a private moment. It was silly, he’d just watched them fuck, had participated in the foreplay, but this felt like a line. “Kenny’s gonna take care of you. He already had you squealing with his fingers and he’s so sweet and eager. You’ll love it, Gale.”

Ken flushed as Bucky rolled to the side, fist wrapped tight around his knot. He wasn’t sure if he could do this anymore.

He loved Curt with his entire being. Wanted to be the best alpha he could possibly be for him. This was a commanding officer though and said commanding officer was another commanding officer’s mate.

“Don’t got all day Lemmons,” Buck drawled drily, still a little breathless.

Bucky grinned, petting his free hand over over Buck’s sweaty hair once again. Ken swallowed thickly.

He cautiously made his way back in between Buck’s legs. His knot throbbed as his gaze landed on Buck’s come covered dick and belly. Still feeling like he was overstepping by looking, Ken shifted his gaze up to Buck’s face.

It somehow felt even more covetous.

His bite swollen lips, flushed pink cheeks, and wide sky blue eyes nearly overtaken by pupils left Ken dizzy.

“C’mon Lemmons,” Bucky encouraged next to them. “Got him all warmed up for yah and you’ve got everything you need right here.”

A knobby knuckle knocked against his forehead softly and Ken could only nod in answer.

He grabbed a hold of the base of his cock and guided the head of it towards Buck’s entrance. Buck twitched and Ken’s breath stuttered as he watched Buck’s hole clench and relax.

Ken’s eyes darted to Buck’s face worriedly and he received a warm, encouraging smile in return. Buck cupped is cheek gently, his calloused thumb stroking over it.

“Give it to me, sweetheart,” Buck commanded softly.

Ken was helpless but to obey such a direct order.

Slipping inside slow and gentle, Ken burned at Buck’s sharp inhale as he filled him. He was well aware that he wasn’t as big as Bucky, but it fueled his alpha fire to have an omega react like that to his cock.

“That’s it,” Bucky commended him, slapping the back of his shoulder playfully. “Now, let’s see if you can make him scream again or maybe even cry this time.”

Ken still didn’t have high hopes, even with the half dry tear tracks streaking down Buck’s cheeks. He was eager to try though. He gave a few experimental rolls of his hips, trying to find the right angle before trying to attempt the rough, wild pace he’d just seen Buck and Bucky accomplish together.

Bucky was so patient and quiet, letting out only the occasional pleased hum. It was sweet, Ken kind of wanted to cry himself.

“Remember how you crooked your fing-”

Buck gasped up at Ken when he followed Bucky’s reminder with his hips. Bingo.

He picked up the pace a bit, going a bit harder and faster. Ken wasn’t sure how he was supposed to treat Buck rougher than this though. He didn’t want to hurt him.

“You can go harder than that,” Buck told him, hand sweeping down to cradle Ken’s nape.

Ken bit his lip worriedly. He’d seen Bucky treat Buck much rougher than this, but they were mates. Ken would rather die than cause Buck pain. Or worse, Curt.

“They’re tough, Lemmons,” Bucky reminded him.

Which was so unbearably true, Ken was almost embarrassed by how much he had fretted. All of the omegas he knew were some of the toughest people he had ever encountered. Especially Buck and Curt.

Hell, Curt wouldn’t shut up about passionate and rough he liked it if you got him drunk enough.

With that in mind, Ken picked up the rhythm of his hips until he was fucking into Buck hard and determined like he was working on a particularly difficult engine. Buck seemed to appreciate it if the way he fought the fluttering of his lashes was any indication.

“Atta boy,” Bucky crowed, ruffling Ken’s curls.

It was probably weird to not feel threatened by another alpha touching him during sex. Ken couldn’t focus on that though.

His attention was dedicated to the way Buck’s pussy spasmed around his cock. He was enraptured by the little moans getting caught in Buck’s throat. Ken was consumed by the fire burning through his veins.

“Now, pull on his hair,” Bucky ordered.

Ken did not hesitate.

Buck keened, back arching as Ken yanked on the soft, spun gold hair. It had him snapping tight around Ken’s cock and he struggled to find oxygen for a few beats.

“S’good,” Buck groaned throatily when Ken did it again. “You’re so good Kenny.”

The fire in Ken’s belly flared at the praise. He planted his other hand in the pillow next to Buck’s face to give himself more leverage and really put his back into it. Buck moaned, shocked and delighted, his breath picking up considerably as he dropped his hand from Ken’s neck and flung it towards Bucky.

“There you go,” Bucky encouraged. “Feel how much wetter he got for you?”

He had. Ken could also smell Buck’s scent sweetening and took his eyes off of Buck’s Adonis face to see his cock thickening between their stomachs.

“Tell him how pretty he is,” Bucky ordered as he shifted on the bed next to them.

“Pr-prettiest man I-I ev-ver sssaw,” Ken mumbled breathlessly.

Ken had to be in shape to keep up and work on the big birds but fucking The Gale “Buck” Cleven was a sport in and of itself.

He hard Bucky huff a laugh at his stumbling complement before the older alpha was leaning in to steal a quick kiss from Buck. Ken’s chest ached as he watched Buck lift his head to follow Bucky’s mouth and Bucky smacked an indulgent kiss, that was mostly a grin, to Buck’s mouth.

“Hear that, doll? Lemmons thinks your prettier than Curt.” Ken rankled at the insinuation, hips reflexively snapping into Buck so hard it forced a wail out of him. He only realized he’d fallen for a trap when Bucky smirked devilishly at him. “Tell him how nice his tits are. How tight his pussy is.”

Buck groaned, shaking his head and Ken wasn’t surprised when Buck lifted his and Bucky’s conjoined hands up to his face to bury his nose against Bucky’s worst. An order was an order though.

“P-pussy’s ssso t-tight-t, feel lik-ke I c-can’t-t breathe,” Ken admitted haltingly, a little too honestly, steering clear on commenting on Buck’s chest.

It somehow felt like a step too far.

His efforts were rewarded with Buck letting out a guttural moan, knees clenching around Ken’s waist. Ken couldn’t help his appreciative whimper. He had been inside omegas before, but it had never been like this.

“Good boy, Kenny,” Bucky praised, town full of delight.

The Major’s were certifiable.

“Use your grip on his hair to start pulling him back into your thrusts,” Bucky commanded, brushing Buck’s sweaty hair back from his face.

Buck’s mouth dropped open around a wild keen, neck straining as he tossed his head back when Ken complied. He watched Buck’s lips split into what could only be described as a feral grin. Ken was not prepared for Buck to screw up purposefully tight around him like that and nearly popped his knot right then.

“Feel’s good doesn’t it?” Bucky crooned. Ken wasn’t sure if Bucky was talking to him or Buck, but they both gave answering moans, confirming just how much they loved it. “Now, slap his ass.”

Ken paused for a moment before releasing his grip form the pillow and bringing his hand down against Buck’s ass.

“Harder,” Buck demanded through gritted teeth.

Complying immediately, fire blazed through Ken at the way Buck’s lashes fluttered. How his honey scent sweetened even more.

“Know for a fact that Curt likes it harder than that, Lemmons,” Bucky goaded.

Ken brought his hand down so hard on the next slap that reverberation of it rang in his ears like a bell. He couldn’t hear Buck’s answering whine over his desperate whimpers. It was all starting to become a little too overwhelming. The fire in his veins was going to consume him.

“Can you tell how close he is?” Bucky’s question was whispered, almost reverent. Nodding, Ken took note of just how flushed Buck’s neck and chest had gotten, how his honey scent had crested and seemed to blanket all three of them. “Touch his dick.”

With that final order, Bucky pulled Buck into a filthy kiss. Buck moaned helplessly into it as Bucky fucked his tongue into his mouth in time with the rhythm of Ken’s hips and his fist around Buck’s cock. It had Buck snapping so tight around him, Ken forgot how to breathe for a moment.

“Don’t knot,” Bucky reminded him before licking back into Buck’s mouth.

Buck groaned, back arching impossibly as he screwed up so tight around Ken the fire inside of him caught. A sudden liquid warmth coated Ken’s hand and just as he felt the roaring of the fire peak, he pulled out and used that same hand to wrap around his popping knot.

He watched in awe as come spilled all over Buck’s pussy and softening cock, mixing with the spend that was already there. Ken’s ripe fig scent mixed intoxicatingly with the Majors’ honey whiskey notes. Ken wanted to feel embarrassed by how pitchy his whimpers went as he felt like he burned alive.

Collapsing on top of Buck, Ken allowed himself to be maneuvered to the side. A strong hand cradled the back of his head, pushing his face against Buck’s chest until the roar of the fire in his ears dampened enough to hear a comforting coo vibrating under his cheek.

Never, in a million years, did Ken think Buck would be the type to give in to such an omega instinct. He felt so overwhelmed in that moment thought that he was nothing but grateful for it.

“Well done, Kenny,” Bucky crowed, slapping Ken’s shoulder gently.

“Such a good boy,” Buck agreed, his fingers carding through Ken’s hair.

Ken couldn’t help but to preen.

“You fuck Curt like that,” Bucky mused. “I bet he’ll be begging for you to mate him the first time.”

Bucky was entirely correct.

Ken, of course, complied.

Afterwards, when Curt and Ken were basking in the afterglow, Curt swore when Ken fucked him he had:

“Heard angels singing.”

[which-item-poll]

Website is in the tags!

[leodanbrock]

said this elsewhere but man i miss when voice actors weren’t micro celebrities who are easily accessible to ordinary people who thrive on parasocial attention. especially when said behaviour is in some cases has been a thinly disguised veil for predatory behaviour and you get people like vic mignoga, quinton flynn, even orion acaba in the long buried early days of critical role, running around. or a situation like joe zieja who rode the wave of popularity he got from the eng dub of claude from three houses. not saying they all end this way but i do not want to be interacting with VAs at all. i might enjoy their performances but that's it. i don't wish to engage with them personally, i don't want to have this parasocial fanservice connection.

genuinely SO bizarre and a little bit funny to me that people will be so critical about parasocial behaviour when it comes to one thing they like but when it comes to VAs for a fucking video game or anime they are willingly fanging up the engagement in their posts from people who really should consider using burners to search up their names and engage with fans rather than inserting themselves into conversations they aren’t invited into. sorry to be a killjoy but this is the exact sort of parasocial engagement people are allegedly against and it almost never ends well for anyone, it's just unhealthy.

[tethrras]

49 & 50 for the micro fics!!

49. nightfall & 50. accost

It's been hard to keep the peace at the Vigil for a while now.

Hilda's decision to burn down Amaranthine was a difficult one. Difficult for her to make and difficult for others to understand. Alistair has spent a month defending her until he's red in the face, telling the soldiers and the volunteers at Vigil's Keep that she would've made another choice if she could, that she never wanted this to happen, that Maker's breath, she's a Fereldan, she was born and raised on the coast, if there was anything she could've done to save Amaranthine, she was the first person that would've tried to save it. If the glares he gets in the mess hall are a good indication, then he's not convincing anyone, but it's worth it to know that it makes Hilda feel better. It's the least he can do.

Tonight, though, the men in the Keep are drunk and their lips are loose. While Hilda, Alistair, and Nathaniel eat their dinner in silence, the soldiers have a loud conversation on the other side of the mess hall, completely unaware - or uncaring - that Hilda can hear their every word.

"Did she even try?"

"I dunno. A couple people who were there said she looked - she looked like she didn't care at all. 'So be it', she said. Then they rode off towards the Vigil."

"Maker's breath..."

"Why're we still here?"

"'Cuz we need the wardens to save us from the Darkspawn."

"The wardens couldn't even save Amaranthine!"

Hilda stares down at her plate, unblinking. Alistair's fist clenches around his fork. Nathaniel, sensing the tension, places a hand on Alistair's shoulder to soothe him. He's spent the last month defending Hilda's decision, too, but Alistair can tell he's growing tired of it.

"It's not worth it," Nathaniel mutters.

"We stopped the Blight not even a year ago," Alistair seethes. "How have they already forgotten?"

"Because they're choosing to forget." Nathaniel moves his hand to Alistair's wrist. "Just let it go."

And he tries. He really, really tries. He asks Hilda about her day, makes jokes about how Havard is doing in Denerim, and tells Nathaniel about the odd-looking cloud he saw that morning that was shaped like a duck, but if a duck was wearing a hat. But the soldiers on the other side of the room keep talking, their conversation growing louder and louder, and eventually, Alistair's had enough.

"Alistair -"

Nathaniel reaches for him too late. Without warning Alistair is across the room, grabbing one man - the loudest man - by the collar and throwing him up against the wall behind him.

"The woman you're talking about is the Hero of Ferelden," Alistair snarls. "The only reason you're still alive to complain is because she saved you - saved all of you - from the Blight."

"But she -"

Alistair raises his fork in the air as menacingly as he can. "If you say one more word about her -"

"Alistair -!"

The man he's holding pushes lamely at his arm. "Let me go!"

"Fine." Alistair drops his collar and steps back. "If you want to make up for what happened to Amaranthine, why don't you all go there to help the soldiers rebuild instead of sitting here, eating all of our food and complaining like a bunch of... like..." He sighs in frustration. "Just go, alright?!"

"Alright, alright!"

The man and his friends leave the mess hall, throwing glances over their shoulder and whispering amongst themselves. Alistair waits until the door swings shut behind them to turn around and give Hilda sheepish, apologetic look.

"We didn't need them anyway," he insists, stepping forward to take her in his arms and hug her close. "Things will be better without men like them around."

He's right - while rebuilding the Keep takes longer than it was supposed to, sending the dissidents and protesters to Amaranthine means the operations at the Vigil run a lot more smoother. And Hilda starts smiling a lot more than she has the past few months, which is all Alistair cares about. He'd burn down another city for that smile. Thank the Maker he doesn't have to.

-

prompts

[writingwell]

Could you write a fic where Beckett has been sick for a bit and keeps insisting it’s a cold before Castle forces her to take a Covid test preferably pre-couple pretty pleaseeee🙏🏼

pre-couple but covid, idk what time machine shenanigans would go on for that, so i made it tried-to-be-a-couple didn't-work might-try-again-any-day. you might not be looking for that. but here you go:

What started innocently enough soon turned vicious: from a tickle to a hellacious barking, sniffing when she drank a freshly made cup of espresso to vampire sneezing explosively in rapid succession.

Every eyebrow in the bullpen went up. Every eye turned her way, suspicious and damning.

She seemed to notice her audience, turned to him instead, glaring as she spat, "It's not covid!"

"Uh-huh," he answered. Both hands raised in surrender.

But they all knew.

(Well, they all suspected, because it was 2022, and they were midway through boosters and Delta/Omicron and Great Flu Resurgence and some of the beat officers were getting RSV on top of that and then a stomach flu went around when the masks came off in the precinct, and really, coughing and sneezing and a scratchy voice—what else could it be?)

No one was immune to the suspicion, just as no one was immune to covid but in the window of time afforded to one by the life of the vaccine or a previous bout with the novel corona virus, and well, everyone had their own story to tell, much like after 9/11 when that was the first thing people talked about in the street or meeting for a drink, where were you, only now it was how many of your family died or how long were you laid up?

Rick Castle cornered her (not too closely, no; he knew she was contagious and he didn't want his mother getting it, vaccinated or not) in the parking garage of the Twelfth before she could ride up to Homicide.

"It's not covid," she hissed, before he could even speak.

"So take a test," he answered easily. "Put our minds at ease."

"I did. I have. I've taken three," she hissed.

If he stepped back to avoid whatever sprayed from her hissing, could you blame him? "This morning? Before the call about the body?"

"Last night," she said. A grudging hesitation. "It was negative last night."

"Okay, then maybe go to the City clinic," he said amicably. "Could be strep." Or whooping cough.

"I don't feel bad, no body aches, no fever—"

"Alexis got strep every winter until she was thirteen. That year, no strep! We joked she'd grown out of it. But then her best friend, after every sleepover, would mysteriously come down with strep and Alexis wouldn't. Friend's mom made me take her in and get tested. Sure enough, she was asymptomatic."

"It's not strep," Beckett answered. Scathingly, but she was the Captain, and she did often push him aside when she needed to get going and he was being difficult.

(Busy woman, the Captain of the Twelfth. He was often being difficult, considering he wouldn't quit her and she wouldn't commit to him.

But she wasn't wrong, since she had a press conference to get to and a Homicide division to micro-manage. Whoops, did he say micro-manage? He was being mean. In his own head. To the woman of his dreams/nightmares.

Theirs was often a love-hate relationship these days.)

He kept silent, rode the elevator up with her. He made her a cup of espresso in the break room while she prepped for the press conference. Granted, he was rushing to get it ready—coffee was still their love language, despite the bumps in their road—but when she took a sip and her face blanched, he knew.

"Ahem. Funny taste?"

"It's not covid, Castle."

At the press conference, she was in the middle of her rundown on the DB—okay, yes, Castle should have been listening but the guy had been a jackass member of City Council who had tried to get her fired—and her voice cracked.

She cleared her throat. Coughed delicately into her fist. Tried again.

Her voice broke like fine porcelain in the hands of underpaid movers, and the first question from the press was, Are you coming down with something?

She steadfastly refused to look at him. Deny deny deny, and she was getting good at it, as the Captain of the Twelfth, had to give her that.

He was home that night working on book edits—he was giving Nikki Heat a vicious bout of covid, laying her up in her apartment, when a murderer comes to call—when his phone vibrated off his desk and dropped to the floor.

Her face the ID. From that ill-fated night in his bed. She had changed it twice before he'd discovered a passcode to his phone she couldn't guess/wheedle from his mother. Even now, it filled with him a melange of dread and sweetness, terror and tenderness.

"Captain Beckett, you rang?"

"Castle—"

"You sound awf—"

"I have covid."

"I know," he murmured, rising to his feet. "I bought chicken soup from the Czech deli on my way home, and I have a guy on speed dial who can prescribe you paxlovid."

"The drug? I heard it gives you rebound covid."

"That's not because of the drug," he told her, gathering his keys and wallet, his jacket. "It's just a thing some people get, treatment or no."

"Okay," she croaked. "Get me drugs."

"I'll be right there."

He arrived forty-seven minutes later with the prescription, chicken soup, a package of KN95s, his laptop, and a determination he'd not felt since that botched night.

She took it all.

She wore the mask, laid on the couch in the living room with her face to a satin pillow, her eyes slitted like a cat, and watched him make edits on the book.

"Did you give her covid?" she rasped.

"Yes."

She didn't answer. Merely watched him.

He submitted his first round of edits and made her a bowl of soup, wore his own mask but wouldn't isolate from her as she sipped the broth. Her throat worked as if each swallow was pain. Her eyes had dark rings, bruised-looking, and her hair was limp. She coughed and they both flinched.

He fished a water with electrolytes from his bag of provisions, opened it for her because her fingers looked fragile. She drank. She eyed him.

She fell asleep with the bowl against her chest, half drunk. He took it from her, put the water on the floor close at hand, couldn't resist pushing the hair back behind her ear.

He bent low. Held his breath for an instant before he confessed: "I didn't want to. But. I still love you."

-----

[frenchiefitzhere]

Both of your series give me art zoomies, but I was wondering if you could enlighten someone who plans to start their own va stuff (eventually 😓). What does your recording/editing process look like?

Big caveat: I'm not an expert. Entirely self-taught. All trial and error and YT tutorials. But I'm happy to share what I've learned 🌻 1. Set-up: a. Microphone: Rode NT-1 with a Focusrite Scarlett audio interface b. Software: Garageband (for most things) + Audacity (for fixing things) c. "Studio": I have the microphone on a floor stand in my walk-in closet. I also recently added a sound blanket as a curtain on the outside of my closet. I found it does make a difference which way I point the mic: away from the window that opens to the street.

A fancy microphone matters far less than the recording environment, I have found. It's important to check for things like appliances, fans, vents, etc. that might make extra sound. I'm pretty picky about getting a clean, crisp recording. (For example, if a car passes on the road as I'm recording a line, I do it again.) The reason the closet is a good place to record is because the fabric absorbs the sound. 2. Recording a. I record each character on her own track in GarageBand, and whenever I can, I will record as much content for the same character as I can (i.e. over multiple episodes).

b. It's much easier in the editing process to record A-A-A, B-B-B, C-C-C style for lines rather than A-B-C, A-B-C. In other words, if I mess up a line or think I might want a different take, I just immediately redo it as many times as I have to (rather than recording the whole script in one go, getting to the end, and starting over). c. It's helpful to have a nonverbal signal that shows up as a spike on the recording. (I learned that from Erik's little Audacity tutorial video.) So, if I know I have a section that I want to mark for some reason (ex. I know I messed up, I was doing foley, etc.), I just snap my fingers. d. Foley: If I have to make my own sound effects, I usually do not record them simultaneously as I act. It's much easier to make changes later if they're separate. It's not easy to 'extract' sounds. 3. Editing a. First, I export each track/character from GarageBand to Audacity and run the Noise Reduction and Declick plugins. Then I save those and bring them back into GarageBand. This step gets rid of most of the background noise. b. Then, I start lining everything up and clipping the recordings into regions. I usually make an extra track I call "Discard" so I can line up my back-up options for certain lines. (Usually, I'm just deleting the things I don't want but..sometimes I can't decide so I line one up in the Discard track in the same position/timestamp.) c. I usually add the sound effects and soundscapes at the same time. It's a bit more tedious to line everything up all at once, but much prefer it over going back and adding sound effects later, after I finish the voices. If you just have a few effects, it's doable to add them afterwards, but...timing matters for everything.

I get most of my sound effects and soundscapes from Freesound.org and sometimes I get them from Pixabay. Pixabay is also good for finding royalty-free music. Every once in a while, there's a specific sound I need that I can't find for free. For those, I get a license from Pond5 (which I like because it has a subscription like most stock libraries, but you can also buy what you need à la carte). d. Because I'm used to accessing MIDI for my musical projects, I've also found that that's a fun way to make special effects, especially when I need m a g i c. I just sift through the MIDI library in GarageBand (or use some plug-in instruments) until I find the sound I want, and I can change it up by playing different combinations on the MIDI keyboard. e. I spend a lot of time (probably too much) making micro-adjustments to the Automation. For example, I like the soundscape to fade in at the beginning and out at the end. And I make corrections--mainly Volume and Gain--for the main vocal tracks. That's also my way of keeping the SFX tracks down to just one or two: I can change the volume of each individual section. I'm not sure how helpful it is, but if you're curious, here's a screenshot of the next Ruby audio. (This is an unusually high number of tracks, even for a Ruby project.)

4. Finishing

I do not consider myself a 'video editor'. I like designing the thumbnails, but I wanted something where it would be super easy to make an interesting still image and just stick a sound file with it. Canva is good for that, and it's what I always use now. The only time I broke down and used iMovie to edit was for the Ruby vs. Carol puppet show, and I still finished that up in Canva. These are just the basics, but there are some other tips and tricks when it comes to different effects and stuff. (Musical projects are a completely different method. In a lot of ways, they're easier because ✨tempo✨. I still use GarageBand, and my recording set-up is the same, but how I record and edit is much different.) Note: You do NOT need to have all of this equipment right away to get started. A decent microphone does make a difference, but other than that, everything else is extra.

[hiheat]

Heirloom Kitchen, Old Bridge NJ

My wife and I enjoyed an absolutely first class dining experience today at Heirloom Kitchen in Old Bridge, NJ.

Food was good, almost shockingly good. I was taken aback at the subtlety of just about every dish we were served. Atmosphere was clean and quirky, somewhere at the intersection of cottagecore, industrial, and kitch. Service was top notch, attentive and professional, from a brigade that couldn't have been much older than my teenage sons.

The menu was a four course prix fixe, including dessert ($89 pp). Tonight's menu featured three or four choices for each course, so we had (difficult!) choices to make. As usual, we ordered extras: a stuffed bread course (which was amazing, both sweet and savory, with onion jam and a whipped feta spread), as well as two a la carte dishes as an additional course, (which the staff sequenced perfectly, despite our last minute addition).

Our first course was a raw cured snapper served in watermelon lime broth and a chicken liver mousse served on brioche. The snapper was served like ceviche, cured in citrus, but served over a vivid red watermelon broth. The flavor of the lime oil popped with the crisp texture of the fish, and rode nicely over the sweetness of the watermelon.

The toasted brioche was topped with a modest shmear of a velvety chicken liver mousse, which would have been a sensational pairing all by itself. But the bite was taken up several notches with the addition of pickled veg, micro cilantro, and emulsified jalapeno on the plate. The acidic and mildly-spicy pop was so helpful to cut the cloying fattiness that normally comes with chicken liver. Very well balanced and clever to keep the spicy element separate on the plate, allowing the diner to dial in their preferred level of heat.

Course number two consisted of grilled octopus and a baked squash. The octopus dish was a master class in the Maillard reaction: just about every item on the plate was cooked to caramelization, but not a single element had that burnt flavor you get when something is left in the pan a few minutes too long. Eggplant, nuts, capers, potato, and even the za'atar - each cooked to its own smoky sweetness then combined perfectly in a harmony like an exquisite campfire.

The Delicata squash was served in tender cubes over acorn squash rendered as a mousse and had several different textures across the dish. The apple mostarda complimented the squash in both a expected yet surprising way. That familiar homey flavor of simple baked apples with squash and cinnamon took on a much more sophisticated demeanor in this context.

Our third course was a pan-seared fluke and a pork belly deconstructed "tamale". The fish had a great crust and flavor, but could have maybe used one minute less in the pan. But we like our fish under rather than over, so it might have been personal preference. The pepperoni butter was the most surprising element, and one we are going to try to replicate. Each of the other elements - the cassoulet, the sofrito, and the caponata - were executed well enough to stand on their own; in combination, they supported the fluke without overwhelming it.

The pork belly was cooked "birria" style, a slow-cooked stew with meat and spices. This dish was clever and incredibly flavorful, with a generous portion of extremely moist and tender pork belly. The corn portion of the deconstructed tamale was served central to the dish, as a simple rectangle covered in the mole sauce. I enjoyed the texture that the corn and wax beans added to the dish, especially given the silky tamale/mole centerpiece. My only wish was that they had gone with a birria "tatemada" style of cooking, where the pork belly was crisped up after being stewed. I missed the sensation of crispy pork fat in my tamale, and I worry that the large moist fat cap on the pork belly might turn off some patrons. But that's just a tiny tweak, not at all a complaint.

Our bonus course consisted of a pasta dish (Sorpresine), and the duck breast we thought we had to sacrifice in lieu of the pork belly. When our server told us in casual conversation that we could add dishes a la carte, we jumped at the chance to fill in with some of the dishes we had missed. Sorpresine (meaning "little surprises") is sort of an unstuffed version of ravioli. Just folded and cooked, this pasta was served with a sticky-sweet peach agrodolce, tiny tomatoes, and a very moist stracciatella cheese, sister to ricotta. We were so pleased we were able to get this complex yet rustic dish into our menu. It simultaneously felt subtle and lush in my mouth while being reminiscent of Sunday dinners at my grandma's house.

The duck breast was served in a Jamaican style, with a dry jerk rub, a habanero jus sauce, and braised cabbage and squash. The large portion of duck breast was cooked perfectly medium rare, a lovely light warm pink in the center. We cut it into medallions, and smeared each through the spicy jus. While I loved the flavor, I really wanted a more substantial jerk sauce, sticky and clinging to the meat. This dish had such an island inspiration but fell slightly short on the thin jus. The cabbage was tasty but slightly overly-salted to my palate. All of the other flavors were spot on, however, and I wouldn't hesitate to order it again.

Last course was dessert: we had the hush puppies, and the inspired combination of basil mousse/olive oil cake/Parmesan ice cream. I have to admit I wasn't wild about the hush puppies. Served with caramel popcorn and a smear of creme "elote" anglaise, this clearly chef-inspired dessert fell flat for me. I wanted more fresh in-season fruit, instead of the one lonely bit of peach and gooseberry. I wanted more delicious sauce, instead of the tiny smear. The hush puppies and popcorn were fine but their focus should have been reversed, IMO.

The other dessert was a delightful exercise in contradiction and challenging your preconceptions. Basil mousse, parmesan ice cream, olive oil cake, pine nut brittle - this sounds like the ingredients to a nice savory pesto dish, not a dessert. However, here's a chef's dessert that knocked the ball out of the park on so many levels. The olive oil cake was a moist platform for the ice cream and a tart lemon curd. The pine nut brittle paired as expected with the basil ice cream but the surprise was that it works as a sweet dessert as well as in a savory main. This dish was just over-the-top clever in its conception, almost like it was the response to a dare: "Make a pesto dish, but dessert - go!" However the good balance of sweetness and acid from the lemon and texture from the brittle, all melting together and soaking into the tight crumb of the cake was so startling in its "challenge accepted", perfect execution.

Again, service staff was exquisite, more attentive than many restaurants asking twice the price. Busers were on the move continuously but not obtrusive. Runners knew their food preparation and could answer questions thoughtfully. Our server was funny, engaging, offering her own thoughts and opinions while remaining thoroughly professional throughout

Decor was an interesting mix. Edison bulbs, black fixtures and flatware. Seating that matched but also seemed to come from a yard sale. A library of cookbooks and an open kitchen all contributed to the informal, casual feel. I thought the music was at times a bit too loud for easy conversation though. Our server told us the restaurant started life as a cooking school, and in fact still offers cooking and baking classes, as well as a multi-course tasting experience on Sundays.

Please forgive the extensive review here. I feel like this restaurant is quite possibly one of the best in the state. More than being a "hidden gem", this experience was easily a 5-star fine-dining experience, tucked into a little strip mall off Route 9 in Old Bridge. I literally do not know if they're aware of the incredibly high quality of the experience they offer, and the value you get as a patron. But I suggest you bring an adventurous palate and a few friends for dinner at Heirloom Kitchen before they wise up, put linen tablecloths over their neat wooden tables, and double the prices. But even if that happens, you can count on seeing me there (just wearing my jacket and tie).

Happy Eating!

[hangofwednesday]

IN NO ONES VOICE After The Horsemen rode to Earth. After Armageddon. When under 1000 humans exist in the whole universe one human will try to do more than just survive. In No Ones Voice is micro audio drama with episode that will go from 5 to 20 minutes in length. This series will be a monthly look at what it means to be human. For more on Tin Pod Radio head over and listen to some of our past shows. We audio books, interviews, reviews, and many other types of podcasts. https://hangofwednesday.podbean.com/ The series theme is King Of The World by CRMNL https://www.musicbed.com/artists/crmnl/43691 Video Clips from Storyblocks https://www.storyblocks.com/ The voice of Tin Universe is Stacey Taylor https://popcultureparlour.podbean.com/ IN NO ONES VOICE is written by Brian C. Williams For All Things Tin Universe visit https://tinuniverse.blogspot.com/ #audio #audiodramas #podcasts #fiction  #scifi #sciencefiction https://www.instagram.com/p/CpxFFGeur0a/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[foxgloveblue]

pale in a liminal moon 🌙 chapter 16

Pairing: Grian/Scar

Tags: selkie AU, steampunk AU, enemies to lovers, slow burn

Summary: Scar shows Grian around the house, and long-forgotten things are remembered.

Words: 4,239

previous chapter || next chapter

ao3 link || masterpost

The walk back to the beach house was very easy, mostly because Scar didn’t have to do it. 

He rode piggyback the entire way, head tucked into the crook of Grian’s neck. He didn’t even have enough energy to properly appreciate the scenery of their little getaway – in fact, it took everything he had not to fall asleep to the steady rhythm of Grian’s footsteps. 

He honestly could not believe how drained he felt. Yes, he had fallen a little behind on his physical therapy – okay, a lot behind – but even still, a short stint of exercise like this shouldn’t completely wipe him out. Even back in his uni days, when the only treatment he could afford was a hot pad and prayers, he still managed to get his crunches in without needing to skip class for a nap. 

He really did hope that he had gotten so tired from all the magic, because otherwise, it probably meant that he was getting old.

His suspicions about aging were not denied when he suddenly awoke with a start, jolting upright from where he had been lying down on a couch. His face went a little hot as he scrubbed some drool from his face, taking in his surroundings with a furtive glance. They had made it back to the house, the little living room now dust-free. The sea-blue curtains had been drawn back to reveal the golden beams of the setting sun in all their glory, the bay window practically glowing with the intensity of the light. 

Illuminated by this glow was Grian. He was curled up in a loveseat across from Scar, nose-deep in his book. He hadn’t bothered getting re-dressed save for Scar’s old sweater, which hung softly on his frame. 

Scar was struck by the similarity of the scene to when he had first met Grian – he was sitting in the same odd position, like he had never been taught how to sit in a chair. And yet, everything else was different. His posture was relaxed, obviously comfortable rather than painfully tense. Even his clothes seemed to fit better, ironically – Doc had put him in a perfectly-tailored suit, but Scar’s oversized sweater had become so ubiquitous with Grian that he now really thought of it as Grian’s sweater. Most striking of all, however, was his face. As Grian read, little micro-expressions would flit across his visage, easy to read for someone who knew him well. Scar could almost picture what was happening in the book – like, right now, someone was clearly pissing Grian off, his brow growing furrowed and his nose scrunching cutely.

Grian’s dark eyes flitted up to meet Scar’s gaze. Oh, shit. Maybe it had been him. 

But then Grian’s irritation melted away into a bemused smirk. “You’re finally up.”

Scar coughed, clearing his throat from the post-nap phlegm. “Uh, yeah. How long was I out?”

Grian shrugged. “I dunno. An hour, maybe? I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Scar eyed the window. It had definitely been more than an hour – either that, or their little ocean adventure had lasted even longer than Scar had thought. Regardless, Scar felt much better, though he was ravenously hungry. 

As if reading his mind – nether, at this point, Scar wouldn”t be surprised if Grian actually could read his mind – Grian inclined his head and said, “I think dinner is going to be ready soon. Grumbot and the others have been making… something.”  

Well that didn’t sound reassuring. Scar eyed the door to the kitchen nervously. The servant-bots were all programmed with some of the finest recipes, and Scar had entrusted them with his meals for years now. Grumbot, on the other hand, had proven himself a rogue agent. Who knew what he could be influencing the others to do?

Grian didn’t look nearly as concerned as Scar felt though, returning to his book without fanfare. Scar was probably overthinking it. Hopefully.

Unfortunately, unlike Grian, Scar didn’t have an easily-accessible means of distracting himself. There were no other books in the living room, and even if there were, Scar didn’t feel like getting a reading headache right now. 

Sitting up properly, Scar saw that Grian had retrieved his clothes, cane, and leg braces, though had tossed them rather messily onto a nearby ottoman. He grimaced in irritation – hopefully the servant-bots would be able to hear him calling from here over the hustle of the kitchen. 

“If you need help, you can just ask.” Grian said, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I really don’t mind giving you a hand, especially considering I basically forced you out of those clothes anyhow.”

Scar blushed at the accidental innuendo. “Oh, sure. That sounds grand.”

Setting his book down, Grian gathered up Scar’s clothes and approached him with the same posture and expression that one might have when about to wrap a particularly delightful present.

Scar had to admit that the re dressing was much less sensual, though no less embarrassing. Grian seemed to take the whole thing in stride. Honestly, he even seemed somewhat amused by Scar’s flustered state. It wouldn’t shock him. 

As Grian slipped Scar’s last shoe on, completing the transformation, Scar sat up straighter in an attempt to recover some of his dignity. “Would you like a house tour while we wait for dinner?” He offered. “I feel like I owe you one after that whole… debacle when you first showed up to the manor.”

Grian laughed. “You mean when you accidentally made me super sick by keeping me far from my skin?”

Scar grimaced at the reminder. “Yes, that.”

“‘S alright. I think it was worth it to see how nervous it made Doc.” Grian smirked. “He really thought I was gonna die, y’know. Started cursing up and down about how stupid he had been to entrust his most precious asset to such a fool.” 

Scar stared at him. “He really said that?”

“Oh, sure. He doesn’t exactly think highly of you – told that little buddy of his that you were the kind of guy to get his head stuck in la-la-land and throw money at whatever caught your attention for half a second.”

“Bastard.” Scar growled. 

“Though I bet he’s really regretting sending me to you now.” Grian chuckled. “I mean, really. If all your friends know about our little marriage, surely he does too. What on earth must he think?”

“He probably thinks that you’ve put some kind of… spell on me.” Scar eyed him. “I mean, have you?”

Grian rolled his eyes hard enough that his dark irises practically disappeared. “Oh, please. If I had some kind of… seduction magic, don’t you think I would’ve used it to make you let me go on like, the second day? Or that I would’ve just used it on Doc, for that matter?”

Scar grunted in affirmation – he did have a point. 

Grian’s eyes suddenly narrowed, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “No, Scar, whatever feelings you have about me are completely regular emotions, spurred on by my entirely natural charm.”

This time, Scar’s grunt came out rather choked. He tried to pass it off as a cough, delicately bringing a handkerchief up to his lips to wipe away nonexistent phlegm, but he was pretty sure that Grian didn’t find it the least bit convincing. 

“Do you want to have a house tour or not?” He finally managed, voice laden with embarrassment.

“Sure.” Grian laughed, the sound lilting and unfortunately very attractive, the realization of which did nothing to lessen Scar’s flustered state. “Don’t want to finish my book too fast anyhow.” 

“Wonderful!” Scar clapped his hands together excitedly. “I haven’t been here in a couple of years, but I’m sure I still remember my way around. It’s not a terribly big house anyhow.”

Grabbing his cane, Scar began to lead Grian through the small house. As they walked, Scar realized that he did indeed remember the layout, and was happy to share the details of the design and history of the building. 

Grian seemed interested, though stayed largely quiet. He seemed content to absorb the information being presented to him, though Scar wasn’t entirely sure that he was actually listening.

They even peeked their heads into the kitchen. Scar had prepared a whole spiel about the tilework in his head, but as soon as he looked inside, he instantly forgot what he had been meaning to say.

Grumbot had indeed awoken the other servant-bots, and the little automatons were bustling around the kitchen, busy preparing what looked to be a multi-course meal. Scar eyed the full pots and pans that passed him by nervously – there weren’t a ton of ingredients in the house, after all, since they all had to be kept as preserves. He recognized most of the food they were using, but startled when he spotted a frying pan that had what looked to be several filets of fish searing away.

“Uh, Grumbot?” He called. The modified servent-bot spun around from where it had been contemplating some kind of sauce, fixing Scar with an unblinking stare. “Where did you get that fish?”

Grumbot rolled over, and even over the bustle of the kitchen, Scar could hear its mechanical insides whirring away with a response. Sure enough, a paper printed out. Scar grabbed it, slowly reading the contents aloud. “Grian caught it.”

He shot Grian an incredulous look. There wasn’t any fishing tackle in the house as far as he knew. “You did? With what?”

Grian grinned at him, wicked and sharp. “My mouth.” 

Scar probably should’ve found the ensuing mental image disturbing, but honestly, he just found it hot.

Putting the strange new revelations about himself aside, Scar hurried onto the rest of the house tour, bringing Grian through the remaining rooms. Scar tried to give as much detail about the various decorations and furnishings, but honestly, after the kitchen incident he was finding it a little hard to concentrate.

That was until they got to the master bedroom. It was by far Scar’s favorite room, every detail designed by none other than himself. Eschewing the lighter colors of the rest of the house, the room was decorated in a stunning deep ocean blue, accented by copper filigree. Even the bed frame was custom-built, made of a light wood that he had stained that same blue. 

Grian wasted no time climbing onto that bed, laying himself out on the satin-soft comforter. It probably would’ve irritated Scar, but he was too busy picturing a seal laying itself out to sun. 

“Comfortable, right?” Scar laughed. “Though I’m sure you’ve already gotten used to my taste in sheets. I’m rather picky, I’ll admit.” 

Grian grunted in agreement, but seemed more interested in whatever was sitting on Scar’s nightstand. He rolled over to more closely examine it, even going so far as to take it in his hands. “What’s this?”

Scar had to peer over his shoulder. “Well, I think that’s – oh.”

He had… forgotten this was in his room. Gazing at the small object, he had the sudden sensation of the floor dropping out from beneath him, his stomach roiling painfully at the sight. 

“Scar?” Came Grian’s voice. It sounded further away, somehow. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, I just… I was just caught off guard.” Scar sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “Old memories, you know?”

Grian made a soft, concerned noise. “Do you need me to put it back, or…?”

“No, no.” Scar forced out a laugh, but it rang hollow. “It’s just a clock, after all.” 

“If you’re sure.” Grian shifted his position so that he was sitting next to Scar. The clock was still sitting in his hands. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Scar let out a breath. “It’s a bit of a long story.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Scar laughed – even when he was trying to be comforting, Grian still managed to be bossy. 

He allowed his gaze to fully fall to the clock itself. The body was made of copper wires, slender little things that had been wrapped around themselves to create a solid, twisting tree trunk. The wires then branched off into foliage, the leaves made of tiny, delicate gears that nevertheless remained strong and unbroken. 

The clock was now old enough that the body had begun to oxidize. The branches had turned first, the leaves now a beautiful teal color that was slowly but steadily creeping down into the trunk. 

The clock face itself, however, remained unchanged. It was nestled in the trunk of the tree, its pristine white surface untouched by the encroaching patina. Most impressively of all, it still worked. The second hand still ticked forward, the quiet sound somehow deafening to Scar’s ears. It created a strange paradox – excellent craftsmanship paired with a wild, careless creation, made entirely from intuition. 

“Scar?” Grian prompted. 

“Yeah, sorry, sorry.” Scar sighed again, gently taking the clock from Grian’s hands. “The long and short of it is that I made this clock with my dad, back when I was a kid.” 

“I didn’t know you made clocks.”

“I don’t.” Scar laughed. “Despite his best efforts. He did the hard parts, actually constructing the damn clock. I just made the tree around it.”

Grian cocked his head. “I dunno. I don’t think I could make a tree like that.”

“It’s not so hard. Just takes a little practice.” When Grian gave him a look, Scar relented. “Alright, alright. A lot of practice, I guess. But I had plenty of time.” 

Grian rested his head in his hand, looking up at Scar with those dark, inquisitive eyes.

Scar hesitated, running his tongue over his teeth nervously. “I don’t know how much you saw into my memories. You might already know all this stuff.”

Grian shrugged. “Try me.”

“Alright…” Scar took a deep, shaky breath. “Well, when I was a little kid, I was a total hellion. Always climbing stuff, sneaking into places I wasn’t supposed to go, causing trouble for all my neighbors. But my real love was the outdoors – I always wanted to go out on holiday to the countryside, swim in the ocean and explore the forests. I think a lot of parents would’ve been grateful for that; out of the house, y’know? But not my dad. He really, really wanted me to learn how to make clocks. Take over the family business and all that. But… I don’t know. That mechanical know-how always eluded me. I was way more into going on my own adventures.

“But when I was eight, I got sick. Really sick.” He hesitated for a moment. “I guess… you probably know what polio is, right?” 

“I’ve heard of it.” 

“Well, for most people who get polio, it’s nothing too terrible. A fever, a bad cough, things like that. But if you’re unlucky, like me, there are other effects. Your muscles get weak. You lose the ability to walk, to move your arms – some of the kids I knew couldn’t even breathe. Had to be hooked into these gigantic machines. Iron lungs. But I’m – I’m getting ahead of myself.” Scar shook his head, as if to ward away the memories. 

“When I started having trouble moving, I was stuck in my flat for long, long periods of time. Literally stuck – my dad and I lived above his shop, on the second story. I couldn’t go anywhere. I’ve always struggled with reading, so to pass the time, I tried to finally learn how to make clocks. Long story short, I just couldn’t do it. I mean, I could, but I hated it. I really struggled to concentrate on all the little mechanical details, since the only thing I really wanted to do was go outside again.

“So, after a bit, I started making… other things. Little sculptures out of the clock materials. I made trees, flowers, animals – all the things that I missed seeing. Eventually, as I got better at it, I’d even make entire scenes. I’d incorporate paper and make dioramas of city streets, magnificent mountains, whatever was in my imagination that day. My dad was… I don’t know. At first I think he was irritated that I wasn’t learning how to make clocks, but as I got worse… I think he finally understood that this was my way of coping.

“So when I had to be sent to a sanitarium, my dad made sure to pack a ton of little bits from his shop. Let me tell you, at the hospital, that cheap copper wire was more valuable than gold. The other kids there loved it. Especially the animals. I wonder how many people still have my little statues, if they even know they have a patented Scar creation.” He smiled, eyes going misty with the memories. “It felt really special to be able to brighten people’s days like that.”

“I’m sure.” Grian said quietly. “I’m glad you found a way to make that place less scary.”

Scar laughed. “I don’t know what terrible things you’ve heard about sanitariums, but the one I went to wasn’t so bad. It was beautiful, honestly; it was basically a big house in the mountains that had been turned into a hospital for kids. The doctors were super nice – well, most of them anyway. I made a lot of friends. The… the only scary days were the ones where we’d lose people. ‘Specially the little ones. That was hard on everyone.” 

Scar sniffled, and he ducked his head away as he scrubbed at his face. He hadn’t thought about that time of his life in a long, long while, and was surprised by the swell of emotion that had suddenly overtaken him.

There was a warm pressure on his knee, and Scar realized that Grian was squeezing it reassuringly. With a prickle, the bond that had been lying quietly to the side flared up, once more allowing a surge of emotions to crash through Scar. It felt almost like warm water was rushing around him, embracing him in a comforting hold. “I’m sorry for bringing all this up.”

“No, no, it’s alright. It’s good to remember things sometimes.” Straightening up, Scar cleared his throat. “Anyway – when I got home, my dad wanted to make this with me.” He ran his thumb over the grooves of the copper wire, feeling the rough edges of the patina prickle over his skin. “He wasn’t necessarily an expressive person, but… I feel like this was his way of accepting me. Accepting that I wasn’t going to be what he had wanted me to be, but he was okay with that. Or maybe he just wanted another clock for his collection – void only knows with that man.”

“What about now?” Grian asked. “Is he happy now that you’re a veritable emperor?”

Scar laughed. “I have a feeling he wouldn’t be too pleased. He always liked the simple life. But I guess I’ll never know for sure. He, um… he passed away while I was at college.”

“Oh, I’m… I’m sorry to hear that.”

Scar stared at his hands. “It’s okay. I’ve had a lot of time to process it, and I think I’m… I’m mostly okay now. As okay as someone can ever be, I guess. ‘S probably why I freaked out so much over that silly clock. It just caught me off guard. Brought up a lot of old feelings.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Grian rested his head on Scar’s shoulder. “I guess I’ve been lucky. I haven’t lost anyone close to me like that.”

“Sure, but you’ve had to leave people behind, right? Your parents, Iskall… that’s its own special kind of torture.” 

Grian snorted softly. “I don’t think this game of who’s had it worse will go anywhere nice.”

“That’s fair.” Scar let his head droop, resting his chin on Grian’s hair. Despite his earlier dip in the ocean, the locks were soft on his skin. “I guess that we can say that we’ve both loved and lost, right?”

“Sure. Though honestly, that’s just part of being alive.”

Scar hummed in agreement, though his mind was still turning Grian’s words over. He supposed even happy endings couldn’t last, that one way or another all bonds between people would be broken by the march of time. 

“Hey.” Scar was startled out of his thoughts by a hard pinch on his leg, which made him jump badly enough that he jabbed Grian in the head with his chin. “Hey!”

“That wasn’t my fault!” He protested as Grian reared back, rubbing where Scar had hit him. “You were the one who started it!”

Grian just stuck his tongue out at him. “I was trying to get you out of your own head. For a person who hates reading, you sure do think a lot.”

“I don’t hate reading, it just gives me a headache. And for a person who reads a lot, you sure… are… you’re very feisty.”

Grian snorted. “Are you trying to insult me or flirt with me?” 

Before Scar’s brain could catch up with his mouth, he blurted out “Why not both?”

Grian stared at him for a second before bursting into laughter. Scar’s cheeks grew hot. He had no idea if Grian thought they were just joking around, or even if he actually was joking, but either way he felt embarrassed.

“C’mon, you.” Grian managed after his laughter died down a little. “Let’s go check if dinner’s ready. I’m ready to eat my prey.”

There was no way Scar was going to be able to sleep.

The tiredness from earlier in the day had all but vanished, and Scar was left with a restless energy that set his limbs abuzz.

It was the kind of energy that Scar would’ve loved to walk off – taking a nightime stroll down by the shore honestly sounded nice – but his braces were already off. He was sure that if he called loud enough, a servant-bot would be able to help him put them back on, but he didn’t want to risk waking Grian up.

Grian. That was his real problem right there. 

He was sure that his nap didn’t help with his unusual abundance of energy, but truth be told, he was sure that the reason he was so restless was because of Grian. Thoughts of the man crowded his mind. Every time he tried to close his eyes, all he saw was Grian, Grian, Grian. 

He had known Grian for several weeks now, but still struggled to understand the man. He had been so sure that his accidental invasion of Grian’s memories would’ve set the man into a furious rage, but instead it had only seemed to strengthen the bond between them. 

Had it been something that Grian saw in his memories? Some choice moment that endeared Scar to him? Or… had Scar himself changed? Had he begun acting different since he had gotten a glimpse into Grian’s past?

He just wasn’t sure. He didn’t think he had been acting differently, and yet… he felt different, somehow. Felt more alive. Like he was beginning to understand some deeper truth that he had been blind to for so, so long. 

But that real shape of that truth still eluded him. He felt like he was missing something very, very important, something that he was on the edge of remembering, but still couldn’t quite grasp. It was infuriating. 

And that wasn’t even touching on the matter of what had happened today. This amazing, terrifying day. Scar had gotten to touch something beautiful and so, so real – and that had broken some kind of dam in him. Some kind of barrier that left him vulnerable and open, willing to share painful memories and experiences with a person he was only beginning to know. 

There was a soft click from behind him, and Scar sat up, a flash of alarm shooting hot fear through his veins. After a brief moment, the door to the bedroom swung open.

It was hard to see, the only light coming from the crescent moonlight that spilled through the thrown-open curtains. Even still, Scar could recognize the edge of Grian’s form. He stood silent at the threshold, completely motionless as he hung in the liminal space.

“Grian?” Scar called uncertainly. 

Grian stayed silent. It almost looked like he wasn’t breathing at all.

“Is everything okay?” Scar asked, his voice trailing off at the end. “Grian?”

All at once, Grian sprung into motion, approaching Scar with long, quick strides. Scar’s heart began to pound as he scrambled back against his headboard, some deep-rooted instinct taking over his body.

Grian didn’t stop at the edge of the bed, either. Without even hesitating, he practically leapt onto the bed, crawling over Scar until their faces were inches apart. This close, Scar could see Grian’s eyes – they were wide and wild, his jaw tense with hunger. 

“Grian, what…?” Scar managed to choke out. It was hard to hear himself over the roaring in his ears.

Grian leaned in even closer, their noses brushing against each other. “I want to kiss you.”

What?

“What?” Scar managed to squeak out. 

“I want to kiss you.” Grian repeated. His breath was hot on Scar’s skin, and he could see Grian’s eyes drop to his lips. Scar unconsciously licked them. “Can I?”

For once, Scar’s mind felt blank. Only one word was on his mind.

“Yes.” he whispered, and Grian pressed forward.

[atplblog]

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[ujjinatd]

RODE presenta Wireless Micro, un pequeño kit de dos micrófonos con características interesantes Si eres un creador que busca un... https://ujjina.com/rode-presenta-wireless-micro-un-pequeno-kit-de-dos-microfonos-con-caracteristicas-interesantes/?feed_id=831073&_unique_id=6734d0c062679

[joshuawithers]

Seeing the Rode Wireless Micro release today (another spectacular release from Rode) reminded me how Australian companies and people are driving the infrastructure level of the creator economy.

Rode Microphones, Blackmagic Design (cameras, accessories, switchers and DaVinci), Procreate, Canva, Linktree, and Fastmail are the big ones I can think about plus Pocketcasts, Whooshkaa, and Omny Studio in the podcast world. Also, Emojipedia!

[piccolo-panda]

[Ritornello]

Non so più cosa sia una lacrima

Nella mia fantasia però capita

Solo se lo vorrai, conta su di me

Basta che non ci fai l'abitudine

[Strofa 1]

Ci sono giorni che mi sembrano durare mesi

Sono certo che molti al mio posto già da un po' si sarebbero arresi

Ma davvero mi spiace se pensi che non so dare peso alle cose

Se non trovo la pace dei sensi, muori dentro, io cerco le prove

Ti assicuro che te lo direi se sapessi che cosa non va

Non sarò uno dei deboli mai, ma se lo vuoi sapere

Forse ti dirò che è probabile che morirei, solo per un po' di libertà

Spero che non mi demolirai o sarà come restare in bilico su una voragine

Voltare pagine è una cosa che non credo capiti

Come vedermi sprecare lacrime, che con quelle non ci farò platini

Ora sto dove sto e più gli rode più godo

Brillando anche al buio senza pavé all'ennesimo show

Appenderò il micro al chiodo soltanto quando sarà di Cartier

[Ritornello]

Non so più cosa sia una lacrima

Nella mia fantasia però capita

Solo se lo vorrai, conta su di me

Basta che non ci fai l'abitudine

[Strofa 2]

Sono pieno di guai e di lame alla schiena

Sono quasi sicuro che mi tradirai come all'Ultima Cena

So che mi viene facile fare del male se mi fanno la guerra

E non mi toglierò nemmeno le collane, sarà una guerra fredda

Non ho mai avuto un piano B perché mi bastava un piano A

Chiamerai quando non sarò lì, volevo stare lontano da

Chi vuole riempirmi di cliché, la detesto la monotonia

Non ha un bell'effetto su di me, quasi meglio una lobotomia

E ti diranno che gira la ruota, se ti scordi, segnalo su un Post-it

O finisci per perdere quota, non ti comprerai casa coi gossip

So che il mondo qua è pieno di stronzi, guarda, pure là fuori c'è fila

Sto parlando la lingua dei soldi, mando un messaggio in codice IBAN

[Ritornello]

Non so più cosa sia una lacrima

Nella mia fantasia però capita

Solo se lo vorrai, conta su di me

Basta che non ci fai l'abitudine

[tuanonnas-blog]

Ci sono giorni che mi sembrano durare mesi Sono certo che molti al mio posto già da un po' si sarebbero arresi Ma, davvero, mi spiace se pensi che non so dare il peso alle cose Se non trovo la pace dei sensi, muori dentro, io cerco le prove Ti assicuro che te lo direi se sapessi che cosa non va Non sarò uno dei deboli mai, ma se lo vuoi sapere Forse ti dirò che è probabile che morirei, solo per un po' di libertà Spero che non mi demolirai o sarà come restare in bilico su una voragine Voltare pagine è una cosa che non credo capiti Come vedermi sprecare lacrime, che con quelle non ci farò platini Ora sto dove sto e più gli rode, più godo Brillando anche al buio senza pavé, ho l'ennesimo show Appenderò il micro al chiodo soltanto quando sarà di Cartier