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deadsetobsessions · 9 months ago

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Her name is Drake, Tim Drake.

Except, unlike Bond, James Bond, she’s not a badass who saves queens and get the girls at the end. Well, no, she did get the very amazing woman at the end, and she had the ring to prove it. But not right now. No, right now, she’s a tiny little girl in the middle of a mental breakdown as her parents cart her away from the bodies of the flying Graysons and their wailing son.

See, Tim Drake wasn’t supposed be a girl. Tim Drake wasn’t supposed to be Theodora Janet Drake, shortened to Timmy because her air headed jackass of a father forgot her name once.

Tim Drake wasn’t supposed to be a woman shoved into a body that wasn’t hers.

By the time Timmy got out her catatonic state of existential crisis, her parental units (faulty parental units) had already left to a dig site a world away. The nanny they’d hired for the three year old had left the slip of a girl in her room, content to just make edible toddler food and spend the day casually checking in on her. The nanny had no concept of stealth, so at least Timmy could hear her thundering footsteps long before she got to Timmy’s room.

She would have been sad, had she not had a full set of memories of a well adjusted adult. In fact, all she felt was relief.

As weird as being comic book character is, Timmy supposed that she should be glad she wasn’t like the original. The dysphoria was already significant, in this tiny body, so pale and white, unlike her calloused and tanned skin she’d come to love. If she was in Tim Drake’s male body…

No, Timmy knew when to count her blessings.

Not that being beholden to Gotham was much of a blessing. Timmy could tell already that whatever had brought her here was going to make sure she stayed. How did she know?

There’s a gamer’s interface hovering on the right of her vision, blaring [WELCOME TO GOTHAM, PLAYER 1!] in annoyingly large white letters.

Timmy sighed and gave in. She tapped the ‘start’ button and the world greyed to a stop.

[ACHIEVEMENT- SO I’M IN ANOTHER UNIVERSE- MET!]

Underneath it, to Timmy’s tired mind, laid the damning and probably helpful:

[TUTORIAL UNLOCKED!]

Timmy tapped the screen again.

[Welcome to Gotham!] The informational screen started. [By now, you’ve realized that you’ve been reincarnated into the lovely and not at all depressing world of Batman!]

Timmy muttered, “Just Batman? Not DC?” She blinked as the informational screen paused its typing before replying to her.

[Right now, you’ve only got the Gotham mode unlocked. Work hard and you can unlock the rest of the world! Maybe even the universe!]

Huh. An interactive interface. Timmy wonders why she’s so calm about this.

[That will all be explained shortly! Please allow for the tutorial to continue and make sure to save your questions for the end!]

Well, Timmy doesn’t want to be rude. She nodded. Interestingly, the interface picked up on both her thoughts and her movements.

[Welcome to Gotham!] It starts again, and Timmy felt a bit of guilt in making it start over. It’s like getting cold called and the caller is just a tired person trying to make their quota for minimum wage and instead of patiently listening to the spiel, Timmy had interrupted so now they had to restart the rehearsed speech. Oof.

[You’ve been reincarnated into the body of our very own Red Robin, Timothy Drake! How exciting! The powers that be, was, and will be has selected your lucky soul to be a beta tester for their relatively new reincarnation roulette!]

See, none of that sounds particularly… “good” for Timmy. Timmy hums as she settled back on the greyed out floor, eyes fixed onto the screen.

[As such, to be the first player deposited in this universe-]

And oh, doesn’t that have some interesting implications.

[The powers that be have decided to grant you a boon! The Gamer’s Exclusive Ultra Package!]

The interface exploded with holographic confetti.

Timmy thought her wife would have loved this… had she not died months before Timmy did.

[Included is the exclusive Gamer’s Mind and Body passive status! You won’t be as traumatized by traumatizing things! A boon, in the hellscape that is Gotham!]

Timmy’s calling it. Whoever wrote this was a total troll. And had a sense of humor she could appreciate. That explained why she’s so… not freaking out about this entire thing.

[It also includes ten lucky draw tickets, with guaranteed five star skills/abilities per ticket! Wow! It’s almost worth getting killed and isekai’ed!]

Timmy snorted and tapped accept.

[And two revival tickets! These can bring any Schmuck dumb enough to get killed, right back to life, with zero drawbacks! To be used on anyone you wish, post tutorial.]

Timmy tilted her head. Useful. She tapped accept.

[Now, you might wonder: ah, why would the de oh so awesome and all powerful gods make me reincarnate here instead of allowing me to enjoy my afterlife with my beautiful wife?]

Timmy stilled, heart in her throat. That’s right… why?

The screen turned red. Ominously, smoke starts to steam out from the side.

[You’ve got blood on your hands, Timmy. That’s hard to wash away.]

The screen blinked back to its neutral blueish-white color.

[That, and it’s because the Powers that be made an oopsie and messed up this world so bad, we needed a soul from a different universe to replace Tim Drake’s. He kept dying! Which meant Batman kept dying! Which meant the entire universe went to shit! But we can’t just cut it off, it’s a main Universe! But nooo, does anyone listen to the admins? Noooo. Of course not! What does the literal administrator know in the face of an all powerful god-!]

Timmy blinked, sympathy welling for this person. This administrator. That sounded rough.

[Ahem. My apologies.] The admin apologized, somehow conveying sheepishness through a screen. Timmy got a notification.

[ACHIEVEMENT- COMMISERATING WITH A CO-WORKER- MET!]

[1,000 Shop Points Granted. Message: You’ve worked under tyrannical bosses too! Kindred Soul!]

“Yeah, it be like that. I’m sorry you had to clean up their messes.” Timmy said.

[I, too, am sorry you were dragged from your afterlife for it.]

The two overworked employees shared a solemn moment.

[Well, then! This brings us to your goal! Keep Batman from killing himself, and fulfill Timothy Drake’s Destiny!]

“And what is his destiny, exactly?”

[To keep Batman from dying, becoming a crime-fighter, get beat up by Jason Todd, and destroy Ra’s al Ghul’s work with explosions!]

“That’s… really specific. I just have to fulfill those?”

[Yes! Not in any particular order, of course. And in any way you see fit!]

That last part was italicized, like the admin knew what was brewing in Timmy’s brain. They probably did.

[And now, please direct your attention to the screen to the right. ]

Four boxes popped up.

SHOP

LUCKY DRAW

QUESTS

PROFILE

[Underneath “Quest” is all of your current objectives! For now, the Tutorial is selected and can not be put on hold!]

Timmy obligingly tapped “QUEST.”

Main Quest: Get Your Shit Together, Batman!

Main Quest: Jason Todd and His “E is rated for Everyone” Hands!

Main Quest: No Crime Under My Watch!

Main Quest: Play Bomberman With A Bunch Of Ninja Assassins Led By A Borderline Immortal Cult Leader!

Main Quest: Tutorial!

Side Quest: Level Up!

Side Quest: Learn a Skill!

Side Quest: Nanny Bye-Bye!

And so on, and so on.

“Woah. Nanny Nye-Bye?” Timmy tapped, clicking away at the reminder that Tutorial could not be paused.

[Side Quest: Nanny Bye-Bye.]

[Your nanny has been embezzling the allowance your parents gave her to feed you! Since your bourgeoisie parents have no sense of how much things should actually cost to eat, you’re stuck eating boxed food and unhealthy things while your nanny goes out for hotpot every other week! The injustice! Get her fired before the month ends!]

[Rewards: 1000 EXP. An approving nod from the scary Draconic Janet Drake. $800 per month.]

[Failure: -2 (permanent) to Health. Your status will be [Malnourished] until 17 years old. A disproving glance from the scary Draconic Janet Drake.]

…

“What the ****?”

[Language filters are unlocked at level five.]

Timmy grumbled.

“What if I need to curse to complete my missions?” She asked.

[Then Player One needs to buy herself a sense of creativity.]

Timmy scowled but moved on. She perused the shop, window shopping as one might say, while asking the Admin some more questions.

“Does the Keep Batman Alive quest have a time limit?”

[Until Damian Wayne has had at least four years of being Robin.]

Timmy nodded, brain whirring with plans.

“Hey, admin?”

[Yes, Player One?]

“If I’m player one, does that mean there will be other players?”

[Yes, Player One. There will be more! But unlike you, their abilities will be based on your feedback of the reincarnation system. Not to mention, they will not be reborn as a predetermined Main Character like yourself. This is because your existence was a result of a cosmic oopsie that had better never happen again or I’m going to rip their star-riddled hides from their cosmic bodies. Does that answer your question, Player One?]

Timmy leaned away from the screen. Intimidating.

“Yep. Thanks.”

[Anytime. Would you like to play the Lucky Draw?]

“Yes, please.”

The Luck Draw Menu was pulled up again. Timmy looked at the amount of tickets she had and shrugged. She tapped the “DRAW ONE” option.

The gacha machine spun and spun until:

[DING! DING! DING! Congratulations! You got a five star skill! Eloquence Beyond Measure!]

Timmy checked it out.

Eloquence Beyond Measure!

[As expected of a true Bristol elite (and not one of those snotty snobs of children running afoot with their parent’s money), you’ve gained the ability to spit fire and ice out of your mouth! What you want to say will always come out of your in a way that benefits you most! Diplomats kneel to your eloquence! Socialites dare not provoke you in fear of your barbed words! You’ll never sound like you don’t know what you’re doing ever again!]

Huh. Timmy grinned.

“Thanks, Administrator. Is the tutorial done? I just had an idea about that Nanny Side-Quest.”

[The last task is to check your profile, Player One.]

“Thanks. You can call me Timmy, you know? We’re in this together now.” Timmy grimaced. She just wanted to rest. Chances are, so did Admin.

[Timmy, then.]

Timmy tapped PROFILE.

Theodora “Timmy” Janet Drake

Level 1 (EXP to Next Level: 500)

Status: Healthy. Alive. Uninjured.

SKILLS: Eloquence Beyond Measure

[STATS]

Timmy sighed and exited out of the window to finish the tutorial. She could peruse the stats later. She’s kind of hungry.

[Now that you’ve finished the basics, the powers that be encourages you to try your best to live out this life and fulfill your destiny! The Prize at the completion of Tim Drake’s destiny will be a reunion! With your beloved wife! Work hard, and she’ll be placed on this earth once more!]

Timmy sat up, throat burning. She could see her wife again? To tell her how she missed her and how much she loved her?

Timmy’s heart burned once more since the death of her wife.

Determination filled her now small body. She’ll wrangle the Bats to therapy kicking and screaming if that’s what it took to meet her beloved wife again.

[CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE FINISHED THE TUTORIAL! LEVEL UP! (1000 EXP TO LEVEL THREE)]

[REWARD: A PHONE! 100 SHOP POINTS!]

Timmy dialed the first contact she saw in the phone.

“Hello, this is Theodora Drake. Might I speak to my mother?” Her three year old voice smoothed out, suddenly eloquent and powerful in a way it simply wasn’t before. Eloquence Beyond Measure was proving useful already.

“Yes, of- of course, Miss Drake. Please hold.”

She waited.

“Theodora. What is it, daughter? You know better than to interrupt our digs.”

“Mother, it has come to my attention that my nanny is embezzling money from you. I have been eating boxed mac n’ cheese and only that for the past three days. They cost four dollars each. I would hate for my growth to be stunted.”

Two days later, Janet Drake and Jack Drake stormed into the mansion and threw out the nanny. Janet gives her an approving nod at her sudden eloquence (wow, these people had no idea what children were supposed to be like) and gave her a credit card to use freely.

Rich people. Honestly.

Timmy’s sly gaze was highlighted by the invisible glow of the congratulations banner.

#timothy drake #scheming tim drake #tim drake #reincarnation #reincarnated as Timothy drake #female tim drake #Timmy drake #Batman #gamer fic #the admin is cursing out their bosses #Timmy Drake and her ‘you should have specified’ mind set #Timmy Drake risking it all for the sapphic love of her life

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armaegddn · 4 months ago

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hi guys! i know there's not a lot of you here on my account but i hope you will rb and share this as i've seen little to no coverage of this in international media.

Bangladesh has followed a quota system for high paying government jobs till 2018, where 30% of the seats were reserved for the descendents of the freedom fighters who fought to liberate our country against pakistan in 1971. due to mass student protesting in 2018, the quota system was scrapped, allowing more eligible students to secure the jobs.

The quota system was then reinstated this year with 56% of the seats reserved: 30% for the descendents of freedom fighters, and the rest for women, minorities and the disabled. University students are yet again left to suffer due to rising rates of unemployment in government jobs. The children of freedom fighters are given more priority by the government as an act of nepotism, so they can plug their own people into the jobs, putting the university students at a massive disadvantage.

On July 15th, the students of Dhaka University and Jahangirnagar University started a peaceful protest march with the slogan #QuotaReform. They were met with resistance by the Bangladesh Cchatro League (Cchatro meaning students), a government organisation known for its violence. They launched at the students with weapons such sticks and sharp blades and later guns and ammunition. Police soon surrounded the protests as well and shot at multiple students, threw tear gas, sound gas and other forms of ammunition into the campuses.

7 students have lost their lives so far and there are hundreds injured with many hospitals refusing treatment. A 2 year old child was shot today...

The students have all been kicked out of their halls, and yet they are still protesting through the nationwide shutdown today (18/07/24). Our Prime Minister refuses to acknowledge the government's own violence towards THEIR CITIZENS.

I beg everyone who sees this to interact with and stay as educated about this to their best ability. #QuotaReform is barely trending anywhere and media coverage is difficult in Bangladesh due to the control of the government. The most we've able to do (those who are unable to protest on the streets) is share the news on our social media and spread awareness. Please take some time out of your day to talk about this. This country was built on the backs of student protests. We are reliving the student massacre of 1952 but instead of Pakistan its our own government and police firing at us...

Please rb and educate yourselves on this topic to spread awareness and if there are any Bangladeshis here going to protest please be safe we are all praying for you.

#QuotaReformProtest #bangladesh #bangladeshi students #SaveBangladeshiStudents

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pastanest · 1 year ago

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Spencer Reid x she/her!reader

A/N: guess who’s back with another shrimp reid fic. that’s right, you guessed it, Im ovulating

gif from an unnamed source on google so if it’s yours please let me know and I’ll credit!! ♡

Mean It

The bond you have formed with the resident genius of the BAU is one that you treasure. Every morning, you are most excited to practically skip into the office with the brightest smile on your face, just for him. The wonder, the magic that is Doctor Spencer Reid, and you are lucky enough to call him your closest friend.

He is endlessly fascinating to you. Unlike the rest of the team, you have never once cut one of his rambles short, you have listened to each and every one in its entirety, with stars in your eyes.

The two of you talk about anything and everything, from the most mundane smalltalk to the deepest philosophical debates, and you enjoy every moment spent in Spencer’s company.

However, as you perch on Spencer’s desk in what has become a morning tradition, the look on your face as you glance around the office makes your dear friend’s heart sink, because he knows who you are looking for.

And right on cue, Derek Morgan strolls into the office, yelling an overly enthusiastic question that is - much to Spencer’s dismay - ritualistic, too.

“WHERE’S MY PRETTY GIRL?”

The beaming smile on your face as you hop off of Spencer’s desk and run into Derek’s open arms is worse than a bullet wound, which Spencer knows to be true without any actual proof.

He watches on, wondering if his skin is turning green with jealousy, as Derek picks you up and spins you around, the two of you laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world. What’s so funny about that? Spencer thinks bitterly, frowning at his computer and forcing himself to shift his focus, though his subconscious continues to grumble. If he was ever allowed the privilege of holding you like that, the last thing he’d do is laugh about it.

Thankfully, the morning event is over as quickly as it began, and you skip back over to Spencer with a smile that’s different to the one you had for Derek. What shade of green is Spencer now?

“Sorry about that, Spence, gotta reach my daily hug quota!” You chime.

Spencer’s stomach drops. He wants so badly to offer his own services, to perhaps suggest some variety in who is allowed to meet your daily-hug-quota and enquire whether you’d consider his application, whether he meets your criteria. But, in what can only be described as the worst preconceived notion in human history, Spencer does not like physical contact in the majority of circumstances, as you have well known since the day you met him and he proposed a kiss would hold less germs than a handshake, which made you blush in a way his eidetic memory has never let him forget. He wishes, more than anything, he could travel back in time to that very day, to add a clause to the contract he’d bound himself to, some fine-print that said ‘physical contact from and with (Y/N) is the only exception to every typical circumstantial preference for no physical contact’. Alas, Spencer Reid had unintentionally doomed himself.

Today is a rarity, in which the team have spent the day confined to the BAU building, filing case reports and talking amongst themselves. You speak to Spencer most of all, because on the occasion anyone else speaks to him, he finds he is too distracted by you to fully focus his efforts on the conversation.

As per usual, you wait at the elevator doors for Spencer, never walking out of the office without him in an unspoken gesture of your sweet appreciation for his company.

“Oh, Spence, did you want to have a Doctor Who sleepover tonight?” You suggest suddenly, causing Spencer’s eyes to widen and his heart to skip simultaneously.

“Y-Yes! Of course!” He blurts out, perhaps a little too quickly. Perhaps, he should have paused for a beat, giving you the impression he had been able to form a degree of a coherent thought before he answered you.

Instead, Spencer spends the elevator ride down to the ground floor glancing at you with a dazed look in his eyes, like you are the first star he’s ever seen and he’s too shy to look at you for too long. Why would he be shy in the presence of a star? Stars are out of his reach, beyond the realm of his capability to hold. That metaphor had been far more applicable than he’d realized.

The drive to your house is spent in accordance with your typical pre-sleepover routine; Spencer says he doesn’t mind what music you play, and you select one of your many playlists at random, singing and dancing in such a theatrical way in the passenger seat of Spencer’s car that he truly wonders if he didn’t have an IQ of 187, would he be able to split his focus between adoring you and concentrating on the road?

In what feels like no time at all, you and Spencer are sitting on your sofa with a blanket each and a bowl of popcorn between you that Spencer finds himself internally cursing with every unkind word he knows, as he does each and every time that pathetic plastic bowl forms an impassable barrier between him and you. Occasionally, his fingers are lucky enough to brush yours if you happen to reach for popcorn at the same time. You always chuckle like it’s a coincidence, never quite catching onto the way in which Spencer studies your movements in his peripheral vision to calculate, down to a fine science, how long it takes you to finish one handful of popcorn before you’ll reach for another, and he can just so happen to plan his movements accordingly. All for a brush of your fingertips. In truth, Spencer would run through a burning building just for the chance to hold your hand, even if it wasn’t promised. The chance, that’s all he needs.

In the midst of what is otherwise a very traditional evening shared between the two of you, Spencer feels different. The more he thinks about how this evening could play out if Derek Morgan were in his place, the more Spencer wonders if his eyes are playing tricks on him or if the skin of his hands is turning green with jealousy. Would the bowl of popcorn be in the same place? Would it be on your lap, or Derek’s, allowing the two of you to sit closer, considering you already showcase just how comfortable you are together? Or would it be on the coffee table, leaving no obstruction between you and Derek at all? Would his arm be around you, and would your arm be around him in return? Would you be telling Derek the pieces of movie trivia that Spencer had been the one to tell you, when you watched a movie with Derek that you had previously seen with Spencer? Do you wish Derek was here with you instead? ‘Nauseous’ is too small a word and does not contain enough profanities.

“I’m not gonna get through all this popcorn on my own, Spence.” You chuckle quietly, having noticed that your company hasn’t reached for popcorn in some time due to how cold your hand feels, having not flushed at the sensation of his fingertips in too long.

“Sorry, not hungry.” Spencer murmurs.

The sadness in his voice sets off alarm bells in your head immediately, and you pause the movie, discarding the bowl of popcorn that Spencer’s scowl follows all the way to the coffee table, while you turn to face him on your couch.

“Spence, what’s the matter? Do you feel sick?” You ask gently.

Yes, actually, viscerally.

“Nothing, I’m-“

You shake your head, the only time you’ll ever cut him off is when he tries to deflect. “Don’t. I can see something’s wrong, and if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay, but can you please tell me what I can do to help?”

Of course, Spencer’s feelings for you have a solid foundation in the perceptive and attentive person that you are, forever seeing right through him.

“Do you…Do you ever have movie nights with Morgan?” He asks timidly, his head hanging in shame, his gaze fixed on his lap.

Spencer’s question completely catches you off guard, and your jaw drops, an amused smile gracing your features in utter bewilderment.

“What? No, Derek’s never even stood on my doorstep, Spence, why do you ask?” You question the motives of his query, and he sighs in defeat.

“I just figured…you’re so comfortable with him, you must want to spend time with him outside of work, too. I guess I just don’t understand why you’d invite me instead. Do you pity me, or something?” Spencer asks in a dejected and small voice.

The cogs in your brain are turning, your expression softening in turn.

“Spencer, I don’t pity you, I invite you because I enjoy spending time with you.” There’s a delicacy to your words, recognising his fragile state.

And Spencer’s foolish, lovesick heart sings from beneath the ruins at your words, at the tiniest spark of hope that is immediately suffocated by his own insecurities.

One word from you has the power to make and break him, all at once.

“But you enjoy Derek more.” Spencer’s voice breaks on the last word he speaks, and he closes his eyes in a pained blink, turning his face away from you completely in an effort to shield himself from the kindness he’ll see in your gaze. “You sit with me every morning while you wait for him, and the second he’s there, you’re gone. The way you smile at him isn’t the same way you smile at me. I understand that you don’t feel the same way about me, but I don’t understand why you’d waste any time on me outside of work, based on that.” Spencer is trying his absolute best to phrase everything he says in his usual objective, matter-of-fact tone, but the hurt in his words is so clear.

“Spencer,” You sigh gently, “Will you look at me, please?”

He shakes his head. “Can’t.”

“Why not?” You ask in the same soft voice that makes his heart ache.

“I’ll forget how much this hurts the moment I look at you.” Spencer mutters.

“Don’t you want to forget?” You question, almost pleading.

Spencer shakes his head. “If I forget, I’ll throw myself back into the same cycle of pining for you, living off of your smiles and glances and the instances where I make you laugh.”

Your heart breaks at his words, and for a few seconds, you don’t say anything. The very moment the idea enters your mind, you reach for Spencer’s hand, holding it gently in both of yours, and immediately, his wide eyes have turned to stare at you.

And your tears. You must have only started crying after you last spoke to him, because if you had been crying in the midst of your reply, Spender wouldn’t have been able to hear anything else.

And just like he predicted, the sight of you makes him forget every ounce of his own pain, his heart breathing a sigh of relief and reaching out for you in pure anguish at the sight of you, in tears.

“Why are you crying?” Spencer asks, his voice barely above a whisper. If it wasn’t for your tears, the way you are holding his hand would render him incapable of forming a single word.

“Because you have no idea that you’re my favorite person in the universe, Spencer.” You sniffle.

Spencer frowns slightly. “Please don’t say that if you don’t-“

“I mean it.” You cut his deflection short again. “I come into the office every morning excited at the thought of seeing you, and I stay sitting on your desk, as close to you as I’m allowed to be, until we’re forced to work; the only time I leave your desk in the mornings is to briefly greet Derek, because he is the only person who knows how I feel and he hugs me in the way I wish you would, to make me feel better.” You explain through your tears. “And you’re right, I don’t smile at you the same way I do at Derek.”

Spencer is uncertain as to whether his heart has given out entirely.

He blinks. Once. Twice. And a third time. Then rapidly, six times, to blink the tears away that dared blur the perfect vision of you in front of him.

“I treat you differently to Derek because I adore you enough to never want to risk overstepping your boundaries with physical contact. I sit on your desk to resist hugging you every morning, I put a bowl of popcorn between us whenever we watch a movie because I’m afraid I’ll subconsciously lean closer to you, and it hurts to put those limitations in place, to feel the ever present distance between us, but I don’t care, because I do it for you, and I’d do it for you forever.” You add, the words falling from your lips so easily, Spencer can almost feel how long you’ve been holding them in.

“(Y/N)…” He chokes out the only word his heart and soul can remember in this moment.

“I never meant to make you feel like you are less important, or that I like you less- I’m so sorry.” The waterfalls from your eyes are too constant for you to manage now, and you let go of Spencer’s hand to hold your own face instead, hiding yourself and your guilt from him in your state of vulnerability.

Spencer glances at the popcorn bowl on the coffee table for a fraction of a second, before he shuffles over on the couch to occupy the space he had been aching to steal from that bowl since your very first sleepover, and very slowly, he wraps his arms around you. And it’s instinctual, the way your hands come away from your face as you wrap your own arms around his neck, your face finding the home it had always longed for in Spencer’s shoulder. As if slotting into place, you find yourself sitting on his lap with no real understanding of how you got there, because all that matters is that he is holding you there.

“I’m sorry for getting jealous, I had no right to.” Spencer’s apology breaks the silence, and he speaks into your hair, his every sense soaking in the sensation, the scent of you.

“I’m glad you did, but you didn’t need to. I’ve been yours since the day we met.” You say, as if your words are a casual statement and not life-altering in a way that changes Spencer Reid’s very brain chemistry.

“You’ve been mine?” He repeats your statement as a disbelieving question.

Wiping your tears with your sleeve, you sigh dramatically. “Yep. Just waited around for you to notice.”

And Spencer can’t quite believe it, but he laughs, shaking his nose into your hair and holding you tighter against his chest.

“I’m sorry for being oblivious, in that case.” He apologizes, his tone more lighthearted now.

“I’m sorry too.” You chuckle.

“From what I understand of confession-scenes, they are not supposed to contain this many apologies.” Spencer muses, making you laugh heartily, his soul very nearly rising out of his body at the sound.

“Everyone knows the best confessions have a bit of angst.” You joke, and Spencer nods, laughing with you.

“And you do have a proclivity for dramatics.” Spencer teases, and you playfully poke his chest, the two of you sharing a giggle like a pair of giddy teenagers.

A pleasant minute of silence passes as you revel in holding each other, an intimacy once pined after finally being felt in full-force, until a question rises in you that simply has to be asked, or you will burst.

“Does this mean that, going forward, our sleepovers can include makeouts?” You pull away from Spencer’s chest enough to watch the shade of pink blossom in his cheeks, his pupils dilating as he looks into your eyes, and he nods.

“I-I believe that is a feature that is well-worth adding to our list of sleepover activities.”

And when he says it like that, how can a girl be expected to do anything but kiss him senseless in response?

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #x reader #imagine #imagines #fanfic #fanfiction #headcannon #headcannons #Spotify

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extrajigs · 8 months ago

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Wanted to get into the Abby choirs. These are some of the fellas from an undisclosed (read: the favorite) Abattoir! INFO DUMP BELOW!

Starting with names! From left to right, Daniel, Michael, and Kirstin! Have a big post cooking about how to get into the club but for now what the job entails. Choirs are those blessed with slivers of the Gods power, BUT unlike the dragons and abattoirs they are born from within the Abby they'll serve. Not that Abattoir residents know that there are any others!

Choirs are tasked with keeping order and stability within their Abbies, the two main tasks are ensuring that the populace stays in good condition and making absolutely sure the tobacco quota is met. The latter being far more important than you'd think at first.

The God Worms kind of give them free reign to do whatever they want otherwise, so it kind of depends on the vibe of the choir for how your internal Abby experience shall go! Some are more laid back, some are more totalitarian. Gods don't really care as much as they probably should. These fellas within the favorite Abattoir are more laid back than most, defaulting to a more democratic approach to keep the people they're watching happy. Michael has been there the longest, a few thousand years, Kirstin and Daniel have been there a few hundred years.

Another IMPORTANT NOTE is that every choir member looks like that is because to become a member you need to partake in some divine flesh to gain godly power. Such power violently corrupts those it meets! But should you survive the process, you get a fun monster form and power in one of two veins. That of either flesh or soul. Both the separate domains of the Gods so you can only be particularly good in one. Flesh is far more common than soul, as leaning too hard into the soul aspect may result in getting kicked out of your body. :(

That's the main gist! Oh another big perk is also the initial reason most people try to join the choir! Choir members are exempt from the yearly feast.

#the abattoirs #worldbuilding #art #gif #body horror #monsters #mike is the fav

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inthefallofasparrow · 8 months ago

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Attention:

In light of recent unfortunate events in Sectors 17 - 19, the NCD has had several requests for transfer from the Mining Division of the Digging Corps to the Surface Division. I am sure you can all understand that we cannot recommend nor indeed allow transfer to the surface at this time or in fact ever.

For those of you too young to know the history of the Digging Corps, it began its existence many decades ago as part of what was colloquially termed 'The Digging Project'. Simply put, the goal of the project was to dig up the first three feet of soil from the entire state of Nevada. The purpose of this endeavor has long since been lost to us, but given the ever-rising temperatures and general ecological and economic turmoil we have witnessed over the last century, it's reasonable to assume the project was proposed in response to that and as a solution to mass unemployment.

At that time the project was undertaken by what was termed the 'Civilian Excavation Corp', which oversaw the organization and dispatch of shovelmen to various locations across Nevada. Their central hub located outside Ely, NV would later become known simply as Nevada Central Dispatch and was run by a man named Former Lieut. General Obadiah M. Delmar. His grandchildren were also heavily involved in the Digging Project, and before long it became tradition for all Delmars to spend time in its ranks.

As you can imagine, such a monumental task became harder and harder as the temperature rose, but a specific quota for soil needed to be met each day by government mandate. Many former residents of Nevada had refused to leave their homes and so work often ceased for weeks due to rioting and clashes with those now trespassing on the evacuation zone. The only way to continue meeting the daily quota when progress stalled was to continue digging downwards past the three foot limit. Soon, many shovelmen began volunteering for tunneling detail as a way to spend the day staying cool and out of the blistering sun. Over time the mining units became their own separate division from the rest, rejecting the futility of the initial Digging Project, but recognising the stable employment a bucket of dirt could provide. So long as quotas continued to be met, the government didn't seem to care, and so the digging continued ever downward.

Then as now, communication with the outside world was strictly forbidden for members of the Digging Corps, so contact with the Surface Division has also long since been severed. We have every reason to believe they do still operate however, presumably now toiling in full-body proximity suits made of high temperature protective material, but we cannot in good conscience, allow the transfer of our loyal shovelmen to such an untenable and hostile environment, and any attempt at contacting the surface will result in immediate termination.

Thank you to @riverpiracy for providing archival images and information previously assumed lost.

Many hands make light work.

#digging corps #dustpost #unreality #long post

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oursecretways · 4 months ago

Note

Hello!! ☺️

Could I please get #7 with Lee Know 💕

No pressure at all!

7. He calms you down while you're having a panic attack

idol!Lee Know × fem!Reader note(s): ahh of course lovely, hope you enjoy it, I really tried ngl lmao😭 I just love writing gentle and caring Minho content, he can be a bully, but we all know he is there to help anyone he loves 😌 hope you enjoy it ♥ it became a two parter because apparently you can only have so much characters in one tumblr post it is a two parter genre(s): fluff, angst word count: 1.1K (the two part together) warning(s): reader having a panic attack, strong language, toxic work environment being called “baby” and “love” a lot

masterlist ║ invisible ask game ║ part two

It was the most typical day at work: working your ass off so someone higher above, or some older colleague can steal your work, but what made it even worse that your work bestie can’t be here, since she went overseas with her family… “Lucky her” you think to yourself, as you come back from your lunch break, which you wished you wouldn’t have done. Looking back you should’ve said that you aren’t feeling well — which to some degree was true, you know one of those days when everything seems suffocating, much, much darker, and one ugly tone, and you break… yeah it was one of those days. As you sat down at your desk to continue your market research needed for your company new product. Man, you wished you would do what actually excited you: creating the product itself based on the research, but you are only a researcher, which is way more stressful than you like to admit to anyone, especially your boyfriend Minho. You two met him when you first moved to Korea — because you were always fascinated by the countries’ culture, and it was a childhood dream of yours to move to Seoul. Unbeknownst to you, that meant that you meet with a K-pop idol that happened to be your ideal man. When the two of you met, you did not know much about Stray Kids, only heard their song called Hellavator. But now you are a fully pledged STAY, teasing Minho that Ji is your bias every time you get the chance — even tho he secretly agrees and tells you that Han is his bias too.

Once everyone got back to their respected desk, your boss called you into his office, “Y/N, please come, I need to talk to you.” You already know it probably won’t be a talk of a lifetime, especially that he has been even a bigger prick than usual, because your department haven’t been meeting the monthly quota. Making Mr. Whang’s life harder than he would want it to be. “Yes sir? How can help you?” you asked sincerely. You felt your throat dry, and tried to focus on your breathing, believing it to be a little nervousness. The nicer you can act, the easier he would let you off… at least that was your oh so naive thought. He made sure that you know where is your place: six feet under him. He made you feel like you should crawl, especially that you accused his great friend, an honest, hardworking colleague, of stealing your assignment. And you tried to explain it to him that there has been injustice, because he did, in fact, steal your presentation that you have put countless all-nighters in, but he just kept on going. Even scolded you about being so uptight and a prude, how women nowadays suck “Woman nowadays don’t get put into their place well enough. I am sure if I would be that boyfriend of yours, I would teach you to know where is your place.” After that sentence, your view started spinning, as you became very dizzy. The autopilot mode been turned on, and you were agreeing with all he said, but in reality you couldn’t been further away from reality. “You can go, don’t bother for today, you are seemingly useless, not even saying what you think, all you can do is agree, truly useless. I don’t even know how they can hire an intern like you.” You felt as if your chest closing up by the time you got out of his office. If anyone tried to call your name, you couldn’t hear it with your heart beating loudly in your ear. Without noticing, you went straight to the dance studio, where your boyfriend of many years tries his best to come up with new choreography for their comeback. You knew he is alone because Hyunjin is on a fashion show and Felix is in the studio recording his parts.

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solreino · 2 months ago

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Swan Song

Chapter 1: Taking Flight

Summary: In preparation for your debut as Odette in Swan Lake, you encounter a few bumps in the road. Little do you know this is just the start.

Pairings: TF 141 x Reader

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: Eating Disorders, Toxic Beauty Standards, Creepy/Unwanted Behaviour, Period-Typical Attitudes (1910's), Innacurate Translations.

A/N: I'm not well informed about ballet, I have never danced it before, so I apologize for any inaccuracy regarding terminology. Also, the story is set mainly in Russia, so the reader is presumed to be of Russian origin.

MASTERLIST Next➔

[November 11th 1911, The Bolshoi Ballet Academy, Russia]

"1 and 2 and 3 and 4!”

Your eyebrows furrow in concentration as Mr. Lenkov begins to play Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake Suite, Op. 20a: I. Scene "Swan Theme" for what feels like the sixth time this hour. His nimble fingers dance across the ivory keys once again as the composition presumes its macabre melody.

To say the last few weeks have been stressful would be a dire understatement. Since taking up the role of Odette in Autumn, you’ve yet to recall the last time you’d had the pleasure of succumbing to the sanctity of slumber, nor rest altogether for that matter. From dawn to dusk, you’ve found the studio becoming a second home to you; like an ever-so gracious host with a tendency for passive-aggressive hospitality, who coaxes you from the front door in promise of warm tea and a place to rest your head, insisting you stay "just one more hour". You know better, well at least you think you do, because beyond the studio door you know there’ll be no rest awaiting you, only relentless recital. Still, you don’t look back as you accept its welcoming embrace. Because-

Anything but perfection would not suffice. You see, back-breaking discipline; impeccable precision; artistic competence; meticulous dedication, it’s nothing new to ballet and in turn, it’s nothing new to you, either. To be a ballerina means to surrender yourself to the artistry, and let your body become its mindless muse.

The Ballet industry is an anomaly compared to other artistic sectors. Unlike others, it subverges from the ideals of ‘beauty in the eye of the beholder’. Conformity is key. There are strict standards to be met and an unquestionable quota to be completed. Anything but, will not do. It disregards the need to sugarcoat its shallow requirements; skinnier, sharper, prettier, thinner; if it fulfills the requirements, it will suffice.

Image is everything. It’s a shallow, superficial sentiment that directors set upon budding ballerinas like hounds to hares. From day one, they plant it into the impressionable minds of aspiring dancers. Uncontrollably, self-doubt sprouts like a stubborn weed. Each off-hand comment or direct dig, whether it be about a girl’s weight of en pointe form, encourages the festering parasite to root itself deeper into her mind. Then she grows older - it’s too late - and the parasitic thought has poisoned her once innocent outlook on life and has rotted it right to its roots. For the rest of her tragic life, the girl will only know the number on the scales, the image in the mirror, and the misery in her mind.

You’ve seen it happen to others. You’ve seen it happen to you, because-

Ballet has ensnared you - mind, body, and soul. Over the years, you’ve felt its callous claws dig deeper and deeper into your flesh, leaving scars so severe - both physically and mentally - sometimes the pretty pink ribbons you adorn your feet with prove futile in the bid to cover them. Prodding and poking and probing; fingers jabbing mercilessly into your sides, accompanying a doubly ruthless "you'll need to lose this extra weight if you want a spot on my stage". For a sport so vain, you ought to think it would go easy on its victims. A session of self-reflection proves otherwise.

You learn to bear and grin through it all. You don’t have much of a choice anyways. After all, many before you have suffered the same, and those who come after you will too. Because after many years of being a ballerina-

You learn to see beauty in the pain.

The blood you bleed makes the red roses you receive at curtain call worthwhile; the sadistically sweat-inducing masterclasses make the shining smiles and standing ovations from awestruck audiences worthwhile; the tears make the champagne chutes you get to drink at the expense of your company worthwhile. You chase these highs like you do with stardom.

All you've ever dreamed of since a little girl was to be a ballerina. Perhaps, it was the beautiful dresses a child of your class could only dream of back then, or how pretty the woman on the front page of your father’s newspaper looked posing on the tip of her toes. You don’t know for certain what exactly it was that enthralled you with it all. Sometimes, you wish you had never boarded that train to Moscow, never bothered with all that came with being a ballerina. It’s a selfish and self-deprecating thought, for you know if you were to stay on that homestead, there was an imminent chance you would have succumbed to the troubles of poverty you had faced back home. Admittedly, there are times you miss your life before coming to the city. None can be done about that, however.

Now, you have to push your body to its limits and beyond. Daily, you trespass boundaries you had once believed your body did not possess the ability to, reciting the same sequences endlessly, over and over again, until you physically can’t pursue your practice further that day. Even then, you find yourself persevering through the pain and fatigue; limbs heavy like lead; a mind strong like steel. If you knew your efforts were futile in the bid to rid yourself of any flaws in your dance, you would be wrong because-

Ultimately, you knew no matter how much effort you exerted, the Dance Principal; Ballet Mistress; the reputable Madame Orlova would not miss a single thing.

For decades, word has circled Moscow of the cold-hearted, quick-witted, sharp-tongued old woman who ran the prestigious academy with an iron fist. It was just your luck that she had taken you under her wing as one of her pupils. You dare say she had taken a liking to you, though, she did have a tough way of showing her fondness onto others.

Never a day was there without some sort of mistake to be mended by her recognition. At times you think God had cursed her to be forever unfulfilled in her outlook of life. The others in the Troupe seem to think so too.

You dread to think of how much Mr Lenkov’s fingers must be hurting from playing the same melody over and over again for this past hour. It wouldn’t surprise you if the composition begins to haunt your dreams like a creaky, broken music box. You’ve never had the pleasure of owning one, though you had seen one in the window of a repair shop one time and-

And, as the Ballet Mistress shouts at Mr Lenkov to cease his playing, you know she has once more found a flaw in your dancing.

The symphony stops abruptly with a garble of incoherent notes before it can reach its crescendo. Inwardly, you sigh.

"No, no, no!" She scolds.

Her boney fingers rub feverishly against her temple in frustration. Rising slowly from her chair before you, her walking cane thumps anticipating against the studio’s oakwood floor as she ambles towards you. Wrinkled eyes bore into you; you struggle to withstand the urge not to writhe under the intensity of her stare.

"Your arms,” She begins slowly, her gaze raking over you in scrutiny, “They are stiff.”

“From the shoulder to the fingertips,” She gestures with her hand down the length of your arm as she speaks. “It must flow, like the wing of a swan.”

She uses the moment of silence as you take on the command to survey your form, prodding and poking your stance to adjust it to her liking.

“Do not forget this.” She finishes.

"Yes, Madame Orlova," You nod in acknowledgment, wincing slightly each time her finger jabs into your shoulder blades and readjust your position to better suit her expectations.

She huffs a breath in what you can only presume is somewhat satisfaction, signaling for Mr Lenovo to resume playing.

“Again!”

The song resumes its somber sound, and you take heed to the Ballet Mistress’ words. Flowing from your shoulder blades to your fingertips, you encapture the essence of the White Swan; melancholy in her mourning of a lover whose heart he had promised to another. She is vulnerable in her virtue, and she shows that in her final flight. Odette longs for the skies, for an escape from the betrayal of who she had held dear, but her wings fail her. In desperation, she flexes and flaps her wings, but alas, she cannot take flight. And so-

You spiral in a presession of slow spins, arms portraying the anguished attempt the Swan Queen takes to take flight for the final time before decelerating into a despairing descent as Odette. The tune tumbles to its end from beneath Mr. Lenkov’s fingers as you complete your practiced plummet to the studio floor, encasing your body with your arms the wings of the white swan, as the grief-stricken creature takes its final breath.

You raise your head to look at Madame Orlova.

And, for the first time in your decade-long enrollment at the Bolshoi Ballet School, you think you see the infamously stone-faced stone-hearted ballet mistress smile.

It's a cold evening in Moscow tonight. The winter winds thrash ferociously at the loose and unraveling threads of your scarf. Whilst it does little to protect you from the frigid frost lingering in the air, you wear it anyways as any warmth you can garner to combat the icy environment is, in your eyes, worthwhile.

Snowflakes dust your hair with specks of glistening white, gathering upon the crown of your head where you have neglected to put on a hat. They tickle your nose and gently brush against your rosy cheeks as you tilt your head back. Your face turned towards the sky; watching as the snow twirls and tumbles from the clouds above, gradually blanketing the ground ahead in a pristine carpet of soft white. It crunches as you walk towards the theatre, leaving footsteps on the once-untouched landscape. You take extra caution not to slip on any hidden ice - an injury is the last thing you needed on a day as imperative as this.

Somewhere in the far distance, the Kremlin bells ring.

Thirteen mighty chimes thunder throughout the city. You feel the ground rumble in response beneath your feet - a reminder to hurry.

Rushing up the snowy steps of the Bolshoi Ballet Theatre, you quickly let yourself inside in an attempt to escape the chilling temperatures of the Moscovian evening - and to avoid running behind schedule.

The warm air inside greets you welcomingly. You eagerly pull off your gloves in its presence to soak up the heat it has to offer. Slowly, you begin to regain feeling into your fingers. Sighing a relieved breath, you make your way backstage as the marble floor of the foyer echoes noisily beneath your shoes.

There, you receive a not-so-calm yet begrudgingly familiar greeting.

Pre-performance is usually like this; congested backstage corridors; a cacophony of frantic demands and directions; boxes of overflowing props and costumes rushed up and down the hall; the deafening pounding of ballerinas breaking in their pointe shoes; dim lighting making it near impossible to navigate. However today, with your debut as the company’s newly appointed principal dancer just hours away, it feels even more nerve-wrackingly overwhelming.

You brace yourself as you get swept away in the havoc of opening night, tangled in the rambunctious crowd as it traverses through the labyrinth of backstage passageways.

Despite the absurd amount of people crammed in corridors unable to withstand even a fraction of their current capacity, you miraculously manage to maneuver your way to the dressing room; elbow-to-rib style, ducking under boxes and weaving past those racing in the opposite direction.

Relief hits you as you swing open the dressing room door, closing it quickly behind you as your eyes blink rapidly to adjust to the bright lighting inside. The much more quieter, yet seemingly livelier chatter of friendly conversation and girlish giggles encompasses you as you move further into the dressing room. You shrug off your coat, laying it to rest on the coathanger and take your seat in front of your dresser.

Tranquility seeps into your bones as you slouch against the chair’s backrest momentarily, soaking up the opportunity of rest no matter how short-lived the moment may be. Mentally, you take the moment to prepare yourself for the evening, and all the chaos and calamity it is sure to bring.

Sighing, you straighten yourself up in your seat, glancing at your reflection in the mirror as you do so.

"I didn't know you had a secret admirer.”

You don’t turn around as the voice chimes up from behind you. You of all people know better than to entertain her playful antics.

The voice reveals itself from its lurking in the background, resting her chin just above your collarbone and draping her arms over your shoulder.

Your eyes meet hers in the reflection. She grins back at you.

“Valeria.” You sigh, patting the hand resting around your shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

Valeria, crowned tonight’s Black Swan, is one of the company’s longer-serving principal dancers and has self-appointed herself as your tutor and friend as of late. Graciously, she has taken you under her wing these past couple of months as you have gradually adjusted to your newly bestowed title, joining her amongst the Bolshoi’s most prestigious ranks.

“You too,” She smirks, a little too suspiciously for your liking, pecking your cheek in greeting before returning to her seat at her vanity next to you. “You too.”

You begin to rummage through your stage makeup, tilting the mirror toward you so you can better see, before laying out your needed products on the desk space. You pay no mind to her mischievous staring as you do so. But, as you have learned over your time acquainted with Valeria, nothing can deter her from getting what she wants. And right now, that is to find out who this supposed ‘secret admirer’ is.

"So tell us then," She drawls teasingly, "Who's the lucky boy?"

The edge of your desk presses uncomfortably into your side as you turn to give her your attention. For the time being, anyways. You yourself are somewhat curious as to what she is talking about. But the sooner you can resolve this suppositious accusation, the sooner you can resume to the real issue at hand - getting ready for Swan Lake.

Confusion stirs at her question, and you tilt your head to the side, urging her to explain further.

A ribbon-wrapped gift box is pushed toward you. You watch on, confused.

Valeria’s legs swing idly back and fro as she gazes at you expectantly. The corners of her lips tug further into a grin at the silence that ensues and at the completely dumbfounded expression on your face. When you give her no answer, her Cheshire-cat-like grin falters.

The girls around you giggle, peering over from their makeup stations to indulge in the drama unfolding. Valeria shoots them a look from over your shoulder, one you cannot decipher, but it quietens them down.

“For me?” you ask doubtfully, slightly stumbling over your words as you take the generous gift into your hands. “Oh Valeria, you shouldn’t have-”

“Not from me.” She huffs.

“I don’t understand,” you mumble, eyes scanning over the gift as you look for a label, a note, a letter, anything that may reveal the gifter’s identity. “Who could this be from?”

She shrugs indifferently, turning to focus on her reflection in the mirror, transfixed on getting the edges of her lipstick just right.

“The girls who were here before me said it came delivered to the dressing rooms earlier this hour-” She smiles at her appearance, appreciating her flawless makeup in the mirror. Placing the lipstick tube down with a quiet thump, she turns to focus her attention on you once more.

She pokes a finger at you in playful accusation. “-Asking for you specifically!”

It’s your turn to shrug your shoulders, unable to give her the answer she craves, for what reason, is beyond you.

She eyes you incredulously, before returning her attention to her mirror seemingly unable to neglect her reflection for just a moment longer.

“Well,” She gestures toward the ribbon-wrapped gift with her free hand, playing an unbothered facade. You know full well she is practically itching to uncover this mystery. “Are you going to open it?”

Your eyes dart between her and the suspicious box, almost expecting this to be some sort of ruse, perhaps she had given you a jack-in-the-box and was waiting for you to get the fright of your life; her idea of fun.

Hesitantly, you begin the unravel the sheer ribbon keeping the box from opening. The fabric rubs soothingly against your fingertips, a luxury fabric you have not had the experience of touching before. It was clear that whoever had purchased this was of a wealthy background. Perhaps, you think, you could make this into a bow to wear.

You don’t know what you were expecting when you lifted its lid, but you definitely were not expecting a pair of .

“Aye chingao!” Valeria startles as she leans over your shoulder to get a better look.

Nestled between a blanket of draped deluxe fabric, a pearlescent pink, almost winter-white, pair of the most exquisitely crafted pointe shoes lie. You fail to restrain the exasperated sigh of awe at the sight, carefully grazing your fingertips over its silky satin finish as if the slightest touch could possibly damage them. You can confidently say, they are the most beautiful gift you have ever had the pleasure of receiving.

“No secret admirer,” she says.” Valeria quirks an eyebrow up at you.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's probably just costuming.” You dismiss her far-fetched conspiracies, though, you find it hard to draw your eyes away from the pair of shoes, and the fact that this had definitely not come from the costume department. So who had sent you these?

"Ha, as if Mr. Baryshev would ever allow the budget given to costuming to be used for anything but lining his own pockets!” She laughs bitterly.

“I’ve been-” Valeria exhales out a frustrated breath, “-trabajando como un burro to afford the means to get wear this!” She growls, her hands gesturing to the coal-coloured feathered fabric of her intricate bodice and tutu.

You open your mouth to give her your consolation before a knock comes to the door. You, Valeria, and the rest of the room quieten into hushed murmuring - just for a moment. Then-

“On in 30, Ladies!” A gruff voice hollers from the other side of the door.

The room erupts into chaos.

A tsunami of frantic ballerinas surge forward towards the row of dressers, crashing against each other like the tides of a raging sea you had heard many-medal adorning men recount about in tales of some distant land. The only redeeming thing about conducting post-performance business is the stories and tales you overhear; the rest, you are not so keen on.

You take the distraction in stride, shoving the pair of shoes more like semi-worn in pointe hand-me-downs from costuming somewhere under your vanity, and replacing them with your newly acquired gift.

“You’re going to wear them?!” Valeria hisses incredulously.

You glance at her sideways, smirking back at the priceless expression of amused disbelief on her face.

“Well, they’re shoes, aren’t they?” You jest, grinning at her mischievously. “It would be a shame not to.”

She shakes her head in mock-dissappointment, haphazardously stuffing her stage makeup in its designated drawer before firmly slamming it shut.

“I fear my mischief is rubbing off on you too much.” She mumbles as she looks up at you, feigning a tone of dismay, only to be betrayed by the growing smirk on her face.

“Well,” She smoothes her hands over her slicked-back bun of cropped raven hair, "I'll see you out there."

You give her your goodbyes as she pats you on the shoulder, rising from her chair and making her way toward the dressing room’s door.

“Don’t let the Director find out,” Valeria whisper-shouts from over her shoulder. “You know what he’s like.”

She ushers the remaining lingering corps-de-ballet girls out of the changing rooms, winking at you as she closes the door gently behind her.

You listen as the chatter slowly retreats from beneath the doorframe, Valeria’s distinct, accented laughter mingled with that of fast-paced Russian retreating down the echoey corridor ‘till you could hear it no more. A serene silence hugs the now-semi abandoned dressing room; those, including you, who aren’t to appear until later acts remain, a more pacific atmosphere stirs, with subdued gossiping, softer laughter, and a more slowing-encroaching sense of time.

You slump in your chair.

You have a long evening ahead of you.

The rear of house is relatively quieter now.

You can no longer hear the lively chatter associated with the pre-performance buzz, only the occasional hushed conversation resurfacing through the suffocating silence as people pass by. Walking backstage is always an awkward feat, your pointe shoes make an unpleasantly loud noise against the cold concrete floor with each precarious step you take.

You had felt bad for having to break them in; they were an extraordinaryly well-crafted pair of pointé shoes, they fit perfectly too, and you were certain the price tag was even more extravagant. You still hadn’t resolved the identity of the mystery gifter, but you’d make sure to thank them profusely for their kindness. For now, however, you have a debut to make.

Your feet thump rapidly as you semi-rush toward the entrance to the left wing. The further you near, the more people it seems are gathered in anticipation for their appearances onstage. The conversation is greater here than that of in the deeper bowels of the theatre where the dressing room had been. Mingling herds of ballerinas and dancers lean idle against the walls, stretching in preparation for their scenes, and chatting amongst themselves, but done so in more gentle, lower tones so as not to alert the audience of their presence a mere wall away.

They regard you with reassuring smiles and words of good luck as you briskly waddle by; you reciprocate them with a short-but-sweet smile.

The music grows in amplitude as you enter the left wing officially; the once gentle thrumming is replaced with an all-encompassing eruption of expertly strung-together instruments. The welcoming embrace of the song is quickly diminished though, much to your dismay because-

The rafters here have always given you the creeps. With no help from Valeria either, who divulges in gossip of the ‘ballerina’ who had been ‘crushed to death’ by a poorly-secured light fixture on the theatre’s proscenium arch each time she catches you gazing nervously upwards at the looming space. You know it’s mainly just the technicians who lurk up in the rafters, commandeering light cues and stage transformation sequences as the ballet progresses.

‘You have nothing to fear’, you admonish yourself.

Still, that doesn’t stop the hair on the back of your neck from standing up as you approach the left stage-side.

Your presence goes unnoticed for not even a second.

Someone speaks your name in a hushed whisper.

You peer over your shoulder at the source of the sound; the silhouette of a stout-statured man emerges from the left-wing doorway. He seizes you suddenly by the shoulders before you even have time to recognise the overly-touchy-friendly Mr. Ustrashkin.

You stagger at the sudden force with which he embraces you, regaining your balance with an awkward squeak. It is only then do you see the disconcerted look that his face has taken on.

“Mr Ustrashkin?” You begin hesitantly. “Is something the matter?”

“Walk with me, dear.” He requests, but he has already pulled you into motion with the firm grip of his hand on your shoulder.

The two of you trail off to the side to make way for the group of pas de corps, and for the privacy of what you can only assume to be bad news. The ballerinas smile respectfully at you, lowering their heads slightly as they account for your company before skittering off, their ghostly white tutus fluttering by behind them like swirling snowflakes.

When the last of the dancers had passed by, Mr. Ustrashkin speaks again. You take the small queue of silence to compose yourself exteriorly for what is to come.

“Something..." He stalls, theatrically contemplating the correct word to use before resuming. "...unexpected came up within these previous hours. A true shame it is, but Fyodor, your dance partner, has sustained an ankle injury. As you can understand, he will be out of commission for the foreseeable future, and unfortunately is unable to perform with you tonight."

Your heart sinks. It collapses from your chest cavity like a marionette doll on snapped strings; as its puppet master surveilled with cruel glee from above. You wonder what you had done to anger God, for him to administer such a thing onto you. On today of all days too.

“Oh, um, I-” You stumble over your words in a tangled array of shock, panic, disbelief and uncertainty.

“None of that now, little swan.” Mr. Ustrashkin tuts, almost as one would scold a misbehaving child.

You recoil at the unwanted nickname, but are too overcome with internal panic at the newly arisen situation to pay it much mind. Saying anything anyways will get you in trouble, and you have climbed too far into the good graces of the executives of the company to fall out of favour for something so insignificant.

You struggle to maintain your composure, hanging on the thread of internal and external unbridled alarm. You bite the inside of your cheek to withhold any curses from escaping your mouth.

‘On all days this could have possibly happened on.’ You mumble to yourself mentally.

“So, if Fyodor isn’t dancing tonight..” Your eyebrows scrunch up in confusion, eyes trailing from Mr. Ustrashkin and the conversation at hand to the semi-concealed view of the stage. “Who is dancing Prince Siegfried onstage as we speak?”

Swan Lake has been going for around an hour by now, but with your appearance not until the second act, you needn’t be in as much of a rush as those in the first. You had spent that time responsibly; the majority of which was in the dressing room ensuring the costuming was to standard and ogling over the anonymous gift. Much to your displeasure, that also meant you didn’t have the pleasure of seeing everyone off at curtain opening, and you hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of this ‘Mactavish’ Mr Ustrashkin had been singing his praises about to you.

"Do not fret that pretty little head," The plump man quips. Mr. Ustrashkin pats your back, presumably in an act of reassurance, but the force which he uses almost sends you stumbling forward. "His understudy, Mactavish, has taken up his role."

“Mactavish?” Your head tilts to the side as the syllables of the foreign-sounding name roll off your tongue with a questioning implication.

“Oh yes!” He startles with a cheery smile. “A wonderful dancer through and through. We scouted his talent in London and had him transferred from The Royal Ballet to dance for us instead.” He rambles on in recollection. “Though the two of you aren’t properly acquainted yet, I’m sure he’ll be substantial as a dance partner in Fyodor’s absence.”

All you can do is nod your head absentmindedly, hoping to be relieved of his unwanted presence. And, like all men are, his attention is quickly drawn to another.

A loud laugh barks out from across in the right wing.

“Valeria!” The now-agitated man growls lowly, his teeth grinding together as he storms toward her as quickly as his little legs can carry him.

‘So that’s where she went,’ you think, half-bemused, half-concerned. You also thank her in your head for unknowingly getting you out of a conversation you no longer had any interest in being involved in.

Rolling your shoulders to relieve some tension that had been building up, your eyes search diligently for someplace to stretch before your presence on stage is needed. Finding one, you make sure to apply an ample amount of rosin to the bottom of your shoes before skittering your way over.

The minutes pass by neither quickly nor slowly, more like a muddled mixture of the two. Your body moves without control, years and years of dedicated practice leading up to this much anticipated moment allowing your body to memorize the moves. Your thoughts, however, are the fore-focus of your attention. They rumble through your mind like a blinding blizzard, burying any logical thought with a suffocating, unmoveable barrier of bleak snow and amounting stage fright.

The Pit Orchestra unleashes Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, Op. 20, Act 1: No. 9, Finale Andante’s crescendo upon the awestricken audience as such Zeus would do to the land below Mount. Olympus with his thunderbolts. If you dare a glance, you may manage to see Mr. Lenkov strumming his harp melodically, or his musical protégé he can’t help himself but boast about day in-day out.

The floor beneath your feet vibrates as the composition reverberates deafeningly throughout the auditorium; you would struggle to believe the crystal chandelier that looms overhead is not swinging violently nor the champagne glasses the aristocrats’ cradle has not shattered at the absurd volume. Though, it could just be the nervous shaking of your legs.

You catch fleeting visions of the dancers on stage; their shadows flickering in and out of view like the dimming flame of candlelight. Your thoughts are once again drawn back to Fyodor’s supposed understudy. Not once had you had a recital with him, and so you could only hope he was adequately practiced for his role.

The melody of Act 1’s final act concludes with the triumphant trill of the violin ensemble. The audience erupts into an oscillating ovation; cheering, clapping, whistling; at a volume so loud it could rival its predecessor. Your doubts about Mactavish’s adequacy are quickly disproven.

It only brings a sliver of comfort, however.

You linger in the shadows for a moment, trembling fingers brushing hesitantly against the fabric before you. Then, cautiously, you peer out from behind the safety of the illustrious velvet curtains. Your jittery hands fiddle with their golden tassels as you gaze at the exceedingly large audience. The auditorium of the theatre had never been so full.

You try not to let the sheer amount of people overwhelm you; a thousand thousand faces staring stagebound.

You fail.

And as the announcer commences the beginning of tonight's performance, you also fail to notice the man watching you from across the other side of the stage.

“Bolshoi Ballet proudly presents Swan Lake!”

#swan song #call of duty #tf 141 x reader #ploy 141 x reader #vladimir makarov x reader #valeria garza #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #john price x reader #john price x you #crossposted on ao3

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kismetconstellations · 5 months ago

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Because I'm still bitter... The first time I consciously verbalized that "I hate this show", came when, as I predicted, there was absolutely no acknowledgement of Shiro having no living family on Earth, come the Atlas's "launch date" at the start of Season Eight.

We get shots of each of the Paladins interacting with their families, including Allura as a part of Lance's family, which is a sweet touch.

Then, there's a passing shot of Shiro standing alone and isolated on the Atlas's bridge that he isn't even the focus of.

I had a feeling this would be the case when, ahead of the finale of the second season, the Paladins are cheerfully reflecting on their growth and the challenges that they've overcome preceding what they believe will be their final fight with Zarkon.

Shiro, however, is dead silent, back turned to the others, and, when we do see his expression, he's stone-faced and seemingly deep in contemplation. Something that no one acknowledges, or seems to be in any way concerned about, even with Shiro's history of thoughts that he loses himself in being distinctly unpleasant ones.

When he does speak, it's to somberly offer the definitive statement, "You realize, once we defeat Zarkon, the universe won't need Voltron, anymore." The kids naturally express wanting to see their families, again, once the burden of defending the universe has been lifted from their shoulders, even if it means, for Pidge and Keith, going out and finding them.

Shiro, though, voices no such desires. He dons the Fearless Leader/Black Paladin mask and encourages his underlings that they can't fail, and that's that. Cue them looking dramatically out over the horizon before the credits roll.

One could hem and haw and offer any number of supposed explanations for the unsettling absence of any lifegoals for Shiro outside of "defeat the bad guy and defend the universe", especially viewing this scene in hindsight.

"Shiro and his long-term partner split up before the Kerberos mission. Maybe it would be awkward for Shiro to see him, again, and Shiro doesn't want to discuss that with a group of teenagers, especially as their commanding officer."

"Maybe they intended for Shiro's family to show up later and simply didn't have the time to include them, or he has a strained and/or estranged relationship with his family and wasn't too concerned with going back to them."

"He's been declared legally dead, and the cartoon made to sell toys to kids didn't want to bog their child audience's brains down with the confangled nuisances of bureaucracy."

"Maybe Shiro had no personal desire to return to Earth, and would have assisted Pidge in looking for Matt and Sam had he lived."

And, any of these would be more interesting than what we were actually given, which is nothing, because the showrunners didn't know how to and weren't equipped to handle the sheer level of complex and compounded trauma they had afflicted Shiro with. It was easier to brush it all aside, as that shot of an out of focus Shiro so deftly displays. Especially once Shiro had been killed and effectively permanently replaced as the Black Paladin, then brought back to life and retired to "boring adult" status. They killed his partner off-screen, following the dissolution of the relationship, and briefly showed Shiro mourning the loss,

and I guess that was their "emotional pathos for Shiro" quota met for the rest of the show.

After that, he was gifted his own ship and the position of Captain/Admiral aboard it to sequester him off with Sam, Iverson, Veronica, Slav, a similarly unceremoniously demoted Coran, and the rest of the side characters, under the guise of him being promoted to a position of actual significance. And, as much as I love Shiro having his own ship, and the figure he cuts in that stylish and immensely flattering Admiral coat, it shouldn't have to be said that this is both a massive insult to his character after he had the most narrative significance and pathos of anyone during the first two seasons, and a cheap, cowardly tactic employed to avoid the reality that the writers have alluded to Shiro seeing himself as having no purpose if he isn't performing a heroic duty to others, and being passively suicidal when no such duty exists.

"Don't look too closely, everyone! Let's not linger too long on this!" Otherwise, you'll realize that Shiro, in fact, has no one to support him outside of people who already have families of their own. And, "The universe won't need Voltron, anymore", was really Shiro saying, "The universe won't need me, anymore."

And, damned if the brain trusts behind this show didn't try to prove how little they needed Shiro, only for their story to fall apart at the seams after killing him, and the quality to, fittingly, take a nosedive straight into the abyss once they committed to nerfing and sidelining him while having other characters pitifully attempt to retrace steps that he had already taken, stumbling over his distinct and unforgettable bootprints.

#Still more of me losing my mind over this stupid cartoon.#Takashi Shirogane #Shiro #You're nothingness but shining and everywhere at once.#Voltron: Legendary Defender #Meta.#VLD Meta.#What do I have to do to take custody of this character from you #DreamWorks?#I can assure you I will treat him with the care and reverence that he deserves.#Gift him with an emotional support cat #wrap him up in the softest coziest blankets #outfit him with an arm designed with his COMFORT as the top priority rather than its functionality and capabilities as a WEAPON #let him discover a hobby that he enjoys and finds fulfillment in #have his found family actually BE a family to him!!!#This show did not deserve you #Shiro.#Not in the slightest.

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beenbaanbuun · 6 months ago

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Hiiii bun! ✨ I have a question about Opposites Attract matz ✋🤓 Im wondering about their bedroom dynamic with each other, when their darling isn't there and it's just the two of them. Do they ever have sex (or scenes?) just the two of them anymore? What about before darling came into their lives, what were they like then? Has their dynamic with each other changed since they met her?

isak, i’ve been saying i’ll answer this for ages but then exams and the sadness and now here we are!!

so with or without darling, there is always going to be something so special about the connection that hwa and joong share between themselves. it’s no stronger than the connection they have with darling, but it’s different. more passionate and lust filled and primal. they don’t have to be so sweet with one another, all gentle caresses and soft, dainty words. they can spit and slap and choke until their hearts are content. they can call each other names that would shock even the devil, all while basking in the love they share for one another.

and whilst they love what they have with darling, the need to have someone to pamper becoming ever-more evident with each day that passes by, they can’t help but want something a little less sweet from time to time. yes, hongjoong can spank her and she takes it like a champ, but only seonghwa can take it when he spits at him and calls him a whore. and yes, seonghwa can tie her up with pretty ribbons made of silk and lace, but only hongjoong can appreciate the harsh bite of rope against his pale skin. neither of them would be able to choose one over the other, though; as with everything, it’s just different when darling is present.

and that’s not to say that it isn’t ever different when it’s just the two of them. sometimes hongjoong isn’t up for being tied up and degraded, and other times seonghwa is too tired to don the persona that is able to do all those terrible things. sometimes they just want to lie together and make soft, sweet love. wrap one another up in gentle arms as seonghwa fucks himself gently into hongjoong’s hole. it’s just another way to show their affection, outside of everything else they do for one another, and it’s certainly a nice change of pace from their usual escapades.

these days come far and few between, though. with darling present, their quota for soft gentle sex is already pretty full. they’re passionate people, after all, and darling is just too sweet for them not to bring her to orgasm in the most gentle ways multiple times a day. it doesn’t take away from the affectionate side of it; they work so well as a team that sharing their darling between them is like a bonding experience in of itself. the only thing it’s really changed is the level of rough sex that takes place when darling isn’t present. there’s a lot of it outside of darling, just so they can get it out of their system. slapping, biting, twisting, pinching; it’s all on the table for them during those couple of hours they have during the afternoon nap that yeosang insists they share. they’re very grateful to the wolf in that regard…

#opposites attract universe

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hiskillingjar · 6 months ago

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I don't know if you've written this, but what would Strade's reaction be if one day Mc who had lost her father who had father issues and who gradually involuntarily established Strade as a father figure in her mind, called Strade father without realizing it? Like, "Dad can you pass me that-" and she realizes with great embarrassment what she said.

"i think i had a bad childhood"

"yeah i know"

"what do you mean you know?"

"look at you. look at the way you sexualise problematic dynamics with older men. people with good childhoods don't get off like that"

1400 words, implications of csa and. bad childhoods. i'm not into DDLG but i'm kind of obsessed with it. i observe you all like a biologist observing mice

"What are you up to?"

You barely looked up when Strade crossed the threshold of the kitchen, his hands in his khaki pockets and his expression as curious as ever as he watched you work.

You might have been ashamed of your role as his pseudo-housewife, cooking and cleaning while he (and your fellow captive) busied themselves with 'real work', had you the chance to feel even a modicum amount of shame anymore.

This wasn't to say that you were living the life of debauchery and hedonism that he was, no, it was more so that you were just apathetic to your situation now, however many years in you were. Maybe you would always been apathetic in some kind of way, plagued by a numb uncaring that he had immediately picked up on when he met you that first night.

A numbness that he tested, nearly every day until you felt something.

"Working hard?" He asked wryly, tilting his head as he rested against the kitchen island.

"Hardly working," You murmured, stirring the pot and making sure nothing was sticking to the bottom.

He let out a laugh, charming and fake as ever, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Is that so?" He replied, raising a dark brow. "Well, it must be nice, not having to work hard. Is there ever going to be a day where you put any effort in?"

"Ha ha," You laughed sarcastically, your expression flat, not even bothering to look towards him as you kept working.

"That's a legitimate question. You could put in some effort right now for example, since..." He drawled, taking a closer step towards you, his eyes roaming up and down your body. "Well, you're not working hard on hiding your resentment towards me, are you?"

Your body bristled as he entered your personal space, even though you are trying to appear neutral, you could feel your heart rate pick up the pace.

"You know, if I was any more of an asshole, I might take your resentment to heart." He continued, placing a hand on each of your hips, bracketing you in place against the stove counter. Your hands stilled, but you refused to look up. "Have you thought about that?"

"Well, it's good that you've reached your asshole quota then." You murmured, chewing the inside of your cheek and trying to appear casual. You smiled placidly and finally looked over your shoulder. "Could you grab me the cream from the fridge?"

"Hm?" He raised his brow, a slight smile coming to his face as he shook his head, almost fondly. "That cheek...sure, of course."

As you continued to stir the soup, your leg bobbing up and down nervously, he paced across the kitchen and reached for the fridge door's handle. After a few moments of searching (he bought the groceries, he didn't put them away, that was your job), he grabbed the cream you asked for and closed the door.

As he passed it over to you, any degree of mischief or teasing had left his expression and you almost let out a breath of relief as you reached forward for it. You had survived another night, and you were going to celebrate that with soup.

"Thanks, Dad." You said offhandedly, genuinely thankfully, not paying attention...

...until you did.

"Excuse me?"

Strade's golden eyes widened just a little, his head tilted in a silent question, and he raised one eyebrow.

"What was that?"

"UH-" Your own eyes widened suddenly, your expression flushed and your hands were trembling as you quickly turned back to the stove, trying to forget what you had just said, hoping, hoping that he would drop it. "Um...n-nothing. It was nothing!"

Strade smiled broadly, his (handsome) face lighting up as he laughed, a loud guffaw that made his shoulders shake.

"Did you just call me 'Dad'!? Ha!" He laughed even more to himself, covering his mouth with his hand (as if he was trying to spare your feelings) as he looked at you with a twinkle in his eyes. "That's hilarious!"

"Oh my god," You mumbled, biting your lip before you looked back at him. How was he still laughing this hard? "Don't laugh at me!"

"How could I not laugh?" He asked through chuckles, reaching up to wipe away a beaded tear from his eye. "Wow....wow, wow, wow, your face really says it all, liebling" He let out another laugh through his nose with a shake of his head. "I can't help myself, how could I, why on Earth did you say that?"

Your cheeks were blazing red hot with embarrassment. You reached forward, with trembling hands, to turn off the stovetop, knowing that he wasn't going to leave you alone until he got what he wanted from this interaction.

Though you weren't quite sure what that would be. You were never really that sure

"I-It was a mistake..." You replied, crossing your arms and turning to face him.

"Mm, I'm not so sure it was one." He said, tilting his head again and intruding on your personal space again, clearly done with laughing at you and using your 'mistake' as a means of...well, fucking with you. "Or if it was, it was a real convenient one, wasn't it?"

"Convenient?" You repeated, giving him an unsure look.

"Yeah, convenient." He nodded, both hands back on your hips as he pressed his body flush to yours. The beginnings of an erection were stirring in his khakis, and when you felt it press to the soft meat of your thigh, you felt an involuntary surge of desire shoot through you. Like Pavlov's fucked up little puppy, you had started to associate his body heat with...something you'd get in return. "I think it was...mm, more than an accidental slip of the tongue."

"Ahh...mph," You groaned lowly, as his hand slid down your hip and across the scars on your thigh, thigh fingers pressing against the gusset of your pyjama shorts and feeling your own initial stirrings of arousal through the thin cotton.

"You're just too cute." He crooned with a smirk, bringing his face down to yours, his golden eyes boring into your own. "You know I always wondered why you behaved so coldly towards me, so full of resentment." He enunciated that point by pressing his fingers inside you, making you immediately flinch and tighten around him. "But... I think I've figured it out."

"Mm..." You moaned a little, raising your hazy eyes towards his, an invitation for him to spill his musings on your character.

"Mmhmm..." Strade's voice dropped to just above a whisper, as he pressed his lips to your cheek. "I think that Daddy wasn't too nice to you, was he?"

"Ah!" You squeaked as you felt his thumb trace over your clit and press down hard, pressing your face into his neck to hide your whimpers and moans.

With you now pressed so close, Strade didn't hesitate to slide his free hand down the back of your shorts and take a handful of your backside, giving it a firm grope as he pressed his hardening cock against the space between your thighs. Tempting you, making you hungry for him, but never giving you what you wanted.

"No, no..." He continued, dragging his fingers up and down your sensitive insides as he rocked into your body. "Daddy didn't treat you like the sweet, little thing you are. So now...if someone, a teacher, a friend...a stranger at a bar," He grinned, pressing another kiss to your cheek, letting it trail down to your jaw. "Reminds you too much of Daddy, sure, you get all short and bitchy with them...but that doesn't stop your pussy getting wet, just thinking about them treating you like the little girl you wish you still were. Hah..." He groaned softly, giving your backside another squeeze. "Am I close, sweetheart?"

You bit your lip, keeping quiet, afraid to say that he had...hit the nail on the head.

Daddy issues. How fucking embarrassing.

"But I'll treat you better than Daddy did..." He promised, giving your cheek another kiss, though you could feel the bite of a mean grin on his face as he did so. "At least, I'll be honest with you when I fuck you up beyond repair~"

#strade btd #strade ykmet #strade x reader #strade x mc #qs #fics #drabbles

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