#that lit a fire under my ass

[drowsystarlight]

You’re not even my second Runner Five, y’know that? You’re my fourth.

[remotewatch]

for this simp I have no sympathy 🏃‍♀️‍➡️💵

part two section A (just trust me) • part one here!

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 3.3k wc

summary: Jack steps out of line. What’s to be done?

cws: sugaring, inappropriate workplace dynamics, findom, submissive loser jack, spit kink, phone sex, he’s so pafetic innit, there will be part 2 section B and also part 3 I promise, Hermès is getting whacked unprovoked

AN: as always heaps of thanks to @mystardustmelodyyy (genuinely who knows when this would have been posted without your help) best editor to eva do it 🩵🩵

minors dni gtfo focus on getting taller first

By some grace of the universe, you get an urge to reach over and check your phone for the first time today and see “reminder: bs zoom 🤮” received five minutes ago. You barely have time to straight arm sweep all your shit off the side table into your purse and book it back to your cabana, leaving your poor Ghia unattended for the birds. A hand gets stuck putting on your coverup (another stroke of intuition, packing the button up instead of anything crocheted), but you manage to free it, toss your sunglasses aside, and join the call right on time.

Tragically, before you can mute yourself and shut off your camera, a crystal clear seagull squawk (enjoying your drink no doubt, asshole) cuts through the murmuring of waiting for everyone else to arrive. Even with only a few cameras on, you can feel every single one of “JS and 165 others” turn their attention straight to you. Amy, your coworker who you confided in about the card suspicions, turns fully to the left pressing her lips together to suppress her laughter. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the fabric of your cabana flapping behind you, blowing what’s left of your cover. Jack looks only mildly interested; his poker face has drastically improved in recent months. The team probably thinks he’s sending you a dreaded “stay on afterwards for a quick chat” message when he glances down for a moment before clearing his throat and picking up where he left off.

Your phone lights up with a text from Jack’s private line: ‘where the FUCK are you???’

You text back as inconspicuously as possible: “Ibiza??? we booked it together?”

You’d forgive him if he didn’t remember, considering the circumstances.

One Month Earlier

“Let me taste you?” Jack looks utterly pitiful facedown on his own office rug, creasing his suit to hell and back while he grinds against one broad palm. It’s a splendid view, but you’re too busy booking your flight to pay it any attention. The sun-warmed windows against your back perfectly mirror how his cheek is burning up against your calf, a delicious contrast to the icy office air tickling your bare legs.

“How much do you think that’s worth?” You ask flatly without so much as glancing at him. Jack looks at you blankly, desperately, gears turning behind glassy eyes. You place one heel on his forehead and shove him back when he tries to lean in for a better view of you

“Um, fifty?” You whip his phone around with Face ID already open, and he involuntarily bucks into his hand with a pathetic whine when the transfer goes through. There’s no formalities; you merely spread your legs a bit wider and twist your free hand into his hair as he plunges his tongue as deep as he can with a voice-cracking groan….

💳💳💳💳

“Are you upset with me? Can I buy something to make you feel better?” texts from his personal line continue to blow up your phone, disrupting your trip down memory lane.

He seems genuinely distressed, poor baby. You reply “Nooo, I’m not mad ☺️” with some extra heart emojis for good measure, followed by a link to the local leather atelier. By the time you get to your hotel suite that evening, there’s a gorgeous handbag in buttery nubuck waiting on your bed.

💳💳💳💳

Within a week of your hiring, multiple coworkers had pulled you aside to warn that Jack’s phone, Slack, and other channels of communication were perpetually set on Do Not Disturb, all sighing with resigned acceptance that ‘he responds eventually’. A few months into your tenure, you’d noted that he always replied promptly to your messages and chalked it up to gross exaggeration on their part. These days, he answers within seconds no matter when you text him.

This was your first trip out of town since you’d taken this job, and you were just a smidge thrilled to see his punctuality unaffected by the five hour time difference. Jack could easily pore over the charges littering his bank statement, but his generosity must be contagious, because you find yourself itching to keep him updated on the fun. A bikini pic here, an artful spread of your beachside mezze there. Each time, he responds instantly with a heart reaction accompanied by a picture of his spit-less coffee and “ :,( “.

You're not sure if it’s the heat or the way Jack’s forearms looked in his rolled up oxford, but when there’s a follow-up meeting on Zoom Tuesday afternoon, you decide to send him photos from last night’s rose water steam bath, accompanied by one of his emoticons.

“The water feels so nice here :)”

Admittedly, the way his jaw tenses with his tongue poking into his cheek made logging on entirely worth it.

💳💳💳💳

You’re beginning to think you could spend the rest of your days in your oceanfront cabana living on Rocha pears and sea breeze when Pepper, your favorite Maître D, comes in to deliver your breakfast on Thursday morning and mentions that “your husband” will be there soon.

“Who?”

“Señor Schlossberg! He said he has an urgent message for you.” Pepper winks playfully. “I’ll leave you love birds to it! Look, here he is now.”

It’s the first time you’ve seen Jack in casual clothes- rolled-down black basketball shorts, a backwards baseball hat, and a sweaty gray t-shirt with the word “Funcle” emblazoned on the front.

“Jack!” You sit up and start to reach for your cover up before realizing that’s silly to do for a man who regularly gives you pap smears with his nose. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” he briefly takes off his hat to wipe the shine from his forehead; it’s unclear if it’s from the humidity or nerves. “I’m so sorry to do this, but there’s this presentation.”

“A presentation? How riveting. I’m on the edge of my seat!” You giggle, placing the raspberry garnish from your morning smoothie onto your tongue.

He smiles stiffly and manages a droll chuckle. “Unfortunately, it’s for Gary- yeah, I know” when he sees you wince. “He’s about to go postal. We need you back when I pitch.”

Motherfucker. You’ll kill him if he doesn’t get to you both first.

💳💳💳💳

Not even ten minutes after takeoff and Jack is frowning at his laptop, way too worried about a client that would have left six meltdowns ago if he ever planned on it.

You slide your feet up his legs and under the keyboard to steal some residual heat from the motor and his thighs. His face doesn’t change, but you can feel his quads tense up when you curl your toes.

“The meeting’s not until tomorrow, right?”

He doesn’t look up, too busy stabbing the backspace key. “Yeah. Why?”

“Would you drop me off at Heathrow so I can do a little window shopping?” The “s” word gets his attention. Jack pauses his frustrated pen tapping to glance up at you and raise his eyebrows.

“Window shopping? Is that right?”

“I was going to do some this afternoon, but someone interrupted and made me miss my Loewe appointment. I’ll catch the next flight back.” His thumb draws pensive circles on the space bar.

“We can both stop there. It’ll be a pain to find you a new seat this time of year.”

“You just want to watch me work, don’t you?”

“Guilty.”

💳💳💳💳

You tear across the sparkling terminal floors like a tornado, Jack scrambling after you struggling to balance your ever increasing load of shopping bags as you flit from store to store to duty free counter. The Harrods stop weighs him down considerably: “I’ve been dying for a 24 inch cast iron!” Never mind that the thing dwarfs both your stove and oven, or that you have zero space to store the rainbow of Sferra towels and linens you heap into his arms. “This red piping will be so gorgeous for the holidays!”

When you strut right past Hermès, he nods pointedly at the entrance. “Want to go in there?”

“God, no. The last time I went to the one by work, they offered me a white picotin. I’ll never get anywhere with their stupid mind games if they think I’d like something like that!”

His eyes linger on a mannequin drowning in fuzzy striped knits. “Can I at least get you a blanket? You’re always so cold on the plane.” The earnestness in his voice is enough to make you pause, and Jack’s poked out bottom lip seals the deal when you look back.

“Fine, but only if they have a real pattern and not those fugly H ones.”

“Obviously!” He just can’t help himself from snagging you a horse charm on his way out.

For the most part, he maintains a respectful distance, content to watch you stalk around the perfume counter, unblinking predator eyes roving for an elusive green apple note. At one point, you catch him leaning down to sniff your hair, and a steely glance banishes him right back to reshuffling the VAT refund paperwork.

Friday

Exactly fifteen minutes into Jack’s pitch, it’s dreadfully clear that he did not need you for this meeting, so you spend the next forty quietly seething and waiting for your lunchtime “touch base”. The tension in the boardroom grows thicker as everyone trickles out, Jack shifting uncomfortably under your watchful eye. When you collect your things and trot wordlessly back to his office, he follows close enough to literally breathe down your neck. A click of his lock and the whisper of the blinds, and you’re twisting his ear until he sinks down to his knees, already stumbling over his words.

“What the FUCK was that?!” you hiss right into your boss’s face, not caring about the spit that lands right between his eyebrows. “I looked so stupid sitting there with nothing to do like I’m your little accessory!”

Jack’s jaw snaps open and shut uselessly like a marionette before he finds his voice.”I’m so sorry; I should’ve been honest with you. It just really helps me focus when you’re here on important days. It’ll never happen again. I swear, there’s nothing more important-” you cut him off before he can really get going, releasing his ear and hauling him back to his feet by the tie.

“You son of a bitch!” You snarl, dragging him along while you pace between the bookshelves framing his desk. “I should be eating fresh pomegranate on the beach right now! I booked an aerial yoga class with a former olympian! But NO, I needed to be here for this meeting. Those were your words! Why did you lie to me?”

You’re surprised by the softness of your words, and Jack looks as if they’ve gutted him straight onto the carpet. He takes a minute to massage his temples before daring to meet your gaze.

“I didn’t want you to think I was looking for any reason to bring you back, or like I was trying to control your trip. I was losing it prepping for today and panicked, but that wasn’t right.” He chews on his lip for a moment before adding: “I also didn’t think you’d believe me, how much you calm me down. It sounds like bullshit even saying it now, but it’s true.”

“You thought I’d assume you were lying, so you lied?” Jack grimaces hearing it laid out so plainly.

“Yeah, I did.”

“And how did that work out?” He looks down at your iron grip on his tie, looped around your hand enough to force him into an awkward stoop.

“It could’ve gone better. I’m sorry about that.” You fight to keep the scowl planted on your face, but the downright obsequious sincerity pouring off him cuts straight through it. Half a step closer and he has enough leash to straighten up fully; the unobscured relief on Jack’s face is nothing short of heart melting. He leans in eagerly when you lift his chin and offer a gentle swipe over his jawline, “Be honest with me next time.”

“I will. I promise.” Finally releasing the tie, you step back to lean on his desk and give him a proper once over. His puppy eyes are going to be the death of you.

“Alright then. Sit.” Jack’s knees hit the floor before you can finish the word, unmoved by the resounding thud that echoes throughout the office.

“Should I get the rope?” He can’t stop himself from swaying in anticipation.

“Ugh, I can’t even look at you right now.” you exhale dramatically, spreading your palm over his forehead. “Let me calm myself down.”

His relieved grin shatters the tension, and, like clockwork, you start manhandling that mane of hair, guiding Jack south and letting him sneak in a few pecks along the way. You’re not made of stone.

“As you wish,” he murmurs peacefully.

💳💳💳💳

In between your ferocious shopping sprees, Jack had stayed true to his word, continuing to pay your rent month after month. Your studio apartment was still on the smaller side and may or may not have a mold problem, but at least now it was filled to bursting with late-night impulse purchases from 1stDibs. In particular, you were proud of the Alexander Girard rug that you’d converted into a wall tapestry to hide the massive crack in your back wall wainscoting.

Your nighttime routine has grown lavish as well. Lately, the end of the day meant changing into a plush terry cloth robe, making a pot of specialty oolong tea, and lighting a Cire Trudon candle. The time change is still kicking your ass, so you also throw on a face mask and eye patches, plus your favorite microfiber headband with tiger ears, for the whimsy. As you massage your favorite rosehip oil over your collarbone, your mind can’t help but drift to Jack and how nice his tongue felt there earlier. Sure, you weren’t thrilled to have your time in Ibiza cut short, but it was so touching how genuine he’d been in his office. You two weren’t the types to play mind games, but it’s not like you spilled your guts out to each other either. Once your session ended, you even stayed behind to discuss how his presentation went. He’d listened raptly, jotting down occasional illegible notes before asking what kind of food you’d like delivered for dinner since there were zero groceries left in your apartment.

God help you- you decide to call him once you flop onto your new tufted Kluft mattress.

“Hi-” he answers instantly “I’m so glad you called, I was actually thinking about calling you because, again, I am SO sorry, I was so out of line this week. Who was the olympian you booked? I can get them over here for that aerial yoga class, we could do a whole workshop-”

“Jack, stop,” you cut him off before he can go on another one of his famous tangents. “I accepted your apology, and I know you’re sorry. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh. What is it?” His tone shifts from frantic to concerned “Is something wrong? Do you need anything?”

“No. I just wanted to let you know that I will be finishing my trip in Italy.”

“Oh! You should go. I’ll be ok for a few days.”

He sounds utterly unconvincing, but his wanting you to enjoy yourself is genuine; god, it’s always so genuine.

“Do you want to come with me?” you squeeze your eyes shut, not sure what you just brought upon yourself or if that was even an option within your arrangement. The breathless ‘Seriously?’ you get back after a beat and a half feels rocket-powered, like a triple shot of adrenaline.

“Yeah. I still have all the tours and accommodations booked for later this week so we can go to those. But if you’re in, we are NOT leaving early. I’m serious, Jack, I don’t care if Gary blows his brains out in the conference room, I’m going on that yacht!”

“Gotcha,” he laughs. You can so easily picture him kicking his feet in the air. “So, what else did you plan?”

“I just had to spend a few nights at Borgo Santo Pietro.”

“Oh that’s a lovely choice,” his voice slips into a low purr that hasn’t graced your ears before; you must’ve woken him up from the sound of it.

“Yeah, I was thinking massage in the gardens, wine tasting all afternoon, room service dinner because I’d probably be jet lagged.”

“Mhm,” there’s a tinge of breathiness to Jack’s voice, and you can just barely hear fabric rustling in the background. “What else?”

“Then an unstructured day for shopping. Super chill so I have time to browse without being yanked back across the pond-”punctuated with a giggle so he doesn’t start groveling again. He’s too busy panting into the mic to bother.

“And then I’ll charter their boat on the Lake. I’m renting it for the whole day so I can really take my time, see the sights and dive in the grottos in one of my new L’Agence bikinis-you remember those, right?. I’ll probably have to bring all of them on the yacht, just in case. And my footwear- I’ll need the Ferragamo flats, those sheep’s wool slippers from Daylesford market, maybe something sparkly for the evening?

“Will you need a new dress?” He gasps. You can hear the snap of elastic on his boxers, eliciting some goosebumps on your skin.

“No, I think it would be fun to wear a heel with a bikini… but I could add on some Pavè drop earrings and a diamond lariat. Wouldn’t that be nice? It’ll look like I’m dripping in jewels.”

He lets out a long groan that makes you throw your head back with satisfaction; he was putty in your hands.

“I booked a private painting lesson because the suite has a lovely pied-á-terre. Then there’s this service where you can get a bath set up by the head of spa staff- they’ll incorporate all the oils and extracts you could possibly want. It also comes with the option to get a massage afterwards, although I guess you could do that if you’d like.”

Your voice is starting to fray into arousal around the edges, but you’re enjoying yourself way too much to keep a lid on it, and the pitiful whimpering noises from Jack are just music to your ears. You absentmindedly stretch your legs over your percale duvet and continue:

“Some prosecco would feel just heavenly to pour down my throat after such a full itinerary. I should order a whole case for the suite. Two cases! Should we get enough to fill the bathtub? So can you shower me with it?”

There’s no response, just the obscene slapping of skin mixed in with Jack’s strained noises. Your lips curl into a mischievous smile as your heart rate speeds up right along with him.

“You’re being so rude, you know? I invited you along out of the kindness of my heart and you’re too busy fucking your hand to plan our time together.”

“Sorry-yes, yes, two cases! Oh my god-”

He veers off into a fit of ragged grunts, louder and louder then silent. There’s nothing on the line but desperate, deep breathing until he crescendos with a stifled whine of a moan. As you sink back into your silk sheets, your hand glides over your stomach and between your thighs, thinking about the outline of his chest in that goddamn funcle t-shirt.

“Have you unpacked yet?” He chokes, snapping you out of your haze.

“Well no… I haven’t had time.”

“We should go now.”

“Really?”

“God, yes. Just give me fifteen, and I’ll send a car for you.”

[sharpedgedfool]

[red-wood-reaper]

How well has Achlys been with adjusting to normal life gain? How do other charr view him and how does he believe they view him?

I feel as of JW He is fairly well adjusted? He's gotten enough time to get used to how he looks, how he sees himself and how other people view him. With the acceptance of the Awakened by other groups I think he's probably seen as fairly 'normal' for those raised from the dead in some fashion. He doesn't view himself as badly as he did when he first regained his own will.

Fresh after the death of Zhaitan however? I can't imagine a lot of other Charr who would have seen him would have been so ready to get friendly with him? He's a lot like those other walking corpses shambling around Orr, but he does have a certain light in his eyes. A lot of them would probably stay away- especially if they have had bad experiences with Risen - though some might be willing to talk to him.

He was picked up by the Priory as one point as he was traveling through Orr, so some of the Charr working there would at view him as an oddity possibly, and be more open to interacting with him to study him more than anything.

Over the years though I think other Charr would just kinda get used to him tbh.

For how he thinks other Charr view him? That's something he was fully panicking on at first. He's catastrophizing, thinking hes got to be some kind of abomination and that he's gonna be attacked by everyone who meets him. That there's no possible way he'd be able to return to Ascalon, or have some semblance of a normal life ever again.

This is actually the perfect excuse to post this scene I've had swimming around in my brain for a while now regarding this:

Overall it's def rough for him at first but with time it gets better and he heals, learning to accept himself.

[wellthatsclever]

When you find out the seed oils stay lodged in your fat so even when you DO lose weight, you will feel shitty while burning it off because it's basically dirty fuel

[shirozora-draws]

The idea of selling prints was a bust for a number of reasons, the main one being the lack of time and energy. I still want to try my hand at doing some merch stuff so I've started looking at stickers and acrylic charms/keychains (mostly because I now need to seriously think about supplementing my income in some way and this would use one of my biggest strengths while being less anxiety-inducing than doing commissions).

I'd love to do a mix of both general Star Wars stuff and the more specific DinLuke stuff, and I'd also love to offer a few things for my homies in the other fandoms I've been in (looking at you, my Tron peeps). Feel free to throw suggestions in my face!

[turtletoads]

[twistedisciple]

Before the Scars

Bishop Mastery drabble: 682

cw: gore

Everyone had to be good at something. Otherwise, you would die. Get thrown out, technically, but in the snowy wilds of Elusia, everyone knew what that meant. Back then, fear had not yet hardened and calcified into a defective, useless organ inside of Griss. It used to pump his blood so full of adrenaline that he’d spend his nights praying that Lord Sombron not abandon him, spend his days with a desperate sleeplessness in his sunken eyes. 

Like the other monks in the monastery, he’d been taught magic under the priests’ whips, and he’d watched the older cohorts split into two groups as the years passed: those that were awarded some modicum of prestige and a minor title within the church, and those that turned into grey monuments in the snow, fingers and toes blackened, eyes frozen wide open, waiting for a spring that would never come for them. Death did not scare him, and indeed the fear of death was counted among a handful of cardinal sins, but the souls of those that had succumbed as the defects had were trapped within the rejected flesh for eternity, never to decay, never to be a vessel for their lord’s power, their existence immortalized in a pillar of shame. Eternity was a long time, Griss knew that, but he saw it hurtling at him faster than he could run.

Each day, angry red welts were added to his arms and back, and each day he had nothing to show for them. Sometimes, he could conjure a little bit of a breeze, enough to sway the scraggly grass under his feet. Sometimes, a spark. But always the whip’s fierce lashing. He lacked focus, one of the priests said. He didn’t know how when he prayed every night. He kept praying, because there was nothing else he could do. The flagellum had even started to lose its edge.

Torn flesh fascinated him. He ripped his own open, stitched it together in pretty red zigzags, dug his fingers into the wounds of others, plucked out splinters and fragments of bone like an archaeologist, and closed them all up again. Curiosity cultivated an uncommon fearlessness which bred an even greater curiosity for all the different ways the body could be bent and broken, the sensations that came with it. How it could be put back together again. His own. Others. It didn’t matter whose, in the end.

No great epiphany had preceded the glow of the Heal staff under his palm one morning in the monastery’s iron-scented infirmary. It’d been abandoned by one of his fellows for just a moment, and Griss had swept in to prod at the swelling around the patient’s mangled elbow, searching for a source like an explorer charting the frontier, ignoring sleepy moans of discomfort even as he pressed his thumb hard against a lump and pitched the cries louder. Then it gave. The cries subsided. The fever heat cooled. The man treating him returned and chased Griss away with a few solid strikes from the staff’s blunt end.

It came with no fanfare, this talent. From that day on, he intuited his way around a variety of staves without picking up a book, driven by a curiosity toward the flesh and a resonant listening gifted to few - a kind of perfect pitch that he would never recognize as a gift until years later, with Zephia’s observation. He could recognize each staff by a series of shapes. Heal was a single, simple triangle. Recover was a red thread, three loops, ringed by seven triangles. And these were inarticulate instructions his body simply knew. A gift he learned to take for granted.

His lessons with the priests and their whips never stopped though, and neither did their criticism. There was nothing special about learning to use a staff, but there was nothing really special about learning to cast spells either. These were givens. The expected minimum to allow one shelter within Lord Sombron’s grace. Everyone had to be good at something, after all. Otherwise, you would die.

Griss did not fear death, and he never would again.

[ghost-proofbaby]

All your TTPD musings have me DESPERATE for new maroon 🥵

it's coming!!! i swear!!

[beachyserasims]

I'm finally happy with where I am in my GIL story that starting tomorrow, I'm going to be working on my haunted house Halloween series!!!!!

[eureka-its-zico]

I literally cant wait for CITB Chapter 8!!!! Like the birthday post was so good and i reread chapter 8 just because i wanted to make sure i woudnt forget anything 🤍💚

My goal is to write today while I’m in here. There aren’t any distractions here, besides the sweet sounds of beeping hospital equipment lol because for some reason I’m vibing and getting all the ideas ?????

It must be the lack of sleep

I think it’s cause the birthday piece made me really want to write more cute soft scenes for them so bad I’m like, yelling at my reflection to get her shit together and finish 8/9 to get to the cute shit.

Now I’m just thinking of flustered doc asking to clean Zoro’s wounds and he purposely removes HIS WHOLE SHIRT making her have a damn aneurism. Like 👀👀👀

[oh-katsuki]

i love reading a good book and feeling rejuvenated going back to my own writing. it's like getting a new perspective on storytelling and the different ways to do it. wonderful feeling.

[cwritesfiction]

brb I’m going to try and marathon-revise this entire scene tonight here we GO

[vampirecatprince]

I think I FINALLY settled what game engine I'm gonna use for the Asmo project and I've decided to go with Game Maker Studio instead of Godot. Godot is great and surprisingly powerful and I'd like to come back to it someday, but the learning curve is just... too steep for me with the quality of tutorial I've been finding and I'm one of those people that needs the why explained to me. Once I'm a bit more familiar with programming logic and how the logic slots together, then I might give it another chance though.

Also- last year was a huge mess for me mentally and I had to take a lot of repeated breaks, so even though I've been working on this project for almost a year and a half now, all together it's probably only been around actually 6-8 months of work. But I feel less annoyed about how long it's been taking bc of that at least, and, if my current plans go according to plan, I'm going to eventually be able to commit more time to this project and have this project eventually support itself a little bit.

And honestly I'm just tired of waffling around and talking about this project and working on it on the side and never having quite enough time to fully commit to trying to make this project work. I WANT to commit more time to it and I'm hoping eventually I can?

I'm certainly not planning on leaving my day job anytime soon, but I am planning on starting streaming regularly in about a month, showing the creation of this thing and showing me researching this game (I really need to replay some stuff so I can figure out game feel) and maybe if that works out enough I can drop down to part time and put even more time into it? But that's a bit of a long term goal and currently I'm just... trying to make all that possible.

[atelierlili]

Okay I will finish A Ballad of Song Birds and Snakes now

[falling-hand-in-unlovable-hand]

just absolutely nuked my spotify profile after realizing my irl friend i sent a playlist to could see the playlists i made when i was 13