#they’re on the same side of the continent it can’t be that different right

[vaciena]

I love my friend

[saerins]

─── 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, 𝐘𝐎𝐔

+ reo mikage x f!reader | wc 3.2k | content: fluff, best friends to lovers, one-sided pining, making out, very suggestive, not an smau btw ( i just wanted to show how they are around each other <3 ) , did not proof this

notes: sigh idk besties there’s just something about reo that’s so sexy :(((( and he’s just ray of sunshine :(

summary: heartbroken, you turn to your best friend for an escape. but he gives you much more than that.

reo keeps his word.

the next day, he’s at your door bright and early, 8am. it’s sweet, really, but he doesn’t tell you where you’re going, the country or whether it’s even on the same continent. which really should bother you, but it doesn’t.

because you know reo.

he’s always like this; full of ideas, fun, adventure. he likes to try new things, likes getting challenged, likes everything under the sun except being told what to do, something that he picked up since he was a kid.

that being said, you’d known him since high school, just a bit after he became friends with nagi seishiro, someone you used to have a crush on until that’s all it became—a fleeting crush. reo had called you out on it, being as observant as he is, and you’d become fast friends with him, and somehow you don’t remember when you stopped having that crush on nagi. (you’re still good friends though.)

still, you’d never gone on a trip with reo alone. you’re not quite sure what possessed you to ask. it could be that you’re heartbroken from finding out your now ex cheated on you. or it could be that you just needed a break from real life in general.

you think being with reo can do that for you.

beside you, in the car, he’s on a call with his father, who by the looks of it seems like he’s finally letting reo do whatever he wants as long as he tries to have a hand in the family business.

“so, are you ever going to tell me where we’re going?” you ask right after he hangs up the phone.

reo turns to you and smirks, “and ruin the surprise? nah.”

when you land, they redirect you to a helicopter, and you look at reo dubiously.

“trust me, you’ll love it,” he tells you, and who are you to not trust him?

reo insists on covering your eyes even as you step off the helicopter an hour later. you can smell the soap lingering on his palms as he leads you safely down the steps and onto solid ground after the hours of flying.

“reo, come on, i wanna know where we are already,” you mumble, excited and shuffling your feet.

his body is pressed right up against your back, so close that you can feel how fast his heart is beating and you’re wondering why. his arms are around your head, both being used to cover your field of vision.

“okay okay, princess,” he gives in, and somehow that nickname makes you feel giddy. it’s the first time he’s called you anything other than your name.

you turn around right at the moment he pulls his hand away and you’re immediately met with his face right in front of yours, his purple eyes shifting from the view to you, his hair flying over his eyes even though he has it tied.

you wonder what he’s thinking now as he looks at you. it feels different than however he did before. this feels different. seven years of friendship, and this is the first time you’re hit with questions in your head.

“i’m flattered you think i’m the view, but it’s behind you, dummy,” reo recovers, gently tilting your head away and onto the other breathtaking view.

you’re at the top of a cliff, the sunlight hitting the scenery before you at all the right places. there’s a beach at the bottom, with clear blue waters lapping on the shore. you can see some man-made structures there, but you can’t really make out what they are. you think maybe they’re phototaking spots for tourists.

when reo takes his place beside you, taking in the view, you remember to ask, “reo, where are we?” you’re out of breath, and understandably so. you’ve never been here before—it looks right out of a travel magazine.

reo grins at you, “an island off the coast of bali. nice, right?”

“yeah,” you’re short on words really. you expected to go to hokkaido, maybe. somewhere else in japan. yet here you are, somewhere off the coast of a beach, standing on a cliff with an amazing view standing next to your best friend.

but then you remember something and look around. there’s signs, there’s what looks like a restaurant at the bottom, near the edge of the beach, and from what you hear, bali is a hot tourist destination. so why—

“reo, why isn’t there anybody else here?”

he blinks at you like you should already know the answer. “i bought the entire day here, no one else but us.”

the way he says this so casually makes you realise you’re worlds apart, but somehow, reo makes you feel like you’re not.

sure, your ex broke your heart two months ago and you still can’t get over it. you’d tried to ignore everything, get over it quietly, but it didn’t work. instead you mope everyday in silence and act like you’re okay in front of everyone. well, everyone who buys it.

everyone except reo.

you remember the way he cancelled international meetings and rushed to your house the moment you called him, crying. you remember how he came armed with your favourite snacks and made sure you ate so he cooked for you. you remember how he put you first, no matter how busy he was.

maybe it was the long-standing friendship. maybe it was the fact that you always had your eye on someone else. maybe it was because of those that you never really thought to see that maybe all you needed to do was open your eyes.

because it sends a shiver through your spine right now, with how reo effortlessly takes your hand in his, leads you down the path, says he’s going to take you on the best hike of your life.

“what if i get tired halfway?”

reo doesn’t miss a beat, “then i’ll carry you, princess.” he says that in a teasing way, but you still like it.

the same way you like when he makes sure to hold your hand at the particularly rocky areas, makes sure you don’t fall—or that he’d catch you even if you did.

his white shirt is unbuttoned down to his chest, and his round black sunglasses frame his face nicely. he’s handsome—you’ve always known that, so why does your heart skip a beat when you feel his body heat against you, pulling you close so you don’t trip?

“what are we ordering?” you ask, after climbing down the entire cliff (which took two whole hours—you’re parched).

reo stretches and cracks his knuckles, “i’ll order, i know what you like anyway.”

it’s only been the first day and you’re already overwhelmed, in a good way.

reo takes you around the beach, insists on helping you take pictures, makes sure he gets the best angles, makes sure you get perfect lighting. it’s a first for you, seeing first hand how easy it is to be around someone who really knows you.

there’s things reo knows about you that you never realised he noticed.

like how you often forget your hair ties, so he carries extras on himself. or how you like prawns but you don’t eat them because you’re too lazy to peel the skin off, but that’s exactly why he peels them for you without you having to ask.

there’s many more things he noticed, but you suppose it’s the same case for nagi, so you guess you shouldn’t get your hopes up.

but it’s tough.

it’s tough when he’s not like how he usually is. it’s tough when he suddenly likes to stick close to you, likes to let you feel how built he is and how strong he’s become since the guy you met at seventeen. it’s tough when he gets bold enough to tease you for staring, it’s tough when he purposely posts pics for people following you to see—one of which being the guy who broke your heart.

“come on, another one- one more,” reo insists, stealing your phone from your hand and trying to snap a picture of you against the scenery, the oceans below you split into two by the hills. “don’t you want him to suffer for what he did to you?”

reo phrases it like he’s joking, but you can sense his honest question behind it. he’s never really talked to you about it, seeing how you immediately broke down whenever he had tried, but he’s trying again now, and you don’t really want to reject his efforts.

a part of you wanted to just forget your stupid ex, to just be able to live as though he’d never hurt you. but did you want him to regret not choosing you? want him to keel over from jealousy?

yeah, kinda.

“i doubt he’ll even care, though.”

reo gets a shit-eating smirk on his face, and you hear the gears turning in his head. “wanna see him care?”

before you know it, reo’s walking over to stand next to you, and when you think he’s just going to take a regular photo with you, his hands around your shoulders, he moves his fingers to your neck and kisses the side of your face, right next to your ear, and you hear the shutter going off.

he pulls away like nothing unusual has happened, turning his attention straight to your phone and posting the story. meanwhile, you’re frozen in shock—not sure what you should even feel in this situation.

but maybe you should’ve opened your eyes a little bit wider, then maybe you would’ve noticed reo’s ears going beet red, maybe you would’ve been able to tell that he’s just as flustered as you are, the sensation lingering against his lips.

reo takes a peek at you out of the corner of his eyes and wonders: will you ever realise how he feels for you all this time?

it’s actually quite a wonder how after seven years of being just friends that this is the first window of opportunity he gets to chase you, to show you that you can do better than those wackos you dated.

it’s also quite miraculous how you almost exclusively date guys who would just hurt you.

maybe now’s the right time for him to make his move. it could be the only chance he gets to properly spend with you, just the both of you, considering how the both of you are so busy otherwise—you studying with a part time job while he’s busy with the same thing except with mikage corp.

if he misses his shot, reo has a feeling that this would be it; this would be all you and him would ever be. friends who are just as familiar no matter how long they spent apart. friends who love each other and ask to go on platonic trips. friends who keep their feelings hidden because reo knows you feel something too, don’t you?

his gut feelings are mostly accurate, he hopes it is now too.

because fuck if he doesn’t realise the way your eyes glimmer when you’re looking at the sea, or the way you reach out to him (with that slightly shy smile you try to hide) when you’re excitedly hopping from place to place, or even how whenever you lock gazes with him, there’s that split second of confusion lingering.

yeah, reo would either fuck this up badly or it would work wonderfully.

out of everything he’s been given—material, money, status, power—he’s never wanted any. it’s a huge bonus, sure, but it’s not like he can’t live without an unlimited supply of money. there’s a certain thrill in trying to attain something that can’t be bought over. but there’s also a certain thrill in knowing that you never expected anything from him; you didn’t befriend him for anything except than the fact that you were a shy teenage girl who got seated next to him in class.

as he looks at you happily traipsing across the sand, wind in your hair and feet sinking under the water, reo finds that maybe in this world, you’re all he wants.

“did you book out an entire resort too?”

reo laughs at your skepticism. “nah, that would be creepy, a whole resort to ourselves? it’s like a serial killer movie waiting to happen.” because he knows you’re so into those kind of movies but in real life you’re basically a pussy. he remembers you clinging onto him and nagi that one time you went to a haunted house for halloween.

he did get you adjoining rooms though. he was heavily considering just getting a single room with twin beds but reo didn’t want to completely blow his chances by scaring you away.

and reo leaves you alone in your room that night, because you’re both tired out from the long day earlier, and because he has a lot planned tomorrow—you’re a huge foodie so he already found tons of places you could go together, and maybe a massage, maybe you’d like that.

reo’s looking at the itinerary in his phone when he hears you sobbing through the walls. it takes him five seconds to rush over, barely knocking on the adjoining door before he opens it, finding you curled up on the bed, crying.

“hey, what happened?”

worry fills his chest quicker than he’s ever known he could feel, and he hates seeing you like this—puffy eyes and hair matted from tears. what the fuck could even happen in the time span of a few hours?

you’re cozy under the blanket, but you take your hands out and pass him your phone—a myriad of texts from your ex, accusing you of cheating with reo and blaming the breakup on you.

which is ridiculous, because if anyone at all cheated, it was this bastard. after all, reo was the one who ran into him with his side piece and sent you the evidence. this fucker is even more fucked up than he thought.

“you should just block him already,” reo sighs, handing it back to you.

“yeah, maybe,” you mumble, tossing your phone to the side.

usually, you just wanted to be alone, especially in this state. so that’s what reo figures he should do, so he tells you he’ll leave you alone first while he gets some dinner, but then you grab his wrist before he can go, and you’re averting your gaze.

“don’t go?”

are you asking? you sound scared. why would you be scared though? reo’s always been there for you, even when he shouldn’t be. he’s always ditched meetings for you, told people off for you, done anything he could just so you’d be happy.

when reo doesn’t move, you scoot over and reo feels a certain yearning bubbling in his chest. fuck, you’re really getting his hopes up but reo’s already established you as the person he wouldn’t mind getting screwed over by so he gets in your bed, letting you lay your head in the crook of his neck as his arm wraps around you.

he hopes you don’t hear his heart banging love songs into his chest.

“thanks, reo,” you mumble. at least you aren’t bawling anymore.

he sighs, “stupid, i’m your friend, that’s what friends are for.”

you chuckle, sniffling a little, “yeah, you treat me way better than those shitty boyfriends of mine.”

your hair’s tickling his face, your body’s pressed up against his side, you smell so fucking good. why are you so perfect? reo’s about to lose it.

“then what’s wrong with me?”

it slips out. just slides off his tongue because he’s tired of seeing you with other people. he’s tired of not being able to call you his. he’s tired of having to pretend like he doesn’t have the hugest fucking crush on his best friend.

he can feel you stiffen up beside him. fuck, he’s just made this so awkward, hasn’t he?

but you answer anyway, “nothing, you’re perfect.”

reo pulls the hair away from your face, his hand resting on your cheeks, and how is it possible for you to still look this pretty after crying? he feels a certain protectiveness building inside of him, that your answer means something and he needs to do something about it or forever hold his peace.

“then choose me,” reo tells you, and the both of you are lying on the bed, staring at each other in disbelief. reo can’t believe that now he’s the closest he’s been to all he ever wanted. (you can’t believe that someone like reo would ever want someone like you.)

maybe it’s the way he’s trembling at the notion that you might reject him, or maybe it’s the way that he feels your lips are begging for attention, but he kisses you, hands gentle on your face, tongue gentle against yours. and you’re kissing back, you’re testing his patience and reo doesn’t know how long he can hold out.

“i’ve been- so- in love with you- for so fucking long,” he says in between kisses, making your heart flutter. “you have no idea.”

(he’s saying all this to you, and making you giddy and you feel like you’ve been so stupid all this time, constantly looking in all the wrong places when love has been by your side for seven whole years. seven years that you failed to see. seven years’ worth of time that you want to take back. starting now.)

reo’s kissing you and he doesn’t want to stop. you’re addictive, and god he hates that he has common sense in his head. he hates that he has to stop at one point because he’s not about to go too quick too soon.

he’s hovering over you, now, your bodies pressed together and you’re inviting him, your hands wrapped around his neck. he wants to live in your arms forever. fuck everything else, you come first. and shit he feels how much he wants you so he has to pull away, forces himself off and lays down beside you instead, the both of you lying with kiss-swollen lips.

seven years he’s waited; ever since you first had that crush on his best friend, ever since the first guy that broke your heart, ever since the day he met you and knew that there’s a chance something was there.

“starting tomorrow, i’m gonna make you love me,” he declares, still a little out of breath.

the both of you stare into each other’s eyes again, and you believe the conviction in his eyes. he’s not going to quit until he makes you his.

which is fine.

because you think you already are.

out of all the choices you’ve made regarding boys, you think you’re finally making the right one.

so you smile and give him one more kiss, slow and languid and everything he wants, “i think i already do, mikage reo.”

that’s the moment when reo realises he’s fucked, screwed in the best way possible because you’re about to take over his life—and somehow, he’d take you over anything else any day. he’ll give you everything of his, everything he has, everything he is.

he grins at you, “stupid, making me wait for so long. you’re fucking mine.”

and you nod. like you always have. like you always will be.

[granulesofsand]

Nursery Rhymes

🗝️🏷️ RAMCOA programming examples

I never made the connection that the nursery rhymes I was raised with were cultish. I thought the criteria were themes of A) obvious violence; B) obvious sexuality; and C) better-not-tell. I can think of one or two songs that meet those standards, plus a few lesser known songs to teach us specific occult information. (Un Elefante Se Balanceaba, for example, was not about elephants or spiderwebs)

But I’ve been looking up some of these children’s songs, and they’re… not the same. Knowing what a few of them mean, I’ll give the name/chorus and leave out the intention.

One was Silver and the Others Gold: apparently it’s about retaining friendships. We also had the values of silver and gold reversed in this song for training purposes.

London Bridge: our version had different materials in every verse than any I’ve seen. The oldest mothers along our maternal line held their arms up, and getting trapped meant getting locked up in the innerworld.

Skip to My Lou: the words were almost the same, but the dance was used for something else.

Shoo Fly: more verses than usual, different than what I’ve read. The main point is the same, and it was about staying with the handler.

Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree: different lyrics except for the namesake. There were good and bad roles to fill, and you had to rank into the good.

There’s so many. I don’t know how to find some of them, none of the lyrics match. They repeat, have innerworld locations, carry life lessons. I’ve noticed different ones at certain times where they seem to have no connection. We’ve got a few pop and metal songs that have meaning, but not to the same depth these do. The cues have objects and words that don’t work unless the handler is right in front of us (plus we can’t hear or see well enough to notice it peripherally) so it’s safe enough to go this far.

Our system is huge, but the right side is made up of folktales and rhymes. That’s about 2-3k people, grouped up by ‘source’. We know that side mirrors our left continent, so it could be a few dozen areas fleshed out. This is fine. (We are mapping out that side more fully than ever, and we have a few higherups already onboard.)

[m1ckeyb3rry]

HSGSH @//i-am-so-strange STOP YOU GUYS ARE MAKING ME BLUSH very happy to be of service and I’m glad you guys find my translations helpful!!! Trust once Karasu and Otoya get their stories I will be running to do those too!!

But true….even Barou of the animated characters right now I’d say he’s definitely on the more unpopular side unfortunately….actually that’s a good point because iirc Niko’s wasn’t translated by one of the usual translators but a separate Niko fan!

SHDHS it honestly also doesn’t matter much either way to me either HAHAHA Just kinda a matter of ig how many posts you want under your translations tag/on your blog? Idk if you prefer to keep it more organized and all slapped into one big ask or if you wanna read it as they get done LOL

Oops I also disappeared for a bit to touch grass HAHAHA

I love dumbass toddler Karasu any dumbass Karasu is great hehe can’t wait to read his version of bfb!!

CREST SCOPE TOOTHPASTE LMFAOOOOO I CANT

-Karasu anon

where would we be without you karasu anon 😩 OMG no because if the next lineup isn’t karasu otoya shidou/someone else (kiyora??) then we must riot…given our track record at predicting things related to bllk though i think we have a good shot at manifesting it into existence

i feel like barou’s best moments come as soon as he gets subbed into the u-20 match…like he becomes a whole diff character atp HAHA i am 100% confident that he’s going to have soooo many new fans post season 2 and probs more if/when NEL is animated because he goes crazy in the ubers match!! also the evolution of the art style in the manga is most evident with him and nagi imo but someone on the 8bit team had a fat crush on nagi because they yassified him sm from the manga (not complaining ofc bc me too) but they did NOT give barou the same love…if they stick w how he’s drawn later in the manga though i knowww he’s going to get fangirls

hmm just for the sake of my stalkers if i have any maybe do separate ones so they don’t have to scroll past one huge post when they’re going through my blog??? LMAO also i would love to see what’s going on w barou hehe my green flag king…actually wait it’s crazy this ln is just best bf numbers one and two plus aryu 😭

LOOK AT US IN OUR TOUCHING GRASS ERA 🙌 so proud 🥹 hehe i actually leave for vacation on sunday august 4th so we’ve been doing packing and getting ready for that plus i’ve been hanging out with some friends and whatnot before leaving for a bit 😩 don’t fear though vacation will not stop the chronically online grind…it may slow it down but nothing can ever stop me NOTHING (i have started/finished some of my most popular and longest fics while on a completely different continent…like the last 80k words of pomegranate ink were written while i was in india HAHA i will always find a way to post no matter the odds)

BFB KARASU VERSION IS COMING ALONG!! hoping to post before my flight so within the next couple of days hopefully 😰🤞🏻 rn we are at 8k words and karasu is. uh. 7 years old 😭😭😭 so we’ll see how that goes…

it was the only thing i could think of…otoya is one of those favs that you just love to slander yk 😭 still love him though (begrudgingly ��)

[ink-beneath-her-fingernails]

ok but pjo au where the demigods slowly start gaining more powers and not all of them are tied to their parents

and maybe they don’t realize it at first. maybe the gods realize it before them and get scared. maybe none of them realize it at all for a while. but the demigods are out there. they’re traveling the world. they’re doing shit. and stories are spreading and social media is launching a whole bunch of shit and slowly the gods start losing their power and the demigods start gaining new ones

maybe annabeth leaves to go scout something out during capture the flag, and completely fades from sight as she does. it’s such a normal thing to them that nobody thinks to question it, they hardly even remember that her yankee cap is still stuffed in her backpack in cabin six from their last terrifying adventure. maybe percy loses the curse of achilles but the thing about amnesia is he kind of forgot he even had it in the first place, and nothing anyone does to him really seems to hurt him still, so everyone who knew he had it kind of just... assumes he still does when they see him again. they forget that he is of the deep sea, or maybe once was, or will be, and to be someone who lives and breathes and walks on the surface of the earth with no issues and still be able to survive in the depths, under such immense pressure, his skin is made of stuff stronger than the styx can conjure, and if it wasn’t then, it is now. maybe piper’s starting to see things now, visions of what once were there, or might have been, or will be, beyond when she’s looking in the knife, beyond the normal demigod dreams, not quite prophetic like rachel. it’s more like she suddenly has access to all the possibilities, and that is a very different, very dangerous thing, and she doesn’t know how to swallow it.

because what gives them power is belief, right? and people are starting to believe in them. they’re starting to talk about them, and give them names and domains and stories and offerings

maybe prophecies are a lot more opportunities than they let on. maybe every quest for the gods is a path of mortals they leave a little better than they find them, carved across continents. maybe a couple of kids get lost in the woods for weeks and weeks and just when people are starting to give up hope of finding them, a group of teen girls lead them out from the tree line, silver jackets thrown over their quaking shoulders, before disappearing into the ether. maybe someone’s car breaks down, and it’s the middle of winter and they don’t know how to fix it and they don’t have the time or money to take it into a mechanic, and they’re starting to panic because they need this car, and then this kid they saw at the soup kitchen earlier shows up out of nowhere, and they assumed the kid was there with family but they’re not, they’re here all alone, they say they’re new in town and not planning to stay for long, and when the kid asks why they’re still here and the person explains the situation to them, this kid just grins. easy, no problem, just give me a bit. and they say they can’t pay them and the kid just laughs it off, and an hour later they’re five bucks lighter because they bought the kid a sandwich and water from the corner store, and their car is in better condition than they bought it in, can go twice the distance on half the gas, and the kid bounces before they can even ask what their name is or dig out their phone to call child services and what do you mean their car can fly now. maybe a little girl is terrified because her parents aren’t home yet, and she has a new babysitter, has for three weeks now, but everyone else says she’s the same lady as before, that they’ve known each other for ages, but she keeps looking and looking and looking at the thing that smiles with too many teeth, that laughs a beat too long, that doesn’t know how she likes her sandwiches cut, that parts its hair on the wrong side, and she knows that this is not her babysitter. it’s not hurting her, because she has two flesh and blood bio parents even if they have to work a lot, it’s not doing anything, but her babysitter is missing and no one believes her. and then this guy who kind of looks like her older cousin (but not how her not-babysitter kind of looks like her babysitter) hears her talking to herself about it in the corner of the playground and puts a hand on her shoulder and promises that it’ll be alright. and then her not-babysitter is gone and no one talks about her anymore, but they aren’t insisting that nothing’s changed this time, either, and the new babysitter looks very, very different and doesn’t pretend to be something they’re not.

...and so on and so forth. and these not-gods are something real and tangible and are actually helping people in a very real and impactful way even if those people might not exactly see the full gamut of what they’re doing because ~mist~. and that spreads, and leads to more stories, and more belief, and more than all of that, it even gets them something they never asked for, something like devotion.

and they’re not gods, not really, like the gods aren’t titans and the gods aren’t primordials. they’re something else. maybe a step down, maybe one or two to the left, but... close enough, really.

idk just. the demigods getting to have a little bit of otherworldly power their parents aren’t directly responsible and some eldritch confusion. as a treat.

[floral-poisons]

twst characters in high fantasy roles

rewatching the princess bride had my mind racing and thinking about the cast of twisted wonderland in fantasy roles. i would consider twisted wonderland as more urban fantasy so i’m mostly looking at high fantasy like the princess bride, the neverending story, and game of thrones. i will be trying not to pigeon hole the characters into fairy tale fantasy character roles since they’re already based on fairy tale characters.

for simplicity, i am treating each dorm as its own country on this hypothetical fantastical continent. mc (you) are apart of a neutral land where you are a royal. the nrc staff hail from your land.

NRC STAFF

dire crowley

the mystical guide. good, bad, neutral? lawful, true, chaotic? you don’t know and you will never know. he’s the one guiding you through this fantastical journey. guided by the prophetic dark mirror. sometimes helpful, sometimes not. he’s unpredictable. and there’s something suspicious about him. but your parents told you to trust him, so you do.

ashton vargas

the head of the royal knights. was the youngest knight to reach such a position. physically intimidating but he’s actually really laxed when you get to know him. wanted to become a knight when he was younger. part of his motivation is revenge but you don’t see it. there’s a certain fear that he might end up down a path of destruction if he shows his true motive for revenge so he covers it up. very charismatic too. hero of his village.

mozus trein

a royal scholar. he’s the one tutoring royalty. very sought out. grew up in an aristocratic family so therefore he had the funds to pursue academia. he’s most definitely the history tutor teaching politics and you fall asleep during his lessons. his cat also viciously stares at people and doesn’t appear to like you.

divus crewel

another royal scholar. also tutoring royalty and highly sought after. teaches alchemy which interests you. unlike trein, he grew up a farm boy who managed to attend a prestigious school after passing the civil service exam. with his new money, he’s buying the newest clothes to look his best. got sucked into being a royal scholar. his true passion is owning an apothecary.

sam

the traveling merchant. always has something you need, speaks in ominous and vague sentences. always has the answers but those answers only bring about more questions. sometimes you get frustrated with his vague answers. kind of giving off the same vibe as the duke from resident evil: village. offers tarot readings too and is extremely specific with his details. a mage but there’s a lot of people who think he’s a con artist because he’s too good. has to be too good to be true, right?

DIASOMNIA

malleus draconia

the fae prince. an incredibly powerful mage that no one stands a chance against. one should not forget to invite him to their event for his emotions affect the country he leads. it’s unknown how old the fae prince really is. outsiders know nothing of what he looks like and even his own people for he wears a different mask to each event he’s invited to. all everyone knows is that he’s incredibly tall, has black horns, and carries around his black staff. it would do you good if you didn’t get onto his bad side. or trespass his castle grounds.

lilia vanrouge

the eternal librarian. a man of unknown age with incredible magic power. always appears to have a book on hand and has records of every scholar that’s existed even before he was born. he manages an ancient library that resides in his country, the best library on the whole continent. when you come to visit to do research, you’re extremely confused. the librarian is a...child? but his voice cuts you off guard. don’t take him for a child. he’s far older than you could ever imagine and a lot more ominous than you would like. he can’t give you a straight answer and it might be the death of you.

silver

the scribe. a silent man who lingers by the side of the fae prince and keeps record of his invitations and writes down everything in official hearings. never has he seen the fae prince’s face even though he has been by the prince’s side since he was a young scribe. diligent, attentive, and doesn’t have time for gatherings. he sends out the messengers if a royal decree is announced and is far too busy to ever consider having a relationship beyond colleagues. that is, until he meets you, asking him to take you to the emerald library where the eternal librarian resides.

sebek zigvolt

the royal bodyguard. he’s a young man, probably the youngest to have ever been promoted the status of the fae prince’s royal bodyguard. his duty? to protect the prince at all costs. he is one of the only people to have seen the fae prince’s face and he works diligently to accomplish his goal. but sometimes, he might be too restrictive. complains about the prince going to too many parties, the prince staying out late at night, the prince not eating on time, the prince not drinking enough water. he’s been told to relax but the man can’t relax. it’s his duty. what if he fails? there is no failure for the diligent sebek. however, there’s also another issue: he can’t get along with the scribe. at all. resolutions are not their thing.

HEARTSLABYUL

riddle rosehearts

the lost prince. the queen was a strict woman, a stricter ruler, and an even stricter mother. everything had to be perfect. everyone had to follow the rules. the prince wanted to feel even the smallest bit of freedom when he was a child, forced to stay on the castle grounds and never allowed beyond the gates. he was only allowed to interact with certain people, only allowed to eat certain things, only allowed to do what his mother asked him to. mother, mother, mother, mother. mother this. mother that. it all traced back to her: mother. one day, a strange boy with cat ears appeared, having somehow snuck into the castle. he told the prince that he had heard tales of the red prince being locked away behind castle walls. with his hand out, he offered the young boy freedom. riddle gladly took that hand. that day, he explored the town. he got to taste a strawberry tart from a local bakery run by a family, meet a child with a toy sword who he was able to beat in a play fight, blow on dandelions, and lay down on the grass, the sun on his face surrounded by his new friends. however, it a shadow loomed over the prince’s body and when he opened his eyes, he screamed. the black knave, his mother’s most trusted soldier, was here to take him back. the prince was dragged back into the castle crying, kicking, screaming. his mother enacted a harsh punishment for her son had humiliated her. he wasn’t allowed outside of the castle again. for years, the prince was too afraid to make a move. until he saw a bird. so mundane, right? but as riddle leaned against the wall, looking outside his glass window, he saw a bird, flying, gliding against the wind, going above the wall and disappearing on the other side. it was then and there he decided he would escape and leave this empty life that held nothing but misery. it took him about six months to come up with his escape plan and another six months to implement it. but when he gathered everything he needed, he made the escape with his trusted horse vorpal. and he rode, rode far, far away from the castle. away from his life. towards the dawn, towards the forest, towards freedom, towards peace.

trey clover

the royal pastry chef. a boy who grew up near the castle walls, working at his family’s local bakery. he didn’t care about the money, only that whoever ate his food enjoyed it. on a certain sunny day, the baker met a boy with striking red hair who shyly asked if he could have a strawberry tart. when he saw the boy’s expression melt with happiness, tears beginning to fall down his cheeks as he tasted the sweet goodness of his tarts, he decided that he would strive to make pastries that would give whoever ate it the same sense of euphoria the boy had. the day was full of running around until the baker learned that this wasn’t an ordinary boy. it was the crown prince of the kingdom. he tried to convince the black knave to let the prince stay longer but he had stayed out for too long. when he was old enough, trey left his home to explore the continent and beyond, bringing back with him new baking techniques, ingredients, and spices to add to his pastries. he incorporated everything he learned over his four year journey into his baking. and before long, he got the attention of the entire kingdom. and the attention of the queen. absolutely impressed by his craft, the queen recruited him as a royal pastry chef who would make her something new every day for dessert. while life as a royal pastry chef was comfortable, it was also extremely laborious. and when you arrive, trey’s beginning to run out of ideas for the queen.

cater diamond

the court jester. his family for generations have served the court as the royal jester. he was there for entertainment. but he spoke in a strange vernacular, his sentences sounding like riddles. he’s a particularly handsome jester who can make everyone laugh and their cheeks red. carefree and copes with jokes. he remembers interacting with the young red prince a few times, who grew close to him because he was one of the few people the prince was allowed to see. however, the jester could see that the prince was not happy and longed to experience beyond the castle walls. so what did the court jester do? what a fool shouldn’t do: tell someone. the purple cat, che’nya. the mischievous child said he would take care of it. cater thought he did the right thing until he saw the prince, kicking, screaming, crying, in the hands of the black knave. the jester felt an immense guilt eat away at him and he was shunned from seeing the prince. the queen believed it was the jester’s fault for his carefree attitude had rubbed off onto her precious son. and for that, he was severely punished. part of him was relieved and satisfied with the shrieks of the queen when she learned that her son had run away. he would watch as the queen pretended her son was sick, locked away in the castle, unable to show himself to his citizens. she was pretending everything was fine, knowing that the people would turn on the queen upon learning of her mistreatment. after years of groveling at the queen’s feet, cater was finally appointed as the royal court jester. life seemed to be going well until you enter the kingdom with a shocking announcement: you’ve found the lost prince.

ace trappola

the common people’s champion. swords, ladies in waiting, chivalry. all tales he’s heard since he was a child. he wanted the glory, the riches, the luxury. his father told him he was meant to be a blacksmith. but why only be a blacksmith when he had both magical and physical talent? he watched an old knight train one day and would come back every day to watch him, mimicking his movements from the bushes. one day, the young boy came to find the knight there. except, he was behind him. the man, old and retired from his life as a knight, tells him that he’s always known the boy was there. ace begs him to train him, wanting to become a knight so badly. with reluctance, the man begins to train the young boy. he’s proud of his skills but one after, he runs into a boy with red hair who easily bests him. his pride hurt, his swears he will become better than boy with the red hair. ace was intent on keeping that promise, practicing and mastering his craft for years. his mentor told his apprentice that the life of a knight was not what it seemed by ace wasn’t deterred. when there was an announcement of a tournament, meant to recruit new members of the royal guard, he took his chance. every single one of his opponents was good but after fighting for a week straight, no rest, he came out on top, wearing that shiny silver armor and holding the sword of his mentor. he was the people’s champion and was chosen by the queen to be in the royal guard. but ace noticed something...odd. the crown prince was nowhere to be seen. he was never assigned to watch over the prince. but staring at a portrait of him had ace thinking and eventually realizing that boy who bested him as a child was really the crown prince! but where was he? where had he gone? ace was starting to get adjusted when you come in, asking for his help in tracking down the lost prince and bringing him home.

deuce spade

the royal alchemist. descends from a family who have served as the royal alchemist for generations. his magic is incredibly strong and he was sent to the most prestigious magic academy in the continent. he grew up comfortable, a little rowdy, little rough around the edges. and he was prepared to serve the crown prince as his royal alchemist. however, on the day he ascends into his mother’s position, the prince is nowhere to be found. the queen says it’s nothing to worry about. but in his two years of being the royal alchemist, never has deuce once seen the prince. it’s suspicious. something is off. and then he’s approached by you and, of all people, ace trappola, asking for a tracing potion to help find the lost prince.

POMEFIORE

vil schoenheit

the acting monarch. his mother married the widower king who has a son named neige leblanche. he grew up as a commoner with his mother, using his magic and theatrical skills to make extra money on the side. one day, the king visited town and noticed his mother’s striking beauty. everyone says vil looks exactly like his mother. it was soon that they were married and he was introduced to the lifestyle of a royal. but he knew, behind closed doors, people looked down upon him. he wasn’t the king’s true child so he would never be able to compete with the throne. when the king passed away, vil’s mother was chosen to be queen. but a bottle of bad wine caused her to collapse and fall intensely ill. watching her pass away, he was extremely distraught. neige was still too young to ascend the throne and vil was older. as much as they didn’t want to, they needed an acting monarch. so the step-prince was given the position. the small taste of power had him hooked and he was introduced to a world of political conflict and secret bloodshed. wanting to keep the power, vil read through as many books on the law as possible to keep his position, using his trusted assassin rook hunt to take out any adversaries. and then you come along and accidentally discover something malicious: neige’s aunt, the king’s sister, sanctioned the death of the second queen. and your mistake was telling the acting monarch of your discovery.

rook hunt

the assassin. a descendant of a notorious underground family of assassins and huntsmen. on the surface, he appears to be like every nobleman there is. he’s beautiful, eloquent, and well read. unknown to most people, he works directly for the royal family, taking out political adversaries who dare to challenge the monarchy. he is particularly close with the acting monarch, vil schoenheit. rook is adept in every poison, weapon, and item possible. a spoon can become a weapon of death if he needs to be. though somewhere deep down, all the assassin wants to do is retire from his life of bloodshed and live in a cottage in the woods, away from people and where no one can find him.

epel felmier

the secret aristocrat. was the bastard son of an aristocratic man. the shame was too much to bear so he was given to a local apple farmer who raised him like his own son. his beauty was truly something to behold but it had people suspicious. how could the son of a farmer possibly be this beautiful? on a sunny day while epel was carving his apples to sell them and help his father make ends meet, he is suddenly approached by a wealthy looking man with a piece of paper. it was sudden how epel was sucked into the scene of the aristocracy. he was his father’s only biological child and was set to inherit all of his father’s wealth. but epel didn’t want it. why want something that he never asked for? besides, if he had a choice, he’d share the wealth with his fellow townspeople. he grew to resent the world of the aristocracy as they continue to suffocate him with frills and lace.

SAVANACLAW

leona kingscholar

the royal tactician. second in line to the throne but always underestimated. what good is he as a royal prince for his entire lifetime? his nephew is next in line as king and is very annoying. but his strategies always work. extremely intelligent and good at predicting people’s movements. but his brother never takes any of his suggestions. except...oops! an accident causes his brother’s demise but his nephew cheka is too young to take the throne. so leona stands in place of cheka until cheka becomes of age. promises to share the wealth of the elite, which is a promise he keeps. but the aristocracy isn’t so happy about his decision. it’s for the betterment of his kingdom. he has a strategy and it’s going exactly as planned.

ruggie bucchi

the conniving thief. grew up poor. resents the aristocracy and wants to watch them burn. he attempted to steal from the second prince one day and got caught. impressed, leona offered to teach him everything he knew about magic. punishment was extremely risky so ruggie had no choice but to accept. what happened was far greater than he expected. he learned the tactics of leona, learned how to read people, and eventually became leona’s trusted friend. he operates outside of the palace, listening to the gentle simmering of discontent with the current king. he steals something of value from you when you visit and you chase him down, constantly stopped by his magic. and yet you somehow manage to keep up and find a way to beat his tactics. he respects you for that and returns what he stole with a smirk on his face. when you look up, he’s already gone, having disappeared from the alleyway.

jack howl

the young knight. saw the leona kingscholar fight on the battlefield once and became inspired. wasn’t hard to begin his training as a knight as he hails from a family of knights. shows a sense of naivete in his worldview. is assigned to be a guard for the royal tactician. leona sees his interest in tactics and begins to teach jack on how to be a better one, how to outsmart his enemy. the young knight finds kinship with the royal tactician unbeknownst that he is a pawn in leona’s game.

OCTAVINELLE

azul ashengrotto

the granter of wishes. he can grant anything you wish for! for a price of course. grew up by the sea but was poor. family barely made ends meet. so he decided to hone his magic and get into a prestigious magic academy by demonstrating in the city. after graduating, he became a granter of wishes. you must sign a contract if you were to want something. he takes money but if your wish calls for it, something of value, greater than money could ever provide, must be sacrificed. he’s charming. but don’t fall for it. he’s dangerous and you must never let your guard down.

jade leech

the royal botonist. was born by the sea but was separated from his twin brother. was taken in by an family of botonists. he joined their ranks. he supplies herbs and everything necessary for the royal apothecary. has a particular fondness for mushrooms which his family finds odd. not a big fan of seafood. walks into a seaside town to do some research where he meets a man who looks very similar to him. after conversing, the chance encounter takes jade to the archives of the town where he discovers that the man is his long lost twin brother, floyd.

floyd leech

the pirate. born by the sea and separated from his twin brother. unlike his twin, he was taken in by a pirate crew. has a unique affinity with water magic which he uses to his advantage. not as refined as his twin brother. a lot more rowdy and teasing. definitely flirty. the women in town desire him. the men blush when he talks to them. everyone appears to be attracted to this man. your face turns beet red when he approaches you, earring hanging from his ear. he runs into a man who looks eerily similar to him where they converse. before floyd sets out on his next adventure on the seas, the same man stops him with a birth record. he reveals that he is his twin brother jade.

SCARABIA

kalim al-asim

the crown prince. carefree and joyous. the people absolutely love him. he’s your childhood best friend after all. always dresses elaborately. but doesn’t take his duties seriously. always threatened by his own brothers because of the line of succession. but to some extent, he just doesn’t want it. he doesn’t want the throne. he wants to explore the world just like you. and even with you.

jamil viper

the civil servant. next in line to be the advisor for the future king, the crown prince. worked his way up with his intelligence. impoverished, looked down upon. stole bread, stole fruit, and, most importantly, stole books to try to learn how to read. one of the only ways he could climb was to learn to read so he could study and take the civil service exam. however, he got caught by a scholar when trying to steal a book. instead of being reprimanded, the scholar offered him a place for him to stay where he would teach jamil everything he needed to know to pass the exam. why? jamil couldn’t fathom the answer until he passed where the scholar told him they look out for each other. it was a silent understanding. to some extent, he resents the crown prince. kalim has everything jamil ever wanted. and he would throw it all away, just like that!

IGNIHYDE

idia shroud

the hermit. resides in a house far from other people even in his own kingdom. resides in the home with his brother ortho. people seek him out for life changing spells that come at a deep cost. is it truly worth it to go see the hermit? you hear tales of how frightening he is but when you stumble across him, you learn he’s really just awkward and doesn’t like to be around people. and perhaps one reason why is because he was born to a family cursed by witches long ago.

[finnuf]

much has changed in the past year.

a year ago, finn was drowning in grief over the loss of etlia and all that came with it: his country, his peoples’ lives, his dignity as the future margrave lucinier.

he doesn’t really know how he’s gotten to this point now, where he’s faced much of his past and failures. he isn’t over it–– he knows he will never be over it ––but he is...better. after the last lotus festival, and the monster attacks throughout the continent, he returned to his homeland, not just to redeem himself, but to protect the people he failed to previously. he knew, even then, that he didn’t owe them any loyalty anymore. etlia no longer existed and he was no leader, and yet...there are still so many faces in former etlian territory that he knows. 

he blames himself a little less now. well, maybe that’s not true, and he’s simply forgiven himself a little for all of his deadly mistakes. maybe he feels like he’s making it up to them by fighting and defending them now. 

there’s more of a chance to now, with ganggyn declaring war on gleerium and crossing borders to attack the military capital of ouros, etlia’s neighbor that inflicted the most damage on them during the war of the states. there are new opportunities to fight for his people, and to seek revenge on gleerium for what they did to them, but...he hasn’t yet. he continued to fight monsters, even in the face of ganggyn troops pushing into soule and remilly, because this war is not his–– not yet.

it’s an opportunity, though, and leila knows it, too. leila, somehow, has always had more passion and hope to reclaim etlia for themselves, and it’s no different now than it always has been. he knows she likely has big dreams and lofty goals, and he’s open to hearing them and talking some sense into her so she doesn’t do anything too impulsive or dangerous.

he agreed to meet leila in ganggyn territory, at the inn that apparently took her in when they were displaced after their war. he hasn’t been before, and when he enters, he takes in his surroundings out of instinct, always prepared to use them to his advantage in case of an ambush of some sort. he doubts he has much to worry about in ganggyn’s capital, but with a new war overtaking deyuis, he can’t be sure, and the cautiousness is in his blood. he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt safe in his life, but leila seems to feel comfortable here, and that’s enough for him.

she assures him they won’t be overheard, and he nods, then takes a seat. he considers her mug of ale for a moment, then nods, and says, “sure,” though he’s trying not to drink as much these days. a little won’t hurt.

leila jumps right into the deep questions, never one to beat around the bush. he isn’t either. “ganggyn has pushed into lucinier territory. they’re starting to spread into astelle, last i knew. ouros has definitely seen better days. sablier, too. i think they pulled some of their troops out of former etlia territory to try to defend vessalius. there hasn’t been as much gleerian resistance in the west as you might think.”

as for signing on with ganggyn’s army, he shakes his head. “i’m still...assessing the situation, a bit.” he isn’t entirely sure of ganggyn’s motives. is misu truly just fighting this war out of rage, seeking to avenge her mother? finn can understand that much. if he had the power, he might’ve done the same a year ago. he can’t help but be skeptical, though. he has never known an instance without war. he has a hard time believing any foreign power in etlia is anything good. “i don’t really want to work for anyone else,” he admits, which is ironic, considering he’s a mercenary now. all he does these days is work for someone else to earn money. in the end, however, he can choose his own work, and while he will never side with gleerium...something is holding him back from pledging allegiance to ganggyn in their war efforts.

“well, i guess...i don’t want to fight anyone else’s war.” that’s more accurate, really. “i’m not sure if it’s ours yet.”

plotting and scheming ;

@finnuf

it's strange, being back here after so long. really it's only been about a year since leila left, but everything feels so different now. when she left last, she thought she was alone in the world, the last defender of her homeland on the run from tyranny and war. she was completely unsure of what to do, where to go, or how to move forward, and she had a vague idea of getting revenge on gleerium and freeing etlia, but no means of even coming up with a feasible plan to follow through on that.

now, she's reunited with finn, ganggyn has declared war on gleerium, and with the new war started, leila may finally have her opportunity to reclaim her homeland.

when finn walks in the door, leila waves at him from her table in the corner, and as he approaches she makes eye contact with cirenne behind the bar. the matron nods once -- she'll make sure their conversation isn't overheard. it's a relief, leila thinks, to be back around someone like cirenne, who leila knows has no other motivations than to keep her inn running and, in her words, to do the most right thing.

allowing a couple of mercenaries the privacy to plan an uprising may not seem like a good thing to do, but leila knows that cirenne hates gleerium as much as she does, and she's eager to see andreas's empire topple.

"we won't be overheard here," leila tells finn when he reaches her, though currently the taproom is abandoned aside from the two of them and cirenne. "there's nothing to worry about. do you want anything?"

she indicates her own mug of ale when she asks, lifting it slightly off the table. "the ale's not bad. how's the war effort? have you signed on with ganggyn's army yet?"

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

A/N: If there’s anything I learned from doing this, it’s that vampirerry is an utter WHORE. Good for him!!!! As for myself, I’m done with the semester and my term projects and finals left my singular brain cell fried, so this was a nice way to get back into writing again. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thank you to the anon that suggested it, this was super fun to do! :D

read you’re someone i just want around here

word count: 6k

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Harry is very attentive when it comes to aftercare with Y/N. The sex they have is often rough and includes toys, degradation, and multiple rounds, so he believes aftercare is non-negotiable. Rough sex can be fun, but if it’s not followed by a lot of communication and post-performance support, it can take a hard emotional toll on a person. Even when intimacy isn’t meant to be inherently sentimental, there has to be a certain level of connection and etiquette surrounding it, or it could end badly for both parties involved. He always checks on her immediately after they finish, simply to gauge her headspace and how her body is responding, and after he’s made sure she’s alright, he goes into his usual routine of skin-to-skin contact and gentle coddling. Reassurance and praise is just as important afterwards as it is during, because it’s good to let a partner know that your appreciation runs deeper than just the physical need felt in the heat of the moment; everyone deserves to feel valued beyond their body. 

Harry proceeds to clean Y/N up after every session, because it’s the least he can do since she’s usually the one getting the brunt of the work. He’ll fetch a clean towel dampened under warm water to wipe her clean, or he’ll offer to help give her a bath or a shower— whichever route she prefers. Harry dresses her, and changes the sheets if need be, and tucks her into bed to ensure she’s nice and comfortable. If it’s been a particularly intense session, he’ll go the kitchen and bring back a snack and a drink— a granola bar and a Gatorade, or some chips and her favorite juice, or if she’s feeling especially hungry, he’ll happily go out of his way to prepare her an actual meal— and he insists on feeding it to her bit by bit until she’s come to enough to handle it on her own. If she’s not hungry, he at least brings her a glass of water and urges her to drink it; better to be safe than sorry. After that, more cuddling is the status quo, which normally ends in Y/N falling asleep in his arms, and Harry has absolutely no problem with that at all.  

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Harry’s favorite body part of Y/N’s is probably her chest. Yes, he likes it for sexual reasons— obviously— but there are innocent reasons for his fascination, as well. He likes how responsive she gets when he touches her there— how he can get her going just by groping her the way she likes it, or by using his mouth to tongue across her nipples until she’s writhing in pleasure and whining for more. He loves leaving hickies all over her tits, probably more than she likes receiving them. It’s just so fucking hot seeing himself marked all over her, especially when she’s putting on a bra and he can see all of the dark bruises scattered across the cleavage spilling from the undergarment. Filth aside, he also enjoys loving all over her chest. Absentmindedly cupping them while they’re snuggling, nuzzling his head between them while they’re watching television, massaging them under her shirt with his large palms as she sits back against his chest, sipping a glass of wine and chatting away, unwinding after a long day. It’s a form of intimacy; it provides a type of closeness nothing else can. 

As for his own favorite body part, it’s a tie between two different areas. He loves his thighs— they’re one of his most prominent features. They’re thick and meaty and sensitive, so they’re the perfect sweet spot to touch when he wants to get riled up. Given his previous response, it can be easily deduced that he likes to get hickies there, as well. The marks look great peeking out from under his briefs (for the short amount of time they last, anyways) and they make a great accessory to the large tigerhead tattoo along his left thigh. It’s artwork, really; a proper Picasso. 

His other favorite body part...well, take a lucky guess. It’s likely not that far off— literally, considering it hangs right between his thighs. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Harry’s personal preference is cumming inside. He adores feeling the way Y/N tightens around him when he finally orgasms (she’s just so warm and soft and unbelievably tight; it’s like she was made for him), almost as much as he loves seeing her reaction. Her body will immediately start to wriggle and her back will arch as she releases broken little whimpers, clinging to his shoulders with her nails and begging him to fill her until he’s milked his worth. Hearing her ragged breathing and feeling her sweaty chest stutter against his is enough to do him in, but when she goes as far as to gnaw on his ear and whine a soft little, “Want it all, baby. Want you dripping out of me when we’re done.” Well, that’s enough to kill him all over again. 

Of course, there are times when Harry likes seeing himself all over her, too. On her outstretched tongue, or smeared across her pretty face and plush lips (she looks particularly cute when it ends up all over her eyelashes), or streaked over the valley of her tits, or pooled at the center of her tummy. If he’d been taking her from behind, then he likes seeing it run down the backs of her thighs, or splattered across the dip of her spine. And if she’d been giving him a handjob, then seeing himself dribbling down her fingers is just as good. Why? Because those fingers usually end up in her mouth, which means he ends up all over her tongue, and so the cycle comes full circle. How poetic. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Did Harry suggest wearing a matching set of a vibrating cock ring and buzzing bullet to do grocery shopping once? Yes. Did he drop three glass jars of peach preserves by accident as a result, causing them to have to book it out of the bread aisle while trying to look as unsuspicious as possible, which failed horribly because they were literally hobbling like a crippled elderly couple? Also yes. Did they end up fucking in a Target fitting room? Definitely. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

A lot of experience. Tons. Immense amounts. Insane amounts. Two hundred years of the same seven continents just means two hundred years worth of sex across every single one. And it gives you plenty of time to find the clitoris, as well as giving you a chance to learn the female anatomy like the back of your hand. That being said, Harry doesn’t doubt he could make Y/N cum with his wrists tied behind his back and a blindfold strapped to his face. In fact, he’s made her cum just by using his thigh, so that in itself is enough credibility to last him several more lifetimes. The toy chest in his closet and the fact that he’s well-endowed are bonuses— he knows more than enough tricks to keep her satisfied with just his tongue. Not to mention his fingers— they’re long for a reason.

F = Favorite position  

Funny enough, Harry doesn’t have one. He’s spent so many decades cycling through every possible position in existence, it’s gotten to where he can’t pin-point a preference; all positions are unique, and they each have their own appeal. Reverse cowgirl is nice because he likes watching the way he stretches Y/N open with every plunge of her hips, and it also gives him the luxury of marking his rings across her ass in the process. Regular cowgirl is nice, too— having her chest bouncing in his face is nothing short of a divine miracle, in his opinion. Doggy style is a staple, and there’s always different add-ons he can apply to spice it up; for example, taking her from behind with her wrists tied to her ankles, or bending her over the kitchen counter with her face pressed into the marble, or fucking her against his glass wall with her hands and chest flushed to the cool surface as their breaths fog the floor-to-ceiling window. 

Missionary is a tried and true option, and just like it’s prior counterpart, it can be enhanced with a variety of extra tricks. Bondage is a good condiment, against the wall is always a nice touch, spread-eagle never goes wrong, and just having her legs wrapped around his lower back is more than enough. However, he does have two favorite variations of the position. The first is when he mounts her legs onto his shoulders or along the inside of his elbows to open her up more, and then just ramming his hips down at a very specific angle that hits her g-spot just right, pounding her into the bed so hard she tears the sheets off the mattress. The second is a cowgirl-missionary hybrid: he sits back on his heels and uses the steep downward slope created by his thighs as elevation, pulling her ass onto his tilted lap and swinging her legs over either side of his hips. He gropes her waist with his palms and yanks her forward, bouncing her against his cock and watching her completely dismantle as he nudges all the right places with as much speed and force as she deems fit. 

And then there’s fucking from the side, but that’s a whole other extensive conversation he doesn’t have time for. 

Actually, maybe Harry will entertain it for a minute or so. He usually throws one of Y/N’s legs over his neck to get a deeper range, manhandling her roughly onto her side and yanking her closer to his body by her waist, grasping it with stern vigor and holding her down against the mattress, grunting out a gravelly, strict command along the lines of, “Stay fucking still.” He’ll drill into her at a brutal, consistent pace, staining his fingerprints along the curves of her torso and sponging damp kisses onto her ankle, smirking into her skin as he watches her fist at the duvet in a futile attempt at maintaining her bearings. It’s pretty evident that she can’t, though; the way her eyes lull around their sockets from his harsh stride does a terrible job at hiding her lack of self-control, alongside the fragmented curses she gasps out whenever he nudges her g-spot with the head of his cock. 

“Oh, that was such a pretty noise. Did I hit that little spot you like?”

Her response will be begrudging, as always, which he thinks is ridiculously useless considering he can see her burying her face into the pillow to hide how her jaw drops open in sheer rapture. “No.”

“No?” The vampire leans forward, stretching her leg towards the headboard and preening at the garbled squeak that escapes her gritted teeth, plunging deeper as he lowers himself to her level. He knots her hair around his knuckles, tugging sharply until her face is tilted back enough to meet his fiery gaze. “Then why are you starting to shake?

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It depends on the mood, honestly. There are definitely serious moments, but Harry enjoys the humorous ones just as much. He already adores making Y/N laugh and smile on a regular basis, and that desire only grows when he’s buried between her thighs, simply because she just looks so fucking cute laughing with her hair splayed around the pillows in a messy halo, her sounds of glee stuttering due to how sharply she’s jolting against the bed. He loves feeling her giggle into his mouth as he cracks sarcastic jokes and makes stupid witty comments that break the intensity in the air, especially because she’s usually clever enough to return them with some of her own. Then they both end up snickering like idiots as he tries to keep a solid pace, which eventually tapers to a messy, haphazard stride as their laughter drowns out their goal to the point where he has to take a genuine break to collect himself. There’s tons of examples— how could there not be? Sex is hardly ever perfect, so awkward moments are not only expected, but guaranteed. What better way to handle them than with a bit of humor?

There was an incident once where Harry accidentally knocked their foreheads together so hard, they both bruised (which he responded to with, “I’m pretty sure this isn’t what Cosmopolitan meant when they suggested matching couples tattoos.”). Another time, he got so into the moment he didn’t realize he was jack-hammering the top of her head into the backboard until she brought it to his attention (and made a comment saying it sounded like a sped up version of the beat to We Will Rock You). A bad case of the hiccups. Y/N burping right in his face halfway through his orgasm. A random leg cramp that made him think he was going to need amputation to survive. Accidentally rolling off the bed or couch onto the ground and nearly dislocating both of their spines in the process, getting his cross earring tangled in her hair and nearly ripping off his ear trying to get it out, and the unfortunate collapse of a pillow fort he’d spent over an hour building. He even sneezed in her face once, and when she instinctively went to shove him back, she wound up slamming her palm into his nose so hard he nearly passed out. Nose bleeds aren’t necessarily sexy, per se, but he just dug blindly through her nightstand until he found two new tampons somewhere in that black hole she calls a drawer, shoved them in his nostrils, and kept going. No one can ever accuse him of being unresourceful. 

Queefing. Lots and lots of queefing, which he usually starts mimicking with his mouth, and then she responds to that by whining and telling him to cut it out, and then he takes to mocking her whining instead. It normally finishes with them laughing so hard that Harry’s cheeks hurt from smiling so big, but it’s a good type of pain. The best type of pain. 

H = Hair (how do they groom?)

Harry likes keeping himself neat and orderly, but he doesn’t enjoy going bare, so trimming is his grooming preference. There’s just something so unappealing about a completely smooth dick— it looks like raw chicken and it’s fucking disgusting. He doesn’t have anything against a good bush, but it tends to get unruly and he’d rather not have to overcomplicate his shower routine. And honestly, he can’t trust himself because last time he had a full front yard going, he got shitfaced and tried to braid it on a dare. Keeping the hedges trimmed is the ideal landscaping option, and it just looks way hotter— a uniform dusting of hair is a good accessory and it just makes everything look more cohesive, given that he also fancies keeping his happy trail thick. It’s all about aesthetics, isn’t it? 

I = Intimacy (the romantic aspect)

It’s no secret that Harry’s been somewhat detached from intimacy for the last two hundred years or so. Intimacy is reserved for genuine romance, and that’s something he hadn’t entertained since before the lightbulb was invented. But now that he has Y/N, intimacy has crawled its way back out from the deepest recesses of his subconscious, where it had been shoved into a bottomless pit with the rest of his trauma. He likes it— he likes opening up to her in any way he can, because sharing those obsolete parts of himself with someone again is more fulfilling than he ever imagined. He likes kissing her randomly when she’s halfway through a sentence, just to feel her words die off abruptly in her throat as she gives into his gentle gesture, a delicate smile spreading across her satin lips. He likes whispering sweet phrases of encouragement into her hair when they’re tangled amidst sweaty limbs and rumpled sheets, reminding her of how much he cares for her and how beautiful she looks when she’s so far gone and how she makes him feel like his entire body has been set alight. He likes sponging soft pecks across the stretch marks along her thighs and across the dimples on her belly, her skin candy and velvet on his tongue as she releases a watery sigh that lets him know he’s doing all the right things in all the right places. He just likes letting her know she's special to him, in any and every way he can. 

Intimacy forges timeless bonds, and he reckons that assumption is unarguable, considering he knows a thing or two about eternity. 

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

Harry likes to jack off, obviously. Who doesn’t? It’s why he has an entire section of his toy chest dedicated to self-pleasuring tools. Vibrating cock rings, an array of lubes that range from temperature-changing to sensation sensitivity, and a few pocket vags that get the job done whenever Y/N is out of commission (usually because of work). His favorite one is an electronic sleek black model that is made of a premium silicone material and has a variety of massage settings, suction strengths, and internal textures. It’s designed to make the session feel more real, and yes, it was expensive, but self-love is always worth the splurge. 

The beauty of living on his own is that he can get off wherever and whenever he wants, without having to stress about someone interrupting an important step in his pampering routine. He usually does it in his room and on his bed, simply because Y/N’s pillow is close by and the experience is heightened when her scent is swimming around his hazy, bliss-drunken mind. If Harry is feeling particularly needy, he’ll ditch the toy all together and just hump one out against the mattress or cushion. If it’s a particularly restless day, he’ll take a toy downstairs and lazily play within himself on the couch while browsing through Netflix. Those instances usually average a few tamer orgasms rather than a single large one, but he’s not complaining; his stamina comes in unapologetic waves that stem from a never-ending supply, and he certainly has the time to kill. If Harry gets the sudden urge in the shower or while he’s relaxing in his jacuzzi, he won’t bother fetching a trinket; he’ll just stroke one out with his hand, using the cool metal of his trusty lionhead ring to tease the tip until he brings himself to orgasm. It turns out daylight crystals have more than one use. 

There is one common factor amongst all these different choices, though: Y/N is present in every fantasy. And if the vampire is feeling especially bold, he’ll grab his phone and take a video of whatever he’s doing to himself, and then she’ll have a nice little gift waiting for her once she gets out of the café for the day. That usually leads to him receiving a present in return later that evening, and then he’s dialing her contact before the clip is even done playing, and then what he does during his alone time doesn’t require him being so alone anymore. 

K = Kinks 

Harry has tons— in fact, he has so many, he can’t really keep track. And he also has the sneaking suspicion that if he were to ever jot all of them down, he’d end up locked in some type of sex addict rehabilitation center. Bondage is a big one, so he’ll start there. He’s great with ropes, given that he learned his way around them ages ago. Chains are nice, but they can be a pain to set up without the right equipment; he’s thinking of getting a reinforced metal hook installed into his ceiling, like the one in his storage closet, which he uses to keep his punching bag secure. Handcuffs, obviously— velvet-lined, straight metal, fuzzy coverings, he’s got it all. Dominance, degradation, Daddy, Sir, choking, brat-taming, spanking, flogging, slapping— impact play in general, to be honest— spitting, wax, praise, begging, masochism, branding (mild stuff, no molten metal shit), collaring, discipline, dirty talk, edging, exhibitionism, face-fucking, face-sitting (with him on the receiving end), giving oral (is that a kink? It is now.) gagging (both the action and using the actual object itself), breeding (he hates that term but that’s the official name, unfortunately), teasing, voyeurism, role play, and… he thinks that’s it. Oh, and blood, but that doesn’t really count for apparent reasons. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Y/N’s couch is sacred, at this point. Their entire relationship started on that lumpy, worn excuse of a sofa, and it’s seen them through their progression from strangers to friends with benefits to lovers to more. It’s comfortable enough, the dark color hides any explicit stains, and the cushions always smell of her signature mixture of honey and lavender combined with Snuggle fabric softener. It’s finicky, but irreplaceable. His kitchen counter is a close second. It’s provided a lot, taken a lot, been through a lot— through a lot of Lysol wipes, to be specific. If it wasn’t marble, it likely would have been reduced to chunks and rubble by now, courtesy of his enhanced strength gripping the edges as he slams her against the smooth surface. The backseat of his Cadillac is consecrated, as well; there’s just so much erotic appeal to fucking in a car with rock music blaring in the background, muffling the obscene sounds of bodies connecting and a mixture of fever-pitch moans. The couch, the counter, and the Cadillac— the Unholy Trinity. 

The jacuzzi is nice, too, but for the sake of his clever little “c” alliteration, he’ll leave that one as an implied token. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

As much as Harry claims he likes full submission in bed, he can’t deny that he loves being challenged. Delivering punishment and coaxing out an orgasm is so much more satisfying when he has to fight for it; it’s so fucking hot watching his girlfriend try to best him in a power struggle, especially when she finally— and undeniably, since he always wins— caves under his will and winds up begging him for what he otherwise would have gifted her freely. That’s where the brat-taming kink comes into play. He likes it when she mouths off and makes snarky digs, and he enjoys it even more when he tries to set her in place and she amps her disobedience as a result. There’s nothing more attractive than a battle of wits with someone who is a perfect match in every way. And when she channels her attitude into physical gestures, it riles him up beyond compare. For example, when she smirks and rolls her eyes, despite the fact that there’s trails of tears staining her cheeks and mascara smeared all over her waterline? Christ, he could go feral. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

No feet, no feces, no beastiality. There’s probably more, but those are the ones off the top of his head.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Receiving oral is great— he highly recommends it, solid ten out of ten— but giving it is so much better. Harry’s always been a giver, even when he was young and barely knew his way around a woman’s undergarments. The stereotypical expectation for a person who is beginning to explore their sexuality is that everything they do, they do for their own gain. It’s a selfish realization, yes, but it’s a primal type of selfishness that no one can truly be blamed for. It’s a simple concept: when you start having sex, you want as much personal benefit as possible. It’s only natural. But from the second Harry became sexually active, he came to find that providing release to his partner outweighed the bliss he could get from letting them pleasure him instead. It’s not direct pleasure, but rather cognitive, which more often than not translates itself physically. And when it comes to Y/N, that euphoria manifests tenfold. 

Nothing compares to having his face buried between her legs as she tugs and yanks at his hair desperately, her chest heaving and jaw falling open as he uses his tongue to unravel her from the inside out. Spitting sloppily onto her folds and hearing the raw gasp of aroused shock that escapes her sore throat, which causes his swollen lips to spread into a dirty grin as he latches onto the sensitive bud at the thick of her core, fiddling with it until her legs are trembling uncontrollably around his sturdy shoulders. Watching her features go slack as he bobs his neck fervently between her thighs, swiping the bridge of his nose across her clit over and over until the entire bottom half of his face is drenched in her excitement. Fucking his tongue into her and feeling her buck against his jaw as she holds him in place with her fingers tangled in his curls, whimpering his name repeatedly in a voice so shattered, he could probably build a mosaic with the fractures. Feeling her drip down his chin and into the collar of his shirt, savoring how sweet she tastes as he pins her hips down against the bed and groans feverishly into her cunt, his ego idolizing the image of her so disheveled under his influence. 

A measly blowjob is hardly any competition to that. Harry could very well cum just from eating Y/N out. In fact, he has, and that in itself is all the proof he needs. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

This is one of those other factors that depends on the mood. If Harry has been waiting all day for it, his impatience bleeds into his rhythm, which means he settles for fast and hard. It means he settles for bending her over the back of his couch with one palm around her throat and his other fingers in her mouth, pounding into her with so much force, the sofa starts shifting across the ground. If Y/N has been teasing him endlessly for a decent amount of time, it’ll be rough and deep, but not fast; he’ll drag it out for as long as possible, just to make her regret acting like such a spoiled brat. That’s when he brings out the paddle, or the crop, or just manhandles her across his lap and spanks her until she’s apologizing profusely through her whines. If he’s in a soft, romantic headspace, it’ll be slow and sensual, with lots of gentle caresses, giggly kisses dusted across eager lips and droopy eyelids, and penetrating strokes that make his toes curl and tummy clench. 

Pace is relative, but the message behind it is all the same: I want you more than anything, and I’m going to show you just how deeply I mean it. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies are fun, Harry will admit. They’re filthy and messy, and they show just how far gone two people are for each other to the point where they can’t wait to feel one another at a later time; that they need to be together now, or they’ll go absolutely insane. Quickies are saved for when the urge strikes at random times. For when he’s out with Y/N at a park, sitting under the shade with his head in her lap as she combs his curls out of his eyes and thumbs over his chin affectionately, and the sun filters through the tree canopy just right to where it illuminates her lashes and the suppleness of her cheeks in a manner he deems ethereal. For when they’re at the mall, walking hand in hand and licking at ice cream cones as they survey the shops, and she reaches over to wipe a bit of Rocky Road off the corner of his mouth, replacing the stain with a soft stipple of her lips instead. For when they’re out eating dinner and playing footsie under the table like immature teenagers, and she’s trying to steal a French fry from his plate but he keeps fighting her off with his fork because, “I told you to order your own, but you wanted those disgusting potato skins instead!” And she’s laughing so brightly and unapologetically, giving him a look that so obviously tells him she can’t wait to get him alone, and nothing seems quite as flawless as that fraction in time, then and there and nowhere else.

These simple but memorable moments cause him to get love boners, which he jokingly refers to as “sniffy stiffies,” where “sniffy” has to do with being sentimental, and “stiffy”...well, that one is pretty self-explanatory, no? It always ends with them shagging in the car, or in the family bathroom of a diner, and in the case of the park, in an obscure area of the forest that lines the jogging trail. 

Quickies are just that— fast, but meaningful nonetheless, because they come from a place of genuine emotion. They’re fleeting, but unforgettable. Sniffy stiffy quickies, if you will. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Taking risks is the norm in Harry’s life, especially when it comes to his sex habits. He’s proven time and time again that he has no problem riding along the seams of a dare and just barely making it out unscathed, so experimenting outside of the bedroom is just another day in the life. Fingering Y/N in a music room in an antique shop, getting road head during a two hour drive back to Los Angeles, ripping his girlfriend’s panties out from beneath her dress at one of California’s most prestigious restaurants— the list is endless, really. Harry likes to think he has a gift for coming up with inspirational quotes on the spot, so he’ll lend his expertise here and now: “A life without risks is a life that isn’t worth shit.” It even rhymes, so he knows sorority pledges will have a ball putting it in their Instagram bios. A bit of charity work for the bird-brained. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Endless stamina. Literally. Vampires don’t stay tired for long, so he could be ready to go again within seconds. And he can last long, as well; his stubbornness and pride depend on it, and he likes making his partner cum first as an ego boost. He can go as many rounds as Y/N can and more, though he won’t push it. He doesn’t want her to end up in the ER with a bruised cervix. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Harry could run a sex shop from his closet; Y/N doesn’t take the piss by calling him “Fifty Shades” for no reason. He uses them on himself, he uses them on her, and he got high once and tried to sword fight Y/N with a dildo, so it’s safe to say he definitely uses them quite a bit. If his Lovesense Lush 3 vibrator could talk, he’d be drawn and quartered for excessive debauchery. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Harry loves teasing, that’s no mystery. Winding people up is one of his most practiced skills, so of course that would channel into his intimate life. He’s mastered it, though it’s not like it’s hard. A drawn out blink here, or a feathery touch there. An inch of space between his and Y/N’s lips to establish some tension, or squeezing her inner thigh with his palm hard enough to draw a tiny squeak from her chest. Touching her through her clothes, or leaving a trail of wet kisses down her throat and stopping right at her cleavage. Biting the sensitive skin along the inside of her knee, or dragging the tip of his cold nose down the center of her twitching tummy. Lapping slowly at her nipples until they perk up, or sinking a single long digit inside her and keeping it there just to feel her clench around it needily. And once he gets a pattern going, teasing molds into edging, edging molds into begging, begging molds into praise, and before he knows it, he’s hit four of his kinks with one roll of the dice. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Harry is very vocal in bed, and he’s not ashamed of it. He knows for a fact that Y/N loves it, and if him being loud gets her worked up, then he’ll let his throat go out in the process. He’s noticed that in different situations, he has an arsenal of sounds for each. If he’s being rough and dominant, he tends to groan, grunt, and growl. If he’s being desperate and needy, he turns to whines and whimpers to communicate how he feels. If he’s too zoned into the moment to distinguish all his emotions, broken moans and stuttered mewls are his default. No matter the circumstance, they all take the same route: they start low and soft, and escalate in volume proportional to the intensity of the moment. So what if half the building is hearing him orgasm for the third time as he mocks his girlfriends sobbing pleads and calls her his “dirty fucking whore”? Let’s be honest, it’s probably the highlight of their week. He has a great voice— a sultry, deep baritone that compliments his English accent nicely— and anyone would be lucky to hear it spew the filth it does. He’s yet to get many complaints, so he doesn’t intend on stopping. 

W = Wildcard (random headcanon)

An honesty hour moment seems interesting, so he’ll confess a few tales from his past. The first time Harry ever went down on a girl, it was against a tree in a garden and he nearly asphyxiated under all the layers of her gown. A couple of years later, he ended up getting oral from a reverend’s daughter against a tree, too, for the morbid irony and associated religious revenge. And to drive the point home, oral was only the beginning of what she gave him. His first decade as a vampire was definitely his pettiest. 

X = X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

It’s not uncommon knowledge that Harry’s well-endowed. He remembers how insecure he was the first time he had sex— a shocker, he knows; he was insecure?— and how he knew barely anything regarding sizing and how to use his assets accordingly. But it’s been ages since then, and now he definitely knows his way around his own body (let alone his partner’s), and he most certainly knows that he’s above average not only as a person in general, but when it comes to what’s in his trousers, as well. Harry won’t specify inches— he loves how speculation drives others mad— but it was big enough to give Y/N a decent pause the first time she pulled down his pants, and it’s big enough to leave her absolutely fucked every single time, without a single miss. If that’s not credibility at its finest, then he doesn’t know what is.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Harry’s sex drive is insatiable, to say the least. His vampirism combined with his narcissistic tendencies makes the ideal cocktail— cocktail— for the constant fuse that’s always burning under his skin. He’s ready to go at all times; Y/N just has to say the word and he’s pulling on a pair of sweatpants as he grabs his keys, hopping down his complex’s corridor toward the elevator on one foot as he tries to get his last shoe on the other. Lazy morning sex is probably his favorite; he’s come to find it’s when he’s most pent up, usually after a sleepless night of feeling Y/N’s body heat radiating through all of his cold limbs. It also sets a great tone for the rest of the day, and he just loves seeing Y/N wake up to him lying on his side with his temple resting on his fist, his elbow propped against the mattress as he poses the other on his hip in a theatrical diva stance. He’ll smile at her giddily with all his pearly teeth, dimples twitching as his lashes flutter dramatically, dirty intentions written clear all over his face (“Good morning, hon—” “Wanna have sex?” “Harry, it’s ten in the morning.” “Is that a yes? Because it’s not a no.” “I haven’t even brushed my teeth!” “That’s fine, I’m gonna stick my dick in there anyways.”) 

All in all, his libido is insane, and he’s lucky that Y/N’s is up to par or else he would have worked her into an exhaustion-induced coma by now. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Harry just...doesn't. Maybe once every few weeks, but definitely more often now than before he had his girlfriend. Sleeping just comes way easier when he has someone he cares about resting beside him, their inherent warmth thawing the stiffness from his muscles and putting his racing mind at ease. He feels safe enough around Y/N to let his guard down— both literally and metaphorically— and that seems to help with his supernatural insomnia; it sedates that nocturnal hyper-instinct in his brain that demands he be aware at all times, muffling the animalistic part of him that has been manning the reins for the better half of the last two hundred years. He doesn’t need to be so on edge anymore when everything he needs is just an arm-length away. Especially when she’s usually willing to lend her chest as a pillow, and who is he to neglect her wishes.   

[athenagc94]

WRITEBLR INTRO

Basics:

Gabbi

she/her - demisexual

28

Communication Specialist by day - Writing Gremlin by night

ask game and tag game friendly!

Hello! I’m Gabbi. I have been writing ever since I could string together words. I started with fan fiction, but have since branched more seriously into the world of original novels. All of my WIPs, for now, take place in the same fantasy world during different time periods and with different characters. It allows me to make new stories without having to reinvent a world/lore each time. I focus mostly on the relationship between two people and how their story unfolds.

I’ve never been very good at sharing my work, but I really want to challenge myself to be part of a community of writers and I can’t quit tumblr so... *gestures vaguely* ...here I am.

Favorite Tropes/Content: Fake Dating, Found Family, Diverse Casts (LGBTQ+, POC, mental health and disability representation), male characters that aren’t afraid to show their emotions and just feel (let our boys be soft sometimes), I’m willing to read most things if they’re well-written.

MY WIPS:

Of Yarrow and Daffodils (Current Nanowrimo 2022 Project):

Low fantasy in a contemporary time, Third person alternating POV between the two MC’s, romance (some smut) and exploration of how success is relative to the individual and you shouldn’t compare your success to that of others.

Eusadora knows her life is in shambles. That isn’t anything new. Her ex-fiancé called off their wedding a month before they tied the knot, she’s still stuck at home with her family, and, to top it all off, the elder crocus flowers have yet to bloom this season and she can’t figure out why.

Clearly, the god of good fortune has it out for her.

When Zebulon Yarrow shoves a bouquet of daffodils in her face and declares his crush on her, she wonders if the strings of fate are finally pulling in her favor?

Tags: #oyad #oyad wip

WIP Page

Setting

Of Coast and Courtships:

Fantasy in a regency-esque time, third person alternating POV between the two MC’s, romance (some smut, lots of sexual tension), heavy political intrigue b-plot

Nemaia Nevarro, aptly referred to as the stone hearted heiress by her peers, has played the game of courtship for the last four months. Some would say she’s bad at the game, but she thinks she’s quite good. She doesn’t play it to find love. No. It’s so people stop talking about her father and the fact that he’s off chasing after ghost ships. 

But when people start speculating on his whereabouts, Nemaia is forced to face a harsh truth. Is she ready to take the mantle?

Mordan Rothenel may have made an error when he agreed to accompany his employer’s son, Theus Maistel, across the Jasper Sea to try to win the heart of the Nevarro Heiress. He thought it would be a quick trip, one that had him back home by the Eve of Frost, but his hopes are dashed when he’s forced to bear witness to the most painfully one-sides courtship in history.

His only silver lining is that he now resides in the largest port city on the continent. His experiments require rare goods and he can find them here – right at his fingertips.

Tags: #ocac #ocac wip

WIP Page

[sparkypantaloons]

A Storm

“I promise you.” Bruce had said. “If you come home, I will keep you safe. I will keep them safe. I will keep us whole. I promise.”

Tim is taken. Each of his family react differently.

There’s a rushing in Tim’s ears. Like a waterfall. It’s so loud he can’t see. Can that happen? Can noise affect sight? He doesn’t know.

There’s a hand on his back. Gentle, but firm. He thinks maybe someone is talking to him, but he can’t see. He can’t see anything over the rushing in his ears.

No, that’s not right. He needs to start again. Try again. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, covers his ears, takes a deep breath.

“Tim?” Is it Bruce? Someone’s hands are on Tim’s arms, pulling his hands from his head. The person in front of him is stooping slightly, so they can look him in the eye. “Can you hear me?”

“'m fine.” Tim says. But his eyes can’t focus, it’s too loud in here. “I just need, I… just need t’sleep.” He grimaces, the noise too bright for his eyes.

There’s more sound then. Voices he thinks, but he’s not sure. He can’t see who they belong to. Then there’s a hand around his ankle, gripping him roughly. He flinches in the hold, starts to struggle as his shoes are removed. Then his socks. What is going on?

His feet? What about his feet? He tries to speak, but it’s so loud in here, he can’t form the words. A forehead presses against his, green eyes bore into his own. Jason?

Hands hold his feet to the floor, press down. More talking. It could be shouting now.

The hands let go of his feet. Move to his face. “Your feet, Timmy. Concentrate on your feet.”

Tim opens his eyes. Jason is still there, his bright green eyes, searching and insistent. “'m home?” Tim mumbles.

“Concentrate on your feet, Timmy. What can you feel?”

Tim closes his eyes again. His feet. He can feel… wood. Wooden floor. Wooden floorboards and the thin gaps between them. The Manor floor. The Manor.

“Yeah, Timmy.” Jason says. His hands move from Tim’s face, pull the teenager into a bear hug. “You’re home. You’re home.”

~~

Leslie pushes her glasses back up her nose. Lets out a sigh. “It’s just going to take time, Bruce.” She says. She’s firm, as always. But there’s a softness in her eyes. A sadness. “Like all things.”

Bruce doesn’t speak. Just rubs his face with his hands. Hangs his head.

“Why is he so disorientated?” Dick asks. His right hand is still bandaged up, swollen, but it’s no longer bleeding through.

Jason sucks his teeth from where he’s leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. Leslie and Dick both ignore him.

“Sensory deprivation, especially for so long-- it can take a little while to recover.” Leslie is matter of fact. There’s no point mincing her words. “You have to take it slow.”

“Touch is best to start with.” Jason says, pushing himself off the wall. “It’s grounding.”

Dick, Leslie and Bruce look over at him. He shrugs. “It worked for me.”

A pained look crosses Dick’s face. Leslie interrupts before he can speak. “Let Tim lead, let him set the pace.” Her words hang in the air. “It’ll take time. But he’s strong.” She says. “He’ll pull through.”

~~

Dick wakes up in a sweat, breathless. His right hand is throbbing. He tries to flex his fingers, flinches as his broken knuckles protest. It’s not the worst injury he’s ever had. Not by far. But the way he got it…

He shakes his head, tries to dislodge the memory of a shattered eye-socket, a dislocated jaw, a cracked skull. Tries to shed the jarring realisation that he broke his hand on a man’s face. Tries to make himself at least feel a sense of responsibility for the damage done. He doesn’t.

He makes his way to the kitchen, pads barefoot through the Manor. He pulls an ice-pack out of the freezer, holds it on his aching fist. The cold seeps into his joints, consumes the burn of displaced bone and absent guilt. He feels calmer.

Touch is grounding, Jason had said. Dick doesn’t want to think about how the younger man, his younger brother, knew that. Doesn’t want to know which one of a lifetime of traumatic experiences had taught him that little gem. But he can’t dispute it. The touch of the cold helps.

He makes his way back upstairs. Turns left, instead of right. To Tim’s room.

The door is pulled to. The most Alfred would allow. Bruce had been adamant about staying by Tim’s side, so had Jason, so had Dick. Alfred had refused all of them.

“Wayne Manor is the safest, most secure building on the eastern seaboard, if not the entire continent. None of you will do Master Timothy any good if you don’t get some sleep. He will be safe, in the meantime.”

Bruce had tried to protest, Jason had made threats, all but hissed at Alfred’s suggestion. The older man hadn’t budged. “I will stay with Master Timothy. In case he wakes.”

He wasn’t wrong. They needed rest, all of them. The search had been… long. Too long. Desperate, and increasingly frantic with each passing hour. And there had been so many hours.

He swallows down a memory. Of the howl that felt like it had been ripped out of his soul when they found Tim. Dick hadn’t even realised the noise had come from his own mouth, didn’t notice the tears of rage on his own face, as he took his hands to the men holding Tim captive. Broke his hands on the men who had taken his brilliant, darling brother. Locked him in the dark, alone, for too, too long.

Dick hovers outside Tim’s door. Holds his ear to the wood. He can’t hear anything over his own breathing, his own heartbeat.

“Just open it, Dickhead.” It’s Jason. He's dressed in a spare pair of Bruce’s pyjamas. Despite his size they're somehow still too big for him. It makes him look young. Too young. Dick stares at him for a moment before doing as he says.

The pair of them fill the doorway. Wait as their eyes adjust to the light in the room. Gloomy shadows fall in through the window; the blinds have been left open. Dick’s eyes scan the bed but his ears hear Jason’s breathing hitch. He feels the younger man go rigid beside him, knows his own body has responded the same. Because Tim is gone. Again.

Panic forces itself into what little space is between them, and Dick is only vaguely aware that Jason is gripping his wrist. Holding him too tightly, clinging onto him as though he’s scared one of them will disappear too.

A small cough brings them back to their senses. Alfred. The older man is sat in the corner of the room, by the window. A patient vigil in the dark. He nods to the far side of the bed.

Jason all but drags Dick with him as he marches into the room. They stop just past the bed. Tim is asleep on the floor. He’s curled into a ball, a single sheet held tight over his head. Dick only knows it’s him from the tuft of hair that’s sticking out.

He feels Jason let go of his wrist. The younger man stumbles backwards. He nods to Alfred then leaves the room, gone as quick as he entered.

Dick watches him go, a new worry blooming in his chest. He looks at Alfred, and the older man shakes his head sadly.

~~

Jason is in his old room. His old en-suite more accurately. His knees protest against the tile as he wretches into the toilet.

I am safe, I am warm, I am whole.

He repeats the words in his mind like a mantra. Tries to control his breathing. He fails. Another wave of nausea has him wretching again. Acid burning its way up his throat.

A hand presses to his back and he flinches. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. Bruce places a glass of water on the floor beside him, pushes his hair back from his face.

Jason wipes his mouth on his sleeve, takes a shaky sip of water. Bruce rubs circles on his back.“Don’t.” Jason croaks, and he hates himself when the warmth of the hand is removed. He looks up at Bruce. “You promised you’d keep them safe.” He says, and he can’t keep the hurt out of his voice. Can’t keep the tears from his eyes. “You promised.”

“I know.” Bruce says. He pulls the younger man into a hug, holds him tight against his chest. “I’m sorry.” His son’s tears soak through his shirt.

~~

Jason doesn’t know how long they sit there. Tangled limbs on the cold, hard tiles of the bathroom floor. Only knows that he needs Bruce to let go. He pulls himself out of his father’s arms, pushes himself to his feet. He needs to brush his teeth.

Bruce sits on the floor behind him, as Jason scrubs the bile and acid from his mouth. He presses too hard with the toothbrush, can taste the copper of blood against mint. But the dig of the bristles in the soft flesh of his gums is grounding. Reminds him he’s still alive.

I am safe, I am warm, I am whole.

Jason can remember sleeping on the floor. He’s slept on so many of them. The dingy corner of their apartment growing up, when all they could afford was a single mattress and Willis refused to let him share. The cardboard box by one of the subway vents behind the old Monarch Theatre. The floor of this very bedroom, the bed too soft for him to sleep in, threatening to drown him as soon as he fell asleep. Then the streets again, when he had wandered aimlessly after his death.

He can remember the dark too. Of being locked in a closet and forgotten for days at a time, when his infant crying became too much for Willis. Of his eyes swollen shut as the Joker beat the life out of him. Of his coffin, as he lay there screaming for Bruce to save him.

Jason’s life was a short but terrible history of hard floors and dark rooms and Tim’s was never meant to be like that.

They’d found him in all but a box, eight feet by eight feet by eight feet. There were no windows, the door had been soldered shut. He was being fed once a day. Some bread and water slid through a hatch in the wall, and a bucket too. Swapped out every 24 hours. Nobody ever spoke to him, nobody ever asked anything of him. No-one ever demanded anything from them either, neither The Bats, nor The Waynes.

He spits into the sink. Toothpaste pink with blood. He rinses his mouth. Splashes his face. Takes a deep breath.

They just took him and kept him. Because they could.

Jason had known people like that too, once. If he clings to it, it’s the only thought that makes him grateful Tim has been left alone for so long. Even as it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Coming home, coming back to his family had been as painful and awful as clawing himself out of his own grave. An endless fight against the pit and its madness, that drove him to hurt the people he loved. An ongoing battle against the deep, deep wound in his heart that The Joker still lived. And a terrifying, haunting fear that he would lose them again. That after all they had been through, after he finally got his family back, they would be taken from him and he would be alone once more.

“I promise you.” Bruce had said. “If you come home, I will keep you safe. I will keep them safe. I will keep us whole. I promise.”

Jason turns away from the sink. Walks back into his room. Leaves Bruce sat on the cold, tiled floor.

~~

Eventually Bruce pulls himself to his feet. Jason’s room is empty when he passes through. He doesn’t allow himself to wonder where he might have gone. Of all the broken promises he has made to Jason, he knows this one has hurt his son the most. That Jason’s single biggest fear is losing the family he has so desperately longed for, both of his lives. That Jason would rather never love at all, than love and lose it all over again. This time had been too close. For Jason. For all of them.

It had taken them too long to get a lead on where Tim was being held. Far too long. And even then, they couldn’t confirm an exact location. They’d had no choice but to split up. Cass, and Damian had joined the Titans on the West Coast. Dick and Jason had come with him on the East.

He pulls out his phone, checks on the location of Cass and Damian for the nineteenth time that night. They’re making steady progress. Will be in Gotham before sunrise. His arms ache with a desperate need to hold them, know that they are safe. To have the physical proof, that all his children are alive and breathing, in his hands.

It had taken him a long time to let go of Tim once they found him. To pass his sweet, brilliant boy over to Leslie, so she could check him over. Confirm he was okay.

Tim was older now than Jason had been when he… Tim was older, but he had still felt just as small and young and broken, when Bruce had lifted him out of that box they’d kept him in. Out of the darkness. His body weak and trembling.

It had been Tim who had been taken, but Bruce had looked at the body in his arms and seen Robin, limbs twisted and broken. Seen Nightwing, lips blue and heart stopped by a hand held to his face. Seen another Robin, sword run through him, splitting his battered body almost in two. Seen Red Robin, riddled with bullet holes, blood running out of every one. He had held Tim and seen everyone of his children dead in his arms. An endless cacophony of death.

He reaches Tim’s room. Stands in the doorway and hopes that Alfred can’t see him in the darkness. He tries to remember back to when he took Dick in. Tries to recall what, in the name of all the Gods, had possessed him to allow his child, his children, out into the night with him. Tries to remember how he reached the conclusion that he could risk their single precious lives for his own crusade. How he could risk their safety for a single second.

He steps into the room. Hears Alfred sigh from his seat by the window.

“Don’t ask me to leave.” Bruce croaks out. His throat is tight, trying to hold a tidal wave of emotion at bay. “Don’t.”

Alfred stands. “Of course not.” He says softly, and he gestures to where Tim is sleeping on the floor. “Did you get any sleep?” He asks.

Bruce doesn’t respond. Just stares down at Tim, eighteen but looking for all the world like the ten year old who had shown up on Bruce’s doorstep all those years ago. The sheet is twisted round his limbs, his face screwed into a frown.

“Why is he on the floor?” Bruce asks. Though he has a good idea already.

Alfred takes a steadying breath. “He’s been…” He pauses. “He’s been sleeping on the floor so long, it’s what he’s used to n—“ He cuts himself off abruptly, turns to the window away from Bruce.

Bruce feels a burn in his throat. Knows that Alfred is fighting down the same tears that he is. He places a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “I’ll stay with him now. Get some rest.”

Alfred nods. Places a hand over Bruce’s but doesn’t look at him. “And you, Bruce.” He says and he leaves. Pulls the door closed gently behind him.

Bruce turns back to Tim. His darling boy. He kneels down, gently detangles the sheets from his son’s legs. Tim doesn’t stir. Bruce lies down next to him, lays the sheet over them both.

Touch is grounding. Jason had said. And it’s all Bruce can do not to pull Tim into his arms and never let go. But Leslie had said baby steps. So instead he settles for running his fingers through Tim’s hair and holding his face in his hands. Moves his head closer so he can feel the soft rise and fall of Tim’s breath.

This would have to do, for now.

[joshscorcher]

3 Misconceptions about Americans and non-Americans

After interacting with many different people around the globe, especially on social media, I notice that Americans have very big misconceptions about the world outside, and non-Americans have big misconceptions about the USA. Most of it is just simple ignorance and not malicious racism, so I thought I’d try to clear some of it up.

3 Big Misconceptions that Americans have about the world outside the US.

1. Most other countries, especially non-Western ones, are not developed.

Many Americans don’t realize other countries are developed that we might realize., especially in countries that are described as “third-world.” One of Kenya’s biggest pastimes is cyber cafes, and they’re really cheap. Malaysia has a big (some locals would say internationally untapped) market for electronic entertainment.

Yes, there are countries that still need help and there’s a reason America is the biggest monetary contributor of foreign aid in the world, but take a step outside the continent and you’ll realize that things are not so different depending on where you are.

2. Other developed countries, especially in Europe, are paradises with more rights and better quality of life.

I’m not trying to poo-poo on other countries out of spite; I’m simply calling attention to facts. You know how you can’t be evicted in the U.S. for no reason? Australia doesn’t have that protection and they have a housing crisis now! You know how you can’t be fired in the U.S. if you get sick? You can in the UK! What many Americans assume are standard protections and rights that developed nations have? Other countries may not actually have them, even European ones!

I’ve noticed that Americans (and to a lesser extent all countries) have a bit of “grass is greener” syndrome when it comes to other countries. It’s fair to believe that other countries have some benefits that we don’t and it’s fine to want to implement them, but don’t automatically assume that moving to them will be “everything I have now +1.”

3. Other countries hate your country or consider you the laughingstock of the world.

Sorta. Many of them do, but in my experience, if you get non-Americans in a neutral setting and ask them about their own country’s politics, economics, and/or social issues? Oh ho, brace yourself for a RANT. I’ve also noticed that many make fun of the U.S. as a form of “punching up” humor, and this is often fueled by a little resentment that U.S. culture and news constantly permeates modern news and entertainment discourse.

People like to make fun of the U.S., but there are just as many people who see the U.S. as a bastion, just ask protesters who are sick of their regimes like Hong Kong and Cuba. It’s easy to believe that America is hated everywhere, but much of that comes from a very American-centric perspective of the world and social media. It’s not as bad as you think.

3 Big Misconceptions that non-Americans have about the US.

1. All states have the same culture.

Because the U.S. is so large, it has so many different geographical areas and so many different cultures who have called this place home. Louisiana is very different from Oregon. California is different from Texas. New York is different from Florida. Kansas is different from Massachusetts. Heck, even adjacent states like Idaho and Washington are wildly different! Or even in States like California, you’ll find that the coast and southern areas of the state are have completely different cultures from the northern and eastern areas. The State of New York? The New York you see in the movies is just the tiny little island of Manhattan and the rest of the state is almost nothing like it! 

There are rivalries between states that you might see echo rivalries like Scotland and England, Sri Lanka and India, Sweden and Denmark, or Tanzania and Kenya.

Financially, there’s a lot of disparity as well. A poor person in America is statistically better off than a poor person in many other countries, but don’t let that fool you. There is a lot of income and lifestyle disparity in the U.S. between the rich and the poor. Heck, the minimum wage and standard of living varies depending on which state you’re in! A studio apartment in New York City is MUCH more expensive than a two-storey house in Nebraska!

Point is, there is no “average” American.

2. The President is the leader of our country and can make laws and declare war.

This idea that the president is our leader is a misconception that started with Teddy Roosevelt, arguably our first “celebrity president.” (Some argue it was Lincoln, but I digress.) The president is merely the leader of our executive branch of government. We have an executive branch, a legislative branch, and a judicial branch. Each has checks and balances towards the other.

What powers does the president have? Check here. The office more limited than you might think. Many powers you think he has are actually delegated to the other branches of government or even the states themselves.

3. We are refused treatment or bankrupted by medical bills because we do not have socialized healthcare.

I’m not trying to defend our healthcare system as perfect (oh HELL no, it needs some big improvements), but the idea that we can get bankrupted by an accident is simply untrue. In fact, it is ILLEGAL for a hospital to charge a person more than they can afford or refuse them treatment for a medical emergency. It’s gotten to the point that even many Americans don’t realize they have this right!

Side note, this is an annoying thing about our culture and laws. Because we have been granted so many freedoms and protections, you see some people like landlords and hospitals try to get you to waive those freedoms and protections in contracts which is why it’s so important to read the fine print before you sign anything.

[beyondmistland]

So I saw you tagged ‘westros is not realstic’ I was wondering if you were planning on doing a routine series on the things you’ve spotted were unreasltic? Or if not, could you share some more.

I can list a few.

The same dynasties ruling for thousands of years. (Actual records of the Japanese imperial family only go back 1500 years and one of the reasons for that is they’re mostly spiritual figureheads. Also makes the Targaryens look like amateurs.)

The Old Gods lacking clergy as well as scripture.

The lack of religious schisms, syncretism, and intolerance. (Even today, Catholics don’t get along with Protestants and they’re closer to each other than the Old Gods are to the Seven.)

The disdain for religion displayed by much of the nobility. (Speaking of which, why do people constantly talk about the “seven hells” but never the “seven heavens”?)

People fighting over the Disputed Lands despite it being a wasteland.

High Valyrian is splitting into multiple languages yet the same thing didn’t happen to the Old Tongue, the Common Tongue, or the Rhoynish Tongue.

The First Men, Andals, and Rhoynar should have split into multiple different people by now.

Prima nocta was never a thing.

The number of people getting married below the age of 15/16.

The lack of saints, pilgrimages, holy relics, prophets, missionaries, or angels in the Faith. (In fact, the only time the word “angel” comes up in ASOIAF is when the Kindly Man is explaining the beliefs of the Faceless Men in one of Arya’s AFFC chapters.)

Trial by combat hasn’t been outlawed.

The lack of any independent justice system in the form of judges, reeves, sheriffs, etc.

There is no College of Arms keeping track of everyone’s heraldry yet somehow it is a crime to bear the arms of someone else.

The Citadel being the only university in Westeros. Seriously, all it takes is one really bad fire, earthquake, tsunami, or sacking and a continent’s worth of knowledge is lost forever.

Westeros has only five cities. The Riverlands are given an explanation but what about the Stormlands and Dorne? Why is Gulltown the smallest of them despite being on the right side of the continent? Why weren’t Bitterbridge, Tumbleton, Kayce, Barrowton, etc. given city charters?

As far as I know, the bedding ceremony in RL didn’t involve stripping the bride and groom of all their clothes, nor did it involve actually feeling them up.

The Valyrians are OP. Honestly, in a realistic world with freely available magic one race shouldn’t be able to just steamroll everyone and establish a monopoly. As I’ve said before, why didn’t the Ghiscari come up with fire-resistant skin ointment or poison that could melt through scales they could then coat their weapons in?

More women die in childbirth despite the Citadel’s superior knowledge of medicine and surgery.

The lack of astrological predictions.

Everyone uses the same military doctrine with the exception of the Ironborn and the Dornish.

The ships are from multiple different eras.

The lack of knightly orders before the Conquest outside the Order of the Green Hand.

The lack of cadet branches.

Most of the post-Conquest conflicts lasting at most two years.

The lack of sieges as well as the fact there are more battles than sieges.

There is no regional variation in terms of titles or succession. (In the real world you would NEVER use the same title for an Arryn and a Baelish.)

Everything is too big. (You can’t feed a city as big as King’s Landing with food imported overland from the Reach. Wildling arrows should not be able to hit men standing on top of a wall seven hundred feet tall.)

The fact House Lannister isn’t a major sea power when A) Lannisport relies on long-distance trade, B) The Ironborn are right next door, and C) They’re rich enough that if Smaug fell through a wormhole he’d make a beeline for Casterly Rock as soon as he heard of it.

The Old Way still being a thing.

Everything to do with Essos just reeks of Orientalism. (Do NOT get me started on the Dothraki and their refusal to wear armor. Or Slaver’s Bay.)

As far as I know real medieval women did not show near as much skin (or hair).

The Targaryens should have way more bastards and mistresses.

Somehow a years-long winter does not lead to mass death from scurvy.

Thanks for the question, anon

[mylordshesacactus]

Goals Only Matter In Soccer

A recurring theme I hear from people struggling to “figure out” roleplaying is that they feel their characters are flat, uninteresting, or that they’re otherwise bad at character creation because their characters don’t have “goals.” Or, as the flip side of that coin, that they themselves are bad roleplayers because they either can’t remember their characters’ goals, or can’t/don’t enjoy actually roleplaying those goals.

(A short break for shameless self-promotion: If you want some one-on-one assistance with character creation or are struggling to roleplay, I do one-hour consult sessions to give you specific help in tapping into your RPG character. You get tailored guidance with no attempts to tell you what you “should” do, and I get to ethically keep my therapeutic interviewing skills from getting rusty while in grad school limbo. Everyone wins!)

This is getting a bit esoteric. Let’s use some concrete examples.

Some common “goals” might be: A wizard whose goal is to become more powerful or gain a certain form of knowledge, a noble-born character whose goal is to restore their family’s name or wealth, or the evergreen goal of avenging a great wrong like the death of a loved one.

These are all great character goals! There is nothing wrong with having a character with a clear goal they work toward over the course of the game, and making a character with a clear goal is a great way to get started with roleplaying! 

But it is only one method. And it’s not always appropriate.

I’m about to blow your damn mind: Characters don’t need goals. 

The idea that a well-rounded character should always have a “goal” is pervasive, and honestly harmful to good character creation and roleplaying! And it’s even more difficult to overcome because if you look for roleplaying or character-building advice, “give them a goal” is generally one of the first bullet points. This is well-meaning, and it’s not bad advice. But if it leaves you feeling like your character is incomplete because they don’t have A Goal—or worse, feeling obligated to tack on a “goal” and struggle to prioritize it in roleplay—then it’s not helpful.

Characters do not need “goals”.

But all characters need motivations.

As usual, I’m going to use my own characters as an example so you don’t feel like I’m lecturing you. I think I only have one major D&D character who could be stated to have a “goal”--my halfling druid/fighter, who wants to repay her debt to the Circle so that she can make a clean and respectful break and live her own life without guilt. 

But the others? Benny (Benevolence, but only her mom calls her that), my tiefling bard, doesn’t have a “goal” she works toward; in all honesty, her goal was her pre-campaign life. She likes being a travelling musician, she wants to perform and meet people across the continent! Rinda, my dwarven paladin, has five kids at home--her nieces and nephews, who she adopted after her sister’s tragic death in a mine collapse. She’s got no career ambition because she feels that chasing rank or prestige is inappropriate in a paladin, whose priority should be ordinary people and who needs to be accessible and grounded in the reality of the common folk. Her “goal” is to just keep being an honorable, mid-rank paladin and providing for her family.

That’s not remotely helpful in a tabletop RPG! Those are terrible “goals” for a character in a team-based game! If I followed general beginner RP advice and leaned into those goals, I’d end up that dreaded monstrosity, the player who says things like “but why would my character get involved? She would just let the town guard handle it”.

However, these characters’ motivations are a different story.

Benny doesn’t set out with the goal of becoming a hero; it’s not something she consciously works toward or considers a major aspiration. But she is responsible for what she allows, and at her core, Benevolence was well-named. She was raised by loving parents who taught her how to raise working animals and livestock ethically and with compassion, and who taught her the regret that comes of making selfish decisions. Helping others and minimizing suffering isn’t her life goal. She didn’t set out from home with a dream of being better than her parents, of putting good into the world instead of just mitigating the bad...but sometimes people really do just help others because it’s the right thing to do. 

Rinda? Her driving purpose will always be her family. Caring for them is her goal, the thing she intentionally prioritizes, the thing she actively works for. But her motivations are not the same thing. Yes, she wants to stay close to take care of her kids...but her responsibilities as a paladin are important to. She’s a protector who swore an oath, and her children are not more important than children in the next city over who will suffer without her intervention. Her motivation is to make people feel safe, but that’s not really a traditional “goal”. And she’s a stronger character for that!

So: Motivations > Goals. 

Which does NOT mean that your character shouldn’t have a concrete goal! That’s not what I’m saying at all. Rather...if your character has a concrete goal, arising naturally from their backstory, and you struggle to roleplay that goal, it may be because you’re not tapping into why your character has that goal in the first place. Are they seeking power because they’re terrified of a specific enemy? To prove a detractor or an abuser wrong? In order to accomplish a specific task--and in that case, who or what made them believe that task was important? Why is your rogue trying to avenge the death of his sister--and you can’t say “love” or “grief”. Many people have lose loved ones; what made this specific person decide that the only way forward was murder, and that his target(s) were responsible, and that he personally had to dedicate his life to killing them?

(This course of questioning may lead you to realize that you don’t have an answer. If that happens, ask yourself--is this a realization that your CHARACTER might have? That they don’t know why they’re doing this? Follow that thread! If not, it’s possible that you’ve tacked on an artificial “goal” for the sake of having one, and your character would be stronger without that anchor weighing them down.)

Sedge, that druid/fighter from earlier--her goal is to repay a massive debt so that she can be free of the Circle’s influence and live her own life. But her motivation? A mixture of shame and honor. The Circle saved her from a lot of predatory loans from bad people, rescued her, saved her life. She’s embarrassed at ending up so deep in debt and too proud to not repay that kind of kindness, but also feels a genuine gratitude for their kindness toward a total stranger. She wants to do right by them--but hates being a druid--but has always wanted to be the kind of hero who helps others exactly as selflessly as they did. 

It creates a lot of in-depth roleplay possibilities that wouldn’t exist if I’d just left that goal as simple as “acquire X amount of gold to pay off her student loans” and proceeded to play Sedge as simply money-obsessed.

Even if your character does have a clear goal, their motivations can change and come into conflict with it! A heroic character with debts to repay might easily refuse a huge payday if it requires them to do something shady...but they might not. How desperate are they? A wizard whose goal is to unlock the power to cast Wish might see a path to that goal...but pursuing it would mean abandoning a helpless village in the path of an orc army, and if she stays to defend that village, she loses her opportunity.

What wins out, in the end? And what effect will that choice have on her psyche?

Suddenly it really, really matters why she’s so dead-set on learning Wish. Whether it’s out of pride or fear (which might be easier for her to set aside in the face of innocent lives) or out of a deep-rooted belief that something absolutely essential rests on her learning this spell—something a lot harder to turn her back on.

These conflicts can occur with or without a “goal”. But, whether a character has a “goal” or not, these conflicts and intimate, pivotal character moments absolutely cannot exist in a character without motivations.

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Any Reason At All

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier Warning(s): a little bit of horniness in no.5 Rating: mature

Summary: Five times there is a very good reason for Jaskier and Geralt to kiss, and one time there is no reason at all.

on ao3

one.

A first kiss is supposed to be something special and Jaskier has had so many of them over the years. But usually, they're with different people. He's not used to having more than one first kiss with the same person and certainly wasn't expecting that person to be Geralt.

The first time, they've been away from town a long time and Jaskier is... wanting. He knows this contract is worth a lot and Geralt has been so focused on tracking that he probably hasn't realized how long it's been since they've been to town. But Jaskier has and he's getting antsy.

"Geralt do you think-" he tugs his boot out of a patch of brambles and sighs, "that we could head back soon? Sleep at an inn tonight?" he doesn't get a response, so he just sighs and plops down right where he is. Up ahead, Geralt shouts back without even pausing,

"Are you just gonna sit there or are you coming with me?"

Jaskier sighs. Geralt's right though, he can't just sit here all night. So he reluctantly gets up and goes after him, muttering under his breath. They continue in this way for the next three hours.

"It's just that... I haven't even kissed someone in weeks. Weeks, Geralt. Do you know what that's like? It's torture, utter-" he walks directly into Geralt's back with a thud and takes a step back as Geralt turns to face him.

"Jaskier," he says abruptly, but not overly angry. Jaskier's eyes flick up to his and he pauses. "If I kiss you, will you shut up and let me get on with it?"

"Uh, y-yes?"

Immediately, Geralt's palm is on his cheek and Jaskier is breathless. He leans in without hesitation and Jaskier is absolutely not prepared for Geralt's mouth on his own. He kisses him gently, leaning in and it's slow and deep and Jaskier isn't sure he's going to survive. Geralt takes a step forward and Jaskier presses into him, letting out a soft moan as Geralt's lips part against his own.

And he drowns in it. Pulled under by the current, he lets himself sink. His whole body burns with it and he can't breathe, but if he pulls back Geralt might stop and he doesn't think he could bear that. And all the while Geralt's hand remains on his face, anchoring him.

And he just... doesn't stop. Geralt's other hand comes to rest on his hip and it goes on for so long that Jaskier is expecting it to lead to something more.

When Geralt does pull away, it's abrupt and Jaskier is left reeling. He's breathless and more than a little turned on and who even knew Witchers were so skilled at kissing in the first place? Where the fuck did that even come from?

"That was..." he starts and when he looks up, Geralt is already a dozen paces ahead of him. "Geralt! Where did you- that was... very good you know. I didn't take you for someone who would be so-"

"What?" Geralt asks.

"I just didn't think you got a lot of practice, is all."

Geralt scoffs, rolling his eyes as he turns back to his tracking. Theoretically, Jaskier knows Geralt has had some practice with kissing and sex. He's been to brothels and some of his friends seem just this side of too familiar, but shit he was not expecting that.

Jaskier is quick to catch up to him again, but he spends the rest of the night in a daze.

two.

Jaskier has been invited to a ball. Normally, he would be delighted to attend an event back home, but it's a special celebration, a party to celebrate his sister's engagement and it's for family only. But Jaskier isn't about to drag Geralt all the way to Lettenhove and tell him he's not allowed to come. Which only leaves one option-

"I need you to be my husband," he announces cheerfully. They're already well on their way to the coast and Jaskier has been considering how to break the news before deciding it's best to just get it over with. "They won't let anyone in who's not family, but they could hardly refuse my husband entry now, could they?"

He beams up at Geralt, stumbling a little over a rock. He thinks it's a great plan, but Geralt doesn't show emotion one way or the other. He just stays silent and looks ahead again. Jaskier would give anything to know what's going on in his head right now.

It doesn't come up again until they're on the border of Temeria and about to cross into Kerack. Jaskier reminds him again when they're sharing a room at an inn. Geralt refuses to share the bed so Jaskier offers it to him before climbing up next to him and cuddling up behind him. Geralt grumbles.

"Hush my love. You're my husband, remember? You can hardly deny me the warmth of our bed so soon after our marriage."

Geralt scoffs at him, but Jaskier thinks it sounds more like a laugh than a grunt and he'll take what he can get.

They set out early the next morning, reaching the borders of Lettenhove by late evening. Jaskier is exhausted and Geralt seems to be getting antsy - probably about the party, maybe about the lie. Jaskier isn't worried about it, he knows well enough how to throw his title around when he needs to and most of the time, it works.

They're stopped at the bridge across to the palace and Jaskier dismounts, nodding his head at the guardsmen. One of them gives him a flash of a smile before looking up and scowling at Geralt.

"Your invitation was for one, master Julian."

"You'd hardly deny my husband entry," Jaskier says simply. The guard lifts an eyebrow and gives Jaskier a questioning look.

"The viscount isn't married," he says simply.

"I understand where your position, truly," Jaskier starts, "but I've been away for some time and in that time, I've found myself not only betrothed but married to a man whom I love very much and whom I wish to bring home to introduce to my family."

The guard looks unconvinced and Jaskier is both angry at his defiance and the fact that he simply refuses to believe Jaskier would marry someone like Geralt. Which, as a matter of fact, he would be delighted to do. Anger boils up and he's about to start threatening when Geralt slips from Roach, coming up to wind a comforting arm around his waist.

"It's fine, love," he whispers and it may just be a ruse, but Jaskier will never forget the sound of that word on his lips, the way it shudders through him like the cold.

"It's not-" he starts, but his voice fails him and before he can do anything else, Geralt gets two fingers under his chin, tipping it up so Jaskier is looking at him.

"Go alone, I wouldn't want you to miss your sister's party on my account. You can introduce us another time."

The look in his eyes is so unbearably soft and when he leans in, Jaskier's breath catches in his chest. Cold lips brush against his own and Geralt leans in, deepening the kiss as Jaskier presses into it. It's so unexpected that Jaskier isn't sure what to do with it, but Geralt's arm remains around his waist and he pulls him forward, pressing their bodies together.

Jaskier is stunned by his enthusiasm. Geralt leans into him, fingers twitching against his hip as he deepens the kiss and Jaskier barely withholds a groan as he feels Geralt's tongue against the seam of his lips. He wants to press into the touch, wants to touch and feel and have him, but it's a fine line between pretending to be with him and pushing too far. And right now, Jaskier isn't exactly sure where that line is.

Because Geralt's hands slip under his doublet, moving further until they're on either side of his chest, moving down to settle in the dip of his sides. And Geralt just presses closer, breathing hard through his nose and nipping softly at Jaskier's lower lip.

And Jaskier can't keep from losing himself, can't hold himself together with Geralt like this, so he kisses him hard. He throws his arms around his neck, arching against him as Geralt's teeth press in a little firmer and it's not until the more suspicious guard clears his throat that he's tugged abruptly back to reality.

He pulls out of Geralt's arms, smoothing his clothes down even as the memory of Geralt's hands on him lingers. He opens his mouth to speak, but Geralt's voice is the one he hears.

"Apologies," he pants, "it's been… some time since my lord and I have been together. He keeps so busy I don't see him often and we were hoping to get to the palace and to our room."

The same guard chokes and steps aside, not even daring to look at them as Geralt reaches up and takes Roach's reins, tugging gently to urge her forward.

It's not until they get to their room that Jaskier finally trusts his voice enough to speak and to thank Geralt for getting them out of what could otherwise have been a mess.

three.

Jaskier is struggling. It's been a relatively easy day in an easy week, but tonight he has time to compose and he can't get this one particular verse right. And it's killing him.

It's supposed to be a romantic ballad of a peasant woman in disguise as a knight, recusing the love of her life from where she's been held captive in a tower. The longing of being apart, he's got down, but now he's reached the point where they're reunited and he can't get the words out. And how is he supposed to when he needs to write a kiss and he himself hasn't been kissed in ages (Geralt notwithstanding, but even that was weeks ago now and they're not talking about it).

He's just not feeling very romantic tonight, so he flings himself back onto the grass, staring up at the stars with his notebook and lute on his chest and he sighs. Across the camp, Geralt makes a noise and shifts.

"What's wrong?" he asks, not even looking up from where he's stitching one of his shirts back together.

"How am I supposed to write the most romantic ballads the continent has ever heard when there is so little romance in my life?" Geralt snorts at him, attention still focused on his shirt. "Do you know," Jaskier continues, "that I can't even remember what it's like to be kissed?"

Geralt just lifts a skeptical eyebrow at him but says nothing.

"Perhaps you could help?" Jaskier suggests.

"What could I possibly do to help?"

"I have it on good authority that you're an excellent kisser and… maybe we could do that again. For research purposes, you see."

"What," Geralt smirks, "your memory not good enough for you?"

"Please, Geralt, it'll help."

For a moment there's nothing, then there's a scuffling sound and when Jaskier looks over, Geralt is rising to his feet. He crosses to stand in front of him, nudging Jaskier's knees apart to stand between them and Jaskier holds his breath. Geralt bends low over him, cupping his cheek and pulling him into a soft kiss. He doesn't let himself sink too much into it, keeping only at the surface and Geralt hums against him.

He shoves a leg between his thighs, pushing closer, but just as Jaskier bites back a moan, Geralt pulls back before it can get to be too much.

"Good enough?" he asks and Jaskier wants to say no, to pull him down and kiss him senseless and press against him and- he pulls himself back to the present and looks up at Geralt, nodding solemnly.

He pulls himself back up, taking his quill to paper and scratching out notes of what he wants Geralt to do to him. If he can't write a kiss from memory, he can write about what he wants.

four.

He's not supposed to get involved in Geralt's battles, but what was he supposed to do when Geralt was disarmed and backed into a corner. Jaskier jumps into the fray, bolting for Geralt's sword. If he can just get it to him- but he catches the attention of the devourer and instead of getting Geralt his sword back to him, he only manages to distract the devourer by turning its attention on him.

For a few moments, he manages to keep it away from Geralt and also keep away from it, but it's fast, faster than he is and before long, Jaskier finds himself right in front of it. The thing swings at him and Jaskier ducks, but not quickly enough. The strength of the devourer sends him flying sideways into a tree and Jaskier cries out as his shoulder connects with solid wood.

Immediately, he pulls himself up to his feet, holding his shoulder and seething. He tries to call the beast toward him again, but it's turned his attention back to Geralt. Luckily, the diversion bought him some time and Geralt has had time to retrieve his sword and lunge for the monster.

And he looks furious. Jaskier is dreading whatever comes next for him, but for now, he's just relieved that Geralt is in control again. Geralt dodges and swipes and fakes out, eventually overtaking the beast and piercing his sword up through the underside of its jaw. It shudders on his blade then collapses against the dirt and it's barely stopped moving before Geralt is bolting forward, dropping to his knees right in front of Jaskier.

"Are you hurt?" he asks and Jaskier shakes his head, but only because he doesn't trust his voice not to waver if he speaks. "Let go of your shoulder," Geralt says calmly and slowly, Jaskier does as he's asked. "I think it's dislocated," Geralt hums, looking it over and brushing his hands over his shoulder.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I have to put it back into place for you."

"I.. no, I don't think so. Can't it just go back on its own?"

"It won't," Geralt huffs, "it has to be put back or it's going to continue to hurt and be useless."

"Please-" Jaskier says, but Geralt cuts him off.

"Last week you threw yourself between me and a harpy and just now you tried to fend off a devourer and you don't want me to put your shoulder back into place?"

Jaskier shakes his head and Geralt sighs. He tries again, but Jaskier is adamant and then suddenly there are warm lips against his and he gasps at the suddenness of it before letting himself enjoy it. Geralt kisses him deeply, running one hand through his hair and then his other hand is on his shoulder, shoving and-

Jaskier pulls back with a start as pain shoots through him, but when he tries to move his arm, the pain is significantly less than before. He looks up at Geralt to find him looking rather smug at him and Jaskier splutters.

"You used me-" he accuses, but Geralt just huffs a quiet laugh at him, taking his arm again and wrapping it up so he can't move it around too much and make it worse.

It does feel better and by the time they turn in for bed that night, Jaskier is reluctantly grateful for it. But as he watches Geralt methodically prepare for bed, he's a little disappointed that the kiss didn't last longer this time.

five.

Strictly speaking, Jaskier isn't supposed to be here at all. The contract had specified utmost secrecy and while Geralt is usually willing to do anything asked of him (within reason), he was firm but not leaving Jaskier alone with a bruxa roaming the halls of the castle, regardless of what the king had asked. The working story, if caught, is that Jaskier is acting as bait, but Jaskier likes to pretend that Geralt just doesn't want him out of his sight after the incident with the devourer.

So now at midnight, they're creeping through the halls, looking for any sign of the bruxa but so far there's nothing. Though the bodies the previous night say something is definitely lurking around after hours. Geralt slips around a corner, motioning for Jaskier to hold back and he does, but a second later Geralt is barreling back into him, hissing for him to get back.

They stumble back and Jaskier is suddenly pressed back against the wall firmly. Geralt hesitates for a moment, looking away from him, but then Jaskier hears the voices coming closer and Geralt pushes him back again, pressing a hand over his mouth. And abruptly, Jaskier's body goes limp under him, a side effect of years of being shoved up against walls for very different reasons.

Geralt seems unconcerned and slowly pulls his hand away, whispering for him to be quiet. Jaskier nods his understanding, but Geralt is so close and he smells good and he can't help the way his body reacts to that.

The guards come closer and Geralt presses right against him and Jaskier can't help the little moan that escapes him. It's quiet, barely even a sound, but in the silence of the hall it seems to echo and Jaskier bites down on his lip too late. Geralt's eyes snap onto his and in the very near distance, Jaskier can hear the guards' footsteps speed up.

But then Geralt is kissing him, somehow even closer than a moment before so there's not even an inch of space between them and Jaskier's mind goes blank. He can't think of anything but Geralt's mouth against him, hot and demanding and not letting up, even as the guards turn the corner. A diversion, he realizes, but it doesn't stop him from winding his arms around Geralt's waist and sliding his hands down over his ass.

Barely a few paces away now, the guards continue their approach, but Geralt pushes a knee between Jaskier's and he'd be happy enough to be tossed in the dungeon so long as they can continue uninterrupted. His hips give a little twitch and Geralt growls into his mouth and that… seems too real to be a diversion. Jaskier feels the vibrations all the way through him and he stutters when he pulls Geralt closer because Geralt's hard, the line of his cock pressing against Jaskier's thigh. Which is something. Jaskier doesn't have the wherewithal to process that right now, but then Geralt is tipping his head up roughly, ducking to kiss his neck just as the guards come upon them.

There's a thud as one walks straight into the other and then scattered mumbling as they trip over themselves to apologize and when Geralt looks up at them, they both mumble additional apologies and turn back in the opposite direction. Geralt doesn't kiss him again, but he doesn't pull away from him and Jaskier is aching with the effort it takes not to rut up against him.

Eventually, long after Jaskier can't hear the footsteps anymore, Geralt pulls away and Jaskier nearly cries though he's unsure if it's from relief or disappointment. He either wants Geralt back against him immediately or he needs to go back to their room on his own for a while and he doesn't see either being a likely option.

"Come on," Geralt whispers and Jaskier just shuts his eyes, leaning back against the wall.

"I'm just gonna… need a minute." To his surprise, Geralt nods and turns away.

By the time they get back to their room that night, Geralt seems to have forgotten the entire situation, but Jaskier will be thinking about it for the rest of their trip, if not the rest of his life.

plus one.

It's been a while since they've just been able to relax, but when they stroll into Oxenfurt, they arrive in the middle of a festival. There's a market in the center of town and various stages with performers scattered within the city so that everywhere they go, there's music on the air. Jaskier shuts his eyes and listens as they make their way to the inn. Once they've rented a room and organized their things, Jaskier asks if they might head down toward the festivities and Geralt, to his surprise, agrees.

They stroll through town looking at all the booths and stopping to watch the performers. Jaskier takes a turn on one of the stages, delighted when Geralt stays to watch, a soft smile on his face, and he's the only one Jaskier sees in the crowd. Afterward, they split sweet buns and pastries and fruit ciders of every variety imaginable. It's been a long time since Jaskier has enjoyed himself so thoroughly, and as the sun begins to set, he takes Geralt's hand and leads him, tipsy and warm with intoxication outside the city.

Others are already gathering for the firework celebration and Jaskier finds them a spot on the ridge of a hill, somehow unclaimed despite its views over the river. He plops himself down, only letting go of Geralt's hand when the angle becomes too awkward, but Geralt sits behind him, and Jaskier shuffles back, sitting between his thighs and leaning back against his chest.

It earns him a huff of amusement, but Geralt doesn't complain and doesn't tell him to move. They're both a little drunk, but the sunset is beautiful and Jaskier can't think of a better way to end his night, nor a better person to share it with. By the time they set off the fireworks, he's so tired he can barely keep his eyes open, instead resting his head against Geralt's chest and listening to the crack of their explosions, quickly followed by cheers and sounds of awe from the younger spectators.

Geralt's hand rests on his thigh and Jaskier twines their fingers together, humming softly as Geralt wraps his hand around his.

He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until Geralt is shifting under him and for a moment, he's disappointed to have woken up because he's sure Geralt would have carried him back to the inn otherwise. But he looks up and Geralt smiles softly down at him, brushing a stray hair out of his face and Jaskier wouldn't trade this night for anything.

They make their way back to the inn, bumping against each other in their drowsiness and it's not until they get up to their room that Jaskieer realizes the room they booked only has one bed. They've both been looking forward to crawling into bed and sleeping well for once because it's been some time since they've had a bed. Jaskier makes a quick decision to let Geralt take the bed because it's hardly big enough for the both of them to share, even if they've done it a hundred times before when coin was low.

But Geralt strips down to his shorts and when he climbs into bed, he shuffles to one side, holding the blankets back in invitation. And Jaskier isn't one to turn down such an invitation, so he quickly undresses and climbs in next to him. He lies facing out into the room with Geralt's chest against his back, warm and rising softly with his breath.

"I had a good night tonight," he hums, "it's a shame we can't do this more often."

"Mm," comes the reply from behind, much closer than Jaskier had anticipated. He can feel Geralt's breath against the back of his neck and he shuts his eyes with a soft sigh.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"I did."

Jaskier turns over to face him, and Geralt smiles at him without opening his eyes. Jaskier shifts closer, tangling their legs together and Geralt's arm comes to drape over his hip, bringing him closer. The smile remains firmly in place and Jaskier's heart feels like it could burst from his chest.

"Geralt?" he asks quietly.

"Hm?"

Jaskier looks up at him, unable to find the words to properly thank him for the night, and he reaches up, brushing one hand through his hair.

"Thank you," he whispers, though the words feel flat on his tongue, not enough to express how much he truly appreciates tonight. Geralt hums again, tipping his head down so their noses bump together.

"Jaskier," he breathes.

There's nothing else, but then Geralt's lips brush against his own, soft and tentative and Jaskier's heart nearly stops. It's hardly the first time he's kissed him, but Geralt is so much softer than before, pressing forward only when Jaskier moves against him. And this is so different from before.

Tonight, there's no reason for Geralt to kiss him, there's certainly no reason for him to be so soft and gentle with him - none other than he simply wants to - and Jaskier could cry. He lets himself be drawn closer, completely entangled with Geralt as he kisses him, soft and slow and delightfully pointless.

There's no need for it, just the want to be closer, to feel each other, and Jaskier sinks into it easily, losing himself to the soft press of Geralt's lips of the brush of his thumb against his hip. When they do finally part, Jaskier isn't disappointed that it's over, because Geralt kisses his nose and his forehead as he settles against him and rather than an ending, it feels like the beginning.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Indonesia's gig work tech resistance

Gojek is a $10B Indonesian “super app” that combines “Postmates, Apple Pay, Venmo, and Uber” serviced by an army of ojol — drivers — who are subjected to all the high-handed algorithmic horrors that gig workers everywhere suffer through.

https://www.vice.com/en/article/7kvpng/delivery-drivers-are-using-grey-market-apps-to-make-their-jobs-suck-less

But Indonesian ojol aren’t helpless before their apps; a legion of toolsmiths produce, share, sell and support “tuyul apps” named for “a child-like spirit in Indonesian folklore that helps his human master earn money by stealing,” which modify the Gojek app.

As part of her MIT PhD, Rida Qadri studied Gojek, ojol and tuyul apps, and her account of the grey-market Gojek ecosystem for Motherboard is riveting.

https://www.vice.com/en/article/7kvpng/delivery-drivers-are-using-grey-market-apps-to-make-their-jobs-suck-less

Tuyul apps are wildly innovative and diverse, from tools to magnify text so older ojol drivers who can read the tiny default app’s text, to filters that allow drivers and riders to preview jobs, avoiding the algorithmic penalty for turning down a job after accepting it.

Indeed, many tuyul apps are tools that permit workers to resist their algorithmic employer’s “optimizations,” which inevitably “optimize” the work so as much value as possible is transferred from the workers to their bosses.

Take GPS-spoofing. Gojek’s corporate overlords have decreed that drivers have to be close to a pickup to be eligible to get the job. On its face, this sounds reasonable, but in practice, it creates massive jams around train stations where unsheltered riders wait in the rain.

Gojek created a situation that has clogged the roads around stations, creating traffic hazards and introducing delays into deliveries. Riders are on site and better equipped to decide how to do their job than a distant, unaccountable product manager.

Riders use GPS spoofers to trick the app into thinking they’re onsite when really they’re waiting at a sensible distance.

Tuyul app creators are drivers with tech knowhow, who fell into the work as part of mutual aid networks.

Over time, this has matured into IT Jalanan -”IT of the Road” — a full-service, somewhat ad-hoc tech support network of IT specialists who build, service and use apps that make gig workers’ lives better.

They have extensive documentation for users on how to root their phones and side-load the third party apps. Apps are sold and supported through Whatsapp and other platforms, along with service and support packages.

Crucially, the support for tuyul apps is much better than the support Gojek offers to gig workers when they struggle with the bugs in its app — making downloading a third-party mod a faster and better experience than trying to get Gojek to fix its shit.

Not all tuyul apps are benign. Some are scams that rip off drivers, other are scams that help drivers rip off Gojek. Gojek On Twitter, a driver community organized against being made “a slave of the algorithm,” has a mixed position on tuyul apps.

One of GOT’s founders has proposed that the GPS spoofing be integrated into Gojek’s official app, allowing users to place their pin within 1km of their actual location.

All of this is a powerful lesson in the importance of Adversarial Interoperability (AKA Competitive Compatibility/comcom), the practice of modifying an existing technology against the wishes (or without permission) of its maker.

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

Comcom allows the users of technology to override its designers’ choices based on their local, up-to-the-minute knowledge of their circumstances, like overriding your car’s mandatory software update when you’re trying to escape a wildfire.

https://locusmag.com/2021/07/cory-doctorow-tech-monopolies-and-the-insufficient-necessity-of-interoperability/

The point of interop isn’t “competition” or even “efficiency” — it’s technological self-determination, the right to decide how you live your life. This does lead to competitiveness and autonomous workers are more efficient than drones, but that’s not the point.

Companies like Gojek lump all mods into the same basket — mods that let drivers do their job better and mods that enable fraud. From Gojek’s perspective, anything that frustrates their shareholders is bad news —it’s all “felony contempt of business model.”

That’s why laws, not corporate decree, should determine what kind of interoperability we permit and which ones we don’t. Our current laws (in the US, Sec 1201 of DMCA, CFAA, etc) simply say, “If the manufacturer says no, it’s not allowed.”

https://gizmodo.com/in-2030-you-wont-own-any-gadgets-1847176540

We can — and should — draft laws that prevent fraud and require practices that don’t endanger others, while legalizing modifying our technology in ways that are socially beneficial and help workers and other users exercise technological self-determination.

Letting users modify their own technology makes life better for everyone. John Deere — archnemesis of users’ right to mod — “invented” modern tractors through engineers observing farmers’ mods to their Deeres and putting the ideas into production.

https://securityledger.com/2019/03/opinion-my-grandfathers-john-deere-would-support-our-right-to-repair/

Meanwhile, Gbwhatsapp and its constellation of primarily African Whatsapp mods are more popular on the continent than Facebook Messenger. There are many Whatsapp mods, used for different kinds of users Africa’s varied regions, nations and cities.

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/03/african-whatsapp-modders-are-masters-worldwide-adversarial-interoperability

Facebook rails against Gbwhatsapp the same way that Gojek rails against tuyul apps, pointing to the scams and harms from the mods that are created by crooks. But just like Gojek, FB lumps the mods that empower users in with the mods that harm them.

There are ways that interoperability can go wrong, but dominant corporations can’t be trusted with the decision about which mods are okay and which ones aren’t — they are terminally compromised by their own self-interest.

The rules for modding — privacy protections, anti-fraud protection and more — should come from democratically accountable legislatures, not the secret machinations of corporate boardrooms.

https://www.eff.org/wp/interoperability-and-privacy

[maurypovichofficial2]

who would you have rather seen cast for wicked? I haven’t seen it so I’m lost in this conversation

Stage actors!!! People that make sense!!!! This is fan casting to the highest degree. I'm pretty sure I've seen these casting choices on an actual Wicked dream cast YouTube vid made by a 15 year old back in 2017. May as well cast Kris Jenner as Madame Morrible and Justin Bieber as Fiyero while we're at it.

Cynthia IS a stage actor and she IS remarkable her voice is *chef's kiss* but she’s not right for Elphaba.

Cynthia's voice is too polished and pretty. Elphaba should have a deeper more rough sounding mezzo soprano voice. That's why Idina's powerhouse rocker voice went together so well with Kristin's clear as a bell voice.

I see the diversity and the message they’re trying to convey by casting Cynthia and I agree and get that, but there are so many other black stage actors who could do better than her. Cynthia only can act through song. With a role like Elphaba you have to know how to act PERIOD. And act, she cannot. And don't even get me started on how she has spoke out against Black Americans. Some brit Black people see us as entitled and non suffering and Cynthia is one of them. A black person speaking out against her own people just because she was born on a different continent/Country ??? But is now here with us shamelessly swiping up every role she can get her hands on??? And getting the chance to play a woman who is ostracized by the color of her skin???? Hilarious.

The same goes for Ari, but it's worse for her. Ariana has a black and white audience and her small stage fans from her time in 13 and Victorious. Her black “urban” fans who don’t even know what a Wicked is will flock to go see her in it. And her 13 year old white and 20+ old theatre fans will see “ARIANA GRANDE AS GLINDA” and will jump to go see it. EVEN THOUGH Ariana can’t act.

Glinda arguably has the biggest and most difficult character arc change in the entire show, even more so than Elphaba. To go from a Regina George type to a woman who grows up learning that society was made for her but at the cost of the lower working class and anyone who isn’t the same color or species as her. Being forced to now push that narrative as a ‘good’ thing, as keeping order while smiling as her best friend is being vilified and hunted on the other side….to know she is now apart of the machine and she can't escape. That’s a tough arc and Ariana doesn’t have that range. There's a reason Glinda Narrates the story, why it begins and ends with her, because she had the most to learn out of the two Women.

She’s a cash cow because universal studios, the SAME people who did that CATS movie disaster cannot afford another musical movie failure so they’re stunt casting to ensure that even if the movie is terrible (which it probably will be ) it’ll at least make the money they want. I won't even be surprised if aside from the actual Movie Soundtrack Ariana calls in a few favors from other artists and puts together a "Wicked Mixtape" a la Hamilton.

This isn't me taking anything away from these women (im one of the biggest Ari stans out there please) they are talented and deserve their flowers for the projects they do that make sense. This is a literal quick cash grab and I'm so disappointed that Wicked had to wait this long for a movie just to have it thrown together like this.