#this may or may not be part of a larger whole i have been working on

[zoldsick]

A Dare

First kiss HC! - Zoro is confused about his feelings toward you and a silly dare shakes him out of his uncertainty. *edit* Full Story Here

..................................................................................

-You had recently joined the Strawhats and Zoro had been nothing but cold to you

-You couldn't tell if it was distrust or hate, but he was always glaring at you

-Zoro was up in the bird nest sulking Ussop had tried to get him to come down and play with the rest of the crew, but he was too busy nursing his bottle and keeping an eye on the horizon. 

-But he is distracted by the sound of your silly dares and games, even his drinking couldn't tune you out

-In other words, he was utterly confused and in denial about his feelings that were brewing for you

-He cursed at himself when he heard you laughing

-He really wanted to make your voice in particular stop

-Suddenly there is an uproar in the middle of the deck, so discretely, he listens in

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

-It was just a silly drinking game

-You had been the one to introduce the game to the Strawhats

-It was always fun, there's drinking, challenges, and punishments. What more can you ask for? 

-You had lost the most recent drinking game and it was Nami who was dealing out your punishment 

-Nami had quite the dare: As the newest member of the crew, you had to show your gratitude by giving one of the Strawhats a kiss

-"I'll even be nice and let you choose who. Though I think the answer is easy enough" - Nami batted her eyelashes at you

-You immediately become uncomfortable and blush, you don't like the idea

- “I don't know if I’m comfortable with a… kiss”

-You tried to object but the crew pushed on, It's just a little kiss! It's a game! It's Fun! 

-Reluctantly you are forced to admit to the crew that you are not exactly experienced in that department

-Robin outright asked, with little tact, "Have you ever kissed anyone?" 

-Your blush was all they needed to see

-The Strawhats dissolve into disarray 

-each member trying to prove why they deserve to receive your kiss, besides Luffy and Chopper who sat back and laughed at their antics. 

-Sanji was in hysterics, nose bleeding, begging to be the one to bestow a first kiss

-Nami claimed since she was the one who instated the dare, it should be her. 

-Robin and Franky argued their life experience makes them most suitable for the job

-Ussop claimed to be the best kisser in all of Syrup Village. 

-The crew, screaming on top of each other while you stand back in utter embarrassment

-"What the hell is goin' on here?"

-You jumped slightly, you didn't notice Zoro arriving, he swayed slightly, you eye the drink in his hand

-You can barely bring yourself to admit what was happening before you two. 

-Your face burned hot as he stared at you

-"I-uh. It's my turn for a punishment. And uh.." 

-Zoro stared, he had never seen you this flustered, cheeks red, eyes looking anywhere but him, 

-He had some thoughts about it. Certain feelings. 

"Well, long story short, now everyone's fighting over who will get my... first kiss... I guess." 

-you barely get the words out, you are so humiliated, 

-His demeanor slightly shifted 

-"They're what?" 

-You huffed and tried explaining yourself, you knew if you didn't pull through with this dare Nami would be bleeding your pockets dry. "Plus, it's just a kiss, it's not a big deal" 

-You were trying to convince yourself. 

-Zoro took in the scene around him

-the crew members fighting hysterically, Sanji was on the floor trying to control his nosebleed. 

-He clenched his jaw. 

-"First kiss, how stupid."

-There was a crash as Zoro's bottle hit the ground

-and suddenly Zoro's hands were gripping your face, and before you could process it, his lips were crashing into yours. 

-It was nothing like you imagined your first kiss would be.

-He tasted like booze

-It was clumsy

-It was desperate 

- One of his callused hands gripped your jaw and the other tangled in your hair. 

-You could barely keep up with his pace, your hands gripped his shirt to help ground yourself. 

-One by one the Strawhats realized what was happening and were in a stunned shock. 

-Finally, Zoro pulls away and leaves you panting

-Through his hooded lids he sees your beet-red face

-If steam could pour out of a person's head, it would be happening to you. 

-Realizing what he has done, he struggles to maintain his composure, stepping back and avoiding your eyes, "Well... it's done."

-The crew jumps Zoro, whacking, slapping, and kicking him, specifically Ussop, Nami, Chopper, Franky, and Brooke.

-Luffy sits back and laughs 

-Sanji is catatonic, sobbing on the floor

-Zoro dodged hits, "What's the big deal! It was going to be one of us anyway. It doesn't matter, what's the big deal about a first kiss anyway? I've never kissed anyone!

-The crew halts and looks between you and Zoro, there is silence

-Robin, unaware she was about to rub salt in wounds, spoke up, "So, then you are each other's first kiss?" 

-You and Zoro make eye contact for the first time since you broke apart. 

-And this time both of you blushed up to your ears

-You ran off to the bunks, you couldn't handle what was happening 

-The crew continue their beating on Zoro, though it's half-hearted

-Zoro covered his face with his elbow

-How could he let that happen? 

- And why did he want more?

[bleaksqueak]

hiya...... i love them both very much sorry for any design inaccuracies i was drawing them from memory....... on that note, do you maybe have any design refs for ur characters? i wanted to draw them fullbudy but the comic is so dynamic and intricate that they always have some shading going on and some parts of their clothes are covered up, so i'm struggling with figuring out the base colors and all the outfit details. thanks again for the awesome comic :-D off to read the new upload!! 💐♥️🦭

Oh my god!! I didn't check tumblr for a couple of days and then come back and find this! I love sketches and pencil/ink drawings so much and they're so super cute how you drew them here!! Thank you so very much, I wish I could hang every drawing people send me on my wall. And look, no worries about design inaccuracies. I leave stuff off all the time, too, and they look perfect to me here. Design sheets!! i've been meaning to upload their full body refs and keep forgetting sfjkafj. These are sadly out of date as they were done before Chapter 0 was even finished, but I hope they suffice for now!

height side by side and a very very out of date literal-first-doodle of the back of the coat. Here's Audric's, which hasn't really changed at all since this initial design. He's just one of those rare characters that didn't have to go through a refinement phase. His reaper partner's design sheet is mostly done but I'd prefer to release hers when she actually comes into the comic properly.

Lyra and Audun, tho these are only sketches, both are final designs. Audun will get a clearer ref like Lyra's simple one later, I was designing his outfit in this one since that rank of officer coat hadn't been seen yet And here's a much more up-to-date sketch of Maia that will serve as a new model for her when I get to color it. Elias has a new one started, too, but will have to wait to be shown (... it's that messy lmao)

And Maia's cloak/coat assets (plus her vault key) that I use for production fitted together, these are up to date! Basically, the color base for their uniform is a dark warm-grey in most scenes (but since the actual uniform coat/cloak is black, this is just done for visibility and often I tint it to reflect whatever light is in the scene or to contrast it. So "it's black, but I usually choose a warm grey base to keep it visible." ... Silver and bronze accents are shown separated here. I put up a patreon pack a while back that has my actual assets and brushes I made for their uniform emblems, but for now, it's visible here)

[homunculus-argument]

Honestly, "high art" of any kind isn't really any more or less incomprehensible or unapproachable than Tumblr meme culture. It's basically the same kind of thing, really, but with a longer time span and more reading to catch up to - things making references to things that were a thing earlier, and everyone kind of supposes that everyone who sees the work also has some background knowledge of the previous work being referred. Just imagine an art history teacher breaking down a tumblr post like

"...And here we see the next poster replying with this image. Here, this image of a statue has a very exact symbolic meaning. The figure of the statue is the Greek god Apollo, here in his role as a prophetic deity, which you may have concluded from the original post referring to future events that may or may not come to pass. In his hand, he is holding a dodgeball, raised on the level of his head, as if ready to throw it. The threatening aura of the image is multiplied by the way the statue's eyes have been edited to gleam omniously - the poster replying to the Original Post is expressing a symbolic, indirect threat, that the future that the Original Post's author described might come to pass, as if the patron deity of oracles had personally cursed the Original Poster to a fleeting gift of prophecy, as swift and brutal as being slammed with a dodgeball."

[scrolling down powerpoint presentation]

"...The second reply, here, has an image of a smiling woman wearing a helmet, standing in a row of people in similar uniforms. This reply requires some slightly deeper konwledge of Tumblr meme lore to understand - the image is a fragmet of a larger whole: a single frame of a gif, of a clip from the movie Starship Troopers. What is important here is the omitted context, which is the line that this nameless character famously says in the scene: 'I'm doing my part!' By posting this image, instead of the entire captioned gif, the replier highlights the implied obvious meaning behind it: They are not merely announcing their intention to actively work to see that the future that the Original Poster foresaw will come to pass, but wordlessly taunt them by implying 'you already know what I mean to do.' It is - in joking - a threat."

"And as you see here, the Original Poster has replied to these comments with a gif, which depicts an encounter between two robotic arms. The swift and dynamic action of the gif serves to express the OP's emotions, as the first robot represents the author themselves, and the second one is a stand-in for the two previous repliers. The way the first robot arm grabs the second one and starts beating it against the floor represents the author's anger. As surrogates for the two parties engaged in the conversation, the author is expressing their personal desire to grab the two previous posters and violently beat them against the floor."

[hattiestgal]

If you don't mind my asking, how do you go about drawing fat? :3

JUST THE EXCUSE I WAS LOOKING FOR

So, for me personally, a lot of the time when I draw fat characters, I'm not looking to specifically capture the specifics of fat as much as the feel of fat. Bulkier, rounder shapes in the right places that has a feeling of weight to em! A lot of that is intuition and simplification at this point, but it all works on the same frame as just any ol' person. Like take this-

For example. This is the basis for any body shape, not just the more average one that it may imply. Sure- it can be that average body shape:

But also a fat one too!

And a big part of that is knowing where fat usually tends to bunch up on the body, so lets take a look piece by piece! (Please keep in mind this is very simplified, and not completely precise in some parts)

THE FACE: Cheeks (in purple) and especially the chin (in light blue) are the places where a lot of the fat is gonna wanna gather and round out on your face! Additionally, theres a small pocket of fat beneath the cranium on the backside of your head. It's small, but it is there. I believe fat can build up elsewhere like the bridge of your nose and forehead, but generally speaking, you're gonna have a whole lot more buildup in other places first.

THE TORSO: A lot of the fat built up on the torso is gonna be sent to your tummy. More cushioning for vital organs, mostly out of the way, it just makes sense. Additionally, the lower backs fat builds up and joins with a patch of fat on your sides that forms what is typically referred to as the love handles to make that double belly look. Along with this, the immediate next target for the torso is the breasts, followed by the upper back!

THE ARMS: For this limb, a VERY notable amount of the fat present builds up on the tricep and bicep areas, lessening once you get towards the flexor and extensor areas. You can almost think of the arm as a sort of triangular shape, wide side starting from the shoulder and tapering towards the hand, which itself mostly builds up fat around the back of the hand and the fingers. The shoulders themselves don't build up too much fat unless you got a lot

THE LEGS: And finally, you can think of the legs having pretty similar curves to what you're probably already used to thinking. The front of the thighs getting a big buildup, along with the back of the calves, the other parts being flatter in turn. As far as the feet go- similarly to the hands, the top of the feet, along with the heels get most of the buildup, as fat on your soles would impede mobility. The glute, hip and crotch area will also especially build up fat, lending to the same triangular shape that you can see in the arm!

A big thing to note with fat is that it tends to taper off towards joints. Your knees, elbows, shoulders, hips, and all the other places are gonna have significantly less fat so that you remain mobile and flexible, as that's important!

Now that we have an idea of where fat builds up on the body, you might have something that looks kinda like this

Which yes, does demonstrate a solid understanding of the places fat builds up, lacks the weight you're probably trying to convey, which brings us to out next point! Fat is well... heavy! Gravity is what gives fat much of it's shape, especially as you tread towards larger and larger bodies.

This is demonstrated really well on the arms especially-

Those big ol' bits of fat'll really start to sag when left hanging, and they will squish like hell if they run into something. I like to think of these bits of fat as big ol' ovals that squash and stretch depending on if there's an obstacle in their way or not

These are the important shapes to remember when it comes to the weightiness of fat! If you take all of this into mind, you should be getting something a lot closer to that shape you've been after!

Oh, and always remember that fat bodies come in all variety of shapes and sizes! Play around with a whole lot, and seek out all the resources you can! it'll really lend to your knowledge when it comes to this kinda stuff!

And as I always recommend when it comes to learning art- look at what your favorite artists do with fat bodies. See what you really like about the fat bodies they draw and try to replicate it in your own work, I promise you it's one of the most helpful things ever.

This is like the most basic of basics when it comes to drawing fat bodies though. If there's any additional thing about fat bodies, or maybe you want clarification on something, don't be afraid to ask! If there's enough to cover, I'll make an addition to this post!

[macbethz]

what i think REALLY works about dot and bubble is it plays with the genre conventions of doctor who itself. We've seen doctor lite episodes like this, we know how they work. There's person who needs to be saved who gets indirect help from the doctor, maybe they're flawed and learn a lesson at the end, maybe they're part of some flawed society that is just kind of set dressing or ends up being torn down at the end without examination. About halfway through the episode I was ready to brush this off as a fun but predictable classic rtd ep that wasn't really anything special. Then from the the betrayal of ricky September on its like watching a house of cards that has been built the entire episode without us noticing collapse into a perfect stack

“Oh well of course you could see them being racist the whole time” the thing is sometimes doctor who is just like that. RTD EPISODES have historically just been like that, either in that they are microagressions in themselves or have bigoted characters/worlds that go unexamined. And I think this episode performed an absolutely insane self aware slight of hand that relies on both you and the writers knowing that doctor who and sci fi in general has a racism problem. The ending recontextualizes things in the episode you may initially have brushed off as an unfortunate BBC or science fiction moment (all white cast, manifest destiny language) as symptomatic of larger societal issues, thus in turn recontextualizing missed moments of bigotry in the shows own history

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

Honestly at this point, I'm really uninterested in hearing any gentile's "critique" of Judaism.

Whatever it is, whatever you're about to say, I am 1000% certain that at least one Jew has already raised this issue in ways that are thoughtful and centered in respect for other Jews. Probably lots of Jews; possibly whole theological movements. It's even possible that this particular topic has been under active discussion for hundreds or even thousands of years.

Someone has already said this better than you will. Someone has already raised whatever issue you have and grounded it in their own experiences of having lived a Jewish life.

So just leave it to us. Just stop. You're not helping. At best you're white-knighting, at worst you're actively contributing to an antisemitic majority culture.

"Well I've never seen Jews discussing [x] topic!" Your ignorance is not reality. These conversations are happening, possibly offline and at our Shabbos tables or shuls only, but they are happening.

"Well [x] topic impacts me personally!" Does it? Does it really? Because unless you live in Israel or Palestine, no Jewish group - no matter how seemingly numerous we may be in your city or neighborhood - is actually powerful enough to affect large-scale (or even typically small-scale) changes. Our fundamentalism is, for better or worse, directed at other Jews. The most intense thing I've heard of outside of Israel is a community getting together to petition the city to allow an eruv or a concentrated effort to make a few neighborhood blocks particularly Jewish because they're within walking distance of an orthodox shul. All other issues - no matter how ugly the opinions - are something that is part of much larger social trends that unfortunately some Jews happen to be engaging in. We'll deal with them; you focus on your people.

"I'm just listening to ex-fundamentalist Jews and white-knighting trying to help them be heard and not shouted down!" So first of all, if you knew anything about this topic, they typically call themselves OTD (which I'm sure you know what that stands for, because you've been listening) and secondly, great! You should listen to them. But their critiques are not your critiques. I can go on all day long about my family and their bullshit, and I can even (sometimes) appreciate you chiming in supportively. But it hits different when you go off chattering to other people about how my family is bullshit.

"Okay fine - I'm taking all that in and accept that my critiques aren't wanted, but what CAN I do, since I am literally vibrating in place about how Those People Over There Are Wrong and cannot simply ignore them?" Best thing you can do? Honestly? Learn about Judaism thoroughly from a variety of people, and learn how to be a good ally against antisemitism in all the spaces you want us in. Judaism not feminist enough for you? Learn how to make your feminist spaces safe and welcoming for Jews. Judaism not queer or trans enough for you? Learn how to make your queer and trans spaces safe and welcoming for Jews. Whatever movement you think we're not supporting enough or not showing up for enough, or whoever it is you think we're oppressing? Find the Jews who are doing that work (they exist, I promise) and listen to what they tell you about how to make your spaces be better.

[buckysdollbarnes]

you are in love series - part one

one look, dark room

PAIRING: tfawts!bucky x grad student!reader

Summary: Moving to NYC to go to grad school, your friend's dad has a connection with the owner of a rental building in Brooklyn where you can live on your own, for cheaper than you could get anywhere else. On a student's budget, you strive to still make your place your own by thrifting as much decor as possible. Meeting your quiet and somewhat secretive neighbor, James, you gain some free labor to help you move the random stuff you buy, and with that he may be growing to love parts of the modern world he has been missing. With you in a big, new city feeling alone for the first time and Bucky wanting to make a connection with someone other than Sam and his therapist, maybe online marketplaces and a turntable will bring you both what you need most.

warnings: mild language

word count: 4.7k

a/n: this is my first time EVER writing fiction, usually I only ever write academic papers so this is fun. :) I read over and revised this chapter so many times, so I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed and I'm excited to start on the next chapter.

a/n: also!! sorry for it being so long genuinely just so much had to happen in this chapter for it to be set up the way I wanted, which I think I did well enough. lmk what you think <3

Why did I think carrying this by myself was a good idea? It might be cute and a great deal, but I don’t think I'll be able to feel my arms tomorrow. I might need to hit the gym again before I find more bargains like this. Hell, maybe I'll even invest in a neck towel, because this heat is unbearable. I’ve been searching for some larger pieces to fill my apartment, and this vintage bar cart should fit perfectly. Just five more blocks to go.

Moving here alone has certainly come with its challenges: being on my own in such a big city, dealing with a lot of stress, and managing on a tight budget. But I’m determined to make it work though and prove everyone wrong. Growing up, you see so many romcoms where the heroine leaves everything behind to chase her dreams in NYC, landing a job at a magazine or fashion house, living in a gorgeous high-rise, and meeting the perfect guy. It’s a beautiful fantasy really, but the reality is much tougher. New York isn’t a movie set; it’s a real city with real people, and you have to work just as hard, if not harder, to be here. I know that, but it feels like a majority of my people back home DON’T know that I know that.

I came here for school. In about two months, I’ll be starting my Master’s program at NYU. I don’t think I’ve ever been as proud as when I received my acceptance email. I worked my ass off in undergrad to earn strong recommendations and good academic standing, and seeing it all come together was a huge relief—until the reality of the cost hit me.

Luckily, a friend's dad has a connection with a landlord in Brooklyn and got me a good deal on a place of my own. It’s incredible not to have a roommate in this market, especially in a place where your bed doesn’t touch your stove, though it can be a bit lonely.

Finally, reaching the stoop, out of breath, you set the cart down on the pavement. Wiping your brow, you notice the street is unusually quiet for this time of day. The city never truly sleeps, but the residential streets seem to take occasional naps. A little breath of air somewhere where it feels like oxygen is running out sometimes. Light filters through the trees, momentarily blinding you, and you turn back toward the building.

“How on earth am I going to get this up to my floor?”

Carrying it down the street was one thing, but hauling it up the stairs is a whole different challenge. Plus, who knows when the building's maintenance has last been here, the steps might not hold up under the cart’s weight. They usually feel like they could give away holding one person.

Deciding that falling to your death and being crushed isn’t really how you want to go, you open the double doors and drag the cart into the lobby, using the wheels on one side. Passing the main desk where the worker, who looks completely uninterested, engrossed in a crossword puzzle, you make your way to the end of the hall and start pulling the cart backwards up the incline of the stairwell.

“Nah, I can’t,” you say aloud, after struggling up two floors, letting the cart rest on the landing. There’s still three more floors to go, but your body is clearly telling you the cart belongs right here. Maybe the universe wants it to stay here—who knows, maybe the entire second floor needs a communal bar more than you do.

“Excuse me,” a quiet but rough male voice comes from behind me. You turn around to see him—a guy you’ve seen around your floor a few times, though you’ve never talked. One of the neighbors. You quickly realize you’re blocking the entire staircase.

“Sorry! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I’ll move this um — just give me a second.”

You shove the cart closer to the wall to make some space for him to pass, but he stays put, his gloved hands in his pockets. He’s definitely handsome—tall and solid, but not intimidating. His furrowed brow and tight-lipped expression don’t exactly scream “welcome,” but he’s still got a certain charm.

He shifts a bit, clearly wanting to say something but hesitating. Feeling a bit awkward under his gaze, you decide to try talking to him again.

“You can just squeeze by if you want. It’s just really heavy, so I’m taking a quick break before I try lifting it up again.”

After a moment, he seems to make up his mind and asks, “Do you need help?”

Looking back at him, you consider saying no. You pride yourself on being independent and capable, and part of you wants to insist you can handle it. But then you think about the struggle of getting the cart up the last two flights of stairs—only this time, it's three—and decide against it.

“You wouldn’t mind? You’re headed down, I’m sure you’ve got somewhere else to be.”

He gives a little smirk that makes you feel a bit dizzy.

“Well, I’m already here so.”

You nod slowly, a small smile appearing on your face.

“Sure, you can take this end, and I’ll get this o—” you start to say, but before you can finish, he’s already in front of you, lifting the cart with ease and starting up the stairs without breaking a sweat.

“Hey! Be careful, uh—,” you pause, realizing you don’t know his name.

He picks up on your hesitation and hesitates himself, considering whether to give his name. He’s wary of how others might perceive him, potentially recognizing his name from past news broadcasts or papers, still dealing with the shadows of his past despite his efforts to make amends. Not wanting to be dishonest, he chooses the safe option.

“James.”

“Be careful, James. I don’t want you tripping and falling on my account.”

“Won’t happen, doll.”

“What-,” you start, caught off guard by the pet name, “what if it does?”

“It won’t, see?” With the last few steps, you and James arrive at your floor. “Already here.”

He must have seen you around before too, to know where you live.

He gives you a quick look and then carries the cart to your door.

“This is yours, right?” He turns and looks at you expectantly. You rush over, fumbling for your keys to unlock the door. If he’s willing to move it all the way, who are you to turn him down?

You lead James into your apartment, wondering if it looks anything like his. The layout can’t be that different; it’s not exactly a luxury building.

He strolls further into the room.

“You can set it right here,” you say quickly. “Thank you for bringing it up for me. I was honestly thinking about giving up when you showed up.”

Setting the cart where you indicated, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and gives you a look that feels intense.

“It’s no problem.”

His gaze wanders around your apartment, taking in the mix of vintage furniture and eclectic decor. On a student’s budget, you’ve filled your space with secondhand finds. It’s more affordable and personal that way. The place might not be filled with new things, but it’s entirely curated by you. Finding beauty in the mix of old and new is something you do well, and now, thanks to James, you have one more piece to add.

James’s eyes land on your turntable setup. He seems intrigued by your collection of records but doesn’t say anything, turning his attention back to you.

“I have to go.”

Your eyebrows lift at his abruptness. Sensing your surprise, he quickly adds, “I’ve got an appointment.”

You nod vigorously, urging him to go and thanking him again for his kindness. Feeling a bit sad that this chance encounter with your new neighbor is ending so quickly, you call out as he heads for the door.

“I’ll see you around then? Since you live here too.”

He turns on his heel, giving you one last smirk.

“Yeah, you’ll see me.”

As he heads down the stairs, you shut your door and lock it behind you. Wandering over to where James’s gaze lingered, you pull an album from the shelf, lift the acrylic cover on your turntable, and set the record down. You close the cover, push play, and let the needle softly drop onto the vinyl. As the music starts, your mind drifts back to James.

Embarrassingly, you find yourself hoping this isn’t a one-time encounter. You don’t know much about him beyond his name, but there’s something about him that makes you want to see him again.

“Two hundred bucks for this is crazy,” you mutter to yourself, staring in disbelief at the sofa you’re eyeing on Facebook Marketplace.

“People are practically giving this stuff away.”

Not wanting to miss out on such a good deal, you message the seller to check if it’s still available.

Since you got the bar cart about a week and a half ago, you haven’t picked up anything else. With the July heat blasting, just thinking about moving a sofa in this weather makes you want to rip off your skin to cool down.

You can’t help but think of James, who you’ve seen briefly in the hallway since your last encounter. He just nodded as he passed by, and that was it.

Your phone dings, snapping you out of your thoughts. The seller confirms the sofa is still available and offers to deliver it since they have a truck.

Excited, you reply with a yes, and they let you know they’ll head your way soon.

You get up to rearrange your furniture, making space for the new sofa. You don’t have much to move since you’ve been slowly collecting things. As you shift the pieces around, your turntable stops, signaling it’s time to flip the record. After you do, you take a moment to picture how the sofa will fit in the space.

Then it hits you—moving a sofa is way heavier than the bar cart. If you struggled with that, how on earth will you manage this?

“Independent woman, my ass.”

With the delivery imminent, you decide on the only solution you can think of. Without hesitation, you head to the apartment across the hall and knock softly on the door. You wait, hoping James will answer. After a moment of shuffling and then silence, you start to wonder if you should just try something else.

Just then, the door cracks open, revealing half of James’s face. He looks curious but not annoyed—no one usually visits him.

“Hey! James! Great to see you again! I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I was wondering if you could help me out a bit? I just bought a sofa from this marketplace deal, and the seller’s coming to drop it off right now. He said he’d deliver it, but didn’t offer to help get it up to my apartment. I realized a sofa is way heavier than a bar cart, and you saw me struggle with that, so I was kinda sorta hoping you could help me bring it up here?”

After your rambling, you offer him a hopeful smile, waiting for his response.

A few moments of silence later, that smirk you’ve been missing appears on his face. Opening the door wider, he comments with a grin.

“You bought another thing you knew you couldn’t get up the stairs?”

“I honestly didn’t think it through. The deal was too good to pass up. I’m really sorry for bothering you. I can try to find someone else if you’re busy.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, doll.”

The smile that blooms on your face is unavoidable.

As the delivery guy drives away, James shows you where to grab the sofa and effortlessly lifts the other end. He encourages you to take the lead, making sure the weight is on him as you both navigate the stairs. With minimal effort, you get the sofa up to your place.

After some awkward maneuvering, you finally get the sofa into your apartment through the thin door and set it down. You put your hands on your hips and exhale deeply, only to find James already looking at you with that same intense gaze from before. It makes you a little nervous.

You can’t help but feel grateful—there’s no way you would have managed this on your own.

“I could have handled the bar cart,” you say, nodding toward the cart now adorned with bottles in the corner, “but this? No chance. Thanks so much for your help.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. “I wasn’t busy.”

As you look at him, you start to feel like you know him from somewhere beyond being just a neighbor. Maybe you’ve seen him around the city before you moved?

Brushing off the thought, you offer, “You’ve helped me out twice now, and it doesn’t feel right not to return the favor. If your whole evening consists of not being busy, why not stay for dinner? I promise I’ll cook something totally good and not poisonous.”

James looks surprised by your offer but quickly hides it.

“You don’t need to do that. You don’t owe me anything,” he says, not wanting you to feel obligated or uncomfortable. He worries that his presence might not be enjoyable.

He wishes he could be as charming as he was back in the 40s. Being friendly used to come easily, and if he were still the same person he was at 26, he wouldn’t have left so quickly after helping you on the stairs the first time. He wouldn’t have had a therapists appointment to go to and he wouldn’t have a hidden arm made of metal. He’d have asked you to dinner or for you to let him take you dancing instead in return for his brawn. Now, he struggles to make new connections beyond a few familiar faces, like Sam, and asking someone for a dance feels out of reach.

“No, no! Stay, I insist! It gets kind of lonely around here, doesn’t it? Why not have a friend dinner?” you press, hoping he’ll take you up on the offer.

Seeing your sincerity, though still feeling a bit miffed, he finally agrees.

“Yeah, sure. I can stay.”

James settles onto the sofa while you work in the kitchen. You’ve decided on making some stuffed ravioli and garlic bread—easy, delicious, hard to mess up.

Before getting into cooking, you switch out the record, letting new music drift softly through the space. Unbeknownst to you, James watches closely, paying attention to how you handle the records and the turntable. The care you take when putting a record back in its slip, taking a new one out of its dust cover, and gently putting it on.

Seeing you focused on cooking, James gets up and strolls over to your setup. He runs his fingers lightly across the spines of the record sleeves, feeling a surprising sense of comfort. He hadn’t realized people still used record players so often.

The setup looks quite familiar to him, with many aspects reminiscent of the record players he used back in his earlier days. In his life before this one.

As you finish preparing the pasta and pull the bread from the oven, you call out, “Hey, food’s ready!”

You glance back to see James hovering by the turntable. He quickly moves to the table and sits down.

Over dinner, the conversation flows comfortably. James seems to be relaxing a bit, his initial reserve fading. He’s still somewhat guarded, but what he does share is genuinely interesting. You sense that opening up is challenging for him, so you respect his pace and take whatever he is willing to give. Laughing with each other a few times and getting through some odd topics, he mentions that he hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in quite a while and thanks you with a smile.

After a pleasant dinner, you decide to bring up something you’d been curious about.

“You like records?”

Caught off guard by the question, James tries to answer without revealing too much about himself. It feels strange to be here, knowing you don’t really know who he is, but he worries that being too open might scare you away. He decides to keep his secrets for now, selfishly hoping to get to know you better before revealing more.

“Yeah, I used to have quite a few records as a kid. My ma would play them too, especially when she was cooking, just like you. I didn’t realize they were still so popular.”

Excited by this glimpse into his past, you push further.

“Oh, there’s definitely a huge market for vinyl. Lots of people who think it makes them superior, but also a lot who just love the physical aspect of it.”

“So which one are you?” he asks.

You laugh and reply, “Maybe a bit of both.”

You glance up at him from beneath your lashes, catching his rare smile.

“But really, I just like having it. There’s something different about the listening experience. It requires more effort than just hitting play on a playlist. It’s about choosing a full album and actually sitting down to listen. That feels more intentional to me, and that’s why I do it.”

James seems to ponder your answer, his expression softer than before. He then turns his gaze back to the turntable.

“So, since you mentioned you had records as a kid, do you not have any now?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

“Haven’t had any for a long time. Talking about it makes me miss them. Everything these days feels so complicated. I like simple things like that.”

Watching him as he looks away, you hesitate but notice the nostalgic shine in his eyes. You sense he might appreciate physical music even more than you do.

“If you ever get any and don’t have a place to play them, you’re welcome to use mine.”

He turns to face you, his expression unreadable.

“I mean, I know it’s not the most convenient offer, but it’s there. One record lover to another,” you add with a smile.

He returns your smile, saying, “Okay… thank you. I’ll keep that in mind, Doll.”

That night, Bucky lies on his makeshift bed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and replaying the events of the day. You knocking on his door for help with the couch, inviting him over for dinner, and all the easygoing conversation you shared. It was such a stark contrast to his usual rigidity. He'd let his guard down just a little—letting himself smile or flirt ever so slightly.

He wishes he were better at this. It used to come so naturally. Hell, before he left for war, he’d gone dancing with both his own date and Steve’s at the same time. Now, he finds himself listening to you talk while struggling to share anything of his own.

He doesn’t want to pass up your invitation, especially since you’re inviting him into your space again. Clearly, his reserve hasn’t put you off too much.

“What would I even bring?” he wonders aloud.

All he’s ever listened to is 40’s music and big band. He doubts that’s readily available these days.

Rolling onto his side, he grabs the cell phone Steve had insisted he get before he went back in time to live his real life, without Bucky.

“You can do anything on here, Buck!”

Scrolling through the three contacts he has, he taps on the name of the guy who’s been trying to reach him for weeks.

“So, is there a valid reason why you haven’t picked up my damn calls?” Sam’s voice comes through.

“Sam, hi.”

“Did you finally learn how to click the screen? Is that why I’m hearing from you now, old man?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t like the thing. Too confusing,” Bucky says, grimacing as he fiddles with the phone.

“Okay, okay, what’s going on, man? You doing alright?”

“I’m fine. I just have a question and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t harass me about it.”

“Is it about wizards?”

“What?”

“Wizards. Is the question about wizards?”

“No, what the hell. Look, I had dinner with one of my neighbors tonight—”

“Was it a girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hell yes, it matters. And from that response, I KNOW it was a girl, so—”

“It doesn’t matter. She has a record player, which I didn’t know people still used, and she offered to let me use it, but I don’t have anything to play on it.”

“I’m not getting the problem.”

“I only like the stuff from the 40’s and—”

“Did you listen to that Marvin Gaye playlist I sent you?”

“Not interested.”

“C’mon, man, it’s good stuff. Give it a listen.”

“Not feeling it.”

“Alright, your loss, I guess. Still not seeing the problem though.”

“What do I bring? I can’t just bring around the stuff I know because where would I even get it?”

“Whoa, man, what do you mean, where would you get it? Just go to a record store and hit up the vintage section or something.”

Bucky pauses, mulling over Sam’s words.

“They have that?”

“Duh. You know, you could answer these questions a lot easier if you just looked them up on your phone—”

“Thanks, Sam. Talk to you later.”

Lying back down, Bucky decides that the next time he’s out to see his therapist, he’ll first stop by a record store to find something to bring over to your place.

Your easygoing presence was so comforting, and he found himself longing for it as he drifted off to sleep. He’d see you again soon enough.

Later in the week, as you wind down from a busy day, you focus on making your space as calming as possible.

You light some candles and turn on an orange floor lamp, the soft glow wrapping around you and setting the perfect mood to sink into your sofa with the book you’ve been neglecting.

You’ve just started settling into your reading when you’re jolted out of your half-nap by the sound of someone knocking on your door.

You get up and peer through the peephole, and there’s your dinner guest from earlier in the week.

Opening the door with a smile, you greet him.

“Hey James, unexpected visit! What’s up?”

His eyes linger on you for a moment before he speaks. You glance down and realize your outfit—shorts that really lived up to their name and a tank top—might not be the most guest-appropriate.

Brushing off your embarrassment, you look back up at him.

“I’ve got something I’d like to play, if that’s alright?”

Bucky’s mind races. Standing at your door, he worries maybe you only offered your place to be nice, and now he’s making a fool of himself. Of course, you didn’t want him there—he could barely talk.

Just as he’s about to get lost in his own head, your bright smile pulls him out of it.

“Oh my gosh, please, come in. What do you have?”

His doubt fades away as he sees your genuine excitement.

“Brought some Sinatra. Not sure if you’re into that, but I used to like his stuff when I was younger.”

You spin around abruptly, staring at him in disbelief.

“There’s no way you think I don’t know who Frank Sinatra is…”

Bucky stumbles over his words.

“Well, I mean, it’s not exactly new stuff so—”

“You think I wouldn’t know ‘Fly Me to the Moon’? ‘Singin’ in the Rain’? ‘New York, New York’? I mean, I even moved to New York—I had to get the romanticism from somewhere.”

“What are those?”

You pause, confused.

“Like, the most iconic Frank Sinatra songs. You are talking about Frank Sinatra, right? Not some other Sinatra I’ve never heard of?”

“No, you’re right, it’s Frank.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I guess I don’t know those ones.” He admits.

“So, what era are we talking about?” You ask, reaching for the record.

As you grasp the sleeve, you notice a glint of light catching James’s bare hand. Realizing he’s not wearing gloves, confusion sets in before it clicks. You HAD seen James before.

Looking up at him, he seems frozen, obviously panicking. He planned to tell you eventually, but not like this. Not when you weren’t close enough yet.

He thought there is no way you are going to want anything to do with him now.

You thought there is no way was there's an actual Avenger in your apartment right now.

You’re frozen, just like him, but more in shock rather than fear.

“Do you… usually go by James?” you ask cautiously.

Hesitating, he shakes his head.

“What do you usually go by then?”

Bucky feels anxiety creeping up his back. You’re both still holding the record, and he can’t tell if you’re scared or just surprised.

“Bucky.”

You stay silent for a moment while Bucky’s nerves are on edge.

“So… metal hand…”

Clenching his jaw, he replies, “Arm.”

“You’re that Bucky.”

“Yes.”

After a long pause, you start again.

“You’re an Avenger and you didn’t tell me?”

Bucky hesitates, his discomfort visible. “I’m— I’m not an Avenger.”

“What do you mean? You’re totally an Avenger! Why wouldn’t you tell me? How did I not recognize you before?” you ask, laughing in disbelief.

Bucky’s taken aback. You really thought he was an Avenger? You’re not scared of him at all, which surprises him. You must not know much about his past if you’re still standing this close.

“No wonder you don’t know ‘New York, New York,’” you say, almost to yourself. “It’s from after your time! This is crazy, I—”

You’re interrupted by his response.

“Are you not scared?”

“Of course not.”

Bucky closes in on himself, panic evident. “If you really knew me, you’d want nothing to do with me. I’ve—”

“I might not know the version of you you’re talking about, but I’ve met James, who helped me not once, but twice  carry stuff he definitely didn’t have to up the stairs, stayed for dinner, has been very polite to me, and has given me zero reasons to be scared of him.”

He looks at you, his piercing blue eyes revealing an internal struggle. That one look holds more weight than his words. You can see the battle within him, torn between his past and the present moment.

“Listen,” you say, finally letting go of the record, “if you don’t want to stay, you don’t have to. But I’m not scared of you, and I actually like your company. So, regardless of whether you’re James, Bucky, or whoever, you’re still welcome here.”

You pause, adding, “And we can still play this if you’d like.”

Bucky struggles with his inner turmoil. The idea that you know who he is but still want him around is foreign to him. He doesn’t feel worthy of the kindness you’re offering, but it’s been so long since he’s received such warmth that it’s almost impossible to turn it down.

He’s not comfortable with his identity or his past, but in this moment, he wants to push it aside. If you don’t care, maybe he can allow himself not to care, even if just for a bit. Maybe he can prove something to himself, or even his therapist.

Handing you the record, he relaxes his face slightly. You’ve always thought him handsome, but in the dim light of the dark room, he looks almost ethereal.

You’re hoping he believes you because your excitement for his company tonight feels more significant than it probably should, but you’re okay with that.

“I’m Bucky.”

You smile warmly at this change. “Alright, Bucky. What do you want to do?”

He gazes at you deeply, his look sending a shiver down your spine and warming your chest. “Play it.”

a/n: well, hope this was alright. as I mentioned before, ive never wrote fiction before, but ive definitely read enough to get the gist.

[thankskenpenders]

Help me out here: Why is there so much Ian Flynn hate going around lately? I thought everyone loved that he was contributing to the games. Now suddenly they aren't. I guess that's par for the course for this series but I don't get it. He isn't perfect but I like what he's done. Am I a weirdo?

Ian Flynn has always had a lot of fans, but any creator putting their work out there is going to have detractors as well. That's just the nature of being an artist. To some extent, it's no big deal. He's not a perfect writer. Nobody is! I consider myself a fan of his work, but I've criticized plenty of individual writing decisions from him on here.

But Ian doesn't just have critics. He has his own obsessive hatedom. And the specific nature of Ian's hatedom is... interesting.

A decade ago, Ian was only the guy writing for Archie Sonic, meaning any debates over his work were quarantined within that tiny niche of the larger Sonic fandom. Only people who kept up with the comics month to month had any real reason to have an opinion on the guy, which means we're talking about merely thousands of fans as opposed to millions.

Within that group, he had some haters. You had the people who were mad about story changes made during his run, particularly things like ancillary characters getting killed off (although over the years we've learned that most of those were editorial mandates from Mike Pellerito). You had the people mad that Ian didn't push their favorite ship, with feuding SonAmy and Sonally fans claiming that he was CLEARLY biased towards one or the other. You had the people who just really, really liked one of the previous writers way more - usually Penders, as hard as that may be to believe today. That sort of thing. Pretty normal comic fandom type stuff. Again, it comes with the territory.

Unfortunately, many of those haters only got worse over time, morphing into reactionaries who constantly try to incite Comicsgate type culture war bullshit.

There are people still mad at Ian for making Sally bi and pairing her with Nicole instead of Sonic in the later Archie comics. There have been elaborate MS Paint red string conspiracy boards explaining how people like Ian and Jon Gray have apparently been destroying the franchise from the inside for years by Making Sonic Woke. (Jon gets dragged into this because people are still mad about him drawing The Slap 20 years later. Yes, really!!) There was an unhinged change.org petition trying to get Ian fired, specifically from people who were mad that the Freedom Fighters aren't in the IDW comics. There was even a very sad little fan campaign from these people trying to get Sega to move the Sonic comic license away from IDW and over to Udon, because they thought Udon would bring Sally and Bunnie back and also make them sexy again. There's a lot of this.

(Unfortunately, Penders has also exacerbated this by gossiping about Ian on Twitter and giving these fans ammo, but that's a whole 'nother discussion.)

The thing is, for years, people who only played the games or watched the cartoons had no reason to pay attention to any of this. Now, though, Ian isn't just writing for some weird spinoff comics that only the super nerds read. Now he's writing comics that are canon to the games, and ALSO some of the games themselves, and ALSO consulting on other tie-in media like Sonic Prime, and ALSO writing the official Sonic encyclopedia, and ALSO serving as part of the new Sonic Lore Team at Sega. And on top of all this, he's got an increasingly popular podcast where he fields questions about his work on all of these things, which serves as one of the fandom's main windows into creative decisions being made behind the scenes.

As a fan of Ian's work, it's been really cool to see him rise in prominence. But the dark side of this is that his obsessive haters from the Archie days now have WAY more of a potential audience of their own. Now, every Sonic fan has to have an opinion on Ian. What this frequently means is that you'll have the Comicsgate types taking things Ian writes or says out of context, attempting to get more of the general fandom to yell at the guy.

Unfortunately, there are a wide variety of Sonic fans who take the bait:

You've got hardcore fans who disliked basically any recent piece of Sonic media and are looking for someone to blame.

You've got the people who are concerned about the sanctity of Sonic's canon, who shoot the messenger any time Ian mentions a new retcon from Sonic Team on the podcast - or any time he even mentions the THOUGHT of changing anything about the canon, as we saw recently with the Sol Dimension nonsense.

You've got people who romanticize some sort of mythical artistic vision that Sega of Japan supposedly has (or had) for the franchise. To many of these fans, American contributors like Ian just don't "get" the heart of the series and are trying to turn Sonic into something different. (This "heart of the series" tends to be some mix of Japanese instruction manual lore, the cinematics from Sonic CD, the OVA, and/or the games written by Shiro Maekawa, depending on what Sonic media the fan in question grew up with.)

You've got fans of specific characters or ships who pin the blame for how their faves are depicted entirely on Ian - most vocally fans of Shadow, even though the root problem is that Sonic Team hasn't known what to do with Shadow since 2006. At best this stops at regular old criticism, but at its worst this devolves into claims that Ian has an agenda against certain characters.

You've got fans annoyed by a perceived over-emphasis on comic-original characters in the IDW comics, ignoring the obvious facts that these characters exist because the game cast is so tightly controlled by Sega, and also, you know, that people just like the IDW characters and want more stories about them.

You've got a LOT of discourse over IDW's Sonic being a hero who tries to give his enemies second chances, as if half of Sonic's closest friends aren't already former villains and rivals. Honestly this is very transparently just reheated Steven Universe discourse lmao

You'll also see people who just think they could do Ian's job better. They can't believe that THIS GUY is the American fan working on all these Sonic projects, when clearly THEY understand the characters and lore and themes SO much better than this charlatan.

All it takes is for someone in one of these categories to be unhappy about some recent piece of Sonic media, and for them to come across an out of context quote or comic panel that rubs them the wrong way, and suddenly the leftist Zoomer Sonic fans will join the latest dogpile on Ian alongside the reactionary Comicsgate types who are mad at him for Making Sonic Woke.

In general, when fandoms get upset, they tend to want a scapegoat. A person or two to point a finger at and go "THAT's who ruined the thing I love!" This tends to be based less on reality and more on which contributors are the most visible online. You'll sometimes see teenage and adult fans of children's cartoons single out a storyboarder who's particularly vocal on Twitter, blame them for every story decision they don't like, and harass them off the platform out of a sense of retribution for their favorite ship or whatever. Failing that, fans might choose to blame every nitpick, down to individual lines of dialogue and frames of animation, on a showrunner, just because that's the name they associate with the show. And unfortunately, when it comes to Sonic, Ian is now arguably the most prolific and outspoken contributor on the English speaking internet, and therefore a common scapegoat.

Some of the things I've seen Ian blamed for are truly wild. A lot of people have claimed for YEARS that he's just lying about the existence of creative guidelines and restrictions from Sega - or, as fans call them, The Mandates - even though they're just an inherent aspect of working on a licensed property. Others claim that The Mandates are real, but somehow Ian's fault. A vocal minority of fans have convinced themselves that Ian is the sole reason the Freedom Fighters don't exist in the IDW comics, even though Ian says he's been pushing to bring them back since day one.

Sometimes you'll see people say he ruined shit he didn't even work on. A few weeks ago on Twitter I saw someone claim that Ian had written a rejected script for Sonic Forces in which Tails died. I could not find a source for this for the life of me. As far as I can tell, the rumor seems to have been born from an alleged leaked script for Forces with margin notes from Aaron Webber that criticized the way Tails was written, and also an old tweet where Aaron joked that Tails would die in an upcoming episode of Sonic Mania Adventures. These merged into "Aaron Webber criticized a draft of the Forces script in which Tails died." How'd Ian get dragged into this? Who fucking knows!

It's all just a big game of telephone. All it takes is some asshole to make something up about Ian on Twitter or YouTube or a DeviantArt journal or some forum, and at least a couple people will believe it, and then it gets repeated as fact. Again, this used to be contained by the niche nature of the Archie Sonic fandom, but now there are WAY more people who are receptive to this shit.

It's just sad to me that Ian tries to be so open and honest about his work, to try to explain the rationale for certain things, to keep fans looped in on the direction the franchise is headed, and this just gives the Flynnspiracy types more quotes to take out of context and try to paint him as the devil. If it sounds like I'm being overly defensive and dismissing his critics, man... some of the things I've seen people say directly to him are just unbelievable. People will send paragraphs-long angry screeds in to his podcast that completely tear him apart, and he has to sit there and be like "Well, that's your opinion, and you're entitled to it." People literally pay for special guest interview episodes where they just rapid fire complaints about his writing at him directly to his face. I don't know how he does it. I would snap.

All of this over Sonic the fucking Hedgehog of all things.

I don't know how to wrap this up. Engaging with fandoms online is very tiring, which is why I tend not to do it. Things like this are too common. I guess, just... remember that making art collaboratively is a complicated thing. The people involved are generally trying their best given the circumstances, but they're only human. They make mistakes. But please treat them like humans. Criticism and dogpiling are not the same thing.

[the-sera]

I don't think it's a mystery by now that our folks were divided on how to end Mass Effect 3. Several people, myself included, were interested in making more. I really wanted it to be a saga of six games rather than three. I presented a lot of ideas, but upstairs did not have much interest. The concepts for the end was mostly canned in favor of a new trilogy. The intention seemed to make a larger and broader universe, the likes of Star Wars or Star Trek.

This obviously did not workout with Andromeda. I don't think the idea was bad, but I think it was a direction taken at the expenses of the original trilogy. The ending we worked on for the Mass Effect Trilogy had its own issues. There was a palpable unwillingness to commit to a fully tangible and explored outcome, some compared it to a powerpoint presentation with narration, which is a... rough way to put it, but a fair statement to make perhaps.

I do believe it is a game where the flaw are mostly the outlines of cut content. If something is weird or sucks, usually it is because you are looking at the part of something rather than the whole thing. The ending is no exception, Kai Leng as a whole, or even the limited role of Aria and the Council in the end. There were so many more ideas, I promise. Some of my proudest work can be found in it too, which makes cutting parts of it so sad.

I intend to talk more about the games I have contributed to, but I do want to mention something some of you may not know. I am currently fighting for my life against a rapidly worsening health condition. I would like to live to get the chance to work on amazing franchises like the ones I already have. At the time I am posting this, there has not been a single donation in 2 days. Your help would mean a lot to me, it is not a battle I can win alone. Thank you all.

[ifeelloveeverymillionmiles]

Before Six years, five months, two days

Can we talk about how obsessed they are with each other before they even go on the subway?

At the Keepers meeting, as soon as they start talking they are touching elbows and arms, super close. SO much eye contact in the conversation and Lila is like TEXTBOOK flirting - her lips slightly parted through their whole convo, sexy face on, and so many mischievous glances at Five. Nonchalantly placing her hand on his chest to put on his nametag and like ???lingering??? Oh yeah Nancy, make sure that nametag isn't coming off, very thorough name tag application.

Then the cafe, obviously more touching of the face, more eye contact, and smiles. Am I imagining it or does Lila's façade drop a little and she looks kinda guilty about wiping the powdered sugar off Five's face when Diego sees them through the window? She's then laughing right after, but a part of me wonders if she wanted to touch Five, did, liked it, felt bad, then bounced back and started laughing before the scene was over.

Then we have two scenes with Diego in the van, one with Five and then one with Lila.

When Diego confides in Five his concerns about Lila and the "little Greek guy" it's a VERY clever bit of writing that is TEEMING with doublespeak, Five states:

"Whatever this is (him and Lila), it's nothing. You guys have a family, kids, a home, only an idiot gives that up. Lila is no idiot" Five looks almost remorseful as he says she's not a idiot. IMO by calling it "this" Five acknowledges that there is something between them, but seems disappointed since he believes nothing could or would happen between them, but only due to her current circumstances.

Then Five states to Diego "Bury it. Deep. Cover that shit in concrete." which in this context makes way more sense for his own feelings (his growing affection for Lila) vs. advice you would give your sibling about concerns over their partner's potential infidelity.

Diego then states "You're a good brother." and the shot lingers on Five's face as he looks painfully guilty. We follow up with a long shot of Lila, peering at them secretly, which adds to the perception that this exchange may be more significant than what the surface-level conversation appears to be.

Also, at the beginning of this whole conversation, Five lies for Lila by saying "Well she has that book club" to Diego. I think it's interesting that Five's first instinct here is to be loyal to Lila and keep up her lie rather than coming clean to Diego. His loyalty is already to her over him.

At the New Grumpson Christmas festival, when Diego throws axes to impress her, she looks at him (very annoyed) for a whole 2 seconds then immediately starts scanning the crowd, super distracted, not caring what Diego is doing or saying (this is a little sad). What is she looking for?? Five of course. She quickly excuses herself from Diego and seeks him out, finding him trying to blink. Then there is all this cutsie talk about kegels. They keep their heads down in a little tet-a-tet, and look annoyed when Diego joins them and starts asking questions. I melt a little when Five says "Mulled wine for myself, egg nog for the Lady". They are already on the same page. They already consider themselves a team of two within this larger team.

Then the van conversation with Lila and Diego, we get a shot of Five's face as the convo is starting, which makes sense because they do speak about him in their fight/conversation. But what stands out to me is that once Lila confesses that she has been working undercover, Diego gets upset Lila states

"You're acting as if I had an affair"

to which Diego responds "This is even worse!"

and they cut to Five's face and he looks SO annoyed. To me, he's thinking "Wait, you're with Lila, you've gotten to settle down, be normal, have kids and you think Lila going undercover tangentially with the CIA is worse than her having an affair and losing all that?" which I think is crazy to Five because Diego has the normalcy Five craves, with the person Five has the most chemistry with.

And this is BEFORE all the subway stuff. I honestly think they left us so many breadcrumbs before episode 5 and I'm having a delightful and delicious time finding them!

[twopoppies]

Sorry to go back to Bg but I'm convinced Louis team was intending to let it fade into irrelevance until nobody remembered it until B's sugar daddy exposed her and he/his team did what they always do and overreact instead of using it and backdating the whole thing they went in the opposite direction and pushed to try and cover up the fact he had nothing to do with the kid for years. ( just like with larry,, there was no reason to do all that it just made people more interested in them) all they've done with it is made a bigger mess that's going to be MORE sus and make MORE people look deeper into everything when it finally ends or more likely gets exposed (disclaimer: i dont want him to be exposed it's just the fact is the bigger the lie the harder it is to keep 🤷‍♀️)

Yeah, I agree that Boobgate seemed to be the turning point. I don't think it was entirely an overreaction because they could have course-corrected if so. They haven't yet and it's been two years at this point. I really think there's some kind of legal issue he's trying not to get caught in. There's no way Sony would take the fall if the truth came out. It would all fall on Louis.

I'm not an attorney, but from what I can understand, falsely claiming to be a parent on a birth certificate can lead to serious legal consequences. At the federal level, there is no specific law criminalizing falsely signing a birth certificate, but this type of fraud can have various legal repercussions based on state laws.

False Information as Fraud: In California, knowingly providing false information on a birth certificate is considered a form of fraud, and the state may impose both civil and criminal penalties. California law treats falsely establishing paternity as perjury if done knowingly, which can be a felony with significant fines and potential jail time.

Paternity Presumption: In California, when a man signs a voluntary declaration of paternity, the law presumes he is the legal father. If he later claims he is not the biological father, he may face legal complications, especially if he signed the declaration while knowing he was not the biological parent. Depending on the state, this can be classified as a misdemeanor or felony offense with penalties including fines, imprisonment, or both.

Federal Involvement in Fraud Cases: If the false claim is part of a larger fraud scheme involving benefits, such as falsely claiming dependency benefits, federal charges could apply. For instance, fraudulently claiming a dependent on tax filings (if connected to a fraudulent birth certificate) could lead to charges for tax fraud or other federal offenses. I doubt Briana is filing taxes claiming Freddie as a dependent, but Tammi and Brett may be. Or Louis might be required to do it but isn't. I have no idea, but it's something to think about.

Consequences Beyond Criminal Penalties: Falsely signing a birth certificate can also have serious civil repercussions, especially in cases where paternity or custody rights are contested later. Courts may impose penalties, order repayment of child support or benefits fraudulently obtained (ie: requesting government assistance), and adjust parental rights or responsibilities (would this affect who has the right to care for Freddie and make decisions concerning his well-being?). Additionally, Louis' ability to keep his US Visa (thus being able to visit/tour/work in the US) could be compromised if he were found tp have committed fraud.

(If there are actual Family Law attorneys out there, please correct me if I'm wrong)

This is not to say he is stuck forever. But I think he needs to establish that he THOUGHT he was Freddie's dad for a long enough time to then have a DNA test and prove that he's not, but he can't appear to have known the whole time.

This, IMO, is why fans are better off just shutting up about it right now because constantly pointing out the pregnancy discrepancies, or how much he didn't do in those first five years, probably makes things more difficult for him.

[painted-flag]

OF FLOWERS AND DEATH - aemond targaryen

Chapter 10: The Art of Potion Making

!!! An important poll regarding the upload schedule for this series can be found here. !!!

☾⋆⁺₊✧ dark elf!Aemond Targaryen x f!human!reader series. ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series masterlist. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ word count: 4.5k ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series warnings: 18+ depictions of violence/gore, eventual smut, warfare, sickness/disease, some moments of misogyny, and mentions of alcohol consumption. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ Potion making is easy, but command over the dark arts is a skill derived from centuries of experience.

Two days came and went of unpacking as much as you could before going to your work and delving into books, notes, experiments, and taking care of patients. In the chaos of everything, there was no time for you to sit down and relax. You woke, ate quickly, unpacked as much as you could before Amara and Liriel came to get you ready for the day, and went about your duties in the healing facilities. 

In that time, not much progress was made in your research or Daeron’s. The two of you had hit a wall, which seemed impossible to overcome. It became a topic of tension between you two. Each knew that it was not the other's fault and did not blame them, but the feeling of hopelessness began to wear down on you two. 

You were finally granted a moment of reprieve. 

The cool breeze of the morning chill flowed through your open windows. Scents of blooming plants filled the space as you broke your fast. You had spent the morning reading the last filled-in pages of your father's journal. It may not have been the best decision, as you struggled to maintain your composure at parts. He would write about his days however a large focus was on you. He went on of how proud he was of you and of the young lady you were becoming. His written words gave you both a sense of comfort and a deep sharp pain in your chest. 

Your hand turned to the last entry and you took in the date. It was the day before he left on a trip, the one he vanished on. You sucked in a breath and looked outside, tears brimming your eyes. While your father’s disappearance was devastating, you managed to get used to the pain over the years. Reading his journal seemed to open those cuts you long thought were healed. 

Your eyes scanned the delicate ink stains of his writing. His writing had always been a topic of jealousy for you, for it was always neat. He spoke of his upcoming journey. While he originally told you he was heading north, his writing revealed it was not the case. Your brows furrowed as you scanned the writing, certain excerpts reaching out to you.

The southern lake of Rosemagne… is the topic of contention among my fellow researchers because of the… I believe it is a good place to gather samples to…

You scanned the words with a rushed fervour. You did not recognize the lake's name and found yourself leaving the table and moving toward your bookshelf. The chair scraped against the floor. Once you grabbed the book you were looking for, you dashed back and sat down. You flipped to a map of the known lands and scanned the various bodies of water. Your finger dragged across the parchment as you scanned, but you could not find it in your kingdom. A tiny feeling settled in your stomach; a queasy sickness that churned the food you had eaten. 

“Please tell me you were not so foolish…” Your voice barely came out, a whisper so imperceptible even you did not know if you actually spoke it. 

You began to go over the known lands of the elf kingdom. Far larger than your own, you spent longer scanning the land. To your horror, but also correct assumption, the image of Lake Rosemagne sat just under your fingertip. 

Oh, gods…

Your father entered elf territory without permission. His disappearance could only mean a single thing; he was caught and properly dealt with. The cup on your table was hurled at the wall quickly and you began to lose control of your breathing, chest heaving with sobs that threatened to spill. This whole time you held to the belief he was still out there. 

Your mind conjured up scenarios where he decided to stay in a place he thought promising to his research. While naive, it was how you coped. There was no way you wished to admit the truth that had been clawing down your throat for years. The thought of him dead, of you being parentless and thus alone and without grounding in this world, was not an option for you. 

Your suspicion then turned to Aemond. Surely, he would have known about your father. As king, he would have been notified of any trespassers. There was the very possibility that he may have executed your father himself. 

No. 

Your brain refused to admit it. He would have told you or perhaps Helaena may have known. You shook your head at that, if Helaena knew she would have informed you immediately after piecing it together. She would never hide a thing like that from you, but Aemond… 

Was Aemond’s agreement to Helaena’s proposal of you coming here nothing but a way to lure you in? To finish the job and get rid of all possible people who would have known?

The two of you had just begun to bridge the cavern that separated one another. Assumptions would get you nowhere. Whether or not he had a hand in your father's likely death, this had to be handled with care. There was no proof he had done what your brain jumped to and you would not condemn him until there was evidence. You would play the field as necessary. Not reveal that you know and pretend to be unaware of it all. 

The room felt stifling. The walls closed in on you and you needed to get out. You composed yourself and splashed water on your face from the wash basin to get rid of the redness on your skin. You placed your father’s journal under the pillows on your bed to hide it. While not a good spot, you were in no headspace to think of someplace better. 

All you cared about was leaving the suffocating room.

The door to the library by your laboratory was a welcoming sight. You believed it was time to shuffle through the shelves again in hopes that you could find something new for your research. A title you may have brushed off in previous visits could stand out and be worth the read. 

You pushed open the wood and are greeted with a sight you wished to avoid. Aemond stood beside one of the tables, casually flipping through the pages of a book that had been likely left behind by some visitor. He looked bored as if he had been waiting for something. Alerted by your presence, he turned his head to see you. 

“Good morrow, your grace.” You bowed respectfully, but truthfully you wished to run as fast and far as you could. Images of your father flashed across your vision when looking at the king. The speculation of your father’s death conjured up just moments ago pressed down on your chest. 

Aemond spoke your name. It was incredible how shamefully you relished in the way it rolled off his tongue. While you stated that you did not hate him, you also did not like him. At the very least, you had begun to think of him positively, but with your discovery that trust was thrown away. 

“I was informed of your curiousness regarding dark magic,” Aemond continued. You got nervous as such information could likely have you in dire straits. He picked up another book that was on the table and walked over to you, “This was something I read a few centuries ago. I completely forgot about it until I was browsing my shelves and thought you would need it.” 

The way in which he casually threw out that he had read it a few centuries ago came across like a person reminiscing on an event from just a month or two ago. Your heart quickened at the notion that, while he was browsing his personal collection, he stumbled across a book and thought of you. It was a dangerous mode of thinking for you, to go down such a speculative path. 

Aemond held out the book and you went to grab it. The tips of your fingers brushed against his and a flurry of heat coursed up through your arm. You almost reflexively dropped the book by the shock you felt. 

“Thank you,” You responded once it was in your arms. You held it to your chest, like some kind of shield between you two. 

“I was thinking that I could also peruse the shelves here with you. I can translate the ones in other languages.” It was yet another olive branch extended from him, except this time you did not want to meet it. The thought of your whole presence being here as a trap set by him threw you off. 

The most dangerous creatures are often beautiful. 

You had not remembered where exactly such a phrase was ingrained into you. You had heard it from someone, but their words rang true. It was best for you to put up a wall before it was too late. There was nothing wrong with you and Aemond’s relationship just a few short days ago – barely acknowledging one another. 

“I do not need any help, your grace,” You interjected, “Daeron has translators if I need them.” 

It may have been a trick of the light or perhaps a misinterpreted thought, but you could have sword a gleam of disappointment flashed across Aemond’s eye. He shuffled almost awkwardly on his feet and moved his hands to be clasped behind him. 

He gave you a curt nod, “I shall leave you to it, then.” He moved past you to leave and his scent lingered. Burning wood and parchment undercut by a medley of spices. It was entirely too intoxicating.

The familiar sight of Lyra lying in her bed greeted you as you walked into the sick hall. She had been fiddling with a doll in her lap, stuck in the childlike wonder of imagination. As you approached, she spotted you and a smile made its way on her face. 

Lyra spoke your name, “You’re here!” 

“I’m here. And how have you been, sweet girl?” You sat on the edge of the bed and made a trained scan of her body, checking the progression of the taint as the purple-black darkness spread on her skin. 

“I am fine, other than the fact that I wish to know what is going on outside this hall,” Lyra answered. It was no surprise she wanted to leave. Most patients expressed the same sentiment. Their bedbound lifestyle was suffocating. While they were not contagious, their frail conditions would make any instance of walking painful and could worsen their condition. 

“I’m sorry, but you know you cannot leave this bed.” You reasoned. 

Lyra nodded and held out the doll. It was small - only slightly bigger than your hand and sizeable enough to fit in a pocket. The doll shared a remarkable resemblance to Lyra. Gold embroidery string replicated her hair and a small sewn outfit adorned the doll. 

“Could you take Lady with you? It does not matter what adventure she goes on, I just want her to see outside this hall.” Lyra asked you. Your hands reached out to take the doll and made sure to handle it with extra care. 

“I will take her on many adventures.” You promised. While you gave her a wide smile, your inner self was in turmoil. It ached at the sadness of her situation, something that many others were suffering through. You looked around the room and saw Daeron walking in from one of the balconies. 

You leaned over to tuck Lyra in, “I have something I need to discuss with Daeron. Get some rest, sweet girl.” Lyra nodded at your words and closed her eyes to go to sleep. You tucked the doll gently in one of your dress pockets and got up to stop Daeron as he moved down the centre aisle. 

Daeron greeted you before his face went still, “How serious is it?” 

“Pardon?” You responded. 

“You get this look on your face when you are going to talk about something serious.” Daeron raised one eyebrow, “Am I correct?” 

You grabbed his arm and started to pull him in the direction of the laboratory. You proposed many days ago the option of using dark magic against the taint off of the basis of your poison hypothesis. He promised he would think about it and you gave him space to do so, but now you were more anxious than ever for a response. However, you could not bring it up in a space full of other witnesses. 

Once in the safety of the laboratory, you moved to the book you had used for this discovery and pulled out the mortua terra flower samples as well. You had already gathered all of the other ingredients that made up your old formula – the one with the most success. 

Daeron looked back and forth between you and the table, “And this is?” 

“My proposal,” You told him, “I gathered the flowers in this book. I am ready, but are you?” 

He kept his gaze on the jar of flowers in front of him and rested his hands on his waist, “Dark magic is something that marks your soul. I cannot, with consciousness, allow you to do this alone.” 

You moved your mouth to speak, but Daeron held his hand out to stop you, “You do not need to pretend you wouldn’t have gone and done it yourself regardless of my decision.” There was something almost comical in the way he could easily read you and you wondered if the other elves could do that as well.

Daeron went about organizing the ingredients and prepping everything to work. You followed in his steps, cutting and juicing the ingredients while he spoke, “There are things such as light and dark plants. They are incompatible in mixtures together, but each serves well on their own. Light plants are easy to manipulate. Those flowers you collected are dark, so working with them requires extra preparation steps.” 

“And I am guessing those steps are difficult,” You interjected. Daeron picked up a single mortua terra flower and inspected it. 

“Yes,” He answered, “We need blood to leech out its magical properties.” 

You paused your movements and the metal stirrer halted but the liquid inside the pot continued to swirl, “Blood?”

“The blood is just a grounding force.” He lit a small fire under two potting zones and poured the liquid from your pot into them. “I am curious to see the difference between human blood and elf blood.” 

“But if we just need blood to activate it, what makes it dark magic?” You questioned him. Daeron turned and dragged two comfy chairs across the stone floor to be placed near the table. He adjusted the pillows. 

“The blood is a connection to you and your soul. The more potent it is, the more energy it takes from you. That is the risk with dark magic, it sucks your energy and your soul the more you do it. However, the more you do it, you eventually cannot stop. It becomes addicting.” Daeron then unsheathed a dagger that was strapped to his waist. The metal glimmered in the candlelight. 

He picked up one of the flowers and dropped it into one of the pots. Once it sank into the simmering mixture, he held his hand out and slowly cut a line on his palm. Beads of blood pooled to the surface and dripped into the pot. His brows furrowed as he winced. Daeron cleaned the blade in a washpot that was on the table. He then held it out to you.

“Your skin must make contact with the flower. Drop it in, wait a few seconds, and then cut.” You took the blade from him and a small wave of reluctance came over you. This is what you wanted, but it was still terrifying. 

You followed the steps carefully. Afterwards, Daeron gestured to the chairs, “Sit down. The longer it brews, the more energy will be drained. We will be here all night.” 

The two of you sat in the chairs that were placed next to one another and listened to the bubbling of the liquid. Silence enveloped the two of you. As predicted, drowsiness settled over you. It was not intense, but began to creep up on you. Daeron did not look as affected and you assumed that largely had to do with your races; elves were stronger than humans.

To occupy yourself, you decided to speak, “Why is your brother the way he is?” 

“I do not even know where to begin with Aegon. He-” 

“Not Aegon,” You interrupted, “King Aemond. Why is he…” You trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. One moment, Aemond is holding a sword to your throat and the next he is offering you a book and help. It was incredibly dizzying. It made you feel mad. Aemond’s attitude threw you off, but the shreds of kindness that extended your way erupted a flurry in your stomach and burning in your veins.

Daeron sighed, “He is guarded. Some of the things he has gone through made him-”

“Cruel?” You finished his sentence.

He shook his head in denial and adjusted his posture in the chair, “As I said before, everything my brother did was to protect his people.” 

You waited a few moments before responding, “I’ve met your family, all of you are incredibly kind. I’ve heard the stories of what he did during the Great War. Why is he so different?” 

“Most of the stories about him you humans tell are exaggerated.” Daeron stretched his legs out, some drowsiness already starting to come over him.

“So he does not drink the blood of his enemies?” You asked. 

“No.” Was Daeron’s quick response. 

You decided to go through all of the stories you could remember, “Hangs men up by their balls? Feeds dead children to their parents? Leaves field of impaled men as a warning?”

“No.” 

“He doesn’t set fields and towns on fire? Raid strongholds that had already surrendered, killing all the men inside?” Your tone moved to a more teasing manner. 

Instead of answering, Daeron got quiet. His silence was a confirmation and you sunk further into your chair. You could, if you tried hard enough, picture it in your head. Aemond, standing in a blazing field, bodies littered around, and the screams of humans being all that could be heard. You cringed at that and felt an overpowering feeling of guilt for ever allowing yourself to be entranced by him. 

In your state of exhaustion, you leaned your head on Daeron’s shoulder. He rested his cheek against the top of your head and the two of you stared at the brewing pots. There was one last question that burned at you, one you had asked Aemond but received no response. 

“What does rūklon mean?” Your pronunciation had not gotten better, but the point was still made. 

You could feel Daeron adjust his head slightly, “Why?” 

“I just…” You paused and wondered if you should tell him that Aemond referred to you by that word to Helaena, but decided against it for fear it might be bad, “I heard it in passing and wondered.”

“Well, it could refer to a blooming plant, but more often it just means flower,” Daeron answered. Helaena’s voice – mimicking Aemond’s words – echoed through your head.

That stupid little rūklon risking her life… 

Little flower…

Was it a connection to the fact that you wore the azure perfume that reminded him of his childhood? That may have charged extra anger towards you. You highly doubted, out of all possible reasons behind it, that Aemond meant it as some kind of nickname. Daeron’s confirmation of Aemond’s cruelty just moments ago came back to you. 

Some weird part of you felt the need to justify his actions. They were at war and he was their king. He had pressure over his shoulders like no other to keep his people safe. Aemond had to make decisions, hard ones, for the continuation of his kingdom. Quickly after that thought came more guilt. You felt cruel yourself for trying to find a likely reason behind his actions – to somehow justify the wholesale slaughter of your own kind. 

Perhaps, if you were lucky one day, you could hear Aemond’s side. 

Daeron was the one to break the silence instead of you, “I love my siblings, I truly do. Helaena is my closest friend and I am grateful to have her as a sister. But… I’ve always wanted a little sister. I know it hasn’t been a while since we’ve met, but I think of you as one.” 

You did not know if he was just sharing this with you because he wanted to or if the gradual exhaustion had something to do with his confession. Regardless of the reasoning, his thoughts matched something you had always had. 

“I’ve always wanted an older brother.” It was a simple response, but gave Daeron the comforting answer he wanted. He went back to resting his head against yours. In your shared state of comfort, the both of you eased into a dreamless sleep.

You were caught in that haze of sleep and awake. There were no dreams, just an abyss of darkness that wrapped you in warmth. In the distance, a part of your consciousness was creeping forward. It spun into action upon hearing your name being whispered. You felt a light press on your shoulder and came to. Your eyes opened to see Daeron crouched in front of you. He shook your shoulder with care. 

Your energy had been regained and you saw the table with the brewing pots to be on a low simmer. It likely had burned through the energy needed and made it so you and Daeron could wake. It was only when you adjusted in your seat that you saw Aemond standing next to the table and watching you with his arms crossed. 

“Your grace,” You shot out of the chair, but in doing so made your head spin. You would have tumbled if Daeron did not catch you. One of his hands gripped your right forearm and the other wrapped around your waist with care. You blushed deeply with embarrassment as the flush moved across your cheeks and down your chest. 

Aemond observed with a careful eye. You could see his one eye drift down to where Daeron’s arms held you and he pursed his lips. He had likely seen you and Daeron asleep together and wondered what was going on. 

“Burning a candle at both ends?” Aemond spoke. It was a weird question coming from him; to tease you about working late. Daeron released you and walked to the table where his brother was. 

Daeron gestured to the two simmering pots, “We are starting a new experiment that may likely be promising.” Aemond peered over to look into the pots and hummed. You approached warily and moved to the other side of the table to create distance between you and the two elves. 

“They should be ready for testing on samples, your grace.” You spoke. Aemond continued to look at the mixture brewing. 

“The flowers she brought back was a stroke of genius,” Daeron praised. 

Aemond then looked up at you, his expression unreadable, “The same ones collected from the forest?” His tone bordered on scolding. Any words you could think of got caught in your throat and you nodded. 

Daeron sensed a bit of tension and clapped his hands together once, “Well, you should tell him about your hypothesis,” You sent him a look of challenge and he reciprocated with a nervous smile. You did not know why Aemond was being combative. While he was quick to attitude, there was something that must have soured his mood. 

You cleared your throat, “Well, some poisons can be used to counteract others. I thought the same could be done to the taint but it only worked temporarily. I thought, perhaps, the taint was not poison but some kind of dark magic. That is why we needed those flowers,” 

Aemond opened his crossed arms and clasped his hands behind his back, “Smart.” That seemed to ease the king's annoyance and you were able to breathe. 

“I must get going to tend to patients,” Daeron announced. He addressed you and spoke, “Keep watch on the brew.” The prince said his goodbyes and left. You wanted to reach out and tug at the collar of his shirt, drag him from the door, and place him right next to the table. There was an overwhelming urge to curse him out that overcame you. He left you alone with Aemond, knowingly and seemingly acted as though it was funny.

You decided to distract yourself from the tension and moved to start organizing ingredients and other items on the table. The piercing gaze of Aemond’s eye fell like lead on your skin. 

“The two of you have gotten close,” Aemond uttered. You continued with your task, though you could still see him in the corner of your vision. The table between you two did not feel like enough room, yet at the same time, a part of you wished it was not there. 

“Well, the prince has been incredibly helpful in teaching me-”

“I would advise against engaging in anything further.” He interrupted, “You best understand that elves and humans do not mix.” 

Your brows furrowed and you ceased your movements. His words took a few thrumming beats of your heart to register. Aemond’s insinuation finally hit you. He believed, upon seeing you and Daeron asleep against one another, that feelings were beginning to bloom. You understood why he was suddenly so sour. 

You were a human and the slightest notion of you so much as coupling with an elf must have been what angered him. He expressed his reservations about you being less because of your race in the past. It had angered him even further that he thought you were not just trying to go after an elf, but a member of the royal family no less. He barely thought you were good enough to consider a friend.

“Oh, no-” You tried to interject and clarify, but Aemond interrupted again. 

“Best get back to work.” He gave you an uncomfortable smile as if hiding a tinge of pain and quickly exited the room. You were left alone in the laboratory. The bubbling of the pots became a background noise as the thrumming of your heart took over. You did not know why it was beating so quickly. At no point in that exchange did you feel scared or hunted, yet your heartbeat betrayed you. A heat had returned to your face and you shook your heat in an attempt to ground yourself. 

You moved to stir the two pots all while trying to ease the unknown feelings budding in your chest.

Chapter 11: A New Ally Preview

His eyes narrowed and you could tell his temper had flared. He then stood chest to chest with you and raised his arm. You stood with your shoulders straight, willing to take whatever he threw at you. Cole would not have you act out in violence towards him. Despite having made incredible progress here, your record was not entirely clean since your run into the woods. If you chose to attack an elf – especially a council member – no amount of advocacy on Helaena’s, Daeron’s or even Aegon’s account would save you from harsh punishment. 

As Cole narrowed in to strike you, a voice interrupted, “I hope I am gravely mistaken for what I am witnessing.”

☾⋆⁺₊✧ If you want to be added to the taglist, click here!

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[snek-panini]

I actually didn't mean to let nearly two weeks go by since my last bookbinding post, but somehow time has just slipped away from me till now. For today we have a pretty simple one, though:

This is Postcards from Paris, by ghostrat, a story that I asked to bind way back at the beginning of May. It's a Good Omens human au, involving letters received by an unintended recipient and a long sequence of getting to know one another via writing. I love epistolary stories and wish they were more common both in and out of fandom, and this one's really soft. Like the whole last chapter makes me feel all rosy and warm. Go read it if you haven't, it's wonderful.

More photos and such under the cut!

The cover up there is chocolate lineco book cloth with blue metallic htv. Like with many of my small-sized binds, I tried to not buy anything specific to this one and instead make something coherent from what's already on hand, and that philosophy lent itself well here. The story's about getting to know someone with only the verbal impression of them, not even their voice but just the words they choose and their handwriting, and has a lovely feeling of being overwhelmed by their physicality when you finally meet in person, and I think the stripped-down feeling of the bind fits that theme. It's deceptively simple, and you won't realize how deeply you're in love with the story until after you've read it.

Top view, with blue ribbon bookmark, and slate-blue plain cardstock endpapers. I'm pleasantly surprised by how well all the blues match, considering the htv was bought for another project, the endpapers were bought in a multi-pack for another different project, and the ribbon probably was cut from the shoulder of a fancy shirt. I really would have liked to do custom blue-and-brown end bands, but at barely 80 pages the book's too short for that so it's got premade ones in black and white. The front hinge wouldn't behave when I cased it, so it's got that weird wiggly part and I don't know why. I've used this cardstock for endpapers before and never had that issue, so it's a bit of a mystery.

Interior photos. The stripped-down, simple philosophy persists. About the only theming I did was to choose a handwriting font for the larger text, which seemed appropriate for a story told in postcards.

Random interior of typeset. This thing has so many scene breaks, my god. I sincerely thought about picking two handwriting fonts and putting all the postcards in those. They would have been opposing ones so you could tell who was writing without the scene break lines, but it was too difficult to read at this font size and looked kind of messy, so I didn't. I always size down the font a little for quartos, because the full-size one I use for folios looks weird on a half-size page, but this is the only time I've found that decision working against me.

And that's that! As always, I hope I did the story justice with this bind. The designs feel right when I make them, and I hope others agree. I've still got two more books to post from this late spring batch, so those'll be up over the next week or two.

[idle-daydreams]

goodness. i LOVE all your demon!chuuya works so much? i haven't been seeing this one quite often but is it possible for an angel!reader x demon!chuuya? :0 i'd love to how their dynamic plays out and how demon!chuuya finds it fun to play with an innocent angel!reader <3 (could be enemies to lovers!)

you can nsfw if you'd like, maybe something along the lines of a corruption kink or some sort?

have a great day!! :D

Tw: Spicy/Sexual themes, yandere, violence.

Powerful.

Greedy.

Perverse.

The words echoed in your mind. Demons were vile creatures, full of anger and hatred towards the rest of the world; the person before you, though indeed powerful, did not quite seem to embody that description.

“So you’re an angel,” he mused, circling you slowly, like a predator taking in his prey. “Interesting. First time I’ve seen one up close.”

“I am an angel indeed,” you said, tugging at your bindings uncomfortably. You’d tucked in your wings, but they were still being crushed against the rocky wall to which you’d been restrained. “And what manner of being are you, sir?”

“What manner of being am I?” he chuckled, stopping before you to gaze into your eyes. His own were rather striking; he was, as a whole, inhumanly beautiful, with a bearing reminiscent to the heroes of old, whom the humans liked to elevate to gods. But at the same time, there was a darkness lurking in his eyes, radiating off of him. With a start, you noticed the slivers of red running down his skin, web-fine cracks allowing his power to trickle through.

“Demon,” you hissed, trying to pull away. “You really are a demon, aren’t you?”

He laughed again, louder now. “What, it took you this long to figure out? And here I thought angels knew everything.”

His eyes were bright, his gaze challenging. More power - strong, raw, destructive - radiated off of him, setting your teeth on edge. The cracks seemed to be getting larger, letting more of his might seep into the world. A twinge of terror rose within your thrumming throughout your body. A demon would rip an angel to shreds if it got the upper hand; this one had you at its mercy, and there was no doubt that you were dead.

You tensed as he leaned in closer, closing your eyes and commending your soul to your lord.

Instead, a soft hand brushed your cheek, trailing down your neck. You gasped, eyes flying open, to see him gazing at you with hunger in his eyes.

“You really are beautiful,” he said, his voice low. “You know how long I’ve been watching you? How long I’ve wanted you? How long I’ve needed you with me, [Y/N]?”

His eyes burned with desire, with the hunger of a starving man. A thrill ran down your spine as the realization struck you that he knew your name.

“Who are you?” you said, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. “How do you know me? I am one of an order of thousands.”

“I have my ways,” he said with another demented giggle. “And for what its worth, my name is Chuuya. You may know me as Arahabaki, but then again, maybe not. I don’t care. After tonight, you’ll know me very well.”

His hands wandered lower, caressing your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your hips. A sudden heat ran through you, making you shudder.

“You like that?” he asked, grinning. “You enjoy it?”

“No,” you lied. “What are you doing?”

“Come on, don’t tell me you don’t know about sex. You don’t know how to have sex.”

“I understand the concept,” you said, flustered by the way he fiddled with the edges of your silken dress. “But I am an angel, I am not made for procreation.”

“Aren’t you?”

With a swift motion he lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he moulded his body to yours. “You’re really sure you’re not made for sex?”

“I-I-” Your thoughts floated away as you felt his manhood against you, against that soft, secret part of you that you’d never quite paid attention to. Your body had always been there, a vessel for your duties; but as he pressed himself against you, his body hard and strong, it was as though you’d been reborn for the first time. You could feel everything: the crumbling rock against your back, the grass beneath your feet, Chuuya’s breath against your lips. Heat pooled in your belly, running down your arms and up your chest. You opened your mouth, though for what, you weren’t sure - only for Chuuya to capture your lips in a fervent kiss. The air grew heavier as his power bled into the air; but it was difficult to focus, to care, not with Chuuya’s hands in your hair, caressing your body, tearing your clothes to claim you as his own.

“Mine,” he grunted. “You’re mine.”

“I-” You couldn’t argue. You didn’t want to argue. You were lost, lost in the throes of bliss, the delirium of an exquisite ecstasy you could never have imagined. You moaned, arching your back, throwing your head back to let him have you. His claws raked your skin, sullying your pure flesh, ripping your wings from your back.

“Stop!” you screamed, as pain cut through the haze of pleasure. “Stop it!”

“No,” he growled with a laugh. “No. Once these are off, you are mine!”

“No,” you said, tears running down your face even as your body reached its keening edge. “Wait, please don’t-”

The world went white-hot, drowning you in ripples of fire. Sparks danced in your vision as you clutched at Chuuya, who began to laugh.

“Now you believe me?” he cried out. “Now you know the truth?”

Panting as you came down from your high - that blasted, blessed high - you blinked at the demon, at the fire in his eyes, the blood dripping down his face. White feathers lay scattered around you, a numbness spreading down your back.

“What have you done?” you whispered.

“I’ve made you mine,” he said, lifting you up his arms, pushing aside the now broken restraints. “You’re never going back to heaven again, my little angel. You’re gonna stay with me forever in hell.”

[strawberrystepmom]

yami x f!noble reader. post coitus walk down a strange memory lane. suggestive, sex happened. | divider by @cafekitsune, wc 1.3k

“Why do you have that?”

Yami looks up at you from the end of the bed, his arm dangling over the side while he finishes pulling it all the way up. 

“This?” 

He holds up the small linen square he was working on unfolding into a larger square and you nod. 

Furrowing his brows, he shrugs. “Because you gave it to me…?”

The hesitation in his voice brings a small, soft smile to your face. You reach for the handkerchief and he hands it over without so much as a grumble, placing it gently in the center of your palm just as you did for him the day it became his. There would never be any denying this once belonged to you considering your initials and hand embroidery are slightly unraveled yet still stitched in the corner of the fabric. 

More than five years ago, a fresh faced newly minted noblewoman boldly pressed her favor into his hand. He was merely a Magic Knight back then, not yet designated with the honor of Captain. There’s no telling, then or now, what you were attempting to achieve with the move other than to get under his skin but it worked well enough that he has kept the reminder of you in his pocket ever since. 

For a moment, Yami debates asking for it back, simply to keep a piece of something that belongs to him and only him. A secret token of affection he should have parted with but has never quite found himself able to. It has been on battlefields with him. It has traveled deep in his pocket to neighboring countries and towns, up a lava filled mountain and back down. 

There’s history stored in the tidy stitches, even if you weren’t there to see it happen. And there is no longer any way to effectively hide what the insinuation meant to him. 

“Are you satisfied that it’s the genuine article now, your highness?” 

You glance up from the fabric in your hands and toward him, the pinched skin between his brows deepening with every passing second. The incorrect title is enough to indicate that you’ve managed to strike a nerve and the look on his face only solidifies it. Giggling, you lean in and press it into his hand just as you did years ago. 

“Passes my inspection although I wish I could go back and tell the younger me that her stitching needs work.” 

Your thumb lingers against the center of his palm. Yami sighs, aware that a barrage of questions is coming judging solely from the look on your face - those twinkling eyes and that deceptively innocent smirk.

“You’re under no obligation to answer me of course, but if I may, how have you managed to keep something so delicate intact for so long? I didn’t exactly put my best effort into making it a piece to be kept forever.”

Chuckling, he leans back down across the bed on his side. His bare chest rises and falls with each breath he takes, dark strands falling over his face messily. You reach out and push the hair away, exposing gray eyes and sharpened features, the same ones you first found yourself drawn to all those years ago, only slightly different. The breath in his chest stills for a moment when you glance down at him, cheek pressed against your knees which are quilt covered and pulled against your chest.

“Everything alright down there, Captain?”

When the two of you first started sleeping together he confidently assumed he could keep the whole ‘I remember you very fondly from every conversation we’ve ever had, no matter how brief’ situation under wraps. You’ve spent years passing by one another, two ships off to other destinations but sharing the water for enough time to get used to the weather. Only the fortuitous hand of fate can explain how the two of you ended up in the same tavern, on the same night, sending you both on a trail that has led here. 

Shaking his head, he smiles up at you, propping his head up with his fist. “Yup.” Popping the ‘p’ sound, he exhales a heavy sigh. 

What can he say that won’t make him sound either creepy or foolish? It’s not like he has spent years pining over you, he’s too busy for something as nonsensical as that, but he’d be lying if he were to insinuate it has been sitting forgotten in his pocket. There’s a blood stain on the upper left corner from when he wiped his nose with it after a fierce competitor got the best of him up close. It’s slightly discolored, off-white from years of rubbing against the dark leather of his pants. 

“I’ve never seen any reason to get rid of a gift someone else has given me, why would this be any different? Besides, sometimes a man just wants something that reminds him of home when he’s on the road.” 

Smirking, you gradually slide your legs beneath the covers and join him in lying down. Shifting to your side, you keep your hand extended to finger comb his hair back from his face.

“So you’re saying I make you think of home?”

Sukehiro is no stranger to women or their wiles and charms but you have always been somewhat unique compared to your peers. Bolder than most women he’s ever met, the perfect mixture of sharp tongued and soft hearted. Memorable and not just for the admirable beauty that has won you suitors and friends, allies and enemies alike. 

He harrumphs. You giggle in the way that makes the bridge of your nose scrunch, irresistible to a man that hasn’t been able to find a place to store all of that fondness outside of his pants pocket. Reaching toward you, he squeezes your nose gently which makes you laugh and distracts you long enough he doesn’t have to dignify your question with a response. 

Feelings are tricky, after all. It’s why he stays away from them.

“Are you gonna let me clean you up or not?” He asks, remembering why he pulled the kerchief from his pocket to start with. You shimmy closer to him, leaning to press the tip of your nose against his. “I don’t know. Are you going to answer my question or not?”

He peels the quilt back from your body with a smirk, ignoring you completely. You make no moves to actually prevent him from doing so, even staying still and patient when he gently pulls your thighs apart. The handkerchief makes its way between your legs, carefully and tenderly sopping up the mess of your release and his that has left your folds glossy and sticky. 

“Yeah, you do remind me of home. That there’s something worth protecting around here, at the very least.” 

The honesty pierces you and the comfortable quiet in one well aimed shot. An unexpected and slightly awkward laugh leaves you, mouth hanging open and shutting as quickly as possible, visibly taken aback. The corners of your lips twitch and your mind races, struggling to find the right thing to say which is almost unheard of for you. 

“All done.” 

Yami holds out the damp and sticky cloth for your review. Giggling, you scrunch your nose again. He laughs while tossing it on the floor with his clothes, making a mental note to wash it so he doesn’t pull it out of his pocket still crusty. Not that it would be the first time.

He rolls over onto his back, lying down by your side once again. Your hand easily finds its natural home in the strands of hair in front of his face, petting them backward.

“I’m relieved you kept it.” You finally admit, now that you can look into his eyes and say it. “I always wondered what you thought of me doing it in the first place.”

Sighing, he turns his head fully to look at you.

“I’ve never been one to turn down a free gift from a pretty girl. My manners aren’t that bad.”

Tugging on the strands of his hair between your fingers, you laugh and shake your head.

“Go to bed, Yami.” 

He leans in and smiles against your mouth, kissing you.

“After you.”

[freelancearsonist]

Sensation

Matt Murdock x afab!Reader

Rated MA for 2k of pure porn with barely any plot, consensual blindfolding, dom/sub dynamics (Matt punishing reader), oral sex, piv sex, all the sex

1,975 Words

A/N: as always thank you to my love @shakespeareanwannabe for being my best beta reader (and for the prompt ofc) 🖤 i wrote this in one sitting at like 10PM so sorry if it sucks LMAO

“This is a punishment,” Matt reminds you, his breath heavy enough against your ear to send a shiver down your spine. He knows it, of course–if your eyes weren’t firmly covered with his tie, you’d be able to see the smirk that slowly spreads across his full lips.

In your defense, you’re not sure how exactly he expected you to behave tonight. He had you get all dolled up so he could take you to a fancy restaurant for dinner, and of course he was the most edible thing in the entire establishment. It’s his own fault for looking so damned fine, really. If he hadn’t worn that sleek, form-fitting suit with that blood-red tie (the exact one now being used as your punishment blindfold), you wouldn’t have had to misbehave. And really, kissing him deeply in front of the whole restaurant wasn’t that bad. Even if you did grab his ass a little a lot. How could you possibly be expected to keep your hands to yourself?

Not that you’re really complaining about this punishment. Your eyes may have been the thing to get you into trouble in the first place, but every sensation is heightened so much further without their use

For instance, the way his hands trace down your thighs. Normally it’s nothing more than a touch to you, a mark of the journey on his way to where you really want him. Tonight, it’s more than that. It makes your body jolt ever so slightly when his hands first make contact, and then you notice the intention of his feather-light pressure as they move. It’s meant to drive you crazy, and it works perfectly. Normally, it would take more effort to get you squirming. Yet this simple touch rips a completely involuntary whine from your throat. You hear him chuckle, and you know he’s eating this up. Part of you wants to rebel, to not give him the satisfaction of witnessing you enjoy your punishment. But the other–larger–part of you wants nothing more than for his touch to continue.

You don’t have to ask–he’s gracious in that aspect. This time his hands work their way up, gliding over the smooth expanse of your stomach to his target. He revels in the gasp you emit when his fingertips dance under the curves of your breasts, almost but not quite touching in a way that makes you want to growl and beg for more.

But begging isn’t what’s on his mind tonight. He’ll give you anything you want without making you ask–Matt’s goal is stimulation.

And that’s why he wastes no time cupping your breasts in his hands, running the roughly calloused pads of his thumbs over your taut nipples. It feels divine; the perfect mix of friction and pressure. 

You’ve known from your first romp in the sheets together that your boyfriend is talented, especially when it comes to bedroom activities. He’s never failed to make you feel euphoria beyond your wildest dreams. But you’ve never appreciated his skilled hands as much as you do in this moment.

And then his mouth takes over for the hand that slides up to idly hold your neck–not applying pressure, just resting there as a subtle reminder of his power over you–and you swear you’re dying. You must be halfway out of your body and on the way to heaven because nothing should be able to feel this good. Especially not something as simple as his ever-so-soft and wet tongue gliding smoothly in a tight circle before laving directly over your nipple.

You jolt from the sensation and his hand is quick to shoot down to your hip, a steadying pressure to keep you in place as he continues the assault with his mouth.

It’s a lot, the combination of his hands and his mouth on your delicate skin. Especially with your senses tuned and stretched tight as piano wire. But it’s not too much, and he knows it. He knows he can keep pushing, and he wants to. He’s curious exactly what your breaking point will be.

Matt is rarely impatient, but he is now. The feeling of your trembling muscles, the scent of your neglected arousal, the sound of your panted breaths–it all drives him wild with desire. He’s aching and desperate for you in a way that he’s tried to train himself never to be. Patience is a virtue, after all; but there’s nothing virtuous about Matthew Murdock when he has you like this.

He trails his tongue down, down, down; only pausing for a moment to suck a deep velvet mark into the flesh of your stomach. It’s worth the reaction that comes from you–simultaneously trying to squirm away yet push closer to him. He loves you like this, so carnally unraveled. There’s not a thought in your head–a head that’s normally swirling with genius and creativity–which is such a luxurious rarity. He’s proud of himself, really, for his ability to unwind you so easily. 

He takes a moment for himself, soaking in your scent and sounds as he settles himself between your spread thighs. There are few places he loves to be more than right here, with your legs wrapped around his head and his tongue buried in you.

There are few places you love for him to be more, too. Especially like this, with every nerve in your body on high alert. The anticipation is deadly–without your sight, you never know when his next touch is coming. It’s maddening, entrancing, arousing. You don’t even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed of how wet you are; not that he would ever expect you to be. Matt is never quite satisfied until he has you dripping enough to necessitate a sheet change once he’s done ruining you.

You’re halfway there already, and he can’t deny himself any longer. You owe him, really–he had to skip dessert after your little display at the restaurant so he could drag you home.

Maybe he has a thing for your possessive nature. He doesn’t really feel the need to put a label on it.

The first light flick of his tongue against your waiting core is hardly enough to feel. Perhaps under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t feel it at all. But like this, with every ounce of your being wound tight with anticipation, it feels like a hot bullet of pleasure slicing through your cunt. It makes you whine and squirm, necessitating his large hands to come to your hips so he can hold his dessert in place.

The second flick of his tongue isn’t really a flick but more of a drag. Hot and languid, savoring the sweetness of your want for him. It’s Matt who moans this time–deep in his throat, completely unconscious. He can’t help it, not when you taste this good.

He really does want to drag this out. He wants to take his time making a meal of you, savor every second of your taste on his tongue. But he’s desperate, and teasing is out the door when he gets like this. There’s no time for you to prepare before he’s delving in, drinking from you like you’re his fountain of youth. 

It’s harsh, the sudden overload of sensation. It makes you writhe under his strong grip and gasp for breath as you try not to shatter into a billion pieces. It makes your thighs clamp around his head, holding him into place as a plea for him to not stop, to never stop. It makes your stomach churn, muscles aching from how tightly your internal coil is wound.

It makes you tumble over the edge with barely a second’s notice.

A fresh wave of wetness meets his greedy tongue as he basks in the sound of your moans and sobs, and suddenly he’s starting to wonder if this punishment isn’t for him. It must be, because the deep ache in his balls and the way his pants have tightened so unbearably can’t be anything but a punishment.

He’s eager to remedy this situation as his soft lips trace gentle kisses into the meat of your thighs, giving you a short reprieve from the onslaught of stimulation. Emphasis on short–all the while he’s unbuckling his belt and hastily shoving his pants and boxers down his thighs, too desperate to take the time to bare himself for you.

“Ready?” He asks, taking the time and attention to set a gentle kiss on your chin as he positions himself between your legs.

You nod, but it’s not enough.

“Words, baby.” That stern tone of his could make you do literally anything.

“Yes,” you say, and he’s balls deep before you’ve even finished the word.

It’s nothing short of overwhelming. The sheer size of him, which is already daunting on a regular day, is nearly unbearable. He’s stretching seemingly every inch of you, bullying your body into accommodating his girth. You feel his tip kiss your cervix, and it makes tears of pleasure prickle at the corners of your eyes.

In his favor, he does give you a moment to recover from the sudden shock of his intrusion. And then he rolls his hips–not even pulling out, but somehow managing to get even deeper. You feel him so completely it’s almost as if he’s in your god damned throat. And he relishes it; the salt of your tears, the hitch of your breath, the tremble of your chest.

He draws out almost completely, then bullies his way back in. Your cunt squeezes so tight around him that he actually swears–your good, sweet, church-going Matt curses the heavens for making you so tight and wet and willing. Because even as he sets his harsh pace, slamming into you with something akin to ferocity, you don’t complain. You take every inch of him with gratitude, nails scratching down his back because your blissed-out mind needs some form of purchase.

The blindfold really isn’t doing anything for you at this point; your eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that you hardly even register it’s there anymore. Your mind can’t focus on a single sensation, but it processes everything–the slick glide of his cock pounding into you, the slap of his thighs against yours, his mouth trailing panted kisses over your neck. There’s so much sensation that it overwhelms you, turns you numb as you clench even tighter around him.

He almost asks if it’s too much, although the thought of stopping now makes his gut ache. But there’s no need–as soon as his thumb sweeps lightly over your clit, you’re shattering. The pleasure of it makes you shake and cough, like your engine’s on its last leg and you’re about to break down on the side of the road. Your cunt weeps with the stimulation, soaking down your thighs and his until there’s no hope of redeeming these sheets. 

Matt doesn’t let up until your contracting muscles go limp, just in time for him to spill deep inside of you with a final harsh thrust of his hips. It’s warm and hot and the perfect sensation to end on, even as he slowly eases his length out of you so he can flop down next to you.

There’s nothing but the sound of heavy panting for a moment or two, and then Matt’s fingers find your face so he can undo the tie wrapped over your eyes. Then his lips are on you again; this time pressing gentle kisses over your sore eyelids.

“You okay?”

You take a moment to gather your thoughts. You’re not quite sure how to express just how okay you are. You decide on, “The only punishing part of that will be if we never do that again.”

He laughs as he pulls you to cuddle against his chest, because he’s thinking the same exact thing.

THE END

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