#truly an immense bitch your honor

[orangechickenpillow]

It's been so long I forgot what a little cunt Matt Murdock is

[x--daughters-of-darkness--x]

BUTCHER BABIES' HEIDI SHEPHERD Defends Return To 'Nipple Tape' For 'Freak On A Leash' Music Video

Los Angeles-based rock band GINA AND THE EASTERN BLOCK has teamed up with the "provocative rock 'n' roll dance troupe" Little Miss Nasty and BUTCHER BABIES co-vocalist Heidi Shepherd to record a cover of the KORN classic "Freak On A Leash". The NSFW music video for the track, directed by GINA AND THE EASTERN BLOCK vocalist Gina Katon and Jonathan Covert, can be seen below.

Shepherd has since taken to her Instagram to explain her decision to return to the "nipple tape" look for the clip, having previously performed topless with tape over her nipples in the BUTCHER BABIES' early days.

Heidi wrote: "Let's talk.. Over the past 14 years of my career, Ive grown into a woman in front of the whole world. Over those 14 years, Ive also seen the industry change. In metal, we've been told that its 'not metal' to embrace your feminine qualities but, Ive also seen the same women called ugly & gross when we dont. We've seen 'them' say that we women should tone down the bold but, then say that we need to be extra bold to play w the boys. THEY tell us (we all are) to be unique, then immediately pin us against & compare us to each other. We've seen them say that, 'people dont want to see women scream, we should sing & be pretty', then say that 'we're all clones' after THEY are the ones that shoved us in that corner to begin w.

"Ive felt the whiplash over the past decade of 'do this'.. Actually, 'do that'. And I have to be honest, I lost myself in all of that. Ive always been a girl to push boundaries and give [the middle finger] to the box that people have tried to put me in. As time has gone on, I feel like I steered away from the things that made me unique. Ive realized, that subsequently ended up in some pretty, little box with a bow that would make others feel comfortable.

"When approached to dive back into [nipple] tape for this music video, I admit, I was apprehensive cause 'OMG what would THEY think?' Then @henryflury reminded me of how hard Ive worked. He reminded me that I came into this industry as a BAMF & I still am. He reminded me that I'm here to FUCKSHITUP! He reminded me that the female body is a goddamn piece of art & I should feel comfortable in the body that Ive worked so hard for. From surviving gastroschisis, to overcoming a debilitating eating disorder, to breaking my back, to NOW crushing the gym; I should feel grateful & proud of the body I have. We all should! I deserve to embrace my feminine qualities in any form I want, whether its nipple tape or turtlenecks. Cause we all have those moments of feeling like a badass, sexy woman, then also where we wanna rock our sweats and a baggy-ass tshirt. We should be empowered by both!

"So thank you @ginaandtheeasternblock for the reminder & the opportunity to rewind & reflect! So stoked about the video. THIS BITCH IS BACK! -SMD"

Regarding the music video, Katon commented: "Our version of 'Freak On A Leash' has so many of my favorite musical elements in it — it's dark, trippy, beautiful, weird, massive, and of course, nasty. When Marc (the producer) first played me the track, my mind was immediately flooded with ideas for the video. So the video is honestly the perfect reflection of the music. And it was such an honor to be able to work with Heidi on the song and the video. She's a true pro, an all-around great human being, and immensely talented. Heidi embodies the fierce darkness, power, and beautiful eroticism of this track perfectly. We also brought in some of the badass women from Little Miss Nasty to sing additional vocals on the song and to be the unbelievably gorgeous and powerful co-stars of this truly timeless video."

Shepherd stated about the clip: "Diving back to my roots with Gina and the talented ladies of Little Miss Nasty was the perfect reminder that we women are fierce as fuck and should be celebrated for how unique and beautiful we ALL are! Embracing our feminine qualities while attacking a classically sexy song felt like the perfect mix of confidence and empowerment that I needed to be reminded of. I'm honored to be a part of Gina's vision that touches on all senses."

Four years ago, Heidi said that she has no regrets about the period in BUTCHER BABIES' history when she and co-vocalist Carla Harvey used to perform topless with tape over their nipples, explaining that it was meant as an ode to PLASMATICS frontwoman Wendy O. Williams, who had a song called "Butcher Baby".

While Shepherd and Harvey's look earned them plenty of attention, they were labeled a gimmick by some metal fans, with purists accusing the women of oversexualizing themselves in order to gain popularity.

Asked in an interview with the "Talk Toomey" podcast if she looked back on the nipple-tape look as a good idea or a bad idea, Heidi responded: "I think it was a good idea. It was something that people were, like, 'What?' We did in our band previous to BUTCHER BABIES too, so it wasn't something new to us."

She continued: "It's an interesting question, because I think that, in a lot of ways, it definitely hurt how we've grown, but I also think that it was a message that we stood for. The people who didn't get it and it got lost in translation, well, now they know. But in Europe, it seems like more people understood, which kind of makes sense. But it seems like in the U.S., I'm, like, did people forget about [Wendy]? [Laughs] Does the metal community not understand this? But I don't think that it was a bad idea. I think it was something that I did and I'm proud of. I don't really hold any regrets. I think that in life in general, these situations build to the bigger picture, and I think that having had that past and where we are now, it's kind of a cool evolution of the band too. It's unique. We went from being these young girls, bouncing around in nipple tape, screaming hateful things into microphones, to women, almost a decade later, grown up in the industry, helped with this women's movement, if you will. And I think that that sort of thing helped me become the woman I am today."

Heidi said that the changes in BUTCHER BABIES' visual appearance in recent years happened naturally as the band toured around the world playing to thousands of impressionable fans.

"It's really interesting, because when we realized that young girls were looking up to us and we had a responsibility of being a positive role model, it really changed my life for the better too; I started living my life more positively," she said. "And I think you can see that in the evolution of our look; you can hear it in the evolution of our music. So, in that sense, I'm fucking proud of it."

Heidi also reiterated that BUTCHER BABIES' early image wasn't meant as a clever marketing ploy designed to ensure maximum exposure. "That was not ever anything that ever went through my mind: 'Oh, this will help us get attention.' Because I was in a band for a year prior to that, that I did that," she explained. "I didn't think that it would ever end up here. I didn't think that it would ever amount to anything. I just thought we were gonna have some fun playing some original music with our friends along the Sunset Strip, 'cause that's what we did before. The only difference was, before, it was five girls and [we were playing] covers. And that's the reason we created BUTCHER BABIES — to do original stuff."

Heidi's comments echoed those made by Carla, who told Metal Underground in a 2016 interview that the band's nipple-tape look "was completely blown out of proportion. When we first started this band, we didn't do it to go out there and strut around on stage like Playboy models; we did it as kind of a 'fuck you' to the cookie-cutter music industry," she explained. "We were paying tribute to a woman in metal that we respected, Wendy O. Williams. And that was it. And the show has never been sexual — ever."

[elriell]

Throne of Glass: Re-Read Brief Thoughts/Moments

“I will not be afraid. For a year, those words had meant the difference between breaking and bending; they had kept her from shattering in the darkness of the mines.”

Friendships: 

Nehemia

“I’d like to see Eyllwe very much.” Nehemia’s gaze lingered on Celaena’s brow for a moment before she grinned. “Then it shall be so.”

“Cain and Verin laughed, but she and Nehemia walked away, the princess holding her hand tightly. Not from fear or anger, but just to tell her that she understood . . . that she was there. Celaena squeezed her hand back. It had been a while since someone had looked out for her, and Celaena had the feeling she could get used to it.”

“I sense much worry in you,” Nehemia said suddenly, “and I hear much that you do not say. You never voice any of your troubles, though your eyes betray them.” Was she so transparent? “We’re friends,” Nehemia said softly. “When you need me, I’ll be there.”

“No one has called me friend in a long time,” the assassin said. “I—” [...] “Thank you, Nehemia,” she said with sincerity. “You’re a true friend.”

“Nehemia squeezed her hand. “You’re my dearest friend, Celaena. It hurt me—hurt me more than I realized it would—to have things become so cold between us. To see you look at me with such distrust in your eyes. And I don’t want to ever see you look at me like that again. So I wish to give to you what I have given to few before.” Her dark eyes shone. “Names are not important. It’s what lies inside of you that matters.I know what you went through in Endovier. I know what my people endure there, day after day. But you did not let the mines harden you; you did not let it shame your soul into cruelty.”

“I name you Elentiya.” She kissed the assassin’s brow. “I give you this name to use with honor, to use when other names grow too heavy. I name you Elentiya, ‘Spirit That Could Not Be Broken.’ ”

“Our paths might be entwined, but . . . but I think you must continue to travel your own road for now. Adjust to your new position.”

Listen, I love them so much and it was so much more emotional reading this back. Their friendship was by far one of my favourites throughout the book, and I think I didn’t truly appreciate it for what it was worth the first time I read the book.

Chaol

“Friend?” he asked. She blushed. “Well, ‘scowling escort’ is a better description. Or ‘reluctant acquaintance,’ if you prefer.” To her surprise, he smiled.”

Despite myself I still adore their dynamic, I am a sucker for the reluctant friend, who starts slowly adoring the person. I felt for him and her at their own individual points. Even though tragedy awaits me ahead, despite myself I love them.

Dorian

“We all bear scars, Dorian. Mine just happen to be more visible than most. Sit there if you like, but I’m going to get dressed.”

“You deserve to be laughed at for such foolish thoughts! I spoke from my soul; you speak only from selfishness.

“You’re remarkably judgmental.”

“What’s the point in having a mind if you don’t use it to make judgments?”

“What’s the point in having a heart if you don’t use it to spare others from the harsh judgments of your mind?”

I did truly enjoy their dynamic through the book and though I didn’t ship it I certainly enjoyed their snarky banter.

Dorian x Chaol   (AKA one of my favourite lowkey dynamics)

“The worst of it was that they didn’t seem to notice he was different—or that he felt different. Were it not for Chaol, he would have felt immensely lonely.”

“You look radiant,” he said. “And you look radiant as well, Chaol.” He winked at his friend. ”

I just... Yes. This is my cup of tea, flirty guys. 

Nox

“Nox and Celaena remained by the table. His eyes were wide. “You were a slave in Endovier?” She couldn’t form the words to confirm it. Nox was too smart for his own good.”

I remember enjoying his part in the book and I am glad to say it remained so, I truly hope we see him again because they meshed really well together!

Fleetfoot

“It’s cruel to keep it from its mother!” The assassin reached into the shadow and scooped the puppy into her arms. She held it against her chest. “I won’t let you harm it.”

It has not truly begun yet but I know my furbaby is amazing.

Quotes I Loved:

“Oh, how wrong he was! Libraries were full of ideas—perhaps the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons”

“I hate women like that. They’re so desperate for the attention of men that they’d willingly betray and harm members of their own sex. ”

“That pretty boy? He grinned at me far too much—and you should only see how he winked at the other women in the court. I want a husband to warm my bed, and my bed alone.”  [LOVE YOU NEHEMIA!!]

“And what’s wrong with headstrong girls?” she pressed. 

“No. I can survive well enough on my own—if given proper reading material.”

“My name is Celaena Sardothien,” she whispered. “But it makes no difference if my name’s Celaena or Lillian or Bitch, because I’d still beat you, no matter what you call me.”

And finally....

“You could rattle the stars,” she whispered. “You could do anything, if you only dared. And deep down, you know it, too. That’s what scares you most.”

I know you will bby, I know you will.

 Urgh, wonderful. This book was like picking up an old friend, just as amazing as I remember it. At this point I doubt that there are many who haven’t read it but if you haven’t please give it a go if it sounds up your alley! 

On to Crown of Midnight!

[mandadoration]

before the winter

summary: anon asked: I am LITERALLY BEGGING on my KNEES for a sliver of Din (from that black and white drawing) with a breeding kink. He looks like he fucks wild, like supet dominant, almost primal, but extremely caring. Mando is definitely territorial over his girl. Bitch looks like he invented the breeding kink... I unfortunately cannot help that I am a whore for that man - Fool + anon asked: Could we maybe get some breeding kink din? Claiming his girl in the ultimate way, making her take his seed and punishing her if any falls out. He wants to breed her, wants to fuck himself and his seed so deep she will always be his, telling her dirty things while he does it, how she'll always be his, how she is going to take his cum like a good girl and not waste a single drop

word count: 1, 6222

pairing: clan leader!mandalorian x reader

warnings: smut, breeding kink, mild bondage

a/n: so the context behind the drawing by @magichandthing​ is “what if clan leaders dressed like this” and so uh

I’ve taken some liberties with thinking about if this were the case (i.e. clan leaders =/= covert leaders, but still in high standing? maybe some sort of council?) I’ve also amended the Ways of the Mandalore and Mandalorian culture to try and explain his dress. 

Also kind of expanded on this post?

Read this on AO3

In the turbulent times of today, trying to make sure the Ways of the Mandalore didn’t die out were crucial. Mandalorians were an endangered way of life already, and the current political climate wasn’t the best environment for expanding. Secrecy and discipline were enforced. Mandalorian coverts were hidden with high security and discretion. All members of the covert had to be on the same page at all times to reduce risk. After all, the best way to stop something was to stop it from happening in the first place. All of these preventative measures, but time marches on without a care. A new generation had to be brought up. 

Foundlings were to be revered, but there always seemed to be an undercurrent of tragedy underneath all that. A foundling wasn’t taken in by a clan unless they were all alone, and as death tolls rose, more and more were orphans. There seemed to be an increase of that, it seems. Young children left alone in the cruel world forever torn apart by war. As Imperials do anything and everything to scrabble for power, numbers were growing seemingly by the day as more and more children were taken under wing. They were cared for, and even loved, for a found family was just as important as beskar.

But a child born into a clan was something to be celebrated. 

“Mando--”

Which is why your whimpering voice and the wet sounds of your bodies meeting were echoing around the empty chamber as Mando takes you from behind. 

As a result of circumstance, the Way has amended itself a little, and life became different compared to what it was in the past. It still retained the heart and soul of Mandalore, staying true to the real meaning of what it means to be a Mandalorian, but times have forced change, especially concerning clans. For example, within their home turf, clan leaders forwent the usual pomp of beskar. Of course, anywhere else, and they would proudly show off shining armor and the best gear. The show of bare skin was a testament that they have earned their title through blood and body, a way of showing their status. To have the grace to bare their skin, especially in these dangerous times, was an immense show of power. 

For you, it just means less layers. Less layers meant Mando could sheathe himself into your warm heat faster. Less layers meant it’d be easier and more convienent to fuck a child into you. 

You weren’t a Mandalorian. You weren’t a foundling and you didn’t swear the Creed, but you were unequivocally Mando’s, and you were his to take whenever he felt like it. It’s a high honor to catch the eye of a clan leader, especially one as selective as Mando, and you became a person of intrigue when it was revealed you weren’t bound by the Way. Despite the eyes that follow you and the ever-so fleeting touches from others in the covert, the marks that never failed to show on your throat far above what any collar could hide spoke more than words. 

The last time someone put their hand on you, Mando had no hesitation on showing what happens when someone fucks with something that belonged to him. 

Paz Vizla’s broken arm was a testament to that. 

Mando puts a firm hand on your back and pushes you down, keeping you face down, ass up as his hips snap forward against yours. Each thrust makes you scoot forward the slightest, and punched out moans seem to be the only sound you can make beyond the occasional garbled sound of his name. His grip is bruising on your hips, and he pulls you back to meet him halfway in an effort to increase his pace. Mando’s breathing is labored, a soft groan going through his vocoder every now and then, but he’s rather impassive considered how brutally he was fucking you. 

Mando’s beads and necklaces have long since been discarded, and his pants are only shoved down far enough to reveal his cock. You wish he could pull you flush against his chest, but the horns soldered onto his helmet prevents you from getting too close. You don’t mind, and you mind even less in those rare moments you’re on top, holding on to those horns for stability as you fuck yourself on him. But Mando had descended upon you far too quickly and without any preamble that you had no time to even ask him what was going on. Clothes were taken off, and if too much of a hassle, ripped off, his belt secured around your wrists and shoved to the cold floor of his room. Your hands are bound in front of you with it, the Mudhorn buckle, the symbol of his clan, glinting in the low light of the room. He at least had the sense to lay his cloak underneath you, and the fur trim gave your hands something to grasp at. 

You only feel the slightest bit of guilt when your tears soak the fine fabric. 

Mando moves his hold on your waist to your arms, yanking you back as your back arches and lets Mando somehow sink deeper into you. The moan you let out is filthy, and you think through the haze that you’re being a little too loud, and others were sure to hear. So you bite your lip, teeth tugging on the soft skin as you try to stifle the sounds, only for you to yelp when Mando slaps your ass before he goes back to hold onto your arms.

“Let me hear you, sweet girl,” he breathes. “Don’t hide yourself from me.”

Your shoulders are straining at the joints from the angle you’re held up in, but you’re so close that you ignore it in favor of increasing your moans tenfold as per his request. In turn, a deep, guttural growl emanates from Mando, making you clench around him. 

“Fuck,” he snarls. “My sweet girl, so- so tight, so willing, and all mine.” He punctuates each word with a sharp thrust that makes you shake. Mando slips out of you, chuckling under his breath at the needy whine you give, and flips you over so that you’re on your back. One grabs your bound wrists and pins them above your head, and the other comes down to lead himself back into your blushed hole, the sweet drag of his cock curling your toes and making you see stars. As you stare up at his helmet with glazed-over eyes, you can see how truly debauched you look in the reflection. Hair mussed, face flushed, eyes shining with unshed tears, seemingly frozen in a permanent state of euphoria. That’s what Mando saw when he looked at you.

You wish you could kiss him. 

And that’s another thought that’s fucked out of you as Mando resumes his previous pace. Harsh, unforgiving, and with a clear purpose in mind.

He leans in as close as he can. “Are you going to cum with me?” Mando croons. You nod frantically, half delirious from the rising rush of your orgasm, and give a moan of appreciation when Mando dips his hand down to rub at your clit, matching it in time with each thrust. “Where do you want me cum?” he asks, and it’s a misleading question because you know all he wants to hear is you beg for it. “In your mouth? On your face? Wherever you want, sweet girl, I will do it.” Mando’s voice is so tender and soft, borderline condescending compared to how ruined you feel. He’s close, you can tell, the strong, corded muscles under his skin jumping and straining to maintain an even pace, and he gets awfully wordy when he’s about to cum. 

“In me!” you gasp out, clenching and unclenching your hands, nails digging into your soft palms. You strain against your bonds, wanting so badly to bring him close, to touch him. “Please, fuck, Mando, cum in me!”

“Anything for you,” he grunts, “Anything for my sweet girl,” and with one final swipe at your clit with the rough pad of his gloved thumb, you’re cumming, mouth open in a soundless scream as your eyes roll back into your skull. Mando buries himself to the hilt, moaning through the voice modulator as he releases inside of you, and from how much he absolutely fills you, his hot cum has nowhere to go but out, leaking over his cock and smearing over your thighs. His cloak is definitely stained from that. 

As you start to come out of your haze, whimpering one last time with a hoarse voice as he slips out, the ridge of your entrance catching on his head, you’re glad that your hands are bound because you’re sure you would’ve torn up Mando’s back with your nails. You run your fingers over the crescent marks dug into your palm. 

Maybe he’s into that. You’ll have to ask some other time. 

Your heart rate picks up again when Mando makes a displeased sound, almost disappointed, running a finger over your abused entrance. “That won’t do,” he sighs, and he scoops some of his leaking cum to shove it back inside your hole, not caring when you jolt and sigh with each insistent press of his fingers. 

You give him a breathless, “What?” and Mando just hooks his arms under your legs to bring him flush against his hips again. 

“I said, ‘That won’t do’,” he repeats, slower this time, and your face reddens again when you feel his softened cock twitch against the cleft of your ass. “Because you’re a messy girl, and I’m aiming for a child before winter comes.”

---

Forever Tag: @mabelleen @mando-vibes @isaissafail @adikaofmandalore @lavenderl3mons @jokersdoll​​ @creamysacrilege @blondecity​

Pedro Tag: @mrsparknuts

[widowsofchaos]

Can I request “147. “I’m not sure how many coffees it takes to be happy, but so far, it’s not twelve” from the prompts list??❤️

❝ Never Enough Coffee

summary: black coffee is vital for one grumpy unstable 100 year old man.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x black!reader

Cait, I love you so much. It’s not even funny! Thanks for requesting, you’re the damn best. Icon? Indeed. I did this with Bucky, cause we just a bunch hoes for that beautiful dork. <3

Fluff, grumpy Bucky, Sam, and Bucky banter, and a smidge of implied smut. I apologize that this isn’t that good, or have poetic wordplay that I’m practicing, I just haven’t written anything in over two years, so be gentle with me! Lmfao, I hope y’all like this! Pls request more!

Requested from this prompt list.

Do Not Repost My Works!

It’s a crime.

A crime against humanity — not even Captain fucking America going against the Accords, against 117 fucking countries can touch the immense severity of this.

It’s bright and sunny, 8 o’clock in the morning to be exact, and Bucky Barnes – the Sargent of the Howling Compandos, Brooklyn’s forgotten 40s’ Casanova, the Winter Soldier, the fist of HYDRA, a ghost story, one of the best assassins in world history, right next to Romanoff, respectfully — is up and out of bed.

And he’s ready to have heads roll.

The compound’s windows are wide open and the sun is mockingly baring it’s warm ass into his groggy eyes. His nose is scrunched up in annoyance, sitting in the compound’s kitchen, as he begrudgingly sips his coffee — black like his soul.

“Good morning, old man.” A sing-song tone pierces through the air, disrupting any peace and quiet Bucky clings for.

Of fucking course.

“Fuck off, tweety.” Bucky’s lowly growled as he sipped his beverage. A sneaky chuckle filtered behind him, “Tsk, is someone a little grumpy?” Sam’s babified tone causes Bucky to clench his metal hand into a fist, the metal softly rearing.

Samuel Wilson, a former United States Air Force pararescue airman. Use to work at the Veterans Affairs department to assist soldiers for rehabilitation services, and much more. Has been an helping aid for Bucky during his rehabilitation back at Wankanda.

A man of honor.

But as of today, Sam is in the same damn boat as Bucky. Grumpy, exhausted, and infuriated. Not an soldier, not the Falcon, just Samuel Wilson. A man who yearns for his bed. So fuck honor right now, he’s wants to push buttons. A bilious man on a mission.

Waking up early for a long meeting among the Avengers, and then training new S.H.I.E.L.D recruits. Long strenuous hours of combat, practice at the gun range — oh God, he’s not ready.

He was a inch away from ripping Steve’s head off earlier at 6 in the morning, to go for their run. Almost flipping Steve off, and tell him to ‘go fuck himself in his perfectly sculpted patriotic ass’. He didn’t though. Rogers didn’t deserve that.

Barnes on the other hand?

If Sam has to be miserable on this damn boat with Bucky, best believe he’s gonna make him suffer along with him. Barnes and Wilson are kindred spirits when it comes to terms of bickering. A love-hate yin-yang, can’t live with each other, and can’t live without each other.

All for one, bitch. Wrestle with Barnes off the boat—figuratively.

If only.

Gripping the mug tighter in his flesh hand — just a little more tighter and Bucky could crack the cup into multiple little pieces.

But he won’t let his frustration get the best of him, no matter how much Sam gets a hard-on for pissing the WWII veteran off.

It’s a NASA mug you bought for him, a constant reminder that lets him know how you pay attention to his personal interests, and he cherishes everything you buy him.

Just being in your presence is the only gift he ever truly wants.

A whirring noise infiltrated through the air, and entering the kitchen. A gust of air whipped against Bucky’s dome, a flash of red and grey wizzing by.

The ungraceful flight caused Bucky’s long chestnut tresses to be ruffled in different directions, and even get his ends in his eyes; earning a belly laugh from Sam, and a programmed chirp from the infuriating metallic bird.

Redwing. The trusty companion of Sam. His empathic link, his side-kick — a pain in the ass. Might as well be Sam’s child. Jesus — it is.

“I swear Wilson, one of these days, I’m gonna get Alphine to destroy that thing. Don’t be surprised to find it dead with claws marks, and chewed wires.” Bucky’s steel gaze that bored into Sam’s soul, spoke volumes of distain.

“You will do no such thing! You keep your furry menace away from my child!” Sam roared, extending a threatening finger at Bucky, his brown face turning a shade of slight burgundy as his face flushed with rage.

Sweetly petting Redwing on it’s head, whispering assurances that no act on it’s life will occur.

“Then tell your kid to stop baderging me in the morning!”

“It’s not his fault, you’re a grumpy old man!”

“Shut up!”

“At least, my son is just playing around! What about Alphine?! She’s an attention-seeking hog, and always fucking with everybody. But the moment you or y/n walk through the door, she’s a little angel! Her grimy little paws behind her back! Your kid is indeed a menace!” Sam’s sneered as he protectively held Redwing against his chest.

“You take that back! She’s a good girl!” Bucky’s stood up from his chair, ready to fight. His Alphine? An angel! His sweet little princess!

Another heinous crime in Bucky’s books: don’t ever insult Alphine.

Sam and Bucky kept bickering back and forth, voices rising higher and higher. Tempers flying. Releasing their frustrations onto each other, insults hitting each other like bullets, but yet not a slight crack in their shield of friendship.

“Would you two stop it?” A sweet melodic voice rang through the two aggressive voices that dominated the area. Bucky’s head swiftly turned to see you standing at the kitchen entryway in all your glory.

Even with messy bed hair of your curls straying in different directions, in Bucky’s eyes the curls was voile and woven by baby cherubs. His mind going hay-wire with the mantra of mineminemine when he see his red Henley that was hanging over your shoulder, perky breasts bounce effortlessly against the fabric, and weary eyes — you glowed as if you had an halo.

As if diamonds and pearls were glimmering underneath your pores — illuminating a shimmering bronze complexion.

“Good morning, doll.” A genuine smile curled on Bucky’s dreary mug, hightlighting. Dashing and wrapping his biceps around your waist, softly kissing you, instinctively you ensnared your forearms around his neck, clinging onto him like a life-line. A small whimper erupted in the back of his throat.

This is what he needs. To stay in today, and crawl in bed with you, and be as one. Craft a makeshift of the walls of a womb, limbs entangled, inhaling breaths, lulled by synchronized heartbeats.

“Good morning, doll.” Sam mocking Bucky’s endearment in a lower octave, a poor imitation,garning a low snarl from Bucky.

“Stop it you two. It’s too early for this shit.” You sighed, eyes closed, as you basked in Bucky’s natural sweet musky and mint scent. Rubbing your nose in his broad chest.

Both of you tuning out Sam slamming the refrigerator door as he scoured for ingredients, and clanging his pan on the stove to prepare his breakfast.

Bucky grumbled incoherent colorful hexes as he gingerly placed chaste kisses against your hairline. Sniffing your hair, needing to scent you like a wolf to gather his bearings.

You giggled at the breathy pecks, refusing to let you go, such a possessive teddy bear he is.

“Jesus, he can’t function without you.” Sam chided, as he cracked eggs into the sizzling pan, wordlessly Bucky buried his face into your curls, to prevent giving Sam a good old fashion tongue-lashing.

“Sam, knock it off. Just because you’re angry, doesn’t mean you have to bother Bucky.” A grin stretched on Bucky’s bearded jaw. His best girl always defending him.

“Nah, he’s insulted Redwing. Made my boy feel bad, remember I can feel everything he feels. And right now? He ain’t feeling all to happy.”

Chest puffed, demonstrating an angry father protecting his metallic pup, “Barnes needs to apologize!”

Softly tugged at the long hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck, Bucky whines from being detached from your hair, sternly gazing into his blue-grey pools, “Baby, what did you say?”

Guilt floods him, he didn’t mean it, he’s just — angry! “I said I would get Alphine to hurt Redwing—”

“Threats of claws and wire chewing!”

Bucky winced, “But he said Alphine was an attention hog! That’s she a menace! Our little one isn’t that!” Bucky whined. You had to stifle a laugh, oh for sure, Sam is right on the money.

Alphine is a spoiled brat, but it’s still wrong. She’s a good girl when she wants to be.

“First Bucky apologize to Redwing, and Sam—” your eyes shift to look beyond Bucky’s broad shoulder, to see Sam rolling his eyes, “Apologize to Bucky.”

Both men grumble like over-grown toddlers, “Fine.” Bucky yields, “Alright.” Sam caves in. Bucky reluctantly turns his body to face Sam, “I’m sorry Sam and Redwing. I didn’t mean what I said. Redwing isn’t bad.” Bucky looked to the metal bird, genuinely apologetic.

“I’m sorry too. Alphine isn’t a menace.” Sam mumbled, resuming to petting Redwing. “Okay, good. Now that we’re back to friends, let’s have some breakfast.” You faux cheery tone set a serene atmosphere.

Redwing flew and circled around you, chirping a hello. You blew a kiss to the empathic companion, as it took it’s rightful place back on Sam’s shoulder.

Bucky resumed back to his seat, to mull over his coffee, and Sam back to continue to prepare his omelette, wordlessly.

You smirked as you snaked your way to hug Bucky from behind. A chaste kiss on his temple, a shiver crawling down his spine.

Your nimble fingers found refugee in Bucky’s long waves, massaging his scalp by the pads of your tips.

His lashes fluttered closed, savoring your touch. “Yes, doll. Just like that.” His head hung backwards, his chiseled face facing you.

You placed a lingering kiss on his forehead, as you didn’t relent your soothing kneading. A broken moan escaped Bucky, not caring that his grunt was near close to the spectrum of pornographic.

Sam nearly vomited over his sizzling eggs, “Ew, both of you knock it off.”

“Oh shut it, Foghorn.” You muttered, plump lips inches away against Bucky’s forehead. Painting silver-toned kisses on his smooth skin, Bucky snorted.

“Son, I say – I say, ah he’s about as sharp as a bowling ball.” Bucky’s sardonic jeering guised under a over-extragerated southern accent making you both burst into fits of laughter. A pissing on the iconic cartoonish rooster. He open his eyes, as you two laughed, Bucky just adores your cute giggles. How your nose scrunches upward.

“Oh ha, ha, ha. You both are assholes.” Sam grunted, as he thrusted his spatula in the pan to fold his omelette.

“We made a funny son and you’re not laughin’ ”, you participated in the wisecracking, in an nasally southern belle accent, quoting the famous rooster.

“Knock it off.” Sam murmured, his eyes lowered, throwing daggers at the cackling couple. The chuckles died down, “Alright, alright, we’re sorry, Sam.” You fluttered your eyes at Sam, “You know I adore Falcons.” You delicately plant your chin on Bucky’s dome, as he repositions his head.

“I prefer Hawks.” Bucky’s kvetch crawls under Sam’s skin, “Hey!” He shouted, “Enough!” You chuckled, stoping anymore childish fights.

“I need more coffee to handle him.” Bucky spoke as he gulped down the rest of his caffeine’s beverage. You took the mug from him, “I’ll get you more, baby.” Twisting your head to his side-profile, you meshed your lips on his.

Bucky has a small goofy grin, “Thank you, doll.”

Sam finally finished with his breakfast preparations, sat at the island far away from Bucky, you quickly replaced his silver-ware with a plastic fork and knife.

No stabbing at this early hour.

One incident of an injured bird, and wolf was enough.

“I have a rising suspension that this isn’t your first cup this morning” you peered over your shoulder, to see Bucky just hazily staring at you, chin leaning on the heel of his palm.

He hummed in response, “Not even close, doll.”

“I can tell, you’re a little grumpy today. Although, I don’t want you strung out on caffeine just so you won’t rip someone’s head off.” The steam of black coffee wafts in the air, as it poured and slushed in the coffee maker.

Bucky fussed, “You know I’m not a particularly happy fella, doll.”

“Well, I just want my man to be happy.” The coffee-maker dinged, signaling the coffee was finished. Quickly taking the pot out to pour the hot steaming blackness into the cup, and making your way to Bucky.

“And if it means, making you a shit-ton of coffee, just to get you to crack a smile, so be it.” A toothy smile winked at Bucky, your shiny oval-arlyic nails scratched behind Bucky’s ear — his sweet spot.

It took all his strength and restraint in his body not to take you right there in the kitchen,

“I’m not sure how many coffees it takes to be happy, but so far, it’s not twelve.” Bucky lifted the cup to his pink lips, his eyebrows wiggled at you jokingly. Sam choked on his chewed eggs, drinking water to wash down the food that traveled down the wrong pipe.

“Jesus, Buck —” cough. “Twelve?!” Sam was patting down his lips with his napkin, “I would crawling up the walls by now like a crackhead.”

You snorted, bent over, lowering your lips to Bucky’s ear, salutary and husky, “I wish you had me crawling up the walls, babe.” It was now Bucky’s turn to choke, narrowing his eyes to you, “Don’t start something you can’t finish, doll.”

“I’m not doing anything.” Your hands innocently in surrounder, defensely, “I’m behaving.” Your coy smirk said differently.

A debauched moan grumbled in Bucky’s thoart, “You know what — fuck work today, I’m gonna have you front, side-ways, and the back. All damn day. Now that put a fucking smile on my face.” Bucky stood up from his seat, his intimating stature hovering over you.

Sam’s arms flew in the air in defeat, bile rising in his throat to the mental picture of two of his closest friends having cotious.

“We eat here.” He whispered under his breath, very aware of Bucky being able to hear him crystal clear.

You shuddered, “Really ... ? How about we start to have sex right here, right now?” You sunk your nails against his chest, trailing down his torso. Bouncing on the tips of your toes, to kitty lick the tip of Bucky’s nose.

“NO! Why do you two get off torturing me?! Go fuck in your room, you heathens!” Sam roared, picking up his empty plate to clean in his sink, Redwing chirped in agreement.

“Twah, poor baby.” You lean over, after jokingly leering at the birdman, stepping forward to Bucky. Tilting your head up to him, his natural body heart buzzing over you, pressing your lips to his, meeting you half-way.

“C’mon angel, let’s get back to bed.” Bucky mumbled against your lips, softsoftsoft, so this is what love feels like. As if his soul had a million suns radiating in his cavity, circling around his heart like fiery orbs. Happiness stretching like the milky way, interstellar clouds of dust decorating in his hues, grey-blue of spiral galaxies of adoration beam right back at you.

To be touched — to be loved.

Bucky linked his calloused fingers in yours, you loved the contrast your bodily textures. Bucky was soft buried underneath hardened shields of battles and trauma. You love to trace his scars – the scarrings of an old soul.

Bucky and yourself practically skipped out of the kitchen, with not so much of a goodbye to Sam.

No offense taken, he knows he’ll see the two soulmates later. A little frustrated that he’ll be training recruits solo today, but what can he do? Love cannot be stopped.

Sam snickered, happy that those two are happy and care-free. “Look at those lovebirds, Redwing. Ah, our favorite type of birds.”

-

tags: just tagging my favorite writers and mutuals who inspire me and had the pleasure of talking to:

@darkficsyouneveraskedfor @helahades @cake-writes @nacho-bucky @cherrypickertheory @sinner-as-saint @imanuglywombat @bugsbucky @romantic-barnes @speechlessxx @honeybucks @cherienymphe @venusbarnes @wkemeup @simsadventures @invisibleanonymousmonsters @ozarkthedog @sebbybarness @avintagekiss24 @wiensrsoldier @all1e23 @xetoilerouge @et-lesailes @spacesnail3000 @moonbeambucky @buckyskorpion @buckysknifecollection @buckys-darling @sapphirescrolls @bitsandbobsandstuff @extremelyblackandwhite @scrumptious-delusion @until-we-fall-in-love @fafulous @rogueobservation @your-persephone-writes @sophiria @cpn-hydra @browngirlmagic @jobean12-blog @carolmaximoffs @caws5749 @marvelcapsicle @star-spangled-beard-burn @missmonsters2 @xbuchananbarnes @captain-kelli @fvckingavengers @suz-123 @redgillan (there’s much more I wanted to add but I couldn’t fit more in, lol!)

[allthatglittersisnotgoldrush]

Truly a golden series! And since you encourage anon questions, I was wondering how you'd order the villains from Absolute Worst to I'd Personally Deck Them but They Can Live? Also maybe with a dash of spoiler-info? I'm honestly intrigued with how you manage to write such compellingly loathable characters like Mairon and Bauglir.

Ahhh thank you! It’s admittedly rather cathartic to write the *worst* people in the world.

The author groupchat has consulted and the following ranking (with a few OCs* stitched in) is as follows. From worst to most...likeable?

1. Melkor Bauglir/Morgoth

He’s just incredibly, incredibly vile. Disgusting to his core and given to long, irritating rants. Prurient af. Brutal and illogical. Also really scary when he has you in his clutches because it’s just. Impossible to escape. S/O to Maedhros for sort of managing to get most of his body away. *waves sad, single hand*

2. Gothmog

Infinitely cooler than Morgoth but equally hellish. Bigoted, abusive, oppressive, and terrifying. Morgoth will take a long time to kill you, and that’s bad, but Gothmog will shoot anyone on sight and that’s--devastating. *Sighs in the direction of canon kills*

3. Mairon

An edge-lord, but the edges are too sharp, they’re literal knives. Run. Bonus points, I guess, for actually creeping out the authors who write him. He gets the award for the best jump-scares.

4. Glaurung

A frat-bro for the ages who has benefitted from white supremacy. So like, a villain for our current age? He’s very shiny, but he sucks. He will stir up a lot of trouble, and you asked for a little spoiler--let’s just say that Glaurung steps into a semi-canonical role/moment that is coming up but wouldn’t have otherwise fit in our timeline. Multi-tasking!

5. Thuringwethil

A bat out of hell. Makes you feel bad about having the hots for Mae; the ultimate crime.

6. Goodley*

This man is just a jealous bitch, and wins the award for worst side-kick. The award is literally a kick to his side; please line up to administer yours.

7. Murphy

He has no right to be Frog’s father. Dead in a ditch, as he deserves.

8. Ulfang

Had the immense honor of losing at cards to Maedhros Feanorian; f’ed up that legacy about as profoundly as anyone could. Known weasel.

9. Ancagalon

Not a good or nice person but also has no time for men’s bullshit and that’s an admirable & relatable quality. The canary probably isn’t long for this world though.

More spoiler info? We wouldn’t have brought the dragons in if we weren’t going to have them spew flames some time or another. :)

[0721am]

Dear Beeshi,

Happy Birthday to my sweetest, loveliest, super adorable - namjinist, Beeshi! I hope you had a wonderful 21 and welcome to a new chapter of your life, twenty-two. 

It's been a crazy year isn't it? We got into BTS and have been enjoying the journey at the max. Then miss Rona had her debut and currently ruling the world. I mean, we never expected we will be celebrating our birthday during a pandemic. I'm always bitter how we couldn't send each other letter. *Daechwita Yoongi to 🗡 Rona*

To be honest, I want to type everything in this blog post... But I feel certain words feel sincere when it is handwritten. I can’t wait for you to read my letter. 

It is TOTALLY crazy. I mean it is crazy how we found each other on Twitter and how we ended up having a same birthday date. This universe is truly sly in making things magical. I'm immensely grateful. Even though our interaction is limited to chatroom, our world is bigger than the universe; our joy, our happiness, our tears, our rants... everything about us is precious to me. I cherish every moment with you and it feels absurd to spend a day without texting you. Over these three years, our friendship have evolved and we have evolved as individuals too. We had many setbacks and took tough decision. I'm glad we were together in those special moments. It is surreal how this friendship happened. Beautiful and Moon-like.

Honestly, this Moon birthday idea is best thing we have done in this journey. Every last 20 days of each chapters provides a space for us to reflect and deeply feel the happiest moments. You are such a safe place in my life. 

A honorable mention to our absolute chaotic side. Our chaos tops everything. When a username magnet and honeyjoonie94 sautan gets involved, it is SHEER CHAOS WITH EXTRA BG BORROWED FROM HOBI. 

I sincerely wish 22 becomes the beginning of your best years. Everything you have dreamed of, I hope you start achieving it little by little with an amazing timing. Let’s lead a wonderful life, Beeshi!

I want our first meeting to be the Japan Concert of BTS and we are enjoying every minute of our meeting. I swear if this Universe doesn’t do this, I might have to send Daechwita Yoongi after her.

With you, even a dull moment becomes special. I love you, always and till the end.

With love,

T. 

p.s: I really love our bitching sessions. 🤣❤ @aabdaar-b​

[not-a-rent-head]

“Letter From Fredi”  from Fredi Walker aka Joanne Jefferson

I found a Fredi Walker fanpage in the Wayback Machine and figured I’d show this email from the RENT days.

-credit to Cheryl the creator

To whom it may concern,

I believe you have the advantage for you know me and I do not know (any of) you personally. My name is Fredi Walker and this is my first evening on the web. I got a new computer (complete with modem) and it is my great priviledge to be browsing my very own website! Many thanks to Cherry(sp?) who wrote me to tell me about it.

I have a e-mail address now which is BIGSPOONPRODS@worldnet.att.net. Big Spoon Productions is the name of my company and eventually will have a website of it's own (once I figure out what I'm doing).

It is truly amazing to me that anyone would take an interest in me at all - negative or positive - but I would like to thank those of you who have so lovingly defended my personality and for understanding that when I come out of work that I'm exhausted and want to go home like anybody else after a hard day at the office. I am immensely grateful that people find my performance moving but I am only as good as the material I perform and (at the moment) I am fortunate enough to be performing some of the best material ever written. I give all credit (and thanks) to the late - great - Jonathan Larson. However, RENT is physcially and emotionally draining and when it's over I'm wiped out. I'm not as young as Wilson and Anthony. I don't know how they get the never ending energy but I sure don't have it. I try to sneak out quitely with Adam - but it doesn't always work. And you are correct - I believe that taking pictures of people without permission is a complete violation of person and spirit. It objectifies another human being in a way that is not cool at all. People (including celebrities) are not souvenirs - attractions - or displays - but living breathing entities with souls and desires not unlike your own and beg to be respected as such.

Beyond that I find idolitry a truly frightening thing. It is ironic that my livelyhood depends on having fans, but, I believe to put me (or any one) on a pedestal is very dangerous. I am only human and humans can disappoint. The same is true of all people in the spotlight - politicians - religious leaders - sports figures - no one is immune to making mistakes or being less than perfect no matter who they are - what they do- or how high profile they are doing it. I would hope that the unfortunate and untimely demise of Lady Diana will serve as a crystal clear (if ghastly) illustration of that point. Curiosity killed the Princess - literally - and all she wanted to do was go home.

To those of you who think I am a bitch, I would like to say that you are perfectly entitled to that opinion and you are not alone in it. It is unfortnate, however, that you have come to that conclusion without even really knowing me and that you allow your disappointment in your expectations of me to make you feel so. I could tell you that there are a great many people in my life who know me as a loving and generous person who is always there for them - but these people are my closest friends and have earned the right to see my soul and bask in my love. I could tell you that people think I'm bitchy because I am straightforward and don't mince my words or feelings and most people are not really ready for an honest opinion. I could tell you a lot of things but I have not come here to defend myself. "Let he among us without sin be the first to condemn".

Being new to the web - I have just begun to read all of the entries listed in this site. I see that you have many questions which over the next few months - I will be more than willing to answer. For example - "what happened on 8/20 when I disappeared mid-show?" I got hit in the face (collided into another actor backstage) and was taken out with a mild concussion. I have been injured a number of times in this show which you seem to know. The performance tracks we set for RENT were supposed to last 6 weeks of or so.... here we are a lot later and people are getting injured because the physical demands were really not geared for "the long run". This is partially why some of the staging is different in subsequent companies. I hope this answers your questions.

It is very late now and time for me to turn in. I look forward to hearing from any of you who wish to e-mail me and I will be visiting the website again to respond to questions etc. Could someone please teach me how to post something? I may have figured it out in a couple of days but, for now, I can use all the help I can get!

Thanks again for caring. I'm honored and I'll do my best to make sure that my future work is up to the standard set by RENT. I don't think you'll be disappointed by any work put out by the RENT cast. I've been so priviledge to have worked with this many super talented people all at once!!!!! If you really love the show - LISTEN CAREFULLY TO THE WORDS AND HAVE FAITH. If you can absorb Jonathan's message into your lives and carry it forth - we all win!

Best wishes, Fredi Walker

https://web.archive.org/web/19990218191627/http://www.geocities.com/Broadway/9596/letter.html

[writingvampires]

Excerpt from Current Vampire-Pirate Work in Progress, SINNER SHARPE

A taste of the new fantasy world I'm conjuring!

Some explanation before we jump into it:

I started writing this series several years ago, after getting inspired by Glen Cook’s THE BLACK COMPANY series. I wanted to write about a swashbuckling mercenary who has the job of a lifetime, I just couldn’t get the stakes right.

If you were a patron of mine, then you know all about Sinner Sharpe and how it went from strictly a pirate fantasy adventure to a vampire-infested pirate…horror adventure.

You see, I was stuck on it for years — unable to get past Chapter 1. Literally the other night/morning, I buckled down and went back to it now that I’m free of THE DARK WORLD’s grip on me (until editing starts…), and this is just a bit of what I came up with:

“What brings you men to Battle Port Bay?”

Not a one opened their mouth to respond, but I did not relinquish my stare.

And it was clear no one would speak. About several minutes passed before anyone made an utterance, and it was a big-eyed bastard right next to me that did so. Son of a bitch coughed.

Ignoring the bits of phlegm and spit that flew onto my hand, I let a stirring of harsh words settle in my throat before I spoke. “I’m looking for men for a little job. The pay is handsome enough but you won’t be promised your lives.” This clearly got their attention for the slew of ‘em started to squirm interestedly in their seats.

“What’s this job?” one fresh-faced individual barked over his cup.

I stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide if he was just that stupid or if he truly had no idea what to ask when a man offered a job.

As I stared into his baby blue eyes, I decided it had to be the latter. Well shit, these men were new to this life after all.

I forced myself to keep my eyes off Dagger as I rethought their significance. Aw hell, it couldn’t hurt to train ‘em—show them the ropes. I eyed the way they sat in their chairs, some ready for a fight, others waiting with bated breath to hear my next words. Didn’t have much to lose in taking them on.

After all, who’s counting a million gold pieces?

The dagger under my spit-covered hand was cold—always a good sign. I pressed a finger against the silver blade and allowed my mind to cool. I could feel it in my bones, then.

Promise.

“I’ve been commissioned to secure a prince in the south,” I said.

All ears perked up, brows rising with their disbelief. One of ‘em, a fresh cut along a jagged cheek said seriously, “Now that’s dangerous. Royalty’s untouchable cargo, mister. What’ll make it worth our lives to help you secure this prince?”

I didn’t lose my cool as I stared at this individual for a long moment, the words rising to my lips. “Gold. A million pieces.”

I didn’t say anything else as I let these words settle in their ears. It was clear it got their attention, for they all sat up, not a gaze traveling elsewhere. “You shitting me?” one of them whispered as if to speak any louder would tell him I was indeed shitting him.

Another man raised a hand from across the table as if to still the one who’d just spoken, and with a gruff voice, he said, “How can we trust you? You gotta ship? A name?” The others sank back into their chairs with his words, realizing that I had given them nothing to warrant coming with me at all.

Backtracking, I began again, “Name’s Sinner Sharpe,” (this raised no alarm from them at all; I scowled wondering if I hadn’t made a mistake), “ship’s, The Bloody Sinner, and you can trust me by reputation.”

They all sat, some mouths agape, as they processed these words, then one slowly started. “Ah yeah, you’re that crazy guy—the one with all the fancy weapons and some such.” He blinked rapidly, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “Sinner Sharpe…yeah, I’ve heard of you. You stole Dranna Gethgil’s painting some months ago, heard you scored half a million gold pieces with that job.” At his words the others nodded some more, seemingly coming around to me and where they’d heard my name.

“Didn’t know you were Othrillian, though,” one muttered underneath his breath.

“Aye,” I said, unable to keep the bite out of my voice. “I am Othrillian,” and I pressed a fist against the worn leather of the vest that covered my bare chest. My dark skin beneath was lined with scars here and there of battles nearly lost. Their eyes traversed them with wonder. “Will that be a problem for anyone here?”

I waited.

Othril people, my people, were not known that much in this part of the world. I left Othril what feels millennia ago to forge a new life for myself. I was not suited to their diplomatic ways. Not suited to the lavish decadence and parties thrown in the King and Queen’s honor every month. I was, however, suited to killing, as I’d learned when the Arkcanians from the west attacked and killed said King and Queen and many of my people. I killed their killers—as many as I could—and left. Nothing for me there.

But here, I reminded myself, as I stared at their wide-eyed inexperienced faces, there was gold.

Finally, one of them said, “Sorry, sir, I just didn’t realize Othrillians still existed.”

I moved a thick black loc from in front of an eye. “Is that what they tell you in your schools?” I asked, unable to keep the anger out of my voice. I was used to incredulity when I tell people what I am. Never hurts any less when met with it, though.

Some nodded while others continued to stare at me in wonder.

I let a small smile settle on my lips. Still, they knew of me. They’d learn of my not-so-friendly ways later. I didn’t get a chance to say a word before Dagger was at my back, his low words in my ear, “Satisfied, Sin?”

Hardly. Straightening up, I gestured a hand to the man behind me and said, “This here’s Dagger, my right hand. Any questions you have can be directed toward him. As of right now, we have to set sail…so if you’re ready to join say so now and we can begin instead of wasting words. You already know the essentials, anything else you’ll learn on the way.”

I could see there were other questions they wanted to ask, the shadow of how long they’d be away settled in-between their eyes, but no one said a word. It wasn’t ‘till the man with the cut against his cheek stood that anyone followed his lead.

Once they were all standing, I felt Dag smile. “Come along little doggies,” he said in his best teasingly sing-song voice. With his low voice, it came out sounding immensely disturbed: an old puppeteer holding fresh strings not yet attached to their puppets. This wasn’t lost on any of the men as they traveled around the table and shook off their bemused expressions. None of ‘em were entirely sure what they’d gotten themselves into.

It was just where I needed ‘em.

I nodded to the patron behind the bar and she flashed me her prettiest smile before I turned for the door, following in their footsteps. I promised myself when I came back, I’d spend some time with that one.

If you want to see get a larger excerpt of my work in the future, be sure to sign up for my newsletter via Substack so you never miss a future blog post!

Let me know what you think in the comments below!

Until next time,

With Blood and Love,

I’m S.C. Parris

Read more blog posts below!

[medschoolash]

Seriously fuck off. The jon & sansa fandom was alright until you and others like you came along and took things too far. We at least liked it but knew it for what it was a crackship. Something to enjoy lightheartedly without all the crap ‘jonsa is endgame’ it’s not. Because we see that & acknowledge it and get shit on for it. You dislike Daenerys because of a ship admit it. And honestly I’d say ye talk more about Daenerys than your ownship. Take a break why dontcha hun. Nothing better to be do?

“Seriously fuck off”

Do you really want be to fuck off or do you want to fuck me cuz you and your little clique been on my clit since I first came into this fandom. Telling me I’m repellant while being Obsessed with my blog, telling me to fuck off when your pressed ass in my inbox. I never send for you heauxs but you always manage to come so what’s the truth? Do you want me out of your life or do you secretly wanna latch on to my vagina and never let go. I know I’m a bad bitch and you prolly sitting at home very sexually unsatisfied given how miserable you heauxs are on here but this is not the best way to get my attention if you want a taste. I prefer things like flattery and money not this passive aggressive weak shit y'all be on.

“The jon & sansa fandom was alright until you and others like you came along and took things too far.”

I’ve been in this fandom since July so I am truly honored that little ole me has the power and clout to ruin an entire fandom that was established long before I ever knew what a Jonsa was. I did that shit in 3 months too which means I’m basically an icon in this bitch so thank you 💁🏽💁🏽.

Also I’m not entirely sure you’re right about how everything was “alright” before, these anons in my askbox dragging yall asses left and right would beg to differ, but if anyone asks you didn’t hear that tea from me ☕️😉

“We at least liked it but knew it for what it was a crackship. Something to enjoy lightheartedly without all the crap ‘jonsa is endgame’ it’s not.”

Congratulations heaux do you want a cookie for this? Is that what you are so upset about? Is that why y'all been throwing this embarrassing ass tantrum on here? The fandom stopped giving y'all your biweekly doggy biscuits for being a good bitch so now you mad? Take that Shit up with your owners I don’t fuck with dogs, especially not rabid ones. That stick in your twat you refuse to remove because people have the audacity to ship something how they want to and refuse to bow down to your weak ass standards is gonna give you a yeast infection if you don’t take it out soon.

“Because we see that & acknowledge it and get shit on for it.”

Boo hoo bitch boo hoo

“You dislike Daenerys because of a ship admit it. And honestly I’d say ye talk more about Daenerys than your ownship.”

This sand box white woman drag 😂 tragic

“Take a break why dontcha hun. Nothing better to be do?”

Why would I ever take a break when pissing you heauxs off is an effortless full time job that gives me immense satisfaction. If I did take a break you wouldn’t have a pussy to chase so we both know you want me to stick around.

Until next time 😘😘👋🏾👋🏾

[imagine-valhalla]

BEING BJORN’S TWIN WOULD INCLUDE:

◾ The pair of you would literally be inseparable, to which no one would find the pair of you without the other, - even older years-, and if it were the case that you were separated, people would race their brows, questioning this rare instance.

◾ It would be scarce that you and your twin brother would fight, but bickering could often be quite normal. However, if you did argue or fight, it would be severe and would be more heartfelt; harder to get over, but would strengthen.

◾ Neither of you would think to hesitate to stand up for one another - or your family -. The relationships you share with one another, your family and friends would be be such a tight unit. Loyalty would run thick in your veins.

◾ Bjorn and you would often be found relaxing by the docks, visiting Floki, sitting in nature and speaking to one another or just simply laughing together. Usually you both would enjoy the time you spend together because it’s simple and doesn’t require much thought.

◾ It would amuse people when you both finished one another’s sentences, or if you answered at the same time. Your father Ragnar would find it amusing, particularly if it irked Lagertha sometimes.

◾ During feasts - even at a young age - the pair of you would stick together to protect one another, keeping one another company; and as the pair of you grew older, it would become a fixed habit.

◾ Your twin brother would certainly take up the role of acting like the eldest in the sibling relationship, - even if you were the oldest -. He would feel the need to protect you, seeing you as his younger siblings more than usual, forgetting that you are his twin.

◾ Bjorn never feeling that anyone is ever good enough for you.

◾ You never feeling that anyone is good enough for Bjorn.

◾ You never really having liked Porunn but never having told Bjorn because you knew he loved her very much.

◾ Always persuading one another to stay home instead of going to raids, then bickering over it, but realizing both of you need to go to honor Kattegat.

◾ You would be fiercely protect one another, sticking together and oddly enough, adopting your own way of fighting with one another, often mesmerizing everyone around you because the fight is so well choreographed.

◾ People sometimes having mistaken you both for one another, making you both feel embarrassed. 

◾ “For the love of all the Gods brother! Would you please stop following me!” “This is getting out of hand!” You hollered, irateness clearly laced within your tone as you sent an annoyed glower to your brother, like you’d shot an arrow at him. What did he not understand by you wishing to have some alone time for a couple of hours to yourself? 

◾ “I have no idea what you are talking about, my dear twin.” Bjorn stated as if oblivious to what you were on about, as a large grin flew across his countenance, full of mischief. “Anyway, we are walking the same way.” He’d justify his actions with no further objections from you.

◾ Before Bjorn parts from Kattegat to prove himself to Ragnar, you end up showing much dread and apprehension, voicing your opinion passionately and strongly on the situation at hand. You would fear for your twins safety, though deep down you would know that Bjorn would make it out alive, and that the Gods would watch over him carefully.

◾ It would strike the strings of your heart with melancholy because you would be without your twin for a long time, not sure if he may die in the process of surviving.

◾ “It is nice to see you again, dear brother. You have no clue of how much I’ve missed you!” You exclaimed while feeling relief wash over your being and soul as you embraced him, your other half that you have missed so dearly. “I prayed every day and night to the Gods for your safe return home.” 

◾ “As the same to you, my dear twin. It has been too long.” Bjorn would state truthfully while feeling relief mirror within him. To see you truly well and alive made his heart fill with joy. “As you can see I am well and fine.” He would boast.

◾ “After all of this time, I can see that you have ‘beared’  it.” You jested out jokingly trying your best to bite back a laugh. Hearing upon this and noticing your pun, your father and mother, as well as all the citizens in Kattegat roared within laughter at your joke. While your twin brother Bjorn gazed ahead at you in disbelief with a look that told you ‘Really?’ but trying his best not to crack up himself and soon rolling his blue eyes towards this terrible pun. 

◾ If you were to become fatally or severely injured on the battle field, your twin -as well as your mother and father- would fight his/their way across the blood covered battle field to get you away from any enemies hands, as quick as the God of Thunder himself. 

◾ “Everything will be alright (Y/N).” Bjorn stated with concern upon his face as he applied a strong amount of pressure upon the large gash you now possessed. “You are going to fight through this, my dear twin. I promise that to all the Mighty Gods, as for they will save you!”

◾ When you are in the process of healing Bjorn would - as well as your mother and father - would be there every step of the way to nurture you back to perfecct health and would get you back to your normal, strong, self.

◾ Your father, your mother and your twin would take turns of looking after your tired resting form, not minding if they were to miss a wink of sleep. You would be their number one priority! 

◾ “I feel as though this is all my fault...” Bjorn would say quietly, sitting upon a chair that was seated beside your sleeping form. Guilt and sorrow flowed through his veins and swam in his soul while watching your weak form. “If I were to have gotten there sooner to you my twin, you wouldn’t be like this.” 

◾ Bjorn praying to the Gods every waking second -as well as your parents- for you to fight through this horrible time and to make it out alive and well. 

◾ “I ask all the Mighty Gods from above to aid and assist my dear twin to make it out alive and stronger than ever.” Bjorn would utter quietly into the darkness of the night as he watched your sleeping form. “For I cannot lose my other half...”

◾ In your younger years, you both would have joked around with one another, which would have seeped greedily into your older years. You would also pull ‘harmless’ small pranks upon one another, which would usually end up with you both trying to ‘one up’ the other.

◾ With that said you both would begin a pranking war that would pretty much have no end. Your parents would be telling you off even when you are much older than when you being chased by Bjorn who was screaming at you, soaked in goat piss.

◾ “(Y/N)!” Bjorn howled, voice booming with immense displeasure. “I swear upon all the God’s, once I find you, you are going to pay for this greatly!”

◾ There was a short pause in the distance but soon you heard a loud grunt that was followed by curse words from where your dear twin brother was, there was sounds of him struggling. Trying to hold back your laughter an amused look sat upon your complexion. “Oh my dear brother, you truly are a fool!” You laughed out in mischief  “Pay back is always a bitch!” 

◾ Overall, your twin bond would be like an unbreakable chain that no person could break, or even the Mighty Gods above. 

bjorn ironside gif : source - 🏹

hope you enjoyed! please follow for more, lovelies.

[tricks-up-my-sleeve]

💌😊😶👾💉👒🌃😄😅😇🐱🌱😃🐸😆📺🔈🌊😀🎀🍳🎉👟🐚🍰😂😓🌙🍓🐭🍉👍 and 💕(p l a t o n i c a l l y)

((god i APPRECIATE it cam but i’m going to ACTUALLY beat the shit out of you jeSUS CHRIST))

💌: I’d love to send you more messages and asks but you make me nervous!

((ok right off the bat WHAT THE FUCK you know you’re always welcome in either my DMs/IMs or my inbox you STOP THAT SHit rn ily))

😊: You’re sweet. You’ve made me smile before.

((oh shit? really? yes. look at me. surprising myself. that’s good. “sweet” isn’t exactly a word I’d use in describing myself.))

😶: I’m honored that you’re even following me tbH.

((ok back to threatening to like.. smack you. I follow your blogs bc they’re quALity and bc we’re friendos. let’s not be nonsensical.))

👾: Your theme is awesome!

((thank. i wanna update it but thank.))

💉: Talking to you or seeing you on my dash makes me feel better.

((I’m immensely happy to hear this.))

👒: You come off as very friendly! 

((this too))

🌃: I’d like to spend more time talking to you.

((*finger guns* you know where to find me.))

😄: I can always count on you to like/reply to my personal posts.

((yessss. accept me as one of your stalkers since we’re friends pls and thx.))

😅: I often worry about upsetting you or scaring you off.

((think of it this way: it hasn’t happened yet, so it PROBABLY isn’t gonna happen. lmao. you’re good.))

😇: Every single interaction we’ve had so far has been positive.

((good!))

🐱: You’re cute‼︎

((back on this whole cUTe clAiM thing I see. tf is wrong with you guys))

🌱: I’d love to get to know you better.

((right back at ya. I feel like we’ve had some interesting conversations about ourselves already, so we’re off to a good start. lol.))

😃: I love seeing you in my notifications!

((bitch me too. at the vice versa, ofc. not myself. that’d be truly narcissistic. and sad.))

🐸: You act goofy.

((this is SLANDEr but it’s actually true))

😆: You’ve made me laugh out loud before.

((I still can’t believe I’m actually funny and not delusional.))

📺: We have similar interests!

((yesssssss))

🔈: We have similar tastes in music.

((are you also calling yourself an emo or))

🌊: You have a lot of personality.

((ayyyyyyyy nice))

😀: I would consider us friends.

((that’s bc we are. duh.))

🎀: We have similar aesthetics!

((AESTHETIC is the most important part of any good friendship))

🍳: This is an egg in a frying pan!

((fuck you I’m only like halfway through this and you just had to send like the most POINTLESS ONE))

🎉: I get really happy when I see positive personal posts from you, even when I don’t fully understand the context!

((aaaaawww that’s really nice actually sO thank. much thank.))

👟: I feel as though you’re out of my league.

((do you like hearing me say that i’m gonna like.. kick your face in.. or… bc… as far as I’m concerned I’m out of nobody’s league. in any context imaginable. lmao.))

🐚: I find your blog very calming.

((that’s interesting. and nice.))

🍰: I might recognize you if I ran into you on the street.

((yell something about magicians or gay horses if my head whips around it’s me))

😂: I’m comfortable around you.

((I’m glad!! I’m comfortable around you too, which is good, bc I’m a ball of anxiety.))

😓: I’ve talked to you before and it made me a nervous!

((omfg cam stop))

🌙: You’re beautiful.

((i’m dying squirtle))

🍓: You remind me of someone…

((you told me about this and now I wonder if you have suspicions))

🐭: Please be kinder to yourself.

((I can certainly try

🍉: I wish we lived closer to each other.

((honestly I wish me and all my internet pals lived together in the same state. I think the reason this isn’t reality is bc something would probably fucking blow up at some point. somehow.))

👍: I like you. Just, in general. I think you’re a genuinely good person.

((!!!!!!!!!!!!!! you too!))

💕: I love you‼︎

((I love you too. p l a t o n i c a l l y.))

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, LEXX!

You have been accepted for the role of DMITRI ALEKSEEV. Admin Rosey: First of all, Lexx, I’m so sorry for the wait! I was so enthralled by your application that I lost track of time reading it, and truthfully, it took me longer than it should have to put what I loved about it into words, because there was so much! Your plot points were amazing and so well thought-out; as if they alone weren’t enough to show how well you know him, your samples blew me away. You captured his voice perfectly, and with your words, you painted a picture of Dmitri I’d never seen before. Well done! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER        

ALIAS: Lexx        

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: she/her        

AGE: 21+        

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: 6 -7: Typically I am around for plotting/chatting daily, as for IC interactions, it might depend on how RL affects my muse, but even so, once 1-2 days I should be able to write at least one reply.  This is sort of a worst case scenario, because on top of having a full-time job, I typically leave town most weekends during the summer months, and I have a holiday coming up between the 14th and 24th of July, but things should slow down after that, and my activity should stabilize to at least 7/10. My timezone is GMT+2, which could also affect my real time responses as I’m 7+ hours ahead of American RPers.       

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: n/a - they’re inactive          

IN CHARACTER        

DESIRED CHARACTER: Dmitri Timofey Alekseev    

DMITRI– like the earth goddess he was named after, his mood swings have the capacity to influence all around him. He gives, and he takes away.  He dabbles in people, rather than nature, but like entire harvests are crushed by hail, so too can he bring immense devastation with the flick of his fingers. If he’s unhappy, everyone suffers. When he is content, others may be, as well.    

TIMOFEY – “honoring god” and there’s no greater one worthy of worship than him. He is the first in his family in generations to be Grisha, what further proof would he need of his significance, of the importance of his role in shaping what is to come? He is designed for critical and magnificent things, he is a creature capable of affecting the very molecules that keep humans together, and that can be nothing other than further evidence of his preeminence.    

ALEKSEEV – a family name, a human name, but it suits him, as at the Ravkan court one’s ancestry is vital, and his is exemplary. A noble, strong household. Diplomats and politicians and advisors, people versed in manipulating others for their own ends, of twisting the situation to their advantage, people whose subtlety of thinking brought them as close to power as anyone without royal blood could get. But they are not him, of course, for he is altogether more. Where they did not excel in a country at war, where their silver tongues did not turn to bullets, and they had to flee in order to maintain their relevance, Dmitri would show the rest of the world that he can be a warrior, he can be a killer, he can be the worst monster of them all – as calculating as he is cruel.    

DESCRIBE THE SAME CHARACGTER TWICE      

TO FALL IN LOVE WITH THEM      

There is no indulgence he refuses himself, he knows what he wants and he knows how to get it. He turns hedonism into an art form. He’s suave, confident and sultry, unafraid and uninhibited. He’s his own blessing, he is the only god he worships, and such supreme aplomb turns everything he does into a game only he knows how to win. He’s deliciously amoral, unencumbered by sentiment, or personal attachments. He’s the center of his own universe, and he makes all around him dance to his tune.      

TO BE REPULSED BY THEM      

With confidence, comes vanity, but that is, perhaps, the least among the plethora of mortal sins he dabbles in. His gluttony is devastating enough to eat the whole world raw, the force of his lust would bring angels to their knees. He thirsts for blood, for the rush he feels when he has another’s life at the tips of his fingers. He’s both sides of the coin, capable of bringing maddening pleasure, and cause immeasurable pain, and indeed, more often than not, a coin toss is all he needs to decide.      

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?    

A deity born of unworthy clay, and oh, how they knew it. If blame could be placed on anyone but himself, then his parents are responsible for much of his pitilessness. Adored and spoiled rotten from the first moment he drew breath, Dmitri grew up with all the advantages of a privileged birth, with all the gifts nature could bestow on a creature. Beautiful and charming, and so incredibly cruel. He isn’t weighed by principles. His disregard for other people is fascinating. He is a rotten thing with an angel’s face, and he thinks the world is his. That it was made for him. He’s never suffered hardships, what he wanted he got, always, and he’s smug and self-serving and greedy.      

He takes everything for granted and he takes everything as his due. Even his power, which is why he uses it so freely, so carelessly, taking when others aren’t willing to give. People are his playthings, the world is his stage, and he’s never known the taste of refusal.    

As someone who has no ideal in the world but himself, he lacks consistency and has no worthy goals. Whether the world ends in fire, or in ice, he does not care as long as he sits atop the pile of bodies. The future is a distant, unimportant detail to him, the legacy he seeks to leave has a more immediate effect. He wants his name to be on people’s lips now, and he doesn’t quite care how it gets there. There is no negative publicity in his mind, which is why he does not care that people whisper “the Darkling’s bitch” as he walks by. At least they’re talking about him, and he sees whatever attention they grant as his due, even if it will never be enough to satisfy.    

I think a significant part of his character is his absence of feeling, and this is something I would like to delve into further. He can be brought low by circumstances, and he’s capable of negative emotions, but there is no denying he is almost enamored with himself, and he has the ability to find precedence in things, he is aware enough of his surroundings and how to put them to use to achieve maximum satisfaction, but this is done in a distant, conniving way, and he is maladroit at considering anyone else a ‘person’. He sees people as a means to an end, sometimes for a minor purpose – for pleasure, or his own amusement – and others as steps to climb on in order to reach greatness.    

He’s empty, he is a beautiful lie, his eyes are ice, he’s covered in blood, his skin is silk kissed by worms and if they were given a choice, if they could see him for what he truly is, no one would touch him. But he is the flame, and people are just moths. Even the devil was an angel once – the most beautiful angel of them all. He is Conquest, their bodies are his battlefield. He is Famine, always hungry, leaving them starved and begging for more. He is Pestilence, he would find his way into their blood, and he would waste them away from the inside out. He is Death, THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS.      

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?          

[Disclaimer: these are only suggestions as it is far from my intention to GM anyone else’s characters and I would be happy to discuss these plot bunnies further and adjust them where needed]  

ZERO SUM GAME – Dmitri’s been using his power longer than he could talk, longer than he understood that he was different, or had a notion of right or wrong. It comes as naturally to him as breathing, it’s a sense he’s never been without, and he doesn’t know – nor does he want to – how to turn it off. He sees the world through the sound of hearts beating, through feeling someone before touching them. And while at first it’s been crude and inelegant, the reactions he caused too strong, leaving signs of his presence in their bloodstream, he’s had years to hone his skill, to perfect his craft to the point where he’s almost unnoticeable. There is no denying he has a superiority complex – especially when it comes to the otkazat’sya. When it comes to fellow Grisha, he’s more reluctant to unleash his power against them, based on his belief that they are not to be quite so easily discarded. The Sun Summoner, though, is untrained, untested and raising too quickly above her station that it grates at him. He wants to drive a wedge between her and the Darkling, and for the time being, while she’s fresh and gullible, there are a number of options. Should he incite her to betrayal by pushing her into Anton’s arms? Once that happens, he could tell the Darkling that Viktor plans to supplant his brother, the information would surely hold more weight then, than it does now.

Or rather, should he befriend her, seduce her, make her believe he’s indispensable to her, and use her as the way back in the Darkling’s inner circle? His resentment of her is quite great at this point, but ultimately Dmitri  won’t be easily swayed by personal feelings if he has more to gain by ignoring them. If he finds himself back in a position of favor, will he grovel and apologize and worship the Soverenyi, or will he still nurse his wounded pride, and plot against him? If, or rather when, he finds out the Darkling is looking for the amplifiers, will he want to get to them first, and if he succeeds in that, will he hand them over or keep them for himself – will he, once he figures out what Aleksander wants, involve Viktor in his quest to improve his odds? He needs time to break Lantsov’s will, to wear down his resistance, if he wants his work to last, he has to be subtle and rushing a job, especially this job comes with great risk. For the moment, he prefers weighing his options, testing the waters, tugging at strings in one direction or another just to see which would be the easiest path to getting his due.

THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS – to look upon the Darkling was to look into a mirror. At least on Dmitri’s part, seeing all the things he thought he was, laid bare. To see people gaze at the Darkling, was to finally, finally find a definition for the black hole inside him. The mix of fear and respect, awe and wariness – it was all he fancied himself he was and more – because it was real, it was acknowledged and reinforced by others. He became one of the many shadows dancing around him, at least for a little while. He took those first steps willingly, accepting him as his lord and master. He had his taste of real power as the devil on his shoulder, whispering everyone’s darkest secrets in his ear. Everyone’s but his. Even as he exposed others to the judgement of the Darkling, he suppressed, hid, kept himself to himself. He thought he belonged with Aleksander, but he could not quite convince himself he belonged to him. He imagined the Darkling would understand a creature such as him, a fellow god, could only ever be on the same footing, never on his knees. He was wrong, and the taste of failure is bitter in his mouth. He lacked his experience, his skill, something akin to wisdom and Dmitri had never been wise. His restlessness, his constant hunger for more, everything, always scrapping for a bigger piece of the pie drove him towards the wider world, seeking what the Darkling wouldn’t provide. Entertainment, meaningless and crude, a game with no stakes other than his own amusement. The weight of his own discontent, the Darkling’s disapproval could only be displaced by surrounding himself with lesser beings where his superiority was plain for all to see. He craves the idolatry of the masses, and the Darkling is so distinctly apart from all the humbug that his distant approval never could have  been enough to fill the emptiness inside him. He is still the best chance he has of seeing his ambitions realized, of seeing his name carved in flesh and blood on the surface of the earth, of having his name turned into a curse, of being seen for the famished, cruel god he is. But he’s drifting, untethered, away from his sphere of influence, each moment pushing him further away from meeting his goals. He’s rootless and simmering in the depths of his own resentment – at himself, at the Darkling, at all he holds in higher regard than him. He still collects secrets, hoards them like the selfish dragon he is, overflowing with the seductive, poisonous power of those things he holds close to his chest: Viktor plots against his brother; have you noticed how that Fjerdan prowls like a wolf? The king’s advisor is guilty of regicide, she stalks the Lantsov bastard like a bitch in heat; the princess is hiding something and I’m not the only one on their trail – he’s drowning in secrets that aren’t his, drowning as he watches his opportunities ever dwindling, pulling him, kicking and screaming, into obscurity. Can he do anything about any of those things without the Darkling’s help? Can he assert his own power without assistance? Or is he already doing it, and all he’s good for is fucking confidences out of people? The thought rankles, it sounds unjust, and if he could only untangle one of these knots without help, perhaps he can prove he’s been misjudged. But his pride, his bitterness, keep him languishing on the edges while others take precedence in the Darkling’s plans. He fails to see the appeal of Altan – nothing but a butcher, with as much finesse in his whole being as Dmitri could scrap from his perfectly polished shoes. He dismisses the oprichniki out of hand – they’re only human, and so easily replaceable for all they might think otherwise. And the Sun Summoner is getting a little too friendly with the crown prince. But then again, what else could one expect from a mere peasant when she finds herself in the presence of royalty, tarnished or not? She must be a bastard herself. Truth is that Dmitri believes that he alone can help the Darkling with the finer points of his plans, and it bothers him that the other man doesn’t think likewise. Exposing everyone else's deficiencies to Aleksander is beginning to sound more and more tempting. He would start with the Pavlova girl, and bide his time until she missteps. And keep his eye on the petty power grabs of humans and their silly, meaningless crown, as well.  A fact made easy by having placed himself in a Lantsov’s bed. His manipulation is subtle, thorough, taking small steps to extract information from him, planting ideas in Viktor’s head, though he really doesn’t think the bloodhound would require much of his assistance to turn to fratricide.

FOR KING & COUNTRY – and of course, the questions are which king and why should he restrict himself to just one country, when he can have the whole world? But he is quite impatient, and impulsive. He’s never learned to be persevering, not really, so far no objectives he’d set himself have been really that difficult to surmount.  Learning to deny himself immediate satisfaction is a struggle. And while there is no refuting the fact that the Darkling has the advantage of being Grisha – a state of being Dmitri himself considers far superior – his snubbing of the favored son was a bitter pill to swallow, whether it had been warranted of not. Dmitri wants back in his graces, but how long would he have to suffer, and be ignored until his resentment becomes greater than his infatuation? He was not made to waste away in the shadows, he was supposed to thrive in the darkness. Ultimately, it’s a matter of his own welfare, and there is no doubt that he values that above all else. He finds a match to his savagery in Viktor’s bloodthirstiness, and in truth, Dmitri’s brand of manipulation works far better on the Lantsov hound than on the Darkling. His strings are easier to pull, and his role as the puppeteer is well known and comfortable. But the man is presumptuous enough to imagine he’s superior simply because he’s a prince, and Dmitri might find that amusing now, while he dances to his tune, but there is no denying his pride will not allow him to remain content in this position while Viktor is so openly derisive. At least the Darkling once offered him the recognition he so craves, and for all the Grisha are classified as secondary Dmitri believes that the one capable of turning the tables on the measly humans, for all their greater numbers, is Aleksander. Still, he could switch camps, if the opportunity presents itself, to be the only one of his kind, to be singled out and adored, but the devastation would have to be complete. He finds plenty of allure in being the sole Grisha, there is immeasurable power in the concept, more so even than what the Darkling has to offer. To be known as the one who reduced the Second Army to a mountain of corpses is a treasured prospect. His footnote in history would be final, his transformation into a destroyer of worlds, complete and irreversible. The mere idea is enough to get him drunk on power. But first, Viktor has to prove himself worthy of such attention, of the privilege of being the object through which Dmitri’s machinations will be realized. And he is a mere pup, letting his bastard half-brother steal his crown while he sits idly by, sulking like a child, unappreciative of a greater power and impertinent where he should be reverential. The Grisha is even less patient with others than he is with himself, and while he will try to steer the man in the right direction, should he prove belligerent, he would have no qualms to eradicate him as a nuisance and throw his lot in with the Darkling.    

CROWN THE BASTARD – Dmitri sincerely doubts Anton would be first bastard on the throne, as well versed as he is in the intricacies of lust, but it just goes to show that to name something is to define it. The line of Lantsovs on the throne has been unbroken – or so they claim, but what he knows of the base nature of people belies such boasts. He’s stuck between wanting to laugh in their faces, and kill them all for their stupidity. Nothing should matter in this world, but power, and ever since the crown fell on his head, Anton seems to believe he has it. That he is prepared for the task at hand, that he will succeed. It’s easy for a heartrender to see through the lies at court, easier still for one such as him, attuned from infancy to the beat of others’ hearts, but the crown prince’s confidence seems quite a steady melody. He will claim other reasons, of course, but in reality, Dmitri has chosen to fuck with him, first and foremost, out of spite.  It is so easy to stay out of his line of sight in a crowded room, so easy to exert his influence from a distance, making him believe he longs from something at one point, or imagining he’s nervous by a sudden rush of blood, confusing his instincts so that people who might genuinely want to help him appear as rivals instead. He can follow the threads of want and wanting all the way to the object of their desires. There are no secrets that are truly safe from him. They might all wear their glittering courtiers’ masks, but they cannot hide the spike in their pulse, the small catch of breath, the unsteady stutter from a heart who fears and wants and betrays them to him. He pays special attention to the crown prince, seeing the advantage of making him unsteady, falter and fail. He coaxes his body to small treacheries, a twitch here and there, an ill-timed blush, or a brief bout of bleariness when he ought to be paying attention. He’s careful, for he cannot be close enough to hear what he says, and he must always choose his moments wisely. But he wants to acclimate Anton to his effect, step by tiny step so that when the time comes and he needs to strike irresolutely and without mercy, the man would be too tangled in all the ways he cannot control himself that he’ll think the blame lays with him. He does not want him on the throne, not as he is, so focused on the Sun Summoner, seeing her as the hope of his nation, and belittling everyone else. Corporalki are the chosen of the Grisha, they alone have the option to create or destroy, to shape their power to their will, and seeing an Etherealki – an inexperienced one at that – raised above him rankles. At least the Darkling appreciates the subtlety of Dmitri’s science, at least the Darkling has lived long enough to master his skills beyond all others. That chit of a girl with her pretty, empty lights cannot hope to threaten the divine order, and a human involving himself with Grisha power structure is a challenge that cannot go unanswered. One day, he will choose to betray the secrets he gleans from the bastard – oh yes, he knows, he can feel the queen’s distress whenever she looks at him, can almost smell the doubt on Anton –  to the highest bidder, and he will rejoice in his downfall.    

THE HEART OF RAVKA – it’s right there in the name, they fall right into his sphere of influence. Dmitri knows how hearts work, at least from a physical standpoint. Their language is easy for him to understand, and he knows how to make them sing. And the heart of a princess isn’t something he could claim ownership over, just yet. But he can see the appeal of such a prize, the lure of lifting himself above his humbler beginnings. Marrying a princess makes him a prince, does it not? A title that Viktor, for all his appeal, cannot and would not grant him. A title the Darkling cannot grant him. There is power in words, just as there is in sinew, and power is something he could never resist. Their innocence is not an insurmountable obstacle,merely a nuisance. He would have them if he wants them. And, in turn, they will teach him endurance, how to bide his time, and how to bend to their desires first, rather than have them bend to his. His coldness will have to be tempered; he cannot take without giving something in return, in this case. He must be cautious, and serene. He must prove he has a heart, even if it’s just pretend. As he feigns vulnerability, he will reveal his shortages, even if only to himself. For all his mastery of the carnal, he never did comprehend the emotional, or saw much of its use – at least not to him, but others place great significance in it, so he would try. He has the ability to cure their bleeding heart, or at least convince them he did. He can affect grief, and humility, thoughtfulness and comprehension. He could be a cheerful companion, or a shoulder to cry on. It’s a long game, and he must be infinitely watchful, for if he puts on too much of a façade, he will lose them to the rumors at court that paint him as anything but a caring man. He must be discreet, but at least with that he’s had plenty of practice. It’s an interesting notion, to boost himself not through carnage, but through gentleness. He isn’t convinced he won’t grow bored, eventually. But still, having their ear would be an advantage, and should he tire of them – well, he’s always looking for new ways to hurt. Breaking a heart without leaving physical damage is a mere honing of his skills. And theirs is already so cracked, it wouldn’t take much to crumble at all.    

THE POWER & CHANCE OF DOING PROFOUND HURT – all things living must die, disintegrate and rot and sex might be the height of life, blood pumping, heart thudding, skin singing at the barest touches, but death has just as much allure to Dmitri. Bodies talk to him in a language better than words. He can track the veins all the way to their hearts, he can see the organs beneath the veneer of skin, he feels lungs that aren’t his expanding with breathing. It is so easy, so ridiculously easy, for him to play with that, to tug at people’s strings, one moment making them feel alive, another luring their deaths closer, delighting in the rush of panic, the last, desperate attempt to draw in another breath, to force a heart to beat one more time. He’s hungry for death, for the taste of fear in another’s bloodstream. He is Grisha, he is a soldier, he was born to kill and there are simply not enough opportunities around court to do what he was meant to do. He wants chaos, he wants bloodshed, and he is willing to pick fights with little lambs in the hopes that they might sprout claws. It might not be enough to slake his thirst, but he finds her infinitely frustrating – they are like gods and she chooses to serve, instead, making a mockery of her fire. He does not mind being the instrument of punishment – the eagle rending her liver piece by delicious piece – for daring to deny her nature. She can reshape him in her fire, though Dmitri doubts she knows how, and he can tinker with her flesh, they cut themselves on one another, dogs with a bone, and so far there’s been no winning in their war of tug. Not many people can resist his siren call, and it’s discomfiting that she’d managed to for this long. Perhaps he’s losing his touch, perhaps he never had it – merchants, humans all, might not have been the challenge he’d originally predicted. But he can, at least, hone his skill on her, until she’s his, or until she’s destroyed by it, and he can divine something from her ruin.      

APEX PREDATOR – Dmitri does not like to see his prey hunted by others, he’s never been one for sharing his toys. And there’s something about Sergei that doesn’t sit right with him – he’d grown up with his ambassador father, after all, a man bred for the task, and the Fjerdan fits the role like a round peg in a square hole. There’s a restraint to his movements that speaks of barely contained violence. He is not who he claims to be, and given his nationality, Dmitri is willing to wager he’s not Anton’s biggest problem, but theirs, instead. The Practitioners of the Small Sciences. He plans to ingratiate himself to the man, to use his unique brand of seduction to confuse and confound him, to negotiate a position better suited for uncovering his secrets, for striking first, should he be given reason to. And he does not like how Iskra – the one Grisha away from the safety of the Little Palace – has drawn his attention. He cares not for the girl, but he cares even less for a druskelle, and if there is anyone who ought to discipline an errant Grisha, then the task should fall to one of her own.  

I HAVE BECOME DEATH – Dmitri revels in the subtlety of his craft, the careful waning and webbing of blood, the way nerves respond so eagerly to his coaxing. He sees his power in all the ways he can hide his influence, not in the obvious tearing of the throat, not in how easily the clench of his fist obliterates a heart. He’s insidious, refined, like the shrewdest poison. To be poison is what he craves; to not only see people die by his will, but to know he’s hidden his tracks well, too. To be capable, if the need arises, to shift the blame on someone else. He would be eager to find an Alkemi, to learn how to replicate the symptoms of clever venoms through his skill. He would seek out someone as interested in all the ways bodies can break and work together, to uncover a new facet of his ability that would serve in the environment of the court – if only to strike panic in the hearts of its residents. He’d learned long ago that fearful creatures are much easier to manipulate and subdue than those whose will has never been tested.  

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: To be honest, I can easily see how his story would end in tragedy. He is the villain in his story, and he’s too greedy, too power-grabbing and impatient to ever feel satisfied. The subtlety of his powers, and his ambitions might keep him in check for a little while, might make him a difficult enemy to remove, but in the long run, his unpredictability and obsession with chaos could prove to be his downfall. I would definitely be interested in exploring his character while he balances precariously on the edge of his mortality, and losing control of all the strings he's been trying to pull. Will it happen gradually, or all at once? Will he cease to merely consider betrayal and set himself on a course of action that would bring about his demise? It could even be something as simple as fumbling his grip on one of his toys at the wrong moment, or breaking someone beyond even his ability to contain.  

IN DEPTH        

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):        

[tw: underage scenes of a sexual nature; graphic language; age difference]    

i. THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED FAINTLY IN THE CORNER, a soft rhythm so as not to distract people from mingling, and the candelabras glittered magnificently in the dance of the candles. He lounged lazily, bored with the sumptuousness surrounding him, bored with all these small little people and their petty requests, and their dull black clothes. He left the priceless crystal glass fall to his feet, unconcerned with the damage it did to the hardwood floors, or the servants who’d have to labor on their knees to rub the smell of alcohol out of the rugs.      

Like a serpent, he weaved between people, not touching them, not having to touch them to leave a little mischief in his path. A lady breathing champagne through her nose there, a stuffy gentleman sneezing abruptly in his companion’s face, fingers losing their grip on drinks, or food, expensive silks stained and ruined. He caused a man’s muscles to cramp as he lecherously leaned closer to admire an exquisitely fragile necklace, breaking the delicate chain. He had no doubt the woman would have thanked him, should she have known it was him who gave her the opportunity to storm away from the grubby philander in a huff. Dmitri was familiar with him, he was all show, and even on that he had a lot left to work on.      

He caught his father’s eye as he turned, and the man nodded suggestively at him, causing Dmitri to huff as he glanced in the direction of his mark, eyes washing over the somber clothing. His suit looked like it could have benefited from a little less starch, in his opinion. But he wasn’t exactly ugly, if a bit coarse looking. Strong jaw, big hands – big everything probably, considering how his clothes strained to contain him. A bit like a farmer, were he entirely honest. With an open face and sincere, solemn eyes, and a mouth whose lips pressed a little too tightly together, as if ashamed of their lushness. Yes, perhaps Dmitri could see the appeal. These type of things always worked better when they coincided with his desires.      

And the man was truly a bore, a staunch, pious pillar of society, who wouldn’t be caught dead seducing a mere boy. Luckily, he didn’t have to do any seducing, and Dmitri stopped, still far away from him as to not draw his attention prematurely. He’d need far more alcohol in his system if this was to work, so he found his pulse and raised it, coaxed heat to rush through him as he teased the cells in a frenzy, so that his skin would break into sweat. He waited until the man grabbed a glass of wine to dry his throat, made his tongue swollen and awkward, and when he brought the drink to his lips, he gulped it greedily, draining it in seconds. It didn’t help, Dmitri made sure it wouldn’t, and he smirked triumphantly as he reached for a refill. There was only alcohol to be had at this function, and he gave him no choice but to consume it.      

Now it was time to make him tremble, to make his heart seize in his chest as his common hazel eyes gazed uncomfortably around, alighting on him. Dmitri’s smile suddenly became unaffected, his eyes rounding with feigned interest, and he made himself blush as he glanced away for a second, before looking back, as if it pained him not to admire the man before him. He backed away, too shy to approach such an esteemed specimen, even as he kept him in thrall to his caprices.  His blood would only get hotter, and yes, of course, he reached for another glass, tugging viciously at the restricting cravat.      

He could see the sweat glitter on his forehead, his hair dampen and the man moved away from the candles, as though that was what made him so warm. He walked to a window, inspected it with eyes that were already beginning to show their whites in panic, and opened it, but the cool breeze that came from outside, carrying the pungent smell of the port wouldn’t help at all with a heartrender still stalking his prey. The merchant glanced towards him again, and Dmitri was ready for that, his appreciation reduced by a layer of anxiety. He had the man’s heart in his palm, and with a twitch on his fingers, caused it to clutch in his chest when their eyes met. Cautious, concerned, he made his way closer to him, heightening his turmoil with each step he took towards him. “My lord,” he stopped a respectable distance away, but still close enough to touch him, and he gave him a smart bow. Just an amiable host, making sure his guests were comfortable. His eyes flicked to the open window. “Is something bothering you?”      

The man gasped, fighting for words as well as breath, and Dmitri’s fretful frown increased. “Perhaps you are too warm? I’m afraid the room is quite airless,” he offered, reaching out, not quite touching him, but enough for the breeze caused by the movement to be felt. He withdrew his hand when it was a mere breadth away from the man’s elbow, but made certain the rush of blood hurried to his loins as he did so, delighting in seeing him tensing suddenly at the sensation. A most ridiculous blush covered his whole face, making him look like a tomato. Dmitri had to press his lips together not to laugh in his face. “Would you like to step aside for a moment?” he let his eyes fall, his long, thick lashes fluttering down bashfully.  “I could show you to the veranda, if it pleases you,” his tone was earnest, no innuendo coloring it, his skin unblemished by self-aware blushes. He did not seem the type who’d fall for the coquette, and Dmitri struggled to appear guileless.      

His fingers twitched again, the heart in the merchant’s chest thudding painfully. He could hear it. Better yet, he could feel it, warming his own blood, the power coursing through his veins, so close to the surface it made his skin glow, like he was a holy thing. He could see the effect he had on him and it made his whole being sing with intoxication. “Y-yes,” the man gulped again, parched, and Dmitri, ever solicitous, grabbed a glass of champagne and handed it to him.      

“Follow me, please,” he turned, looking over his shoulder, willing his muscles to move, to trail him like a dog brought to heel. His superior smirk blossomed as he cut a clear path through the room, giving his father a brief nod as the man tracked his progress. Ten more minutes, he meant. Ten more minutes and the merchant’s pockets would open to them. Dmitri pushed open the glass doors and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the fetid air. He much preferred being inside, where he could hear people’s hearts, feel their blood moving through their bodies, their heat dissipate into the air. He felt almost blind without them, as if he suddenly were alone in the world.    

He turned to the merchant, raising an eyebrow. “I’m afraid the smells are better inside,” he allowed the man a brief respite, but only because he was looking at him, something almost like awe in his eyes, to see Dmitri washed into the pale light coming from the moon. He stood up straighter in the darkness, prouder and more assured. The merchant would be cold now, not too much, but enough to prompt him to come forward, drawn to the only other source of heat on the balcony. Dmitri made sure they were hidden from curious eyes by stepping to the side. He smiled, reserved and self-conscious. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked, as if anxious to get his approval.      

He wouldn’t, of course, his heart was still beating too fast, his skin ran too hot, or too cold in turns, and he saw him teetering, uncertain. All of them were so surprised to realize they weren’t in control of their bodies as much as they thought they were. Dmitri pushed a little more blood away from his head and towards lower regions as the merchant nodded, already so eager to please him, and he allowed his lips to curl into a beaming smile. “I’m glad,” his voice was so sincere, he could have laughed at himself. Merely playing at seeking approval brought hilarity. As though he’d ever grovel in front of mere men. But the merchant was eating his act up, tentative and hopeful both.      

Dmitri stepped closer, his smile fading a little, as though he wasn’t sure he’d be welcomed. “You’re Master Aling.” he made sure it wouldn’t be mistaken for a question. “Gerd Aling,” his eyes glimmered when the man nodded, and he cast another wave of pleasure towards him. He couldn’t control his thoughts, but he could, at least, make him wonder whether the recognition pleased him or not. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” the words came out in a rush, as though he couldn’t stop himself from showing his excitement. “You are on the Council – I’ve always admired the work you are doing,” he stammered, only a little, suddenly embarrassed by his evident enjoyment, and stared at his shoes. The man hesitated, and Dmitri realized he couldn’t summon the courage to touch him. Or perhaps his will was slightly stronger than he had expected. He glanced back at him, struggling to remain composed, and reinforced his assault. To look upon his face was to feel parched, starving, unfulfilled. He made his knees weak, worried that the man might turn and run cowardly rather than act on his urges. It was better if he stayed right there, if he kept his eyes glued to his perfect skin, his bright, warm eyes, and his Cupid’s bow lips. Dmitri’s breathing grew shallower, and he made sure the merchant’s did as well.    

Surely he wasn’t as simple minded as to assume his hunger could ever be satiated by food. It wasn’t a drink he thirsted for, it was the taste of Dmitri’s lips. He almost narrowed his eyes, but chose to widen them instead, chose to take another step closer, the gap between them dwindling to nothing. The merchant’s knees were still trembling, if he’d been skinnier, he could have heard them knock together. He had him right where he wanted him, in his web, and he reached up on his toes – Dmitri wasn’t short, but the merchant was built like a fucking tank, and pressed his lips on his, making sure that brief touch granted him immeasurable relief.      

For a few glorious moments, it worked, the man suddenly grabbed him, pulling him into his chest, his mouth feral and ravenous, and Dmitri let himself be manhandled, turning to putty in his arms. The kiss ended, just as violently as it had started and he was jerked away abruptly. “No,” he sounded as though it hurt him to talk – and it did, for he was being punished for refusing an offering that was too good for him in the first place. Dmitri heard his heart stutter, felt the wave of dizziness wash over him, and the fingers that were keeping him in place tightened in discomfort. “I’ve had too much to drink, you are just a boy…” he almost rolled his eyes at the tired speech, and reached out his arms to hold him up as the muscles in his legs failed to keep Gerd upright. He didn’t want to be crushed by this brick shithouse though, and he did not push his luck, keeping him on a knife’s edge of self-control, even as he forced the blood to rush through him in a too-hot torrent.      

“I am not a boy,” he wanted to swear at him for daring to underestimate him, but instead added a hurt undertone to his edge. “Really, I’m not. I’m old enough to know what I want,” Gerd’s hand traveled downwards, not fighting Dmitri’s encouragement as he stepped closer once more, their breaths mingling together, maddening the other with desire just as it left him unaffected. A small, pleased smile lightened his features once the merchant’s hand rested just below his waistband. “See?” he made sure to make his question innocent, but even with no verbal reassurance, the man looked down, and Dmitri could have laughed at his victory.      

“Oh,” the exclamation was breathed, rather than spoken, and he glanced at him once more, a brief nod from him enough to have him return to mauling Dmitri’s mouth. Had he had any intention of bedding him, he’d have trained him on how to do it properly, commanded his body to please himself, but seeing as that was not the goal here, he allowed himself to be pushed into the thin railing, the metal burrowing into his skin. He feigned enjoyment and Gerd’s grip on him tightened, breathless whispers of yes please, and more falling from his lips, as he  leaned back, giving him access to his throat. He could feel his father approach, just out of his periphery, and he rolled his eyes to the heavens, partly relieved at the respite, partly piqued from having his toy taken away before he could properly teach it how to play nice.      

“What is the meaning of this?” his father almost boomed, but cast a nervous glance at the lit house, as though he didn’t want to draw others’ attention to his son’s shame. Dmitri shrugged, hiding an attempt to wipe the slobber from his neck through the motion, but managed to look properly horrified and chastised at being caught. The merchant stammered beside him, having jumped away from him at the sound of another’s voice. “Father, I…” he began meekly, not looking at him, suffusing his face with blood as he shuffled awkwardly.      

“Silence!” it wasn’t much of a command, his father had actually managed to sound too pained to be imposing, but all that changed as he turned to glare at the councilman. “You dare to come into my house and attempt to debase my son?” Dmitri nearly cleared his throat at that, trying to direct his father’s attention to his final touch, to the cherry on top, but he didn’t have to resort to such obvious ploys. Instead, he merely pushed his father’s eyes downwards, at the merchant’s crotch. Black was not really the best color to make his shame easily observable, but then it didn’t have to be, if one knew what to look for. His father sputtered, overdoing his indignation, Dmitri thought, but it was no longer his show, and he kept his head down, and his cheeks rosy, scurrying hurriedly back inside as his father dismissed him.      

He’d asked his father for a challenge earlier, no more perverted old fucks who would follow him around dicks out before he even had a chance to toy with them, but as it turned out, the positively saintly Gerd Aling hadn’t been much of a trial either.      

[tw: death]    

ii. HIS EYES FOLLOWED THE MAN CURIOUSLY FROM HIS SEAT, a little out of the way. The flash of blue from his ratty sack had drawn his attention, certain he’d recognized a kefta’s colors, but he wore mismatched clothes, his trousers too big for him, while the shirt was too short at the sleeves, and strained across his chest. He watched him try to push the sleeves up, apparently uncomfortable with the stiff materials. He tilted his head sideways thoughtfully, before gracefully uncurling from his spot, to wander closer as it was his turn at the counter, wanting to know what his business here was.      

“I would like to sell my indenture,” he spoke with a strong Ravkan accent, and Dmitri tensed, looking around hurriedly to see if others had heard him. “I am a Squaller,” he had lowered his voice further as he said it, but not low enough for Dmitri to miss the words. His eyes narrowed, washing once more over him with renewed concentration. His boots were different colors, and one was noticeable smaller than the other. His teeth gritted, and he stepped back into the shadows, aware he couldn’t really do anything about it in a room full of people.      

But he waited, and paid attention, and followed the man out as he brushed past the crowd, stuffing a paper in his too tight shirt. He focused on the sound of his heart, clung to it, to make it easier to shadow him as they emerged into the street. From the look of him, he wouldn’t have found rooms in the nicer districts, and they soon entered the swarming, dirty alleys of the Barrel. This area suited Dmitri’s purposes just fine, and he hurried to catch up, needing only the smallest opportunity – an empty side-street, or reasonably empty, at any rate. No one here would intervene.      

“Hey you!” he called in Kerch, his accent indiscernible from that of a local, and he swaggered towards him as the man tensed. “Heard you were looking for a job.” he smirked knowingly, his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t dressed garishly enough to competently pass for a gang member, but he didn’t look like a merchant either, and he’d mused his hair and clothes so as not to look too evidently a noble. “Why would you want to sell yourself, when you can be a free man and still get fed?” he carelessly leaned his shoulder against a sooty building, unconcerned about his jacket. He had countless others back home. “Merchants are a bore, stuffy and proper and completely out of their league. How would you like to work for the Lions, instead?” the man frowned, struggling to keep up with his fluent Kerch. He could switch to Ravkan, but it wouldn’t make for a street rat to know the language. “Come on. You’ll be paid. We could use someone like you. Running away from something? We can hide you,” he grinned dastardly at him.  The man shifted, clutching his sack.      

Dmitri’s attention focused on that. “Anything of value in there? I can tell you where to sell it,” the material was riddled with holes, he could still see the blue occasionally showing as he shifted, even in the darkness of the alley. The houses on either side of them looked just about ready to fall over. The man hesitated, looking ready to bolt. “Now, now,” Dmitri straightened, raising his arms to the side to show he came in peace. It was a wholly human gesture, he thought, Grisha would push their hands forwards, when focusing their power. “I mean you no harm.” his tone became confidential. “Are you a deserter? Heard those Ravkans treat their soldiers like shit. They’re nothing but cannon fodder. Even the Second Army. And they couldn’t possibly afford to feed you all that well, either,” he wrinkled his nose in apparent disgust, and rolled his eyes at the folly of all those paper pushers who made decisions without having to suffer the consequences. “I can help you,” he let his arms drop, and stepped even closer. Surely the man’s Kerch was passable enough to understand that last sentence.      

His mouth opened and closed for a few times as he considered his options. “H-how?” he stammered, in strongly accented Kerch.      

Dmitri straightened, smug. “By putting you out of your misery,” his arms shot out, a split second before the soldier tensed, eyes widening in realization, and tried to attack as well. But by then Dmitri had his claws in him, twisting the muscles in his fingers, closing his hands into too tight fists. His upper arm cramped, the noise of bone breaking like a gunshot in the muffled silence of the alley. The Squaller screamed, falling to his knees, lifting his eyes to glare hatefully at him. “Heartrender,” he hissed in Ravkan, and Dmitri feigned confusion.      

“Heart?” he asked, switching to his mother tongue. “What heart?” he squeezed his fist, and the man seized, eyes rolling back, as he crumpled into the dirt of the alley. Dmitri walked closer, straightening his vest, and reached with his boot to push him on his back. “Oh, that one,” he commented casually, his head tilted sideways in interest. But a dead body couldn’t hold him in place for long, and he turned around dismissively. Traitors were not worth longer than the time he took to kill them.      

But the man did make an idea bloom in his mind, a thought he’d considered before, though never as fervently as now. Ketterdam had become boring, and there was only so much pleasure a man could take before even that lost its luster. Perhaps it was time to go home. He rather thought he’d be excellent at killing.          

iii. THERE WAS A SYMPHONY PLAYING IN THE DARKNESS, all around him, within him, for him. Dmitri wasn’t surprised, not really. He’d been made for the True Sea, why should the Unsea be any different?  Indeed, why should anything in the world not be for him to pluck and inspect and toss aside should it bore him? He was, and the environment would simply have to adjust to the irrefutable fact of his being, and reshape and bend to his indubitable will.    

He stood on the deck, unmoving and resolute, eyes closed against the annoyance of the Ifernis’ flames. He wanted to enjoy this, he wanted to stick out his tongue and taste the power of the Shadow Fold for himself. The screams, human and Volcra alike made his ears ring, but his blood listened to him, obeyed his commands, a steady, cool flow beneath his skin. His heart – he knew he had one, for all they whispered heartless as he walked by, he could always feel it beat, betraying its presence – was steady and subdued. He wrapped himself in a blanket of chillness, drawing from the air around him, becoming one with the void. It was so easy, and such a delight, to feel his power cocoon him so, making him invisible to the predators swooping in all around them. The screeches of their death throes buoyed him. Their wings buffeted him, but they did not know he was there. He could feel them, sense them, burning as bright as any flame in their absence, not quite alive, but not of death either. Something else altogether, something unfamiliar, and oh, how he exulted in finding new toys.    

He never doubted he’d survive the trip. The Fold could not take what didn’t belong to it, and he would never belong to anything but himself. He blinked in the light, even night time seemed so bright after such a complete and all-consuming darkness, dazed, but calm, as he willed his body to move, to become warm again, to resemble a person and he stepped down from the skiff, ignoring the tallying of the dead and the sobs of the survivors. He might not have been born on its shores, but Ravka was home. He could feel its call in his bones, stronger now that he was finally here. Its son of glorious crimson.  Its collector of hearts.    

Dmitri recognized in the Darkling a kindred spirit, an equal in brutality and ambition. It was a revelation, as though he was the first of his kind he’d ever seen. And it wasn’t far from the truth, indentured Grisha back in Ketterdam were not like him, like them, wretched, servile creatures that they were. Later, but not much later, he understood his true brilliance. The Darkling was not like him, the Darkling was who he would become. Powerful and feared and revered, for all his darkness.    

They’re lying to you, he’d whisper in his ear, always at his side; they’re scared; they will desert you; they’re hiding something; that question – there – press the matter. He never failed him. He couldn’t read minds, but he could read bodies, and the longer he spent in their presence, the louder they spoke to him, spilling their secrets like blood from an open wound. The Darkling’s own lie detector. A truth potion made flesh, more accurate than the Alkemi could hope to concoct with their foul smelling substances, in an altogether prettier package.    

He hadn’t expected his vanity to be his downfall. Indeed, he had not expected to have one, to be weighed and measured and found wanting. It created an ache in him, unfamiliar in its keenness, in its failure to be filled and plugged as any other need in him.  It humbled him – humbled! – and that only made the sting grow worse. Dmitri was made to be favored, he wouldn’t settle for less. He wouldn’t settle for anything. Not even the Darkling, with all his aloofness, could keep him under his heel for long. He gouged others’ needs as easily as he drew breath, he couldn’t understand the seemingly impenetrable wall that rose between them.    

It was a betrayal of their covenant – but he could not tell who it had come from. Who had blinked first, who had ruined this thing they had between them. Did he not gather secrets to lay them at his feet? Did he not needle and coax and turn people to the Darkling’s side with sure hands and poised smiles? His accomplished recruiter, working within the Grisha’s ranks to exhort their commander’s virtues, to bring his enemies low. Had he not uncovered countless plots against him and his before they came to fruition?    

So what if he allowed himself to get distracted by the dazzling Ravkan court? So what if he sometimes woke late in the day, groggy and irritable after a long night of debauchery? He brought the courtiers’ secrets to the Darkling, whispered of their petty machinations, and still turned many a tide in their favor, even as he filled his rooms with glittering trinkets and left a trail of disillusionment in his wake. He would play his own game, too, he needed the distraction – deserved it, for all his hard work. It wasn’t his fault that those paltry nobles grew increasingly more tiresome, less useful the longer he spent in their presence. What more could they expect of the otkazat’sya? They were as small and insignificant as the meat that contained them, and just as prone to Dmitri’s guidance. It wasn’t his intelligence that grew weaker, it was simply that they were worthless.  

“What of the Lantsovs?” the Darkling would ask. “What are they doing? What are their plans?”  

“To put a bastard on the throne,” in hindsight, perhaps his tone had been a touch too dismissive. But everyone knew that, didn’t they? It was no secret. They did not need to have it spelled out for them when it was right in front of their noses.    

The Darkling’s frown was unforgiving. Dmitri stood at attention, a disgraced soldier in front of his superior, chaffing at his shackles, even as he yearned to feel them return to what they once were – proof of his worth – people kept under lock and key only what was valuable, did they not?    

And yet, the Darkling dismissed him from his presence with only an indifferent flick of his wrist.    

[tw: sexual content]

iv. DMITRI LEANED BACK AGAINST THE WALL heedless of the bite of the cold in the corridors, unconcerned with the beauty of the night sky, where stars glittered sharply, distant and lovely, made even more piercing by the gloom of winter. Frost covered the great window he lounged in front of, glazing it with delicate lacework that clung to it, thickest at the edges. His fingers flexed impatiently as the hall remained accursedly silent, eyes set sightlessly ahead in his stubborn vigil.  

He’d never liked quiet, never craved the solitude he now suspected he’d been tricked into, removed from his playground purposefully and purposelessly, to wait in the shadows for a tryst that was not going to happen, simply to satisfy the prince’s galling propensity for one-upmanship, his perverse tendency to pretend resistance to Dmitri’s lure.  

He could not – he would not – be denied. And whether the blood flowing through one’s veins was red, or blue, they all answered to his call when he turned his attention to them. Whether it’d be sooner, or later, he would cloak himself in patience even if he sweltered under its cloying weight, and in the end, they’d suffer all the more under his yoke, until they accepted his bridle.  

And finally, finally, he tilted his head to the side at the sound of footsteps, his attention hooked at the edge of his sight. The darkness of the hall might have confused him momentarily, made him wonder at what he  saw, but he was attuned to Viktor’s heartbeat as he was to his own, and he recognized the tumultuous storm of his blood before he turned to fully face him, no trace of annoyance on his expression, as he smirked at the other man. “Loath to leave the party?” he questioned, raising a skeptical eyebrow even as his voice remained reverent. “I shall endeavor to make it worth your while, my prince,” his tone did not change, remaining solicitous, though his countenance was anything but, something predatory filling his gaze as Viktor came closer.  

Dmitri did not need his assistance in getting to his knees, his earlier frustration pushed back as he gave the other man a look full of dark promise before sinking gracefully to the ground. His hands made quick work of the laces of his trousers, lips pressing hard kisses from hip to hip, making sure that every light touch of his fingers would send shivers down his spine. It was easy to use more than his skillful tongue to bring Viktor off, easy, as he was this close to him, to sense every single shift in the man’s body, to ride the wave of desire with him and enhance the experience with well-timed jolts to his nerves, or an opportune stutter of his heart.  

He reveled in the feel of rough skin under his fingers, of hard muscles and marks of battle, the prince’s ruthlessness written all over his body in a language that called to Dmitri’s own understanding of violence. He rejoiced in the power he had over a Lantsov, in the ease with which he could make him tremble, and moan and bite his lips helplessly as he struggled to keep the pleas from slipping out. He was granting him unbearable pleasure, part punishment for having made him wait, part promise of even more ecstasy, should he return. He was drawing out the man’s frenzy, his body a mere instrument in the hands of its master, who was tuning it to the perfect frequency so that when Dmitri tasted his seed, it felt almost sweet on his tongue, coated as it was in his sense of victory.

“You have the tastes of a king, Your Highness,” the pretense at deference had left him completely as he licked the corner of his mouth, almost thoughtfully, not raising from his obeisance. He glanced up at Viktor, chin tilted up, a dark lock of hair artfully fallen into his eyes, and smirked.  

“Don’t you mean I taste like one?” Lantsov gave a harsh laugh and Dmitri raised, confident now that the man’s muscles had loosened, his limbs grown heavy with his exhausted desire, and firmly pressed his lips against his, the slant of his mouth harsh and demanding, fingers resting against the nape of Viktor’s nape, pulling him even closer. The split moment’s resistance was dealt with swiftly, firmly, and soon there was nothing preventing Dmitri from taking what he wanted. They were both breathless when he drew back, heated and dazed, and he blinked once, languorously, before glancing in Viktor’s eyes, an insolent grin on his lips.  

“Do you – my liege?”  

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:        

SPOILED BRAT – waited on by servants his whole life, Dmitri is incredibly careless about his things. His rooms are a mess, his writing is atrocious, all his books, barely read as they are, have broken spines and dog-eared pages. He has no idea how to pick up after himself, and indeed, the mere notion that he has to, offends him.        

KING OF HEDONISM – he’s accustomed to having his every whim indulged. He doesn’t refuse himself anything, be it food, drinks, expensive clothes, or people. There is no vice he hasn’t tried, no line he hasn’t crossed. He does as he pleases, and he will never refuse himself anything. He isn’t made for moderation.      

CHOSEN ONE – travelling the Unsea was a revelation, a revelry. To be surrounded by darkness and not be touched by it was a heady feeling. Then again, he never lets anything that matters touch him. Why should the Fold be any different? He isn’t scared of shadows – he isn’t scared of anything. And his power makes him invisible to the Volcras. He became cold, his blood turned to ice in his veins, his heart quiet in his chest, unmoving and unbreakable. Like a tailor bleeding colors into pasty skin, he took the darkness into himself, wrapped himself in it to become a shadow. Invisible, unreachable, undefeated and undaunted. Why would someone like him ever have to experience fear? He is a disciple of the Order of the Living and the Dead, he carries the greatest power of them all, and what is strength but a tool in his hands, to make the whole world take the knee?      

A SCRIBBLE WITH FANGS – a selfish, demanding child, Dmitri cannot pinpoint the exact moment he’s come into his powers. There must have always been there, lurking beneath his skin, fashioning him into the hungry being he’s become. It started off small enough, as a call for attention, for his nannies, for the servants, for his parents. He wouldn’t be ignored, or denied, not without dire consequences, sweats, and tremors and dizzy spells. He had to have everything just right, and he had to have it now. Like dogs reacting to the whip, he’d taught those around him to bend to his whims, by giving them treats, or taking them away until everything was the way he wanted. Colors, materials, food, even the temperature of his milk. A tyrant in diapers, smiling sweetly whenever he saw them flinch, king of his own little kingdom, and cruel to the bone.      

BATTLES OF THE FLESH – he was a precocious child, growing into a precocious teenager. Not studious, not particularly curious about the world either, but when it came to bodies, to what they could do, the pleasure they could bring, or the pain that brought them to their knees, he was an ardent pupil. He began early, not quite an adolescent, but old enough to get a taste of what he could take from others. He manipulated and beguiled, and later on, blackmailed, for his own purposes, but they just so happened to coincide with those of his parents, filling their coffers, and even Ravka’s. Kerch had too much money, anyway, greedy and grubby bottom feeders that they were, and he used his gift in service of himself, just as much as in the king’s.      

PLEASURES OF THE FLESH – to call him a skilled lover would be to do him a disservice. Indeed, it’s almost an insult. Dmitri is flawless, capable of intuiting what his partner wants before they realize it themselves. He’s pansexual and non-discriminatory in his choice of sexual partners. His libido would put an incubus to shame. To partake in his talents is to never be satisfied by others again. He is sublime and brazen, and he enjoys exerting his influence long after he’s grown bored with his conquests, just for the pure joy of watching them waste away in longing. He’s a storm, taking others by surprise with the suddenness of their sheer need for him, or a subtle poison, torturing them with overpowering feelings and inexhaustible longings, toying with them mercilessly until he deigns to bestow his favor, or deciding to leave them unfulfilled and miserable until the urgency of their desires drive them to their knees, ardent supplicants at the altar of his decadence. He loves the flavor of their desperation once he gives them what he wants, the ease with which their brutalized flesh yields to his manipulations, buoys himself with their momentary relief, and finally finds his own pleasure in their complete surrender.    

LEVIATHAN – his time at sea is one of his fondest memories, if one such as him could experience fondness. He took longer than necessary to get himself to Ravka, given his enjoyment of captaining his own ship, sowing terror on the waves. His mastery of his body meant he suffered no sickness, even as inexperienced as he was with the motions of the boat. Ships sailed a wide berth around his, protected as it was by the ambassador’s flag. But one, unwise and desperate did try to attack in the dead of night. He bathed their deck in their own blood, taking exquisite pleasure in watching them squirm under his eyes. Theirs were not quick deaths, not good deaths, they lived with no dignity and they would die as they have lived. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed, but it was the moment his hunger for it ignited, and he turned his ship around, a hunter in a sea full of helpless little fish, wanting Ravka to know of his coming long before he stepped onto their land. The prodigal son returned after washing the True Sea in blood. A god that would not deliver them from darkness, but teach them how to live in it.      

NOT FASHIONED FOR LOVE – there’s no bigger motivation for Dmitri than boredom. In fact, his willingness to avoid falling into that state is what drives most of his actions, including twisting the purposes of his power in untried ways. He’s used it for giving pleasure long before he’s killed with it. Oh, he knew how even then, of course, he could sense the sickness lurking beneath people’s skin, the fragility of their organs, the inelegance of their bodies’ design. He could make a muscle twist in the most embarrassing way when going down the stairs, he could make them choke on their food with a mere inopportune hiccup. But he had no need for death when he was young, for his hungers lay elsewhere, and so he became something altogether different. Heartrender he may be, but he’s also a heartbreaker, and the latter provides more amusement in the halls of the court.

EXTRAS:        

[DISCLAIMER: He is unapologetically vulgar. He’s quite graphic in his lewd comments, and whatever redeeming qualities he exhibits, they’re likely just a dissimulation in order to ensure he gets what he wants.]  

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS: He’s left handed – indeed, given his dominant hand is the left, he sees being the Darkling’s left hand as no demotion. However, he is a self-taught ambidextrous. He can use both hands to manipulate his power, or just one, and in this aspect, there is no difference in ability or the accuracy of his aim. When it comes to other skills, like writing, eating, or fighting, he shows a preference for his left hand. The more menial the task, the more he will use his left, but at physical fighting, such as firing a weapon, or fencing, the difference is quite small – noticeable only when one knows to look for it. He’s brown eyed and black-haired and while he doesn’t go out of his way to exercise, he can control his metabolism to burn fat at an alarming rate. His body shape falls into the lithe and svelte category. His muscles are well-defined, but lean. He’s 6’2’’. Like all Grisha who consistently use their powers, he is alluringly beautiful, and healthy and his skin is unblemished. He has no distinguishing marks like scars, birthmarks, tattoos or piercings.  

POWERS & ABILITIES: While Dmitri can kill, and do it in quite creative ways, and he has a moderate talent for healing (he can heal small cuts, bruises, and mend broken bones if they’re small – e.g. fingers) his true talent lies in subtly affecting a person’s bodily functions. He can excite nerves, he can fake the symptoms of medical afflictions, like heart-attacks or asthma, he can induce panic attacks, or incite people’s lust. He can modulate his own voice to make it higher or lower, control his and others’ body heat and he can forge people’s writing to perfection – he has to actually watch them write in order to do this. His muscle memory is impressive. He can mimic mannerisms, or mirror fighting stances effortlessly on first try.  He has a minor ability for surface tailoring – best shown by the ease with which he can make himself, or others blush (by using his power, rather than by trying to embarrass them, I mean).    

TARGETS: Even when he isn’t using his power to influence people, Dmitri still reaches out with it to better gauge their reactions. He’s so well versed in this and is immensely subtle, that it’s highly uncommon for his marks to realize something is amiss. He works in steadily increasing, but small increments to allow them to acclimatize to the changes as not to raise their suspicion. Most humans never find out that he’s doing it, even the ones he sleeps with. There are few, precious exceptions, usually repeat partners. He’s more willing to let other Grisha know that he’s using his power on them if they’re having sex – it’s in service of increasing both their pleasure, after all, and he finds they respond more easily when they’re expecting his guidance and are willing to be influenced by it – however he draws a line at Corporalki, not wanting to betray the secrets of his trade. They alone have a similar understanding of bodies, and if they’re crafty enough they might manage to replicate the effects. He is already sufficiently sunk in the Darkling’s esteem so as not to add fuel to the fire by further lowering his worth and unwittingly training his replacement.  

STAR SIGN: Scorpio [November 13th]         MBTI:ESTP [The Doer]         MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Evil [The Destroyer]     HOGWARTS HOUSE: 100% Slytherin    

[PINTEREST] [tw: blood, nsfw content]

[MOCKBLOG]

[SOUNDTRACK] [instrumental]

ANYTHING ELSE?    

I modified the last plot idea, expanded on my activity and my answer about the possibility of Dmitri’s death, and I replaced the fourth para sample. Other changes to the original application are minor.  

FAVORITE BOOK: Deathless by Catherynne Valente||The Secret History by Donna Tartt    

[mayorharker-blog]

That’s WOLFGANG HARKER. He’s 39 and he looks pretty good for his age. Some like to say that he’s CHARISMATIC, AMBITIOUS, and DISCIPLINED but I’ve heard that he can be SADISTIC, MANIPULATIVE, and CRUEL. You should be careful because he’s a VAN HELSING HUNTER. Some people like to say he’s a dead ringer for TOM HARDY but I don’t really see it. 

The mini bio/application above hits all the basic points for my boy but Imma be covering and expanding on him a little more down below. 

full name: Wolfgang Harker. that’s it. no middle name and if you call him wolfie or any other variation on his name besides wolf, he’ll shoot you in the face. he doesn’t do that.

native new yorker who was born into the hunter lifestyle. parents were hunters, grandparents were hunters, great grandparents and every other person that came before him were hunters. basically, he came out of the womb with a desert eagle in his hand ready to cap supernatural beings. he was taught from a very young age what it meant to be a harker and while he personally doesn’t hold much respect for the name or honor it like some others do, he is willing to do what’s expected of his namesake and not only help to rid the world of the abominations that inhabit it but to also train those that wish to help him and his family do so. 

when it comes to his past, he doesn’t like to talk about it and before anyone asks it’s not cause he had some terrible childhood or another. he was always hunting as a child, his father was slightly cruel with his teachings but he was only that way in order to prepare his son for the challenges that would come his way, whenever his father was particularly cruel, his mother made him cookies. (that didn't actually happen cause she died when he was still young but who doesn’t like to play pretend?) wolfgang does not have fond memories of his childhood but all in all, that shit don’t keep him up at night. his father taught him well and once his father had taught him everything that he could, wolfgang did as his father had done before him and went into the navy. 

or rather he considered enlisting in the navy before just straight jumping into things by enlisting for the BUD/S as a civilian. armed with the knowledge and skills his father had instilled in him from a young age while he was not able to breeze through the program like he would have hopped, he was talented and strong enough to scrape by in the program. following the 6 month training program that was the BUD/S, the 28 week qualification/training, and then the two years where he was basically a scrub in the eyes on many, he earned his trident. from there he dedicated himself not only to his country but to learning all he could from those who in the eyes of other humans were damn near supernatural themselves.

dedicating twelve years to DEVGRU before receiving an almost fatal injury that would have crippled the average human, declared unfit by doctors to continue active service, wolf was allowed an honorary discharge. though he eventually healed from the injury due to the van helsing blood running through his veins, no longer having any interest in playing super solider, he instead chose to settle down in hope’s hallow and finally and truly get back into the supernatural game. however, after enduring so many years of training and pushing his body to the very limit, wolfgang wasn’t about to hide in the shadows scared to come out cause things that admittedly had bigger teeth then him and happened to be stronger than him were out there. not here for hiding in the shadows, wolfgang made himself a known figure to the town. he let his military career be known, he became an inspiration of hope to others and the moment he became popular enough, he ran for mayor and unsurprising to no one, he won.  

wolfgang is currently on a mission to make things better for hunters so that they don’t have to live such secluded lives. he wants to connect them cause he believes not only would they be stronger together but in doing so they stand a much greater chance of not only surviving but also actually accomplish their generations long mission of actually wiping out the beasts they hunt. he’s also working to make things harder for supernatural beings to blend in or hide by gathering information on them, bribing whoever and blah, blah, blah. he’s a shady bitch who is only in the position to help his kind and his kind alone. that’s basically it. 

this is getting hella fucking long so last but not least we got his personality. wolfgang is a dick. he’s sarcastic, violent, and he won’t hesitate to throw your ass down and show you whose boss if you manage to piss him off. he doesn’t take shit and most people who know the true him when asked to describe him would more than likely call him psychotic. he’s terrible. the only time he comes off as tolerable is when he’s playing pretend as the mayor and then he ups the charm and pretends to be someone the public can look up to and feel inspired by. honestly, he immensely enjoys hurting supernatural beings, he doesn’t necessarily hate them but he’s not actually here for them. it’s his job to kill them and while he may enjoy his job on some level, it’s just work to him and it’s never really anything personal. unless there’s reason preventing him from doing so like being in public, he likes to shoot on sight. uh... after that, don’t think there’s not much else to say except he is willing to work with certain individuals if they’re willing to provide him with information. he’ll show mercy for a price. 

[ozymandiasdirge]

8 - top 5 spongebob quotes. and 9

8. top 5 spongebob quotes: okay im literally just picking the first five that come to my head this show’s first three seasons are so immensely quotable its almost ridiculous

1. “so far today, and it’s not even 2 o’clock yet, you have cried 43 times″ honestly this is the only quote past the first movie going on this list but fuck me it’s fucking hilarious and it eared its spot here

2. 🎤“A stove, is a stove, no matter where you go. A patty is a patty, that’s what a sayyyyyy. A grill *psh* is a grill *psh* this is surelyy sooooo. And friiiiies will be frieees either waaaaaaay. BUT THIS GRILL IS NOT A HOME, THIS IS NOT THE STOVE I KNOW. I WOULD TRADE IT ALL AWAY, IF YOU COME BACK TO STAYYYYYY. THIS KITCHEN’S NOT THE SAME WITHOUUUUUT YOUUUU, ITS JUST A GRILL, ITS JUST A GREASY SPOOOOOON. WITHOUT YOU.” 🎤

okay not only did i type this all up from memory, but literally this songs fucking bumps and i am fucking laying on the floor this aired 14 years ago my god. also pls watch this video link theres a crab that sounds like louis armstrong.

3. a tie between “the boy cries ya a sweater of tears and you kill him.”, “this time, there’s gonna be so much love he’s gonna drown in it.” and “this is great. Just the three of us: you, me, and this brick wall you’ve built between us” because not only are these both from the same episode dying for pie literally one of my favorites, they’re fucking hilarious in context and they can be mistaken for a fucking hardhitting poem from richard siken.

4. okay literally this whole scene from band geeks speaks for itself im just posting it

SpongeBob: What kind of monsters are we? That poor creature came to us in his hour of need, and we failed him. Squidward’s always been there for us when it was convenient for him. Evelyn, when your little Jimmy was trapped in a fire, who rescued him?

Evelyn: A fireman.

SpongeBob: And Larry, when your heart gave out from all those tanning pills, who revived you?

Larry: Some guy in an ambulance.

SpongeBob: Right. So, if we can all just pretend that Squidward was a fireman, or some guy in an ambulance, then I’m sure that we can all pull together and discover what it truly means to be in a marching band.

Harold: Yeah, for the fireman!

All: Hooray!

SpongeBob: Now let’s make Squidward proud. A 1, a 2, a skiddly diddly doo.

5. “alright pinhead youre time is up” “who you callin pinhead” i still scream with laughter literally 15 fucking years after this aired jesus christmas christ

also i literally need to mention the entire scripts of “the krusty krab training video” and “graveyard shift” under honorable mentions because like….oh my god…..oh mY GOd like i know this is a childrens show for children but im not lying these are both absolute comedic fucking golden genius. literally jesus christ.

9. tattoos i want: im probably not getting anymore unless they slap me in the face because waiting for them to heal is so fuckign awful…but id love to get the final line from gattaca “ For someone who was never meant for this world, I must confess I’m suddenly having a hard time leaving it. Of course, they say every atom in our bodies was once part of a star. Maybe I’m not leaving… maybe I’m going home.” like….wow bitch…wow. and i already have vonnegut tattooed on my body i dont need anymore but if i could get “she looked back and i love her for that, because it was human….” id die boi

[donaldresslerfanfic]

In need of space.

Rating: M

Warnings: Strong Language (little bit)

Word Count: 2045

Donald Ressler X OC Maggie Waters.

Chapter: Eleven.

Chapter Index

Story on Wattpad

Maggie.

“I need a favor, Raymond” I said after finishing the tour of the cabin.

He turned to me and linked his hands, holding his hat in them.

“It’s not like a monetary favor or-”

“And even if it was I would be happy to provide Maggie” he interrupted. I paced around the room and sighed

“Audrey canceled the engagement, Donald and her are dating again and I’m…” I took a deep breath, feeling my eyes water again like an idiot.“I can’t, I need to get away to think”

“What exactly do you need Maggie?”

“I need you to tell my boss that you need me to check something in Rhode Island, to give me a few more days to be at my sister’s before we visit my dad”

“Are your bags packed?” I just nodded “Dembe can get the jet, we can be wheels up in an hour” I just nodded again and gave him a thankful look.

Dembe helped me with my bag, but before I left and when I was alone in my apartment I gave a call to Don. Thank god it went to voicemail.

“Hey Donnie it’s Maggie. Listen I know I sound like a total jackass, and that I haven’t been truthful to you it’s just that” I stopped to sit in my couch “it’s my dad’s death anniversary this weekend and I’ve been feeling just… Not up for a lot of things. I’m going to my sister’s house to spend some time with her and her family and sort my head around. I need a bit of space and I hope you don’t mind if I don’t answer your calls. The first dinner after this its on me I promise. I’ll talk to you next week, bye”

That wasn’t far from what I actually intended to say. I wanted to say that I needed to figure out where my feelings stood, and what was I going to do with them now that they don’t have a space in Donald’s life, but whatever. Sorting things out, sorting my head out, was the best thing I could do now.

The jet ride was a lonely one. Raymond talked to my boss and I got the work leave, to which I was immensely grateful to Raymond.

2 hours later I was standing in front of my sister’s house, knocking on the door.

It opened and behind it I saw my sister with a big smile. My eyes instantly dropped to her noticeable baby bump.

“Surprise!” She said while showcasing it.

What happened after that was that I screamed and almost tackled her while giving little jumps, to which she accompanied me

“Oh my god oh my god! You’re pregnant again?!” I stopped and looked at her, my hands reaching to her stomach. I gave a few more happy jumps, a big ear to ear smile on my face. “I can’t believe it! This is the boy right?”

“We’re hoping it is” she said.

“Is it safe to come out?” Ethan, my brother in law came out of the kitchen, I quickly walked to him and also almost tackled him, he hugged me back. Ethan was almost like a big brother to me, even before he began to date my sister, he was always the coolest dude to be around.

“You know what they say right?” I said turning to my sister while Ethan walked to get the bags I dropped at their porch. “To get a different gender you have to change husband” I nudged my sister while Ethan gave me a stank eye, I chuckled and gave my sister another sideways hug.

“For the record we were going to tell everyone this weekend when we got together”

“You’re like 6 months pregnant already” I said touching her stomach again.

“No, this is the third month” she said touching the base.

“No way”

“It’s also the third baby” she clarified, holding me by the arm gently and taking me to the kitchen

“Where are Talia and Ella?”

“School, like normal girls” my sister rolled her eyes.

Yes, Talia and Ella, and we were Maddie and Maggie. Stupid name choices all of them. I was always confused with Maddie, since I was four years after her in the same school, I ended up changing schools after a whole month of correcting people that I was Maggie not Maddie.

“So, Margaret Waters” she said and handed me a cup of tea. I sighed and looked at my hands “what happened, and don’t tell me nothing because I know you better than you know yourself” there was no denying that. I took the cup and looked at her.

“I think I became a jealous bitch”

Maddie rolled her eyes and sat down in the kitchen stool near the island.

“OK, tell me everything”

“Before I do, how does this work? If it’s a boy with who does he have to rhyme?”

“With Ethan of course”

“And what rhymes with Ethan?”

“Nathan” she replied smugly, I let out a chuckle and shook my head, then got serious.

“OK, I’ll tell you everything.”

And I did, Maddie was my sister she would’ve known if I was hidding something. So I hid nothing, I only ommited the part that Raymond was a criminal, but me working with him, Donald, him working in the FBI, us meeting, our outings, our talks, everything.

By the time I got to the current situation, Audrey’s, we were standing in the kitchen while she was getting dinner ready. My nieces had come home and it was my turn to be tackled by them. My sister shushed them away telling them that I was tired from the travel.

“So he’s dating back his ex” she recapped. I nodded and sighed, crossing my arms at my chest. “And at which point did you exactly became a jealous bitch?”

“I stopped seeing him, I only text him and occasionally talk with him. He’s always talking about her and I just can’t handle it”

“Well, Mags, you have just a couple of days to figure out what are you going to do with this, because you know what I’ll say. I’ll tell you to just tell him that you were jealous because you though you had a chance with him, if you keep hiding and hiding he’s never going to know how you feel. And if you don’t tell him how you feel he may never realize that he feels the same way about you too. Don’t be bitter and jealous and just talking about people on their backs, I’d like to believe I’ve taught you better than that”

I just nodded. My sister had taught me better, forgive and forget, being salty or rancorous wasn’t a theme in our family. We’ve always been bold and direct, specially with our feelings.

But telling someone that you love them knowing that those feeling don’t have a place doesn’t come easy to anyone, no matter how bold or direct.

In that moment my phone rang with a message, I gave my sister a look and picked up my phone.

“It’s a message from Donald” I pressed the message and read out loud “hey Maggie, I totally understand and I hope this few days help you to feel better, I want my cheery friend who owes me dinner by next week. Best wishes”

“Aww” she cooed and placed a hand on my shoulder “he cares about you too Maggie. Maybe not as much as you, but he still wants to hang out with you, you’re his friend. And you have to be the best friend you can”

“Yeah, until they decide to get married and she asks me to be the maid of honor, and watch them seal their lives together, I’ll be the best friend there is” I said sarcastically.

“Yes, you will. Maybe it wasn’t written Mags, just move on, you’ll find the right one soon”

I wanted so badly for Don to be the right one.

“I think I’ll lay down until dinner” I said, walking out the kitchen and up to the guest room my sister had prepared for me.

I just needed to sort my head around, and I had five days to do it.

Ressler.

I put my phone back in my pocket after replaying the voicemail Maggie had left me to Liz. She only gave me a smug look

“Do you need any more confirmation that she has a thing for you?”

I shook my head no.

“She’s been avoiding me, like you said. We only text, we haven’t met up for dinner or even coffee, she’s stopped going to the cafe on Fridays. Why is she avoiding me?”

“Because you replaced her.”

“I’ve been trying to get her to meet me and have dinner like we used to but she shuts me out.”

“Yeah, have dinner with her for you to blab about how perfect your life with Audrey is now right?”

I looked away and sighed, maybe Liz was right, maybe I was being too suffocating about Audrey.

“Well, what now?”

“You just have to wait until she comes back. She probably left to think” she stood up from her seat and picked up her phone “it’s Red, I have to meet with him”

I just nodded and walked out our office with her, I guess I’ll just have to wait till next week, thank God Reddington has a name for us.

Maggie.

Family. It was and had always been my magic pill for happiness. We went out the little times we had free, with my nieces at school and Maddie and Ethan still working I had free mornings. I cleaned my sister’s place, picked up my nieces if she didn’t make it, took them to the park, we visited the Zoo.

On the weekend we went to the cemetery to take flowers to my dad, and I remembered something he always told me when I felt down. His magic word was Time, he truly believed time healed all wounds.

I just let it go, because simply there wasn’t time for me to be bitter about something that it never was, and probably never will.

By the time I was getting my things ready to leave the next morning I decided to text Don to let him know I was coming back.

Disconnection from all social media also seemed to do the trick for those few days.

I was in the middle of my message to Donald when the door opened, my sister didn’t understood privacy.

“How about you knock?” I said looking at my phone.

“The girls are sad you’re leaving” she said taking a seat next to me “they noticed you were a little sad”

“Like the first day… Now I’m fine” I assured her.

“Who are you texting?”

“Don, Mom” I said rolling my eyes at her “I’m letting him know I’m going back tomorrow, he’ll more than likely insist he’ll pick me up from the airport and we can have lunch, catch up” I locked my phone and stood up from the bed.

“And you’re going to stop being a jealous bitch?”

“Yes” I said nodding “I got my shit together” I put the last pieces of clothing in my suitcase and closed it

“And you’re going to tell him?” I frowned “about you being jealous”

“Maybe” I shrugged “he probably got it from me not talking to him, and his partner is a profiler who’s probably got me figured out already”

“And you’re going to be his best friend right?”

“Right” I said nodding again “are we done with this interrogatory? I have pictionary to play”

“It’s cheating when you are an architect” she said standing up with me

“You said that about Jenga, you don’t let me play shit” I complained while she chuckled.

I promised my nieces I would come back to visit them for their respective birthdays, and as predicted, Don told me he would pick me up at the airport.

The last night I was a little nervous, it was hard enough to confront him for being jealous, because that implied that I did have feelings for him, and I would be confessing to that too, which could change our relationship.