#you know i’d try to dispel any of it though..

[arsene-fixates]

It’s upsetting that the people would easily believe that you’d do these sort of things, especially after all you’ve done for Darkwood!

Unfortunately, I don’t think I could sway the public’s opinion of you even after taking my reputation into account…

I think there's another bout of rumors floating around about you again!! I haven't caught wind of it just yet (my work has me in places that aren't very populated) but Ben was telling me that the townspeople were saying that you were spying on them, or have spies around watching them.. is that true?

[@arsene-fixates]

Ah. Again.

I do not take pleasure in stalking innocent people, and neither do I assign my agents to do so on my behalf. I expect this paranoia stems from stigmatization of our work. I assure the public that what we do is just, and every shadow you catch outside your window is more often than not a branch being blown against the wind. I would know these things.

The truth is, even if you were being watched by me, or us, you wouldn't know at all. But, again, we do not do this without fair reason.

[cloudcountry]

music notes of the heart

Genre/Tropes: Study dates but its unestablished relationship? Floyd is flirting with you LMAO + Slow Dancing!!

Summary: Your tutor for musicology may not be other people's first choice, but he's yours.

Author's Comments: inspired by this tumblr post!! we truly do need more intelligent floyd content and i've already written for jade's dorky goofy silly side so many times sigh. also seriously, do not ask about the slow dancing merpeople rituals. you can infer. LMAO (@tinyletterz i hope you dont mind me tagging you but i was thinking of you when i wrote this bc yk. Floyd Leech. C:)

~~~~~

You set your books down on the table tucked in the corner of the library and sit down, shifting anxiously as you await your tutor. The smell of old papers and the sound of scratching pens from a few bookshelves away does nothing to dispel your nerves. If Ace and Deuce could see just who you’d asked for help, they surely would have yelled at you for hours and wrung out your neck in frustration.

It’s not like anyone else held the same passion for musicology, though. Besides, Floyd Leech wasn’t that bad once you got to know him.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, you think as he waltzes into the library, a lazy smirk on his face and his hands shoved into his pockets. His back is hunched slightly as he looks around the library, eyes scanning over each face with an almost predatory grin. You raise your arms and wave him over, trying not to make much noise to avoid being yelled at by the crabby librarian.

Floyd does not share that sentiment.

“Shrimpy!” he yells (honestly you don’t think he’s capable of yelling any louder) and bounces over to you.

He sweeps you into his arms in the blink of an eye, cackling madly as he nuzzles you. The librarian shoots the two of you a glare, and you shrink into his chest with shame. You’ll have to apologize to him later.

“Were ya trying to hide from me?” he breathes, sharp teeth on display as he grins down at your bundled-up form, “You know I’d sniff you out, right?”

“I wasn’t.” you protest, but it falls on deaf ears and Floyd squeezes you closer. His nose brushes against your cheek and he borderline snuggles you and you’re glad you’ve picked a table in the corner because if you were any closer to the center everyone would be staring.

“Alright Shrimpy,” he murmurs, setting you down in your chair with two quick taps on your head, “Ya said you needed my help with musicology?”

“I didn’t know who else to ask.” you say, sliding your textbook over to him with a furrowed brow, “You’re the best in that class and I can’t seem to grasp any of it.”

Floyd sits down next to you and leans in close, so close that you can smell the cologne on his clothing. You let him read through the notes you made on the sheet of lined paper you used to mark your page, gnawing at your lower lip self-consciously. You know you aren’t the best at this subject but it’s Floyd’s best, and you don’t want him to think you’re stupid.

He seems to be able to read minds because Floyd looks over at you with a pout.

“Shrimpy, I’d tell ya if you were stupid. So quit worrying.” Floyd scolds, snatching your hand up and squeezing it as he intertwines your fingers, “The fun thing about musicology is that you can analyze and learn from any angle ya want!”

“Freer subjects are harder to work with, though.” you confess, “I’m not sure how to go about...figuring something out when it doesn’t have structure.”

Floyd sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry as if to say “Boo, Shrimpy. Now you do sound stupid.” You can almost hear his voice.

“Just pick something and we can start from there. What kind of music do ya like?” he bumps you with his shoulder, a huge grin on his face, “Ya gotta have something.”

You answer him, and he makes an “ah-ha!” noise. He mumbles a page number and flicks through the textbook before coming to a stop at a chapter that goes into that exact type of music. There are music scores printed on the right page and some kind of tree diagram on the left one. You stare at the words incredulously, already lost.

“Come on now, Shrimpy. Work that tiny little brain of yours.” Floyd teases, jabbing your temple with a giggle, “I know you can do it.”

You swat his hand away and wiggle your hand out of his hold, feeling a foreign heat creep up on your cheeks. Floyd giggles again as if he knows, and leans in even closer to you.

“Hey Shrimpy.” he whispers, eyes gleaming in the corner of your vision, “I changed my mind, let’s ditch the reading. I’m getting bored. What are ya gonna do about that, huh?”

You’re not sure you can do anything honestly, but you expected him to leave pretty early on in your study session anyway. It’s a miracle you got him to agree in the first place.

“Oh, you can leave.” you offer him a quick smile and turn back to your textbook, pouring over the words, “I didn’t expect you to stay the whole time- Woah!”

You’re swept out of your chair but the second time that day, and your body thumps against Floyd’s. He stares at you with a cheerful grin as he takes your hands and places them on his arms. You jump a bit when his lanky arms wrap around your waist, but when he starts swaying slowly you get the idea.

“Let’s try something else, yeah?” he snickers, “Can you tell me why people slow dance?”

“Um...to feel emotional closeness?” you say, eyes glued to his rumpled purple shirt so you don’t have to look him in the eye.

“Bingo.” he chuckles, “Merpeople also have dances like this.”

You’re tempted to ask what those dances are for, but you don’t. Floyd sweeps you around and your feet lift off the floor for a second, but you don’t feel like you’re going to fall. Floyd squeezes you a bit tighter as he guides you, somehow avoiding any tables and chairs and bookcases with master precision.

“I didn’t know you could slow dance.” you whisper, “I thought you were more of a fast paced dancer.”

“Meh. Normally.” he shrugs, “But I like dancing like this with ya. It’s fun.”

Your heart flutters.

“Can ya tell me anything else about it?” he hums, lifting his arm and spinning you around. Your breath catches in your throat as he dips you, the arm carefully holding up your waist your only support.

“Um...” you stumble over your words, grasping for any thoughts as you stare into his eyes, “Uh, it’s- um, slow dancing brings people physically closer too? Because you can feel their movement and everything-”

“Good little Shrimpy.” he giggles, hoisting you back up and resuming his more soothing swaying, “See? You’re doing good. I told ya you’d figure it out.”

Did he? You don’t even remember.

“I think I need more instruction.” you mumble, eyes darting away once again.

Floyd laughs loudly at that, but this time you don’t care when the librarian shushes you.

[wufflesvetinari]

“Here’s a question for you,” Astarion says, fletching arrows by firelight. “Or rather, for your employer. Ilmater’s hung up on compassion. One might even call it his entire artistic medium.”

“Which part of that was the question?” Lash murmurs. 

She squats before a row of little corpses: a mouse, a vole, the remains of a rabbit. Each of them had been turned half to goo by the shadow curse, their bones glinting like stolen jewels.

Astarion reaches down to finger a lock of Lash’s thick hair. She’ll give up on trying to dispel Reithwin’s plague from the bodies soon enough, just as she has every night for a tenday. A quiet cuss will slip out beneath her breath, and then she’ll wander off to flay dried fish for dinner. 

Cooking seems to soothe her more than prayer ever did.

“The question is obvious, darling. Suffering is everywhere; the world rather spins on it. Is your god falling down on the job?”

With a sigh, Lash falls back onto her ass. She cranes her neck back to watch him: he’s perched on a tree stump behind her. “Feeling philosophical, are you?”

“Not like there’s anything else to occupy us in this wretched place.”

Every dark hour wasted here seems more miserable than the last. Astarion’s gone soft for sunlight; craves it in its absence like a safe place to sleep. 

Belatedly, he remembers himself. “Actually, I can think of one thing I’d rather be doing.”

He props an ankle on her shoulder, making a show of it: leaning back on his stump to stretch out the lines of his body. His skin is beautiful, he knows, in half-light. Ethereal.

He’s so tired of it. Of skin.

Lash gives a low chuckle, patting his boot. “Later, if you want.”

A sly grin settles around her tusks. As though the two of them know something, together, that’s hidden from the world. A pinch of annoyance takes him: it’s a rather one-sided secret, isn’t it, if the reason he beds her is to feel safe at night?

He drops his fletching, arrows rolling on black earth. “My question stands. Clearly, Ilmater helps only a very few. Why bother with a god who plays favorites?”

Lash’s brow pinches. She lifts his ankle from her shoulder—scoots around to face him and sets it in her lap. “You ask somebody in the Open Hand Temple, they’ll tell you that…since suffering and patience are sacred, things can’t change until they’re meant to. ‘S a balance.”

“How convenient for a lazy god. You believe that rot?”

“Not really.”

He gives her a sharp look.

She casts a wry glance at her row of little corpses. “He can’t save everyone. Doesn’t have the power for it. Has to…pick and choose, I guess, and send us out to work on the rest. You’re right it’s not fair.”

He looks down at her—warm gray skin; hair loosed from its tie—and feels that annoyed pinch grow into a pit at the base of his stomach. 

“Then why?” he scowls. “Why…give false hope to a horde of filthy faithful?”

Why spread the legend far enough that a spawn spends a decade praying, wishing, imagining the Crying God blowing open the kennel door? He’d heard the stories: Ilmater manifesting to lead prisoners home. 

A god who picks and chooses.

“Any good you could possibly do”—the word twists without his meaning it to, you like an accusation—“is a drop in the fucking ocean. Why humor such a helpless god?”

Lash shrugs. She runs a finger down the toe of his boot, shoulders curling inward. “Better than being helpless alone.”

--

(i'm writing more still the river. have you listened to "boy with a coin" by iron & wine? have you listed to it.......a lot)

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch5

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

[ao3 version]

notes: I privated my ao3 account so that only registered users can see it... since all the ai stuff has been going on and I'd rather be safe than sorry.... I'm not sure how many ppl follow with the series here on Tumblr, but I figured I'd post it here too, in case any of you don’t have an ao3 account... [I posted this a bit ago on ao3, so apologies for the tardiness]

the gif above is so funny. the lil head tilt is killing me, idk. 

warnings: panic attack, self harm (digging nails into skin), franklyn having zero boundaries

You’re in Hannibal’s home again. You really need to have more self-preservation—you’re practically a gift-wrapped murder victim here. Although, he hasn’t killed you yet. Maybe you’ll be fine. Perhaps you aren’t as rude as you thought you were. The thought amuses you.

Inexplicably, as you’re speaking with Hannibal, he asks you to accompany him to the opera. The request is so unexpected that it takes you several moments to realize you heard him correctly. Hannibal stares at you expectantly and you take a deep breath.

“You realize I don’t know the first thing about opera,” you remark apprehensively. “Surely there are far better choices than me.” Doesn’t he have acquaintances that are more suited for this type of outing? You’re certain you would look extremely out of place amidst the typical visitors. Surely, Hannibal knows that he will put his reputation at risk by bringing you along. You try to convey those sentiments in the eye contact you’re currently maintaining with the man, but he doesn’t seem dissuaded in the slightest.

“You are my friend and I want to spend time with you,” Hannibal states easily. You envy his ability to be so straightforward with his thoughts and feelings. “Is that really so strange?”

“I suppose not,” you frown. Fond of breaking doctor-patient boundaries, are we, Dr. Lecter? You dispel the thought. Admittedly, from the first moment you interacted with Hannibal, you knew he would be more than a psychiatrist. You’re happy to consider him a close friend now.

“Are you amenable?” Hannibal then asks, just before you can zone out and lose focus.

“When is it?” You ask, despite knowing that you don’t have much going on this week anyway.

“Tomorrow night,” Hannibal answers. You raise an eyebrow.

“Rather late notice,” you say, if only to make him sweat a bit. Of course, Hannibal’s perfectly crafted mask remains in place. “Did your date cancel on you?” Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow and he crosses his arms over his chest. You decide to take pity on him and stop messing around.

“I’m just kidding,” you interject with a grin. It’s kind of fun to see how much you can push Hannibal around. You get the feeling that no one really questions him. It’s amusing to see him scramble for an explanation, even though the effort is perfectly rehearsed. “I think I’m free; I’d love to go. You just may have to deal with my complete ignorance when it comes to opera music.”

“I think I’ll survive,” Hannibal smiles. Is he playing along? You raise your eyebrows in surprise. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting that. It’s nice to know that Hannibal can take a joke. 

“Anyway, thank you for inviting me into your home again; I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Of course not,” Hannibal says with a shake of his head, as if the very thought is ludicrous.

“I invited you.” Hannibal then excuses himself for a moment and you take the opportunity to look around his kitchen. You suppress the extremely compelling urge to look through his drawers—you know what you’ll find and you’re certain you don’t want to see it. Instead, you let your eyes rove over the polished cabinets and clean counters. Just before you can lose interest, your gaze falls on the rolodex. Interest peaking, you decide to walk towards it.

It appears the rolodex holds business cards of people Hannibal has met. You idly flip through the rolodex, needing something to occupy your restless hands. A few of the names are (unsurprisingly) ones you recognize. It takes you a few moments of observation to realize just what purpose this rolodex serves. It appears this is a list of potential murder victims. Flipping through the various business cards, you don’t see a common denominator. “Whenever feasible, one should always try to eat the rude,” Hannibal had told you once. On second thought, these business cards are probably people that Hannibal has determined to be rude. You go through the names with renewed interest. A few of them are rather fancy. One even looks remarkably close to yours. You move to the next one before a breath catches in your chest and you find yourself returning to the one that caught your eye.

The business card is extremely similar to yours—same color and font. You squint at it, heart racing in your chest as you look at the name written on it. It must be another government agent, surely. You all have similar, standard-issue business cards. You just hope it isn’t any of your acquaintances. You’re expecting to see anyone from Jack Crawford to Alana Bloom. You close your eyes for a moment, before finally giving in and reading the name. It’s… It’s your name.

You stare at the card in disbelief. Where did Hannibal get your business card? It has your name, phone number, email address… It even has your office location at headquarters. You swallow past the trepidation building in your core. You can’t quite stop the choked laugh that escapes your lips. You let your guard down. You had foolishly hoped that maybe, just maybe, things would be different. You let your guard down and, now, your name rests amidst the names of current and future Ripper victims.

“Is everything alright?” The timing could not be worse. Hannibal walks in as you’re looking at the rolodex and you quickly turn around, trying to shield it from his view. You’re not sure what expression is on your face, but it must be suitably harrowed, because his face twists in concern—mock concern, your mind supplies. “You look rather shaken.”

“Yes, of course,” you answer. It takes every ounce of practice you’ve accumulated to keep the fear from your voice. You sound slightly flat, but you’re convinced that you’ve mostly concealed your true feelings. “Apologies, Dr. Lecter. I think I’d better get going.”

You can tell that Hannibal is suspicious, but you don’t give him the chance to ask you about it—instead deigning to murmur a quick goodbye and walk out to your car. You’re infinitely grateful that you had the foresight to drive yourself. You’re not sure that you would’ve had the energy to maintain your composure in Hannibal’s company.

You wait until you’re a sufficient distance from Hannibal’s home to sag in your seat and sigh heavily. You’d been growing too big of an ego. Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper. The two of you are friends and you foolishly assumed that your friendship gave you immunity. Clearly, that isn’t the case. You need to remember yourself, remember that the composed dinner host you often sit across from is a practiced killer. One false move and you’re dead. Once you get home, you spend the remainder of the evening in an anxious and paranoid haze. It takes you a while to fall asleep that night and, when you do, the Ripper follows you into your dreams.

The next morning, you receive a text from Hannibal—which includes the details of the opera and what time he plans to pick you up. It takes you several moments to ground yourself in reality and remember that Hannibal isn’t aware of your knowledge that he’s the Ripper. Once you collect your composure, you insist that you can drive yourself—but he waves off the suggestion and maintains that he’ll drive. Admittedly, now that you’re thinking about it, you don’t have the slightest clue what to wear. You’ve never really been to an opera performance before, and you can only imagine what the people in attendance will be wearing. You have no idea where to begin searching for an outfit. Your closet isn’t exactly the best.

Eventually, you swallow your pride and text Hannibal. He knows you’re not sophisticated, you think to yourself. Asking him for help isn’t that embarrassing. In fact, you’d rather ask and lose a bit of dignity than try to puzzle it out on your own [and fail miserably.] Hannibal is quick to respond—almost as if he had been expecting the question—and says that he’ll bring clothes for you. You immediately have several objections to that, but they fall on determined ears. You regret asking, now.

A few hours later, there’s a quiet knock on your door. You open the door to find Hannibal waiting on your doorstep, folded clothing in hand. You shake your head in exasperation and let him in. “Thank you,” you say, taking the clothes he’s extending out to you. You still feel the need to try to argue one more time. “I could’ve found something on my own.”

Hannibal looks you up and down, in a manner that makes you feel extremely self conscious. You aren’t exactly wearing the fanciest clothing right now, but that’s only because you knew you’d be changing. “Doubtful,” Hannibal remarks. You glare at him, only to find his lips twisted in that slightly amused smirk. You roll your eyes.

“I’m going to change,” You then realize that this is the first time that Hannibal has been in your home. He’s driven you many times, but he’s never gotten out of the car before. “Feel free to explore, I guess.” You’re struck with the sudden mundane feeling of shame, as you recognize how much less luxurious your home is. Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he starts to walk around and look at things. Meanwhile, you head to the bathroom.

Once you place the clothes on the bathroom counter, you’re once again realizing that you’re out of your depth. The outfit he’s given you is extremely lavish: an extravagant suit with dress pants. Upon further examination, you realize that he even gave you an undershirt. You push aside all the strange, conflicting feelings you have about wearing clothes your psychiatrist provided you. The clothes even smell very strongly of Hannibal’s cologne. It takes all of your resistance not to cough once you put them on. You’re not very fond of fragrances to begin with, since they often give you headaches. But, you know you have no right to complain. It was extremely generous of Hannibal to lend you clothing, and you don’t plan to disrespect the gesture by complaining about his cologne. You put on the rest of the clothing and assess yourself in the mirror. You look rather good, you have to admit. Of course, it’s all due to Hannibal’s clothing. You take a moment to brush your teeth again before walking back out into the main area of the house, where Hannibal seems to be looking at your decorations with a keen eye. He turns around upon hearing you enter and, for a long moment, the two of you stare at each other in silence. 

Inexplicably, Hannibal breaks the distance between you and reaches out. Your heart is racing in your chest but you manage to remain still. He fiddles with your collar for a moment before stepping back, apparently satisfied with his work. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Better?” You ask sardonically.

“Much,” Hannibal remarks. “Shall we?” He holds out an arm and you scoff. Hannibal freezes and you do, too. Shit. You hadn’t meant to scoff aloud. You compensate by putting your hand on his arm and he sends you a smile that is almost… fond. You immediately disregard that notion.

The drive to the opera house is enjoyable. Hannibal is one of the few people that you feel comfortable enough to share silence with. You don’t feel the need to constantly fill the air and, so, you spend most of the ride staring out the window and looking at the trees. Before long, Hannibal is pulling into a parking space and the two of you are ascending the stairs leading to the opera house. The building is rather grand, with beautiful towering pillars and elegant statues decorating the path to the entrance. When you enter, you’re unsurprised to see Hannibal’s mask slide neatly into place.

Evidently, Hannibal has been here before, because he navigates the opera house with practiced ease. There are several people that greet him upon his entrance, and he smiles and sends them a courteous wave. You idly wonder if he truly likes any of these people, or if he merely tolerates them. As you continue to walk in, you’re brutally aware of the gazes searing into your back. You’re sure that Hannibal will be the talk of the town soon enough—you get the feeling he never brings people to these kinds of events. Indeed, he seems the type to want to appreciate art in solitude. You debate asking him once more if he’s okay with being seen with you here. Within a few moments, you’re finally in the area where the performance is scheduled to occur. Hannibal leads you to your seats—which are in one of the balconies—and you can’t suppress your thoughts any longer. Thankfully, it seems no one else has found their seats in your section just yet.

“You realize how this looks, right?” You finally ask. Hannibal sends a curious glance at you and you refuse to acknowledge how handsome he looks right now. You avert your eyes for a moment, instead watching as the people below file into their seats. “Everyone thinks that I’m…  you know.” Hannibal continues to stare at you with a blank expression. Damn it, is he really going to make you explain it? You try to push past your embarrassment and remain professional. “I think they’re under the impression that we’re… dating.”

“The thought makes you uncomfortable,” Hannibal states, crossing one leg over the other. That must be why he chose these seats—he probably needs the legroom. The people below are milling about, talking with one another. You’re grateful that these seats are isolated from everyone else—there’s no expectation for you to talk to anyone.

“No, it doesn’t,” you clarify, wondering how he justified that leap in logic. “Besides, if anyone’s reputation is going to be at risk, it’ll be yours.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Hannibal says, something akin to amusement on his face. You’re not sure what he’s finding so amusing—you don’t think your statement was far-fetched or unreasonable. From the moment you walked in, you noticed quite a few people staring at Hannibal and you. They seemed to be making their own conclusions about the two of you; you just wanted to warn him. “I am not worried about my reputation.”

“You think your reputation won’t be affected?” You squint at him, trying to watch for a reaction. “...Or you just don’t care?” Your companion is silent for a moment.

“I was under the impression that I was the psychiatrist here,” Hannibal then remarks lightly. He sends you a look and you feel a momentary inkling of shame.

“Sorry,” you grimace. Hannibal’s lips quirk at the sides—a sign that he isn’t truly upset about your sudden psychoanalysis. You feel the need to justify your reaction regardless. “It’s easy to slip into the criminal profiling mindset sometimes,”

You spend the next several minutes having lighthearted conversation. It’s rather nice. The theater slowly begins to fill up until, finally, the lights dim and someone appears on the stage. To your surprise, the performance is rather enjoyable. You must be rather horrible at hiding your preconceptions, because Hannibal sends you a knowing look after the first song. You pretend not to notice the smugness radiating off the man, and instead focus on the singer. They’re quite talented, unsurprisingly. You’re not quite sure how much the tickets were, but judging from your surroundings, you’d guess they were rather expensive.

You take advantage of the brief intermission in the middle of the program to use the facilities. Once you’re finished, you move to go back into the theatre. However, there’s suddenly a hand grabbing your shoulder and you’re forcefully guided into a deserted hallway. You chance a glance over your shoulder, only to find a far too familiar patient of Dr. Lecter’s: Franklyn Froideveaux.

“Franklyn,” you remark, feeling extremely apprehensive once you recognize him. The man is wearing a three-piece suit again, but this time it’s eerily similar to something Hannibal might wear. You frown at the thought. Franklyn’s obsession with Dr. Lecter is really rather creepy. If Hannibal weren’t such a capable killer, perhaps you’d be worried for him.

“I saw you with Dr. Lecter,” Franklyn states matter-of-factly. He crowds you against the wall and you have to lean back against it to avoid touching him. The look in the man’s eyes is unnerving. It sends a shiver down your spine. There’s nothing in his irises except madness.

“Yes,” you respond, once you realize that Franklyn is awaiting an answer. You don’t tell him that Hannibal invited you, but he seems to come to that conclusion on his own.

“What did he do?” Franklyn asks. “Did he hold the car door open for you? What cologne does he wear? I have a few ideas but I can’t decide between them.” You feel your head begin to ache at his persistent badgering. You’re deeply unsettled by him.

“What’s it like being friends with Dr. Lecter?” He continues. Franklyn doesn’t even give you a chance to respond, as he continues rattling off questions. “Is he a good friend? Do you two spend time together?”

“Um-” You try to say, only for Franklyn to stop mid-tirade. His eyes quickly lock on the suit you’re wearing and you grit your teeth. This is easily one of the most uncomfortable interactions you’ve ever had, and it isn’t even over yet. You flinch as he puts a hand on your shoulder.

“That’s not your clothing,” Franklyn remarks, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. His fingers dig into your shoulder and you wince. His grip is beginning to hurt; you think you may have bruises later. “You're wearing something Dr. Lecter gave you.”

“No, I’m not,” you try to argue, well aware that your voice doesn't sound very convincing.

“Yes, you are,” Franklyn asserts, not indicating that he’s hearing you or even seeing you. His eyes are glazed and it almost seems as if he’s looking directly through you. “He gave you clothes. Why? What does he see in you?”

Ouch. That hurts for a microsecond, before you then realize that Franklyn’s opinion bears absolutely no relevance to your life. You want to speak on those thoughts, but there’s a crazed look in the man’s eyes and you decide to stay silent. Franklyn seems to take your silence as an argument itself, though, because his hand tightens on your shoulder rather painfully. You try to shove him off, but the man’s grip is unyielding.

A familiar voice calls your name from further down the hallway. You squint, only to find Hannibal walking towards the two of you. There’s an inexplicable expression on his face, and you can’t even begin to dissect it.

“Hannibal,” you breathe, unable to hide the relief you feel at his presence. Franklyn finally releases his grip on you and you reach a hand up to massage your shoulder. The man’s attention is off of you now, thankfully.

“I presumed you to be lost, but I see that notion is incorrect,” Hannibal says, his gaze flitting about your face as if looking for any sign of distress. He then looks at Franklyn, disinterest and boredom evident in his expression. Of course, Franklyn doesn’t care to notice it. He sees what he wants to see, you think to yourself. “What is going on here? Franklyn?”

Franklyn looks to you expectantly, as if waiting for you to lie for him. You instead remain silent. You know that, right now, telling the truth will unnecessarily escalate the situation. Besides, your exhaustion is starting to catch up with you and you can’t find the energy to continue the conversation.

“We were just having a friendly conversation.” Franklyn answers. Hannibal looks to you for confirmation and you avert your eyes. Meanwhile, Franklyn seems to be falling over himself in an attempt to secure Hannibal’s attention. “Dr. Lecter, it’s so nice to see you here,” Franklyn says, his voice a far cry from the manic lunacy from before. The sudden change is rather dizzying. This man is suffocating to be around. “You know, I thought this might be your kind of place. I was just speaking to your friend here…”

You place a hand on your temple, beginning to get a migraine from the sheer burst of emotions surrounding Franklyn. Your skills in criminal profiling typically allow you to get a sense of other people’s feelings. At worst, you can get a trace of what they feel. Right now, however, you feel every emotion Franklyn is exuding, and it’s enough to make your vision grainy and fuzzy. He continues prattling on, but all you can sense is the horrible flood of obsession, jealousy, and a visceral desire so palpable that it makes you nauseous.

You put a hand to the wall behind you, feeling the need to brace yourself against something. Everything in the background falls to a dull buzzing rhythm—Franklyn’s giddy conversation with Hannibal, the muted sound of the performance that you can hear through the walls. You close your eyes and beg for the torture to stop. Maybe Franklyn will take pity on you and walk away. Maybe Hannibal will lose his patience and walk away, too—you wouldn’t be surprised.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your forearm. You vaguely register—through swirling vision—Hannibal leading you further down the abandoned hallway until he stops and pushes you into an armchair. Despite the overwhelming emotionality that Franklyn practically assaulted you with, you manage to scrounge up a rather large amount of guilt.

“Sorry,” you choke out to Hannibal. Your breathing is still a bit rough and your clothes feel incredibly constricting. You roll up the sleeves of your jacket—well, Hannibal’s jacket—and try to stammer out the rest of your apology. “Feel free to go back inside; I just need a moment.”

You place a hand over your aching temple and another on the arm of the chair. Selfishly, you think that you could use Hannibal’s support, but you don’t want to occupy his attention when the performance is still happening. You close your eyes and try to pretend that your ears aren’t buzzing. You wait to hear his footsteps as he retreats; you wait to hear an acquiescence. A few seconds pass. Instead, there’s a hand on your shoulder.

“Dr. Lecter,” you choke out, your eyes beginning to burn. You wipe at them furiously, despite knowing that the effort is futile. “Go back inside.”

“No,” Hannibal says. You can’t see the expression on his face through your blurred vision—you just pray that it isn’t annoyance or irritation.

“I’ll be fine,” you maintain through gritted teeth. You think you hear Hannibal sigh at that, but it could easily be your imagination. The man looks down at you before pressing a cool hand to your forehead. Despite knowing that he’ll withdraw his hand in a few moments, you can’t help but lean into the touch.

“I’m sure,” Hannibal remarks, pulling you up to your feet and steadying you as your balance wavers. He places your hand on his arm and the two of you walk back in the direction you came. To your surprise, when you reach the door to the theater, Hannibal pivots and leads you towards the exit. You shake your head in disbelief as humiliation, shame, and guilt battle for prominence in your chest. Before long, Hannibal has led the two of you into his car. The moment you’re in his car, you bury your head in your hands.

Everything in your vision feels harsher and sharper. You begin to dig your nails into your palms unconsciously, hoping for some means to establish yourself in reality. You don’t realize you’re doing it until Hannibal reaches out and pries your hands apart. Your hands are trembling ever so slightly and you ball them into fists.

You’re not sure how much time you spend trying to regain your composure in the passenger seat of Hannibal’s car. Dignity is a foreign concept. You’re sure the embarrassment will catch up to you later—perhaps when you’re home and have some time to think.

At some point, Hannibal begins driving. Thankfully, the roads aren’t bumpy and the ride is rather smooth. He’s entirely silent and you feel the beginnings of remorse prickling along your skin. Hannibal never asked you to explain your interaction with Franklyn, but you feel that he deserves to know what happened.

“You realize Franklyn’s in love with you, right?” You blurt out, before quickly turning your head to look out the window and avoid Hannibal’s gaze. Truthfully, you had hoped to lead into that a little bit more. Somehow, that statement was what came from your lips.

“Yes.” Hannibal responds, his eyes still locked on the road. You take the afforded opportunity to look at him, confident in the notion that you aren’t being observed right back. Hannibal seems… entirely unruffled. Then again, he always looks unbothered. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to notice when something bothers him.

“He asked me what cologne you wear,” you decide to start with. You describe how you had tried to make your way back to the theater, only to be stopped by Hannibal’s patient and led off into a secluded hallway. “Franklyn knew that I was wearing your clothes; he also wanted to know what it’s like to be friends with you.”

“What did you say?” Hannibal asks, his attention still focused on the road.

“Nothing; he didn’t let me get a word in edgewise,” you admit. You run a finger along the smooth fabric of your shirt sleeve. Unbeknownst to you, the sleeve had started to roll up on its own; you take a moment to fix that before continuing to speak. “He’s so… suffocating.”

“It seemed his presence was harming you,” Hannibal remarks bluntly. You nod in agreement. At first, the interaction was merely uncomfortable. However, once Hannibal appeared, Franklyn’s emotions hit you with full force.

“I could feel everything,” you break off for a moment. “The love, the obsession, the jealousy, the envy… It was overwhelming. That man is the darkest person I’ve ever met.”

“He isn’t a killer,” Hannibal points out. That’s true—you’ve seen your fair share of killers, with minds so dark that you couldn’t hope to find an escape. Even so, those criminals were… straightforward. Franklyn, on the other hand, is a paradox.

“I know,” you acknowledge. “Franklyn is extremely neurotic, though—arguably the worst I’ve ever seen. It’s stifling. He has debilitating control issues and a crippling urge to prove himself. He’s often a victim of his own envy and jealousy. His self-concept is… I can’t even begin to describe it.” Yet, there’s a thinly-veiled hunger in Hannibal’s eyes—he wants to hear what you have to say. You inhale slowly. Again, you feel as if you owe him for absolutely ruining his night. Besides, you’re sure that he already knows all this information anyway. Franklyn is his patient, after all.

“Franklyn is sort of… a shapeshifter, for lack of a better term. He’ll adjust and change himself to fit the situation best. When he’s in love, he’s dangerously obsessed. His unconventional actions are reassuring to him, though, because they give him a modicum of control—a control that he cannot possess over anything else.” You have a lot more that you could divulge on the matter, but you decide to stop there. Again, you’re convinced that Hannibal already knows all of that.

“I see why you’re Jack’s best profiler,” Hannibal says, finally looking away from the road to look at you. His eyes are glittering in the darkness. You roll your eyes at the unnecessary compliment, too tired to start an argument. To your surprise, when you look out the window, you realize that he’s driving down your street. That car ride had passed rather fast and within a few seconds, Hannibal is pulling into your driveway.

“We’re here,” you announce unnecessarily, grabbing the door handle and stepping out of the vehicle. To your surprise, Hannibal also gets out of the car. You squint at him in confusion, but he doesn’t seem to notice. You’re not quite sure what he’s playing at, but you’re too exhausted to figure it out. Instead of inquiring about his sudden interest in following you inside, you simply allow him to do so before closing the door behind him.

“Do you want this clothing back now?” You ask, unable to come up with any other explanation for his presence in your home. It’s not that you mind his intrusion—not at all, actually—but you’d feel more comfortable with a legitimate reason for his presence.

“If that’s acceptable,” Hannibal answers, breaking you out of your thoughts. His eyes are fixed on something on one of your bookshelves. You shake your head at his strange fascination with your living room decorations.

“Sure, I’ll go change; mind waiting here?” He assures you that he doesn’t mind waiting. You shut the door behind you in the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment. There are dark circles under your eyes and you look a little frazzled. Otherwise, you don’t look bad. Amazingly, you managed not to ruin Hannibal’s clothing—a feat you’re rather proud of yourself for. You settle for changing into a simple long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants. As you change, you neatly fold Hannibal’s clothing into a pile. Once you’re done, you glance at your reflection one more time. You take a half-step backwards but, before you move to leave, your eyes catch on something below your collar. You squint and lean closer to the mirror, convinced that you’re seeing things. Somehow, though, you’re not. After a moment’s hesitation, you pull your shirt collar to the side, only to find harsh marks on your collarbone and shoulder. They’re almost in the shape of a handprint and it doesn’t take much detective work to realize who they’re from—Franklyn.

That realization is not very welcome, and you decide not to think about it right now. Remembering that Hannibal is waiting on you, you grab the folded pile of clothes and walk back out to the living room. Unsurprisingly, Hannibal is looking around with a scrutinizing gaze. You walk up to him and hold out the clothes, but his back is turned. You eventually just decide to place them on the entryway table—he’ll have to see them on the way out.

“Thank you for inviting me, it was very fun,” you smile. Hannibal turns around, seemingly just noticing your presence. Just what is he looking for in your humble living room? He certainly won’t find anything of value. Furthermore, your decoration skills are nowhere near his. You can’t find a reasonable explanation for his behavior and, eventually, you have to give up on trying to rationalize it.

“I’m glad you found the night enjoyable,” he answers diplomatically. You raise an eyebrow at the stiff response. Perhaps your little… episode… had annoyed him more than you initially thought. Another apology certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“I hope I didn’t ruin your experience too much,” you wince, sheepishly shoving your hands in your pockets. Hannibal shakes his head, before taking a step closer to you.

“On the contrary, I found the performance more enjoyable with your company,” he asserts. Hannibal still looks as handsome as he did when he first appeared on your doorstep this evening—not a hair out of place. You swallow hard, before roughly shoving the thought aside—now is not the time. “I apologize for Franklyn.” Your eyebrows furrow. Why is he apologizing?

“You can’t control his actions,” you say, waving his concern off. “No harm done.” At that, Hannibal’s expression darkens. He takes another step closer, until the two of you are standing face to face. For a while, there is nothing but tense, uncomfortable silence.

“I disagree,” Hannibal says darkly, his hand resting lightly on your collarbone. Before you can protest, he’s gently pushing away the collar of your shirt to look at your shoulder. He frowns and you realize that he’s looking at the marks Franklyn left behind. If you had thought his prior expression to be dark, the look on his face now is nothing short of murderous. You feel your breath stalling in your chest, as you ground yourself in the realization that you’re standing in front of a killer with absolutely nothing to protect you. Hannibal moves to cup your cheek with a tenderness you thought him to be incapable of. His touch makes your skin feel licked with flames. Each breath you take feels labored and harsh. You swear you see Hannibal’s gaze fall to your lips for a brief moment, but you put it down to your imagination. It’s kind of late and you’re tired—you’re probably just seeing things. For a long moment, neither of you move or speak.

“Good night,” Hannibal says, a strangely determined expression on his face. His gaze keeps moving to your collarbone and you idly wish you had concealed the marks better. His hand falls from your face and he stares at you for a long moment, as if regretting your parting. You make sure to remind him of the pile of folded clothes, which he takes into his arms before turning around to leave.

“Good night, Hannibal,” you respond, opening the door for him. You watch as he enters his car and drives away. Despite the knowledge that he’s already out of sight, you feel the urge to wait a few more minutes before looking away. Finally, you close the front door and fall back against it, your mind reeling.

chapter six

[alola03]

*rUNS IN HERE*

It’s up to you if you write or draw, but I’d love to see 💘 fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss from you!! :333c

AAAAA Sav you know I love me some Mutual Pining!!!

Mutual Pining <3

They had been staring at the stars and talking just like any other night. That was what they always seemed to end up doing when it was just the two of them, anyway.

They usually break off from everyone else to go get some ‘fresh air’ which, well it was half-true! but the other half was just that they wanted to spend time with each other…alone. (Even if the two would never admit it.)

It's hard to spend one-on-one time with 15 other people scrambling for your attention. She loves all of them but it's little exhausting trying to keep up with all 15 of them trying to tell her something at the same time.

“Well…it's getting late, isn't it?” Even though she really wanted to spend a little more time with him, she had to admit she was feeling tired. Whenever she visited them she was always exhausted by the end of it but…she always went to bed happy, too.

“Ah, I guess you're right.” He went to stand up and held his hand out.

That was a shame…he wanted to stay out here a little longer.

She took his hand and stood up. “We can do this again tomorrow! Uh, if you want to…” she said trying (and failing) to hide how much she wanted to do this again. But he didn't mind. In fact, he thinking the exact same thing.

“Sure! If that's what you want to do, of course.”

“Yeah!” She exclaimed. She would sit and talk with him every night if he would let her.

“Alright,” he laughed. “I'm tired too, so I'll walk you back to your cottage.”

Hey, wasn't that a little…? Isn't that kinda like they're on…

A date?

She shook her head quickly, “Okay!” She said a little too loudly, trying to not think about why her previous thought made her chest tighten a little.

It wasn't that far of a walk. “Thanks for, uh, walking me.” She chuckled. His cottage wasn't that far, so it's not like he wasn't gonna walk past hers anyway.

“No problem,” he just stood there. He wasn't sure why but…he kind of didn't want to leave yet.

She stood there waiting for…well, anything.

Why did it get so awkward all of a sudden?

“Um…I had fun,” she finally said, trying to dispel some of the awkward tension in the air.

“Me too,” he quickly breathed out while trying to figure out why hearing her say that made him want to stay even more.

You know…he isn't standing that far away…I could probably reach up and—

“Uh, Goodnight!”

He barely heard her say it on account of the door slamming shut.

“Ah…Goodnight,” she heard him say on the other side of the door.

Well, just great! Now he probably wonders what he did wrong…

She slumped against the door and held her face in her hands.

Why did she have to fall in love with him?

[lovesosweeet]

better left unsaid // cth

chapter twelve

in which orion has leukemia, and calum doesn't know.

calum hood x fem!oc

read other chapters

august 1, 2018 los angeles, california orion

My moms come up from San Diego for my first chemotherapy appointment. While I’m grateful that they’re here, I hate that they’re just another group of people who want me to tell Calum. Emelia is working today. She had offered to take the day off, but since my moms are here, I figured she should go to work.

“Honey, do you need us to take Duke while you’re getting treatment?” Mama asks.

I sigh, not wanting to think about yet another round of logistics. I feel like I’m having to rearrange my entire life because of the diagnosis and Cal being on tour. Granted, I don’t even know how much of my life is worth getting into order. Does it really matter if I take my classes if I’m going to be dead in a year or two? Taking care of Duke does matter, of course, but he’s not a very active dog and I want him here while I’m living alone temporarily.

“No, I can keep him here. He’s already got a lot of changes with Calum gone,” I tell her. She nods.

“Of course. Let us know if you change your mind, okay?”

I nod.

We get ready to leave, prepping a cold bottle of water for me to have, along with a box of crackers and a bottle of fruit punch Gatorade. In the pamphlet that Dr. Harris gave me about my chemotherapy drug, it mentioned that I’d likely be nauseous after receiving the IV of the essentially poisonous fluid. I don’t think that they’ll do much to remedy the discomfort, but I want to at least try to dispel the symptoms.

Mom and Mama insist that I also bring a sweatshirt in case I get cold, and I just do what they say. I am not in the mood to debate anything with them. I bring one of Cal’s to have a piece of him with me at the hospital. It’s not the same as having him there to support me, but it’s the closest I’ll get to it.

We drive the short distance to the hospital. My appointment is at 9:00, but they’d woken up super early to be able to pick me up and take me to the appointment. I got a text from Calum at 3 am when they landed in Tokyo and I’m so thankful he didn’t call like he’d promised. I would’ve woken up and I’m already exhausted as it is. The chemo is about to make it all worse.

I check in at the same desk that I’d come to before, but this time I don’t see Russell. A young, pretty blonde nurse calls me back instead and she explains that they’re doing more tests to provide a baseline while we track the chemo’s progress over the next few months. The tests include another blood draw, and they let me lay down, but this time I don’t pass out thankfully. Once the initial dizziness wears off, we walk down the hallway into another room, but this one is far larger.

There are several sterile-looking arm chairs, some of which have patients sitting in them already, an IV hooked up to them. I am sad when I see the youngest patient is a boy who can’t be more than 9, bald, hooked up to the chemo transfusion, and reading a Magic Treehouse book. He's so young and he's already received a death sentence: a cancer diagnosis.

The blonde nurse directs me to my own chair, which has a table next to it that has a “WELCOME, ORION” sign and a bottle of apple juice and a pack of cookies. Wow, way to make a girl feel special while she's dying.

I take a seat in my chair, and my moms stay right in front of me, even though they have chairs available for guests very much available. Maybe I get it from them — the inability to accept help. I can't imagine that they'll stand there the whole time. We're supposed to be here pretty much all day.

Another nurse comes over with a cart of medical supplies. She's older, around my moms' age, and she greets us with a 'good morning' that I just ignore. It's not a good morning.

"Let's get you started. Any questions?" She's already grabbing my arm and wiping it with a disinfecting cloth, prepping it for an IV. The thought of an IV gives me chills, so I try not to stare as she puts it in and then hooks me up to the drip of the chemotherapy drug. I don't want to think about it.

"No questions," I tell the nurse.

She smiles at me and hands me a remote. "Press this if you have any issues. I'll be back in a moment to check on you."

I try to look anywhere except for the bend in my arm where she just inserted my IV. Mom opens her mouth to say something right as my phone starts to ring. It's Calum.

"Hello?" I answer instantly. I've been waiting to hear his voice. I know it's some ungodly early hour in Tokyo, but I'm sure he's got a completely messed up sleep schedule right now, and that won't be changing for a few weeks until they're consistently in the same time zone for a few days.

"Hi baby," Cal's tired voice comes through my speaker.

"How was the flight?"

My moms mouth to me that they're going to go grab coffee and I nod, appreciating the chance to talk to Cal without them eavesdropping.

"Long and boring. Ash kept snoring for most of it." He sounds so tired. I've never understood how they could tour like they do. The different time zones, constant busy-ness, late nights... it's exhausting.

"I'm sorry."

Cal laughs. "Don't be sorry, you had absolutely nothing to do with it. How are you? What are you doing today?"

My breath catches in my throat. I have to lie again. My stomach sinks and I feel guilty all over again, but I don't have time to dwell on that. I have to tell him something. "My moms are here. Probably just gonna take a short hike and get some food, maybe go to a museum."

I feel like I can hear him frown. "I wish they'd come before I left! I've not seen them in forever. Let them know I say hi?"

I nod even though he can't see me. "Yeah, of course. I'm sorry I didn't think to invite them up to see us before. My brain has kinda been mush lately."

"I know, it's okay. I'm excited to spend Thanksgiving with them again, though," he says. Last year we did Thanksgiving with my family and Christmas with his, since Thanksgiving isn't exactly a thing in Australia. We were talking about hosting his parents and Mali here in LA this year, but we hadn't finalized that yet.

"Yeah, that'll be good."

"Hey," Calum says, which makes me laugh. Why is he greeting me again in the middle of our conversation?

"Hey?" I reply, asking it as a question.

"We're one day closer to me coming home."

I smile at the prospect of having him back home and by my side. "Yeah, what is it? A couple of months ‘til you're in San Diego?" I think I'll still be getting treatment, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to cover my tracks with him being so close to home, but I try to focus on getting through things the way they are right now. He will be home for good in November. I can make it to November.

"Yep, two months. It's October 2nd. Oh! Maybe your whole family can come to the show! Would your moms let Eri come even if it's a school night?" His mention of bringing my brother to the show is cute. My little brother absolutely adores Calum. Actually, my entire family is obsessed with him, and I don't blame them.

"Maybe, I'll have to ask." I know for a fact that they would let Eri come to a show, regardless of date or time, but I'm leery to make any kind of promises at this point.

“Just let me know, I’ll put whoever on the list.”

“Yeah, for sure. How’s Japan? How’s everyone else? I wanna hear all about it.”

Cal then dives into the rundown of their arrival to Japan and going through customs, meeting fans at the airport and finally getting to the hotel. He said Matt is already tired of them, but, to be fair, Matt was tired of them after two days of rehearsals. Ash said that Kay’s grandma is back at home, so I won’t be running into her at the hospital. It hasn’t been a full day since they left but I feel like so much has happened. Hooked up to this IV, my cancer feels so much more real.

“I’m getting sleepy again, so I can let you go. Just wanted to hear your voice.” He yawns and I can only imagine how tired he looks. I'm tired too.

“Of course,” I say. “Sweet dreams. I love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll text you when I wake up again.”

We hang up — I’m not sure which one of us does it first or if we do it at the same time, but it seems like the silence comes instantly. The moment my phone goes quiet, I realize just how freezing I am. I remember the sweatshirt my moms made me bring and pull it out of. my tote bag that's on the floor, just as the two sympathetically smiling faces appear in front of me again.

They're carrying Starbucks cups from the food court, a third one in their hands that I presume is for me.

"We got you some mint tea — it's supposed to be great for nausea," Mama says, handing me the hot cup.

"Thank you," I say, wrapping my freezing fingers around the warmth of the tea.

"How's Calum? He's in Japan first, right?" Mom asks. She ignores the chair that's next to me that she could sit in, instead choosing to squat in front of me with her iced coffee in hand.

I nod and take a sip of my tea. I've always loved mint tea. Cal and I seemed to have a cup almost every night for the first few months of us living together. "Yeah, Japan. He's tired, but he'll be tired for a while."

Mom sets a hand on my knee. "So will you." She's right. I'm about to be drained and exhausted and sick and miserable. She smiles sadly at me.

Just like the drip in my IV, the next few hours go incredibly slowly. I'm so cold the entire time, the staff have to bring me a blanket, and I note mentally to bring one with me next week. My moms were prepared and both brought books to read, one of which they end up giving to me. Scrolling on my phone got old quickly, but I found some photos of Cal and the boys arriving in Japan and enjoyed that.

Once I'm done with my first full bag of the chemo drug, we get to leave. Walking out of the hospital and back into the sunshine is jarring, and I'm still cold, even though it's still very warm outside. My moms drive me back home, but once I'm back in the apartment, they have to leave to drive back to San Diego so they can have dinner with my brother. He'd been at a friend's house all day while they were here.

They offer to order me a pizza or something for dinner, but Emelia and I are planning on hanging out tonight. I know I won't feel well, but Em just wants to be there for me in case I need anything. She'll probably stay the night, too. It won't be as comforting as having Calum, but I will gladly take the company.

A few hours pass while I'm alone, and the nausea sets in quickly. I text Emi and ask her to bring food, even though the thought of eating makes me feel worse. I know I need to eat. I don't specify what she should bring, because nothing sounds good. She just says she'll be here in thirty minutes.

I text Calum in the meantime.

To: bass boy 💕 hi my love hope you're getting some beauty sleep i know i said don't bring me anything but actually can you bring me some kind of Japanese snacks pls i will love you forever and ever and ever i mean i'll do that anyway but i do want some snacks ignore me til you're awake was just thinking and thought of it and wanted to ask hehe oh and i know it's not til the v end but can you pretty pretty pretty please buy me chocolate special k in europe i will remind you dw

I think I've successfully pretended things are normal, and I do desperately miss the Special K in Europe.

A knock on the door is timed perfectly with the end of my texting spree, and I know it's Emelia, hopefully with food.

"It's open!" I yell out, not wanting to move from my comfy spot on the couch.

I hear the door opening and closing, followed by some echoed footsteps, and then Emelia is standing in the living room. She has on her work clothes — black leggings and t-shirt, nonslip shoes on her feet. She's not wearing the hat that they make her wear anymore, but her hair is still up in a messy ponytail.

"Hi, how ya feelin'?" She asks. She also holds up the bag of food she brought. It's the ramen from the place that's pretty close to here that I love.

"Pretty shitty, but I know it's only going to get worse."

Em frowns. "Well, have no fear. I brought ramen, and we can watch Girl Meets World all night."

My jaw drops. Everyone in my life knows how much I love Girl Meets World but judges me for liking a kids' show so much, so no one ever watches it with me. She really is such a good friend, willingly watching something that she knows will make me feel better.

"I love you," I tell her.

Then, she smiles, takes off her shoes, and puts the food on the coffee table, disappearing for a minute. When she comes back, she has glasses of water, napkins, and silverware. Emelia plops onto the couch next to me and takes the ramen out of the bag, setting it up for us.

"I got the curry and the mushroom," she explains. "I wasn't sure which you'd want today. I'm fine with whatever you don't want."

Both are normally delicious, but neither sounds appealing right now. The mushroom broth is lighter, so I go with that, thinking if nothing else, I can just sip the broth.

After a few hours of watching TV and pretending to eat my ramen, I suddenly feel Emelia's eyes on me. She's got a thoughtful look on her face, and I don't know what it is.

"What's wrong?"

She shakes her head. "Sorry, was just thinking. Do you know if you're going to lose your hair?"

I gulp. I'd looked into it. It depends largely on which form of chemo you're on, but also, it comes down to luck. "The drug I'm on is one that doesn't usually cause it, but there's still a chance I might."

Emelia nods, thinking. "Do you want to get a wig? Just in case."

I'd thought about it, but wigs that actually look nice are very expensive. Medical bills are already racking up, and my moms are going to help me, but it's a lot. "No, I think I'll just cross that bridge if I get to it."

"Do you want to cut your hair?"

It's relevant, but it catches me by surprise. I hadn't thought about that. I might lose my hair, but I've had long hair for so long. I've not cut it much shorter in so long. I'm also... dying. Why do I need to have long hair until I die? Why can't I change it up?

Isn't that what life is all about? Doing fun things?

I turn to her. "Let's do it."

I stand up and head straight for the kitchen, grabbing scissors from our junk drawer. I then go into the bathroom, switching on the lights. Emelia joins me soon after I start tying my hair into four sections, aligning the elastics at the same level, halfway between my chin and my shoulders.

Emelia doesn't say anything, she just smiles at me through the mirror and watches while I begin to saw off my hair. I don't know why I'm making such a sudden, big decision, but I've chopped a full ponytail off already, so there's no going back. Leave it to leukemia to stop me from overthinking every piece of my life.

Once I've cut off all the length, I take off the elastics holding everything together and have Emelia help me even everything out. It's not perfect, but if I'm about to lose it, it doesn't matter. If I don't lose it, I'll go see a hairdresser to fix it.

"OK, let me take a picture and then I need to go lay back down.

I take a mirror selfie, covering my face with my phone, just showing the lack of hair cascading over my green sweatshirt. I send it to Cal while I trudge back to the couch, flopping face-first onto the mountain of throw pillows and blankets.

"Want some Tums? Or Pepto?" Em asks.

"No," I groan. Why did cutting my hair suck all of the energy out of me?

"You okay?"

"No."

Em chuckles, and I feel the couch sink slightly as she sits next to me. "Can I get you anything?"

"A new body?"

She snorts. "Can't do that, sorry."

I let out a pained sigh, turning my head so it's not face down on the fuzzy blanket. "Thank you for being here."

"You have to stop thanking me. I know you'd be the first person holding my hand and bringing me food if it was me."

She's right. I'd probably let her move into our place so I could take care of her as much as she'd let me. I don't think she'd take me up on the offer to move in, but there'd undoubtedly be an offer. I'd do anything for her.

"I think I'm gonna sleep," I announce. My phone buzzes several times in my pocket. Hoping it's Calum, I pull it out.

From: bass boy 💕 UM EXCUSE ME MADAM YOU CANNOT JUST SPRING THIS ON ME IT LOOKS SO GOOD GOOD MF MORNING TO ME MY GIRLFRIEND IS A GODDESS can't wait to see it in person <3 and 1000% will get you snacks and special k anything for you

read next chapter

a/n: hi hi hi sorry sorry it's been a lil bit have been slowly working on this chapter :)

[aita-blorbos]

[UPDATE] AITA for trying to keep my friend safe?

Hi, I have an update regarding the last post I made. First of all, I’m going to start referring to my friend as S and my brother as K. Second, people have asked me a few questions, so I thought I’d answer them here since I haven’t had a lot of time to properly respond.

How did you twist the truth? / How bad was the lie?

I had convinced S that we’d be going away temporarily. Basically, I had done some pretty messed up stuff at the time, but was trying to get better. I didn’t feel like anyone really had any faith in me to improve, and the people I thought would be understanding and supportive didn’t quite believe me, including K. I told S that he and I were going to wait for everything to calm down before he and I would return. Of course, we never did, and when he found out he was quite upset. I got him to calm down and we came to an understanding, though.

Were you his legal guardian/next of kin?

When S’s mother was killed in a hit-and-run (long story, somewhat my fault), my parents took him in. I’m the eldest sibling in the family, so this would make me his legal older brother, I suppose. Regardless of that, people seem to insist that what I did was kidnapping.

With all that out of the way, lets get to the actual follow-up.

Basically, in between then and now I decided to go to a friend’s (~24, M) house to lay low and get some supplies. Let’s call this friend R. He and I met around six years ago, and even if we don’t talk often anymore, we’re still close. He helped me find a place to live after S and I decided to go into hiding, along with helping me hide my identity (S didn’t go out often if at all, so that wasn’t a problem for him). R doesn’t know I’m wanted by the police since he lives relatively off the grid and doesn’t watch the news often.

The thing is that I hadn’t told R about why S and I were going into hiding. When everything was initially happening five years ago, I had lied to R about my situation at home in order to “explain” why S and I were injured (explanation isn’t relevant, just know that S’s injuries have nothing to do with me whatsoever). On top of my stress regarding my current situation and the fact I’m having to lie so much to R, I feel like I’m failing to keep the promise to keep S safe that I had mentioned last post. I guess my distress was pretty noticeable since R asked me about it, and I trust him a lot, so I decided to tell him the truth behind everything. I dispelled all of the lies and told him what was going on.

He reacted very, very poorly to all of this. Obviously, I’m pretty upset with his reaction, especially considering that I thought he’d be understanding of everything. We start fighting with each other, at first verbally, but when he goes to call the police it escalates into physical violence. It’s still a bit blurry for me, but a gun ends up getting involved and he and I start fighting over it. One thing leads to another and, well, I end up shooting and killing him on complete accident.

I feel absolutely awful for killing him. I had no intention of hurting him at all—I had expecting everything to go well at the start, too. But I was also within my right to not only defend myself but also keep him from reporting my location to the authorities. He definitely would’ve held me at gunpoint to keep me in place had I not tried taking the firearm from him. Still, I did kill him, even if it was unintentional.

I’m starting to think that I’ve really been fucking everything up for the last few years now, but what else could I have done other than what I ended up doing? AITA?

[aith-art]

Yeehawgust 2023 - Day 9

Masked Bandit

Word Count - 786

Izzy’s POV 

The Mojave was warm. I mean, it was a desert, but it was a heat unlike any of the deserts on Pandora. The building we were hiding in was cooler than outside. A small apartment building in ‘fiend’ territory. Not that I knew what a fiend was, or why they were so problematic. Bed roles were laid out, a fire was started, rations were shared. 

Jules and Leroy had gone on a supply run, something about them needing to talk. I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust any of them. Arcade and Boone, the two men who had stayed at the camp, both shared in the distrust of Jules and I. The robot caught my interest, but I haven’t been given a chance to study it.

Boone took watch through what was left of a window. His sniper rifle was simple. Though this was a world where the mega-corporations don’t exist. Where the fast fire of a Vladof gun of any kind didn’t exist. It looked closer to a Jakobs gun. Or I guess, Jakobs guns were based on his sniper rifle. His was old. Well used and loved. Held together with tape and wire. 

“We’ve got incoming.” His voice was measured and monotone. 

Arcade stood from his spot by the fire. His pistol in hand. “There goes the peace and quiet.” 

Both Boone and Arcade stood in the window. Guns ready. 

Izzy stood behind them, watching the people on the horizon. Hats, masks and guns. People coming on the offencive to take whatever we had. In this world my echo doesn’t work, I have no gun and I doubt any of my current company would willingly hand me a gun. The strangers got closer, with guns out and pointing in our general direction. Boone didn’t give the masked bandit leader a chance to speak before he lodged a .308 round into his head. Arcade took that as the signal to open fire and pulled the trigger. His gun was some form of energy weapon, green light in short blasts fired from the barrel. It was close to the energy blasters Atlas had been experimenting with. 

In the blink of an eye the bandits were gone. Bodies, ash and goop were all that were left of the groups of bandits. 

Jules and Leroy returned a few hours later, with a warmer atmosphere and a bag full of ammo. They’d also found some old food in an old building. I didn’t know what preservatives had been put into the food and I didn’t want to find out. 

As we all sat around the fire, Leroy took a perch at the window. He looked in enough to be part of the conversation. Discussions of the day's events came up and Arcade recounted the bandit attack. My mind thought back to the bandits of Pandora, crazed and broken by the corporations. The masks that they wear, stained with blood and branded with the vault symbol. The bandits of the Mojave were saner, though the people around me insisted on calling them raiders. Viper Gang members. Bandits seem more organised here. On Pandora they followed whoever hit hardest. Or whoever scared them the most. This led to many of the Vault Hunters becoming bandit leaders or cult gods (Long story). I thought back to all the bandits I’d killed with my Jakob’s Sniper and Dahl pistol. I considered how some would have defined me as a bandit, what had happened to me when I was considered a bandit by someone close to me. 

Staring into the fire, I let my thoughts of home consume me. Cause that’s what Pandora was to me, a home. A weird, deadly, mildly insane planet. I suppose it wasn’t too different to the desert I’d found myself in. 

Jules shuffled over to me. “You okay? You’ve been staring at the fire for a few minutes.” 

I smiled at them, pulling myself back into the moment, rubbing down my right arm to dispel the tingling sensation from the woulds I kept wrapped up and hidden. “I’m fine. Just thinking back to my home.” 

“I understand missing home. I… I don’t know what became of my home in this - world? Timeline? I don’t even know anymore.” 

“We’ll make it home. Somehow.” 

“I’m still trying to work out how. Big MT might have some answers. But if this world thinks I'm dead there’s a high chance they won't be willing to help.” Jules continued muttering under their breath about brains and a think tank. 

I observed the others as the sun set, knowing that I would find a way home, hoping that the men we were sharing a camp with didn’t betray us in the night.

[exalted-dawn-drabbles]

ed prompts, ed prompts! how about some calenna this week (I miss them): ❛ if you’re tired of kissing me, i’d better go. ❜

happy writing bb <3

HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE decided to go for a two in one with @dreadfutures' request for Calenna 'Familiar' uwu enjoy some goofs bantering and being domestic uwu

For @dadrunkwriting Rated T: for suggestive themes, ~750 words Translations: ma’telsilasha’lath (my troublesome love), Rogelin (Name meaning Daring One)

Familiar Flavors | By Exalted_Dawn

Scratchy and tickling, Calder brushed his lips for a fourth time along the back of her ear. It was a grazing kiss, light and petulant. Pleading, a little bit. Like a child who was not being paid enough attention. And perhaps he was being ignored a little, but Talenna was trying to focus. Leaving Skyhold always meant that she had a mountain of work waiting for her upon her return. Notes that needed consolidating. Stories that needed weaving. Stories to prepare for the soldiers and tavern shifts.

And as much as she missed him, she had little time to see to Calder’s neediness until after all that was done. 

Something he knew by now, but never seemed to acknowledge when the time actually came. Always, he became extra doting during times like these. Desperate for her time and attention. And, truthfully, Talenna liked that, if only a little.

But even so, she flicked her head a little, pulling her ear from between his lips with a slight smile. An amused glare. She turned her attention back to her note book. “The more you distract me the longer this will take, ma’telsilasha’lath.” 

“You know-” His voice was gruff and gravely in her ear. Full and heavy. Familiar. The sound of home. His arms wrapped tighter about her waist, the whole weight of him shifting beneath her as he pulled her close. “After coming back from a long trip, I thought you might be a tad more enthusiastic to see me.” He huffed a bit again causing his facial hair to bristle and chafe against her ear. 

Talenna ducked her head into her shoulder, chuckling at the sensation. “I find I like you better frustrated,” she teased.

That earned her a nip to the ear, though an admittedly gentle one. 

“You are a cruel mistress, Wolf Queen.”

“I think you mean a ‘cruel partner’-” she turned in his arms, leveling him with a playfully critical eye. “Unless there is yet another I do not know about?”

“As of yet, no,” Calder shot back, though she could tell by the wide stretch in his smile that he was pleased he had won enough of her attention that she had actually put down her book and turned to look at him. Ducking, he pressed another kiss to her cheek, and then an extra to her lips. Long and savoring. “Though- if you really have begun to tire of kissing me, then I suppose I better start looking.” 

He shifted to leave, half-rolling out from behind her as if he really were about to stand and go. Talenna felt the sway in her balance without his chest at her back, and the dip in heat as he forced distance between him, and that in itself was threat enough that Talenna quickly abandoned her book properly and turned to drag him back down to bed. The weight of her body was hardly enough to faze him, she knew, but the act alone was enough to dispel his joke and pull him back into place beneath her. Chest to chest this time. Face to face properly. 

He had won this round.

“You are a sore loser, Rogelin,” she accused, pressing a kiss to his cheek and then his lips, as he had. 

“No. But you were the one who said she liked me frustrated,” he pointed out, doing the rest of gravity’s work to pull them full down into the mattress. He held her close across his chest, blonde hair splayed out beneath him in a mess of waves. He had a point. 

“Fair,” she conceded. “I suppose I was being a little cruel.” 

“A bit,” he agreed in a rumble.

“And is there any way I might earn your forgiveness?” she asked, stooping lower. A kiss to his jaw. His neck.

He made a deep noise in his throat as she dipped lower still, tracing the cord of muscle that dipped to his collar with her teeth. “I can think of a few.” 

Talenna nearly laughed. ‘A few’. All spoils to the victor, she supposed. She kissed the dip in his throat and then lower still, following the gentle slope of his chest as it swelled beneath her hands. Lower and lower, to where shirt met skin. Another kiss, and another.

And another. And yet one more, as she stripped him bare. 

As many as he wished. 

She would never tire of kissing him, no matter how familiar the taste or repetitive the task. Calder was her favorite flavor of kiss, and always, she would savor it. 

[shellyscribbles]

Hallendrest Scribbles

Older scribbles that I didn't manage to fit in this draft though I think it would have been a good approach.

              Reena rose and called after Kallias as he neared the door. “My lord,” when he turned she went on, “may I join you?”

              Kallias paused briefly before nodding. He continued to the door and opened it, standing to the side to allow Reena to pass. “You are my wife. You are always welcome in my chambers.”

              Reena laughed lightly as she turned back to him, “You say it as if it’s perfectly obvious. It isn’t obvious at all if you want me around or not at any given moment.” Her voice took a harsher tone as she finished, following Kallias as he passed her into the room.

              The king stopped and turned to study his wife a moment. She thought with a pang how Mircea used to do that before speaking, though their motives were likely very different. Finally, he lowered his gaze and gently tapped the table just at the edge of his reach. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I didn’t want to be around you. I always enjoy your company.” He glanced at her quickly before looking away once more. “You touched on a wound last night and I did what I always do, what I’ve always had to do. Had you followed me or refused to let me leave I would quickly have recalled how I value your company. I certainly recalled it after I’d left.”

              He tapped the table and dropped his hand to his side as he met her gaze once more.

              “I didn’t mean to bring up anything painful.”

              He gave a brief smile. “No, you didn’t know. You couldn’t know.” He turned and started to the soft chairs across the room. “Would you like some wine?” He called back to her.

              Her brow furrowed, “We’ve only just had breakfast.”

              He looked back at her and shrugged, “What else is there to do?”

              Reena felt her face flush as she considered one of the more obvious activities which they might engage in alone in his bed room. “We could talk?” She suggested hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt.

              With another slight shrug he sat and waited for her to join him.

              “You desire intimacy with me.” He said when she was seated across from him. “I am trying but I have been alone my entire life. I’ve never had anyone in a position to be intimate with.”

              Feeling her face growing warmer, she looked at him in confusion. “I thought you were given a wife for fear of fathering an illegitimate heir?”

              Kallias raised his eyes from the spot on the carpet where he’d been staring. “Hmm? Oh,” he waved his hand as if to dispel the notion. “I am not sure how exactly to explain how un-intimate those encounters were.” He shifted forward in his chair. “I do desire that sort of intimacy as well, but I have,” he cleared his throat and shifted again, “some reservations.”

              “Reservations?” She asked, no longer aware of her blush.

              “I didn’t anticipate the council overlooking my wife. The idea of being married to a respectable woman with whom I can be myself never occurred to me. I imagined some sort of hell where we’d have a child and live in some sort of icy compromise.” He met her eye again. “I’ve not wished to see any of those women again. Immediately I despised them.” He resumed his study of the carpet. “I don’t want to feel that way about you.”

              At this Reena laughed drawing her husband’s attention back. “That’s it? Kallias, you hated them because it was false. They got you in reality, but they had no idea who you are. You used each other. You were exposed before them and got nothing but a brief,” she cleared her throat awkwardly, “thrill and then you were alone again.”

              Kallias stared at her in surprise. He hadn’t thought of that. The desire to be alone swelled within him. “I think that’s enough for the present.”

              “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to brush any wounds.” She said softly, making no move to leave.

              Obviously agitated, Kallias squirmed in his chair and wiped his hand over his mouth.

              “If you really wish me to leave,” Reena started to rise to her feet.

              “No, I…it’s difficult for me. I feel like it takes just as much effort to be honest and know myself as it does to maintain the facades and personas I maintain.” He settled back in his chair though his agitated air remained.

              Reena folded her hands in her lap and gave her husband space to think.

              “I want you to know me, but all of my instincts reach for a persona the way a drunk reaches for a glass of wine.” He paused, frowning, then shook his head and went on. “It seems so simple. It should  be simple to tell you about my life, but I choke on the truth like a gag.”

              “I had brought up your father last night.” Reena ventured when Kallias fell silent. At once she saw him struggling within himself again.

              “I,” Kallias began, “had a difficult relationship with my father. He loved me as best he could, as best as Vonterre royals can.” He paused, seeming to calm as he recalled the past. “I am a mage.” He met her eye before continuing. “A rather powerful one, duel inherited. Another oversight of the council no doubt, though with magic falling out of use I imagine it is easier now to miss if someone carries magic or not.” He shook his head with a frown, “but anyway, my father told the council I hadn’t inherited so when I found my powers when I was twelve, my father tried to keep it secret. Tried to stop me from using it.

              “I didn’t understand the damage magic did, not really, and it was the only thing that made me feel as if I had any power.” He looked at his wife without really seeing her as he recalled scene from his past. The feeling of the magic running through him. “I wouldn’t be persuaded.”

[kingfishered]

Simon said that he spent barely any time at his house, but Johnny wondered if that would change from now on. If he was at Simon’s house a lot, would that mean more motivation to do so? They could actually take leave without it being forced, instead completely of their own choice simply because they wanted to spend time with each other. Price would probably be thrilled. They could even make it a regular thing, if they wanted. Especially, he realised, if they were going to have to keep their relationship under the radar on base, that time off would be great if they needed some time where they didn’t have to hide it.

Not that hiding it would be a problem. It would be no different to what they’d already been doing, except instead of staring at Simon like he wanted to kiss him when they were smoking alone on the rooftop or hidden around the corner when they were meant to be in a briefing, he actually could kiss him. He could actually act on those thought. Maybe not some of the more… explicit ones if they were in public, but he could save them for later instead.

Johnny was very glad that Simon agreed to let him cook, because he didn’t want to be witness to Simon accidentally burning down his own house with his attempts. He was going to treat him to so much good food while they were on leave, Simon would never have eaten better in his life.

He meant that as a hyperbole, but now that he actually gave it thought, might it be true? At least when it came to home cooking.

“Scared I’ll burn the place down?” he teased at Simon’s bargaining, “Like you can talk.”

Simon’s second ‘little Johnny’ comment earned him just a glare this time, before he continued on to give his actual answer to the question.

Johnny saw Simon’s cheeks flush when he mentioned he has a thing for him, which was honestly not the kind of reaction he was expecting. He wasn’t really expecting any reaction to that, actually, but he was certainly not complaining. The blush suited him. Johnny wondered if he’d get even more of a reaction if he were to call him other things, his boyfriend or his partner. Perhaps he’d have to just try it.

He wondered how Simon would look wearing nothing but that blush, pressed against the pillows of his bed at home - soon to be their bed for however long he was going to let Johnny stay.

Which, considering his next words, Simon seemed to want to be for a while. Johnny was very okay with that. He’d love to be closer to Simon’s place for the recovery and eventually the PT, if it meant he could still see Simon every day. It could have been the shittiest hospital ever and he would have said yes immediately. He just wanted to be close to Simon, always.

There was… only one issue.

“I’d love to. Be closer to yers, I mean. I’d love nothing more,” he said with a grin, “Just one thing though. Uh, I’m not too great with anaesthesia. Just… so ye know. You don’t have to be there fer that part if you’d rather no’ deal with it.”

He laughed lightly, but in all honesty he was not looking forward to it and it probably would help if Simon was there. But, he also didn’t want to throw up all over Simon and test their brand new relationship like that so soon. Not to mention how emotional he got sometimes, too.

Simon once again had a moment of apparent self-doubt, and while usually Johnny’s go-to way to dispel this would have been to pull him into a kiss, he couldn’t really do that right now. So, he did the next best thing, looking around him for something he could reach to throw at him. Simon had already started talking again by time he found and grabbed a roll of bandage, but he didn’t care if the moment had passed.

He chucked the bandage at Simon, it bouncing harmlessly off his shoulder.

“Am no’ gonnae change ma fuckin’ mind,” he said as way of explanation for the act, “Shut up.”

He could absolutely see what Simon meant about being glad all this had happened, though. He was right, without the stress of almost dying and/or losing Simon, Johnny might never have had the courage to confess like he did. And he couldn’t imagine Simon would ever have been the first one to do so, because that would require talking about his feelings unprompted. Sure, there would be other near death experiences that might have pulled a confession from Johnny, but who’s to say the consequences of those wouldn’t be so much worse than this? They had a long recovery, sure, but they would recover. And it would be so much easier together.

So, Johnny was glad they had almost died together too. He couldn’t imagine having missed out on the utter euphoria of the realisation that Simon loved him too.

He may not have said those words specifically, but Johnny knew how to read them amongst everything else.

Recalling his and Price’s little love talk from earlier, Johnny wondered if, actually, he might have ended up eventually telling Simon because of his intervention. He’d seemed pretty fucking relieved when it sounded like the two of them were finally going to sort their shit out, so Johnny wondered if he would have been able to put up with them dancing around each other like that for much longer. He might have finally lost his last remaining patience and ended up banging their heads together until one of them gave in and confessed.

“I get what yer sayin’. Reckon Price woulda got tired of it eventually though. Ye shoulda heard him before he took me into yer room the first time, had a chat about it, he gave me a whole dad lecture,” Johnny was grinning as he threw Price into the deep end.

Simon didn’t even try stifling his laugh over the fact that Johnny immediately called him out on his shitty description.

He shrugged half-heartedly. “Yeah, well… Not like I’m there enough t’be able to give you a good an’ proper description of the place, am I?”

It was partially true.

He was barely there, there wasn’t exactly any use in leaving around nice furniture for a burglar to take if they ever broke in. But, another reason he didn’t want to put down too solid of roots was because he knew he was already running on borrowed time. Between his life before the military and his life during, it was amazing that he’d managed to avoid kicking the bucket so many times.

He was well overdue a bitter reality check, but for now, it would have to wait.

Now, he had Johnny to think about. He had Johnny to decorate his house for, to get proper, nice furniture for, though he would most likely have to intervene with Simon's shoddy attempts at decorating. Was it even an attempt if you didn’t do it at all, actually? He didn’t think he had a single decoration in the whole house. 

He had the necessities; a mattress, a fridge, a microwave and kettle, and a fully functioning bathroom. There wasn’t an oven in the house when he had moved in, and he’d never bought one to fill the gap between his counters. He wasn’t going to be there, let alone actually use the bloody thing, so why would he waste the money?

Johnny might ask him to buy one. He’d just tell him to pick his favourite, he could use it whenever he stayed over, as much as he’d like.

And Simon decided, very quickly, he’d like it if he stayed over a lot.

He was, unfortunately, very well aware of his… questionable cooking attempts.

Hence why he has a secret stash of Dairylea Lunchables in his office on base, he’d even bought a little fridge for the sole purpose of putting food away. He did typically need to devour at least five of them at a time to sate even the tiniest bit of his hunger, but after that, he would usually manage to find himself some real food.

Johnny… maybe didn’t need to know that yet, actually.

“Alright, you can cook,” he agreed, one corner of his lips curling up into a lazy smile. “So long as I get to watch you.”

The comment about Johnny telling his mum he didn’t want to go with Simon did amuse him, however. While he fought the urge to mock even the idea of Johnny ever saying something like that, he managed out a fairly coherent sentence, though it was still laced with humour.

“Well, whatever little Johnny wants, yeah?” He may have spoken teasingly, but it was the fucking truth. 

Whatever Johnny wanted, Simon would find a way of getting it to him, no matter what it was. Considering that Simon would wholeheartedly say he’d never felt like this about anyone before, Johnny was really shoving him headfirst into the deep end. Simon didn’t have the best survival instincts when it came to the Scot, though. He took it all in, finally allowing himself to stop his lungs from burning and aching, and to just… feel what he’d desperately wanted to for all these years. Like taking that first breath of water when you were drowning, it almost felt like a high. Everything stopped hurting, you weren’t scared anymore.

Simon quite liked the idea of drowning in John MacTavish, and now, he could. He wasn’t scared, not of Johnny.

Never of Johnny.

He didn’t know why, but hearing that Johnny had a ‘thing’ for him nearly elicited a reaction that would have put everything else to shame. Hearing that Johnny loved him? That, quite truthfully, might be what actually kills him.

But, hearing something so casual and yet so much of a turn-on…

Well, that nearly fried Simon’s brain altogether. A thing. What did that even mean? And why was Simon’s entire body flushing with heat at the insinuation of what it might mean?

God, he needed a cold shower…

His touch-starved side only reared its head further when Johnny continued, making him into even more of a blushing mess than he already was. He wondered if he should feel stressed that Johnny’s mother would find out. But, from their brief interaction, she seemed respectful and kind enough. And, she was kind to his Johnny, so as long as Johnny was happy with it, then Simon was, too.

Simon was sure that the first time Johnny referred to him as his boyfriend, he would genuinely die. The crushing warmth that he imagined Johnny saying it with would rival the fucking sun itself. He’d let it all burn to hear those words come from Johnny’s mouth.

It was going to be an absolute minefield to navigate, Simon was sure, especially while at work. He was still Johnny’s superior after all, he wouldn’t want anyone to accuse Johnny of trying to climb the ladder unfairly or him giving Johnny any special treatment—even though he already did.

They’d have to keep sneaking around on base, at least at first. They’d stick to formalities—or as formal as they usually were, changing anything now would just add suspicion—especially around their higher-ups.

Simon would make it work, though. So long as it was Johnny, he’d always make it work.

A small frown teased at his lips as his mind continued to wander. Would Johnny find it hard to take orders from him now? That wasn’t really something that should happen in a relationship, should it? It should be equal, everything, at least that was what Simon had heard. Once they were both better, he’d risk broaching the subject, make sure that Johnny wasn’t getting cold feet about the situation.

Honestly, Simon didn’t find he was too worried about the prospect of having to sneak around while at work. They’d pretty much been doing it anyway, though now they could actually find a private moment to themselves to do things that Simon had only dreamed of doing with Johnny. 

Price clearly approved. If he knew the man well enough, and he liked to think he did, he was probably already making mental plans of what paperwork he needed to edit or ‘lose’ in order to keep his boys safe and secure.

Worst case scenario, he’d have to edit it himself. If, for example, he and Johnny had gotten together when they were both Sergeants and only later had Ghost been promoted to lieutenant…

Well, that wasn’t breaking any rules, and it wasn’t something anyone could try and deny, either.

“You’re probably going to be in here longer than I am, mind you,” Simon began, stretching his legs out with a quiet groan. Everything fucking ached. “Or… at least some hospital. Could always get your surgery recovery done at one closer to my place, get you into PT up there, too. Unless, y’know, you fancied hanging around closer to base while you got fixed up enough to travel. Gaz and Price probably know more about, uh… that kind of thing. Feeling wise.”

Simon really had to fight the urge not to call it ‘our place’ when he was referring to his house. Johnny had shown interest, and that was more than enough for him to hand the fucking keys over then and there.

“A- Johnny, if at any point, you change your mind about all this… Just… Tell me, yeah? I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

It won’t break my heart. It was already broken a long time ago. You would have just given me a little more life, a little more hope. More warmth in a soul that was so frigid I didn’t ever think it would be able to thaw again.

“I’m happy you fancied coming back with me. And… As fucked up as it sounds, Johnny, I’m happy we almost died together. If we hadn’t… Fuck, this wouldn’t have happened, would it? Would’ve just continued dancing around each other until one of us took a round to the head.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

WWX doesn’t get there fast enough and LWJ gives in to the pressure to drink with Jin Zixun. LWJ gets drunk and WREAKS HAVOC on Koi tower.

ao3

Untamed verse

“I feel like we haven’t really had a chance to catch up,” Nie Mingjue said to Lan Xichen, who nodded. “A few stolen moments during war aren’t exactly the same.”

“They definitely are not,” Lan Xichen agreed, and lifted his wine in a salute to Nie Mingjue, who returned it at once. “You can’t possibly compare the chaos of the battlefield with the calm and sedate atmosphere of a discussion conference.”

Something very large and undoubtedly extremely expensive fell over with a gigantic crash.

They both took another sip of their wine instead of wincing.

“How is your uncle doing?” Nie Mingjue asked. “Well, I hope? I trust he’s on the way to recovery?”

“He’s doing better. The doctors say he’ll bear the marks the rest of his life, but – which of us won’t? But still, he’s much better.”

There was a great deal of shouting. Much of it sounded panicked.

A set of guards in Jin sect gold rushed by, swords drawn.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Nie Mingjue said. “He did an excellent job during the war. Didn’t he always say that he was a poor swordfighter?”

Lan Xichen smiled. “He taught both myself and Wangji the foundation of all we know. Did you really believe him?”

“Not really. Still, he seemed so certain…”

“Ah, that’s shufu for you. He compares himself to our father, I think, though I wish he wouldn’t.”

Nie Mingjue nodded knowledgably. He’d heard the story, the real story, as very few others had; he knew why Lan Xichen was not more proud of his father, with his supposed genius for cultivation and the sword. There was a reason he and his brother had been raised by their uncle, after all, and why their uncle was justly proud of what he had accomplished. Who did not know the reputation of the Twin Jades of Lan…?

“None of us can escape our pasts,” he said, then paused to refill their bowls as another loud crash sounded, this time accompanied by a series of yelps. “But we can move beyond them, I think. You must come to visit the Unclean Realm sometime soon.”

“And you the Cloud Recesses. There is a lot to rebuild, but we’ve made some progress –”

“He’s on the ceiling!” someone shouted. “Watch out!”

Nie Mingjue firmly disciplined his eyes and lips, which threatened to curve into a smile. “I’d like to hear about the progress you’ve made. I assume your Wall of Discipline is still intact, at least?”

“Oh yes,” Lan Xichen said. He was also trying his best to maintain a calm demeanor, but Nie Mingjue thought he could see bits of humor stealing out around the edges. “Stone doesn’t burn, after all, and I think even Wen Xu thought it a bit of a waste to use spiritual energy to try to destroy it…not that we wouldn’t have rebuilt that as well, of course. Our family rules are our foundation and our guide.”

“Mm, indeed. There’s so many important rules there.”

Lan Xichen blinked a few times to dispel the smile that threatened. “There certainly are. Are you thinking of any in particular?”

Another crash.

Several yells.

“Where did he even find chickens?!”

“No,” Nie Mingjue said, his shoulders starting to shake. “None come to mind…”

Lan Xichen broke first, putting his hand over his eyes.

“Not even,” he said drolly, “the one against consuming alcohol?”

That made Nie Mingjue crack in turn, throwing his head back and laughing.

“I see your brother suffers from the family curse,” he said cheerfully. “With any luck, it’s just the one about wine and not doomed love.”

“If we’re lucky, yes. And it’s not really a family curse –”

“Xichen, if I hadn’t taught you that alcohol-numbing trick, you’d be playing a serenade to the moon right now. And it’s the middle of the day.”

“…you have a slight point.” Lan Xichen smiled at him. “Only very slight.”

Nie Mingjue smiled back, and handed him another bowl of wine. “It’s a pity you’re too busy focusing on that very tricky spell to be able to go help corral him.”

“Why would I?” Lan Xichen asked unconcernedly. “Jin Zixun wanted him to drink, he drank, the rest of it is on his own head.”

“I would have thought you’d make an effort,” Nie Mingjue said, his own humor fading, “for Meng Yao’s sake, if nothing else.”

Lan Xichen studied him, then sighed. “I do wish you’d get along again,” he said. “You were such good friends…”

“That was then.”

“And now you’re brothers. Isn’t that worth something?”

Nie Mingjue huffed. “When he shows any sign of actually wanting to do the right thing, rather than the politically beneficial one, maybe,” he said acidly. “I’m trying, Xichen. Don’t push.”

“Very well, I won’t…anyway, haven’t you considered that maybe I’m not helping for a different reason than mere spite?”

“Oh?” Nie Mingjue tried to think of what it might be. “Distracting attention from Wei Wuxian? Or…to him?”

Lan Wangji had a pretty obvious thing for Wei Wuxian, and judging by the way the latter man was currently allowing Lan Wangji to cart him around like a rescued damsel in distress (while laughing his head off the entire time), it might not be entirely unrequited. Lan Xichen always had a bit of a romantic streak.

“No, that’s just a side benefit,” Lan Xichen said. “It’s much simpler than that.”

Something flashed by them at high speed – a blur of white robes, with a big black lump tossed over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes, while the bag himself was cheerfully blowing kisses at their pursuers and yelling helpful things like “Alas! I’d answer your questions but I’m being kidnapped!” and “I promise to write after we finish eloping!”

Moments later, dozens of gold-clad guards gave chase.

“Oh?” Nie Mingjue asked. His face hurt from smiling too hard. “What is it, then?”

Lan Xichen leaned forward confidentially, and Nie Mingjue leaned forward to catch his words.

“Even if I were to help,” he whispered, “I have no confidence in actually being able to stop him. And wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”

Nie Mingjue burst out laughing.

“Only shufu can stop him when he gets like this, and only sometimes. What hope do I have?”

“A very good point,” Nie Mingjue said. “Are you at least going to go keep your brother from getting married while he can’t remember what he’s doing?”

Lan Xichen gave a deep sigh. “Oh, I suppose so. By chance, I don’t suppose you’ve got a matchmaker handy…?”

“By chance, Huaisang knows how to do the calculations, and I’m a respected senior,” Nie Mingjue said. “Trying to lock them down before they have a chance to get out of it?”

“No, no. Just…making it clear that it’s an option, that’s all.”

[thebeautyoffanfics]

HELLO HELLO!!!

can I have Hanako, Shijima, and Sakura with a s/o who feels like they have no purpose in life?? Let me explain more- s/o was supposed to die when they were young but survived and now they feel like death is going to get them eventually (s/o is a half supernatural so they can already see ghosts) so they almost give up?? Like they don’t do their homework, don’t try in school, doesn’t talk to friends, and will even skip days because they think it will be worthless in the end? (I can explain more if you want me too as well-)

THANK YOU IN ADVANCE<33

hanako x gn!reader , shijima mei x gn!reader , sakura nanamine x gn!reader

a/n : of course !! ahh i’m not sure how to add to this a/n , but !! uhm !! i love you dearly , i hope you’re alright , and i hope you enjoy this !!! i hope i handle the topic appropriately , and if you (anyone reading , or cherry specifically !!) feel like i didn’t handle it properly , please let me know <3 /gen

((also !! uhm !! i haven’t written for shijima or sakura in a loooong while , and haven’t read the chapters w shijima in them in a while , so i apologize if these are OOC ^^; 

ALSO i’m sooooo sorry for how long this took ahh ,,, it also may be a bit short , i apologize for that as well <//3)) warnings : uhh ?? read the ask , and decide from there <3 (not meant in a mean way , just unsure how to specify that !!)

word count : 893

Hanako <3

Understands, possibly more than any of the others do. After all, he had been in a similar boat.

Though he didn’t like to admit it, not even to himself, his life had been full of thoughts like those. Willingly letting himself get hurt or bullied, simply because… well, call it “survivor's guilt” in a way. 

Tsukasa had never been the same, yet Amane survived as normally as he could… he felt bad. He felt guilty, and he felt like things were pointless.

Seeing that in you made his heart ache in a way he couldn’t quite explain. 

He isn’t quite sure how to bring it up, or if he should. He also worries that saying “I understand personally” would feel like he’s making the issue about himself. Therefore, he tries to avoid it, until he feels comfortable admitting it.

When you miss days, he sort of assumes that’s what’s happening. So, he’ll offer you hugs, letting you know that you were missed while you were out. Whether it’s helpful or not, he isn’t sure, and he doesn’t mind feedback.

If you decide to talk more about it, Hanako feels honored. It isn’t easy to open up about topics like that, so he listens with his full attention, and offers any support he can provide.

If he manages to find out that you’re not doing homework, or that your grades are being affected, he offers to help you with it! Doesn’t try and force anything, but lets you know that it doesn’t bother him at all!

(Maybe his help with homework isn’t super effective, but… it’s the thought that counts-)

He also tries to encourage you to… live fully, I suppose? He doesn’t want to seem overbearing, but he also doesn’t want you to let that feeling weigh you down. He knows how much potential you have, and he knows that there’s a beautiful world for you to live in-- even if it doesn’t seem like that all the time.

Shijima Mei <3

Once again, Shijima does understand, all too well.

Maybe not personally, technically? But she saw it in the living Shijima, and has that sort-of connection to that. While the living Shijima never grew hopeless… Number 4 hates to admit that, at times, she felt hopeless for her. 

Since she understands how that hopelessness feels, she does her best to dispel it in you. While keeping up her empathy, she tries to encourage you to not give up.

It’s mostly gentle reminders, and occasionally the more “serious” talk (only if you’re up for it, and don’t seem uncomfortable). Things like “You had homework, right? Here, let’s do it together.” Or “Say, have you heard from (Friend’s Name) recently? I think I’d like to know how they are, so maybe you should check up on them.”

Will listen to you as often as you want to talk about it. It’s not uncommon for her to let you lay your head in her lap, as she draws, listening to you express any feelings that you need to get off your chest. During those times she’ll frequently give her input (if you’re willing to have it), and run her hands through your hair. 

Unlike Hanako, she’s more open to sharing her personal experiences in relation to that. She isn’t sure if it’s helpful, but she does figure that knowing you aren’t alone can be reassuring. 

Sakura Nanamine <3

Sakura struggles with very similar things-- the urge to give up on things, and the pointlessness that you grapple with is something she personally understands.

Out of the three, I’d say Sakura battles with Hanako on the “understanding the most personally” list.

However… unlike Hanako and Shijima, Sakura does struggle a bit to comfort you or show her care. She does it in her own little ways, but there are times where she wonders if it’s enough.

Sakura is always willing to listen to you. While she doesn’t give much input, she often nods, showing that she’s paying you her full attention, and occasionally hums a sincere “mhm.”

If she sees that you’re putting off homework, she’ll try and subtly encourage you to not give up. 

“...I heard there was history homework. Shall I make tea, and we can look at it together?”

When she sees the times where you DO finish homework and interact with friends, she’ll offer you a small smile, and often offers you tea and sweets. She tends to struggle with words, but she does try and offer an “I saw you talking with your friends today… I’m proud of you.”

When you’re having more difficult times, Sakura feels a bit bad for her simple actions and struggles with words. Still, she does what she can-- for example, when you’re sitting next to her, she may use her hand to move your head until it’s laying on her shoulder, or play with your hair. 

She rarely opens up about the fact that she relates, but it may be somewhat obvious to you. However, Sakura hates pity, and would much rather focus her time and attention on helping you.

(A part of her wonders a bit, if destroying the boundary will benefit you… she almost feels hypocritical, wanting you to live, yet working to destroy said boundary. Still, ultimately, she figures maybe it can’t be helped. She wants you to live fully, up until the day that goal is achieved.)

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Worldbuilding: Physical Anthropology

As usual, this won’t substitute for you taking the actual class/es and this only covers Worldbuilding topics. And if you want to challenge anything, please do so with reliable sources. I will give you credit if you are correct and I can double verify your sources from reputable sources.

So, if you don’t have any interest in writing humans, some of this will STILL be useful. This does hope that you have basic understanding of genetics, aren’t creationists, and leans heavily more into the science end of things. I’m only going to gloss over the early homonins since the majority of people aren’t writing homonins into their SFF (though WHY NOT? A few Neanderthal wouldn’t be unwelcome?)

Myths about the Story of Whiteness

This is about where real facts hurt some people... but anyway, there is a line here, where it gets extreme--I mark that point for PoCs. I know people go with the “I can do what I want, it’s my story.” And again, freedom of speech doesn’t mean freedom from consequences. And especially after the line marked clearly “Content Warning”, you’re plain being racist.

Honestly, this might make people a bit displeased, but yeah, we’re starting here. Either you like science and facts, or you are more pleased with being a white supremacist. And sorry, I’m more on the side of facts.

This is because people try to hang onto agricultural white people SO HARD in order to be (racist) about PoCs and expel them from their world and any involvement of PoCs, even as OMG, a trader/merchant. So bringing some anthropology to dispel this. I should note when I point these things out, white people flip out, even if the evidence is there genetically, geography and archaeology. I’ve had liberal white people really flip out over this. I’d suggest to catch up with the rest of the world and get over it. ALLLSOOO hang on and I’m going to cover a few other things at the end of this section.

“Caucasian” (Race-based term) is a racist lie that fueled Nazism.

This one sends white people over the edge. They super get angry when I take this term away from them. But I feel obligated as an Anthropologist to do it.

This is not going to be fun for anyone. And I’m slapping a 

TRIGGER WARNING: Slavery of women, sex slavery (lightly mentioned), genocide, Naziism, and general headaches in scientific racism follow. Skip to How white people got their skin color if you don’t want to deal with this story.

So a German "Anthropologist” went and managed to get a bunch of skulls, without owner permission, mostly from slaves, and mostly from sex slave women. (My Anthro Prof was very blunt about this part).

And what he did was fill in the eyes part and then packed in the equivalent of “packing peanuts” to measure brain volume.

And low and behold magically, white people came out on top. He made this conclusion and then decided that the location for the rise of white people must be the Caucuses.

This seems brilliant, right? Someone is shouting from the back something like... wait, isn’t brain capacity measured in ccs? Ah, this is the catch part.

So this German anthropologist, turns out to be a dick. He subconsciously packed the “peanuts” more for the white people, really cramming it in there, and then ranked the races by intelligence in the following order:

1. Whites

2. Asians (I’m not sure if he’s counting South Asians in this)

3. Native/Indigenous Peoples. (Probably skips Aboriginals...)

At the bottom Black Africans. (Ignore people of the Pacific and around the Equator...)

A bunch of Scientists, in general, at the time were super in love with the idea that different races were different species to reinforce ideas of... yep. Eugenics.

The part 2 of this is that Guess who, really loved his work? Hitler! Oh, yes. And Hitler decided to use this work as the backbone of Nazism. You thought we weren’t going to get into genocide? He took the “scientific:” work of this German guy and then made up “Aryan” from it and appropriated the svastika, the sign of balance of the universe, flipped and angled it, so that Hindu scholars say that it is “Disharmony” and the rest is a bunch of genocide.

So... revisiting this, this turns out to *gasp* Not be true. (No one is shocked, I hope). And now people measure brain volume of skulls by cc, or water. There is a range, but it has nothing to do with race. (You can *kinda* tell the “race” from bones, which is about 70-80% of the time... but that’s by North American classifications.)

The story of the rise of Caucasian is covered in detail in the hour long video, very, very well. (Not my professor. He told the abridged version of this concluding with, we now measure it with water.) He was rather fun because he told things like methods of murdering a body, and common myths like men have one less rib, (Though I’ve seen an argument that the “One less bone” might be the penis bone and that the “rib” part is mistranslated. lol Whole other thing.) He also answered all of my world building questions with an even keel.

The Cacauses are real... kinda. This is better covered by the longer hour video. Which I swear is worth your time. But basically Caucuses is about geographically accurate as “The Middle East” And the “Middle East” suddenly in the 2000′s including Egypt out of nowhere. And also dictated largely by European convenience. (See Edward Said’s Orientalism.)

So in total, Caucasian in reference to white people as a racial term is connected to...

Sex slavery (of Black and also Eastern European women)

misogyny

racism

hatred of sex workers

hatred of the poor

Genocide of gays, trans, Rromani, Jews.

Religious intolerance

Cultural Misappropriation

Scientific racism

Stealing bodies without consent

I should note that historically at the time, Victorians were also preoccupied with things such as, but not limited to, the idea that poor people had smaller brains. Phrenology. And that poor people were generally morally degenerate because they were “born that way.” Yeah, and you can see this sliding into even more problematic.

I’ve run into white women who after learning all of that, and claiming they are “Liberal” still insist they want to use the term in a racial way. Maybe they support sex slavery and hating women. Who knows. There is a better theory of the origin of white people based on non-arbitrary science, but by genetic analysis.

I think if you find this challenging, as a white person (or maybe a PoC), then the rest of this is going to get exponentially harder.

I’m not leaving you with an anecdote. 

There’s two videos you can examine. One is more of a short information video and the other is an academic lecture.

the short and fun one.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKB8hXYod2w&ab_channel=MTVImpact

A tiny disclaimer, I did give her the idea for the video via tumblr. But all the contents of the video are hers.

Or you can have the long academic one.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8iZDapgQdFo

If you’re dealing with race, it’s probably better to watch the longer lecture because it goes into detail about the above story.

HOW WHITE PEOPLE REALLY GOT THEIR SKIN COLOR

https://www.science.org/content/article/how-europeans-evolved-white-skin

People still misread this article and insist on the Caucuses, so I’ll be more blunt here:

The origin of white skin is Sámi.

Sámi are NOT agricultural, traditionally. They are pastoral. This means they migrate around with herd animals. Incidentally this matches much of Siberian subsistence which has a similar climate. They are also famously mistreated by the Scandanavian governments. https://jsis.washington.edu/news/sami-land-rights-and-policy-driven-recognition-threats/ (Of course, in actuality, White supremacists don’t care about them. It’s not a pretty story, is it?)

https://www.nhm.ac.uk/discover/cheddar-man-mesolithic-britain-blue-eyed-boy.html

Because 10,000 years ago, people looked like the Cheddar Man.

Then agriculture arrived about 9,000 years ago

 https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/when-the-first-farmers-arrived-in-europe-inequality-evolved

There were several waves, including, but not limited to, the Beaker People, who also were darker-skinned than originally thought: https://www.thevintagenews.com/2019/02/08/story-of-ava/?chrome=1

So, then that’s only Northern Europe... Southern Europe is also interesting: https://www.science.org/content/article/nearly-6000-year-old-chewing-gum-reveals-life-ancient-girl

As soon as 6,000 years ago the prevalent skin color was still dark brown skin.

Wild, isn’t it? Putting the light skin color in Southern Europe around 5,000 years ago.

So your timeline looks like this:

Originally everyone in Europe had dark skin like Cheddar Man.

Around 9,000 BCE, Agriculture develops around Iran. (The latest thought is that was from Migratory Pastoralism, but a disaster happened--will cover that later.)

9-8,000 years ago, Sámi appeared. There’s still some iffiness around how and exact dates.

A waves of immigrants from Western Asia/Northern Africa came to Europe, bringing agriculture at the same time.

Despite the introduction of agriculture, the switch, as it always is, was tough. (Most docs skip over this part because they like to think switching subsistence systems is somehow “advancement” *cough* racism.)

So adaptation of this new subsistence system took some time.

After a few waves, then the people of Europe gradually became more white, and then about 5,000 years ago, the predominant skin color was white in Southern Europe.

People flip out after this because the time stamps. But if you have no stock in melanin telling anything about who you are, or how smart you are or are not, then you shouldn’t care and find this fascinating. But for my fellow PoCs out there, I swear this is a good test of your white friends.

Maybe a rebranding is in order? Articians? 

You can still get PoCs in Artic regions.

Inuit don’t exist for you, apparently. Other Indigenous people from the artic region also exist.

White skin is the need for vitamin D and not being able to get a source of it because of agriculture.

https://anth.la.psu.edu/research/research-labs/jablonski-lab/evolution-of-human-skin-and-skin-pigmentation/

Inuit get vitamin D, so keep their darker skin.

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5502412/

It is true that it is estimated Inuit and others in the region weren’t there as long as Sami, however, the diet also helps quite a bit.

But many Mongolian ethnic groups, also have darker skin and are mostly migratory pastoral.

Albinism=/= white people.

Because apparently Tolkien “fans” thought this would be true with The Rings of Power.

https://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2015/12/07/457147952/people-of-color-with-albinism-ask-where-do-i-belong

https://www.bbc.com/news/av/uk-44402888

And then they would be super insulted if they cast a Black person with Albinism in the show...

I did cover this in detail before... 

And Tolkien did argue for fish in caves with Gollum.

https://mdc.mo.gov/magazines/conservationist/2005-06/all-about-albinism

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3716263/

https://www.pnas.org/doi/10.1073/pnas.1013850108

The idea is that true cave populations are more likely to become albino. But this is not true of dwarves, in Tolkien’s world, who are sighted, have agriculture (in part), and are not naked mole rats. Dwarves get out of the caves regularly and are really hairy, and you’d need the albino gene in the first place naturally in the population for this to be so. And Tolkien for the most part doesn’t address genetic diversity of this type. On disability, it’s mostly injuries from war: https://www.reddit.com/r/tolkienfans/comments/lvtdp3/disability_and_age_representation_in_the/

Could one do true albinos like naked mole rats as a species? Sure. Why not. Knock yourself out, but keep in mind that skin color does not preclude racial physical features. Also, albinism comes with disabilities too.

The majority of domesticated food stuff does NOT come from Europe. And, in fact, comes from about the same latitude/climate worldwide.

Cambridge History of Food. I love this book. Categorically, the majority of food is not domesticated in Europe.

Cow--not Europe.

Goats, sheep, pigs, etc. Not Europe. Horses--they existed in Europe, but the majority of the domestication is not said to be Europe, and inventions like the stirrip, and pants don’t relate to Europe. (Pants relate to horse riding. Cultures that had horse riding, had women wear pants too.).

Wheat, Oats, Corn, Rice, Barley--also not Europe.

The only one I’ve found thus far they are sure is 100% European is *drumroll* Brussel Sprouts. But let’s be clear here (which I’ll cover) In order to get the domestication of Brussel Sprouts, you need a staple food so you can muck around with other things. So it’s through the help of the introduction of agriculture itself which could allow Europe to develop things like Brussel Sprouts.

Usually around here, people are flipping tables, trying to tell me that I hate white people, trying to get me banned for true facts I pulled from Cambridge History of Food... and blocking me... and I have to say, if this true fact hurts, I think you missed the point.

If you’re super focused on the concentration of your melanin leading you to a fictional “greatness” this sounds like “terrible” news to you. But what I see is that humans are NEVER isolated. They work together over vast expanses. They take ideas and refine them. Carrots wouldn’t be orange without William of Orange. And William of Orange can’t get his name without the invention of the Orange (Southern China, Myanmar, Northeast India https://storymaps.arcgis.com/stories/1a88363072674762b95e1ab4e7431fd0). It’s not that bad that Europe often took ideas from other regions and tried to innovate them further, or kept the idea going. (The imperialism was awful... yes) Shouldn’t you be celebrating that Europe, much like the rest of the world was cooperating, and doing awesome stuff like the Silk Road for a long time without the imperialism?

I should note for the Tolkien fans... he was very, very particular about food in a way Rings of Power broke. Strawberries? Blueberries? He’d have none of the New World foods. He also had a cut off date for food importation from Earth he inserted.

Will go over this later in the post about subsistence, but the majority of food stuffs comes from about the same latitude/climate type. Because when you have no worries about food supply for the majority of the year, don’t need to pack it in, etc, then you have a lot more time to tinker. Boredom leads to innovation.

The majority of technological inventions did not come from Europe.

This one also ticks off white people, even the most liberal, even when you point out the physical geography and then there is a huge crisis, often because of the over attribution of white skin to greatness, facing the reality is harsh.

You can take pencils, though this is questionable without the invention of writing.

But look it up--arches, not Europe. Boats, not even human? Gothic Architecture is likely from Western Asia and Islamic Empire. Much of Science was taken from Islamic Empire. Maths. Egypt, Congo, and Babylonian. Zero. India. Geographically, Europe is at a Northern latitude with a climate that is not easy to deal with year round, and TINY (smaller than the “traditional” map) compared to rest of the world. Of course proportionally more inventions will come from elsewhere. It’s just a statistical fact.

Again, white people flip the hell out when I say this. But again, the point is INTERCONNECTION. If you’re super focused on “Invention” then you’re wrong.

Gutenberg did not invent the printing press. He did not invent movable type. He did invent an adjustable type mould which allowed the invention of things like serif fonts, type of different sizes, etc. But he depended on those other inventions to make his. But people are super occupied with, “But did he do it independently?” when it was pretty clear he was in a major trading port... (I had to fight the wikipedia page from excising credit for the true invention. The cycle on that page usually goes, someone tries to take off the Chinese and Korean credit. Then someone tries to take off the “In Europe” part and then someone comes and tries to make it “first invention” and then they try to take off the non-supporting links. Because white fragility? Adjustable type mould is just as sexy.)

Does it really matter if he “invented the Printing Press” Why not celebrate the adjustable type mould?

What is wrong with “Not coming up with the idea” when refining the idea is often acknowledged to be more difficult?

But White People did the “Age of Discovery” which is how the world became “connected”

Polynesians would like to have a word with you.

First of all, boats were not invented by white people. Though some anthropologists surmise about Homo Erectus having rafts. That’s not in Europe. https://teara.govt.nz/en/pacific-migrations/page-2

https://www.ascsa.edu.gr/index.php/news/newsDetails/plakias-survey-finds-stone-age-tools-on-crete/

Did you think that seriously, in all of that time, People of color because of their melanin were waiting for a white person to use their invention and not doing anything with it?

Plus if you don’t know, Polynesian ocean navigation is !@#$ing cool. And I hope you don’t try to attribute it to another group in your world building. But it’s mind blowing. https://manoa.hawaii.edu/exploringourfluidearth/physical/navigation-and-transportation/wayfinding-and-navigation

They have charts made from shells and sticks, which they use to teach from a young age, and then, you MEMORIZE those charts. I have to keep emphasizing they beat Europeans who were clueless. (I could rave about it for hours, or you can look it up.) Sometimes tattoos are super useful.

One of my professors (BTW, White) made fun of European Navigation because they’d use a “Step Method” go along a latitude for a while, then travel down a longitude for a while. Then try to figure out where they were. Then travel along a latitude. Figure out where they were. And so on.

Polynesians would shit all over that and be laughing their asses off. That’s how cool the ocean navigation system is.

So no, PoCs were not waiting around to be “discovered” by “white people.” Polynesians conquered the seas long before Europe ever tried.

But Flat Earth/ice planet model--white people?

More like dead people.

Unlike what people think, the Artic is not “cold all the time”. And as I said, Sámi are MIGRATORY Pastoralists. On a round planet, the majority of life is where? Rain forests and warmer climates.

You’ve killed off the majority of your life on an ice planet. You have to come up with a reason there is life there with reindeer-like animals and something for them to eat.

I’ll cover this in detail when I get to subsistence, but not likely possible unless humans settled on the planet and there is an external food supply.

Agricultural White people

Only invented in the last 5,000-6,000 years as widespread. In the southern Europe, about only widespread Agriculture ~5-4,000 years ago.

- You need a Gulf Stream-like geography, or you get Siberia, which, BTW, has mostly Pastoralists (Horses, reindeer) (Tolkien would be crying at this one and going on about why his world needs to be round.)

- You need introduction of agriculture with usually a grain (and grains are grass, basically). And the majority of agriculture comes from persistently warmer climates with good growing. (Mediterranean, Tropic.)

- You need less tolerance to lactose and lack of a vitamin D intake.

I should note lightly that as agriculture spread in Europe, it also came with massive deforestation. It’s particularly said of North America with some Native American groups, and of Germany in particular out of all of Europe.

Interestingly enough, a BBC doc also said the lack of trees and rich people hogging land in Europe, may have caused the push towards colonization. (Also very well covered by theories of subsistence).

Skin Movie (2008)

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0964586/

This is worth your time to watch which will make you think harder on genetics. Based on the true story of a Black woman born to white parents.

CONTENT WARNING LINE (Skip to the end if you can’t handle blatant racism)

from real lines I’ve been told by white writers. Some of them are entertainingly wrong, but some of them are infuriatingly racist. And yeah, I wish I had the imagination to make these things up. And yes, these things are flat out racist.

If you don’t want to read it as a PoC, skip to the next major header. It will help you as a white person, though, to read it.

But I want isolated white people... a white haven.

This is not true for Europe and you’re being racist. But let’s go with your racism and fear of brown and Black people. Let’s go over the major arguments for “making this possible” even though this never ever happened in Earth.

But there are white pockets in the United States.

It is true that particularly in the US, white people tend to racially isolate over PoCs: https://www.arcgis.com/home/item.html?id=30d2e10d4d694b3eb4dc4d2e58dbb5a5

But I think this is more a result of RACISM, rather than a “Natural occurrence” as these people argue. I’ll go over that if I get to systems.

I was *cough* given the examples of (and I wish I was joking) Russia and Australia.

Russia literally has Asian people in it from the beginning because a large portion is *in Asia* And then I gave them the population numbers.

And I wish I was joking when they said they cried white tears over this fact.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethnic_groups_in_Russia

Australia, BTW, has Aboriginal peoples. Some geneticists have said that Aboriginal people are closer related to African populations than to surrounding populations such as Chinese, etc.

“How would you feel if you discovered white people in the history archive?”

Yeah, people refute this way.

Korea has influences from China, India, Europe, Japan, Mongolia, and AFRICA. You know what happened when I found out there were Indian people in Korea in the Goryeo era? I was DELIGHTED. OMG, I wanted to know why they were there, if there were historical records, the trade, etc. There has been evidence of a Korean Queen in Iran. And people were DELIGHTED. When I heard there were Black traders in Korea, and Black slaves brought by Portuguese and that Koreans treated the slaves better than Portuguese, I was delighted.

It’s a 100% white reaction to seeing the appearance of anyone of different melanin as a “threat”. This hurts you a lot. You’re letting your racism and deficits from systemic racism rule over your thinking.

But PoCs will “Wipe white people out”

Hahaha. Hahahahaha. Hahahaha. And you’re writing fantasy? Hahahaha. I wish this was fiction, but people like the great white Skunk, Pepe Elmo Le Pew believe this. I’ve heard it on writing forums too.

First of all, White Homo Sapiens sapiens were invented (Checks) what? 8,000 years ago? Maybe 9,000? Were a population minority. And look, weren’t wiped out. But if you’ve truly gotten this far into the post after reading every bit before it and truly think this, I feel sorry for you. (Also still laughing my butt off).

If it was not us, it would have been them

The story of tea by Cognito:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6S0hlv5sUbw&ab_channel=Cogito

Youtube video, because laying out there history takes a lot of work, and this is more “fun” until you get to the Imperialism part and get depressed.

Basically, as most stories of trade go: Was mostly fine until white people showed up. And I’m always hoping for a decent white dude. But it never goes that way.

Spice trade?: Same thing.

Silk trade: Ah, there was animosity and war over silk with China and India, but kinda settled their differences there. China took the high road, India the low road.

And then *cough* THERE WERE THE POLYNESIANS. Went allllllllll the way to North America took back the Sweet Potato (which does not float like coconuts)

https://www.pnas.org/doi/10.1073/pnas.1221569110#:~:text=Archaeological%20research%20has%20now%20conclusively,3).

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/native-americans-polynesians-meet-180975269/

and then beat out (looks) Europeans including Leif Erikson. Oh look, try didn’t try to commit mass genocide or take over their land and kick them off to reservations and then appropriated all their possessions.

Nyah, it’s a Europe problem. But a few theories for that. (Nothing solid, but sounds like good theories). Later. Subsistence will cover it. (And then you can troubleshoot your fictional white people so you can argue for less violence.)

Also, I kinda think that people are too addicted to the conflict theory from Percy Lubbock. You probably also should stop believing in the Great Man theory which is still white imperialism.

*Cries* So you’re saying White people are *sniff* Inferior.

Because why not white fragility in here. I think you need to grow up more... but let’s go over this thought process.

There is nothing wrong with a cultural adaptation and evolution of objects. But there is a COST to trying to isolate. And I say this as a Korean.

While Koreans did innovate, such as with celadon pottery, metal movable type (Not Gutenberg), There are a fair amount of imports, mostly from China, but also from other areas, such as Japan, the Siberian Peninsula, Mongolia, India, Vietnam, etc. Koreans don’t deny this truth, in fact it’s a point of pride. Koreans will boast things like hangeul can transcribe most languages because the scholars went to India to study the language there. Korea spent a lot of time refining objects. Clay movable type? Make it metal. Chopsticks? Make them metal. Unlike much of Europe, Koreans (mostly) don’t try to claim on the original objects as 100% theirs in a fit of superiority and definitely not about skin color.

But Korea *did* try to isolate, and some Koreans think it was to our detriment this was so. A lot of contemporary Koreans express regret at this, saying that the transition towards industrialization might have been easier had Korea not tried to isolate.

China, BTW, was able to innovate so much because geographically it is connected to India and Northern China is a different place from Southern China in terms of climate. That connection plays a role in innovation and somewhat in governmental policy.

On both counts, I’m saying I know the costs of both. You are left behind because collectively others are trading, coming up with new ideas and innovating. The idea of a white haven, would throw quite a few problems in, which include, but are not limited to:

- Technological innovation deficits.

I’m saying, for a time Korea was a prime example of this because scholars had to smuggle in “Western Learning”. 

The more people from different places to test an idea, the more likely the idea will be refined. This is often why science is considered “Slow” because you don’t know if it was some other environmental or cultural factors that might be driving the results. You need people to test and retest it. What if the bacteria is growing in the lab faster because of humidity? what if there is a cultural thought of “adding more” to be safe that wasn’t accounted for? What if your main data set came from an HIV clinic in East London that specifically serves underprivileged community and most of the participants are white gay men? (I covered this one with Monkeypox).

Because you have all places on the globe to try, say “The wheel” there’s more places to share ideas about improvements. The light bulb wasn’t Edison’s invention. It was a global effort. Fiction Movies wouldn’t have been possible without global efforts. (And Alice Guy-Blaché)

Humans fundamentally, before homo sapiens sapiens have worked very much on cooperation. 

- Language deficits. Language changes over time with interaction.

There are pocket languages/dialects around the world. But also, often, ideas are tested and innovated, which springs up new language. If you look at the map for the words for “Tea” around the world, you see a sharing of ideas about it. A lot of written language comes from trade.

- The ability to adapt and change to new problems that might arise.

Do you know that Indigenous people saved Irish from complete famine by inventing the potato?

- Paranoia about the outside world

Which then leads to social deficits... When people are left kicking and screaming trying to correct the path, this is a lot longer of a process than cooperating.

Conclusion

White people aren’t great because they were “isolated” as many later White supremacists tried to come up with to try to justify white imperialism. They were great because they were CONNECTED. Look at the location on that map. You got Africa spanning the continent. Africa, which has a ton of inventions going for it. And then you have the West Asia right there, with new agriculture, connected to another major agricultural center: Southern China.

The false stories of whiteness are holding you back which is how privilege often works. You need the myths to hold onto the idea you’re better than everyone else. But often in doing so, you isolate, and then no longer know how to interact with the other. And when that happens, it can cause you to lose the thing that makes humans great: cooperation. (or at least in my mind, nothing sends me over the warm and fuzzy line faster than cooperation.) BTW, this is not the same thing as the other great white argument, “There is no such thing as appropriation,” which I also covered under Cultural Dissemination. You cooperate with consent. You share with consent. Appropriation is stealing for your own gain. And humans definitely do that.

Round Planet==required People of Color

https://www.livescience.com/43674-cancer-skin-color-evolution.html

Darker skin protects from UV, and also is reported to help with retention of foliates. https://iubmb.onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/biof.5520100230

Healthy Population numbers

I asked this question just for all of you.

The base population should be about 250 people who can reproduce. If you’re counting children, elderly, etc, then 500-1000 is the healthy number. My Anthropology prof suggested 2 separate towns of 1,000 people total would do it, but of course the more the better.

I should note that humans almost went extinct. And some Anthropologists put the minimum around 18,500 breeding people left. (But think a bit more about LGBTQIA in that which is roughly around 10% and that might cut down--they never think of us queers.).

There is suggestion of doing things like sperm and genetic banks to travel the stars, but you’d still need a method of fertilization and a womb for that. (Artificial wombs are being developed.)

https://www.bbc.com/news/av/health-50056405

“Species” v. “Race” in Fantasy

There’s some argument about in English  (The language), that one cannot use the word “Species” in a fantasy setting, because it’s “too scientific” and Science wasn’t invented until much later, and “race” sounds less scientific.

Etymology doesn’t lie.

https://www.etymonline.com/word/race

n2.

You’re looking at 1774 for the general term, and as “one species” you’re looking at the 19th century. 19th century. Oddly that sounds like when that racist German Anthropologist was operating.

Species as to refer to humans, is OLDER than the word “race” meaning species of human.

https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=Species

Species, as a word dates from late 14th century. 1560 is when the scientific application starts. 1600 is when it takes a more scientific meaning.

19th century v. 1600′s hmmm... which is older.

Linnaeus classification of species is 1735. Systema Naturae.

The thing is, that he insisted on Latin. But your world, you can do whatever you like. This is where, the words, “It’s a story, I can do whatever the fuck I want” are useful. People were talking about species way back into the Medieval period.

And if you see, “race” meaning “Species” or roughly “fantasy races” has a suspicious root back to the 19th century, when they were mucking around with eugenics, and that guy who thinks that Black people are the least smart of all the populations of people based on stolen skulls.

While the classification certainly is out of the Medieval period (since people don’t call the “Enlightenment” Medieval (though some fantasy should play more with that era) such as order and phylum, etc, species, as a concept or a word is not “something that Darwin (and Wallace) created.” It’s like people thinking “fuck” is “really new” and “French” (It’s likely German). If you’re doing everything under the “Myths of Whiteness” and then combining it here with “I must use the word race”, you might, might want to check yourself. Because often the justification for using the myths of Whiteness is “I can do whatever I want it is my story” and “Europe is the best” but confronted that some of the terminology from Fantasy might be “racist” you double down on “It’s tradition.” Yeah, but then my question to pose to you, is what happened to “Historically accurate” and acknowledging that Science in Europe isn’t from the 19th century forwards? Do Other Worlds have to be devoid of scientists for the magic to work? As for the People of Color out there... why do you want to enforce the idea that you are a different species with a different intelligence?

Homonins

Mostly here to make my fellow Anthropologists happy. (Saying there should be other Homonins)

https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/series/becoming-human/

This doc is probably the best source for an easy to digest version that’s not the racist 1990′s docs which goes: Man started in Africa (with blackface. TT)->Then the cradle of civilization was in the “Middle East” near the Tigris and Euphrates (They should say Iran, but ya know...)->But then Neanderthal were all wiped out by Homo Sapiens greatness (and maybe dogs)-> White people popped up out of nowhere and then greatness *cue 2001 obelisk music* (The Making of was also racist. You think I would skip over the Making of docs where they literally blackface? BTW, I did bring this up in Anthropology class and ask, WTF do they blackface in anthropology docs? Can they not hire Black people? Awkward stares...)

This one is more global, less racist and goes over specific populations, plus admits its own shortcomings.

Anyway, the point is Homo Erectus is generally thought of as the start of the Homo genus line. There’s debate about how far down and which branches from there feed into ours, but generally the cut off towards “Modern Humans” is Homo Heidelbergensis (Whom they attribute to learning how to make fire and control fire now. A trait some homo sapiens have lost?). That is about 50,000 years of evolutionary difference. (and yes, Humans were hitting that). So when I’m mocking people for things that Homo Erectus innovated and thinking that Modern humans can’t do those things, keep in mind I’m going that far up our family tree. We can’t even remember past mostly 5,000 years ago. And we, as a species around about 200,000 years old. Which BTW, I mock regularly. This would be like a 100 year old not remembering anything past the last 1 year of their life very clearly. Humans are weird creatures.

Homo Erectus invented trade, some think, also made boats. And people are talking about cutting off Homo Sapiens from travel. NOOOO. It’s really, really in our bones. Way back in homonin history. For Xenospecies you can play with this. But for humans, it goes waaaaayyyy back into the nature of homoninity (Not a word, but you know, humanity doesn’t quite work here) itself.

Humans will Travel (and are pests)

Under this rule also, this means no country/nation is not without multiple ethnicities. But a lot of world building tries to make “havens” of X race and ethnicities. But if you’re writing humans it’s doubtful this will stay true.

I was flat out told once someone believed Australia was a white Haven. (The education system must suck) The amount of Blacks, Asians, Aboriginals, etc in Australia met a mental genocide in their mind?

And some people in the US pointed out they didn’t have PoCs around them (even if they are on Indigenous land) Maybe it’s a result of *gasp* racism and white isolationism? The myth goes with white people that PoCs self-isolate, but the dot map disproves this. White people are more likely to self-isolate from PoCs and clear them out than the reverse.

And someone who was writing Russia got super insulted when I pointed out that Russia had more than one ethnicity and some of those ethnicities were not white. (Also pointed out geographically Russia is partially counted as part of Asia.) But *white tears* How dare I point out this truth?

Korea loves, loves saying that Koreans as an ethnic group aren’t that diverse, but as I’ve linked up prior, that isn’t true. The Bon’gwan records sometimes going thousands of years back say this is false. There are several populations today in Korea, in general that are from other locations--Thailand, Japan, China, Vietnam, etc.

BTW, Africans within Africa also moved a lot. (If you watch the PBS doc) What would you have to do to make this true? That humans never traveled.

Well... take a time machine, go back in time. Put a force field around Africa around the time of Homo Erectus, make sure Homo Erectus never leaves Africa (They were in China), and suffers quite a bit for your choice, and cut off the development of all Neanderthal and Denisovans, and then cripple the ability of Homo Sapiens Sapiens to leave Africa during a widespread famine (covered in population numbers) and thus can’t intermarry with Neanderthal and Denisovans to help be better immune to diseases outside of Africa and basically cripple the current Homo sapiens sapiens. Oh and you’d eliminate white people entirely.

The idea that humans magically couldn’t travel once white people were invented is ludicrous. Oh, I’m going to stop doing the thing that Homo Erectus, who had smaller brains than us were doing. C’mon.

https://teara.govt.nz/en/pacific-migrations/page-2

And that PoCs are just going to wait around after the invention of seafaring by Homo Erectus--that’s not even close to Modern Man, for white people to arrive for over 190,000 years, so White people can do the “Age of Discovery” (Age of imperialism and jealousy). Think harder about this one.

I still have bets on Homo Erectus making it through your force field. Homonins are that much of a pest.

https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/series/becoming-human/

I mean this whole doc series shows how much of a pest humans are. (And goes over basics of human evolution, though it’s updated, of course, since then).

Marry, Fuck it, Make it a pet, Kill, Eat it

Humans are the weirdest creatures on the planet. And I present to you this...

Generally, humans view objects as “useful” if they can do the things in the header with it or has activities surrounding it.

And as the Torah/Bible says repeatedly, humans will have sex with about anything. “Do not fornicate with animals.” There are human laws against it--and as one apt person put it, often laws mean someone is doing it.

So I don’t believe Tolkien’s line about how humans would never try to fuck a dwarf.

https://thedwarrowscholar.com/2013/04/11/whos-the-bride-dwarven-marriage/

Humans fuck about everything and I say that as someone on the ace spectrum. I get it--aces exist and black stripe aces are super valid, but the majority of humanity is going around and trying to fuck things that vibrate, move, feel warm, and anything they can find.

https://www.theregister.com/2005/07/27/ancient_phallus/

And the thing is that homonins, in generally, fucked each other no matter what their species/genus, which created kind of a river system, where they flow out and then converge again. So Neanderthal... homo sapiens sapiens fucked that.

Denisovans: Sapiens fucked that.

Humans fucking a Tolkien Dwarf? Absolutely would happen in my estimation.

A Tolkien dwarf after all those imposing rules might actually find it freeing to have a human to love. Short term commitment, ya know. And if truly a different species, then no children.

Humans marry buildings, sticks, cartoon characters, etc.

https://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/seattle-woman-marries-building-protest-demolition-224250710.html

https://www.bbc.com/news/stories-49343280

Humans make rocks pets.

Humans like to “Kill words” and we’re mass murderers of our and other species.

Humans also try to eat everything. The list of “Things that are poisonous” makes you think, “Ah, a human ate that.” especially when you have “Poisonous to dogs, but not humans.” That means you seriously had a human go, “Welp the dog died, but you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to try to eat it anyway and find out if I die too.”

https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/learn/by-eating-disorder/other/pica

And that’s the thing, you got to account for the fucked up variation of humans and human behavior. Also remember, Variation in every population.

Sentient Xenospecies

The trait that makes humans able to build building, make things like Stone Henge, despite being absolutely terrible at handling change is: Cooperation.

This is what separates humans from Octopuses.

It’s surmised that in order to get structures, you need Cooperation. (I know, someone is going to go on, still about the conflict narrative... but Humans are an oddly cooperative species).

So, you need some sort of cooperation in your species to make it work.

If you’re arguing for isolationist species, then no. If you’re saying something like say... rats, rats are not isolationist, and you have to go back to the Biology part.

Once you have cooperative groups, don’t rely solely on agriculture. It might not make sense for your species--which is what happened in Star Trek: Strange New World’s gaffe. Agriculture with grains makes no sense for reptiles.

Surplus can be reached other ways.

Humans hate creatures that are like us: Multiply quickly, are tenacious, spread quickly, tend to kill other things in its path, and are cooperative.

But I kind of think if you’re going to build a “culture” one of the physical behaviors your creatures must have is some form of cooperation. You can play heavily with this, of course and examine it, but if you want space ships, buildings, etc something of that sort has to exist and likely trade. Otherwise, you aren’t dealing with culture at all.

[mistertiberius]

Puppy Pile

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1,037

A/N: I’m so sorry that I didn't get around to reblogging this little ficlet until now, hun! I uh… saved it in my drafts and then completely forgot about it until now. I know you were having a bad day when you posted this, but I hope that you’re feeling better now.

It was decidedly not a good day for you.

Your dismal mood could've been brought about because everything that could possibly go wrong today went wrong, or because everything seemed to be hitting you all at once, or maybe it was for no reason at all. In any case, the when or how or why wasn’t important, what mattered was you were currently not having a good time. But, regardless of whether you hid your disconsolate state of being well or if you were an open book, your poor attitude certainly didn’t go unnoticed.

You were sitting on the couch, staring at nothing in particular, when you caught a flash of color and movement out of the corner of your eye. You instinctively turned your head to look for the source only to be caught completely off-guard when Vincent suddenly joined you on the couch, more or less crawling into your lap in an unfairly graceful manner that reminded you of a cat seeking attention from its owner.

You blinked down at the masked man with wide, startled eyes as he settled on his stomach with a content huff, his body angled in a way that let him wrap his arms around your waist before he unceremoniously buried his face into your stomach. Then Vincent made another noise of pure satisfaction that was muffled against your shirt as he melted into you, his thumbs absentmindedly tracing senseless patterns on your back.

“Uh… Vincent? What?” Was all you were able to manage in that moment, struck speechless by the impromptu cuddling session. Unfortunately, the man in question merely grunted in response to your question, as if the noncommittal sound was supposed to somehow explain what exactly had possessed Vincent to use you as an overgrown teddy bear.

“Aw, no fair. Vincent got the best seat.” Lester complained in a tone that might very well be called a whine and your head whirled around in order to fix your owlish stare onto the doorway that the youngest Sinclair stood in, Bo lurking maybe two or three steps behind Lester with a mulish glare that was aimed at the back of Vincent’s head.

“I’d say ‘first come, first serve’ but it ain’t me loungin’ on their lap right now.” Bo drawled with a deceptive amount of casualness that outright contradicted his distinctly displeased expression, the man's jaw flexing with barely-restrained irritation. “So fuck you, Vincent.” He tacked on as he pushed past Lester in order to enter the living room and approach the couch, his voice dropping into a low growl.

Vincent didn’t so much as twitch at the hostility that all but saturated Bo’s tone, the masked man merely squirming closer to you with a low rumble that almost sounded like a warning, as if he were daring either of his brothers to try and unseat him. Which, seriously, what? Why the hell were the three of them so interested in your lap all of a sudden?

“Move the fuck over, ‘fore I drag ya offa ‘em by your damn ankles.” Bo barked, impatiently tapping Vincent’s calf until the masked man obeyed and drew his long legs up and in. The change in position made Vincent look like he was curled up on your lap, which didn’t exactly help dispel what you were coming to believe was an adept cat comparison.

Bo flopped down into the open space that Vincent had created with far less elegance than his twin had displayed earlier, turning where he sat in order to wedge himself between the masked man’s folded knees and the backrest of the couch as he simultaneously threw his legs up and over the armrest to let his ankles hang off the end of the couch because he was a bit too tall.

He didn’t seem to give two shits though because he just made himself comfortable, crossing his arms and leaning back until your upper arm pressed between his shoulder blades and he tipped his head back to rest it on your shoulder. A slow, smug smirk curled onto his lips as his alluring blue eyes peered up at you, very clearly pleased that he had carved out a place for himself in your ever-growing puppy pile.

With that said, you were unsurprised when Lester made himself right at home on your other side, the youngest Sinclair enthusiastically throwing an arm across the backrest as he shifted over until he was practically plastering himself against your side with a toothy grin that was contagious. Lester’s other hand reached across his front in order to snag yours, the youngest Sinclair lacing your fingers together before letting your clasped hands rest on his thigh.

“Feelin’ better now, sweetpea?” Lester hummed, his voice soft and sugar sweet.

His blunt yet gentle inquiry made things rapidly click into place in your head and you came to the sudden and touching realization that they had initiated this little snuggle session in an attempt to cheer you up, that they had all voluntarily put aside the project or task that they had been working on today in favor of comforting you because your wellbeing -mental or otherwise- was more important to them than whatever they had going on.

“Yeah.” You snorted with a fond shake of your head, leaning into Lester’s side a bit more as your free hand wiggled between the back of the couch and Bo’s side in order to curl your arm around the man’s waist in a bastardized version of a hug that he made no attempt to refuse. “I do, actually.” You continued in a hushed tone so as to not break the calm and peaceful atmosphere that had settled over the four of you, aiming a warm smile down at Vincent when his head turned to peek up at you.

“Good.” Bo grunted and your gaze jumped over to him, but he was already watching you with a triumphant grin that made your chest flutter because he looked so carefree and boyish. It took years off of his face, momentarily removing all traces of the trauma and violence that bubbled beneath all that southern charm of his.

You decided right then and there that you would do anything if it meant that he would smile like that forever.

Can someone write something about the Sinclairs coming to find a their s/o not having a good day and just do a cuddle pile? Please and thank you.

I need it.

[hongism]

05 - j.wooyoung + lingerie (18+)

» j.wooyoung x gn!reader » 18+ dni if minor, nsfw/pwp » language, feminization, lap dancing, strip tease, bratty wooyoung, manual stimulation, grinding, cum eating, dirty talk, finger sucking » wc 3.3k » link to masterlist

you’ve almost come to the conclusion that tonight was a complete and utter waste of time when your eyes pause in their subtle search across the room. it’s fast, and you almost miss him because of how quickly you’re surveying the club, but you have to backtrack at the sight of the pink head of hair. it’s not too out of the ordinary — not for a club like this one at least, and frankly, the face connected to the stark hair entrances you more than the hair does. the friend at your side seems to notice where your gaze keeps lingering, elbow careening into your ribs seconds later.

“like what you see over there?” she giggles, most likely amused by how you jolt and startle with the contact.

“he’s pretty,” you mutter back as you strain your neck a little to catch sight of the rest of him. he’s not up on a stage with the other dancers, not wrapped around a pole or anything like that, so you can’t get a full and clear view of what he’s wearing.

“he doesn’t perform with the others, i hear. solo performer, and only does private shows.”

sure, there’s a stack of money set aside for this particular reason, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to cave and spend it all on this one man.

you aren’t.

it’s not going to stop you from getting up and going over there to get a better look at him.

“i’ll be back,” you mutter, picking up your wallet and drink with the same hand. you’re hoping it won’t look obvious to your friend, but the laugh that follows your movements is telling enough.

“have fun!”

you step through the crowd of couches that are mostly full of older men and women, apologizing each time you cross in front of them and accidentally block their view of the dancers. your target hasn’t moved, still lingering near the bar with a drink set in front of him as he also indulges in the sight of the dancers on stage. you’re almost fooled into believing that he’s simply a client here and not actually a worker, but there’s a certain sway to his hips and head against the music thumping through the club that says otherwise. he moves his body too well even with subtle and small movements. elbows propped up on the bar counter behind him, a lollipop dangling from his fingertips and periodically going up to catch on his tongue, and that pretty pink hair bouncing with each movement he makes. you’re enticed in an instant.

the obscenity of his outfit doesn’t help one bit either. and perhaps obscenity is a bit too strong a word to describe it, but your brain goes to static and white noise the more you see of him, and it’s easy to see why that is. a sheer lavender crop top that does nothing to hide the lace bralette underneath, along with a pretty plaid skirt that tapers his waist almost too well, belts and buckles hanging from both sides and jingling when he sways his hips in time with the music. the further down your eyes go, the more overwhelmed you get because he’s got fishnets (of course) that lead to chunky black combat boots. he looks simultaneously quite out of place here while also seeming like there’s no other logical place for him to be. your steps towards him falter a little; it’s no wonder that he doesn’t have anyone at his side right now. he’d outshine them without even trying, and the air around him feels a bit untouchable as well like he’s too good for anyone’s presence except his own and the bartender behind him. the thought to turn around and return to your friend like a dog with its tail between its legs crosses your mind. that’s all it does though because as you shift to act on that thought, sharp eyes snap over to meet yours across the bar counter.

opposite ends of the spectrum, separated by at least ten barstools if not more, plenty of other people in front of him to look at, yet the dancer cranes his head in your direction and makes eye contact. 

your tongue darts out to wet your lower lip, an act more out of nerves than meant to be seductive in the slightest. 

there’s no direct invitation to go further towards him. really all he does is incline his head slightly, and you take it as a cue to step around the barstools and walk over to where he’s tapping his chunky boot against the floor.

“hi.”

you startle upon hearing his clear tone, although you aren’t wholly sure why that’s the case. 

“hello,” you greet in return. you keep your glass caught firmly between your fingers as you sit in the barstool beside him. he looks even prettier in this light — with blinking up at him from where you sit and the neon lights cascading over his face and hair. there’s a stunning beauty mark under his eye, and another on his lower lip under the sheen of pink lip gloss. something sparkles under his eyes and in the inner corners, what you can only assume to be eyeshadow and glitter. 

“i caught your eye, huh?”

there’s a twinge of embarrassment that shoots through your body, and you duck your chin to your chest, clearing your throat as quietly as you can like it’ll dispel the nerves accompanied by the feeling. 

“cute,” the man continues. his sweet tone is almost like honey, or some syrup that tastes like it could be too much after a certain point. “wanna buy my time then?”

the offer comes so quickly that you’re a bit shocked. all these people in the club and yet not one has approached him? or accepted his offer? it seems far too unbelievable.

“you’re not gonna ask me anything first? my name, my age, anything like that?”

he laughs for the first time tonight, and you think you’ll grow to love that sound by the end of it. the lollipop pushes back between his lips only for him to make a show of how he swirls his tongue around the ball of candy. when he pulls it back out, it springs free with a lewd pop in its wake.

“you’re the first one tonight who’s stopped me to ask that. most just jump straight to it. i’m wooyoung. and you?”

“y/n.”

“hmm, it’ll sound prettier coming from my lips later.”

your brain buffers and hits a wall. you lose whatever thought was lingering in your mind, and wooyoung has the audacity to flash a grin and send a wink your way.

“you’re in luck tonight, y/n. i only start taking clients at ten o’clock, and it’s two minutes past ten right now.” a strobe of neon red flashes over his face, illuminating his eyes in a way that makes your heart jump in your chest. “assuming you want me, that is,” he adds through a stretched grin, and you wouldn’t dream of denying him the pleasure of hearing your affirmation.

“yes, i’d like that quite a bit.”

wooyoung leads you off to the side of the club, where the hallway of private rooms begins, and he wastes no time in bringing you into the nearest unlocked one. you’ve got your wallet still clasped between nervous hands, but your drink was long forgotten on the bar counter you found wooyoung at. it’s fairly standard for this type of room, nothing to gawk at or make note of aside from the metal pole that stretches up to the ceiling. you’re certain your attention will be firmly planted on wooyoung throughout the entirety of your stay here, so you aren’t worried much about making yourself at home.

the dancer seems keen on the same as well, or at least he’s excited to get started. knowing how much money you’ve got in your wallet, you can’t blame him for the excitement. he turns to face you after shutting and locking the door, skirt billowing around his thighs a little. you think you see a flash of lace underneath, tucked under the fishnets, but that could very well be merely a wistful thought and nothing else. 

“lay down,” he demands, motioning to the short round table right in front of the couches.

“um…” you blink from the white surface to wooyoung’s serious expression. 

“what? never had a lap dance before?” he quirks a brow and flashes another dastardly grin, and you hate the way your stomach flips over at the sight of it.

“not one where i’ve had to lay down, no.” 

wooyoung huffs out a laugh and pops his lollipop back into his mouth. he steps around your awkward, still form to put one of his feet up on the pristine white surface. the boot releases a hollow noise when it hits the table.

“oh, you’ll love it, i promise. now come on, on your back, legs relaxed. i’ll make it worth your while. and your money too, we hope.” 

wooyoung’s little tilt to his chin and the soft bats of his lashes are what convince you to do as told. you slip your shoes off next to the couch and tuck your wallet away in one of them lest wooyoung has the bright idea to make off with all your belongings. then you scramble over the slick surface to lay flat atop it, eyeing wooyoung as he hums and steps up fully on the table over you. his feet straddle your body, right in the gap between your hands and hips, and he pushes that stupid lollipop back between his lips.

“here are my rules, y/n. no touching, no kissing on the lips, no marking, and no demands. you’re here for a show, so i’ll give you one. and maybe i’ll use you to get off a little too? what do you say?”

you suck your lower lip between your teeth, contemplating his words and rolling them over in your mind a bit.

“and if i say no?”

“then i’ll give you a simple lap dance, and that’ll be that. and don’t worry. if i cum… i’ll clean up after myself. you don’t have to do any work really, if you don’t want to.”

“if i don’t want to?” you echo your question.

“how do you feel about sucking my fingers?”

your dumb and stuttered blinking are answer enough for him, and wooyoung leans over to the couch, balancing on one foot as he stretches to reach for something on the cushions. the position give you a far too direct view straight up his skirt. you get confirmation that you did indeed spot lace — a matching set with his pink bralette it seems on top of that.

the music that begins to thump through the speaks is foreign to you, not a song you’ve ever heard before, but the beat is sultry enough for you to understand why wooyoung would play this.

and truly, when he starts to move above you, you fully understand the appeal of this angle. getting to watch the way his skirt sways and teases what’s underneath as his cropped top flutters with his winding movements — it’s a heady feeling being under him and seeing this unfold over you.

wooyoung does his job, and he does it well in only a few swaying moves that promise more to come. if you had to make a comparison, you’d say it’s like watching art in motion, an exhibit where the artist shows you each stroke and twist of his brush. that’s wooyoung now, with the showcase of how he stretches his arms to the ceiling and brings them down the front of his body. the dim lighting in the room does nothing to make the mood less than what it is — pure seduction at its finest, and wooyoung is quickly bringing you down that pit of lust with him. you only know that’s where he’s headed as well because of how his skirt begins to tent a little as time goes on, evidence to how turned on he is by merely dancing to the music. he hasn’t gotten down far enough to even have physical contact with you, but with the way he’s moving now, you aren’t sure he’ll even get that far either.

he does go lower as the song shifts, beat still unfamiliar against your ears, but you’re barely hearing the music beyond how the bass thumps through your veins. as his knees settle on either side of you, close to your waist now and closing in just enough to squeeze you with a hair of pressure, his hands move up under the fabric of his top. they press higher and higher, catching on the hem and tugging as he reaches his neck. your eyes burn like you haven’t blinked in ages, and to be frank, you most likely haven’t because the grip wooyoung has on your focus currently occupies every fiber of your being.

wooyoung works the shirt off, tossing the sheer material over to the side. the look of his tanned skin with blush pink lace overtop clinging to him like a vice under the low lights: it’s sin in its purest form. and that sin only amplifies as he draws his hands down to the waistband of his skirt. he teases and pulls at the material, still lost somewhere between his mind and the music. one of his hands works back up his chest and throat, and when he reaches his mouth, he pulls the lollipop stick out to reveal a now empty stick that is also promptly tossed in the same direction his shirt went. 

“aren’t i pretty, y/n?” he asks all of a sudden. he’s not looking at you, not with the way his eyelids are barely shut, but it captures all your attention nonetheless. “pretty and feminine, hm? some people think i don’t dance as well as the girls out on the stages. but i’m just as pretty as them, aren’t i?”

“more,” you exhale without thinking.

“more,” he echoes back to you with an airy giggle to accompany it. his hands go to the side of his skirt, grabbing onto something on the left, and two seconds later he’s pulling away the entire strip of fabric in one swift movement. you inhale so sharply it stings your nostrils and aches in your chest, and wooyoung takes that as the opportune moment to roll his hips down against your abdomen. it’s not meant for your please, not in the slightest, but you still feel the coil of arousal in your gut snap and pull at itself as he repeats the motion and rubs his barely concealed erection against your stomach. “i’m always prettier than them, y/n.”

wooyoung’s eyes snap open at last, and he drops his skirt to the side before sitting up on his knees over you. the position is nothing if not lewd with how close to your face he is like this. you don’t have much time to think about it because he’s tugging the band of his fishnets down as well, shoes still caught on his feet so there’s no way they’ll go all the way off, but that doesn’t seem to be his intention anyway.

no, wooyoung just tugs them low enough to go under his knees, then he’s back to sitting on his heels and splaying his thighs to the side. the whole thing is a show: each piece of clothing, each drag of his hands, and every word from his lips. 

it continues with him pressing his hand against your chin, then teasing your lower lip with his middle and pointer fingers.

“you know… people always call me a brat. a bratty little bitch, to be specific. they aren’t wrong, of course. but they mean it as an insult whereas i take it as a compliment.” you suck wooyoung’s fingers between your lips and let him explore your mouth with the pads of them. he makes a show of stretching the insides of your cheeks, stabbing against them and watching your skin bulge under the pressure, then he’s pinching your tongue and scraping his nails over the top of it. it tickles in a pleasurable way, the kind that makes your stomach knot up and tense with lust. “i think i’m prettiest when i cum though. and that’s not something i let a lot of people see. they always get handsy even after i tell them not to. think that because i’m all subby and docile, they can break my rules.”

you watch in something of a daze as wooyoung reaches his other hand down to the lace lingerie clinging to his cock. he grips hard enough for you to see the harsh outline of his member, strained and stretching the fabric like it’s about to break. his slow rolls and sways of his hips continue even as he fucks into the palm of his own hand. you don’t think you could move or touch him even if you wanted to right now. each limb feels like it weighs ten tons.

“call me pretty again, y/n. a pretty little brat, yeah?” 

you can’t very well do that with his hand halfway down your throat like it is now, but it doesn’t stop you from trying. all that comes out are muffled moans caught on wooyoung’s fingers. he laughs, throwing his head back as the sound permeates the air, and you were right. you love the sound even more now when he’s a bit breathless and hoarse from arousal, hips canting against your abdomen still as he pushes himself closer to the edge.

“gonna cum, y/n, and make a pretty mess of myself. pay good attention to me please. i want you to see every second of it.” his eyes blaze with unbridled desire as he rubs over his panties a few more times. teeth sink into his lower lip, his nose scrunches up, eyes fighting to stay open and stay on yours without blinking. then he hits his high. it’s beautiful the way he falls apart over you, how his hips stutter and give a few jerky thrusts until his whole body goes still on top of yours. you think you have to agree with him too; this is the prettiest he’s looked all night in your eyes. 

it lasts either ten seconds or ten minutes — you have no concept of time right now, too enamored with the man above you and every movement he makes.

when he does come down, there are stars in his eyes and a sheen on his brow that trickles down the side of his face to his chin. he pulls his hand out of your mouth, but you can’t even bring yourself to close it as you watch him tuck the same hand into his underwear and scoop the stain of translucent white cum out. 

“taste for me?”

you manage a shaky nod, letting wooyoung return his hand to your lips, and when he cups your mouth gently, you poke your tongue out to lap the cum off his palm. 

“hm, now wasn’t that good? better than promised, in fact?”

“y-yeah,” you exhale, finally finding your voice after god knows how long of shocked and aroused silence. wooyoung grins. he leans over you, all but bare chest pressing to your clothed one, and you can feel the heat radiating off his skin with ease. his face hovers over yours. you can see his eyes clearer than ever.

“how about we go again then?”