#Am I talking to a goddamn brick wall | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theaceace · 6 months

Text

While Dream was hanging out in the fishbowl, a few dreams and nightmares that (like the rest of the Dreaming) think Hob would be the best thing to happen to Dream in a long time and also that Dream has abandoned them all, go and start bothering Hob in the waking world

But because they're dreams and nightmares, it kind of manifests as (usually awful) hallucinations. Specifically of Dream, a lot of the time (look they're trying to get their lord's attention by needling his human, yes it's stupid, no they don't have any better ideas)

And Hob, with the same attitude that's carried him through 600-odd years is like 'well I guess immortal life is already so goddamn weird this might as well happen' and just rolls with the fact that he is having hallucinations now. Learns some coping mechanisms, gets really good at not reacting to them even when horrible terrible things are happening

So when Dream finally does get back and goes to see Hob, he's just like oh cool I'm seeing things again, thought I got over that like ten years ago, ah well got a lecture to finish, better get on with it and barely even glances at Dream

Dream, of course, reacts to this like 🥺 like the sad wet cat he is, but also maybe this is a bad time. His friend is shaping young minds, he's very important and busy, Dream can come back later

So he pops back into Hob's life that evening when most people are, if not asleep, then at least at home. Hob's in the New Inn (of course) but it's quiet enough that Dream thinks maybe Hob will talk to him this time

Absolutely nothing. Like sitting across from a brick wall (and because Dream tends not to be noticed if he wants, and he very much doesn't want to be perceived while he begs forgiveness from a mortal, people's eyes just kind of skim over him, which isn't helping with Hob's assumption that he's a figment of Hob's imagination)

Dream is feeling very, very cold. None of the gentle things he's been saying to Hob have got anymore reaction than his hand tightening slightly around his marking pen (Hob is waiting for something horrible to happen, as it so often used to when he imagined his stranger, and is getting more and more tense the longer it doesn't)

Eventually they're the only ones left, even the bar staff have gone home because it's Hob's pub and he has a set of keys. So finally, FINALLY Hob looks up and is like 'oh, you're still here. We're still doing this, then' flatly

Dream: I thought I might - (he was going to say apologise) Hob: yes alright get on with it, the sooner you start the sooner you can piss off again (thinking this is a vision here to torment him) Dream: ...very well. I understand, and you need not worry, I shall not trouble you further. Only, let me ask, one final time: do you still wish to live? Hob: (well it's never gone down like this before, at least I'm getting some variety in my waking nightmares) what sort of bloody stupid question is that, obviously yes! Dream: I am. Pleased to hear that. Goodbye, Robert Gadling

So off he goes, leaving a bottle of wine that he pinched out of someone's dreams on the table. Hob scoffs, rolls his eyes and goes to bed

And panics the next day when one of the bar staff asks where the super fancy wine came from, and also who his friend was last night, didn't get a good look at him, but I don't think I've seen him before?

There Hob is. Screaming internally, because he's only gone and fucked it all up and now he's NEVER going to see his friend again

(obviously he does, probably because one of the nightmares finally confesses what they did to Lucienne, who tells Matthew, who speaks both fluent Dumb Human and Dramatic Fucker Dreamlord and manages to get the two of them in the same room long enough to talk it out)

#Dreamling #Hob Gadling #dream of the endless #On today's episode of 'fics I have so vividly in my head and Simply Cannot Put To Paper'#Have some angst. On the house

294 notes · View notes

st1llwthyou · 5 months

Text

fandom ꕀ zb1

pairing ꕀ sung hanbin x afab!reader

applicable aus & genre ꕀ friends with benefits, smut

synopsis ꕀ drastic situations call for drastic measures — like babytrapping you, so you don’t leave him.

warnings & tags ꕀ language, toxic!hanbin, he’s possessive AND jealous, dom/sub dynamics, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, dumbification, dacryphilia, breeding kink, mentions of babytrapping, creampie — RATED E for explicit content.

word count ꕀ 703

notes ꕀ don’t read if it’s not your cup of tea :] see the warnings before proceeding. hello, btw~ it’s my first time around here 😳! enjoy ♡

thinking about fwb!hanbin who’s gotten a bit obsessed with you. so much so that he wants to babytrap you into staying with him…

He actually doesn’t remember how you guys got into this whole “friends with benefits” thing. Maybe because why or how he got here didn’t really matter to him. On the other hand, Hanbin can vividly recall being the happiest bitch on the planet while fucking you for the first time. It’s etched into his memory – the way you cried because it felt too good, your sweet pussy squeezing his cock, milking him dry.

And since then, Hanbin has found himself falling deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole of you. How the fuck could he not? When he’s seen you in the rawest, swollen lips crying about how big he is, glossy eyes looking at him like he’s your whole world.

Maybe that’s why Hanbin saw red while you laughed and put your hand on Euijoo’s shoulder. He noticed the way your glinting eyes travelled across his friend’s figure. All that did was make his chest feel uncomfortably tight, sirens going off in his head.

Mine, all mine.

Hanbin is in a frenzy, his hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted as he pounds into you. You’re babbling incoherent words, brain empty as he fucks you to oblivion. Your gummy walls are snug around his rock hard cock, pussy leaking copious amounts of your sweet juice. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting increase with each passing second.

Oh, the way he loves to see you like this.

“Tsk, can’t even utter a goddamn word properly. Am I fucking my baby dumb, hm?” His voice is gruff, lips quirking up in a satisfied smirk. “You know that I’m the only one who can do this to you, right? Fuck you so good with my cock that you forget how to talk?”

The way you nod your head while making the cutest noises makes him feel delirious. Tears have wet your temples, lips wet with drool. Fuck, he could literally knock you up right now and you’d just lay there, overstimulated and unaware.

The fleeting thought hits him like a ton of bricks. Hanbin can get you pregnant. Oh so conveniently, he’s doing you raw today because he was too impatient and forgot a condom. His cock twitches at the thought, his thrusts getting rougher.

He looks at you with his newfound goal in mind, eyes falling upon your beautiful breasts that jiggle and bounce around with each movement of his hips. Hanbin leans down to catch your left nipple in his mouth, earning a whiny cry from you. Your tits would be full of milk for his baby, he thinks, feeling his lower stomach tighten.

His gaze falls upon your belly bulge next, the outline of his cock pumping into you looking as pretty as ever. When you get all round with a baby inside your tummy, he won’t be able to see this anymore. Hanbin gently puts his left hand on your belly bulge, groaning curses as he feels the continuous movement of his cock inside you.

“Look at your cute, little pussy greedily devouring my cock. I bet it’s so hungry, if I give it my cum, will it be satisfied?” His words make you clench, legs tightening around his waist. Hanbin swears that’s his last straw. “Fuck, you’d love that, huh?”

He knows you’re probably not in your right mind — overstimulated and buzzing with pleasure, maybe thinking that he doesn’t mean it literally.

Except that he does. If he puts a baby inside you, you’ll have to stay with him, right?

He reaches for your swollen clit, eager to feel your walls clamping down onto him. You cry out his name, trembling as he rubs your sensitive bundle of nerves. Your over-sensitive body doesn’t take too long to convulse into waves of ecstasy again — triggering his own release.

Hanbin moans, pushing himself as deep as possible with one last thrust. He shakes and twitches, emptying his balls and painting your inner walls white. A deep satisfaction warms him up as he leans down to rest on top of you.

His arms wrap you up in a hug. He’s going to hold you like this for a long time, making sure that not a single drop of his seed is wasted.

˗ˏˋ ★ extended notes ˎˊ˗

i need him biblically 🫠

thanks so much for reading ❤️‍🔥! hope you enjoyed it >.< (pls ignore typos or other mistakes, english is not my 1st language) ; i’d love to hear your thoughts about this! please reblog, comment, or even send me asks, feedback is very much appreciated!

psssst, my inbox is open for suggestions and hard hours 👀! please check this and feel free to drop by 🩷!

#taffy ⁂ hard thoughts.#taffy writes ⁂ zb1.#taffy writes ⁂ hanbin.#sung hanbin smut #zb1 smut #zb1 imagines #zb1 x reader #kpop smut #sung hanbin x reader #zerobaseone smut #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #zb1 hard hours #hanbin smut #zb1 scenarios #zb1 hanbin #blegh i hate tagging 🥴 but how else am i supposed to reach audience

169 notes · View notes

whumpshaped · 9 months

Text

tw conditioning, pet whump, captivity, starvation

"What are you?"

"Fuck off," Whumpee spat. Whumper looked unfazed. They weren't the one starved and dehydrated, of course, why would they be fazed?

"What are you?"

"Just give me the fucking water, man! Dead, dead is what I am if you don't fucking give me that!"

"What are you?"

If Whumpee had any water left in their body, they would've cried. This was so messed up and stupid. They resolved not to answer this time, because to Whumper's credit, at least they never repeated their stupid question if they didn't give a 'wrong' answer.

The silence stretched between them, only ever unnerving one of them. The one who had something to lose. Whumpee's eyes were fixed on the water bottle, and they subconsciously licked their mouth. They were so thirsty.

"A pet," they muttered eventually. Whumper didn't look smug at all, nor pleased.

"What are you?"

"I said the fucking thing! A pet! A fucking pet! Can I get my fucking water, please?"

It was infuriating. Like talking to a goddamn brick wall without a single emotion or response.

"What are you?" they repeated for the thousandth time, always calm, always gentle.

Whumpee took a deep breath and thought about the refreshing, cold water sliding down their throat. "I'm a pet, sir."

The small bottle was tossed into their cell, and they scrambled to get the cap off and empty it immediately, as fast as they possibly could. It wasn't cold at all, but it was refreshing, it was life, and their life was all they had left after being stripped of everything else.

"See you in a couple days?" they mocked. "When you try to pull this out of me again? Because I'll let you know right now, if you think I'll just start answering your stupid questions after this, you're an idiot."

Whumper extended a hand, and Whumpee rolled the bottle across the floor so they could take it away. Whumper grabbed it with a small smile, the first Whumpee had ever seen from them. "See, this is progress," they said softly, holding up the empty bottle. "The things you do for me without hesitation. It's all about the little things. Right now, the big thing is admitting what you are. Soon, that will be a little thing you do for me without thinking, because you'll have another big thing to resist. Isn't that beautiful?"

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

#whump #whump drabble #conditioning #pet whump #captivity #starvation

223 notes · View notes

junebugtwin · 10 months

Text

okay actually i need to ramble about taylor and her dad for like a bit cus its sooo much.

like okay listen listen listen: Danny wakes up early and he cooks breakfast maybe and then he goes to work and he does his job- and he's great at his job, in any world but this one, in any other brockton bay, he'd be able to afford to take taylor out of winslow or fix their broken step- maybe get her her like a dog or something (which btw would fix her) and y'know pay the bills and shit. but he can't in this universe because in this universe kaiju attack every 2 seconds and one specifically doesn't like people existing on coasts and like he's a dockworker or whatever so! so. so he works all day tirelessly just to not get his crew jobs or better pay because no one is going to sponsor the people working on a non-existent dock like its literally a graveyard! who would pay for this when there's an actual dragon man running around the city burning buildings down and an entire neo-nazi contingent of super-cunts nobody is going to do that. But this is his life. And he's stubborn and things had been better before so maybe they can be good again and he hates change and he doesn't want to have it all been for nothing and this is what he does. So he gives it his all. He stays late and he really only hangs out with his coworkers and he does have to pay the bills so its not like anyone could blame him. So he slams his head into the brick wall hoping it will break before his skull will and he misses so fucking much of what is going on in his daughters life! but it goes by so quickly, too quickly and by the time he's begun to figure out just how deeply and irrecoverably she's changed its way too late to just swing back in like nothing happened. He can't actually! They've both closed themselves off totally, her even farther than he has. but they're both stubborn, so stubborn and they think that if they can just hold on a little longer then things will be okay because things have to be okay because this can't be the rest of their lives! And Taylor really is her fathers daughter because she sees the way he bloodies his head on that wall and says fuck it all do you one better: this brick wall is going to break or i am! and if i do then i won't be around to care about it! And she's skipping class and spending nights somewhere else, sneaking out and of course he knows about it- of course he knows! What is he going to do though? confront her? and then what? what justification could he possibly have for that? to demand answers from her when she should be the one demanding them from him? he let her go back to the same school that nearly killed her! he let her drown without him when his wife died- didn't notice when emma broke her heart, didn't notice when she stopped loving english class or trusting adults or speaking without thinking 'stupid!' at herself reflexively. or worse- he did notice and chose not to do anything out of cowardice and habit and procrastinating guilt- like his daughters mental health was homework he hasn't handed in. But they both feel better, when they don't have to talk about it- and there's nothing morally wrong with skipping school or dropping out entirely but taylor used to like school but having an actual conversation with her about what exactly is happening in her life is something he takes half a zillion words to work up to and by the time he actually does he has to lock them in a goddamn room together- not because it's a good idea- if he knew more about taylor he'd know its a surefire way to freak her out- but because that's what he needs to talk to her.

and it just...deflates. she leaves and drops out of school and doesn't really talk to him again until brockton bay is like halfway underwater. there's no catharsis with him finding out she's Skitter, its not satisfying, not even in an angsty way- 'luke i am your father' -at least that's properly dramatic! It's just sort of an. oh. okay. fuck.

i dunno. this wasn't going anywhere. i just...man. they'd both kill for each other, i am confident in that much, but both seem to struggle pretty hard with the 'living for each other' part.

#worm #parahumans #taylor hebert #danny hebert #skitter #i dont know what this is...#help

330 notes · View notes

goodnightmemes · 8 months

Text

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER SENTENCE STARTERS (part one / ep1-4)

❛ I'm sorry for your loss, ...your losses, rather. ❜

❛ Nobody gets away with anything. Not really. ❜

❛ Don't lecture me about family values. You're just as shit in that department as I am. ❜

❛ The gates are always open, but that doesn't mean you answer the phone. ❜

❛ That day was the last day we were all in the same place. Alive. ❜

❛ That is a brave and thoughtful thing to say. Especially if you want to get written out of the will. ❜

❛ I don't give a shit about the world. ❜

❛ The prenup's like a fucking phone book. ❜

❛ You let me move in, but you won't let me meet your family? ❜

❛ I'll freeze their fucking head and give it to my father on a platinum plate. ❜

❛ They will love you because I love you, and the only thing stronger than love is how scared they are of getting cut out of the will. ❜

❛ We really should get together more often, it's a balm for the soul. ❜

❛ And most people go their whole, wasted, stupid lives without one minute of true resolution. Not me though. ❜

❛ You know what a resolution is? It's a deal you make with the future. ❜

❛ The people in charge of making us healthy make us sick. We cheat the dying. We fleece the poor. Promote the racist. Let the demons run amok. This world needs changing. ❜

❛ If you could catch them all, take all of it, all the greed, the foulness, the rot in the world and sit down across from it, what would you say? ❜

❛ Was it ever going to be enough? ❜

❛ You're supposed to be shadowing me. Shadows don't fucking talk. ❜

❛ This is beneath you. And you're going to kill it. But you're better than all of this. And the minute you figure that out, you're going to be unstoppable. ❜

❛ We all, all of us, know pain. It's the great equalizer. ❜

❛ There's no such thing as a step back. You go forward. If you hit a brick wall, you don't go back, you go through. ❜

❛ Tell me, and don't lie. Is it everything you wanted it to be? ❜

❛ Nearly realized is the sweetest. It's better, I promise, in the moment just before than in the moment after. ❜

❛ Things like this, all things, in fact, have consequences. ❜

❛ You are consequence. And tonight, you are consequential. ❜

❛ I've always liked the bad boys. Got a weakness, I suppose. And you bad boys... you always just loved me. ❜

❛ You are a pretty, pretty little thing. ❜

❛ Say what you want, he was one of us. He didn't deserve to die like that. ❜

❛ You wonder why people hate us. This is why. ❜

❛ Everybody knows that edible arrangements are what you send to people you hate. ❜

❛ Did he mean it or is it just the edibles and the pot and the speed and the wine and the coke and the pills talking? ❜

❛ If you start thinking this is reality, you'll just slip into the abyss. ❜

❛ Dad decided that I belong in a room of smoke and mirrors, and I'm like a ceiling fan and I spin and I spin and I spin and I don't go anywhere. ❜

❛ Wow. I don't know who wouldn't want to be ringside for that, but no, I'm gonna let you grieve yourself into a coma by yourself. ❜

❛ We can talk about it after because I've had a shit day and I really just wanna starfish and forget the world. ❜

❛ Don't talk to me until I've come at least twice. ❜

❛ I love how deliciously, pointlessly mean you lot can be. ❜

❛ You still didn't need to come here though. It could have happened quiet. Peaceful. In bed. But I guess it's got to happen like this. ❜

❛ I'm sorry. It's not personal. It's just, well...Here we are. ❜

❛ It's amazing how far you can get on denial. You know why so many people use denial to get by? Because it really fucking works. ❜

❛ What? Don't like it? Cut me out the fucking will! ❜

❛ You can't enhance this image? You see it all the time on TV. They hit a button, it enhances it. ❜

❛ I don't even own anything funeral black. ❜

❛ Satin is silk for poor people, no one should wear it to a funeral, unless they died in it. ❜

❛ You know what? Fuck you if you think that, 'cause I would bleed for this family. ❜

❛ I will knock your goddamn lights out, you raise your voice at me. ❜

❛ Nobody knows they're the fall guy until they're falling. ❜

❛ Hey, I was hoping for some drugs. Sorry to be blunt about it, but that's it. I want some drugs. ❜

❛ Maybe you're right. Maybe I should take a break from the drugs. ❜

#rp meme #rp prompt #sentence starter meme #sentence starters #rp memes #rp prompts #roleplay prompts #roleplay meme #inbox memes #*tfothou #*tv

60 notes · View notes

tiredhawks · 2 years

Text

I've seen a comment before that was "how is Hawks even top ten?" on a clip of him saying he's not great against power types. It made me want to chew through a brick wall.

Hawks helped like 7 different situations in the back of his mind while having a conversation with Endeavor- a conversation that was crafted on lies to trick him into a fight. A fight that he was setting up with Dabi as he worked undercover with one of the most dangerous villains in Japan. In said fight he saved like 50 some people in an instant from a collapsing building, literal seconds of decision making and execution that went perfectly, and then fought to keep more civilians safe and then proceeded to be the hell Endeavor needed to win the fight.

Hawks works as a rescue hero. He also works as a detective, seen in the movie. He got the 1a students help before a single other person realized they were in danger. Hawks works faster than any of his sidekicks can help at all. Hawks works faster than a camera can keep track of.

Hawks fought Dabi, his greatest weakness, in a closed area, while also dealing with Twice, and came out successful although with injuries. And then with this injuries, he gets back to work before he can even talk. Planning and strategizing.

With four feathers in his back, he is still working. He's there for Nagant. He plans on how they're going to take down AFO, and then proceeds to show up to a fight against one of the greatest villains in history with nothing but two swords. And he does it, he breaks AFO's mask into pieces with two basic ass swords, and shatters a sword in doing so. He forced AFO into a bad position and is now facing him with no feathers left and one sword. What does he do? Immediately thinks to start distracting him with talking and that's where we leave it off.

I so, so, so, desperately need Hawks to be done justice here. I need Horikoshi to pull through and allow Hawks to do what he needs to do here, whatever that is.

Because Hawks is an insanely amazing hero. The way he got here was horrible, shouldn't have happened, and shouldnt be praised, but that doesn't change what has happened. Without the work he did, the message he got out that Dabi literally admitted to never expecting, he enabled all of Japan to survive. We saw what happened, can you imagine what would have happened if Hawks was not involved here and the PLF and Shigaraki completed every preparation and instigated the attack on their terms? With the completed high ends? With Twice? That'd be it for real, no doubt. Deku would not even be ready to handle Shigaraki at all. Hawks allowed for that.

So as the chronically, terminally, embarrassingly down bad Hawks stan I am- I need people to stop dismissing him. What he did was absolutely crazy. Goddamn. I don't care if you don't like Hawks, but that doesn't change all he's done. Hawks is the youngest hero to reach the top ten, and he literally saved Japan.

#hawks #takami keigo #keigo takami #hawks mha #bnha hawks #hawks stan #i am so horrendously down bad for him #i have stars in my eyes #i worship the air he flies in #im comedy #tw hawks stan #lmaooo #mha spoilers

302 notes · View notes

loverontheleft · 2 months

Text

See Me (revised)

Sub!(ish)B x reader (I know; I’m surprised too)

2.5k words

Warnings: dirty talk and language

-||-

You’re leaning against a wall backstage, hands clasped in front of you and legs crossed, waiting for him to come off stage. Your black sheath dress curves over your body, hugs your chest, and skims your thighs; you’re entirely overdressed, but you’ve got a plan, and the access a dress provides is essential. The sound of Brendon’s footsteps brings your focus back to the moment.

He appears, and he falters as his eyes drink you in. You meet his appreciative gaze with one of your own. He’s exhausted and shirtless, with a sheen to his skin that’s a combination of sweat and sheer exhilaration. His hair, tousled out of its earlier styled form, falls damp against his forehead, and his face is flushed but his eyes are bright as he looks at you.

“Damn, Urie,” you drawl, grinning when he laughs and runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “You put on one hell of a show,” you tell him, letting him hook an arm around your waist and pull you close for a soft kiss.

His warm lips on yours: the feeling is the same as sliding into freshly washed sheets or stepping into a hot shower after a day out in rainy, cold weather. Comforting. Soothing. Familiar. Amazing every time. His fingers trace the material of your dress over your hip and you smile against his mouth, running your hands over his bare shoulders. His skin is hot from the stage lights, and if this were any other night, you’d cling to him and beg him to carry you back to his dressing room and cover you in his warmth.

“I like this,” Brendon murmurs, voice rough and eyes dark. “You should let me take you back to my dressing room and show you just how much I like it.” You smile to yourself; you love that you two know each other so well. His thumb is drawing hearts on your hip, and you press a kiss to his jaw, letting him tangle your fingers together. “Gonna let me, pretty girl?”

“Mmmm, maybe,” you tease, hip-checking him playfully as you stroll hand in hand to the dressing room. “I’m pretty sleepy…” you tell him, grinning when he whines; it’s a soft, disappointed sound that melts your heart. He hip-checks you back before pulling you firmly to him and leading you down the hallway to the dressing room. He pushes the door open and follows you in, turning to close it behind you and locking it. “Are you allowed to do that?” You arch an eyebrow. “Zack won’t shit a brick over not being able to get in and lay eyes on you?”

“Please do not talk about Zack right now,” Brendon says with a short laugh, kissing you softly. “I’m focused on you.” You grin and pull him closer, moaning quietly into his mouth when his hands clutch at your hips. “Yeah, honey, love when you moan for me. Goddamn, you look so fucking pretty. My pretty girl…” Brendon whispers to you, moving his lips down your neck and holding you close.

“You think I look pretty, B?” You murmur back, tugging his hair. He nods, trailing a hand down your thigh and flexing his fingers. “Then,” you pause, pulling back and meeting his eyes with a playful smirk. “You should see me in a crown.”

You don’t even care if he’s missing the blatant Billie Eilish reference—you’re more interested in how he’ll react to you taking charge. You love when he’s dominant, but you’ve both been experimenting with you taking the lead lately, and it’s been thrilling. Now, alone in his dressing room, you want to see how far you can go.

“Yeah?” He grins. “You are my Princess, so I suppose it’s only appropriate. But while you in a crown is a very appealing image…I don’t have an extra one.”

“Who said anything about an extra one?” You tease, freeing yourself from his hands to pluck the crown he received during ‘Emperor’s New Clothes’ from the top of the wardrobe case. “I’m gonna take this.” You set it on top of your head with a smug smile.

“And what am I supposed to wear?” Brendon pouts good-naturedly, adjusting the crown so it sits at an angle. “Though you do look damn good in it…” he tells you, running a finger down your cheek tenderly.

“I’m sure you’ve got a snapback around here somewhere,” you say with a smile, kissing him again. “Because I don’t think you’re getting this crown back for a while.” Your eyes fall on an abandoned baseball cap and, stretching out for it, you snag it by the strap and place it on his head. Brendon laughs and spanks you lightly, telling you that he’s gonna get that crown back one way or another eventually, grinning when you squeal and rock forward.

“Not even with a spanking,” you tell him, wiggling against him. “This is mine now, and tonight, I’m not your princess. I’m your queen.” He grins, letting his hand wander down the back of your thigh, lifting so your knee is up by his hip. The hemline of your dress rises and you give him a faux-scandalized look. “Bad boy,” you murmur, biting your lip. “Trying to get my dress up…”

“Mmmm, but my queen likes it when I’m bad,” he murmurs as he places warm, soft kisses down your neck. “Wha—oh,” he exclaims and then sighs contentedly as you push him down to his knees. “You want me to be really bad, don’t you, baby?” He smiles up at you and tugs at your dress. “Either the heels come off or you come down here; you’re too tall for me to play with you when you’re standing,” he tells you, looking up at you adoringly. “I’ll be as bad as you want me to be, but I need you closer.” Both hands on his shoulders, you drop to your knees and let him kiss you. Shifting carefully, you settle back so you’re seated with your knees pressed together in front of you. You scoot backward until your back is against the couch cushions, and Brendon grins, turning his hat around so the brim is in the back.

You whimper and bite your lip; that move drives you fucking wild, because you know he’s about to eat you out like his life depends upon it. And the way he talks about how badly he needs to taste you, it sometimes does. Brendon’s leaning forward to crawl towards you on his hands and knees; as he approaches, you lift a leg and press just the toe of your shoe against the strap on his forehead. He freezes and whines when he sees the seductive smile playing on your lips. When you finally speak after a long silence, your voice is firm, level, and controlled.

“Beg.”

“Wha—?” Brendon starts, but you silence him with a single raised eyebrow.

“Beg,” you repeat simply. There’s a beat of silence, and you press slightly harder, making him sigh your name longingly. “If you look closely, you’ll see I’m not wearing anything under this dress…” You grin when he inhales sharply. “You want it, B? You want my pussy?” Eyes on his, you move your foot from his forehead to rest on his shoulder, letting your legs spread to emphasize your point. He nods weakly, moving forward—you make a small scolding sound, bringing your other foot up to stop him in his tracks. “Then beg.”

“Babydoll,” Brendon groans, bracing himself on one hand so he can caress your calf draped over his shoulder. “Please—let me—” he cuts himself off, shuddering with want. “Please. I need—I gotta—you look—oh fuuuuck, I can see that your sweet cunt is so ready for me,” he groans, eyes wide and darting between your eyes and the delta of your thighs. “Just let me—fuck, honey—the taste; you know I love how you taste. Let me just—fuck, I need you on my face, Y/n, please—babydoll, let me—” he falls suddenly silent, eyes sliding shut as you allow his hand to creep higher, over your knee, his arm stretching now so his fingers graze your upper thigh. He turns his head slightly and your foot moves to press against his temple as his lips brush your calf. “Babydoll, you’re so—honey, I need to…oh my god, baby, fuck I want it, I want your pussy, I want you,” Brendon groans, sliding his hand to your inner thigh and grunting when he feels the slickness there. “So damn wet for me, my pretty baby, oh god—wanna lick you so badly, wanna eat your—honey, fuck—”

“Mmmmm,” you purr approvingly, letting your other foot dangle over his other shoulder now. With nothing to stop him, he looks at you eagerly, waiting for permission. “You’ve almost convinced me,” you tell him, stressing the ‘almost’ with relish. He groans again, knowing you’re gonna make him beg even more. “But I wanna hear more about how much you love it.” His eyes light up, and you smile at him affectionately. “Yeah, B. That’s what I want to hear.”

“Oh, babydoll,” he murmurs, crawling forward so that your knees fold over his shoulders and you can cross your ankles on his back. “You know your pussy drives me fucking wild—tasting you, licking you, suckling you, touching you, spreading you with my fingers to really tease you with my tongue, watching you gasp and writhe and moan and feeling your hands in my hair, tugging every time I make my baby feel good…” he pauses, shifting back to rest on his heels. You yelp and uncross your ankles so you’re not sent sprawling to the floor under him, and he apologizes quickly as you adjust, legs still over his shoulders but at a higher angle.

“It’s okay, baby,” you soothe, grinning at him. “Don’t let me distract you.”

“You, honey, are very distracting,” he says with a soft laugh. “But now that I’ve got you like this…” he eyes you appreciatively, your arms spread across the couch cushions as you recline back against them, your legs draped over his shoulders for him. “And I can do this…” his hands slide up your thighs, framing your hip bones before pivoting slightly to slide his thumbs down, brushing over your wet heat. “And I can do this…” he continues, turning his head to kiss your calf, sucking teasingly. “And this,” he murmurs against your skin, before dropping a hand down to support himself as he starts kissing lower and lower, mouth moving higher and higher up your leg. He’s leaning forward to lower himself down, tongue dragging over your inner thigh, eyes shut and face flushed with pleasure. Finally he looks up at you again. “I’m quite happy.”

“Yeah?” You grin, inhaling sharply as he nibbles at your inner thigh. “Quite happy? What would make you happier?”

He looks at you, dark eyes filled with want. “You know what would make me happier,” he tells you simply, adjusting the hat again with a sly smile. You grin and tell him to keep going. “Well,” he says thoughtfully. “I want to have you under me, gasping and moaning and shaking when I make you come from my tongue.” You smile and lift one hand from the couch cushion, indicating he should keep going.

“Be more specific, huh?” He smiles, kissing your inner thigh again. “I want to spread you out under me and kiss every inch of you. I want to tease your perfect cunt by kissing and licking and touching until you’re nice and slick for me…gonna trace you with the tip of my tongue just to watch you moan and tug on my hair because I know what you need to come. I want to slide my tongue up into your pretty pussy and taste my babydoll properly, keeping your legs spread wide so you can roll your hips up into my mouth…I want to wrap my arms around your thighs and eat you out til you’re the one begging me, promising me you’re ready…and I’ll know you’re ready when you’re wetter than you’ve ever been. That’s when I’m gonna lick and suck your pretty clit and finger your cunt like you love, two fingers deep in you curling and rubbing, til you come, squeezing my fingers, soaking my face, and moaning my name.” He’s breathing hard and you’re trembling; you can feel that your inner thighs are slick now.

“And if you can take it,” Brendon adds in a soft voice, licking his lips. “If you can take it, I want to get you up on my mouth riding my tongue, pulling my hair, and rubbing your gorgeous cunt all over my face til you come again. Want to feel your wet pussy all over my face; want my entire mouth and chin to be slick and shining with your juices, baby. Want to make my babydoll come like she deserves…”

“That sounds pretty good,” you manage, grinning. Brendon smiles up at you, both hands up under the hem of your skirt now, stroking your thighs and massaging lightly. “I want all of that.”

Carefully, you lift your legs from his shoulders and lower them to the ground, spread wide on either side of him. He moans when he sees how wet you already are, biting his lip and closing his eyes to take a few steadying breaths. “You want it, baby?” Your voice is soft and you shift slightly to stand up. “Get up here and unzip me so you can show me how much you want my pussy.” He clamors to his feet, hands finding the zipper and tugging eagerly so your sheath pools at your feet. The black lace bra makes him groan, and he looks at you for permission. “Take it off too,” you instruct, tracing circles on his shoulders. “Strip your babydoll. Get me naked for you.” With no hesitation, he unclasps the bra and you let it slide from your shoulders to join your dress on the floor.

“Now,” you purr, cupping his face affectionately, kissing him softly, and adjusting the hat so the strap across his forehead sits higher. “Lay me down and eat me out, Urie. Show me how your favorite food is pussy,” you instruct, giving him a sweet smile. “Make me believe it, and I’ll let you come.”

“My love,” Brendon murmurs, guiding you back to the couch so he can stretch you out on it. “You already know you won’t need to do a damn thing to make me come; I can come just from the feeling of your perfect cunt on my face.” He crawls on top of you and kisses you firmly. Your smile widens and you reach up to rest a hand on the top of his head, pushing him down. “Fucking love when you do this,” he groans, letting you guide him exactly where you want him.

“I know,” you say softly. “I also know I won’t need to do a damn thing, as you put it. But you’ll notice I said ‘let you come,’ not ‘make you come.’” You giggle when he looks up at you with wide eyes. “I know your perfect cock will be leaking and throbbing just from eating me out. I know you’ll be aching to get inside me and let go. Trust me, honey. I know you’ll be ready to come. You’re going to need to prove to me that I should let you come.”

#brendon urie smut #brendon urie imagine #brendon x reader #brendon urie #he could fuck me any way he wanted #my work #fanfic #imagine #brendon urie fanfiction #panic! at the disco

11 notes · View notes

onthepyre · 27 days

Text

March 21, 2014 - the proposal

"You have five dollars?"

The payphone dims Svetlana's voice, crackles it, but the worry comes through loud and clear. It sets Mickey on edge.

"Yeah, I've got five bucks. Fuck you need it for?"

"I am at store on Halstead. Who are you with?"

"I - fuck, Svet, what the hell are you talking about?" Mickey stands as he speaks, picks up a crumpled ten from the coffee table and balls it tighter in his fist. "I'm home alone. What the fuck is going on?"

"Come here and I tell you."

Click, dial tone.

He finds her outside the shop, leaning against the brick wall. He drops the cash in her hand and catches her wrist as she turns away, insistent but gentle. She shakes him off.

Svetlana's in and out of the store as quickly as she can be, emerging with a paper bag and her jaw clenched. She nods at Mickey as she passes him, and helpless, he follows her back in the direction of home.

"My period is a week late," she says through gritted teeth.

"Shit," Mickey answers.

"Maybe it is nothing. But I worry."

They walk back in silence, her heels clicking against the concrete. It's stiflingly quiet for the endless five minutes she spends in the bathroom. Svetlana breaks it with long string of angry Russian, which Mickey assumes must be curses. He's in the bathroom in seconds, parking himself on the edge of the tub, next to the toilet where she sits with her head in her hands.

"I cannot take care of baby," she says, and her voice is shaking, thin.

"Hey, we'll work this out," Mickey tells her, though he's not sure where he's going with it. "What do you need? Crib, clothes, toys? Abortion? Dad keeps most of what we make, but I have cash, and anything in this house would go for a hundred or more at a pawn shop. How much?"

"No, you do not understand," she answers, turning her eyes up to the ceiling, squeezing them shut tight. "I am illegal immigrant. I have no money, no house, no real job, no husband. It is not a good place for baby."

And fuck, Mickey's heart might break.

"We can deal with that," he tells her.

"Bullshit. How will we deal with it? You marry me?"

Finally, Svetlana looks him in the face. Her eyes are glassy, her brow furrowed; judging by the burn in his throat, Mickey will soon look the same.

"Why not?"

"Not funny, Mishka," she says. The first tear falls, but she's quick to wipe it away.

"No, I mean it. It's not a bad idea - you can live here, work with me instead, keep books or something, I don't fucking know. It's not like we'd have to start banging or whatever. You and the baby would have a place to sleep, at least, and family to fall back on."

A hint of a smile cracks Svetlana's face. Mickey keeps talking.

"It would keep Dad's nose out of my personal business for once in his goddamn life. You could keep seeing what's-her-face if you want to, or whoever. Nothing has to change about that. I mean, shit, Svet." His breath catches, but he forces calm; one long, slow breath. "If I was gonna marry a woman, it'd be you."

"You mean that?"

"Of course I fuckin' mean it."

#milkovich crime family #svetlana yevgenivna #mickey milkovich #i am obsessed with the idea of her calling him mishka. i had to write it #so here's the first actual little mini fic for this au. i do not know much about russian grammar #so if the way svet is talking is weird please tell me and ill fix it #but i wanted to keep her voice intact it feels wrong for her to be speaking perfect english #anyway lmk

9 notes · View notes

heli0s-writes · 1 year

Text

felt the fever, knew it was mine

a/n: i am,, , alive. reader/steve fluffy dopey kids who like each other!!! feat. a poor witch as the vehicle for this relationship. 1.7k words. warnings: language

moonchild masterlist

Steve gets cursed on a Tuesday afternoon.

Cursed as in, yeah, there’s a witch with long dark purple fingernails and glamrock eyeliner aiming her wand at him. She even chants a spell and everything.

For a second, before the lightning rod of slithering green collides with him, you think out of all the goddamn things that could kill him, that you can’t believe it’s going to be Sabrina the Teenage Witch.

He’s sent flying, crashing into an overturned car, flipping with the grace of someone flung off a catapult by a meteorite, and goes limp.

You don’t realize you’ve moved until you come to in the middle of the street with Bucky’s forearm over your collarbones, his metal hand whirring at your ear as he curls his fingers around your head.

He’s pressed up close, tense, and he’s saying, “It’s over. She’s down. You’re going to cause a scene.”

Landing a few feet away is Tony, helmet retracting over his face as he grimaces, “Consider it already caused.” Then, with some reverence, “Shit, what an arm.”

Your dominant hand is clenched tightly and there’s a brief sensation of pain rushing up to your shoulder as you breathe yourself back to normal.

In the distance, Steve’s shield is lodged into the side of a van with a blaring car alarm-- a shocking amount of blood on it.

Not too far away is another limp body and then the rest of your teammates scuttling in front, keeping bystanders and your own horror at bay.

Panic pushes itself through your already keyed up nerves. You did that? The ragdoll of a person, completely incapacitated to oblivion—you did. Holy fuck.

“Yep,” Bucky confirms, letting you go with a few sympathetic pats on the back.

“No,” you whisper, appalled.

“Yep.” Bucky laughs, then, because he’s a jackass.

Sam lands with Steve, laying him gently down to take stock of his injuries. Nothing looks terribly broken, but he’s unconscious, his body radiating heat, his face a vibrant pink.

“Aw,” Tony crows, “look at that, he’s blushing.”

Bucky crouches, listening for slight wheezing. Growing up with Steve pre-serum put a lot of responsibilities on Bucky’s plate—including, but not limited to, taking care of Steve when he’s sick as a dog.

So he knows best when he announces, “Nah. That’s not a blush; that’s a temperature.”

Labeling the way Steve feels as ill, or terrible, or even close to death is an understatement of biblical proportions.

He aches from the topmost layer of his skin all the way down to the marrow of his bones like each cell is being lovingly hand-breaded by glass. It‘s between his eyes, in the folds of his brain, random nerves in his belly and neck and even his knees.

He’s back in Brooklyn, shivering through rough winters on an empty stomach, coughing his puny little lungs out. And the craziest thing is that it’s even worse now since he can feel so much more with his heightened faculties— and that he’s been hit with angry, vengeful magic, which follows about zero conventions of logic. He doesn’t know where to start but the saline drip stabbed into a vein seems reasonable.

“Matilda did a number on you.”

He coughs, “Feels like,” to Sam. His lips are cracked and dry. His throat like cactuses are growing in it. He’s going to stick to one-word answers if possible, and maybe Morse code, when the time comes. “After?”

He’s crawling towards death one full-body shiver at a time and still wants the debrief. Old habits die fucking hard.

Sam makes an amused noise, “This and that.”

“Sam.” Steve can fit so much into one syllable.

Sam hems and haws for a while longer, but because he’s Sam, and because he’s talking to Steve—a brick wall on a good day and the barrel of a gun on a bad one—he relents.

“Alright, alright. You know how we’re all friends?” Sam looks at him like that’s a real, genuine question. Steve listens, unruffled.

“And... you know how sometimes these things can get... friendly? And you know how sometimes, to the rest of the friends, the two other friends who get on each other’s nerves a lot but then turn around and co-pilot the jet, go jogging at the ass crack of dawn, pick up dinner--” Steve opens his mouth but suddenly launches into a coughing fit, which apparently is a signal to Sam to keep going.

Sam’s eyes flutter as he interlocks his fingers, pressing his hands to his cheeks like a lovestruck cartoon. “—And man, do they make some serious heart eyes they think no one else can see-- like, it’s real--”

“Sam.” Steve’s wringing the poor syllable dry.

“Right,” Sam replies breezily, “Anyway, those two obviously needed a little push in the right direction.”

Steve grunts himself from beneath the sheets spitefully, easing the IV out and chucking it aside. If he’s embarrassed that Sam just laid bare his entire back and forth situation he’s got going on with you, he’s not going to admit it.

Sam laments, “Man, don’t do that. I’m supposed to tell you to get back into bed. Seriously, if it was one of us, you know, who aren’t—soup’ed up—” He gestures to Steve ambling painstakingly slow, but ambling nonetheless, despite getting blasted in the heart and finishes, “-- it’d be a coma, best case.”

Steve winces as he pivots, catching himself on a countertop, realizing he’s ass out down the back in a hospital gown, and turns enough to hide.

Sam, who is neither disturbed nor impressed, pouts. “No point in me telling you again, is there?”

“If it makes you feel better, be my guest.”

Sam heaves an offended sigh before staring at the ceiling like it could collapse and put him out of his misery.

“Alright, whatever, when you get your ass nailed to the wall, don’t come running to old Sam. Old Sam just tryin’ to look out for you, but no sir, no one listens to Sam. Hell.”

Steve grins, mouths thank you, forgets that he asked Sam to debrief him without actually receiving an answer, and hobbles toward the restroom just to get out of sight.

He slips and falls, so what?

He knocks his head on the tile, watches the room shatter into stars, comes to with someone yelling half at him, half down the hall, and when he closes his eyes again, he’s out. So what?

He fucks up, is what. He wakes up even worse off, getting a cup of warm soup shoved into his hand, and a set of hard, angry eyes glaring at his ashen face.

“You.”

Steve flinches, blood concentrating and pounding on the welt from his drop. If he could cram an essay into one syllable of Sam’s name, then you’ve got him beat with an entire goddamn dissertation in a single pronoun and a look.

Getting his ass nailed to the wall is both more and less painful than he predicted. On the upside, it’s not literal, but that’s just how idioms work Steve, you meatball. On the downside, you look like you could peel his face off layer by layer and feed it to him-- and you haven’t even started yet.

“S’ry,” he mutters and wonders if he can swing the Morse code thing or not. You point to the cup in his hand, your mouth slipping into an angry, thin line, and Steve takes a long, showy slurp.

“Mm,” he attempts, “’s good. What is it?”

“Just eat.” Your tone is severe. He puts the option of flattery away.

Steve lowers his head and places the spoon back in his mouth. The broth is silken and tart, bursting with buttery chicken and orzo and a sprinkle of dill with a slight eggy finish. He knows he’s not instantly cured, but when he looks up and your flint-edged expression softens just a little, he thinks he feels it.

“Hey,” he croaks out, for no damn reason other than he wants to. Kinda hurts, though.

You give him an impressive look somewhere between are you stupid and my god, you’re stupid.

Granted, this is par for the course, and he expects a lot more yelling, name-calling, maybe a bit of theatre since you really love re-enacting any of Steve’s poorer life choices just to drive the point home.

When you don’t do any of that, only glaring at your own hands pressed together tightly, he kind of puts it together.

“What,” he pauses, “um, happened?”

An equally awkward few seconds follow before you announce with a tone that kindly suggests Steve to shut the fuck up, “You fell down.”

He’s never been any good at taking hints. “No,” he tries again, “before that.”

“You were supposed to stay in bed.”

“I meant—”

“You got your shit rocked by Hocus Pocus.” You rub your temple before it comes out in a crash of words. “I threw your shield, very hard, in a fit of rage.”

“Oh.”

“Aim… was good.”

“Yeah?” He grins before he can stop himself.

“Don’t look so proud.”

“Can’t help it. Kinda am.”

You poke him in the chest, right in the middle of a bruise, ouch.

“It was embarrassing, Rogers. I showed my whole ass out there, splitting that stupid witch in half with your shield no less, like—"“

You look away, and his face isn’t any better, burning hot with excitement and a small bit of fear because it might just be his stupid brain that’s making something out of nothing. That’s been making up the way your eyes go soft at the edges for him sometimes.

But they’re soft again, now, as you dart them back, chewing on your lip. “Like I was declaring it for the whole world to see.”

He’s grinning now, feeling less hurt by the second as his heart beats fast and ridiculous.

“Oh, Jesus.” You look away the longer he waits like an excited dog for a treat. “Do I have to say it?”

He reaches for your hands, prying them free of each other before you tear all your own fingernails off. Then, he squeezes with a bashful smile. “Me too.”

“Cool…” you blow an invisible lock of hair out of your eyes.

“… Cool?”

“Yeah, don’t smother me, Rogers,” you grunt, sticking out your chin. “We’re not going steady or nothin’, capiche?”

He thinks it’s really cute how, when embarrassed, you start yammering with a slight Brooklyn inflection. Must be how often you’re around him—or Bucky. Steve pales for a second, because there’s much worse you could pick up from Bucky than just a slight twang.

“You showed your whole ass, too,” you shrug, derailing his train of thought. “When you fell in the restroom. The gown.” You make a separating motion like drawing apart curtain, “I found you.”

“Oh my gosh.” Steve flares up red, mortified. “Oh my gosh.” He’s ready to pass back out. Go back into the coma again.

You laugh, and he’d do anything to hear it forever. “Consider us even.”

He buries his face in soup and agrees.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fluff #marvel #mcu #reader insert #fanfiction

104 notes · View notes

magistralucis · 3 months

Text

Observations on the French version of The Infinite and the Divine

1.. I always thought if English has to be translated into anything, French is one of the top 3 most straightforward languages to do it in. At first glimpse this is a direct translation of the English text. Good for cross-referencing, but I'm not anticipating a great deal of unusual localizations or woolseyisms, not that such things are usually at the translator's liberty with novels like these.

2. That said, the Trazyn vs. aeldari farseer encounter is excellent. The warning she gives him is the same (including the planet's demand for 'le sang de Trazyn'), but there's something special about watching him receiving this warning, immediately paying for it with his bodily death, then springing back up with a deadpan 'bon sang!'. Hits a lot better than 'this world sings for the blood of Trazyn' / 'damn!' imo. A nice little linguistical coincidence.

3. When I first read 'le tétrarque' I was thinking tetrarch of... what exactly??? But no that's just the French translation for a necron overlord. 😅 The term of address is 'messire', directly equivalent to 'my lord'

4. Sannet addresses Trazyn formally, while Trazyn tutoyers Sannet. I've yet to find out if Trazyn addresses anyone else in Solemnace this way.

5. Orikan and Trazyn, on the other hand, vousvoyer each other religiously. They don't even drop formality when they're insulting each other as the lowest of the low, and I'm not finding any instances of them doing so while skimming the pages. There's a great deal of coldness between them, but they don't deliberately talk down to each other either. I'll have to come back to this point later when I have a better grasp of French!T/O's dynamic

6. Not sure if I like 'factionnaires' as a translation for 'lychguard'. From what I can tell the French is simply the word for a sentinel or a guardsman, whereas the English is a pun on 'lych (lich)' + 'guard' = 'corpse/undead-guard' = 'body-guard'... just feels like they could've come up with a more clever translation, you know? Or am I missing something? Let me know if you can.

7. Wait Phillias is a svelte stunner? ('La femme élancée') She's definitely tall and stunning, but I always thought she was more on the side of 'built like a goddamned brick wall' or something

8. 'Salopard' 😩👎💢

9. I have emotions towards dream-pipes and wish Zuberkar could've gotten his back

10. Actually Orikan does tutoyer something: the Mysterios. And Trazyn referred to the aeldari gem earlier with a 'tu' as well. This is normal 'tu' usage in French, but it's notable that in the original English Trazyn and Orikan were both specifically addressing those objects as if they were persons. They're not that different, cooing softly at the objects they hold dear.

11. Trazyn is not on familiar terms with his chief librarian ('et apportez-moi tout ce que vous avez sur la Guerre Céleste…') or presumably his copyist crypteks, but he does use 'tu' consistently with his main crypteks (Khybur, Sannet, Tekk-Nev). 'Mes chers fidèles'!

12. Not a French-specific thing but oh my god the vicarious embarrassment Trazyn must've felt over seeing Orikan crowing his supposed victory over Vishani always gets me jghfhhdhshs

13. La tête 😳 ordonna Orikan💫 à l’Immortel 🔫 Prends ton temps 🤯🤪

That's it for Act 1. Will add more in further reblogs.

Disclaimer: not a native French speaker, also have not previously read French WH40K articles/wikis/literature/etc. I'm likely missing out on many linguistical curiosities, so if anyone else has this edition of I&D, I'd love to hear your thoughts ✨

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #the infinite and the divine #trazyn the infinite #orikan the diviner #l'infini et le devin #french #languages #i imagine a closer analysis will reveal itself on multiple reads and also when it's not literally half one in the morning 🤪#the narrative content really is identical so i'm focusing on differences the french text is -forced- to have #the big ones have already been outlined i think but there are still three acts to go

13 notes · View notes

tenmillionpoundsofsludge · 23 days

Note

my thought on this current music discourse is that like if youve ever listened to that handsome devil or even fucking cake or why? or talking heads or any ska punk band or even the fucking beatles you’re ready to listen to rap and jazz and other black-founded genres and you can probably start from those musicians’ influences and musicians connected to them if you genuinely dk where to start. you’re ready to try new things like goddamn i don’t listen to a lot of rap (tho I’ve been meaning to listen to more bc i usually like what i hear - i just get hung up on certain genres and flush myself down their hyper-specific toilets for months on end) but its just downright cowardly to refuse to listen to a new song or new music in general and then make up a bunch of excuses for why when people question you about it and you should be wondering what the hell you’re so damn worried about. Sorry i just got off work and i’m like a glass of wine deep so this is probably incomprehensible but regardless i’m flinging myself thru a brick wall bc refusing to try something new or different is how you end up the old codger who calls the cops on teenagers for walking past your house and for tumblr to be full of people claiming to be against that kind of thing youd think they’d be open to trying something different. like i aint all that smart so i can’t do much more than nod when i hear something i agree with but i know what i agree with and it’s not with people who shit on rap (or country for that matter bc bobbie gentry fuckin slaps and a lot of country music hate is based in classism in a similar way to nascar hate) ok i’m done now tldr if you write off a whole genre of music bc of your preconceived notions you’re a coward

I LITERALLY AGREE WITH EVERYTHING YOU'RE SAYING. As a big music fan I think you are actively hurting yourself by not broadening your horizons and like not listening to the stuff that inspired what you already like to listen to!!!! I started listening really heavily to jazz because black midi credited a lot of jazz as musical influences and I was like shit! I need to listen to some of this! And there are so many guides online for getting into music and how to navigate genres and even if it's not for "your personal tastes" you can still...idk, respect it? Acknowledge it's importance?

One thing I always tell goths who want to expand their horizons and listen to more goth music is to listen to screamin' jay Hawkins because without him we wouldn't have goth as a genre, and even if you don't like it you can appreciate the history and the art and his fucking SHOWMANSHIP. Which I think is a bigger issue is even if you don't like a genre of music which is braindead in of itself, you can still appreciate it for what it is and how it influences a lot of the stuff you enjoy! So many genres of music would literally be NOTHING without the black pioneers who founded and refined the genres and they deserve the respect of recognition at the very least

Sorry this is also very ramble-y I am very passionate about music lol

5 notes · View notes

noxexistant · 1 year

Note

Thinking about the implications of Oscar and Morris having been abandoned, but Race knows their father works for the trolley company. Oscar doesn't try to deny it so it's not exactly a secret, but I don't get the vibe it's something they'd openly talk about either.

oh my god i think about this ALL THE TIME

like, how did race know? why did race know? and why did he know to bring it up specifically to antagonise oscar?

it’s one of my more firm headcanons that “delancey” is not the brothers’ real last name, so that removes the obvious connection race (and the other newsies) could’ve made with a “[blank] delancey” working for the trolleys. so, consider:

race saw the brothers soaking the trolley workers.

he’s seen loitering around a lot in various scenes, notably reading one of his papes and smoking on a balcony when jack and davey are first selling together, and he runs when he sees snyder. i like to think this, y’know, means something, it’s something race intentionally does. he hangs around and sees what he can overhear, what he can see.

so, race is out late, skulking and loitering to get his first claim at the gossip mill - information’s valuable, if he finds anything good he’ll be able to sell it for papes or money or food or favours - and he hears the commotion from where the striking trolley workers are stationed. he knows better than to walk over on the street lest he get caught up in it, so he clambers up to a roof with a decent vantage point and watches, peeking over the edge.

there aren’t many trolley workers left still out this late, but there’s a group of them, and it’s all in utter chaos now as they wrangle with two smaller figures swinging at them like their lives depend on it. the delanceys. morris has a bat, race can see the glint of oscar’s brass knuckles occasionally catching the light. the blood on the street and alley walls catches the light too, though in the night it looks more black than red. like ink. splattering all their surroundings and the delanceys themselves.

they’re largely silent and efficient, dead cold like they usually are even when faced with the frantic hollering and shouting from the men they’re beating to the ground, but when they’ve all been subdued, oscar turns his attention to a man they’d apparently singled out. he’s been slumped on the floor most of the time the brothers were fighting the rest, but now he’s scrambling back, cornered against the wall by oscar. morris is hanging back.

“been a while, huh?” oscar says conversationally. race strains to hear, brows furrowing. “bet ‘m bigger’n you remember.”

the man says nothing. oscar grabs one of the dropped bats from the ground and strikes the wall beside the man’s head, so hard and rough the wood splinters against the brick.

“or you don’ remember? huh? you need me to let you know? who am i? who am i, pa?”

the man’s still silent. he tries to climb to his feet, but oscar kicks him hard in the chest and knocks him right back down, knocking a haggard wheeze out of him.

“i’m your goddamn son, you lousy son of a bitch! oscar, yeah? you named me. an’ then you didn’t do much else, ‘cept drink and holler and beat my little brother an’ fuckin’ leave!”

there’s a beat of silence.

“beat you too,” the man finally speaks, voice low and croaking. oscar hits him directly in the face, and even from the rooftop race can hear the crack of his nose breaking. morris staggers back, his bat falling to the ground with a wooden clatter, but he freezes entirely like an animal when the man’s gaze snaps to him with the noise.

“don’ you look at him!” oscar shouts, and hits the man again to get his attention back. “you look at me. i’m’onna make you proud, pa. show you everythin’ you ‘n ma taught me ‘bout the world.”

race feels nauseous. nauseous and fascinated. like watching a trolley accident, he can’t tear his gaze away. the man - the delanceys’ father - tries to fight back, but oscar fights dirty and don’t give him one chance. he beats him ‘til he can’t even lift himself up, and only then does he look over his shoulder.

“mo,” he says, breathless. rough, but also too gentle for the blood soaking him. “c’mere. your turn.”

morris shakes his head. oscar goes over to him then, like there ain’t a man laying half-dead, and their conversation’s too soft for race to hear but it seems to convince morris. they walk back to their father with their hands linked, and with his free hand oscar picks up the bat and hands it to morris’ empty palm.

“say hi to ‘im, mo.” oscar kicks the man in the chest again. “pa - ‘s’morris, see? alive an’ strong an’ worth more than you’ll ever be.”

“hi, papa,” morris says quietly. oscar squeezes his hand and releases it, then squeezes an arm briefly around morris’ shoulders too as he brings both hands to the bat and finds his grip.

“make ‘im sorry, mo. make ‘im regret it.”

morris raises the bat.

race leaves, but not quick enough to not hear that first hit.

#cw violence #newsies #racetrack higgins #oscar delancey #morris delancey #my writing #answered #whistlingstarlight

43 notes · View notes