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dotster001 · 2 months

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When You Escape Him, Staff

Summary: Yandere staff x gn!reader. He adopts a child that looks like the two of you. You run to give you both a chance at life. You never expected him to find you.

CW: yandere content, Stockholm syndrome, blackmailing, potentially ooc?, the void, implied previous injury,

A/N: It's finally finished! There are some spin off stories coming but they will not be weekly updates. I'll write them when I write them. Also, I know I said that I'd put out a poll for what series would get weekly updates, but I've gotten so many questions about Elder God, that I'm gonna do that one. Probably won't be Sunday's, but whenever I release the next part will start the cycle.

Heartslaybul Savannaclaw Octavinelle Scarabia Pomefiore Ignihyde Diasomnia Non NRC

Three years into your relationship, he had come home and placed a baby in your arms.

"They were left in a box, all alone. And, well, he looks like if the two of us had a child," he sheepishly stared at the ground. "I just, I just figured it must be a gift from the seven."

You knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to tie himself to you through this boy. He looked just like him, and you were disgusted and scared.

Until he opened his eyes for the first time, and you found yourself staring into your own.

And you knew. You had to give this child the opportunity for a better life. A life without him.

In the end, your son did the opposite of what he had intended. And the first moment you could, the two of you had escaped.

To this day, you had no idea how you had escaped. But you had, and you'd been able to smuggle yourselves off the island and far away.

Your son had started to display signs of magical ability when he was three. You hoped it stayed a miniscule amount, considering you'd heard some people were just magic sensitive.

By the time he was eight, you realized you were not going to be lucky. By the time he turned twelve, you were burning the flyers that the dark mirror magically sent out. By sixteen, you and your son were full on panicking about the scouts that might come by to observe him, and the acceptance letter that would show up at the house.

It was a completely normal day. You'd gone to pick up your son from school, when his teacher excitedly came out to meet you.

“I have amazing news! A representative from NRC came today to test a few of our students!”

You froze.

“S/N was one of the one's they called, and he's been being tested for hours now! He's a shoe in! You must be so proud!”

You nodded rigidly, a stiff smile on your face.

She led you inside, and to one of the teacher conference rooms. Up to this point, you knew there was a chance it wasn't him. If it was anyone else, you could bargain with them.

The door opened, and your hopes were dashed.

“Ah! Welcome, welcome! I was just telling our precious chick that he has a place waiting for him among the students of our esteemed academy! He's almost as powerful as his papa! I couldn't be prouder!” At the last statement, Crowley brushed away an invisible tear.

“And I told him that I have no interest,” your son muttered angrily as he stared down at the table.

Crowley didn't react to what sounded like not the first refusal your son had given, and patted his lap excitedly.

As though everything was normal and you'd just go back to the nest.

“S/N,” you said coldly, calling him to your side. It wasn't like you were alone. If you and your son ran, shouting along the way, surely one of the teachers would hear you and get help. Your son stood to walk over to you.

It happened in seconds. His golden eyes flashed in mild irritation, and by the time you reacted he had already entered your space, and hoisted you over his shoulders.

“I consider myself a very magnanimous person, but you are pressing my patience.”

You shouted obscenities at him, trying to fight your way out of his grip, but to no avail.

“Stop squirming, or I will have to clip your wings-”

“Leave them alone!” Your son shot a fire spell at Crowley. A field around him blocked it, but he gazed at his son in parental pride.

“Just like his papa!”

“YOU'RE NOT MY PAPA!” He screamed, a blaze of fire exploding from around him.

It wasn't his fault he'd lost control. But you had a brief moment where you realized that without the field around Crowley, that would have killed you. As it was, the room was ablaze, and quickly growing out of control, causing your son to forget his anger, and panic.

Crowley sighed, and set you down. He summoned his staff, and quickly doused the fire. Then he turned to your son.

“I am a very generous man. I can pay for the damages done to the school. Which, judging by what I am seeing, is extensive. However, you both must come back to the nest.”

Your son just stared at him.

“If I don't pay for it, how do you think either of you is going to be able to pay this off? Especially not when word gets out that you attacked the Headmage of NRC. You will spend the rest of your life in debt that will continue to grow.”

“You're bluffing,” your son spat.

He definitely wasn't bluffing. You knew exactly what lengths he was willing to go to. You couldn't look him in the eye, opting to stare at the floor as you whispered,

“We'll come with you.”

“No!”

“We don't have a choice. Trust me, I know.”

“Aw, don't talk like that, treasure,” he said happily, scooping you back up and nuzzling his cheek against yours.

Your son looked at you with heart broken eyes. But there was nothing you could do. You'd always known what it looked like when he'd beaten you.

He'd let you leave…

You never wrapped your head around it.

He'd let you leave. Watched you walk out the door with your son. Hadn't said a word.

And he hadn't come after you.

It had been four years since then. You'd been doing as well as a single parent could do.

Any accounts you had created and hid from him, your government paperwork, your social media accounts; all of it was gone. The second you stepped foot out of his mansion, he'd canceled and frozen anything and everything you had in your name. You had started from square one.

But you were alive. And so was your son. You had found a job, and had built a small life for the both of you.

But this most recent set of bills was going to upset the delicate balance.

You stared down at the statements, and sighed. You wanted to cry. You'd fought so hard. But it all amounted to nothing. The weight of the world was crushing you, and it was all you could do to keep yourself from letting it show to your son.

An unknown number appeared on your phone. You picked up. Probably a debt collector. Maybe you could come up with an excuse.

“Are you done playing pretend? You're not cut out to be a stray.”

You stiffened.

“How did you get this number?”

“You're not in a position to ask me questions. How does it feel to be all alone? To bite your master, then get beaten by a wild pack of wolves?”

You stared back down at the bills, biting your lip.

“Nothing to say?” You could hear the amusement in his tone. It disgusted you, but he was right. You weren't in a position to fight him.

“What do you want?” You spat.

“I want you to admit you need me. That you can't support yourself and the pup, and that I'm the only one who is able to properly take care of you.”

“What the fuck-”

“I want you to tell me that you understand that a dog is useless without a master to care for it.”

“Gah! I'm not saying anything like that!”

“Alright,” he spat, hanging up before you could say anything else.

You angrily slammed your phone against the table.

“What's going on?” You heard your son's sleepy voice say. You turned over your shoulder, and saw him rubbing his eyes, staring at you sleepily. He was so small. So innocent. He deserved so much more.

You opened your arms, and he ran into them, snuggling against you.

“Baby, how would you feel if Daddy brought us home?”

“Daddy?”

“Yeah. We got separated, but I think he found us. Which means-”

“Daddy could take us home?”

You felt bile rise in your throat. Home. Home was stolen from you forever when a certain alchemy professor had decided you were his. But maybe home would be different for your boy. And you couldn't take that from him.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

You redialled the unknown number, half expecting him not to pick up. But he did, immediately.

You put it on speaker, and after a moment of silence, you heard, “Well?”

Your son was faster than you.

“Daddy, please come get us!”

Crewel’s breath hitched, and his voice was infinitely more tender when he spoke again.

“Of course, puppy. Daddy's coming to get you.”

Your son looked up at you with excited, warm eyes. Maybe this was for the best. It would be selfish of you to keep putting him through this. He had a father who would give him the stars in the sky if he so much as looked at them a certain way. Meanwhile, you could barely take care of yourself.

“We'll be waiting,” you said quietly.

You half expected him to go back to sounding angry and disappointed. Instead, he released a soft sigh, and said in a voice so kind that it brought tears to your eyes, “I've missed you, love.”

Sam's "friends" used to frighten you. They were the one's in charge of keeping you quiet in the back room while he worked.

Over time, you'd grown to tolerate them. They were terrifying. But they left you alone for the most part.

The day Sam had placed your son in your arms was the first time they'd spoken to you. You'd been alone, staring at your own hollow eyes in the mirror, reflecting on how you had to get this child away from him, when a whispery voice had hissed in your ear.

“We can free you.”

You'd refused to trade your soul, but you'd given up ten years of your life span. Over the years, they would update you if you needed to move. They would tell you what he was up to. They would hide you from new “friends” who would try to find you.

It was your son's 16th birthday. And something was wrong.

The "friend" who had offered you the deal in the first place was missing. They were always around, except for when Sam needed them. It was odd for them not to be there.

And you, yourself, felt weird. You'd woken up to a tingle in the tips of your fingers, and a disco party in your chest. You gotten up to wake up your son, then prepared him a birthday pancake. You placed a candle into it, and were about to light it, when it lit itself.

“Hello, friend,” you muttered. “Is something wrong? It's not like you to be gone for so long.”

You felt phantom fingers detangling a knot in your hair, and a voice hissed in your ear, “We serve more than just you.”

They sounded…oddly defensive. But you couldn't think about that now, because your son had just stumbled tiredly into the room.

“Aw, you shouldn't have,” he grinned when he saw the pancake. He leaned in and blew out the candle, before sitting down and digging in. You sat down in the seat next to him, digging into your own breakfast, when your “friend” released a hiss.

Suddenly, in the corner, a dark void opened up, and out stepped,

“Sam,” you whispered in terror, as you stood from your spot. You turned to your “friend” who was moving to join him.

“Hello, little imp. Long time no see,” he grinned at you, his eyes glowing bright lime as the room filled with fog from the void.

“Wait, I had a deal!” You shouted.

“We received a better offer,” your “friend”’s voice hissed with merciless glee. “Don't worry, we returned your ten years to you.”

“Damn, I wanted to see you for so long. But now that I see your face, I'm absolutely disgusted,” Sam spat bitterly.

The smoke wrapped around you like unbreakable ropes. You struggled against them, but they only grew tighter, quickly feeling suffocating.

He walked up to you, gripping your chin in his hand.

“I paid quite the price for you. And now I just want you to suffer like I did.”

“Wait-” your son cut in, seemingly finally able to break out of his shock.

This brought Sam's attention to him, his eyes filling with love and adoration.

“And there's my boy! Can you believe I spent years thinking a fate worse than death had befallen you?” Sam said sweetly.

“You're scaring me. Cut out whatever it is you're doing, and leave us alone!”

Sam's eyes flashed back to yours, a staff suddenly appearing in his hand.

“No. I made a deal after all.”

He stalked towards you, and you watched in horror as various shadow creatures restrained your son.

“I had to choose. You or my son.” The staff came up under your chin, pressing uncomfortably into your throat. “I used to worship you. And you gave me nothing,” he hissed. Then he smiled. “It wasn't that hard of a decision to make, really.”

His lips were pressed against yours, cutting off your air completely.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he breathed against you. He then shoved you, and you fell backwards into darkness, his hate filled glowing gaze the last thing you saw.

“Please, just, don't tell anyone about us. He's not interested in becoming a mage.”

It felt like you were pleading for your life. Because you were. Crowley had arrived at your son's school to scout students for the college. The second your son had gotten word, he'd called you, and you'd rushed to the school, prepared with a lie about a doctor's appointment you'd both forgotten. Crowley moved far too fast though, and had already found your son.

“Y/N. My employees' well being is of great importance to me!”

“I'm sure he's fine,” your son groaned in the seat next to you. “I really don't want to be a mage. So scout someone else, and leave us alone.”

Your boy was a good one. But his downfall was his strong sense of justice. You had never intended to tell him the lengths Ashton had gone to keep you, but he'd been relentless. You hadn't told him everything, but the both of you were pretty certain he might do something bad if he ever met the man.

Crowley looked at you both in disappointment. You remembered that look. It brought you back to your Ramshackle days when you were asking him to install heat, and he'd made you feel like you were asking for a million dollars. But you weren't his student anymore. You weren't his slave. He had no control over you.

“It would be a great shame for someone of your abilities to waste them. And besides,” Crowley’s disappointed frown turned into a frightening grin. “Around this time of year, a certain physical education professor gets rather whiney, and makes it everyone's problem. Now, whose fault is that?”

“He's a big kid. If he can't move on, that's his own fault. And if it's a problem, you can fire him,” you said bluntly, not going to feel guilted for what you'd done.

Crowley leveled a glare at you.

“I gave you a home. I gave you money. I gave you an expensive education, for free. I allowed you to keep your cat, and eventually your son. You owe me.” He snapped his fingers, and the mirror in the corner swirled to life. Suddenly, he was behind the both of you, yanking you from your seats, and shoving you through the mirror.

You both landed in a patch of grass, right behind a burly man in a memorable red sweatshirt. He hadn't noticed you yet. You pressed your finger to your lips, and pointed to the nearby woods. Your son nodded, and you both turned slowly.

Only to bump straight into Crowley.

“For Seven's sake, Ashton! Get it together!” Crowley snapped, causing the man of the hour to finally look over his shoulder.

His eyes widened, and he ran straight for you, wrapping you in a hug so tight that you thought your ribs might break. Again.

“Ashton,” you wheezed, feeling the familiar feeling of panic you always felt when he was involved.

“You're so scrawny,” he muttered in your ear. You were always “too scrawny” to him. But of course it would be the first thing he'd say to you after so long of being apart.

“I can't believe you survived out there,” he boomed loudly, holding you by the shoulders at arms length, looking you up and down with a jovial smile.

“Put them down!” Your son snapped, shaking you out of your fear momentarily. You looked over your shoulder to see him tied up in Crowley's “whips of love”.

Ashton’s eyes brightened even further.

“Ha ha! You look just like your old man! A few hundred pushups, and you'll be just as strong as I am!”

“Fuck you!”

Ashton's eyes darkened, and turned back to you, reigniting your terror tenfold. His grip on your shoulders tightened painfully.

“What have you been saying about me, Y/N?”

You shivered in terror. You knew that look.

“I didn't-”

“You don't deserve our love, you monster!”

Ashton tossed you to the side like you were nothing. You winced. He never seemed fully aware of what his strength was capable of. He marched up to your son, snatching him from Crowley.

“Looks like we need to do some training, to whip ya into shape.”

He snatched you under his other arm, storming off in the direction of the school.

“Vargas! Your students!” Crowley called after him, but he was completely ignored.

You were thoroughly soaked from the rain outside. You stood before him, staring at the ground in shame as he silently sipped tea, and studied you. Eventually, he sighed, standing up and placing the baby in the bassinet in the corner of his spacious bedroom. He returned to his seat, and sighed again.

“To say I am disappointed would be an understatement,” Mozus said sternly.

The door had been unlocked. In a moment of stupidity, you'd taken the chance to grab the baby and run. You hadn't realized that Trein had put up countless charms around the estate, including one that allowed the topiary knights to drag you back to him. If that wasn't enough, it was pouring. A mud puddle had been your undoing.

You dripped onto the floor, awaiting the speech and upcoming punishment.

“Look at me when I talk to you,” he snapped, and you quickly looked up. His face and demeanor were calm, but his eyes glinted in anger.

“I trained you to be a better spouse than this. What in the Seven's names were you thinking?”

He paused, seeming to wait and see what brilliant answer you would provide.

“I don't know,” you whispered.

“You don't know. Well, do you have any hints?”

You honestly didn't. Things had been peaceful recently. Up until the moment you ran out the door, you had convinced yourself you were finally able to be happy here. But seeing that unlocked door had stirred something in you. A final rebellion. A chance for your son, who shouldn't have to grow up under Trein's tyranny.

Now that you were under his scrutiny, however, all of that seemed to fade away. Instead, you were filled with embarrassment and guilt.

“I'm sorry,” you whimpered.

His glare softened into pure disappointment. Which, somehow, made you feel worse.

“Sorry won't clean the mud off my carpet,” he said tiredly. He looked you up and down, before pouring himself another cup of tea.

“I know.”

“You know I can't leave this unpunished?”

“Yes.”

He looked at you, unreadable, before he nodded to the door.

“Go clean yourself up, then wait for me in your room while I decide on your punishment.”

You nodded, trudging towards the door. Then the baby started to softly cry. Instinctively, you turned the child. Trein's expression turned soft, more tender.

“Go ahead,” he said, his voice full of love.

You picked up the baby, and made your way to your room.

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skell3 · 4 months

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Mage's Ball

Just a little blurb I did for @occudo 's fantasy AU thing. My writing isn't like... flowery or anything, but it at least put down the start of a brainworm THIS comic gave me. There's more to it but like. I'm really bad at being able to continue/finish fics (I do better at RP) so this is what you get.

It was the middle of the ball, and Tim had been left on his own. By choice, mind you, but he still wasn’t particularly happy about it. Sir Timothy Stoker, knight to Mage Sasha James, had come along to keep an eye on his charge and perhaps… well. He didn’t entirely know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Sasha focused on… Jonathan Sims and his knight, Martin Blackwood. Focused, and chatting so animated about their latest trials and tribulations in the aftermath of the Prentiss incident. Tim was not pleased, and therefore he was incredibly distracted.

“A knight without his mage- that’s a rare sight. Did they abandon you?” A deep, smooth voice croons in on the knight from nearby.

“My lady can chat without my help.” Tim turns to see who was addressing him, only to find another Mage. “I don’t see a knight by your side either, Lord-” “Delano.” Gerry removed the sheer fabric that had been covering his head to better view this pouting guardian.

Standing at attention, Tim reached for the mage’s hand to draw the back of it to his lips in greeting. “Sir Stoker. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His eyes fell to the fabric at the mage’s waist, only for his eyes to be guided up to the bared skin of his chest. Lord Delano had a considerable amount of tattoos; eyes decorated his skin all the way up to the collar at his throat.

“Likewise,” Gerry responds, smiling at the display. His eyes traced over the knight for possibly the sixth time this evening, having noticed him earlier in the evening. “I never felt the need to employ a bodyguard for myself- way too much work if you ask me.” Pale gaze lifting, it seems like his interest has yet to bring his eyes back up from his chest, and he sighs in amusement. “Also- my eyes are up here, Sir Stoker.”

“With all due respect, they are also down there, my lord.” Tim couldn’t help but find himself mesmerized by them, among… other things. This was a fancy ball and somehow Lord Delano managed to get away with having so much skin exposed. It was daring, it showed off his nature as a Seer Mage, and it was… well. Distracting. Very distracting. Finally, he manages to tear his eyes away from ink and look back up to the other man with a flush across his cheeks. “I think you’re the only one who got away with going casual,” he jokes with a smile.

“Casual?” The response comes with laughter, Gerry lifting a hand to cover his smile briefly as he turns to glance around the room. He notices Stoker doing the same, and together they take in all the grandeur of the Winter Mage’s Ball. “That would mean some of those here are a bit over-dressed, wouldn’t you think?” The knight’s own lady was in quite a gown, and he watches with a smile as she laughs and converses with her two current companions. He catches the eye of the shorter mage over there, and enjoys the rather disgruntled look he gets out of it. “Want to get away from here for a little bit?” Tim had been distracted again, both to try and not openly ogle at Lord Delano again, but also because those three looked like they were having quite a good time. Over-dressed? His gaze manages to move away to fluffy dresses and gents looking so prim and proper. Plenty to look at, nothing to see. Hearing the laughter, he looked back at the trio just about when Gerry spoke up again. “E-Excuse me?!” Tim sputters, turning to stare at the taller man. Gerry offers him a smile, and then a hand. “My rented quarters aren’t too far, and it looks like she’s well entertained. There are guards posted everywhere and the room is full of mages. I think she is quite safe, and I’ll admit you have me feeling a little under-dressed.” Tim’s eyes are roaming again, but fortunately it was more than just at his chest. He watches the man sputter again, trying to find words for what he wanted, only to get a- “...give me a second, please. If you would?” Tim has to check in at least once, and that was probably the quickest shuffle he has made to Sasha’s side outside of danger. A quick conversation, with no small amount of glaring from Lord Sims, and Lord Delano gets gestured to. More conversation happens, and Lady James nods her head and offers the other Seer Mage a polite bow before returning to her conversation. Tim returned to Gerry’s side shortly after, offering him a bow of his own. “My services are yours for the evening, My Lord.”

“Well. I’m going to have to get you to say that a few more times while I have you, then,” Gerry muses. He beckons for Stoker to follow, turning to head for the exit doors that would lead them outside. “Come along, then, Sir Stoker.”

#tma #the magnus archives #creative writing #gerard keay #gerry keay #gerry delano #gerard delano #timothy stoker #tim stoker #occudo

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dduane · 6 months

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I'm sad today because of how I know my favorite character's story must end; a tragedy I didnt recognize I was writing. Do you ever find yourself grieving any of your characters when you realize their story's end?

I don't know for sure that it comes up to the level of grief, for me. It definitely sometimes does get up to deep regret—when I'm either simply sad to be saying goodbye to a given set of characters, or regretting the end of the project that contains them: or both.

The point where the regret locks in particularly hard for me is when I find I've got no choice but to acknowledge that a story's near-completion means soon I won’t get to work/play with these characters any more. That understanding—that your active relationship as creator with the created is ending: the sound of a door in your soul closing, and the key turned, inescapably, in the lock—that can be really painful. Nor do I have any evidence that it gets any easier over time. This is just one of those "You knew the job was dangerous when you took it" kinds of thing.

But experience has taught me that there's no successfully eluding the acknowledgement of the difficulty of the upcoming ending (or its execution on the page): not if you're smart. Story is old—far, far older than any of us; and powerful. And yeah, sure, it's a privilege to be able to serve it; to be in service to it! But it's not necessarily a particularly kind taskmaster. It has its own priorities. And the (admittedly sometimes tempting) urge to try to cheat Story for one's own comfort tends not to end well. Indulging that urge means also doing a disservice to those to whom you're telling the story—which is immoral, since they came to you expecting you to get the job done right. But also, if you try bending the rules for your own sake, Story has its ways of avenging itself on you. It's best to just suffer the inevitable, sometimes-painful consequences of closure, and avoid going down that road.

Yet sometimes Story will unexpectedly reward you, too, when you've kept faith with it and resisted the temptations. I have a piece of work in hand where one of the paired protagonists is going to have to go through a long painful sequence of (literally) legendarily awful things. As a result I've been—maybe understandably—resisting writing those things, while also knowing perfectly well they're inescapable if the story's to be done justice, and if the character going through all this pain's to be correctly perfected. Which I owe to them.

Yet you can only resist for so long. A story's not worth much of anything until it's told. So I went digging through my notes to get re-grounded in the universe in question and start dealing with this situation. At which point absolutely without warning I found myself staring at a single piece of data that had been lying there among my notes since day one, right under my damn nose... and which contained the happy ending I'd been resigned to never finding for this story and these characters: along with the iron-clad rationale for it.

Impossible not to hear the immaterial Boss Of Me murmuring You're welcome... as it wandered off to let me get on with the actual hard work. Screams of Could I not have thought of this earlier?! seemed like ingratitude at that point. So I got on with it. (Admittedly with some grinning that probably left @petermorwood confused for a couple of days.)

Meanwhile, I absolutely hear your grief and pain. All I can say is, "Hang in there with it and see it through." And when it's passed over you, know that things will eventually look and feel better on the other side. :)

#writing #story

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azrielgreen · 4 months

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remember why you started

it can be so easy to start creating for others and stop doing it for yourself, but that's where it fucks up every time. there has to be a pure vein of creation just for creation's sake, for your own wild and weird indulgence in the things that caught your attention and stoked your passion. when you trade that for external praise, you begin to lose your natural love for the core experience, and it becomes work. you become obsessed with numbers, with interactions, your "place" among others and before you know it, some bullshit hierarchy has formed and all that matters is no one overtaking you, no one doing the things you were doing first because what if they do them better? what if people stop looking at what you're creating? what if you gave everything you had, and everybody leaves anyway?

create for yourself. create for YOU and you alone, in at least one area of your life. not for money, not for attention, not for validation. just one little piece of fertile earth preserved for your weird little universe of exploration and inspiration and delightful failures and unexpected brilliance.

of course it feels wonderful to have people praising your work, to have touched people in some small way, to be SOMEONE, but here's the thing. you already were someone. you were you. and this attention, this validation and praise and interaction... it never lasts. it can't last. everything passes. the only way to truly get people to stay longer than they would, is to give everything you have and more, to break yourself down into pieces and sell them off one by one, become a content machine, or worse, to become a person who steps on others to be taller. someone who polices what others create.

but none of it is real or lasting. tumblr isn't real. twitter isn't real. the cliques aren't real. of a hundred people you know in your fandom experience, three of them might be true friends.

what is real, and what lasts, is what you create.

that's what people will find in ten years time when scrolling AO3 at one AM after a horrible fucking day, if the internet hasn't gone down forever, and that is what touches people. not the things you made purely for validation or comments or popularity. the art you made for you. imagination through the lens of a person whose experiences have shaped them uniquely, beautiful and strange and unknowable to someone else who has not had that same life experience, yet there, available, open and inviting, would you like to feel something new?

so please, when you find yourself dedicating more time to your socials and the construct of your online persona than the actual thing you were creating that first set fire to your passion, think about this. if it won't matter in five years, don't give it more than 5 minutes.

when you find yourself thinking "if i write this, people will really love it and respond to it, it's what's popular right now, everyone's talking about it, this will get me back where i was before" my darling, no it won't. creating for the sole outcome of interaction and praise and attention is a waste of your beautiful energy.

i've made plenty of mistakes, i'm still making them as i go along, but i have never stopped creating for myself and i never will.

people will write the thing better than you, they WILL get more attention, comments, reblogs, impressions, likes, kudos, you'll never hold onto the height of it, because everything changes, everything passes and that's how it should be. passion is river; depriving your interests of momentum and variation will make it a stagnant pond. embrace the new, trust that it will feel good again in new ways and just keep creating what you love, for the one person who needs it most - you.

you make art for yourself first.

that's why you started.

you made the thing you couldn't find anywhere else, your way.

and THAT is what will last.

#writing fanfiction #fic writing #fandom is a fickle thing and i hate seeing people break themselves down over it #normalise writing flops out the gate and moving right onto the next #success is what happens when youre too busy to look for it

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solacebloom · 1 month

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Steven Grant x Autistic!Reader

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺

Just some drabbles of what being friends/partners with Steven Grant would look like with an autistic reader since, I myself, am autistic. Autism is a spectrum so I tried to make it inclusive but some of the traits are obviously going to be more geared towards my experience since that's what I'm writing from. Also gender neutral!reader

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TW: talking about stimming, autistic meltdowns, cpstd, insomnia, DID

Steven Grant

Steven Grant has a lot of autistic traits, so I’ll be treating him like he is.

Rigid routines, hyperfixations (Egyptology), always calling his Mom every morning, being visibly upset when his routine is changed, etc

CPSTD can exacerbate autism traits so whether or not Marc and Jake have autism in particular I’m not going to get into right this moment BUT

man has insomnia among other things he gets it he understands you better than most.

If you were cohabitating the both of you would have your safe spaces in the flat

On top of that the entire place would be sensory friendly, your little retreat

Overhead light never gets turned on when it’s with you two, Steven keeps the curtains open for some natural light

incense from his involuntary travels would be stockpiled

He definitely has some sort of trinket or keepsake that makes white noise of some kind

Might be a water feature or windchimes hung up by the window- Gus’ tank also emits some white noise from the filter and water pump

The flat will always have some sort of noise to drown out the busy streets outside

When the noises are overstimulating to the both of you though he’s got noise canceling headphones and earbuds- he misplaces them a lot so there’s always extra to go around

Though eventually he gets you your own pair for around the flat

If you use a cane or any sort of walker he invests in making sure you have a spot to put it while you’re around the flat and that there’s actually space for you to walk around with it if needed

While he loves his collections of books, if you can’t traverse the flat with all that stuff on the floor he’s going to find another spot for them. Shoved into a closet somewhere- a storage unit, whatever he can do to keep his books and you

You both definitely stay in a lot more than you do go out

The street just outside the flat is busy but in the quieter hours the two of you go on short walks under the moonlight

If you’re novelty seeking though Steven’s not going to be the best at helping but will do his best to tag along with you if it’s outside of the house.

Sometimes he’s right there with you ready to go out and other times he’s just wanting to stay home, you don’t always match energies

Novelty seeking at home though? Completely different story. He’s always happy to dive into a new topic with you, whether it’s related to his own hyperfixation or one of your own

Insomnia and DID affect his memory so even if he has come to terms with Marc he’s still going to be writing things down, taking notes on the subject you two are diving into

When you need to stim Steven has a TON of trinkets and stim toys around the flat if not already in his pockets

The only thing he wouldn’t share with you is his rubik cube, if that’s not already in his hands while the two of you are talking it’s in his pocket or misplaced on a shelf it’s definitely his most well loved stimming item and he has to fix it, often

Puzzles also! From old crosswords to literal picture puzzles he’s down to do them all with you and will probably be absentmindedly doing one while you info dump

He has a rocking chair somewhere in the flat that’s incredibly comfy and well loved for some full body stimming

I don’t think Steven would have a sensory swing and if he does he was to embarrassed to set up for himself

Like Steven doesn’t hate himself for being autistic

He never learned to mask but there’s still lingering anxieties, they just aren’t focused around his autism, more on his DID and just general trauma

If you or any or the other alters found the swing though there would be some questions and a lot of hesitance and excuses on Steven’s end

Well you bet that swing is getting set up now

Even if Steven doesn’t end up using it as much he’s glad that it’s there if you or him need it at some point

You both do parallel play/being alone together- you’ll focus on your task and he’ll do his while you both are in the same room

Whilst some tasks give Steven the ick he can’t offload all the chores to his alters

So when the dishwasher needs to be opened or dishes cleaned in the sink he has a whole process to try and make it easier on himself

He wouldn’t be good at helping you out with these tasks either but his presence is appreciated

If eating noises are triggering Steven will either fetch the noise canceling headphones or go eat out on the porch or off in another room

Safe foods! He has them written down if he doesn’t already remember them

The flat is stocked with both his and your safe foods

If you’re out of the house he keeps a backpack on him that would have snacks and trinkets

I don’t think Steven goes nonverbal often mostly because I think that version for him is probably just retreating back and forcing the other alters out so that at least someone is talking in whatever situation is happening

I think if it does happen in a safe space with you though he’s most likely writing down his thoughts to you over his notebook

When you go nonverbal he gets a little panicky, because he knows how he feels when that comes up so he’s much more fretful over that

He starts asking you a bunch of yes or no questions to things you may need which isn’t always entirely helpful as it can be a bit overwhelming

But after his anxieties are quelled he’s much more able to help out in whatever you need

Whatever communication device or tool you use he’s more than willing to accommodate and carries around cards in the backpack as well

When you have a meltdown for the first time in front of him he definitely isn’t entirely sure of himself, he doesn’t know exactly what you need so it takes some trial and error

After the meltdown though he asks what you’d like to have happen when another one occurs

Whether you need physical touch or instead a weighted blanket or touch sensation at all he’s ready to help

Whatever entertainment medium you like he’ll put on/grab to keep your mind distracted and calmed

If it’s in public he will probably let another alter handle it since that’s overwhelming for him too though I think he feels guilty about it despite it just being a defense mechanism on his end.

He wants to help you and himself, but part of that is accepting where he’s at and sometimes trying to push yourself is the opposite of what’s needed

#moon knight #steven grant #steven grant x reader #steven grant x gender neutral reader #steven grant x you #steven grant x y/n #autistic!reader #disabled!reader #moon knight fanfic #steven grant fanfiction

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kivino · 8 months

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FANTASY AU WITH VALERIA!

Word Counter - ~900 words.

Summary – self-indulgent thoughts with Rogue!Valeria in a fantasy setting!

Tags/Warnings – very much Dragon Age coded, reader is a mage/healer, mentions of blood and injury, this is very corny™, gn!reader.

A/n – wrote it almost in one go, very sorry if someone already did something like this! I originally planned for my first writing post to be Graves fanfiction that I’m working on right now, but I just couldn’t contain myself, lololol

Rogue!Valeria who stumbles into your clinic one moonlit night while running away from the city guard, hands clawing at her side, blood seeping through the delicate fabric of her shirt and vest, slipping in and out of consciousness, as she tries to hold onto the cold walls that smelled of medicine and herbs.

Rogue!Valeria who made so much noise and racket downstairs that it woke you up better than any of your assistants could. You fly out of your bed, covers and colorful duvets trailing behind you in a stream of fabric, long forgotten on the floor of your bedroom as you run down the stairs, in fear that somebody broke into your clinic, no patients of yours were staying overnight today. Any words that could’ve been said evaporate as you see a woman, bleeding out on the floor, back propped up against the counter, and…are those daggers she is carrying?

Rogue!Valeria who wakes up the next morning in someone else’s bed, her wound freshly bandaged, hot breakfast already prepared for her. And at that moment she thinks she must’ve died and gone to the Fade. Where else would she see a spirit as beautiful as you?

Rogue!Valeria who tried her best to leave this quiet haven, full of smells, colors, and so many things unknown to her (she’s no mage after all), but she just can’t, throbbing pain in her abdomen stopping her the moment she even tries to stand up among the quiet murmurs of your patients and their relatives. You throw her a stern look, and she is immediately pinned to the soft sheets like her body is not her own.

Rogue!Valeria who finally has a chance to talk to you once it’s time to change the bandages on her wound. You sit near her, your voice quiet, asking “May I?”, as you delicately remove the covers. Valeria asks if you can speed up the recovery, seeing what a miracle worker you were, treating the patients all day with the help of not only healing salves, herbs, and potions but also magic. And you decide to grant her request, hands gliding along the surface of her skin, Valeria’s stab wound slowly closing and a delicate, light scar forming. She doesn’t know how much that takes out of you until your assistant helps you walk back to your room to get much-needed rest. Her eyes lingered on your fatigued figure as her fingers keep poking and prodding at the thin skin of her new scar, feeling something warm spark inside her.

Rogue!Valeria whose gang starts protecting you. Thieves know better than to try picking any of the locks on your doors, signs carved on the worn wood by her informing them that this place is off-limits.

Rogue!Valeria who sneaks through your backdoor, knowing you always forget to lock it, seeing you sleeping on another book, laid out under your arms. She wraps you in a soft blanket, pressing her finger against her lips when she sees awake patients or assistants eyeing you two.

Rogue!Valeria who leaves the flowers she picked from the gardens of her rich targets on your windowsill, petals ruffled and worn, former beauty still recognizable. Instead of putting those flowers in the water you dry and preserve every single one of them, with time gathering small bouquets that greet you each morning around your clinic. When she visits “officially”, she asks about them and you just say that you have no idea who leaves the flowers, mischief tugging at the corners of your eyes. Valeria only grins in response. “Is that so? You must have a lot of suitors then.”

Rogue!Valeria who always leaves some of her things behind just to have an excuse to visit you again, to see you at work, to hear your laughter, and to feel your hand shake her own in a warm greeting. Each time she gets bolder, and instead of a small satchel or a dagger, you start finding her jewelry and accessories. When did she have the chance to take them off anyway?

Rogue!Valeria who drags you to the market during fairs, insisting that you need to have some fun once in a while, as she leads you between a variety of stalls, her heart squeezing harshly against her ribs each time your fingers tighten around her hand.

Rogue!Valeria who ends up hiding with you in a narrow alleyway, hiding from the city guard that patrolled the festival grounds. She looks you in the eyes, trying to make sure you’re okay, and shoots you a sly wink, caging you between her body and the wall. She feels her breathing get quicker with each second spent like this, but you two are soon taken out of it when small sparks of fire shoot out of your fingers. Too agitated to control your magic, you get flustered, not sure why you were getting nervous in the first place. But when you hear Valeria let out a hearty laugh from your sudden supernatural outburst, everything starts to make sense.

Rogue!Valeria who never mutters a single word about her quickly developing feelings. It would complicate things. It would spoil your friendship. It would tie her down, it would cause her to become slow and eventually sink, taking you with her. Yet she couldn’t let you go. Not when her heart ached with such sweet foretaste each time she saw you running to her with your arms open. Not when her thoughts inevitably drifted to you each time she was preparing to raid another lazy lord’s manor. Not when her days already started to center around visits to your small clinic, during which you constantly looked at her with that contagious light in your eyes.

taglist - @mockerycrow @stridersdiner

check out my masterlist for more fics or send me a request!

#cod mw2 #cod mwii #valeria mw2 #valeria garza x reader #cod #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #mw2 x reader #cod mw2 x reader

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beekeeperspicnic · 3 months

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I'm literally sobbing;

it's time to talk about the game backgrounds.

You've done an exquisite job creating the game's atmosphere. Until recently, I couldn't quite grasp the indescribable feeling they evoked in me until I stumbled upon an illustration on Tumblr. In it, Tilda stands on the shore, gazing into the watery distance. The moment I saw this image, my heart skipped a few beats, and it has not let go of me, leading me to the state I find myself in as I write this letter.

My hometown is a city built along a river, devoid of tourists and featuring quiet stretches of sand on small beaches tucked away among slopes and tall shrubs. From my earliest childhood, I remember the river, which, in any season, maintained its grandeur—a broad waterline that at some point broke the line of the opposite shore, transitioning into the sea, practically merging with the sky.

For two years now, we've been at war; the shores are mined. In all this time, two people have lost their lives, and we're even asked to walk dogs near our yards. This place pulls and beckons, and sometimes, standing on the slope of the hill, I look down at the river, as if it still means everything, causing an inexplicable longing.

I don't know the context of the illustration, but how it imprinted in my memory helped me understand my feelings towards the atmosphere of your game. It so closely resembles my home, that lost place from better times.

Now, as I go through the demo version with friends, I occasionally point to the screen, saying that it looks like my hometown, and it becomes very cozy. I don't know if in the next ten or twenty years I'll be able to descend to my native shore without holding my breath in blind danger, but I do know that I have a wonderful substitute in your game.

I will faithfully await the release of the full game; thank you very much for this work—you're an inspiring person. Thanks again.

Thank you so, so much for writing this. The idea of my game being with you and even helping in some small way means so very much to me. I think I'll return to read this again very often.

I'll talk a bit about the context of the image below, so I guess if someone doesn't want to know, they should stop reading now!

**** SPOILERS BELOW ****

The game is set just after WW1 and the 1918–1920 flu pandemic. Both of Tilda's parents have died, and she is walking alone on the beach and thinking about that.

What she doesn't know is that Holmes and Watson are watching her from the clifftop, and considering how both they, and Tilda's extended family, care for her will always look after her.

I never know as a writer whether I should talk about the subtext of my own work, especially when it's a game that hasn't even been released yet. It might be that none of this really comes through in the final game, I don't know!

But I think it was initially a product of me processing the Covid-19 pandemic, and the reprehensible way politicians and policy makers and leaders acted, and the fact that people died, and the fact that we're all supposed to carry on our day to day lives as if that's ok now?

I say the game is set in 1920, but it's not really - it's set in a little universe set apart from ours. The characters in the game have all been affected by war and disease (and are still being affected by those things - and always will be affected by those things), and I've given them a space which is gentle to them as they look towards creating a better future.

#nice asks

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rachey899 · 4 days

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Lightning Ridge - Part One

A young Shifter wanders into a town crawling with hunters, Hendrix plans on laying low but when he catches wind of one particular hunter who is after the same Shifter that he’s been tracking himself, his curiosity gets the better of him. Offering to join the man on his quest he can only hope he can track down the dangerous shifter, saving the lives of innocents all the while keeping his secret hidden.

TW: mentions of murder/eating people, giant spiders, some swearing, mentions of death, mentions of drug use

G/t Shifter story, the idea came from a prompt I read a while back by @maplesyrupandgt. I’ve just come back to writing after recovering from an injury to my writing hand of all things, but I’m back and posting short stories and prompts to get me back in the swing of things. This will be a Four Part Story so keep an eye out for more to come!

Approx 3.2k words

Part One - Here

Part Two

The rain beat down hard on my shoulders and I knew I’d have to stop for the night, my eyes had caught sight of distant light coming from this direction and I had hoped to stumble across a small village in search for cheap accommodation. What I didn’t expect to find however was currently staring at my face menacingly, urging me to turn around and go back the way I’d come.

A sign was posted a few yards from the small village, and it read:

‘GIANT’S BEWARE’

And Another:

‘GIANT SLAYERS WITHIN’

The signs were large enough that any shifter would be able to read it in their Giant forms, what was unnecessary was the graphic image of a shifter having its head cut off by a human that was scrawled under the blocky letters above it.

“Charming” I said to myself.

It was known among shifters that most humans didn’t know that ‘Giants’ as they called us, were not in fact Giant’s at all but a special kind of shape shifter that could grow into their large forms at will, or sometimes against their will. For that reason, I deemed it safe to enter, no one here would know what I was, I’d just have to keep a low profile as always.

My boots trudged heavily through the muddy streets until I found a tavern, the sign out the front told me that there was availability inside, perfect. I pushed open the double wooden doors and was greeted with a waft of warm thick air filled with music, laughter and the smell of smoke and whiskey.

I inhaled deeply, soaking in the pleasant sensations, I’d get a drink once I’d secured a room for the night. I found a coat hanger near the entryway and placed my wet jacket onto it along with my fedora, feeling somewhat warmer and dryer I headed straight for the bar with my best panty dropping grin.

“A straight whisky darlin if you don’t mind?” I asked the young barmaid from behind the counter, she gave me a playful wink while pouring a fresh glass without even looking at it. She slid it across the polished counter to me and leaned over.

“What’s a pretty face like you doing here?” she asked, flicking her long black hair over her shoulder.

“Just passing through” I said casually. “I was hoping I might find some accommodations hereabouts.”

“Well, you need look no further, we have a few spare rooms tonight, just a single?” She asked hopefully, she briefly glanced around to see if I had come in with anyone else.

“Yeah, just a single.”

She handed me a piece of parchment to sign, a guest log, I scribbled a fake name in as I usually did and handed it back to her along with a generous payment, she gave me a set of keys and then asked. “Where are you headed to?”

“Oh no where in particular, I enjoy exploring, I’m a bit of a nomad.” I shrugged, taking another heavy slog of my drink. “Might head toward Lightening Ridge tomorrow.” I said offhandedly.

The man beside me at the bar, scoffed, I hadn’t even noticed him sit down until now, the barmaid and I both looked at him curiously, waiting for an explanation.

“You haven’t heard the rumors?” He asked, looking at us incredulously, his dark hair and darker complexion gave off a mysterious air in the already dim lighting of the tavern, his shaggy hair keeping his face in the shadows expertly.

“That’s Giant territory up that way.” He explained, turning to address us properly.

“Is that so?” I asked, I hadn’t heard of any territory being claimed as ‘Giants Territory’ ever, most of the time shifters mainly lived amongst humans. Of course, there were the rare kind who took advantage of their sheer strength and sought to harm and press their power over others.

One shifter in particular I could think of, we’d crossed paths a few times, I had actually been tracking him for a long time after hearing the first reports of a Giant terrorizing villages. I’d found him about a year ago, warning him of others who were hunting him, I tried to get through to him with reason, but he wasn’t interested in hearing any of it, in fact he very nearly killed me.

I’d kept my distance then but continued to track him for a short while until I lost his trail. It had been months since I’d had any firm leads and I wondered if my instinct taking me this far East had finally paid off. Perhaps he had taken over Lightening Ridge claiming it to be his own.

“What makes you think it’s Giant Territory?” I pressed further.

The young man finished off his drink and indicated that he would like another.

“I’ve been assigned to hunt a Giant living in that area, he’s set up camp there for a while now, many have gone in, but none have ever returned.” he said forebodingly wiggling his fingers for emphasis.

I shivered but not because of the stupid theatrics the man was displaying, but because in all likelihood Blade was killing if not eating the men who had entered ‘His’ Territory and the thought turned my gut to ice.

“Perhaps I could assist you.” I said resolve set, I was sure this was the shifter I’d been after, and I wasn’t going to let him get away again, especially knowing he was now murdering civilians.

The young man laughed loudly but I kept my expression neutral, and his laughter died down to a look of pure disbelief.

“You’re not joking? Are you?” He asked and I shook my head, he gave a heavy sigh. “Look I appreciate the offer, but I generally work alone, besides I don’t wanna get distracted looking after you when I’m trying to slay the beast.” He explained, all good points.

“I’m a hunter as well.” I lied. “I actually know of the beast your after, been on his tail for months, I think I could prove useful.”

He gave me a skeptical look; I was sure he was going to turn me down again and then I’d move to plan B which would be tailing this man in order to find Blade, but he held out a hand instead.

“You don’t get in my way.” He said sternly. “When we find the beast, it’s every man for himself, I wont risk my neck to save your ass if you do something stupid, you hear?”

I couldn’t help the smile edging onto my face, and I grasped his hand.

“Deal.” I said, so much for keeping a low profile.

“The names Ryder, I’ll meet you down here an hour before sunrise.” He said stiffly before rising from his chair, intending to head in for the night.

“Hendrix.” I answered honestly. “I’ll be here.” He gave me a curt nod before heading up the stairs to the Tavern’s rooms.

“Boy you do have a death wish.” The barmaid was shaking her head whilst cleaning a glass. I gave her a small shrug before heading up the stairs myself, and I wondered if the barmaid had noted that the name I put on the guest log, was not the name I’d given to Ryder. I supposed it didn’t matter, in all likely hood we’d leave before anyone else arose the next morning and I’d never see her again.

With that I hunkered down onto the small cot within my room and urged my racing thoughts to quieten, though regardless of my efforts my excitement at having finally got a lead was too much to give me a good night’s sleep and morning came all too quickly.

I rolled out of bed and stretched my aching limbs, sleeping on a different surface every night didn’t bode well for my back. I wandered to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face briefly glancing my disheveled appearance in the mirror. Ryder had been right to worry that I wouldn’t be useful in a fight, where he was toned, I was more malnourished with my poor muscles trying desperately to make themselves known.

My dark blue eyes popped against my freckle-stained face where my cheek and jaw bones jutted out. I wasn’t much of a fighter, more a survivalist, but I had been training since my last meeting with Blade and I was confident I’d be able to take him this time.

I brushed my fingers through my shoulder length sandy blonde hair and pushed away from the sink, I’d guessed it was about an hour before sunrise now and if I didn’t get a move on, Ryder would likely leave without me. I slung my satchel containing my meager belongings across my chest and headed down the stairs.

“Ah there he is, I was thinking you might have come to your senses overnight.” Ryder joked, putting on his own hat and jacket, ready to head out the door.

“Not a chance.” I smiled, and followed him outside, the air was fresh and held the sharp bite of winter closing in, I longed to be back inside the warm tavern, but I also wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity, especially if I could put an end to Blade’s rampage once and for all.

It was bad enough that he was putting the identity of our kind at risk but using his power to harm others was something I just couldn’t stand for.

I followed Ryder as we headed further east, following signs for Lightening Ridge, it was approximately 200kml away from SheerWood, the village we had just come from, and would be about a three or four day walk with minimal stops.

“So, tell me a bit about yourself Hendrix.” Ryder asked, the sun was beginning to rise, and we had walked in mostly comfortable silence until that point, I had gathered that he preferred not to grow attached to his travelling companion in case he died once we faced the shifter, his question caught me off guard.

“There’s not much to tell really.” I shrugged, preparing to spin off the usual story I give people. “I’m a nomad, I travel all over, got no family to hold me down so I’m just out exploring really.”

“Bullshit, you’ve been tailing a Giant for peats sake, there is more to you than just drifting with the wind.”

I bit my lip, I hadn’t really thought that one through, I’d forgotten that I’d told him I was a hunter back in the tavern.

“Well, you know I pick up a few hunting jobs here and there as a travel through, no big story, sorry to disappoint.” I covered quickly, it wasn’t an unheard-of story and totally credible if I do say so myself.

He didn’t seem convinced, but he also didn’t seem frustrated at all, like he understood that not everything was okay to be shared with a total stranger.

“Well, I suppose I’m much the same as you, grew up in a small town and as soon as I was able, I up and left, took up hunting jobs and make my living that way, I must say it’s not a bad way to see the country.” He glanced at the surrounding forest appreciatively.

“Do you have any family?” I asked trying to continue to keep the topic on him.

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen them in years, they live way out west in the desert, my mum, dad and sister, as far as I know Kailani is still there tending to the farm with them, farm life just wasn’t for me you know?”

I nodded, the lifestyle had never interested me either, come to think of it I wasn’t really sure what kind of lifestyle called to me. I supposed travelling and exploring the country was okay, but the thought of settling down somewhere was intriguing, even if it was an impossibility for me.

“What’s Kailani like?” I asked, my mind wandered to my own little sister, she’d been only five years old when I left home, when my abilities had made themselves known.

“She’s kind.” He said wistfully. “She was always very reserved, especially around our parents, she was never shy about giving me a hard time though.” He chuckled at a memory playing over in his mind. “Last I heard she was seeing a fella, she’d make a good wife, I just hope she’s happy.”

“I suppose that’s all any of us can ask for.” I said quietly, hoping the same was true about Ella.

A twig snapped to our left and we both paused, Ryder held up a scarred hand indicating for me to keep quiet. I scanned the area, but I couldn’t see much of anything off the trail, the forest on either side of us was dense with underbrush.

After a few moments I was going to tap Ryder on the shoulder and suggest we keep going, it was probably just an animal skirting too close to the trails, that’s when we heard a soft hiss disturb the silence around us. And that was all the warning we got before the large Arachnid made itself known, its many eyes flickering like embers in the dense forest and its large hairy legs moving faster than they should have been able to.

“Duck!” Ryder shouted, I was going to question why I would do such a thing, and to instead suggest we run but I crouched low to the ground anyway and narrowly missed a projectile of sticky silk that was shot toward us. Ryder had rolled out of the way and brandished his sword, crouching in a fighting stance and ready to leap at the thing.

I dug in my pockets for my dagger, and then realized it was woefully too small to fight a creature this large. Of course, normally when I encountered giant spiders in the forest, I was much bigger and would simply crush the creature with the heel of my boot, I’d never thought I needed a larger weapon when I was usually the largest creature around.

Of course I couldn’t grow right now, not with a hunter standing right there, I rolled as the creature made a move toward me and I narrowly avoided one of its sharp claw-like legs from spearing me through the middle. I watched as Ryder pounced on top of the thing, using his sword to strike at the Arachnids thick exoskeleton.

The spider seemed to pay him not mind, not finding his efforts of any concern at all and instead kept on moving toward me, the spider positioned itself over me and spat more sticky silk covering my left hand and pinning it to the ground. My breath hitched and I felt myself expand a few inches, breaking my hand free of the sticky substance.

I focused on stopping the growing energy within my body, reining it in for now. I wasn’t about to die at the mercy of an insect.

The spiders’ pincers sliced awfully close to my neck, and I jerked my body upwards pushing the heels of my boots into the spider’s face.

With only a second to make the most of my distraction I backpaddled on my hands and knees crawling under the spider and then out into the open. I dug in my bag frantically and pulled out what I hoped might do the trick, tearing off a part of my sleeve, I picked up a stick nearby and wrapped my shirt around it.

The spider had its eyes on me again and let out another hiss, I doused the cloth in whiskey and then struck a match, creating a large fire stick that I brandished at the spider. It threw its body backwards showing off its front legs in a display of aggression and in doing so threw Ryder from its back, he landed in a heap dropping his sword a short distance away from him.

With the flaming stick in one hand, I inched closer to Ryder’s sword, causing the spider to back up further.

“Ryder!” I shouted kicking the sword toward him, he got the hint grasped the sword and then stood directly underneath the beast. I backed up and as the spider came down Ryder expertly placed the sword between the spider’s thorax and abdomen and then it went limp, its body falling heavily on top of Ryder.

I concentrated and allowed myself to grow only a little, just enough so that I would be strong enough to push the beast off of Ryder, with a grunt of effort I rolled the spider off of him. Ryder lay there breathing heavily, his whole body covered in unidentifiable spider guck, I focused on my own breathing shrinking down to an acceptable height though my body protested.

“You look like hell.” I stated, holding out a hand for him. He grasped it with a slimy hand of his own and I cringed a little at the sickening feeling.

“I’d look a lot worse if it hadn’t of been for you.” He said completely awe struck, he walked over to reclaim his sword from the spider’s belly and then looked over at me, his hazel eyes flashing.

“That was some quick thinking back there.” He said, voice still laced with amazement. “I mean, after seeing you brandish a dagger of all things, I had my doubts, but… that was something else.”

I brushed it off, throwing the fire stick on the ground and stamping it out before putting my matches and flask back into my satchel.

“I work well under pressure.” I shrugged, and his eyebrows reached the sky.

“I’ll say.” He said clapping me on the back. “In any case, well done lad.”

I chuckled nervously and followed him as we continued down the trail. Thankful that I had made it out of my first encounter with an aggressive creature and lived to tell the tale, secret still intact.

“Ha, that’s funny…” He started, looking me up and down as I caught up walking briskly beside him.

“What’s funny? That I’ve only got a dagger to defend myself with? Yeah I know the truth is I lost-“

“No, not that.” He cut me off. “I just could have sworn I was taller than you.”

PART TWO

#gt #gianttiny #giant/tiny #g/t #giant #tiny #size shifter #sizedifference #gtangst #HendrixRyder #ShifterHendrix

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punk-in-docs · 1 year

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“if you want to come you better beg” x prince paul cause i need this filth 😩👀

🥀Qualities of Mercy🥀

Prince Paul x Tsarevna // smut drabble - Bugger me sideways @usedtobecooler only the best for you babes crème de la crème - Prince Prick and some bratty behaviour culminating in angry!hate!fucking coming up. Also short? I don’t think I can write short drabble a about this man. I’m having a lot of feelings ok.

Some babes I know may want to see this @indouloureux @munsonswhore86 @heyndrix @lunatictardis @creme-bruhlee @callmeloverr @roanniom

It’s an odd relief to see the signs of war increase with each gained mile, burnt out patches of land and artillery tracks wedged into the mud. Foul air, fire, and rifle smoke; it means you’re closing in on your goal.

It means you’re that much closer to your husband.

Foul boggy mud, and nipping winds that cut to bone. You’re rumbling your way along treacherous roads, ever closer.

The terrain is dismal. There’s not even any sweetly soft birdsong chirping from the trees. There’s no kind nature. There’s only war and man, and guttural cries of the wounded. A landscape drizzled with slanted misty rain. Stubby felled larch trees and splintered bark.

The soldiers encamped, look like misshapen beasts. Blood crusted black, and the wounded wearing filthy yellowed bandages. Eyes missing, limbs turned to stumps. Squatting and huddling in clumps in the woods. Shivering under canvas with pithy licks of orange campfires staining the air with spicy woodsmoke.

They watch the carriage pass with rapt fascination. But too cold to react.

You weren’t expected.

That fact is writ plain as day all over the face of the dirt smeared soldier who trudged up to the carriage window. The soldier on watch. Who’d been pissing up against as tree when you rolled up.

His eyebrows buoy in surprise as you drop your fur lined hood.

“My Lady-“ He rasped in surprise.

“Tsarevna.” Your second maid, Maricel, leaned forward and snipped. Voice like a barking hound. Just as dogged.

She was eternally bolshy and hard edged. Hated you not being given the proper due politesse as deserving of your rank. She took great offence to those who didn’t understand the severity of your position.

“I’m here to see my husband. Kindly take me to him.”

“I’m not sure he’ll want- he’s occupied with many important matters.“ He fumbles for an excuse.

Maricel’s words come locked in impatience.

“Are you suggesting the Tsarevna of Russia is unimportant?” She tests.

“No- I.”

“He will carve out the time for his wife, you dumb prick.” She points out. Rubbing her shivering hands.

“Now, now.” You scold her.

She merely rolls her eyes. Not frightened by you whatsoever. Just pissy cause she’s cold.

The solider shuffles on his feet. Breaks eye contact. “I’m not sure I have the authority to-“

“Are you going to make me repeat myself.” You warn. Ire threaded into every word.

You stare him down with slicing diamond eyes. Tips sharpened and designed to cut.

A look you’ve thieved and mastered from Catherine’s own brand of venom. Don’t budge an inch.

It’s enough to get him to snap his mouth shut.

“No. Uh. Of course. This way, Tsarevna.”

You clambered out that boxy royal carriage. Door encrusted in a golden crest. Dainty sky blue heel sinking into earth. Hem sodden and dragged with it in no time. Maricel follows you dutifully. Your guard dog.

“Cunt.” Maricel bites out at the solider as she shuffled after you. Trudging into the muck.

“Put your forked tongue away.” You suggest.

She moodily deigns to do as you say.

You fold your gloved hands. Pretty pearl buttons march along your wrists now seeming contemptuous among all this. You rub at them to spark up some warmth in your numb fingers, as you looked around for the cluster of carmine coated generals.

Slipping and staining your skirts with slodgy mud as you followed the dismal soldier who’d take you to him. Your heels slip up, your feet get bogged. The stench of this place is curdling your lungs. Burnt larch trees and smoke and decay.

You press on. Determined.

The men swim their their groggy eyes to you. This place is used to viscera and gummy black blood, and mud crusted ash.

By comparison you look like a chunk of pure silken teal sky, fallen to earth. Precious and spotless. A drop of stunning sapphire wedged into all this dirt and death.

You squelch your way through tents and surgeon tents where men lay gouged and exposed. Rotting alive and shivering under the canvas as they cried out to the chowder thick sky. Rain melting on their eyelashes.

The smoke cleared past you, drifting. And then your overly elegant shape comes moulded out the congealing blood and smog of his hell. Pearl buttons, satin, and floral petal perfume. A wrenching juxtaposition coinciding.

You see your husband. Through the cloth mouth of one of the larger tents. No mistaking those puddle eyes for anyone else. The white scratchy wig. The cut of his powder blue coat and red royal medals slashing blood.

He’s gathered with men around a map table staked out with battle plans. This fare is all simplicity. Battle for blood and the vicinity of conquering men.

This is a land shuttered to the gaze of your sex. Your kind do not come roaming here. Not noble women anyway. The generals of mild importance probably had their favourite whores fetched in, however.

You stand and his eyes travel at last to yours. You smile lightly.

His expression altered into bitterness. Eyes lost their walnut warmth. Jaw clenched. Mood spiked sour.

He told you distinctly not to fucking come.

Yet here you stand.

You meet his burnt umber gaze and the sparky fire flecked there, scalds you.

“Tsarevich.” You greet him. Breath whipped to silver. You’re standing in the misty rain.

Waiting to see what comes spat back.

The generals clustering him, all bow in confusion and politely bob their unkempt wigged heads.

Not Paul.

His jaw clenched. Expression stiff. Posture as rigid as a Siberian Larch.

You’re fucking in for it now.

You batted at the sopping stretch of canvas. Hurling it out the way. Rain crashes down into your sprouting feathered hat and onto your shoulders.

Every squelch of your step into the oozing mud came sharp. Striking as a gut punch.

He’s following, hot on your heels, and you want to turn around and swing a punch into the angelic cherubim face you’d missed all these lonely long eight months.

His anger set off your own. Silky black gunpowder meeting roaring flame.

He’s livid.

You stand in his quarters. His tent is this huge beast of a thing. Clean and comfortable. A room with a table and maps and trunks takes up one. Green and gold tapestries make the walls slightly more habitable. More sophisticated. A cut above the desolate forest and the miseries of the wounded.

An emerald velvet curtain shields off the area where his ornate downy bed must be. He was still a Prince after all. He’ll be among his men. But he’s not sleeping in a frozen bedroll in the muck like an animal.

He storms into this space behind you and slaps the canvas closed. Words snapping out his mouth, that flimsy tent walls and steadily dripping rain will not conceal.

“This is not a place for you. You’re not supposed to be here.”

You don’t twist back to him as you angrily shed your gloves. Ripping them off like it was your own skin.

“Heaven forfend. I travel for two days in an uncomfortable carriage in the fucking driving rain to come see my husband and this is the thanks I get?”

“I told you not to come!” His words stamp out his mouth. He stabs a finger in the air. Aiming it as you.

“A lovely welcome.” You stab back.

He’s toe to toe with you. Muddy boots. Those chocolate eyes are all bitter. Not skated in love. Cold as all this terrible mud you’re bogged into.

“I don’t need you here. I have enough to deal with on my plate as it is fighting these Turks. I don’t need my wife by my side whilst I’m engaged in matters of battle.”

You steel your wilful jaw and bathe in the burnt brown shadow of his scowl.

“I am your wife. I have been left rotting at court. In misery now you’re gone. I decided to come and see you. To be here, by your side. In sickness and in health and even in battle. I don’t consider that as an action that deserves censure.”

“Yes it fucking is. I don’t need you here.” He shouts.

The burn of tears stings at your chest. Rips at your eyes. The man you’ve missed and ached after for months now and this is his choice of words levelled at you. It’s cutting.

“Lovely.” You bite out. “Well then. I won’t waste my time loitering around for you to yell at me.” You grip your gloves and turn back to him.

“Fuck you, Paul. Good day. Go back to your warring, and muddy filth.” You finish acidly. Your throat is full of clotting fire. Your rage. In situ with your wounded pride.

You shove at his coated chest, dull gold buttons. Go to move past him. Wipe your boots on his fine rug floors on the way out.

Your ruined shoes stick on the spot. He’s banded a hand around your wrist. It tugs. Burns skin.

“Let go.” You seethe. Pull your arm. You don’t look at him. Jaw grit.

He does not.

You wrench again. It brings you closer to him. You snarl. He stills your arm.

You do meet his gaze. The glint of fire - raked embers - returns to his eyes.

“No.” He decided.

Oh, now he’s in for it.

Anger spumes out of you like raining cursed hellfire. He should be terrified. You are mighty. Goddess of war backed with wrath. Angrier than Ares. These men should cower under your golden gaze. Desolation writ into you so heavily they should run for the hills.

“Thought you didn’t need me? Why would the mighty Tsarevich need his dumb bitch of a wife at his side? Run out of good whores have you?”

It was too late for niceties.

“Just be quiet.” He snaps.

Stepping very close. Close enough to touch only he doesn’t. His eyes move to your mouth. His hand seeks for your waist. Reels you in.

You don’t want too. But you clam up. You want to rear back and swing your fist to strike him. Preferably with a knife.

“I have never known a woman as disobedient. Nor as wilfully stubborn as you are. It’s infuriating.” He snipes.

His breath warms your mouth. He smells like his woody spice soap and bitter brush of smoke, and sweat. Still Paul. Underneath all things.

“Good.” You snarl with a nod. “I’m glad to have been such an inconvenience.”

“Constant dagger in my side.”

“Fuck you.” You announce passionately.

“I have had enough of your inability to listen to my orders.” He comments.

“Tough shit.” You snark.

“Elegant verbiage.” He insults.

His gaze is swimming into something steel black and lethal. You hate how much you like looking at him like this. It almost makes him look intimidating and handsome.

At this point, you’re half desire, half pure lightning hot rage.

“Get back to me when I don’t want to stick a knife in your thigh. Maybe my vocabulary will improve.” You hiss.

You’re so locked and entwined with this man. Tug his strings and it’s sure enough to jerk some distant part of you, merely by extension.

“Are you wet right now?” He asks. Head tilting His lashes shutter his eyes as he scans you. From the dirt crusted hem, sweeping upwards.

Your mouth is dry as tumbling scorched sands. Clench your teeth to dust. Heart ramming your tonsils.

He spies that twitch in your face. “Am I to take that as a yes, Tsarevna?”

If looks could kill.

“I’m going to fuck you. I know how plaint and weak it makes you when I work that delicious cunt open with my cock.” He steps you back. Hands tugged in your dress. Leading.

“I will fuck every disobedient word and thought out that head. Wife.” He sneers.

He pushes you to one of the wooden columns. Shunts a breath out of you. Hands digging through your skirts. Searching for your pussy.

You rake your nails into the nape of his neck. Hope it stings. Pray it brings blood.

“Be careful what you wish for.” You warn.

He smiles.

He’s fucking you not two minutes later.

Naturally, it didn’t take him long. You succumbed way too easy. Melted like butter, really.

He’s slithered to the gaps in your armour and snuck beneath with all the cunning adroitness of a serpent. You detest it.

He doesn’t give you what you need. Of course not. He doesn’t make this easy. His actions are all dipped in mocking taunt and brat.

He splayed you open, and rubs the fat leaking head of his cock against your trembling pussy. Eight months of nothing your your own fingers and he’s making you sit and beg like a trained lapdog.

Slapping it to your clit and smiling when you lurch. Unwilling to feed the head into you just yet.

It’s fucking agony.

You’re ready to slit his throat by the time he rewards you with sinking to the hilt in one ramming surge of his hips. The anger dissipates - a little.

You soothe the rest of it by leaning up and gnashing your teeth into his neck. Clamp down hard- force him to fuck you harder.

He cursed when sliding into you. Mumbled wisely about how conflict always made you so juicy wet for him. He pulled back and taunted you with your own greediness for his cock. The shine of your arousal coating him all glossy. A pretty sight, that.

“Hear how wet you are my love?” He lurches and slams you. A sharp stroke that wracked every vertebrae of your spine.

The sounds that come keening from you make your eyes flick back into your head. Enough to make him more smug.

“Utterly filthy. Soaking.” He huffs in gasps. “Making wet patches on my bed like a damn harlot.”

“Can’t believe you. Hmm- fucking brat. Yelling at me for coming here.” You manage to gasp. Cheeks blistering hot with this anger spurned arousal. Nails clawed into the carved headboard.

A hiccup snags the back of your throat as he knees closer.

Pushes your legs almost crushed up to your tits. Your stays almost strangling you. You cry loud because of this new angle. Makes him punch a spot inside that almost aches.

“I think this cunt is more pleased to see me than you are.” He smirks. Hands with dirty nails digging into your thighs. Ten half moons socketed into your quivering flesh.

“Fucking hell.” Spews out your mouth. Unguarded. He’s severing every strong steel thread of your resolve.

“I’ll take that as yes.” He says. Hair falls choppy in front of his wild eyes. Tiger eyes. Frightful fierce. Hands clamped to your thighs. He spreads you and sits up to stuff himself deeper. Harder. Faster.

The noises he’s getting out of you are just growing and growing. Rising in pitch and volume. So much so you’re swirling your hips to him to get feedback off that friction. That burgeoning pleasure begins to slice mean into your belly.

“How you moan for me when I give you my cock. Never gets old.” He grins.

“Never too late to punish my disobedient-“ he huffs and fucks hard inbetween his words. “Petulant. Stubborn. Wife.” He insists with a playful leer.

He can tell by the wails how close you are. Enough to taste it now. That eye rolling pressure ready to snap.

His cock stretched you just right. Stabbed into the gaping cup of your womb. You’re so treacherously close to that blissful peak you go rigid trying to chase it down and let the sensation ruin you.

It was mind meltingly good. Close and looming closer. Heat wrapping your limbs and warping your mind to bend to him. Every atom of you trained for this pleasure to come-

He yanks his cock out of you so fast, you want to shriek.

That coal hot glow of orgasm withers and curls to ash. He’s back to slipping his fat head around your cit again. Smearing your cunt in a sticky taste he’ll find and devour later.

“You fucking-“ you glare up at him all blissed and edged. Cunt clenching on nothing but air. He smooths both his thumbs over your pretty and dripping pussy lips. Making you throb.

“If you want to cum, you better beg.” He insists.

“I could kill you.” You seethe. Words dressed in a growl.

He tilts his head. Teasing. “Yes?”

You yelp when his cock slams into you once more. Puff for breath. God fucking dammit.

“How about now?” He checks as he folds you in half, yet again. Cock rooted deep.

The start of a long night, to be sure.

Hours later, darkness wraps you up. Comforting tenebrous blanket. Candles are lit. Dozy gold and matte dark pours into the tent.

He has you food brought in as an apology.

Someone ducks in the tent with a tray of it. He pulls on his boots to go fetch it. Leaves you boneless on his goose feather plumped bed.

There’s a bottle of wine with dinner too. Not the best but you’re not complaining. Dry hard biscuits and a salty wedge of goats cheese was your lot in the carriage ride here.

There’s a thick milky porridge with creamy oats and nutmeg and warming spices. A slab of pink roasted meat glistening with fat and golden globs of plain boiled potatoes barely salted. Sided with some hunk of brown hardy bread smeared in greasy butter.

This food is hot and warm and fills your belly well. He feeds it to you.

It’s how he soothes. But it’s not the only way he wants to offer you comfort.

He gets naked and climbs under the covers. Always bathed you in limitless comforts and luxuries after a rough fuck. The calm sweetness after a raging storm of passion and stinging claws and slamming hate. When the blood has dried to rust, along with the nasty words.

He slips between your legs under the sheets to tongue at your cunt like it’s a juicy honeycomb treat that drips honey.

It’s dripping him.

He eats it out of you. You sigh all dreamy and elongate your neck back to pillows that smell like his shaving soap, to moan his name.

Slipping your nails over the short brown thorns of hair. Rake over his scalp.

You gasp his name and you know the soldiers will have heard the sound sneak out the tent flaps. You don’t care.

His tongue slithers and laps through your puffy sex. Fully nursing your clit with the curl of his tongue. Brushes through the tactile scratch of your curls there. He loves burying his nose in them.

When he’s done he slinks up from under his furs and sheets. Wiping his mouth in the back of his hand. Still a little bit of both of you combined is smeared wetly across one cheek.

It catches in the flickering murky light. Candles are spinning red gold in the dim. Rain is a steady pat on the tent roof.

You look down at him. His gaze is all warmth and tenderness again. A knowing smile slopes the corner of his mouth.

“Did you really travel all this way just so I could fuck you?” He asks all smug.

You smirk. “Got what I wanted, now didn’t I.” You dismiss archly.

But you both know it seats a little deeper than that. There’s definite skin both of you have sunk into this game. It might even be the gummy beating walls of your hearts involved.

“You do know you’re a walking fucking nightmare.” He tells you.

Slotting himself between your hips. Seeking to hold your hands as he rolls into you. Makes your cunt clench.

Your hand slips from stroking his hair, downwards. Vicing your cruel hand around his soft throat. His eyes blaze again.

“Don’t you dare fucking forget it.” You sneer.

He sends you home sore - five days after your arrival.

#punkwrites #prince paul fanfiction #prince paul catherine the great #prince paul imagine #prince paul fanfic #prince paul x you #prince paul smut #prince paul x oc #prince paul x reader #prince paul #i would die for this man #such a brat #he’s such a filthy ho #such a hottie #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn

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seonghwanotes · 7 months

Text

new years eve | jeong yunho

pairing: yunho x reader

genre: fluff

word count: 953

a/n: this was originally a collab but i completed the ending bc the writer i collabed with had closed her acc so yeah, this had me thinking for a lil bit. ALSO THE GIF 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 im getting bias wrecked big time, i cannot imagine being yunhonotes 😭 (21 Aug 2021)

a/n: as i write this, it is 28th sept 2023 😭 had this in my drafts for a while, did not proofread at all so will just post this up for now x

It was finally the most awaited week of the whole year, Christmas week. It was a family tradition for everyone to start preparing for Christmas when December came by but this year round, you were away from your family and you were spending it with Yunho and his friends. Considering that everyone was busy with their own schedules and you finally got a break till New Years, you began your preparation a little later than usual.

But as usual, Christmas went by in a blink of an eye. Right after you had taken down the Christmas tree all by yourself, you let out a loud sigh, feeling a little sad. It certainly felt a little different since it was something you’d do together with your family members but it didn’t feel as lonely since you were with your loving boyfriend.

You grabbed your phone off the couch and took a picture of the now dismantled tree, sending it to Yunho who was at practice with the boys. Not even a second passed, he had seen your message and immediately called you.

“Oh, hello?”

“Y/N, how can you take down the tree without me helping you out? It must have been hard, especially with the upper part of the tree.” He scolded you, making you chuckle.

“Yunho, it’s fine. I was gonna do it by today anyway and I was free after you left so I just got it done. You would be home later anyway. I used a chair in case you were wondering.” You replied back, earning a sigh from him. You didn’t need to be next to him to see his pout and know that he was upset for not helping you out.

You waited for a bit as you sat down, grabbing your gifts you got for Yunho along with the gift wrapper. You set your call on speaker mode and put your phone down. You could only hear some of the boys whispering to each other but it wasn’t too audible since the background music was blocking their voices out.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry I didn’t wait till you came home but tomorrow’s New Years eve! You know I don’t like keeping the tree up for longer than 3 days. Anyway, I’m going to the supermarket soon to get some stuff for our dinner tomorrow.” You told him, still not getting a response back. “Should I get champagne too?”

You and Yunho spent a homely Christmas together as everyone was with their family except for the two of you. It was not much but work has definitely made your lives much more busier, causing you two to not get presents for each other in time that you were doing it pretty late. Not that it mattered to you at this age but you felt bad for not carrying out a simple task.

You started wrapping your presents, occasionally glancing at your phone to see if he was about to end the call since he wasn’t answering you back. There was some light bickering among the boys but you couldn’t hear what they were talking about. “Jeong Yunho, If you wanted to help me out so badly, do me a favour and ask the boys what they would want for gifts or I’m wrapping vegetables for all 8 of you.”

Your threat seemed to slightly work as you heard Mingi chime at the other side of the call, “Ya, I don’t want vegetables this year. You better ask her for her size or I’m asking her myself!”

Size? Your size for what? You were about to voice out but Yunho cut you to it. “Well, that sounds fine. Go ahead, baby.”

“So you want me to get vegetables for them?” You questioned, earning a yell from Jongho.

“Y/N! Don’t listen to hyung! Get us what you feel like getting us except vegetables… what? Oh, no mint chocolate for Hongjoong hyung and Seonghwa hyung. We love you!” He yelled, making you laugh. These boys were enough to make you feel like you were at home.

“Not sure why I’m on speaker mode but okay.” You answered back, hearing someone getting a hard smack. You were about to end the call but stopped when Yunho called out. “Baby, wait! One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Your hand is almost the same as San’s right?” The question almost came out as a whisper, Yunho knowing you would get agitated at that question since your hands were the size of a child compared to his delicate giant ones.

“You know the answer already. Why are you even asking this? Are you getting me a bracelet from Pandora or what?” You asked him, sealing the gift wrapper with a ribbon on top for Yunho’s gift, which was a Rolex watch and matching rings that you’ve been eyeing for a while now.

A silence was heard initially, then a voice followed along. “Yeah, would rose gold do?”

Your cheeks flushed, “Ah, um, yeah. See you later then. Tell the boys to be early tomorrow. Oh, I’ll get 3 bottles of champagne then, okay?”

“Okay, sure thing. Yes, 3 is fine. I love you.” Yunho replied, sending a kiss through the call.

“Love you too.” You responded and ended the call.

One gift wrapped and there was more to go. You sighed, pushing them away for awhile and opened your laptop to surf the internet, making a list on what to buy for the boys, wanting it to be meaningful as well. Even if Christmas wasn’t as joyful as you wanted it to be, New Years was going to be the most memorable holiday you had in a while and you couldn’t wait for it to arrive.

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez fluff #kpop #writing #jeong yunho au #yunho imagines #yunho fanfic #yunho au #jeong yunho #ateez yunho #yunho x reader #new years day

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animebw · 6 months

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I've been struggling to figure out how to write this post for the past couple weeks. Part of me thinks I shouldn't bother writing it at all. Not like my words will accomplish much in the grand scheme of things. But if I don't say anything, these thoughts will just keep gnawing at my mind like caged animals. And as the chaos in Palestine shows no signs of slowing, I need to get this out before it's too late for my words to do anything but cast regretful looks back at a moment I was too cowardly to add my voice to.

So.

Most of you don't know this, but I'm Jewish. Not incredibly so; my dad's side of the family is full of active temple-goers and worshippers, but I've mostly just tagged along for holidays and bar mitzvahs. It's a part of myself I used not to think that much about, just one aspect of my life among many. But in recent years as right-wing anti-semitism has ramped up, I've begun appreciating my Jewish connections more and more. Judaism may not be a religion I follow, but it's been an integral part of my culture and community over the years. It's the connections I share with my extended family who I usually only see a couple times a year on Passover and Hannukah but nevertheless tie us together unshakably. Being Jewish is an indelible part of me, and I've always wanted to make a more active effort in connecting with and exploring that part of my heritage. There was even a time back in college where I was tentatively planning a birthright trip to Israel to connect with my ancestral roots or whatever. Classic post-graduation travel abroad stuff.

It feels really weird to think back on that now.

I've never read much of the Torah, I admit. Not like I could, since I never learned Hebrew. But everything I've picked up about Judaism over the years has overwhelmingly painted it as a call for compassion, kindness, and community. Yes, the world can be cruel, it says, which is why we must add light to the darkness wherever we can. Celebrate the freedoms we've won. Cherish the bonds we've forged. Weep even for those who've wronged us as they suffered in turn from God's judgement. Judaism, to me, has always been about how absolutely essential it is to choose love over bitterness and hatred. It is our responsibility to cultivate a kinder, better world, so those who come after us need not suffer the same ills as us. It's been a comfort in many rocky periods of my life.

And it is with that perspective that I say unequivocally: what Israel's government is doing to Palestine is indefensible. Bombing hospitals, dropping chemical weapons, denying critical aid to innocent civilians trapped in the barrage, even bombing safe routes they themselves told Palestinians to take. Displacing people from their homes, their lives, their dignity with no regard for their basic humanity. Speaking with increasingly dangerous rhetoric with a desire to wipe the entire population off the face of the map. Never mind the decades upon decades of abuse that Palestine has already suffered under Israeli occupation, second-class apartheid citizens in their own homeland. There is no excuse on the face of the planet that can justify this cruelty and carnage.

Yes, Hamas are bloodthirsty terrorists themselves, and there can be no peace until they are brought to justice. But Israel's actions in response to the October 7 attacks have long crossed the boundaries of justified retaliation. What Bibi Netanyahu and his far-right government are enacting upon Gaza is exactly the same breed of genocide that has been enacted upon Jews across the world throughout history. From our subjugation in Egypt through the Holocaust, we know all too well how it feels to face this evil, see it rip through our communities as it seeks to tear apart the fabric of our very personhood. So to see the craven extremists in Israel's government invoke those horrors in an attempt to justify subjecting another downtrodden, oppressed people to the same fate... I don't think I can properly describe how angry it makes me.

Netenyahu and his government do not speak for all Jews. Hell, according to recent polls, they don't even speak for most Israelis anymore. They do not get to claim Judaism for their own murderous purposes. They do not get to use my voice as justification for their war crimes. They betray the soul of this culture with every hospital they blow to bits and every scrap of aid they deny the suffering children next door. And I refuse to be silent in face of their propaganda. I refuse to let this culture, which has been nothing but a source of kindness and community to me, to be weaponized to excuse the same monstrosities we celebrate rising above every year. I refuse to accept their definition of Judaism as long as I have breath to speak against it.

Palestine deserves freedom. Palestine deserves self-autonomy. Palestine deserves the same kindness that Judaism preaches to all downtrodden people of the world. And Israel must stop this senseless slaughter before their history of surviving the world's horrors ends with them becoming the horror in someone else's scripture. Find and destroy Hamas without punishing the people of Gaza- over half of whom weren't even born when Hamas came to power- for their crimes. Work toward a two-state solution where Jews and Arabs, Israelis and Palestinians, can live side by side in solidarity of the trials they've both overcome. Remember compassion in a world that venerates blind hatred. Remember the kindness we claim rises above all attempts to squash it down. Remember that the heart of Judaism is supporting those who struggle through darkness, helping them find their way out into the light.

Remember who we claim to be.

And refuse to let us be defined by death.

#FreePalestine

#politics #israel #palestine #gaza #free palestine #not anime #important #judaism #jewish

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cosmica-galaxy · 2 months

Text

I wrote a little thing with Vee and Cygnus! (I hope I’m not too off-base with Vee’s character.) I like your characters a lot and your work was absolutely an influence in making me start writing fics of my own.

(Oh, can I really not put a read-more in a submission? Boo.)

—

“Purpose of visit?” asked the security guard outside the TV Titan’s hangar.

“I’m to deliver an item to engineer Sixteen-Sixty-Eight,” replied the TV-unit ahead of Vee.“Make that two of us,” said Vee, holding up a package that looked very similar to the one being carried by the other TV.

Vee was not displeased to have been called to the Titan’s hangar, but was a little surprised that someone of his calibre was being asked to essentially be a courier. It felt like a waste of his skills. At least he wasn’t alone in this duty.The two TVs didn’t need to announce their serial numbers to the security guard or to each other; their proximity enabled them to perceive each other’s yes-I-live signal, containing their serials and other official designations.

Ah. The other TV was Fifty-Twenty-Two, officially a diplomat to the other two factions, and well known to be in disgrace as a field agent. Vee wondered if this menial job was a punishment for Twenty-Two - and if so, what had he done to earn the same?

Vee and Twenty-Two signed themselves into the Titan hangar, and accepted the visitor passes handed to them by the security guard (clipping them onto their lapels). As the hangar bulkhead doors opened, the two TVs entered the hangar side by side. They nodded to each other in greeting.

“I like your chevron,” said Twenty-Two. “Very chic. Oh - your serial ends in 5. So that’s a numeral V?”“Thank you. It is indeed,” replied Vee. “In fact, that’s my nickname among friends.”

“I have such a nickname myself. Some call me Cygnus.”

“Like a swan? Why is that; do you hiss?” asked Vee.

“It’s been known. It’s actually for the Twenty-Two in my serial - a friend thought it looked like ‘two little swans’.”

Both TVs turned the corner to enter the main hangar space, and made their way along the network of walkways and gantries to where the engineers were currently clustered. The engineers were evidently mid-break: two of them were sparring on the main walkway at the Titan’s head height, surrounded by the remainder of the crew spectating. The Titan itself observed the duel, evidently entertained by what it saw.Vee and Cygnus approached the cluster of engineers, receiving and parsing the collection of yes-I-live signals, until they located the lead engineer, Sixteen-Sixty-Eight.

“Engineer Sixty-Eight-” began Vee.“Oh, such ill timing,” said the engineer. “This match was just getting good. Thank you for bringing these.”

Engineer Sixty-Eight accepted the offered packages from Vee and Cygnus, nodding to each TV in turn.

Vee and Cygnus watched the combatants to see what Sixty-Eight meant by the fight ‘getting good’. …It might have been good by the engineers’ standards, but the two agents (one current, one former) were underwhelmed. The engineers’ steps shuffled rather than danced confidently, and their blade strikes were hesitant, almost shy. They’d be able to take out a surprised and unarmed skibidi, to be sure, but both Vee and Cygnus felt that a TV really ought to be able to do better than that.

Vee noticed Cygnus’s blades twitch and ever so slightly protrude, as if spoiling for a fight, before Cygnus reeled them back in. (“As a diplomat, you really should conceal your disdain better than that,” thought Vee.)

Eventually, one of the engineers triumphed over the other, moving their blade in past the other TV’s failed block. “Do you yield?” asked the victorious engineer.“I yield,” said the defeated one. Both combatants stood and retracted their blades, before fist-bumping in recognition of each other’s skills. The Titan punched one fist into its other hand’s palm in appreciation (gently, to not overwhelm its tiny comrades with the sound).

“The Titan enjoys watching us spar,” explained engineer Sixty-Eight to Vee and Cygnus.“I do indeed,” interjected the Titan. “It’s something I can’t participate in any more, but I can still enjoy vicariously.”

“We’ve time for one more match before we really must get back to work,” said Sixty-Eight. “Could I play the winner?” asked Cygnus. Cygnus was evidently raring to show these nerds how it was done, Vee thought.“Bring it on!” said the engineer who had won the previous match. “I was getting bored from the lack of challenge.”Cygnus and the engineer (Twenty-Four-Fifty-Six, specializing in the Titan’s electrical systems, according to their yes-I-live signal) stepped forward from the ringed crowd into the fighting space.

The two TVs performed the ritualized motion of 'introducing’ their blades – bringing them together until they were almost touching, then pulling them back slowly and smoothly – before stepping back and assuming combat stance.It was barely a contest - Cygnus all but danced rings around the electrical engineer, provoking a chorus of admiring static buzzes from all spectators. Even Vee was surprised by how caught up he found himself in watching the action.

“Do you yield?” Cygnus inevitably asked.“Gladly! I yield,” replied the engineer, displaying an amused emoticon - evidently glad to have met their match.

“We’d better be on our way,” said Vee to Cygnus, once the outcry of appreciative static noises had died down.

“We shouldn’t keep these engineers any longer.”“Oh, but Five, do you really not have time?” asked the Titan. “It’s not often I get two agents in my hangar at the same time. I would like to see you and Twenty-Two spar.”

Vee noticed Cygnus’s screen light up with excited white noise. (“Oh, you don’t know what you’re getting into, do you?” thought Vee.) “Who am I to turn down a request from the Titan?” said Vee. “Twenty-Two, do you accept?”

“Absolutely,” said Cygnus. “Let’s duel.”

The two TVs took their positions and deployed their blades to perform the ritual of 'introduction’. To Cygnus’s surprise, Vee’s blade emerged from the back of his wrist, rather than the inside.

“Oh - you have a uncommon type of blade housing,” commented Cygnus. “I’ve never sparred with anyone with that model. I welcome the challenge.”

The two TVs faced each other in combat stance, then began. Vee moved unhesitatingly, slicing through the air at Cygnus and pulling their blade just short of what would have been a debilitating blow in a real fight.

“You weren’t ready, were you?” Vee graciously gave Cygnus an out.“…No, I wasn’t,” replied Cygnus. (Vee slightly hoped the diplomat appreciated his action.) “Well, now you’re all warmed up,” said Vee, returning to combat-ready stance. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Cygnus fought hard and well, but Vee fought harder and better still, thrusting and parrying as though this was what he was born to do. The engineers watched in rapt delight, making static buzzes of appreciation often.

“Do you yield?” asked Vee, their blade held just short of the strike that would have ended a real fight.“I yield,” conceded Cygnus. “Beautifully fought, Five.” Cygnus accepted Vee’s offered hand to get back on their feet, and the two TVs shared a fist-bump.

“Maybe you could even take on Palindrome,” said one of the engineers (Fifty-One-Seventy-Four, specialising in the Titan’s coolant systems, according to their yes-I-live signal).

“Who or what is that?” asked Cygnus.

“That would be me,” said another engineer. Their yes-I-live signal showed their serial to be Ninety-Seven-Seventy-Nine, making their nickname’s meaning obvious.

“We mustn’t keep you,” said Vee. “Sixty-Eight already said there was time for one more match, and that was two matches ago.”

“…I’ll allow it,” said Sixty-Eight. “We’re ahead of schedule enough, and we rarely get to see Palindrome in action.”

Both Vee and Cygnus wondered just how much of a challenge this Palindrome could be - the other engineers had seemed amateurish enough.“Alright,” said Palindrome.

“I’m a busy engineer, so I’ll spar both of you at the same time.”

“That’s…” Cygnus began, unsure how to finish the sentence.“…Supremely confident of you,” Vee finished.

“No, merely self-aware.”The three TVs performed the ritual of introduction - Vee and Cygnus both looking at Palindrome’s blades to see if there was anything unusual about them that might give the engineer an advantage. Nothing that they could see.Vee moved with precision and was shocked when Palindrome parried his move almost as hard as his initial attack. Cygnus had even less success, forced to go on the defensive and becoming less and less able to even try to get a hit in.

Even with two against one, Palindrome ran rings around both agents.

“Do you yield?” asked Palindrome, a blade poised at both Vee and Cygnus.“…I yield,” Cygnus said.“As do I,” added Vee.

“That was… certainly something.” (The Titan clapped softly in appreciation.)“Best of five?” suggested Palindrome. “I’ll even give you two points each to start.”

“I… think you’ve already made your point,” said Cygnus.“I quite agree,” said Vee. “We’ve taken up a lot of your time as it is. But thank you very much for the opportunity.”

The two visiting TVs said their goodbyes to the engineers and the Titan, before moving to exit the hangar. They wordlessly transmitted a question to each other - just what had that engineer Palindrome trained in before becoming an engineer?

–

AKAJSJKDJFKKHJKJ! LENSMAN!! THIS IS FUCKING AMAZING!!!THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SUCH A TASTY TREAT!!! *SHOVES THIS WHOLE POST INTO MY MOUTH*

#submission #lensman-arms-race #skibidi toilet #skibidi tag #LOOK AT MY BOI VEE #AKSKLDJFLGKMKHKJJK #I HAD TO FIX THE FORMATTING DAMN YOU TUMBLR

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nesiacha · 1 month

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in your opinion, what was the most significant mistake the jacobins ever made? (i tend to like them much more than other factions in the frev, but i still want to know how Problematic my Faves were)

Good question. I'm not sure which period you want to talk about regarding the Jacobins, so let's discuss the one after the fall of Louis XVI's monarchy. I will mainly encompass the Mountain faction.

Regarding tactical errors, according to some historians, including Antoine Resche, a contemporary historian who has made excellent videos on the French Revolution under the name Histony, which can be found on the Veni Vidi Sensi website, leans towards the lack of left-wing unity as one of the errors. And honestly, he's not wrong. Some might think that the elimination of Danton and the Hébertists was a turning point. But it was salvageable (I've already discussed what I thought in one of my posts). Only the Jacobins made the grave mistake of eliminating Chaumette, among others, even though he had refused to participate in an attempt to overthrow the Convention, which showed he was the most reasonable. Keeping him as the prosecutor of the Commune would have appeased some of the sans-culottes. Instead, the Convention has him arrested and executed. I understand that at that time the Convention could not afford an overthrow and was afraid Chaumette might change his mind, but by doing so, they alienated a large part of the sans-culottes. The wave of executions like Gobel or Chaumette was one of the most disastrous moves.

Another one is the non-application of the Ventôse laws, but it is true that some Montagnards blocked this, and the Marais was against these laws.

Also, being a fervent advocate of freedom of expression, there should never have been decrees holding journalists accountable. I don't particularly like Desmoulins, but executing him for his writings… Moreover, it will not prevent opinions from forming and solidifying.

Regarding moral errors: In addition to the travesties of justice I mentioned concerning the Hébertists and the Dantonists, there were other cases. When Girondin deputies were dismissed, most deputies did not want them dead, let alone imprisoned. They were only supposed to remain under house arrest. The problem is, many of them escaped and incited uprisings in the departments, which further exacerbated the already endangered Republic. Despite all I have to reproach them for, some Girondins were honorable people, notably Manon Roland and Vergniaud (even if Vergniaud had an ambiguous attitude, he still remained under house arrest) who stay in Paris. Yet they were judged, condemned to death, and executed along with other Girondins who incited or attempted uprisings and fled Paris. It wasn't even a tactical error; it was unfair.

Another very minor point concerns the Convention entirely, and this is my opinion. Why separate Marie Antoinette from her son? I understand there were royalists in Paris (the assassination of the remarkable Louis Michel Lepeletier by one of Louis XVI's former guards, among other events, will demonstrate this) who would do anything to get their hands on him as Louis XVII, which would have been dangerous. It would have been better to monitor the child's education closely given this context, but why not have strict supervision while leaving him in his mother's care, even though we know her opinions? I don't want to demonize Antoine Simon, executed in Thermidor; he wasn't a brute; he had compassion for the former queen and liked the child, but it's horrible. Being myself a proponent of reforms for jail to ensure the child remains very close to his parents, I protest against this. And the royalists seized upon it to portray an image of an inhumane Republic.

Women's rights were not respected, as I discussed in my post "Women's rights suppressed."

One of the most serious errors was the Prairial Law. When this bill presented by Couthon and later approved by the Committee of Public Safety and voted on by the Convention passed, many innocents suffered. Following the execution of the "Robespierrists," the Convention lied, saying it had not approved it, which was false.

Paradoxically, there was no internal elimination necessary at that time, notably the case of Carnot, who gave orders behind the backs of others to wage a war of conquest, which would have jeopardized the Battle of Fleurus if Saint-Just had not intervened with the order. I don't understand why he wasn't arrested; generals have been executed for less than that. This man doesn't deserve his title as the organizer of Victory, but having eliminated those who had really done the job like Saint-Just, among others, he could claim that title.

I realize I have done a critical job on the Montagnards even though I admire them, so a few lines to rehabilitate them. Most of them refused the irresponsible war of conquest advocated by the Girondins. Finally, fatigue was fatal to them. They put their best efforts into saving France, but most became ill (Couthon, Robespierre; I don't know if Billaud-Varenne was beginning to develop his dysentery or if his illness came after his deportation). Robespierre made a grave mistake by slamming the door on the Committee of Public Safety following a dispute among its members, then a few weeks later making a speech where he designated culprits without naming names (like Fouché, for example), so some wrongly believed they were the ones being designated when they weren't. Fouché and his gang played on this.

I want to say that Jean Clement Martin explained that if the Girondins are seen as victims, it's because they didn't have time to put the Montagnards on the guillotine. There were quite a few assassinations of Montagnard deputies (some think that Barbaroux manipulated Corday to kill Marat, Joseph Chalier was killed in atrocious conditions by the Girondins of Lyon, Isnard's speech). When the Jacobins acted, there was an internal civil war and an external war against the Revolution, plus a depreciated currency. And they saved it. For a while, they tried to accommodate (at least the majority of them) their adversaries. Then the gloves came off. But they remained in democracy, even in the worst moments. The Jacobins supported the abolition of slavery (not just them), and most of the major Jacobin figures fully supported the uprisings by slaves against the colonists.

Napoleon, although praised today for inheriting a better situation thanks to the efforts of his predecessors, through his dictatorial attitudes, betrayal of the Jacobins, and wars of conquest (all the wrong things), left France in a worse state with the return of the Bourbons. Revolutionaries like Marat predicted from the outset of the French Revolution that if the Girondins persisted in declaring war, even if France were victorious, there would be a military dictatorship and subsequently the return of the Bourbons.

All this leads me to think that it was the revolutionaries of the Mountain who were pragmatic and Napoleon the "idealist" in the wrong sense of the term, given his grandiosity and stupid belief (in my opinion) that he could impose hereditary dictatorship, exploit other countries without them retaliating (but that's another story).

Finally, the Jacobins in power were exhausted; they even lacked sleep hours due to their internal schedules. Before the Prairial Law was passed, there was an assassination attempt on Collot, so it was thought that the royalist danger was present. Plus, this law was disfigured by those who presented it; they thought they would only use it against people like Fouché, Carrier, Barras, Fréron, Tallien—des despicable men who dishonored France and the Revolution. It was they who later presented themselves as victims of the Jacobins when they were the worst during the Terror. Contrary to belief, heads rolled after the Terror; just look at the execution of Romme and the other Montagnards, the execution of Babeuf, the fact that anyone who demanded the constitution of 1793 could be punishable by death.

Finally, I want to say that despite my speeches, I don't believe in providential men; if France could have a sense of greatness during this period, it's thanks to the people. In Algeria, we have the slogan: "One hero only: the people."

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thenhlteaissuperhot · 4 months

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nykki (martin necas' girlfriend) just posted some sort of q&a on her youtube channel and from the translation of the title, she should be talking about the nhl too, could you perhaps watch it and translate the interesting bits for us since its in czech?

This video was actually really interesting.

I have said it in the past already, but Nykki is genuinely one of the most sensible, down-to-earth, and level-headed WAGs I have seen on social media, so her answers were impressive and definitely worth hearing:

She answered the question about how she and Martin met:

Said that it is the most-asked question she gets - "My theory is that some of the people, who are asking me that, probably want to date a hockey player and they don't know how to do that. Personally, I wouldn't go for a hockey player." (she is so real laughing her ass off during that last part)

She would really want to have some sort of romantic story, but they literally started dating because he was constantly liking her photos, then DMed her on Instagram, they started texting and FaceTiming for several months before they actually saw each other in real life and started dating like two months after.

Talked about what it is like living as a (European) WAG, who moved to the US because of her boyfriend:

The players are away for half of the month during the season, so they don't see each other as often as people may think.

It was really hard for her to make friends among the other WAGs in the first year.

Overall, she expressed that she really struggled the first year and even thought that she wouldn't be able to live like that, wanting to go back home.

She also found it really hard to understand the "NHL lifestyle" (said that the term alone seems silly to her to this day) - "It is an extremely particular group of people. Even among the girls, in the room where we meet during the games, there are so many unspoken rules. I am an open book, I like to share my thoughts, and I hate small shallow talks, but I understood quite quickly that it doesn't work like that here and you can't trust everyone. It is everywhere like that - when you come to a room where there are twenty-five girls, at the end of the day, you only get along with a few of them, and I didn't understand that in the beginning. I kinda burned myself."

She can't have a work permit in the US and neither can all the European WAGs because their visas are officially under their partners - said that it is extremely hard for everyone to get a work permit in the US, but for them, it is practically impossible. A lot of other WAGs have tried, they poured a lot of money into the lawyers, and no one, she knows, has so far succeeded.

Where it is possible for the WAGs to obtain work permits, is in Canada - during this part, she also joked that Martin doesn't have a contract for the next year, so maybe they could move there.

Because of this whole work permit issue, she started doing social media, producing music, and writing scripts for some sort of company (the last two I understood are jobs in the Czech Republic, which she does online), making her own money.

She also said that life in Raleigh, North Carolina is quite uneventful compared to Prague, where she is from - however, she is also aware of the fact, that Raleigh is a quite safe place to live and that she can be glad for it because it's not like that everywhere in the States (as she knows from the experiences of other WAGs).

She also answered money-related questions as many people think that her boyfriend pays for everything in her life:

It is crazy for her that some people think that she is dating him only for the money - said that she didn't move across the Atlantic, away from her family and friends, and the established life she had in the Czech Republic, because of designer bags.

Said that all the WAGs (not just hockey ones) always showcase their life on social media to people who follow them in a manner that makes it seem better than it actually is - posting how they go to the games, how they all have their hair done, designer handbags...

She emphasized that they do have it really easy in a lot of things, and that it actually bothers her (personally she wouldn't be able to bear being financially dependent on her boyfriend - at least that's what I think she meant), but that there are also a lot of disadvantages, for example, if she is going to have kids one day in the States, their grandparents aren't going to see them because they are on the other side of the Atlantic.

At the end of the NHL-related segment, she brought up the question "what would you do if you broke up?"

She emphasized that she is one of the lucky ones because she has managed to find a way how to make a living on her own so this question doesn't really worry her because her life would simply continue, just back in Prague, not in the USA, but that many of the girls are studying in the States or just living there with their boyfriends and solely because of their boyfriends, and that once they break up, it is extremely difficult for them.

#nhl gossip #nhl wags

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