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astralnymphh · 2 months

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making ellie ur anal princess ౨ৎ

𓆩.𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝𓆪: subbottom!ellie, bit of a brat obv, spanking ofc!! rough n' nasty, sorta soft, an iota of lore buildup tbh im not doing all that, some fluff at the end i think, 2.4k+ words . BIG TEXT VERSION . MASTERLIST . DAILY CLICK . IMPORTANT TLOU POST . PALESTINE INFO . ART BY LOTTIE

Wintry brumes swept through Jackson this week had to have carried some alteration of spores, for Ellie to even chew her teeth over the word yes. Bizarre as the idea should strike— "Wanna try it from behind?"— recoiling lips over her ear rim, sunken in a seat behind, and masticating denimed ass with your honed nails; Ellie was all in, blushed to the bone.

Was she at all candid originally? No, that goes without saying. Humdrums and spectrums of explicitness on your part pervade each crack and inept cough of chatter that she starts days beforehand, throat literally cracking whenever the topic emerges on dreary mornings or alive nights. Twiddly of her thumbs or knees, breaks the thick silence on a spitty click— uncalled for finger jabbing you to see if you managed to evade sleep long enough, "Um, so— it really won't hurt if I.. god— this is so fuckin'.. uh, keep.. practicing?"

Practicing. One way to say it. You assured Ellie; "Yeah, unless you're a masochist praying for a death wish." which maybe could've been articulated nicer, but she's your girlfriend, and one of her major ground-breakers for falling smitten with you— your humor. Spankin' her butt the second she spanks yours, (In turn making her the butt of the running: "That's gonna be you on Friday." joke), or nonchalantly slipping the notion that she'd "Look hotter than a V.S model." in a black thong, flopping your head and averting casual gaze to blank spaces undeserving of your eyes as if your comment wouldn't fuck with her brain for the ticking remains of daylight. Just crude humor, and not serious concepts, right?

So beyond the shadow of doubt, of course, when she's bare lain, spreadeagled of her legs caging you in, maraschino face smudged flat to her bed, perky ass in yours and teased by the caphead of your plastic dick— you give all the humor that girl can get, and fourfold.

"Don't need to clench, baby. Your butt isn't going anywhere."

Ellie clenching for her oh so cherished life felt more like she was squeezing the nervous nectar out, pearly bullets brought upon by all that foreplay— or anticipation— bedazzle the creased parts and frowns she knits as you wrap a grip on your lubed length and brush the tip against her asscrack. It prods at her, mentally. Pokes her to open up, literally.

A drawn-out whine, low and wispy, breezes her throat, "Shut up," jaw tensing grit conjointly, "You're such an ass— and don't you dare make an ass joke, I swear." you suppose she attempted to rein in some essence of control with that suppressed tone of threat, cute threat if we're mincing no words, but it's futile. Can't rise above when you're pinned below.

You snicker, contrary hand swerving over and beginning to palm her butt's half-taut half-doughy feel, and yielding it to a pull, "Hmhm." the soft heat of your touch inciting her muscles to relax, just a slight. "Want you to put it in, set the pace for me, mkay?" your voice curls at the end, tilting your face even if she couldn't exactly see.

"Huh.." she releases a breathy chuckle into the mattress, then shimmies onto her ruddy, pockmarked elbows to allow a pivot of her head. "Makin' me do all the work, can't you just do it already?" she gripes, teetering between frustration and impatience, and nearly hissing, "Fuck me already." instead. Fair skin contours along her shoulder blades as she reaches back, little dimples you wanna deepen with presses.

Muggy fingers skid the bends of your knuckles, "Ts' cute when you do." and you slacken your grip, the harness lacing your hips tugging in nooks as she takes you and levels it to her hole, not quite inserting it before another scoff unbinds from her throat.

"Uh-huh, totally." the brat card was the only thing she could play, Ellie being Ellie— plus, fuck you for shoving such a vulnerability into her by eclipsing over her body and deciphering which touches and words made her tick into a, "Yes ma'am." this past week, making her eager to get piped dumb already, even if the thought conflicts with humiliation.

Intrinsic carnality, had her whipped subconsciously. Hot blood always pooled at her cheeks whenever the mere prediction of how this would go down flashed her mind, having to mosey out of her place for a contemplative stroll. Contemplate, contemplate, ooze her eyes into the raw white, winter void, "Fuck." she couldn't help but moan, and throb untouched.

Bands flex across her grasp as she tries pulling you inside, but her body is a bit too.. antsy, taut. "Babe, it's not— mmph, it's not going in. I think we have to—"

"Have to.. what?"

"Fuck!" a rushed moan tears as skin slaps, harsh and bridging on real tears. Of pain, or by pleasure? Ellie can't convey, but her thrust into the spongy bed and toss of head begging to get strung in your fist impart the guess that fuck— you've stretched her deep, bottomed in perfectly.

You let her hole familiarize the girth for a second prior to drawing out and slamming back in, "Uh!" plush globes rippling wherever the skin spilled on top of your hip bones jamming into her. The pressure clamping you in causes a tiny kickback against your folds, chafes your clit underneath. "Fuckin' tight, aren't you?" you're a damn taunt, winching that whisper ardent to her neck. Evilly; wicked as lusty spirits tempt.

"Holy fuck, holy fu— uhh, uh uh, shit!" streams of nasty and broken up groans hike out of her gaped mouth with each pump into her, poor girl having a gouge out with the bedsheets as a means of taking you, "It's so— uhn! So fuckin' bi— I can't, hhn'can't.."

Musing sighs blur into a pitying coo, you reply, "Mhm, you can. Play with 'urself baby."

"Okay, okay—" Ellie unfolds a breathlessness, "—unhh babeee, fuckkk me." and runs it into straught curses as her tatted forearm lodges in the narrow space separating her from drenched cotton, and forks her pussy lips open, rubbing her neglected bud in sloppy strokes. Her teeth bore into her soft, coral lips when her fingers tug just right, so delectably right she could come undone then and there with your added penetration, waning from pain to indeed— pleasure. Diverts her fingers a moment to massage all the dripping slick and lube through her labia 'till it drew pretty webs between, and resumes again, noisily as ever, "Ghnna' cum, guhhh— ohh my goodd." and so nasty; dribbles of thin saliva traversing the swell of her chin.

Goddamn, she's loud. Sure, it's adorable how you pump her into a blathering mess on your cock, but this was unforeseen; surrendering her every moan to get bumped out nonsensically. Because or for you, both possibly, or definitely. "Already? Aww." you pity, muffling your speech to render your voice into thorns of mock disappointment, but in reality, you just quickened your humps. Shown audibly in the squeaks of her bed frame squawking under your combined weights.

Two splotchy flowerbeds of crimson brim at her asscheeks, owing to how intense this had began and trickled into. Hmm, could make it redder if we so wished.

Wish it is.

Quietude holds, and relents in a hard snap; a sting pricks the entirety of your palm crashing down on her butt, watching as the gentle red gains a series of richer rays and hearing the result of said slap punching through her larynx.

"Ughnn!"

Continuing: you slap once, slap twice, times it by thrice, and drive her into a quiver, procuring those wails that have your goosebumps downright rigid as the earth.

"Uh— uh— agh!"

Retiring your hands thriven of ache, they find oasis curving in the shape of her waist. "So good, isn't it Els? Can tell by how loud you're being, my sloppy girl." praised you, silkily sweet upon the lacy edge of slamming your cockhead rough on her walls.

"Yes, yessh. Make me shl— make me.. fuck— make m'your sloppy girl.." past her grace, is a side long since cowered. It's like you molded her brain to abruptly covet the feeling spurting inside her pelvis. From her spine, unto her clit, a ticklish string invokes its fray, flitting her eyes to darker heavens within her skull.

You coast your knees further up until they parked aside her hips, slanting your groin so you could plunge her wider and deeper, ending up with a draw of lubrication landsliding out. Sheer size alone— she's spread her on your strap thickly enough to stimulate certain sweet spots, and god can you tell when you do hit them. Resistance punts the strap base viciously back, dragging a yelp from your lungs. All the squelches coming from her two holes, egged you to an insatiable fucking. Arousal scorched the curves of your cheeks, in love with that sound, infatuated with her pussy, her ass, how ace of a learner she is.

Ellie's calves give upon sensation and hurtle up, rotating her ankle downwards and pushing cinched toes smushed on your bouncing hind— because that infamous pinch now consumes her fattened clit, riding her sleek-glistened fingers doggishly to pursue that heavenly itch. An oncoming recital of whines and growls coats her timbre, "Baby, uhh— babe— m'gonna cum now, dammit.. 'cum all over you— yeah." pleading for you to hasten up in buggy nudges of her heel, butting your ass.

"Oh yeah?" you swirl muse, arching your thumb into the arch her spine slowly welds into, swooning when her head lies atop her ear and a suffused, smiling expression meets your behold.

"Mhm, hmph!" a hitched gulp interrupts her, "You're too fuckin'— mhh, too fuckin good at t-this." inching into a cocky laugh for a blink in time, then swallows it returned to a screw of overwhelm in her facial muscles. She snakes her free paw under yours set on her waist, collecting it and dragging you to grope a handful of her breast, erect nipples flicking stripes due to your humps jostling her.

Weepy eyes bordered by remnants of her past tears cried inflict a bridge between pride and more praise into the pleasure points of your body, and you had no clue before this that she cried. It felt.. gratifying, seeing freckled flesh resemble pebbled waters in spring, ribbons of light warping along her cheeks.

"Those tears for me?" even so, you lower your lips and lap the pellucid stain up, puckering a smooch in its wake.

But you keep ramming a flood out.

The nod she bobs is swift, swifter than her gullet will ever deliver in this state— nor could now, a contort bolting her face inwards subsequent to a mouse-pitched moan leaving the luring lips of your lover bearing pressure into squirting her orgasm all over you, "Oh fuck! Fuck!" she keens and cants her ass on you, jerking swipes over her clit wildly to fufill the ecstasy piping through her pussy. A timid and weak spray noises below— and then came the webs of liquid pearls cascading around her clit, connecting to her fingerprints as she delicately taps the beady bud.

She got thrashy, and clenched your cock in, having bitten off more than she could chew— and it thrilled your cunt to know that; fire catches, and so does the knot twisting your insides. Relish leaves your mouth as you finish base-deep in your girlfriend, imposing her to your skin-bulged grip of her soft breast melting into your palm lines as you cum, "Ohh, yes baby— good girl, good girl.. fuckk." imprinting her mind with how good that felt in your every reaction, forcing that fervor into her existence.

"I fuckin' love you, babe, I love you so fuckin' muh— yes yes yes.." Ellie reciprocates passion received, unto passion given; parting her muck sweat face from the bed and sundering that space in front of yours, suckling your bottom lip into your mouth and sharing the excess teardrops streaked upon her top lips, unlocking to simply just— breathe onto your mouth, straining the last of her orgasm in gradually dwindling moans.

One last peck at her lips charged by a high, you both temper your elation strewn throughout and become aware of the loss for air in your lungs, inhaling the scent of each other done up in exertion. The stillness sustains for a bit, kind of just drunkenly staring 'till one of you broke into a lopsided smirk— no doubt Ellie, and you just had to mingle lips again. So, you slide out carefully with the expected threads of lube following after, and you roam your damp palms away from her ass and chest and branch them on either side of her clammy waist. Her contagious giggles inspire you to mirror the same sounds as you slink behind her and spoon her, smushing the ball of your nose into her hot nape reeking of sweat.

"Was that everything you imagined— or a pain in the ass?" quiped you, quick rolling kisses on her skin, specks of your spit smearing.

Cringe compels her to split lips from you, chuckling, "Really? Right now?" a row of notches digging between her brows, and a shuffle of her legs rub at the filthy wetness layering her groin, "You've got to be kidding me."

"So it was a pain?"

All you get as a response is her shoulder blades swelling as she breathes in, and shies her face away, giving you the hair-in-your-face treatment. "Guess.. after that, 'could go for a couple snacks. I'm hungry."

You squint, "By snacks, do you mean your two-course aftersex meal?" retorting.

"Yeah! That's like, the best thing to do right after." and, her enthusiastic claim isn't all that spoiled. Ellie commonly does it, and she fucking loves it. Hot meals under some wacky or heartfelt discussion, sometimes checking in on the other person, sometimes asking how they felt— but this time, confessions would stay an enigmatic afterthought to ponder about, as really, she fucking loved what you did to her. But that's— forward. Give her a couple days and a couple hours toppled above the usual hour she knocks slumped into somnolence, and she'll admit that. Sappy sweet on the lobe of your ear, indifferent on whether you're wide awake to overhear or not.

"You felt good, uh, by the way. It hurt at first, but, I think my butt's healed from the trauma. Chair isn't uncomfortable to sit in anymore, hmph. Love you, don't ask me about it in the morning. I'll pretend you don't exist. Night, babe."

Something tells me she wants you to do it again.

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kaijuposting · 1 year

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The Pacific Rim novelization, generally cursed though it may be, does contain a bit of interesting lore. Presented as part of a magazine article, a strange phenomenon known as drift hangover is described:

…Interviews with former Rangers suggest that their cognitive systems are permanently altered by the experience known as the Drift. They report persistent perceptions that another consciousness is operating in tandem with their own, as well as feelings that each action they take is recreated on a larger scale somewhere else. Some Rangers call this "Drift hangover," but unlike hangovers, it does not appear to diminish over time.

The number of surviving ex-Rangers is very small, necessitating a degree of skepticism when assessing these findings. The Pan-Pacific Defense Corps does not permit external physicians or clinical staff to examine active Rangers, further limiting the available data. Nevertheless, it appears highly probable that the neural handshake causes persistent and perhaps permanent changes to the perceptual systems of the participants.

Also perhaps worthy of further investigation, though likely beyond the purview of this journal, are the claims of certain Rangers that they remained connected to their Jaegers even after the neural handshake and the Drift were terminated. Numerous anecdotal reports of exist of Jaegers shifting with no Ranger in control of them, with attendant claims that these motions replicated the sleeping motions of the Rangers assigned to that particular Jaeger.

If substantiated, these claims would characterize the nature of the neural handshake in a profoundly different light. They would also raise the specter of a sort of imprinted simulacrum of consciousness in the Jaegers themselves…

#pacrim #pacific rim #pacific rim novel #pacific rim novelization #drift hangover #the drift #drifting #jaegers #ppdc #pan pacific defense corps #pacific rim lore

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ghoulodont · 6 months

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Held at a Knife's Point

Dewdrop invites Rain on an unconventional date.

Relationship: Raindrop / Characters: Dewdrop, Rain Tags: Ear Piercing, Ghoul Lore (just a little), sweet & supportive Dew Words: 3511

Read below or on AO3

Dewdrop asks him as they’re cleaning up after a practice session that day, just the two of them in the instrument storage room.

“By the way, I’m going into the city tomorrow, want to come with me?”

The abbey’s locale meets most of their day-to-day retail needs, but for some things, more specialized purchases, they tend to go to the nearest major city. There’s a big record store they all like to browse, and a music store that stocks all sorts of gear that’s better tried in person.

“Sure,” Rain says. “Guitar pedals?”

“Getting my ear pierced.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“You could get one too, if you want.”

Rain reaches up and touches his own ear without any conscious intention. “I’ve never thought about it.”

“No pressure, you could come with me either way.”

“No, I mean, I’m just not sure what kind I would get.” Dew has a few piercings already, in a scattering of different places across his ears — a body part which is quite intricate, actually. It seems there might be dozens of possibilities. Rain runs his fingers over the loops and curves of his own, as of yet unaltered.

“I think you should get one here.” Dew reaches up and places his fingertip on a spot just inside the round inner hollow of Rain’s ear. If that hollow were a globe, a planet rotating on the long axis of his ear, Dew’s finger could be on its equator.

Rain puts his own finger there, nestled against Dew’s for a moment.

Dew pulls his hand away, then leans back a bit and watches Rain as if he’s visualizing, considering how it would look on him.

“Won’t it get in the way of the in-ear monitor?” Rain asks.

Dew hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think it will. You could always change the jewelry if it did, though. To something flat.”

Rain pinches his ear between his fingernails. It stings. He imagines what it would feel like if they went all the way through.

“You can get whatever you like, though.” Dew puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “You don’t have to get anything at all. It’s up to you.”

“What are you getting?”

“One that goes across, like this.” He pulls one hand back out of his pocket and drags his finger horizontally across the flat plane of Rain’s upper ear. Rain places his own fingers on that blank canvas of a space. His and Dew’s hands bump together. “Through..?”

“Here,” Dew gently pinches the rim of Rain’s ear between his fingertip and the pad of his thumb, above where it attaches to his head in the front, then a similar place on the opposite edge. “And here. The jewelry goes across.” He drags his finger horizontally again, connecting the two points.

“Oh.” Rain rolls the rim of his ear between his fingers. It’s fleshier, the cartilage thinner.

“You can think about it, yeah? No pressure or anything.”

He’ll think about it, sure, but he’s already made up his mind.

—

Around noon the next day, the two of them board a train into the city. As it pulls out of the station, the trees and houses next to the tracks start to creep by, then accelerate faster and faster until Rain can’t focus his eyes on any single feature anymore. Once the train makes it far enough from the residential area, the trees fall away to reveal the slow-moving landscape beyond.

“Have you decided?” In the next seat over, Dew is watching out the window too.

“Yeah. I’m going to get what you suggested.”

“Nice.”

“By the way, are they going to notice...” Rain taps the pointed tip of his ear.

“Nah, just don’t mention it and she won’t say anything.”

“Really?”

Dew hums in assent. “It’s like the horns.”

“Even up close?”

“Yep. The power of confirmation bias or something.”

Despite whatever power that allows them to function in human society, be it mystical or psychological, Rain still feels skeptical. For a human to look directly at his ear, touch it, even alter it, seems riskier than going to the grocery store, or any other day-to-day activity he’s used to. But Dew has done this before, so it must be okay.

Their destination is a fifteen minute walk from the train station. Dew knows the way without any maps or directions. They pass restaurants and cafes, department stores, shops selling clothes and furniture. Eventually they arrive at an unassuming storefront — a door listing operating hours next to a single display window, set into brown stone. Dew pushes open the door and holds it for Rain to follow behind.

Inside, a woman behind a display case greets them. Rain finds himself distracted by his surroundings while Dew talks to her. The store is bright, artificial light compensating for the cloudy weather and shadows of buildings through the window. It’s neat, too, orderly and immaculately clean, every surface polished and free of dust. The ambiance is something between high end retail and a dentist’s office.

“Do you have time for a walk-in?” Dew places his hand on Rain’s upper arm. Rain smiles politely as he’s being displayed.

“Of course.”

Dew seems to have some sort of ability to get things he wants. He doesn’t beg or argue, at least not in this context — he might pout lightheartedly in private, with Rain, with the other ghouls, but that’s the extent of it. When he isn’t pulling his punches, he just asks for things directly with a high rate of success.

The woman turns to Rain. “What are you thinking of getting?”

“Oh, um—” He points to the spot on his ear that Dew pressed his finger against yesterday. If he really focuses on it, he can still feel the heat there. “Just here.”

“Great. For your jewelry, you can pick from any of these,” she says, tapping a fingernail on one of the glass cases between them. “Or any of the ones over there, if you’re looking for something fancier.”

Of course, standing in the middle of what he now understands to be a very specialized jewelry store, he should have anticipated this would be part of the process, but it still catches him off guard. All of Dew’s jewelry is plain silver, little round beads and hoops. It would seem he always skips this step.

Rain peers into the case in front of him. Within it are rows and rows of gems and charms, arranged in orderly grids on stark display stands. There are faceted jewels in a rainbow of colors, all kinds of decorative metal shapes, intricate designs, gold and silver, large and small and every size in between. His head spins.

A cloudy gray-green stone, smooth and round and flecked with black, catches his eye where it’s lined up amid other natural-looking options. It gleams, almost iridescent, blue and bronze, when he moves his head.

He points with one finger against the glass. “The gray one.”

She reaches in through the back of the case and pulls out the display stand. She points at the stone. “This one?”

Rain nods.

She plucks it from its slot on the stand. It glints again under the LED ceiling fixtures, reflecting light from within, like an animal’s eye, a deer in the headlights.

Before she disappears into the back of the shop to prepare things, she hands them each a form on a clipboard. The two of them sit next to each other on a leather couch and fill out their names and demographic details, and confirm their willingness to participate by signing at the bottom of the page. It barely takes a fraction of the time that she’s gone, leaving them waiting and unoccupied. Rain taps his feet nervously. Dew bumps their shoulders together.

When the piercer returns, she leads them into a smaller room with a counter along one side and a black padded table in the center. It’s windowless, but just as bright as the front, and just as clean.

“Whoever is going first, you can have a seat up here.” She gestures to the table.

Rain glances over at Dew, who is already looking at him, watching his face.

“Want me to..?” Dew speaks softly.

Rain nods. This will be a first for him either way.

Dew hops up onto the table. He folds his hands loosely in his lap. His boots dangle above the tile floor.

At the counter, the piercer peels open blue and white sterile envelopes with gloved hands and lets their contents fall onto a paper-lined tray table next to her. She picks supplies from drawers and sundry jars — gauze, alcohol wipes, a marker, a small cork like the kind used as a stopper for a bottle. She wheels the tray over to where Dew is sitting.

She scrubs his ear with alcohol, then marks two spots on it with a purple pen — the same two spots he showed Rain yesterday. She offers Dew a hand mirror. He examines his ear, holding the mirror off to the side, and then nods.

From her prepared supplies she picks up a needle, unadorned steel and intimidatingly thick, the broad teardrop shape of its beveled end clearly visible from a distance. With her other hand she picks up a cork. She lines them both up against Dew’s ear, the needle on one side and the cork on the other, framing one purple mark.

“Breathe in,” she tells Dew.

He complies, his chest rising slightly.

“Breathe out.”

He does, his chest sinking back down.

As soon as he begins to exhale, she presses the needle through his ear and into the cork on the other side. Dew doesn’t even blink. She slides a metal bar into the newly created hole in his ear, using it to push the end of the needle all the way through.

She repositions the cork and the needle on either side of the second purple mark and repeats the same process — inhale, exhale, needle, jewelry. She screws a metal ball on each end of the bar, which is now threaded through both sides of his upper ear.

“All set.” She peels off her gloves.

Dew hops down from the table and checks out his ear in a large mirror hanging on the wall. The bar is longer than the width of flesh that it spans, sticking out a bit on either side. The entire top half of his ear is pink. It clearly looks new, fresh, but conceptually it fits in well with the other metal there. In time, once those indications of newness dissipate, it will look like it’s always been there, just like the rest.

Dew returns to where Rain is standing, off to the side of the table, out of the way.

“Ready?” The piercer is putting on a new pair of gloves.

Rain is the one who is supposed to be ready. He doesn’t feel ready, but time is moving forward on its own. He sits on the padded table, now in Dew’s place, with Dew where Rain was before, their positions swapped.

When the piercer brings over the tray, it has the same things as it did for Dew’s piercing — gauze, alcohol, a marker, a cork, a needle. She tips Rain’s head slightly with her gloved hands and draws a dot on his ear with the marker.

She passes him the hand mirror. “Let me know if this looks good.”

He tries to imagine the purple dot replaced by a piece of metal and stone. He can’t really close the conceptual gap — it’s just a dot. Regardless, he nods.

“Great.” She picks up the needle and the cork.

Rain’s breath catches in his throat. The needle is so much bigger up close. He glances up at Dew and imagines standing where he is again. The distance isn’t far, but somehow it made a huge difference.

Dew steps forward and closes that distance without saying anything. He eases the mirror from Rain’s tight grip and places it on the table. Then he offers his own hand, palm up and welcoming, in its stead.

Even just the invitation is a relief, a logical and straightforward improvement to the situation that Rain wouldn’t have thought of by himself in this state. He takes Dew’s hand in a firm grip. It’s warm, and the pressure is grounding.

The piercer brings her hands to the side of his face. She’s working so close to his head he can’t see anything, only the blur of her glove in his peripheral vision and her expression of concentration off to his side.

“Breathe in,” she instructs.

Rain can feel the sharp tip of the needle where she places it against his skin, just resting there lightly, painlessly. He knows what’s going to happen. He breathes in.

“Breathe out.”

He breathes out.

More than pain, there’s pressure. And more than pressure, there’s sound — a loud pop, almost a crunch, of the needle penetrating his cartilage.

She takes something from the table nearby and performs what he assumes must be the same dance between needle and jewelry as she did for Dew. He still can’t see what’s happening, only hear the rustle of nitrile as her fingers move.

Dew gives his hand one tight squeeze and then releases it.

“Feeling okay?”

“Yeah.” Actually, he feels giddy. It’s unclear if it’s just from the sudden relief after a very long day of anticipating an impending unknown, or if it’s a rush of endorphins precipitated by the needle itself.

“Want to take a look?” She takes a step back and nods at the mirror on the wall. Her gloves snap as she peels them off.

Rain slides off the table and walks the two steps to the mirror. He leans in and tilts the side of his head toward it, holding his hair back with one hand. There, in the inner shell of his ear, right where he pointed to, and exactly where the purple mark was, is the gray-green stone from earlier. It shines when he tips his head just a few degrees.

He leans back, standing up normally. He realizes that his face, outside of his control, has composed itself into an expression of pleasant surprise, with his jaw dropped just slightly and his eyes bright. At this distance, the jewelry is subtle — not too flashy or too colorful or too large. He lets his hair fall the way it normally does, tucked partially behind his ear, and it’s barely noticeable until it glints with his motion.

Behind him, Dew is watching the mirror too.

The piercer leads them to the cash register at the front of the shop. Cool midday sun is shining through the window now, brightening the space even more. Rain pulls his wallet out of his pocket but Dew waves it away and taps his card on the reader before Rain has a chance to protest, or to see what the total is.

The piercer sees them off with a paper copy of the aftercare instructions for their piercings. Dew folds it neatly in thirds and slides it into an interior pocket of his jacket, and then the two of them set out for the train station.

They stop for ice cream on their way. It’s too early in the year for it, really; the sun warms the ground but there’s a petulant breeze in the cool air. Packed-down piles of plowed snow remain unmelted on street corners, tucked into alleys, at the end of the occasional parking lot, all dripping sluggishly onto damp asphalt. Sidewalks are littered with a crusty patchwork of the same.

Nevertheless, Rain’s eyes linger on the shop window as they walk by. The freezer case with its cheery selection of flavors, assorted colors in big tubs marked by little handwritten labels, is visible within. When he turns his head back towards the direction they’re walking, Dew’s eye contact tugs on him with an unspoken question. Both of their steps falter, and then they’re turning around.

A bell hanging from the door greets them with a hearty jingle as they step inside. The interior of the store is warm, almost stiflingly so, and empty of other customers. The syrupy smell of waffle cones is so dense it might as well be visible in the air, condensing near the ceiling in cotton candy clouds. Sweat forms on the back of Rain’s neck like liquid caramel beading on the surface of a torched crème brûlée. His limbs sag like pulled taffy.

After they make their selections and after Dew pays — for both of them, again, as if they’re on their first date instead of their hundredth, as if they’re counting, as if an ordinal number could represent an infinitesimal sum of continuous time — they file past bistro tables and metal chairs tucked along one wall and head back out the door, which bids them farewell with the same jingle.

The early springtime air is a refreshing contrast, freezing the sugary haze on their jackets and in their hair. They trade spoonfuls of ice cream while waiting at the crosswalk. Rain ducks his head down just slightly to reach Dew’s raised spoon. The traffic signal changes.

Rain’s ear is starting to ache now, pulsing out a nagging heat in time with his heartbeat. Without much forethought he places the cold ice cream cup, held in fingers that are rapidly becoming numb, against his ear. Immediately, he jerks it away with a sharp, involuntary inhale.

Dew chuckles. His eyes are warm, glimmering with a knowing spark.

“Ow,” is all Rain can think to say.

“Yeah,” Dew laughs. When he speaks again, he’s suddenly much more serious. “Not that bad though, right?”

Rain glances over and Dew is looking at him with his brow furrowed, and with the big, sad eyes that he can never quite replicate when he tries to as a joke. Rain considers how best to downplay his reaction. “It’s...” he starts, and finally settles on, “distracting.”

Dew nods once. He doesn’t say anything, nor does he provide any other indication of what he thinks about that.

A couple blocks later, he makes a sudden turn into a pharmacy.

“Wait, where—” Rain stutters as he follows his lead. Dew never mentioned making another stop.

“Just want to grab something.”

The two of them weave through a maze of aisles stocked with neat rows of medicines and first aid supplies and vitamins. Dew leads them to the selection of over-the-counter pain relievers. The thing Dew wanted to grab, apparently, is a package of ibuprofen, which he bends down to select from a lower shelf.

They return to the front of the store to check out. On the way, Dew grabs a bottle of water from behind the glass door of a refrigerator case. It swings closed with a snap.

Back outside, Dew pauses mere steps from the door. He slides open the flimsy cardboard flap of the ibuprofen box and pulls the blister pack of pills from within. He holds the plastic and foil sheet out towards Rain.

The chain of cause and effect snaps into a straight line, orderly like the rows of pills in the package. Rain thought that he succeeded in alleviating this particular concern. “Wait, it’s not that bad.”

“It’s not a big deal, and it’s good for the swelling anyway.” Dew presses the sheet closer.

Resigned, Rain holds out his hand to take it.

Instead of handing over the entire sheet, Dew holds it over Rain’s outstretched palm and presses one dose out of the individual cells with his thumb, breaking through the foil backing. Then he twists off the top of the water bottle and hands it to him as well.

Rain swallows the ibuprofen with a sip of water. He sighs quietly. He feels sort of like a party foul, the one who needs their hair held back in the bathroom at a bar, maybe. The one who couldn’t handle what they signed up for.

Next to him, Dew pops another dose of ibuprofen out into his own palm, then drops it into his mouth. He reaches out for the water bottle. It takes Rain a second to catch up with what’s happening and hand it back. Dew drinks from the bottle and then screws the cap back on. He stuffs the remaining ibuprofen into his jacket pocket.

When Dew looks back up, Rain is still staring, gears in his head turning. His eyebrows are probably raised just a little, he realizes.

Dew shrugs at him, nonchalant.

When they start walking again, Rain reaches out and bumps the back of his hand against Dew’s. Rain doesn’t need to say anything; Dew clasps their hands together without hesitation.

He pulls his and Rain’s hands into his pocket. It’s a comfortable fit with the two of them, not too tight — Dew’s jacket is oversized in every aspect, including, or maybe especially, the pockets. There’s nothing else inside this one, just them. It’s warm from Dew’s body heat.

Rain squeezes their hands closer together.

#ghost band fanfic #fic i wrote #raindrop ghost #how do i tag them #raindrop

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honeycollectswhump · 7 months

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Can we get any insight into Ashtray's conditioning/training, or maybe Mistress trying many different types of cigarettes to compare the taste (and how they burn him differently)? He's my new favorite little guy :)

congrats, you unlocked some lore! i hope you enjoy the little hints about who ashtray used to be :)

A Step Towards Ashtray

[masterlist]

CW: isolation, captivity, emotional distress, cigarette burn, implied pet whump

Behind the heavy, metal door there is a young man, though legally that description would be wrong. Behind the door, there is a future companion object, handpicked to satisfy his potential buyers in any way possible. But then again, right now he is barely at the start of his journey to becoming a perfect companion object, so Eskil Thorn just calls him a trainee, his trainee.

It had been quite the odyssey over the past two weeks or so, watching the trainee scream and claw at the door, sobbing a certain name. Of course, that did nothing to help him. Eskil knows the recipe to the perfect start is letting the trainees simmer in isolation for a bit before introducing them to their future purpose. Now that the screaming has finally stopped, maybe from exhaustion or his voice giving out, it’s a sign for Eskil to start the process.

Stepping inside, he takes in the sight before him. The trainee is curled on the floor –like a feral dog– staring at him with red-rimmed but beautifully big blue eyes. Bits of ripped-out hair lay around him and Eskil makes a mental note to nip that behaviour in the bud. His golden-blond hair is one of the trainee's assets, which will eventually put him in a high price range and Eskil can’t let him ruin that.

“Are you ready for your lesson?”

The trainee nods frantically.

“Please, sir, anything! I– I can’t– please!” he rasps, inching forward to Eskil.

If he were any other designation, Eskil would love the begging. It’s always a sweet surprise when the trainees exhibit these behaviours early on. Unfortunately however, that won’t be a necessary skill for him, though it is undeniably a promising start.

With shaking hands, the trainee grasps onto Eskil’s pants, his eyes shining with tears. “Don’t leave me alone, sir, please!”

Perfect.

“Sure, I’ll stay with you for a while. But you have to do something for me first.”

See, where the other handlers try to force it, Eskil lets his trainees take their first steps on their own. And to get them motivated, isolation works wonders.

The trainee is basically vibrating with desperation. It’s not his first lesson. He doesn’t beg to be let out anymore, not since they shocked his signature out of him, and he’s given up on insisting on “his name”. Instead, it is a sort of resigned despair that makes him perfectly malleable.

“Wh-what do you want me to do?”

With a smile, Eskil pulls out a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket. Something warm prickles in his chest as he looks at the lighter, a gift from his wife, decorated with small doodles. Slowly, he lights the cigarette and takes a single drag, watching smoke fill the room.

He sits down, his legs crossed, and lets himself be warily watched by the trainee. They stay like that in silence, Eskil sitting patiently, the trainee kneeling on all fours before him like a dog, seemingly undecided between wanting to lean away in suspicion and throwing himself in Eskil’s lap.

Then, he holds out the burning cigarette, inching it closer to the trainee, who just blinks uncomprehendingly. Maybe his future purpose is still beyond his understanding, Eskil supposes.

“Come on, give me your arm, will you.”

The trainee flinches and gawks at him with those big blue eyes, his lip twitching as he suppresses a cough.

“Why?” he whispers, his eyes fixating on the cigarette. Still, he doesn’t move away from Eskil’s vicinity.

“Oh,” Eskil chuckles, “I think you know exactly what for. Now, don’t you want to be a good boy? It’ll be worth it, it’ll all be worth it in the end, I promise.”

Eskil just watches the trainee’s shocked expression morph between conflicting emotions. The promised touch is like a drug in his starved and isolated state. Until eventually, the trainee nods, defeated. He holds out his arm as if he could choose.

Deliberately, Eskil moves the cigarette bud closer and closer to his shoulder. The trainee only tenses up, flinching away from the heat, but makes no move to flee.

The cigarette makes contact with his skin and he lets out a strangled yelp, eyes flitting to Eskil’s face, as if trying to figure out if this noise would be enough to make Eskil leave.

Ash spreads over the trainee’s pale skin. There is barely a mark beneath it yet, but it will come in time—his first burn blister of hopefully many.

Satisfied, Eskil flicks the extinguished cigarette to the side and opens his arms. After a breath of hesitation Eskil pretends not to notice, the trainee flings himself into his embrace, his chest hitching with silent sobs.

He claws into Eskil’s shirt with a feral need that goes beyond the two weeks of isolation, beyond the acclimation period after the walk-in. Maybe he sees something in him, some sort of figure he lost and whose comfort he secretly grieved. It is all out in the open now, the trainee’s soul ripped fresh open for the world to see. A brief burst of vulnerability, soon to be replaced by perfect obedience.

Suddenly, hesitantly, the trainee raises his head from Eskil’s shoulder, catching his gaze with immense sorrow.

“Sir? What… what will happen to my little brother? N-now that he’s all alone and he’s never been alone, I’ve always been there for him and he’s–”

Eskil shushes him softly, laying one hand on the back of the trainee’s head.

“There’s no my for you anymore, never forget that. But I’m sure he’ll manage.”

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

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memento-mori-twilight · 10 months

Text

Some neat comic-based details from episode 7 of MAWS

(slight spoilers below for the episode, the 00's Justice League animated series, and for certain DC comics)

So,

When the Lois League make their episode debut, they say our Lois and our Jimmy (and by extension, our Clark) are from Earth-12.

That means it canonically firmly falls under the same DCAU universe that Batman: the Animated Series, STAS, and Batman Beyond.

And that also places it firmly into what's called "the Cartoon Rim" of the DC multiverse

Now, when Mxy's cycling Clark through the different design iterations, he calls out more Earths:

Earth-Twelve, Earth-50, Earth-508, and Weird Earth.

Now, I think the animation team switched up the showcase order a bit, and I'll show you why when I describe each Earth as we know them to be in DC Universe.

First:

• Earth-Twelve (or Earth-B): home to Adam West Batman and apparently now the 1940s Superman (who was originally from Earth-2 where, fun fact, Mxyztplk made his first comic appearance/his origin). So making that universe the home of the first mainstream appearances of DC's Golden Staples tracks.

But then,

• He calls out Earth-50 and the image of The Super Friends Superman from the old 70s-80s show appears.

I think this is actually supposed to be representative of Earth-508 Superman, since there is a comic version of the Super Friends that exists and they just used Earth-1956's Superman as an indicator for that. Which is fair, since the actual ones are copyright owned by Fisher-Price lol.

Now,

The real interesting part is that would make the Earth that the S:TAS/JLU Superman belongs to Earth-50 if the 508 switchup is true. Which seems like another mistake right?

Except

Earth-50 as it is known originated from the Justice League animated series and was established as a parallel sister world to Earth-12, going through the same events until a major event cascades to turn the Justice League into the Justice Lords, a darker and more authoritarian version of themselves.

But that event doesn't happen until years later.

(Keen eyes will notice we see this Superman reference later in the episode as well)

So, if the timelines are staying equal with Clark/Superman staying around the same age of 22-23 that he has been around the start of his appearance in Metropolis/working at the Daily Planet, then the Earth-50 Superman would still look like the normal S:TAS Superman!

So now, I bet you're asking why would they do the Earth switchup in the first place?

Well, mainly the whole scene exists for a nice timeline callback/easter egg for the animation history of Superman as a whole, and the script writers and animators probably didn't think we would catch on.

BUT

I also think, in-universe, that it is just Mxyztplk playing a little trick on curious viewers who would go lore diving and comic folks who would be paying attention.

That is, if it's all intentional.

Sorry for a super prolonged nerd rant on a pretty harmless scene.

I just happened to see it and my brain latched onto the familiar numbers and made a murder board lol.

Anyway, thanks for reading!

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thenomadclan · 5 months

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Huge shout out to my Discord Member (Hades) who has went over and beyond to bring my Kaiju Nomad Gojira to life! First they made a Japanese like title card that simply says “Nomad Godzilla” & at the bottom here, is Nomad Gojira’s Custom Roar!

This is truly awesome and I thank my community for allowing me to express my other favorite fandoms outside the Yautja/Predator Fandom! If you curious about the lore and challenge I’m doing to make Kaiju-Sonas, check out the link here 👇

Tagging my other Kaiju Friends to share their Kaiju Sona^^

@black-suns-rim , @dragpopsoda , @leechandoki @loser-brain , @queenlybeastly , @wolfsnowphoenix

#oc #kaiju oc #kaiju #kaiju art #kaijusona #challenge #Godzilla #godzilla x kong: the new empire #godzilla vs kong #King Kong #gojira #Nomad Gojira

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roselightfairy · 3 months

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Here Spring was already busy about them: fronds pierced moss and mould, larches were green-fingered, small flowers were opening in the turf, birds were singing. Ithilien, the garden of Gondor now desolate kept still a dishevelled dryad loveliness.

South and west it looked towards the warm lower vales of Anduin, shielded from the east by the Ephel Dúath and yet not under the mountain-shadow, protected from the north by the Emyn Muil, open to the southern airs and the moist winds from the Sea far away. Many great trees grew there, planted long ago, falling into untended age amid a riot of careless descendants; and groves and thickets there were of tamarisk and pungent terebinth, of olive and of bay; and there were junipers and myrtles; and thymes that grew in bushes, or with their woody creeping stems mantled in deep tapestries the hidden stones; sages of many kinds putting forth blue flowers, or red, or pale green; and marjorams and new-sprouting parsleys, and many herbs of forms and scents beyond the garden-lore of Sam. The grots and rocky walls were already starred with saxifrages and stonecrops. Primeroles and anemones were awake in the filbert-brakes; and asphodel and many lily-flowers nodded their half-opened heads in the grass: deep green grass beside the pools, where falling streams halted in cool hollows on their journey down to Anduin.

The travellers turned their backs on the road and went downhill. As they walked, brushing their way through bush and herb, sweet odours rose about them. Gollum coughed and retched; but the hobbits breathed deep, and suddenly Sam laughed, for heart's ease not for jest. They followed a stream that went quickly down before them. Presently it brought them to a small clear lake in a shallow dell: it lay in the broken ruins of an ancient stone basin, the carven rim of which was almost wholly covered with mosses and rose-brambles; iris-swords stood in ranks about it, and water-lily leaves floated on its dark gently-rippling surface; but it was deep and fresh, and spilled ever softly out over a stony lip at the far end.

#lotr newsletter #ithilien my beloved #i love thinking about legolas here...a salve on his sea-wounded soul...

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thsillystringbeanscribbler · 3 months

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Bunny Slippers: Chapter Seven

Summary: It's been three months since Julia first joined the Winchester brothers on their hunts. Julia and Dean continue to strengthen their connection, always finding a way to be close to one another. The three created a symbiotic existence, but this might be thrown out of equilibrium as they head on down to Louisiana for a new case that Sam had found.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader [ OC: Julia Blackburn ]

Warnings: None

Word Count: 5, 056 words

Author's Note: I did a bit of a time jump, and only eluded to the wholesomeness of Dean and Julia, but I hopefully you'll still enjoy the story.

Chapter Six

As the weeks melded together, Julia's presence within the Winchester's nomadic life became as indispensable as the lore books in the back of the Impala. Their journey, a continuous thread weaving through the tapestry of American highways, was punctuated by the rhythm of hunts that took them from one corner of the country to the other. The latest string of cases had caught their attention through whispers of high society vanishings—people disappearing like smoke after attending galas that glittered with wealth and secrets.

In the confined space of the Impala, their roles settled into a comfortable routine. Julia, ever the embodiment of curiosity and restlessness, had commandeered the front seat beside Dean. There, amidst the hum of the engine and the blur of passing scenery, she found solace in a mystery novel picked up during a brief pit stop. Dean, always a sucker for her pleas, had veered off their path the moment she mentioned wanting a new book, a testament to the soft spot he harboured for her quirks.

Her makeshift reading nook in the passenger seat—a tangle of legs on the seat, knees drawn up to support the book—offered her a world to dive into, away from the grim realities they faced. Wrapped in Dean's flannel, a memento from their first hunt together that she'd claimed as her own, she was a stark contrast to the world outside. The flannel, along with her colourful goldfish-designed socks and a Led Zeppelin tee, spoke volumes of the blend of comfort and identity she had found in their midst. Her tortoise-rimmed glasses magnified her focus, her green eyes, so similar to Dean's and yet uniquely hers, hidden behind the thick frames as they darted across the pages.

Dean, for his part, found his attention frequently drifting from the road to Julia. The sight of her, so engrossed in her book, brought an unspoken warmth to his chest. It was these moments, these glimpses of normalcy, that he cherished amidst the chaos of their lives. The flannel she wore, the details of her attire, even the way she bit her lip in concentration—each element was a reminder of how seamlessly she had woven herself into the fabric of their journey.

In the backseat, Sam was the anchor to their current reality, his attention buried in the paperwork and clues that might unravel the mystery of their latest case. His presence, a constant reminder of the stakes at hand, balanced the lightness in the front of the car with the gravity of their purpose.

As miles turned into memories, the trio navigated the complexities of their shared existence—each hunt, each moment of levity, weaving them closer, binding their stories into a shared narrative of resilience, camaraderie, and an unspoken bond that extended beyond the confines of the Impala's interior.

The harmonious bubble of silence and contemplation within the Impala was gently pierced by Sam's voice, a shift in the air as he moved from observer to bearer of news. "So, get this," he started, the rustle of papers in his lap punctuating his words, "that missing person case in New Orleans? Looks like it's not a one-off. It's linked to a bunch of others."

He leaned forward slightly, his tone mixed with the excitement of a puzzle beginning to reveal itself and the gravity of their implications. "Every incident happens once a month, and get this—all the victims are from the high society, the real movers and shakers of southern Louisiana."

The way Sam delivered the information, with a blend of analytical precision and a touch of intrigue, underscored the shift from their casual reprieve back into the world they were perennially entwined with. His revelation not only recaptured Dean and Julia's attention but also recentered their focus on the shadowy underbelly of the seemingly glittering world of the elite they were about to dive into.

Julia's sudden movement caught Dean's eye, her hands flitting around her in search of a makeshift bookmark. With a touch of ingenuity, she retrieved a gum wrapper from the depths of her flannel pocket, sliding it between the pages of her book before snapping it shut. Her actions, endearingly eccentric to Dean, went unnoticed by her as she pivoted her focus to Sam, her earlier literary immersion now replaced by a burst of proactive strategy.

"Okay, how about we find a motel, hit the internet for some old-school detective work, and bam!" Julia articulated, her hands slicing through the air to punctuate the 'bam,' a vibrant illustration of her plan materializing out of thin air.

Dean, unable to resist the opportunity for a playful jab, let a teasing smirk play across his lips. "You gotta lay off those spy novels, Jules. You're starting to make Bond look like an amateur," he quipped, the lightness in his tone a testament to their easy rapport.

However, his jesting facade softened into agreement, a nod to the wisdom in her words despite the playful delivery. "But you've got a point. We've been on the road almost non-stop. A deep dive into what's happening in New Orleans might just give us the edge we need. We'll set up shop, figure out our next move, and hit the ground running tomorrow." Dean's voice carried the weight of decision, a seamless shift from lighthearted banter to the focused resolve that characterized their unorthodox lives.

Under the cloak of night, the trio stood in the dimly lit parking lot of yet another nondescript motel. Julia, having gone ahead to retrieve the room keys, approached Sam and Dean with a stride that spoke of her growing comfort and camaraderie with the brothers. A cheeky smile played across her lips as she teased, "So, who's the unlucky one tonight?" In her hands, she held up two keys, her demeanor light and playful.

With a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, she added, "And just so you know, I'm merciless in a pillow fight." Her jest was a testament to how seamlessly she had woven herself into the fabric of their lives.

Sam, who had indeed drawn the short straw more times than he cared to admit, opened his mouth to respond, his expression a mix of resignation and amusement. "I guess that means—"

But Dean cut him off, stepping forward with that characteristic blend of confidence and charm. "Looks like it's you and me tonight, sweetheart," he declared, plucking one of the keys from Julia's hand and moving towards the door with an ease that spoke volumes of their evolving relationship.

Julia, feigning exasperation yet unable to hide her amusement, retorted, "Seriously, Dean, you've been hogging all the 'bad luck' lately." As Dean unlocked the door, she playfully counted off on her fingers, "That's four hunts in a row now. You sure you're not rigging this somehow?"

Dean, with a glint of mischief in his eyes, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, steering the conversation away from his alleged streak of misfortune. "Forget my so-called bad luck," he quipped, leaning into their banter. "Now, about that pillow fight you were mentioning?" His tone was flirtatious, the undercurrent of their interaction charged with a playful intimacy.

Julia laughed, a light, genuine sound, and playfully smacked Dean's chest. "Keep dreaming, Winchester," she shot back, her smile radiant as she slipped out from under his arm, grabbed her duffel bag, and headed into the room they were to share, leaving a trail of laughter in her wake.

Sam, having observed the exchange with a mixture of amusement and brotherly concern, turned to Dean with a warning tone, "You're playing with fire, Dean." His words, though light, carried the weight of his protective instincts, a reminder of the uncharted territory they were navigating with Julia so close to the heart of their lives.

Not long after they had each found a moment of respite in their separate rooms, the trio reconvened in Sam's room, drawn together by the gravity of their task. The motel's dining table, a makeshift command center, was littered with laptops, scattered papers, and the remnants of hastily consumed takeout. It was here, amidst the glow of screens and the scratch of pen on paper, that they began to piece together the puzzle of New Orleans.

As they delved deeper, the pattern emerged with unsettling clarity. "So, it looks like all the missing persons are from the upper echelons of southern Louisiana's high society," Sam observed, his eyes scanning the data they had compiled. The air in the room was charged with a mix of concentration and concern, a reflection of the seriousness of their discovery.

Julia leaned in, her focus sharp. "And every disappearance lines up perfectly with one of those extravagant galas hosted by the Cartwrights," she added, connecting the dots with a precision that came from hours of sifting through event calendars and social media posts. The mention of Mr. and Mrs. James Cartwright, a prominent couple known for their lavish gatherings, added a new layer of complexity to their investigation.

Dean, who had been cross-referencing police reports with their findings, looked up. "The Cartwright galas, huh? Looks like high society's got a dark side. These aren't just parties; they're hunting grounds." His voice was laced with a mix of disdain and determination, a reflection of their resolve to unearth the truth behind the glittering façade of wealth and privilege.

Together, they mapped out the chilling pattern of disappearances, each gala marking a point where another member of the elite vanished without a trace. The realization that these social events were somehow linked to the mystery they were unraveling cast a somber shadow over their efforts. Yet, it also provided them with a direction, a tangible lead in the nebulous world of the supernatural they navigated.

"We've got our window," Sam stated, his voice steady, the implications of their findings casting a new light on their next steps.

"Yeah, and it's a tight one," Dean added, his gaze shifting between his brother and Julia, a silent vow to prevent another name from being added to the list of the vanished.

Julia leaned forward, her eyes alight with a mix of determination and concern. "Looks like we're crashing a gala," she said, the gravity of the situation wrapped in a veneer of resolve. Their path forward was clear, albeit fraught with the unknown. The trio understood the challenge they faced, the complexity of infiltrating the closed world of the elite on such short notice.

Yet, in that motel room, amidst the clutter of their research and the hum of a shared mission, there was an unspoken confidence in each other. They were united not just by the hunt, but by the bond forged through countless challenges faced together. Tomorrow night would be a test of their ingenuity, their courage, and their commitment to unraveling the darkness that lurked behind the glittering facade of high society.

With the decision made, a palpable sense of determination settled over the room as they concluded their late-night strategy session. The laptops snapped shut, marking the end of their digital deep dive into the world of New Orleans' elite. Julia rose from her seat, her movements signaling the wrap-up of their intense planning phase. As she passed by Sam, she offered his shoulder a gentle, appreciative squeeze, her smile warm and sincere.

"Time for me to hit the hay," she announced, her tone light yet tinged with the fatigue of the day's endeavors. "And Sam, you were on fire tonight," she added, her compliment acknowledging his crucial role in piecing together the puzzle of their latest case.

Dean, sensing the shift towards a much-needed break, pushed back his chair and stood, stretching slightly as he prepared to leave the room. His response carried the blend of humor and brotherly affection characteristic of his interactions with Sam and Julia.

"Yeah, Sammy, way to go digging up the dirt on the Cartwrights. You're like a regular Sherlock Holmes, minus the deerstalker hat," Dean quipped, a playful smirk on his face. "I'm hitting the sack too. We've got a big day tomorrow, and I need to be on my A-game if we're going to blend in with the high society crowd."

His words, light-hearted on the surface, carried an underlying acknowledgment of the gravity of their upcoming mission. With a final nod to Sam and a shared look with Julia that spoke volumes of their mutual respect and camaraderie, Dean headed towards the door, each step a reminder of the delicate balance they maintained between the darkness they chased and the light moments that kept them grounded.

The rhythm of life on the road had a way of forging connections and routines, often in the most unexpected ways. For Julia and Dean, sharing a motel room had quickly evolved from a practical arrangement into a series of small, domestic rituals that lent a semblance of normalcy to their nomadic existence. When Dean pushed open the door to their room, the sight that greeted him was both familiar and warmly anticipated. Julia, clad in her Van Halen t-shirt paired with Batman pajama pants and mismatched socks, was perched on the edge of her bed, a remote in hand as she navigated the late-night TV offerings. At Dean's entrance, her face lit up, her green eyes sparkling with an unspoken welcome.

"Hey, what's the verdict for tonight? Western showdowns or high-speed chases?" Julia queried, her voice playful as she glanced over at Dean, who had made his way to his own bed to unpack some essentials from his duffel bag.

Dean, unable to resist the opportunity for a light-hearted jab, responded with a cheeky grin. "I thought you were crashing out? What happened to beauty sleep?" His tone was teasing, signaling his appreciation for the comfortable pattern they had fallen into. Shower, change, then movie night—a simple sequence that had become their unwritten rule.

Julia's routine was predictable yet endearing to Dean. She'd claim her shower first, emerging refreshed and in her nighttime attire, while Dean took his turn afterward. Then came the crucial decision-making process: selecting a movie. More often than not, Julia would nestle into her bed, her attention split between the screen and Dean, until sleep claimed her halfway through their chosen film. It fell to Dean, then, to softly click off the television, ensuring the room's tranquility wouldn't be disturbed by the flickering images as Julia slept.

Before Julia had the chance to craft a response, Dean paused at the threshold of the bathroom, a playful glint in his eyes. "You know, I'm in the mood for a classic showdown tonight," he declared, his voice tinged with the warmth of shared anticipation. The corner of his mouth lifted into a knowing smile, an unspoken invitation for Julia to dive into the treasure trove of late-night TV and unearth a gem for them.

With that, he vanished behind the bathroom door, the soft click marking the start of their evening ritual. Left to her own devices, Julia took up the challenge with a smile, her fingers dancing over the remote as she navigated through channels, on a quest to find the perfect western that would captivate them both for the night.

Dean re-entered the room, the sound of an old western movie greeting him, its iconic opening titles illuminating the dimly lit motel room. Julia was already cocooned in her bed, her attention captured by the screen. He moved across the room, quietly putting away his clothes before making himself comfortable on his own bed. Settling back against the headboard, Dean stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. This position wasn't just for comfort; it allowed him to split his attention between the movie's unfolding drama and Julia.

"I hope you like this one," Julia's voice floated over, tinged with a hint of uncertainty, "It's a John Wayne classic."

Dean couldn't help but smile softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. John Wayne, the epitome of the Wild West hero, always had a way of bringing comfort, no matter the setting. "You've got great taste, Jules," he replied, his voice carrying a warmth that only added to the room's coziness. He watched as Julia's attention briefly shifted from the screen to meet his, her gaze sleepy yet filled with a content smile that mirrored his own before she returned her attention to the movie.

"John Wayne, huh? You're pulling out the big guns tonight." Dean's tone was playful, teasing even, as he settled more comfortably against the headboard. "I guess we're in for a good old-fashioned showdown then. Just remember, if any cowboys come knocking, I've got your back."

Julia's laugh, light and genuine, filled the space between them, bridging the gap that the day's weariness had built. It was moments like these, simple and unadorned, that Dean cherished the most. The outside world, with all its chaos and demands, could wait. Tonight, it was just them, John Wayne, and the promise of a good story unfolding on the screen.

As the movie reached its midpoint, Dean glanced over at Julia, finding her exactly as he had anticipated: asleep. The soft, rhythmic breathing told him she had succumbed to sleep's gentle embrace, her face serene and untroubled in the dim light of the room. With a tender smile, he quietly rose from his bed, the action deliberate and careful not to disturb the peaceful scene before him.

He reached for the remote, his movements slow and muted, and turned off the TV. The sudden quiet that enveloped the room seemed almost sacred, a testament to the night's tranquility. Dean then made his way back to his bed, the sheets cool and inviting against his skin.

As he settled in, he allowed himself a moment to watch Julia, the steady rise and fall of her chest a comforting sight. It was these quiet moments, these snapshots of peaceful companionship, that he treasured the most. With a contented sigh, he closed his eyes, letting the serene atmosphere lull him into a restful sleep, the day's adventures a faint memory as he drifted off into the night's embrace.

* * *

As dawn crept through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room, Julia awoke to find Dean still lost in the depths of sleep. She propped herself up on one elbow, taking a moment to admire the peaceful expression that softened his usually guarded features. The morning light painted a golden outline around his resting form, highlighting the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath. Despite the urge to brush her fingers through his tousled hair, she resisted, not wanting to disturb the rare tranquility that sleep afforded him.

Instead, Julia quietly gathered her clothes, tiptoeing into the bathroom to get ready for the day ahead. She emerged dressed in her signature style: classic '90s high-waisted straight jeans paired with a black and purple Metallica band t-shirt. Her auburn curls cascaded around her face as she neatly packed away her pajamas. Slipping into the flannel shirt she'd borrowed from Dean on their first hunt together, she wrapped it around herself like a warm embrace. After lacing up her boots and tucking her hair behind one ear, she approached Dean's bed with a mixture of affection and determination.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," Julia whispered, her voice a soft melody in the quiet room. She gently nudged Dean's shoulder, watching as his eyes fluttered open, clouded with the remnants of sleep.

Blinking slowly, Dean peered up at her, a groggy smile tugging at his lips. "Am I in heaven?" he mumbled, his voice husky from sleep, teasing her with his charm even in his half-awake state.

Julia couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head at his flirtatious antics. "You, Dean Winchester, are utterly ridiculous," she retorted, her smile betraying the affection behind her words as she withdrew her hand from his shoulder.

"I'm gonna check on Sam. Make sure you're ready to roll by the time I get back," she announced, heading towards the door with a purposeful stride. Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, she glanced back at Dean, who had yet to make any move to get out of bed.

"And if I come back and you're still lounging here, I'm subjecting you to my 'hippie' playlist all the way to New Orleans," she warned, her playful threat eliciting a groan from Dean as he finally began to push the covers aside.

"Alright, alright, I'm up," Dean grumbled, but his tone was light, filled with the unspoken comfort of their routine banter. As Julia left the room with a satisfied smile, the day ahead promised yet another adventure, woven together by their shared moments and the unbreakable bond they continued to build.

Julia's knock on Sam's door was met almost immediately, as if he had been waiting just on the other side. The door swung open to reveal Sam, already dressed for the day, his presence towering yet welcoming. Julia couldn't help but offer a bright smile in greeting.

"Good morning!" she chimed, her voice carrying the lightness of a new day.

"Morning, Jules," Sam responded, his tone warm and inviting as he stepped aside to let her in. There was a certain ease in his greeting, a testament to the camaraderie they shared.

As Julia entered, Sam's demeanor shifted to one of focused concern. "Glad you're up. I was just about to head over. I've been digging into the gala details, and it looks like attendance is strictly by invitation," he explained, moving towards his laptop to pull up the information he'd been reviewing. Julia joined him, leaning in to scan the screen as he pointed out the relevant details.

Sam's brow furrowed as he considered their predicament. "So, I'm not sure how we're going to get in there and figure out what's happening," he admitted, his voice laced with the frustration of hitting a roadblock.

Julia, arms crossed over her chest, absorbed the information before a spark of an idea lit up her expression. "I think I might have a way to get us in," she said, turning to face Sam, her confidence piquing his interest.

Sam's eyes narrowed, curiosity and a hint of skepticism mixing in his expression. "How?" he asked, the single word heavy with both doubt and hope.

With a casual shrug that belied the significance of her next words, Julia revealed her plan. "I just need to make a call. An old sorority sister of mine... she's likely to have access or know someone who does. She can probably get us those invitations," she shared, her tone suggesting this was just another day's work for them.

Sam paused, absorbing the information, his initial skepticism fading into impressed acknowledgement. "That could actually work," he conceded, a slight smile breaking through as he recognized the potential in Julia's plan. The possibility of gaining entry into the gala suddenly seemed within reach, thanks to Julia's unexpected connection.

Dean had quickly gotten dressed and packed his bag, ready to face whatever the day had in store. As he opened his door to the crisp morning air, the sight that greeted him was one of focused activity. Sam was leaning casually against the wall outside, his bag resting at his feet, while Julia paced back and forth across the parking lot. She was deeply engrossed in a phone conversation, gesturing animatedly as she spoke. Dean couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the scene unfolding before him.

"What's going on with her?" Dean inquired, nodding subtly towards Julia, his curiosity piqued by her animated discussion.

Sam straightened up slightly, turning to Dean with an expression that mixed amusement and anticipation. "She's on the phone with her sorority sister, trying to finagle us a way into the Cartwright gala," he explained, keeping an eye on Julia's pacing figure.

Dean watched Julia for a moment, a smile playing on his lips at her evident passion and determination. "How long has she been at it?" he asked, his tone light, clearly entertained by Julia's fervor.

"Going on at least twenty minutes now," Sam replied, his voice carrying a note of respect for Julia's dedication. He glanced at his watch, then back at Dean, signaling the importance of their mission and Julia's role in it.

Dean's smile widened, appreciating not just Julia's efforts but also the dynamic of their team. "Gotta love her dedication," he mused aloud, fully aware of how crucial her success on this call could be for their plan. The morning, crisp and promising, seemed to hold a sense of anticipation, with Julia's animated conversation acting as the prelude to their next big adventure.

As Julia's conversation stretched on, Sam and Dean busied themselves with loading their bags into the trunk of the Impala. With the trunk closed, they both leaned against it, watching Julia pace and talk. Minutes ticked by, and the rhythmic sound of their synchronized stomachs rumbling broke the morning stillness.

"That's it," Dean declared abruptly, pushing off from the Impala with a determined look. He strode over to Julia, who was still deeply engrossed in her conversation. Placing a gentle but firm hand on her back, Dean steered her toward the car. He opened the back door for her, signaling it was time to multitask.

"–sorry, one sec, Chels," Julia said into the phone, her tone switching as she momentarily covered the receiver. She turned to Dean, annoyance flickering in her eyes. "What are you doing?" she asked, her patience thinning.

Dean didn't miss a beat, his voice firm yet tinged with a hint of humor. "Look, we're both starving here, so why don't you hop in and keep talking while we head out to grab something to eat?" His hand rested on the door, waiting patiently but with an evident expectation for her to comply.

Rolling her eyes, Julia couldn't help but acknowledge Dean's point. With a mild huff, she slid into the car, settling into the back seat as she resumed her conversation. "My bad, Chels. Now, what was that you were saying about Lana?" she continued, her annoyance swiftly replaced by a renewed focus on her call.

Dean closed the door behind her, sharing a knowing look with Sam that mixed amusement with their shared hunger. They climbed into the front seats, ready to embark on the next leg of their journey with the day's mission steadily unfolding, underscored by the promise of breakfast and the potential breakthrough Julia's conversation could bring.

As the Impala cruised down the street, the snippets of Julia's animated conversation floated through the car. Her exclamations of "No way!" and descriptions like "Yeah, tall, dark, and handsome," along with plans for lunch and dress shopping, filled the space. When she mentioned someone being "super hunky," Dean couldn't resist turning to Sam with a knowing wink, clearly amused and assuming the compliments were directed at him.

Her voice pitched up in excitement as she exclaimed, "Oh Em Gee! Chels, you're an absolute gem!" Promises of "Cross my heart!" and a cheerful "Okay, see you later, kisses!" marked the end of the call. Dean watched her through the rearview mirror as she leaned forward, placing a hand on both Sam and Dean's shoulders.

"I've got good news and bad news," she began, her tone a mix of excitement and apprehension.

Sam turned slightly, his eyebrows raised in interest. "Okay, hit us. What's up?" he asked, always ready to dive straight into the details.

Julia's eyes flicked between the two brothers, a mischievous glint appearing. "We're in," she announced, pausing for effect, "but here's the catch—Sam, you'll have to go as her date."

The car filled with a momentary silence as the weight of her words settled. Sam's reaction was a mix of surprise and resignation, a slight smirk appearing as he processed the unexpected twist. "As her date, huh?" Sam mused aloud, turning the idea over in his mind. "Well, guess it's time to break out the charm then."

Dean cleared his throat, a hint of playful challenge in his tone as he caught Julia's attention in the rearview mirror. "Super hunky, huh?" he asked, his words laced with amusement and a touch of mock jealousy.

Julia turned her head to Dean, her expression a blend of amusement and defensiveness. "Well, I had to make sure she knew Sam wasn't just any ordinary guy," she retorted, her words quick and lighthearted, aiming to justify her choice of words during the call.

Dean's knowing smirk faltered slightly, his eyebrows raised in mock offense. "Oh, of course," he replied, his voice dripping with feigned hurt yet underscored by a genuine amusement at their banter. "Wouldn't want anyone thinking Sam's a potato, now would we?" His tone, teasing and light, effectively diffused any potential awkwardness, highlighting the easy camaraderie and constant ribbing that defined their interactions.

"Sorry, Dean, the other part of the bad news is you're my plus one," Julia continued, a playful challenge in her tone. "Just a heads up, I've got two left feet when it comes to dancing." Her face lit up with excitement, clearly pleased with the arrangement.

Dean tried to maintain a neutral expression, but the thrill of being Julia's chosen companion sent a wave of excitement through him. His heart raced, a mixture of giddiness and anticipation bubbling beneath the surface. "Trying to keep the best brother for yourself, Jules? Seems pretty selfish," he teased back, his voice light but filled with unspoken delight.

Julia's excitement didn't wane as she delivered more news. "I also forgot to mention, Chelsea booked us at a really nice four-star hotel," she said, her enthusiasm infectious.

"So, you two can chill at the hotel or go information hunting while I fulfill my part of the deal by going dress shopping," she explained, leaning back in her seat, the twinkle in her eyes betraying her excitement for the adventure ahead.

Dean, unable to contain his amusement and the prospect of the upcoming gala, quipped, "Well, looks like we're going to be living it up, thanks to you and Chelsea. Just remember, Jules, if you need a dance partner, I've got moves you've never seen." His tone was playful yet sincere, showing his support for Julia's plan and the unexpected thrill of their new mission.

To Be Continued...

Tag List: @deanwinchestersgirl87

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x oc #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #sam and dean #spn

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 4 months

Text

My favorite Christmas present was Jedi: Survivor

Bought myself Jedi: Survivor for Christmas and played for a while before discovering the in-game camera feature.

And of course, one of the better shots I've taken so far is of a Clone trooper helmet tucked away in the rafters of Pyloon's Saloon within Rambler's Reach on Koboh (which is probably my favorite planet to just wander around for fun).

Can't help but wonder who he was, and how his helmet ended up on Koboh in the Outer Rim.

This sequestered chamber along the Pilgrim's Path on Jedha was a curious find. The head of the statue in the middle is broken off and missing, leaving it faceless. Reminded me of the hooded Jedi statues on Illum from Fallen Order, a little bit, where the space for the head is left vacant. I wonder who, or what, was perhaps at one time depicted here.

These sculptures depicted here, however, are unmistakably Jedi. This is found in the Halls of Ranvell; the databank from BD's scan says it's about an ancient war. Little curious as to whether this pulls from an actual story in the franchise (and if it's Legends or Canon at this point), or if it's just narrative/lore padding for Survivor and nothing more.

Either way, I'm tempted to do some artwork of this and a few other things out of this game, at some point.

Every time I go exploring Jedha, I can't help but be reminded of home, too, living in the Southwestern region of the US. So the between the landscape, and the creepy skritons (which are VERY scorpion-like and Arachnophobia Mode does little to "fix" lmao), Jedha doesn't feel too alien a world to me. (And thinking about it having been to old prospecting towns, neither does Koboh, so much.)

For all Tanalorr's pretty scenery, there's... not much to do beyond the storyline. Surprising, but also not. Lotta art inspiration, at least!

I wish the map to explore was bigger, honestly, because this looks to be some kind of (partial?) oceanic planet? There's a point where you can see a large body of water from some cliffs, way off in the distance.

Cal, BD, and the rest of the Mantis crew could really use a trip to the beach after all this, as well as a Star Destroyer's worth of therapy...

Made this one the wallpaper for my laptop! 🩷

I'll have more screenshots coming in at a later time, but I thought I'd share these for now.

#frosts fandom freakouts #star wars #jedi survivor #jedi survivor spoilers #(not truly spoilers and more just my rambly thoughts on a game I enjoyed very much but the tag's there to be safe and courteous)#in game photography #in game screenshots #koboh #jedha #tanalorr #clone trooper helmet always gets a little 'Hi!' from me every time I walk into Pyloon's #tempted to come up with a name for the Clone the helmet belonged to just so I have something to call him #just something better than 'hello helmet' which feels impersonal

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dreadfutures · 10 months

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Ooh, what was your inspiration? Music, aesthetics, plot points, etc- anything you feel like sharing! I love hearing about what inspires artists ❤️ Dead Pasts and Dread Futures has such an interesting Lavellan journey and I’m wondering where you get your ideas - ty and have a lovely night ❤️

Hi thank you!! that means a lot. and thanks for indulging me.

For DPDF, the whole origin of the fic was surviving a series of really bad friend breakups that affected me more than anything else in my life and really shaped my worldview, and Ixchel often grapples with similar things. DPDF is very much about depression and isolation inextricably, from different angles.

Beyond individual relationships it keeps popping up in the form of "inspiration" as I think a lot about being mixed race, about being second generation, about clawing my way to positions of leadership and privilege and how best to open doors and empower my peers and those who come after me, about being both afforded privilege but also being marginalized in those spaces too, about building community and coalitions... They're just really central to a lot of my daily existence and the spaces I move in and there aren't clear answers or narratives so I like to write them when I can. And imagining the world as I wish it could be, where sometimes just saying "it shouldn't be this way" loudly enough will give people pause, is important work to keep me hopeful and motivated to live and do the hard work in my relationships and communities.

On more fun notes, some of my biggest inspirations:

Music

These songs make me incredibly emotional, they all have a lot of personal meaning to me about friendships that I've had and lost, and they also have directly inspired a lot of ixchel's relationships with the people closest to her. just listening to agnes these days is enough to make me cry my eyes out.

beige (yoke lore) - unburdened

bad dreams (faouzia) - stripped

running up that hill (placebo) - x

i found (amber run) - ft. London Contemporary Voices

agnes (glass animals) - stare into his eyes **(see below)

Plots, Language, Storytelling

I find myself drawing elements and plots from lots of my favorite books growing up, such as:

Riddlemaster of Hed (Patricia A. McKillip) (ideas about magic, identity, collectivism vs individualism, pacifism, betrayal and love comingling)

Chronicles of Prydain (Lloyd Alexander)

Earthsea (Ursula K. LeGuin) (magic, accepting darkness within you, collectivism vs individualism, other things)

Thirteen Clocks (James Thurber) (whimsical language, poetry, a different way of writing fairy tales, fridge horrors)

Scarlet Pimpernel (Baroness Orczy) (lifted some of it for Wycome)

The Dark is Rising (Susan Cooper) (shoutout: golden owl eyes)

Song of the Lioness (Tamora Pierce) (man. really complicated and nuanced friendships and interpersonal relationships.)

A version of the Robin Hood story whose author I don't know :(

El Cid

The Bartimaeus Trilogy (Jonathan Stroud)

Specifically themes relating to loyalty, chivalry, doing what's right even when it means you lose or life is harder or it's lonely.

Honorable mentions to Peaky Blinders, Pacific Rim, all the Studio Ghibli films (especially Spirited Away).

But also a lot of fanfics I read growing up were really formative.

Elecktrum's Chronicles of Narnia fanfics, and Tonzura123's Chronicles of Narnia fanfics, were especially impactful with how they treated platonic devotion and loyalty.

** a note about agnes

this was originally in the youtube description but I think Dave removed it. But it means a lot to me so I'm copying it here:

dear friends…nervously excited to share with you the video for Agnes. it’s hard to explain exactly how it feels inside a human centrifuge. you sit in a small egg-like pod about the size of a horse which hangs off a 50 foot steel horizontal frame. It looks like something out of a bond villain’s lair. it’s claustrophobic and uncomfortable and also incredibly hot. slowly the whole thing starts to rotate like a helicopter blade. Faster and faster until every part of you becomes crushed under the extreme gravity. its like being slowly sat on by an elephant, or like your whole body being punched in slow motion. you have to flex every muscle and use every ounce of strength you have to keep going. breathing requires serious effort. movement becomes incredibly strained and almost painful. everything that once weighed 5 kilograms now weighs 50. its difficult even to keep your eyes open. it hurts in places you really didn’t know existed. veins and capillaries burst under the pressure and bruising begins. its a rapid physical overdrive. the blood rushes from your brain making it impossible to think rationally or focus. your eyes are also drained and you get tunnel vision…only able to see small circles of the world directly infront of you and your sight goes completely greyscale…no more colour. your balance and spatial awareness goes and the world begins to spin like you’ve had way too much to drink. but the most striking thing is the way that the machine pulls on your heart. you can actually feel it struggling to beat and changing shape…flattening inside of your chest. Its similar to that horrible sinking, tugging heartache that comes only with complete and overwhelming sadness. and then you pass out. we ran the centrifuge 18 times while i tried to sing along to a song which i find difficult to listen to at the best of times. this was probably the most intense video-making experience I’ll ever have. But its the only way that we could just about begin to simulate for a moment what happens within Agnes. speak soon, dave

#long post #dead pasts dread futures #depression #suicide #personal

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sunriseverse · 3 months

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💚 Green and 🖤 Black and 🤎 Brown

💚 Green: Do you ever feel inspired by and/or jealous of other people's writing?

inspired, yes; jealous, no. maybe when i was younger, and my technical skills were more lacking—my writing isn't the best thing in the world, but what i have now makes me happy. i've had a lot of opportunities to grow and improve, and i've come to a place that i am content with. sometimes i see other people being really, really good at something (comedy, for one) and wish idly that i were better in that way, but mostly it just encourages me to hone my own skills, because maybe someday someone will look at my writing and go, oh, i want to be like that.

🖤 Black: Do you think about your story when you're not physically writing it? Does it help with plotting scenes, character arcs, etc.?

a better question is "when am i ever not thinking about my writing?" which has a very clear answer: never. there is not a single moment in my life that i'm not thinking about my writing—in part because it's a special interest of mine, and thus underpines my very existence, and part because, well, it's what i spend most of my free time doing. it pervades my every waking moment—even those that aren't "nice"; i've had more than one breakdown and had an analytic part of me go, oh, i know how to nail that emotional beat in my project now! it permeates beyond that, too—i dream about my writing, and even though this isn't very conducive to, well, actually making progress on things since i rarely remember the exact details of my dreams, but it certainly adds to the "living, breathing writing" mindset i've unintentionally tricked myself into. if i'm not writing, i'm thinking about writing, or drawing art for my writing, or talking to my friends about my writing, or, or, or. you get the picture.

🤎 Brown: How did you decide to write (or why are you writing) a certain fanfic?

going to take this as a moment to be wildly self-indulgent and talk about sunrise—my darling, my heart, my reason for existence, if we want to be sentimental. what initially started off as a silly pacrim fusion (as i am wont to do—show me a fandom i've been in post-2018 that i haven't written a pacrim au for, i dare you) accidentally gained, uh, 10k+ in lore, 14k+ in actual established canon, and an uncountable amount more to be written as i have the time. it is the pinnacle of self-indulgence, combining half a dozen of my interests—pacific rim, the yuan and ming dynasties, especially the wanli era, science fiction, eldritch somethings, the horrifying exploration of autonomy, control, love, political strata upon political strata, tragic sibling dynamics, weird as fuck biological mutations in the vein of annihilation (terrible film, wonderful visuals), character design, love and trust as the only thing that can save the world, and more! i write this verse because it lives, quite literally, in a penthouse suite in my mind, and it's not leaving any time soon, and it's fun. also, because i can canonically say shit like "well, yes, they can tear you apart and rebuild you with massive amounts of futuristic tech, but no, there aren't any smartphones. also the ottoman empire took over most of europe"

thanks for the ask!

#ask #ask meme #c.txt

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enneamage · 5 months

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was wondering if u had advice on how to do this, like the whooole critblr (was wondering if you could define that as well because i don’t actually know ;-;), since i havent seen one for tina or niki (analyses and info) and i’d like to make it

Critblr as a whole is kind of the outer rim of the 2020-era mcyt streamer content following.

The funny thing is there's not really 'rules' for how to be on critblr as much as rules for how to be on main (people who are on mainstream, visible accounts and can be seen by the CCs) that people on critblr tend to break. As a sub-group it's kind of not held together by much other than gossip, and some of the blogs here wouldn't be considered that out of the ordinary years ago before we got "boundary culture" where people got more careful with what they said or did in high traffic, cc-visible spaces. Overall (to shorten the lore a lot) critblr happened because the forced positivity / happiness mandate of main was too narrow and caused a backlash. Now it's worth giving you the heads up that parts of critblr are associated with doxxing and fishing for personal / ‘forbidden’ information, so this is a sketchy part of town. (Mage fact: I actually didn't figure this one out until a bit after I made a blog, whoops.)

I do something very specific by crit blog standards, I use what I know about Enneagram types to cross-reference why people act the way they do. My 'skills' (if I can call them that) are based on a handful of books and like 10 years of observing people in the wild-- this entire blog has been me trying to put that to use/words so I'm not sure if I could do a general enneagram outline beyond what I've written here.

I'm also not sure if I have all-around advice for developing intuition / noticing patterns beyond giving yourself the chance/permission to do so? Psych (even pseudo psych) is a massive rabbit hole and it can take a while to learn things, let alone start getting useful results from them. One of the things about streamers is it truly is just you observing them for hours. If you start to notice a pattern or a logic to what you're seeing, or on the opposite end are confused and want to know more, that can be a good place to start your 'search.'

If you feel you have opinions or insight into what those two are like, feel free to give it a try, as long as you think it's worth it. Critblr is a bit less popular than it used to be so there might be some blogging into the void, but people tend to appreciate good posts.

#Word of warning as well #it can be kind of hard to turn this instinct off once you have it #i've been in another fandom lately and I noticed that I was trying to puzzle out this guy on reflex #even though I largely intended to take a break #I may never really shut off from this but that may just be me #gcldrvsh08

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kurlyfrasier · 1 year

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The Summons

Pairing: None, really. I mean Leia Organa x Han Solo are in it for a hot minute, but they are not the focal point lol

Synopsis: Captain Carson Teva gets a summons from Mandalore requesting his presence. OR: Teva meets the Mand’alor

Word Count: 3600ish

A/N: So I’ve had this idea in my head for a WHILE and finally got it out lol I’m talking, like, this was my 2nd Mando fic idea here, people lol So excited to finally share it! Anyway, it was supposed to be super short and funny and ended up being a little longer than anticipated, but I still like it. Might write another part to tie up a small thing or might write this in Din or Cara’s pov lol cuz well, you’ll see. I think it would be fun to read their pov. ENJOY!

Warnings: none. This is all for fun people lol

Disclaimer: I do not own any Star Wars/Mandalorian anything. I know very little of the lore. All Mando’a words found at mandoa.org. Everything else I typically find on Wookieepedia or make it up. OCs are my own.

Captain Carson Teva stared unblinking at the holovid message, not hearing a word that was said. He heard it the first time. Or, he thinks he heard it the first time. Maybe it was the seventh time when the rush of blood in his ears finally stopped long enough for him to listen. Either way, he was lucky he hadn’t crashed into an asteroid field before going into hyperspace.

As a New Republic X-wing pilot who was often patrolling the Outer Rim, he had seen and heard many things. He himself had even bent the rules a few times. Sometimes, he thought, what happens in the Outer Rim, should stay in the Outer Rim. With this message though, he needed to get back to Coruscant and speak to the senator. She, he knew, would want to see this message in person. Otherwise she might think it a joke. Heck, he thought it might be a joke.

~~~

“Is Senator Organa available?” Teva hadn’t even waited for his feet to hit the ground with the question.

“Last I saw she was just heading back to her apartment,” Trapper Wolf, who was only waiting for him to return so he could head out, furrowed his brows. Teva wished he could explain, but he still wasn’t sure if Wolf was interested in their - at the moment - small band of rebels. So, he ignored the look with a quick thanks and hopped on the closest speeder for hire to the Organa-Solo home, a small holo-pad hidden in his hand.

Han Solo answered the door with a curt, “What.”

“Sorry to bother you, sir. I’m Captain Teva, New Republice X-wing pilot, looking for Senator Organa.”

Solo raised his brows, “Must be important to come knocking on our home this late in the day.”

“I believe it is, sir,” Teva said after a beat, realizing Solo had no intentions of inviting him in, standing there blocking the entryway. “I got a holovid message from-” Teva took a quick glance of his surroundings and seeing no-one, took a step closer in order to whisper, “The message comes from Mandalore.”

“Mandalore?” Solo’s brows scrunched. “Wasn’t that planet turned to glass? Completely inhabitable.”

“Not anymore. On my patrols in the Outer Rim these past few years, there's been a lot of changes.”

Sensing he wasn’t going to get any more information until Leia was present, Solo invited him in, stating his wife was putting their son to bed and should be out momentarily.

“Want a drink?” Solo asked after a few silent, awkward minutes.

“Captain Teva,” Senator Leia Oragana’s voice had the men spinning to find her entering the living room. Teva noticed she didn’t look fazed by his presence and thought maybe there was more Skywalker in her than he originally thought. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” she motioned to the sofa and he sat, happy to let himself relax after his rush there. Not many things made Carson Teva nervous, but this message was beyond his understanding and mulling over it in a never ending cycle since he first saw it had him at his wits end. “Would you like a drink? Last I heard, you were out patrolling the Outer Rim,” she sat in a chair adjacent to him.

“Thank you, but no. I,” Teva cut himself short, glancing at Solo, wondering if it was okay to speak further with him around. The rebel group Organa was slowly building was small and he didn’t know if the past smuggler was part of it.

“Speak freely, Carson. My husband knows all about our venture. In fact,” she gave Solo a wide smile, “he’s part of it.”

Teva nodded. “I’ve received a message from Mandalore-”

“Mandalore? They just got a new king, didn’t they? And have started settling themselves back on their home planet, yes?”

“Correct. And I thought you might like to see it, so I flew here straight away.”

She gave him an assessing gaze. “Well, let’s see it.”

Teva set the small holo-pad down on their caf table and held his breath as it started.

“Captain Carson Teva,” the blue-tinged, fully-armored figure stood, blaster on one hip and knives on the other, a spear strapped to her back and arms at her side. She seemed completely relaxed, if not a little bored, yet her voice was succinct and full of certainty. “The Mand’alor invites you as his guest to Mandalore. Come alone and at your earliest convenience,” the mandalorian’s head snapped, looking over her shoulder. “Marshal Dune sends her regards.”

“Marshal Dune?” Organa’s face pinched.

“She was a shock trooper. Turned Navarro into a safe place. I recruited her for a marshal position. Took a bit of convincing, though.”

“And her relation to Mandalore?”

“I’m,” Teva dragged the word out, remembering an old Razor Crest entering hyperspace as he entered Navarro’s atmo. It was an uncommon enough ship those days and he only knew of one person who flew one. A Mandalorian. But Dune had never mentioned knowing any Mandalorians and when he asked the now magistrate about the Razor Crest, he had shrugged and denied a Razor Crest was ever there. He hadn’t seen either since, but had spoken to Dune over comms. Nothing of note came to mind as he thought over those conversations, though.

“Hello,” a fingers snapped in front of Teva, bringing back from his thoughts. “Captain. Mandalore,” Solo, who was now sitting next to him, made an impatient gesture for him to continue.

“Right. Sorry, senator. I’m not really sure what Marshal Dune’s relation is to Mandalore, but,” he took a deep breath, sighing heavily as he let it out, shaking his head. “There was an incident a few years back when I recruited Dune,” Teva looked up to find Organa giving him a nod to continue. “An old Imperial base was destroyed on Navarro. I saw a Razor Crest entering hyperspace when I hit their atmo. I had thought I’d seen it before - it always seemed to be running from trouble - but Greef, Navarro’s magistrate, had implied there was never a Razor Crest there. I didn’t believe him, of course. But I wasn’t about to make a big deal about it.”

“I see,” she hummed. “As much as I wish I could go with you to have a chance to discuss political matters and Mandalore joining our cause, it’s clear they only want you. Are you okay with going alone? Do you think it’s safe?”

“I believe so, ma’am. The summons didn’t seem threatening.”

“True. It would be nice to get a feel for what they want,” her fingers drummed against her thigh. “Please, report back with what you find and be safe, captain. I hope to become allies in the future. I would hate to be on a Mandalorian’s bad side.”

Teva gave Senator Organa a weak salute, grabbed his holo-pad and left, letting her know he would leave in the morning.

~~~

Captain Teva landed in the Keldabe - an old city on Mandalore - shipyard with trepidation. He could not, for Maker’s sake, think of why he would be summoned to Mandalore at all. He had spoken to that one Mandalorian after shooting a few ice spiders, and no others. Had he seen a few from afar? Yes, especially since Mandalore had become habitable again. But still, unless that one was still mad about him and Wolf leaving him stranded on the Maldo Kreis - which he fervently hoped was not the case - he had no idea why he would be a guest of their king. He was nobody. Just a simple pilot of the New Republic.

Teva shook his head, ridding himself of his circling thoughts and opened the hatch, reminding himself that he was not an easily intimidated man. He would not allow a bunch of Mandalorians to change that. Besides, he needed to figure out what they wanted and if they would be interested in becoming allies with the New Republic or help the senator’s cause.

“Captain Teva,” a familiar, modulated voice spoke. The very same one he had listened to on the holovid message at least a hundred times. His thoughts immediately fled, gaping as he noticed his greeting party. His eyes roamed. There were at least a dozen, all carrying varied weapons as though they were extensions of themselves. All seemed relaxed, no blasters in hand at least. All painted differently, even if some had the same colors. Except one. The one from the Maldo Kreis who stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Suddenly, his mouth was dry and tongue felt swollen.

Maybe this particular Mandalorian did hold a grudge?

Teva gave them all a curt nod, swallowing, uncertain of the proper way to greet them.

“I’m Vyktoria,” she stepped closer, apart from her entourage, and grasped his forearm in greeting. “Aide to the Mand’alor. I, along with a few guards, are here to escort you to the throne room where the Mand’alor will greet you.”

Teva thought the ‘few’ who came to escort him was a bit extreme, but muttered out his thanks, nonetheless, happy he was even able to get the words out. Vyktoria made a simple motion for him to follow as she turned around. The others followed suit, except the silver Mandalorian, who stared him down, keeping Teva frozen in place. A beat later he also turned and allowed his arms to relax at his sides, walking forward. He spoke not a word. Letting out a breath he didn’t know he held, Teva followed, heart pounding as he wondered who the Mand’alor was.

The Mandalorians spoke amongst themselves in a language Teva had never heard, allowing him to relax. He would not have to make conversation nor did they see him as a threat. That was good, even if the silver one had slowed his pace to match his own.

“If I’m correct,” Teva said before he could stop himself, noticing the helmet turning to face him in his peripheral. “I believe you may be the same Mandalorian I once saved from an incident with ice spiders a few years back.”

The man stayed quiet, giving no indication that he was the same guy, gaze moving to face forward. Teva had no doubts that he was. He looked too familiar, felt too familiar. Not being Force sensitive, Teva trusted his gut and his gut said they were one and the same. Although, he remembered, he talked a bit more when hoping for a ride off of Maldo Kreis.

Teva tried for conversation again as they passed piles of rubble and crumbled buildings, not seeing a newly restored city past the Mandalorians in front of them. “I’m glad to see you made it off that Maldo Kreis.”

Still, his companion did not speak.

“I’m sorry your home still has reminders of war,” Teva tried one last time, gesturing at the emptiness around them, the half crumbled ruins, the sands that turned to violent sculptures of glass. Teva couldn’t imagine his home planet, green and filled with the noise of life, ever feeling so empty. “I hope your Mand’alor,” he fumbled over the word, even if it was similar to the planet’s own name, “is making it feel like home again.”

When the man next to him, once again, did not respond, Teva gave up on his one-sided conversation. Ahead, he could hear a crowd of people and as they got closer he saw a large marketplace, filled shoulder to shoulder with Mandalorians, countless without helmets or even armor on at all. All were talking at once, weaving through each other, and laughing. It put a smile on Teva’s face and calmed his mind.

“It seems your Mand’alor is doing good for his people,” Teva couldn’t help but say, eyes never focusing on one thing as he soaked in their surroundings. The marketplace was basic, but most planets didn’t have big cities with large shopping structures. He could see homes - many with children running in and out, laughing and shouting as they played their games - made of sand and stone. No rubble or half ruins in sight. He gave the silver Mandalorian a wide smile. “All this joy after being away from their home planet for so many years. And the children! not a care in the world, it seems. It’s amazing. I find I like your king already.” It was the truth, he realized, surprising himself. After seeing all these carefree people, Teva knew their Mand’alor was a good man. He was still curious about the summons, but could now confidently say he did not think he was in any danger.

As they walked, the crowd shifted to allow them room, all taking the time to pound a fist to their chests, nodding their heads. Teva noticed none in his group were reciprocating the gesture and thought maybe it was respect toward the guards. Still, Teva nodded in greeting as he walked by, feeling odd not to acknowledge them.

Further in the city Teva could see a much larger, more distinguished home. Several stories tall, looking like a castle. Half built with steel and the rest with sand and stone, mixing the old building with the new. It was tragic and beautiful. A reminder that Mandalorians will never stop fighting and will always find a way.

The noise of the market faded, bringing with it new sounds. Familiar sounds from his rookie days. Mandalorians, young and old - all in full armor - sparred and shot targets on one side of the field next to the castle while the other side held line after line after line of young soldiers doing drills. Blaster shots and the clanging of metal on metal rose to his ears just as loud as the perfectly aligned drills. The group he followed started to holler and shout their encouragement and praise, simultaneously cheering and booing in good fun.

Captain Carson Teva was astounded by the sheer numbers there were, how carefree they could be while seeing how seriously they took their practice. Mandalorians were always known to be the best fighters - guardians in a cruel galaxy - but those tales of grandeur he heard as a young boy had been silenced by rumors of how fearless, ruthless, heartless they became when they were driven from their home. Practically destroyed. The galaxy thought them dead. Extinct. Yet here they are, alive and thriving.

Before he knew it, Teva was inside the castle walls. A chill made him shiver, but not from being cold. No. But from the knowledge that he was about to meet the man who made it all happen. The man who gave these people hope. A home. The man who brought the Mandalorians of old back to life. This man, Teva knew, deserved the title of king.

But would this same king believe in Senator Organa’s cause? Would he welcome allies after they had done so little to help them? Would he willingly put his people in harm’s way to help bring peace to the galaxy? To rid them forever of the Empire?

Teva could only hope.

Two overly large, decorated doors opened - the kind one had to push or pull - by two sentinels standing guard. Inside, there were dozens of Mandalorians standing, all fully armored and, as one, turned to the group and pounded a fist to their hearts when they entered. The force of which caused the simple pilot’s ears to ring. The guards who had escorted him scattered to the outskirts of the open room where the walls held banners of a creature’s skull with two rounded tusks and a long face. Teva’s gaze followed them until his eyes caught sight of a large tapestry of a mudhorn’s head, made in a simple design, hanging on the opposite side of the entrance. Further down and in front of the tapestry sat a throne. It was simply made, and sturdy with no extravagance. Teva’s first thought was that it looked uncomfortable. He noticed, with a curious tilt of his head, that a small, green, big-eared being sat on an arm of the chair. It was babbling to the guard standing next to the throne and the guard, holding a spear in his hand, listened as if he was enraptured by its words. Like he could understand what it was saying.

Not for the first time that day, Captain Carson Teva, was confused.

The small being was obviously a child. A young one, at that. And one who was allowed to sit on a king’s chair. He had never heard of such a thing. Never before seen such a thing. It didn’t make sense.

What in Maker’s name was going on?

A flash of silver caught his attention, his eyes instantly glued to the one Mandalorian he knew. Teva watched the man’s steady, confident stride end at the throne. He sat. The voices died down, watching the man on the throne. The T-visor gaze surveyed the room until the kid, squealing excitedly, hopped onto his lap. The king’s gaze quickly landed the child, lifted wiggling fingers in the air as a threat for tickles, causing the kid to laugh so loud it echoed off the walls, enveloping everyone with its joy. Quiet chortles at the scene caused Teva to glance around, finding most of the Mandalorians had taken off their helmets, holding them comfortably under their arms like a limmie ball. Suddenly, as though the last piece of a puzzle was finally put in place, Teva understood.

The silver Mandalorian was the Mand’alor.

It made sense now, why everyone pounded a fist to their chest. It was the Mandalorian equivalent of a bow. They were showing him the respect that was his due.

Teva felt all blood drain from his face, only for it to pool nauseously in his stomach.

“Captain Carson Teva. Long time,” a heavy arm landed around his shoulders. “Come on,” Marshal Dune smiled, dragging him forward as everyone started conversing again. “Let me introduce you to a friend of mine.”

“A friend,” Teva deadpanned, feeling slightly better now that he wasn’t the only one without a helmet.

Dune hummed, face scrunching in faux thought, “More like a brother really.”

“To a Mandalorian?” He was skeptical, learning over the last few years through their comms that Dune could have a dry sense of humor.

“Not just any Mandalorian,” she whispered. “The Mandalorian.”

“As in-”

“Mm-hm,” she nodded, her smile turning feral as they stood in front of the very man they spoke of. “And when he made a comment about an X-wing pilot and some ice spiders, I asked him which one. And, of course, he didn’t know. Not until I pulled it out of him with as many details of the tale as possible. And what do ya know? The X-wing pilot he owes his very life to is my friend, the captain.”

“I’m not so sure abou-”

“Now, Captain Teva,” she held up a hand to silence his protest. “Don’t go selling yourself short. If not for you, my friend may very well be dead, may not have become Mand’alor, and may not have brought his people back together on their home planet.”

Teva was certain he heard the Mand’alor give a long-suffering sigh.

“So, after knocking some sense into the guy, I convinced him to throw a celebration in your honor.”

“You wha-”

“What’s the point of having a royal friend if you don’t get to enjoy a good old fashion party every once in a while, am I right?”

“I suppose so-”

“Exactly!” She slapped him hard on the shoulder, making him wince. “So we celebrate tonight, but first,” she pointed at the silver Mandalorian, laughter in her eyes, stretching an arm out for the kid to climb up to her shoulder. “Pay up, Mando,” and walked away with the child babbling away at her.

Teva, once again, did not understand what just happened.

“Captain Teva,” the beat of awkward silence ended at the Mand’alor’s words, forcing him to face that dark, T-visor gaze. “She’s right, I never did properly thank you.”

“There’s really no need. I was only doing my job.”

“That may be, but still, I thank you,” the visor stared down at Teva from his throne, waiting.

“You’re welcome,” Teva finally said, not knowing what else to do.

“Prepare yourself,” the Mand’alor whispered and stood up, causing the room to go silent once more.

“Prepare? Wha-”

“A few years ago,” the Mand’alor’s voice carried without him even trying. All eyes on him as he told the tale. “Before I had even won the darksaber, I was traveling sub-light in order to hold up my end of a deal for a passenger I was shuttling to Trask, where her husband awaited her there. On my way, two X-wings ended up chasing me through the tunnels of ice on a freezing planet. I landed my ship to hide, not wanting to deal with them, and instead ended up falling into a cave filled with ice spider eggs. It was here that Grogu decided to have a snack,” the crowd chuckled. The Mand’alor continued the story. Telling everyone of his near-death experience with the ice spiders, barely making it back to his ship that was practically done for after the fall into the cave, afraid he had failed. Failed his passenger. Failed his son. “When suddenly the X-wing pilots found me again, just as the largest ice spider had started cracking the transparasteel, and shot it down,” he looked over at Teva and held out a hand. Taking his cue, Teva grasped his forearm as Vyktoria had done earlier in the day. He nodded, “So tonight, in honor of this man, Captain Carson Teva, for saving my life… We feast!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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