#I genuinely think that I could write an entire paper on this topic

[sinorim-pisani]

tl;dr Linguistic anthropology except it's about Danny Phantom???

Wake up, new danny phantom obsession just dropped ya'll:

It's time to talk about GHOST LANGUAGE!!

But not the canonical Esperanto, which is a cool and interesting decision on the show's part.

I mean the idea that the ghosts have an entirely new form of communicating that sounds like static and space and ice and fire and everything a creature can feel, all condensed into what is essentially a massive creole language!

I'm a huge fan of authors who, when describing non-esperanto based "ghost speak", choose to take a more eldritch noise approach. Danny, for instance, when using the language of the ghosts, is often said to sound like all the noise of a wintery atmosphere; words like frost, ice, static, tingle, sharp, quiet and cold are employed to connect Danny's speech with his ghost core qualities. It is a fantastic way to bring an eerie and disquieting sense to Danny, and to indicate to us readers that ghosts have a unique and deeply ingrained method of communication beyond the use of human tongues.

To read way too much into something so little, I think that this could indicate that ghosts communicate with their cores! (I know, you're like Sinorim are we back to the ghost cores??) YES, we are back to how interesting ghost cores are!!

Big Question #1: If every creature-turned-ghost that spoke some form of human tongue throughout ANY period in human history, ended up in the Infinite Realms, how would they best be able to communicate?

In Danny Phantom, what makes a ghost a ghost (beyond the whole being dead thing) is their core, and their Obsession, which can be said to be an emotionally charged motivation that stems from strong emotional stimuli during life. Ghosts are creatures of feeling, of sentiment and emotion and memory, and all of those both factor into and stem out of a ghostly core. So to make a couple leaps: if a ghost could not communicate with a human tongue to its neighbor (who would be unable to understand the words), but they both have that commonality of a core and therefore a heightened sense of emotional minutiae, I would say logically the ghosts would then begin to develop a "language" based on feeling and sense. Multiply that effect by.....infinity, tack on a couple millennia, and you end up with a ghostly wordless creole language.

Big Question #2: Since a ghost's core, and subsequently their emotional cognizance and memory, is pretty much like a human fingerprint (individual and quite distinct), how would their language output be affected, and how would others actually be able to comprehend it?

This one is as easy as the difference between po-tay-to and po-tah-to, to-may-to and to-mah-to! What?? But that's just a joke, you say?? While it is a silly set of phrases, it also really concisely demonstrates the vast diversity of pronunciation, and is basically the reason why an international phonetic alphabet exists. Between pronunciation, accents, and the development of linguistic dialects, I think I can say that, at least on the comprehension side, a universal understanding of the Big Emotional Sentiments would have developed over time.

The interesting part lies in the idiosyncrasies of memory. A little side discussion - Danny has an ice core. Why? No idea! but I'm hazarding a guess that it may have something to do with his MEMORY and the emotions he felt when he died. Perhaps he felt the cold metal of the portal walls against him, perhaps the shock itself reminded him of the numbness associated with freezing temperatures or frostbite, maybe he felt a wintery sort of loneliness (it makes sense I swear), and all of that contributed to his development of an ice core. I can use Vlad as an example too, but I'll save that for another time.

So when Danny uses the Language of the Ghosts, he is understood by other ghosts because of a collective awareness of emotional sentiments. However, because of his ice core, which was determined by his individual emotional cognizance and henceforth informs his development, his form of ghost language will always be touched by his memory of the cold. When other ghosts hear Danny in their language, they'll not only understand what he is communicating, but they'll also be able to understand who Danny is, from the little touches of his cold memory that are infused in his communicating, once again thanks to his ice-based ghostly core.

And when humans hear it, they get super bad vibes because they can't understand the sounds and memories and feelings that the ghosts trying to broadcast to them!

I'm imagining poor Danny first learning he could speak the language, and then trying to show it off with his friends and being sad that it freaks them out when all he was trying to say was "You guys are the best" T.T

Good god this turned into an entire essay.

Does any of this even make sense?

Ultimately I just think that it's super cool that authors make Danny sound like the wintery freaky eldritch creature that he could be when he's speaking to ghosts XD

To be continued!

#danny phantom #danny phantom fanfiction #I genuinely think that I could write an entire paper on this topic #what is wrong with me #where is this motivation outside of fandom #this is super interesting to me #like what would VLAD sound like?? #What kind of a core influences the box ghost and what would he sound like?? #what kind of a core would YOU have? #What would YOU sound like? #in my danny phantom era #danny phantom lore #danny phantom fanart #dp fanart #sam manson #tucker foley #jazz fenton #the fentons #vlad plasmius #danny fenton #hell yeah

[t4tschmidt]

hi!! hope you’re having a good day:)

i was wondering if you can write a smut where mike is a nerd in college and the popular girl needs to bring her grade up so he tutors her. she would always flirt with him and make him get all nervous. she repays him by giving him a blowjob and you can add anything else to the story if you want!! thank youu

ooooo i havent written anything like this, thank you for a new idea :D ty for the kind words too i hope everyone reading this day is a good one too <3 (god this is way longer then i meant for it to be)

cws; sub!mike, slight dom!reader, virginity taking, blowjob, gender neutral reader, a little messy

“Have you ever had sex with a girl before?”

The question you ask Mike is completely genuine but he stops writing in his tracks, his face visibly flushing red.

The two of you are studying for midterms (actually, more like Mike guiding you through the subjects) together in his dorm, books and papers strewn everywhere at his table.

“I—what?” He really wasn’t expecting you to ask that and he looks almost nervous.

“Have you?” you ask it like it’s the most casual question in the world, flipping your pencil around in your hand.

“Uh….no,” he looks very embarrassed, it’s cute on him. “I haven’t gotten close to anyone like that before, and no one was particularly interested in the guy hiding behind his engineering book.”

You were quite surprised to learn this, in your opinion he was quite the attractive guy.

“Would you be up for an offer then?” His eyes widened, and he let his pencil slide out of his grip completely.

“What kind of offer….?” He said it, but the implication after the topic of conversation was understood between the two of you, but he clearly didn’t believe it.

“Well I’d really like to do something nice for you in return for tutoring me, we’ve already talked about this but I really wish I could pay you but everything’s going to food and tuition right now and I couldn’t ever ask my parents so I was wondering if you’d let me make you feel good instead?” You said.

His entire face was visibly red now with blush, and his gaze dropped and avoided yours as he processed what you were saying. He seemed in total disbelief, his hands tapping the table which you knew was a nervous habit of his.

“I-um, but I-I’ve never done that with anyone? I wouldn’t wanna, um, somehow do it wrong.” He was incredibly sincere and it was quite endearing.

You leaned back in your seat, trying to catch his nervous eyes.

“I’m cool with that, I could even teach you if that would make you feel less nervous? Think of it as…….a tutoring session. Only if you want too though.” His hands found themselves, wringing and thumbing his palm. He was clearly deep in thought and given permission you wanted to wipe that stress from his face. It would be an honour to teach him, after all the exams and quizzes he’d helped you pass.

“Alright…I think I’d, uh, like that. When?” You smiled at his confirmation of consent, excitement and arousal already beginning to build up inside you. You stood up, walking around the desk and sitting on one of his thighs.

“We’ve been studying for a while now, I think this would be a good opportunity to take a break and learn something new.” You put your hands on his chest, your voice dropping in a suggestive way that earned a shiver out of him.

“O-Okay,” he gulped, finally gathering the courage to look at you in front of him. “What’s the first step?”

You leaned in to kiss his neck and he gasped loudly. “First the ground rules. One, if you decide it’s too much we can always stop, alright? Two, tell me if you’re going to cum. Three, listen to your body, Mikey, tell me what feels good.” You purred into his ear, trying to take things slow so he could adjust to them. He quickly nodded, and you starting leaving light kisses down his chest.

As much as you wanted to grind down on his thigh you had an objective: make him cum. You moved off his lap and he watched you the entire time with a mix of nervousness and curiosity in his eyes. You slid to the floor in between his legs as he was seated at his desk.

Your first step was massaging his thighs, getting closer and closer to his dick. Your hand settled over the fly of his jeans, palming the denim and smirking when you felt the bulge it held.

You began unzipping it, speaking as you worked. “First step is to relax, this parts all about you baby boy.” He felt the urge to whimper and aggressively bit it back.

Just the tiny amounts of friction and sultry words you provided had began to work him up. You pulled down his boxers enough for his cock to be freed, hardening at every touch.

He was fairly big, your fingertips just barely met around it when you gave it a couple experimental jerks. He made a little noise at this, and you smiled.

You spit in your hand, spreading the wetness across his length to make it easier. It was clear he was unuse to his own boner, his mouth agape and his hips beginning to shift in the chair.

You started by giving the tip a tiny kiss, followed by short little licks to the head. You flattened your tongue and swirled it all around the head, running your tongue over his sensitive slit.

This gained an immediate reaction, another little noise escaping his mouth followed by his hands gripping his own thighs. You were barely touching him and he was already panting at the sweet sensation.

You took it a little further, pumping the base and farther into your mouth. You were licking the underside of his dick, dragging hot wet stripes further and further down each time. You were halfway down his length, finally taking it all into your mouth and pushing it in until your lips reached your loose fist.

His pants were evolving into full blown moans, his hand white-knuckles gripping his desk. He spread his legs further, hoping to give you more access. Every moan is music to your ears, coming out in little “hnngs…” and “mmmfng…..”

The tip almost reached the back of your throat and there was spit dripping down your chin, mixing with whatever slick he was leaking. You moved forward and back, your tongue sliding wetly and stimulating him. You repeated this, grinding into the floor for any ounce of your own friction.

His cock was a wet mess, and the sounds coming from your mouth became more and more vulgar. Slick-filled wet slaps of skin on skin as your fist pumped faster and faster and your tongue swirled around his girth.

He was getting closer and you could tell because he was absolutely loosing control of himself. He’d been reduced to drawn-out moans and whimpering at how fast you were going; his hips had also started bucking forward, pushing more and more of it into your mouth until you were almost completely swallowing him.

Your own desperation made it even more wet and messy, you drew back and a long string of precum dripped from his tip to your tongue thinly connected. Your gaze was driving him crazy, the combination of your eyes locked on his and the slurping wet kiss you licked up his shaft again.

When your mouth dove back on it you could tell he was getting incredibly close to finishing. His thrusts were becoming sloppy and so pathetic that it was hitting the walls of your cheek and the very back of your throat.

It was ultimately your groan that sent him over the edge, the vibrations sent through your mouth felt all over his cock and it felt so good, so wet, so overwhelming that he barely had time to whimper “fuck, I-I’m going too—!”

His cock throbbed and pulsed as you licked his slit once more, taking it out of your mouth absolutely cockdrunk. It barely took a single pump for him to explode, thick white ropes bursting from his tip and all over your chest.

His head was thrown back and he was panting hard, his cock head was flushed a pretty pink like his blush and it kept twitching, smaller streams erupting until it came to a slow stop.

Your face was a mess of his hot cum and your underwear absolutely soaked through. His eyes were closed and he was still gasping, sighing as he slowly loosened his grip on the desk as he rode out the end of his orgasm.

“Fuck, holy shit, thank you.” He mumbled, still coming down from the adrenaline of finishing. When he did look down he swore he could’ve came a second time, the way your face was lit up by a smile and absolutely drenched in his sticky white seed.

“Of course, if I wanted to teach you about sex I had to make sure you’d at least get to cum before you made someone else do it,” You stood up, standing close to him and running your hand through his pretty brown hair.

“Tomorrow after we finish calculus, I’ll show you how to eat someone out~”

#requests open #fnaf x reader #mike schmidt #mike schmidt ns/fw #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x you #x reader #fnaf movie x reader #fnaf nsft #fnaf smut #mike schmidt x you smut #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt x reader smut #gn nsft #nsft concept #fnaf ns/fw #fnaf x reader smut

[neewtmas]

hi!! i was wondering whether i could request a george x reader with she/her pronouns? maybe the reader is an assistant at lockwood and co and george is really protective over her bc she’s super sweet. maybe after the joplin incident she keeps having nightmares and george goes and comforts her, and lots of cute fluffy stuff :)

Nightmares

A/N: first off, thank you so much for your request! I had such a great time writing it. I hope you don't mind that I expanded on your idea a little, it just inspired me a lot. There is quite a lot of angstiness in the first half, but I made sure to include lots of fluff in the second half :)

I hope you enjoy it because personally I think this is one of the best things I've written so far and I'm very proud of it <3

pairing: george karim x fem!reader

word count: 3.2k

masterlist

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You had just finished the first chapter of your newly acquired book that you had gotten from the library this morning when it knocked at the door and Lockwood stuck his head in. "We're leaving now," he said. You put your book aside and followed him out into the hallway. Lucy was waiting at the door in a beautiful royal blue dress. "Where's George?" you asked.

Lockwood gave you a tightlipped smile. "He's staying here. Says he's not done with the research yet."

"Is that Joplin woman still here?"

You grimaced at his nod. A part of you felt bad because you were genuinely happy for George. He seemed to have found someone who shared his passion for research, but at the same time, you couldn't help but be creeped out by this woman. Something about her just didn't sit right with you. When you had brought it up to George one time, he had just dismissed it with a 'researchers are just a little weird, I mean, look at me'. You didn't agree at all but decided to just let the topic go.

After Lockwood and Lucy left, you weighed your options. Either you could go back into the living room and continue your book, or you could join George in the kitchen. Usually, the answer would have been obvious: join George in the kitchen with your book. But with Joplin in there… You sighed, walking back and resuming your place in the armchair.

The next time you put your book aside was when you heard a commotion from the kitchen and then a door closing. "Is she gone?" you asked, stepping into the hallway. George turned around. He seemed exhausted, pale and with dark circles under his eyes. "Yes, she, unfortunately, had to leave already", he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. You didn't say anything, but apparently, your expression said enough. "I know you don't like her, y/n, but she just … cares a lot." A moment of silence. "You wouldn't understand." Your chest tightened at his words. If he just knew how much you cared.

You smiled weakly, not wanting to argue with him. In the kitchen, the entire table was covered in books. Some were opened, others piling up. Pieces of paper scribbled full of notes and diagrams and timelines were scattered all over. George cleared the table of the tea cups and brought them over to the sink. You noticed a packed duffel bag next to the door. "Are you leaving now?" you asked. "Yeah, meet-up time with Flo is in twenty minutes," he said after a look at the clock. You watched him gather his things and put on his shoes and jacket until he was standing by the door, ready to go.

You went up to him and hugged him tightly. He wrapped his arms around you, and you stayed embraced like that for a while before he gently pushed you away. "I have to go now." "Please be careful, okay?", you whispered, and he nodded. "No George, you need to promise me. That you're gonna be careful" you repeated, your tone urgent. He smiled down at you. "I promise, y/n."

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The next few hours you alternated between reading a few pages, and then pacing around the house when you couldn't concentrate longer than a few minutes before the anxiety was too bad. You knew how dangerous their mission was, and it killed you inside that you couldn't help them. But you also knew that Lockwood was right when I told you that you wouldn't be of much use, seeing as you currently didn't have much practice with a rapier. So you had no other choice but to stay home and wait for them to return, hopefully, all in one piece.

It was several hours past midnight when the sound of a key turning in a lock made you jump. You had nodded off at the kitchen table, too tired to keep your eyes open after a while. The kitchen door flew open and Lockwood and Lucy came in, both dripping wet. Lockwood had a cut on his temple, face all bloody. You rose from your seat.

"Where's George? What happened? Are you okay?" Frantically you hurried around the table, quickly checking to see if they had any other injuries, but they seemed to be fine. "George should be back in a while, he went to drop off the mirror", Lockwood said tiredly, taking one of the biscuits off the plate you had prepared for their return. You could feel yourself relaxing a little. All was well, they got the mirror and it was probably already safe with DEPRAC. "And we took a little bath in the Thames." Lockwood didn't smile, and the comment didn't roll off his tongue as effortlessly as usual. You could tell he was still tense. Lucy had been quiet, water dripping from her hair down her dress and making a puddle on the floor. "You two should take a shower," you said. "I'll wait here for George."

Soon you were alone in the kitchen again, but now any trace of tiredness was long gone. The tight knot of anxiety in your stomach had returned quickly, tugging on your insides. You knew it was part of the plan that George didn't arrive here with Lockwood and Lucy, but you couldn't help that your mind was running a million miles a minute, imagining every possible way something could have gone wrong.

You busied yourself with preparing a fresh kettle of tea and some sandwiches, and when you were done, you sat back at the table. That's when your eyes fell onto a thin, black book that was lying across from you, completely unassuming. You immediately knew that this was what your colleagues had risked their life for tonight. You picked it up, inspecting it from all sides. It had a simple black cover, and when you opened it, the pages were thin, almost brittle to the touch, and yellow at the edges. You quickly flicked through it and scanned over the pages before you froze. There was a picture of a man holding a mirror into a woman's face. That seemed promising. You hurried to read the text that accompanied the illustration, almost stumbling over the words in your head.

Yes, I killed him. Shot him with my father's pistol, sealed him with iron, buried him deep. Yet I still see him when I close my eyes, swathed in his velvet cloak, performing his rituals. I shall claim an act of self-defence, a bid to save my soul.

So Mary Dulac killed Bickerstaff. But why? You kept reading.

His cunning servant trapped me. The doctor held the glass before me. One glimpse and I felt my sanity shake loose. For this looking glass was not a mirror after all, it was a window. Only one glimpse, and I am damned. All I want to see is more.

You read over that paragraph again. A window? To where? What did she mean? You inspected the illustration once more, this time more closely. It didn't take long for you to discover the swirling shape inside the mirror, and at once you could feel a wave of cold dread wash over you. You knew that symbol. You knew it very well. With shaking hands you pushed away one of the mugs on the table and revealed what was underneath. The same swirling shape, etched in there by a black pen. The very pen you had gifted George a while back.

You felt your throat close up, the anxiety you had been feeling turning into a full-blown panic searing through your entire body. George must have looked into the glass. And if Mary Dulac was telling the truth, that meant he probably hadn't dropped it off at DEPRAC.

"LOCKWOOD! LUCY!" You wanted to scream, but your voice gave out on you. Wasting no time, you sprinted upstairs, colliding full force with Lockwood who was on his way downstairs.

"Woah, y/n" He caught your wrist, furrowing his eyebrows at your dishevelled state. "What's the matter?" "The mirror is not a mirror and George looked into it and now he's obsessed and he -" You stumbled over your words, unable to form a clear sentence.

Lockwood brought you back down into the kitchen and Lucy managed to calm you down enough so that you could explain to them what you discovered. "We need to go back to Bickerstaff's grave" decided Lucy, already starting to throw chains into a duffle bag. You jumped up from your chair. "I'm coming with you."

Lockwood looked at you as if you just suggested you throw yourself down the staircase. "Absolutely not," he said firmly. "But I have to! George is in danger!" Your voice was high-pitched, and you were still shaking. How could Lockwood possibly think that you would just stay here when George - your George - was in a situation like that?

Lockwood grabbed you, fingers digging into your arms, forcing you to stand still as he looked at you with a grim expression that you had never seen on him before. "y/n, listen to me. Yes, he is in danger. And no, you're not coming with us." "But -" "No buts. George would rip me to pieces if I were to let you in harm's way so carelessly. He would quite literally kill me and probably put up my head next to those ghost masks in the hallway. And he would be right to do so. You are not trained right now, and as your employer I'm telling you right now, you're staying back."

You were stunned. Lucy pushed Lockwood aside, embracing you tightly. "It's gonna be fine, y/n. He's gonna be fine. And you know that he would never want you to risk your life for him."

You knew she was right, but you also knew that George would not hesitate a single second to go save you if the roles were reversed.

"I can't just stay here and do nothing," you said weakly, voice wavering. "You're not doing nothing", Lockwood reassured you. "You can make preparations for when we come back. George's probably gonna be out of it. And if things go south and we're not back in the morning, you call DEPRAC and send them after us."

You decided not to argue with him over the fact that if they were not back by morning, they were probably all dead anyways. You knew that Lockwood would not change his mind.

The next few hours were the most agonizing in your life. If you thought you had been anxious before, that was nothing compared to how you felt now. Your whole body felt stiff and weak at the same time, and you could not stop your hands from shaking. After accidentally dropping a mug (it was one of Lockwood's favourites, but you decided it didn't matter after the way he dismissed you earlier), you just left the kitchen and curled up in George's favourite armchair in the library, staring at the ceiling and willing for the minutes and hours to go by faster.

Finally, after what felt like several eternities, the sound of the doorbell rang through the house. You scrambled to get up, getting caught in the blanket you had thrown over yourself and almost crashing into one of the bookshelves before regaining balance and dashing to the door.

You ripped it open, and as you saw George standing in front of you, looking tired but unharmed, you collapsed into his arms with a sob. He caught you and wrapped his arms around you so tightly that for a moment, you couldn't breathe. But you did not care. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. 

"Let's get inside", he said softly, and you reluctantly let go of him. Suddenly you felt exhausted, all the tension from the night falling off you at once, making room for relief. Silent tears were streaming down your cheeks, and you made no effort to stop them. George's gaze softened as he looked at you and he gently wiped away some tears before hugging you again and placing a kiss on top of your head. "I'm okay, y/n. You don't need to cry."

That night, or rather morning, you fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next day was spent recovering, and Lockwood, George and Lucy filling you in about what exactly happened last night. Knowing how they narrowly avoided death several times made you feel horrible, especially because you still felt so useless. While they were out there, risking their life for each other, you had just sat at home, doing nothing but panicking. George had assured you multiple times that you did the right thing, and that all he wanted was for you to be safe, but you couldn't quite shake the feeling.

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That was when the nightmares began. It started with you jerking awake in the middle of the night, tangled up in your blanket, your hair a mess and your shirt sticking to your sweaty skin. Your heart was racing so fast you thought it might explode in your chest, but you could not remember what you dreamt about. All you knew was that you were filled with a great sense of terror every time you woke. But every night, the dreams would get clearer, and worse. Each one featured George, dying a more gruesome death every single time. Shot by Joplin, suffocated by the vengeful ghost of old Bickerstaff, driven into madness by the bone glass.

It didn't take George long to notice the dark circles under your eyes. One morning, a few days after the incident, he stopped you on the staircase. "y/n, what is going on with you?", he asked, taking your hand and squeezing it gently. "You look like you haven't slept in days." You smiled at him, trying hard to not appear as tired as you were. "I'm doing fine. Just not sleeping very well." You didn't want to tell him that you weren't sleeping well because you saw him die in your dreams every night. Knowing George, he would blame himself, and that was the last thing you needed him to do after everything he went through.

That night, you went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately. Next thing you knew, you were awake, the scream that woke you up still on your lips, shaking worse than any night before. You gasped for air, taking deep, long breaths trying to calm your racing heart. Your fingers were gripping the blanket so tightly it hurt, and you willed yourself to release them before getting up slowly. You were weak in the knees, but after a few seconds, you felt steady enough to make your way downstairs. With your mouth feeling dry like sandpaper, you wanted nothing more than a glass of cold water. You slowly took one step after the other, careful to avoid the ones that creaked when you stepped on them.

The staircase was dark, only illuminated by a few beams of moonlight cutting through the darkness, so you did not see George standing at the door to his room. "Where are you going, y/n?" You flinched, clasping your hand on your mouth to stop the startled yelp. "I just want something to drink." Your voice was as raspy as if you hadn't talked in days. George extended his hand. "I have something in my room." You didn't have the energy to argue, and if you were honest with yourself, in this moment there was nothing you wanted more than to be with George. Just to know that he was alive and well and all your dreams were truly just that: dreams.

You took his hand and he lead you into his room, to his bed, where you sat down. He poured you a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table and handed it over to you. While you were sipping, he shuffled around somewhat awkwardly, before sitting down next to you. "Can you please just tell me what's going on with you, Y/N? You're worrying me. You've barely eaten the last few days and you look so tired." You didn't reply. "Plus I heard you screaming just now", he added quietly.

Something about the way he said it, the way he sounded so sad, made all your resolve crumble. You tried to blink away the tears that threatened to spill over your lashes, looking away from him so that he didn't see your tears.

George gently took the glass out of your hands, put it down on the nightstand and then wrapped his arms around you without saying a word. You buried your face in his chest, finally allowing the tears to fall freely and the sobs to wrack your body. He gently caressed your back, not letting go until your sobs slowly subsided.

When you sat back up, your eyes were puffy, but you already felt better. You hadn't realised what toll it had taken on you to bottle your feelings up like this. George's hand rested on your thigh, where his thumb was rubbing soothing little circles while you drank the rest of the water.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?"

"I've been having nightmares", you quietly said. "About you and the bone glass." George let out a long, drawn-out breath, his grip on your thigh tightening. "I'm sorry, Y/N", he finally says, and you shake your head softly. "It's not your fault, Georgie. I just wish I could have helped."

"Y/N. Do you have any idea how relieved I was when Lockwood and Lucy appeared in that catacomb and you were nowhere to be seen? You know how much it helped me, knowing that you are here and that no matter what happens, you'll be safe? You'll be okay?"

Warmth spreads in your chest at the sincerity of his words. "But that's the thing, George. I would not have been okay. If something had happened to you…" you trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought. George took a deep breath, then he cupped your cheeks and gently turned your face towards him. Suddenly your heart was beating rapidly again, but this time not because of panic. "But that didn't happen", he said, his left thumb wiping away a few stray tears from your cheek. "I am here, and I am okay, and you have nothing to worry about. Okay?" "Okay."

He smiled at you, and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Let's sleep."

"Can I stay here tonight?"

"You can stay here every night, you know that."

He laid down, leaving enough space for you and you cuddled into him. His arms wrapped around you, and suddenly you were surrounded by his scent and his warmth and you just closed your eyes. "Good night, Y/N." was the last thing you heard before drifting off to sleep. 

And this time, there was no nightmare.

#george karim reader #george karim #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #lockwood & co x reader

[monthofsick]

Thanks, I hate it

Nov(emeto)ber 2022, Day 7: Enemy to Caretaker

OCs: Tiago, Hunter

This is my first time writing an actual asshole caretaker who doubles as a very biased narrator. I feel a tad guilty for picking Tiago again, but it all came together so naturally. Even though this is written from a very subjective point of view, I also simply love to make seemingly perfect people sick.

TW: Vomit, mild scat/both ends, mean caretaker

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Hunter Calaway was perfect.

He had the face of an ancient demigod – big, expressive eyes, sensual lips and cheekbones you could cut paper with. His curls were naturally defined, he was tall and athletic (kind of a given, considering he was the college’s basketball MVP) and he had flawless caramel skin. He also had heterochromia, because of course he had. A real life Gary Stu like him needed his special eyes. It was like people from all around the globe had come together to create an ultimate winner in the genetic lottery.

Tiago hated him with a passion.

Maybe he was a tiny bit biased because of the whole Diamond issue. Diamond was the campus goddess, head cheerleader and pride of the debate club. Tiago had a crush on her since junior high, but who did she end up with? The Great Hunter himself. Because he was such a kind‑hearted gentleman who loved to spend his free time doing voluntary work.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, both Hunter and Tiago had been assigned to represent the basketball team at New Student’s Day. They had to conceptualize a banner, create a flyer and come up with fun activities to attract new talents. Tiago had felt honored to be picked for the job… until he realized that a) he had to work together with his personal nemesis and b) they had only been chosen because no one else had volunteered for the task. Now he had to invest his free time while constantly fighting the urge to display his aversion.

Today was especially frustrating. They hadn’t agreed on how to translate the team’s logo into a banner yet. Tiago wanted to focus on the colors for a more clean and modern look, Hunter wanted their Rottweiler mascot front and center. It didn’t help that Mr. Perfect wasn’t his usual upbeat and diplomatic self this afternoon.

„See, they’re basically kids“, he explained in a disgustingly patient tone. „We need something to stand out from the crowd and catch their eyes.“

„Okay, but we don’t want them to think they took the wrong turn to elementary school.“

„But everyone loves our Rottie! Go, Rotties, go!“ Hunter’s face lit up for a moment. „Wait, I just had the best idea ever. You know that I help out in an animal shelter? We could bring an actual Rottweiler, they have a total sweetheart right now. It would be an audience magnet and bring awareness to adopting pets.“

„Everyone and their grandma knows that you volunteer for any good cause known to mankind.“ Tiago exhaled audibly. „That’s because you’re bringing it up like every ten seconds.“

„That is so not true.“ The smile on Hunter’s lips faded as quickly as it had appeared. „Can we just stick to the topic, please? I made a suggestion, you can give your opinion on it. This is not about me.“

„Isn’t it always about you?“, Tiago growled. He knew perfectly well that it was immature and irrelevant, but this entire conversation was oh so typical. Of course, Hunter never had bad intentions. How dare he accuse him of such profanity?

„Look, I know you have a problem with me. I don’t know why because I don’t have a problem with you, but can we still try to make this work?“

„Stop being such a fucking saint.“ Tiago rolled his eyes. „You know what? Just bring the dog. If it tears out some kid’s throat, at least we get all the attention. Can we go back to the actual issue now and sketch a draft of the design each of us has in mind? Because that might actually help with the decision.“

„Fine. At least it means we don’t have to talk for a while.“ That was probably the most hostile thing Hunter had ever said. Tiago was genuinely surprised. Maybe he had hurt Mr. Perfect’s feelings by insinuating that he could be anything but altruistic.

Without wasting further thoughts, Tiago grabbed some pens from the art supplies they had been given. He focused on bringing his vision alive – something not even Hunter could top. Every once in a while, he heard a low rumble, but didn’t pay much attention to it. Only when it grew louder he realized that the source of the noise was his unwanted teammate. Tiago couldn’t hide a broad grin.

„Wait, are you so on edge today because you are hangry?“

„No, I’m not.“ Upon closer inspection, Hunter’s unfamiliar grumpiness wasn’t the only thing that seemed off about him. His complexion was oddly dull and there was a frown line between his eyebrows. Plus he had barely started with his drawing. „Can we just… not talk about this right now?“

„About what? Your bowel sounds?“ Tiago chuckled. „Yeah, I bet that wouldn’t make the girls as wet as you normally do.“

„I don’t care, I’m taken.“ Hunter placed a hand on his abdomen as if that would help to reduce the noise pollution.

„Oh, guess what, I noticed.“ If Tiago hadn’t known better, he could have sworn that Hunter had said that on purpose, just to rub a little more salt into the open wound. „But hey, with that impressive growls, you could do a pretty decent Rottweiler impersonation yourself.“

„That’s not even funny.“ Hunter turned his head, but Tiago still saw his throat bobbing rapidly. Then there was the sickly skin tone and tiny drops of sweat forming on Hunter’s forehead. His stomach rumbles now resembled rolling thunder and Hunter’s hand on his belly skipped like the muscles below were convulsing spasmodically.

Suddenly, Tiago had a terrible suspicion.

„Don’t tell me you’re about to puke.“

„Why did you have to – huuuarrck – say that?“ Something between a very sickly burp and a jerky retch escaped Hunter’s mouth. He immediately pressed it shut again, swallowing audibly several times.

„I swear to God, if you barf on our documents, I shove the stuff right back down your throat.“

„Can you please shut up about it?“ Hunter’s lips curled into a nauseated frown while his broad shoulders abruptly hitched with a hiccup. „I… I think something was off with the chicken breast I had this morning.“

„Who eats chicken breast for breakfast?“ Tiago let out an irritated sigh. „Wait, why are you staring at me like this? You’re a grown ass man, can’t you just go to the fucking toilet all by yourself?“

„See, I know you can’t stand me, but… I really don’t feel good right now and I don’t think I would make it.“

Under any other circumstances, Tiago would have probably enjoyed the miserable expression on Hunter’s face. Desperately trying to keep his stomach contents down wasn’t a good look on him. Too bad the idiot had decided to project some kind of imaginary duty of care on Tiago.

„And how exactly is that my problem?“ Tiago became increasingly annoyed by the entire situation. „Do you want me to carry you to the restroom bridal style or what?“

„You could at least lend me a hand!“

„This is a joke, right?“ The almost pleading expression in Hunter’s sad puppy dog eyes was enough of an answer. Tiago huffed, but he eventually decided that helping his teammate up was the lesser evil compared to him hurling all over the table. Begrudgingly, he put his arm around Hunter’s upper body and pulled a disgusted face as the guy leaned on him while they walked. „You better hold it in until we get there.“

„Mhm.“ It wasn’t exactly reassuring that Hunter didn’t even dare to open his mouth for an answer. His body spoke a pretty clear language anyways. Tiago felt Hunter’s shirt sticking to his sweaty back, which was nasty enough. Being way too close to Hunter for Tiago’s own comfort, he noticed every contraction of his muscles, every subdued retch and cramp. Hunter’s stomach sounded like water that was about to boil over – no wonder he was still clutching it tightly. His trained body heaved with a sloppy burp. „Oh God… that tasted like chicken.“

„Pretty sure everything tastes like chicken“, Tiago grinned. Hunter didn’t seem to share his sense of humor, because the very next second, his hand flew up to his lips and his cheeks bulged out. Tiago instantly withdrew his arm and scrambled backwards. “Swallow it down! Or puke on the floor and clean up later, I don’t even care as long as you don’t get it on me.“

Hunter frantically shook his head, then turned around and dashed towards the next trashcan. He hit the ground, hugged the bin like a lifeline and spewed a majestic cascade of milky vomit into the container. Hunter’s assumption had probably been correct – the white flood he barfed up so generously definitely contained chunks of white meat.

„Woah, that smells horrendous!“ Tiago imitated a productive retch, only to be answered with the exact same sound bubbling out of Hunter’s throat, followed by a surge of liquid hitting the plastic trashbag. If only Diamond could see her adored boyfriend like that. She probably wouldn’t feel like kissing him after watching lumpy chicken hash gushing from his mouth.

„G-guess how it tastes“, Hunter coughed, then lurched towards the trashcan again, curdled gruel bursting from his lips. Tiago rolled his eyes and turned away. Why, of all people, was he cursed to be surrounded by morons with pathetically weak stomachs? He wasn’t even a caring person. Was it really too much to ask for to enjoy his life without random jackasses losing their lunch left and right? It was bad enough when it happened to his lightweight friends, but infinitely worse when it was Hunter who was puking up his guts right in front of him. And ew, the stench!

„I suppose you don’t need a trip to the bathroom anymore?“ Tiago turned to leave. „Because I’m really not keen on watching you blowing chunks any longer.“

„Still… need to go“, Hunter croaked, then arched his back as a garbled retch forced a rather pathetic drizzle of sick out of him. He wiped his luscious lips and stumbled back on his feet. Tiago raised both hands in defense as the aesthetically pleasing puke machine tried to approach him again.

„Stay away from me, you fucking reek.“ Tiago scrunched his nose. „If it’s absolutely necessary, I’ll catch you if you fall. But there’s no way you’re gonna get your barf slime hand on me right now.“

„Do you have to be such an asshole about it?“, Hunter moaned. „I didn’t ask for this, you know?“

„Neither did I“, Tiago replied unmoved. Hunter pouted and wrapped both arms around his belly. His hunched over gait gave an insight into the turmoil troubling his intestines. The greenish hue on his face made him look almost comically sick. Had he really expected Tiago to affectionally rub his muscular back and whisper soothing words into his ear? Was it so hard to understand that Tiago didn’t want to be anywhere near the guy when he still looked like the rest of his spoiled breakfast would erupt from his mouth any second?

Miraculously, Hunter made it to the restroom without spilling his insides again. He shambled into one of the stalls, door closing behind him.

„Okay, I paid my due, now I’m out.“ Tiago’s daily requirement of revolting sounds and odors was easily covered. „Enjoy yourself!“

„W-wait!“ Hunter’s raspy voice sounded begging. „I… I need a bucket, like, ASAP.“

„Are you fucking serious?“ Tiago stopped in the doorway. „You’re in front of a toilet, what the hell do you need a bucket for?“

„I’m sitting on the toilet!“, Hunter groaned. „Dude, I’m dead serious, I can feel it coming up - huuuarrrg.“

„Don’t tell me you’re doing a number two as well.“ Torn between repulsion and a nagging sense of obligation, Tiago rushed towards the sinks. The trash bin was mounted at the wall, so he just removed the bag inside. Tiago returned hastily and squinted as he opened the bathroom stall door. For the sake of his own sanity, he tried hard not to take in the cursed image of Hunter sitting on the porcelaine throne with his pants down, cheeks puffed behind the fingers sealing his lips. „Take this, it’s all you’re gonna get.“

Hunter frantically opened up the trash bag, then writhed as he brought up watery chicken fricassee. It didn’t help that the plastic was translucent, granting Tiago a great view of the vomit fountain shooting out of Hunter’s mouth, drowning the crumpled paper towels at the bottom. The spasmodic pulses of Hunter‘s stomach muscles were enough to set the purging process in full motion. Hunter curled up while his body forcefully emptied itself from both ends.

„Oh my God, that is disgusting“, Tiago pressed out with a muffled gag. He sure had an iron stomach, but the unbearable stench and the sopping wet gargles were getting to him. Just as he was about to leave, a diabolical idea crossed his mind. Innocent enough, he glanced back over his shoulder. „Do you want me to call Diamond? I’m sure she would give you some tender loving care.“

Hunter looked up, gooey sick dripping from his lips. He nodded feebly.

„You… would actually do that for me? That… that would be great… thanks.“

Thanks? The guy was so naive. Did Hunter really think a classy woman like Diamond would lust after him ever again once she saw him in such a pathetic state, spraying stinking slurry from his back and front?

„Sure thing. Don’t worry about it, just get it all out!“

„Thank you, really… I appreciate it“, Hunter groaned unsuspectingly before he was struck by another retch.

Tiago strove to keep his composure while he finally left the fetid cesspool that had been a college restroom not so long ago. Just like he had promised, he immediately called Diamond and informed her about her lover’s predicament. He really hammed it up and emphazised how desperately sick Hunter was and how urgently he needed the solace of her presence. After Tiago hung up, he strolled down the hallway in a much brighter mood. Diamond was in for a major disenchantment when it came to her gorgeous, sexy and charming boyfriend.

Unless she wouldn’t mind.

Unless she would actually take care of him. Hug him tight, rub his cramping belly, hold the bag for him while he threw up. Pat his back, wipe his mouth, kiss his sweaty forehead and reassure him that he would be alright. Guide him home once he had emptied himself and snuggle up on the couch to make him feel safe and loved. But that wasn’t very likely, was it?

Tiago brushed the thought aside and spent the rest of the day distracting himself from these dreadful mental images. At least now he knew for sure that Hunter Calaway was anything but perfect.

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Archive of our own: Up all night to get Bucky

tumblr: birdnamedenza

#submission #tw vomit #tw emeto #tw scat #fandom: original characters #prompt: enemy to caretaker #2022 day7 #nov(emeto)ber 2022 #novemetober 2022 #birdnamedenza #'I also simply love to make seemingly perfect people sick' ugh sameeeeee #i'm weak for 'on the ground puking in a trash can' too this is getting ridiculous #i really freaking love your fics my dude #anyway @tiago who hurt you my dude chill tf out

[inkyajax]

What do the genshin men (ajax, thoma and ayato and alhaitham) feel towards the reader? Do they all think they are in love?? Somehow I cant picture ayato in love, it feels more like how much he likes the power he holds over both thoma and reader. Ajax feels like a puppy overflowing with love and lust, obsession and passion...and somehow alhaitham seems like the most normal one hahahaa what do you think??

omg anon IN LOVE with this question!!!!!! beware, i rambled a LOT beneath the cut!! <3

so for the most part, i agree with you! i do think ayato is capable of being in love but it definitely isn’t healthy or ‘real’ love and it absolutely comes from a place of power, control, and ownership. i was talking to my best friend about this not too long ago and was saying that irl i don’t think ayato and i would get along because to me, he would want a precious, obedient, submissive little thing that’s going to almost always be good for him and dote on him, that absolutely lives to please him and do exactly as he says because they find their primary worth and validation in being good for him—he is such a busy man with so much resting on his shoulders that the last thing he wants to come home to is a serious brat (me). i, on the other hand, would act out because he’s been gone *all day* and i want attention, and i just don’t think he would want to deal with that at all. i think he can handle a very slight brattiness, just to keep things fun and interesting, but anything more serious than that and he’s throwing u out.

(and then with thoma, i see him as a service dom/switch. he aims to please, and he enjoys pleasing his baby (and ayato). he likes to be told what to do and how to do it, and he finds a lot of validation in serving others/caring for others).

ajax my beloved!!!!!!!! YES YES YES one hundred million percent yes anon!! like i said, i personally feel like he has these borderline yandere tendencies. he’s possessive, protective, obsessive, and extremely clingy. but his love is fierce and real and absolutely smothering. when he loves, he loves HARD, he loves forever. he’s extremely committed to you and he is willing to fall on his sword for you in an instant. BUT he expects you to feel the same way. he expects you to love him back just as fiercely and he expects you to submit to him completely and wholly. he sees you as his most prized possession, and he fully intends to treat you like the royalty you are (whether you like it or not). he believes it’s his job to protect and support you and he takes this incredibly seriously.

alhaitham i could write you an entire paper on to be honest!!!! he’s really interesting. i think that it’s difficult to genuinely catch his attention but when he does fall in love with you, you have him for life. i agree that his love would be the most healthy/normal out of the four. i think he enjoys taking care of (and being smarter than and teaching) you to some extent; he likes that power and control, and i hc him to genuinely enjoy teaching others as well, one of those types that just loves to whip out their impressive breadth of knowledge—a vast collection of carefully curated facts and pieces of information—and show off. so he would enjoy teaching you new things and/or about topics you are not knowledgeable on, relishing in the way your eyes sparkle at how intelligent he is, secretly basking in the praise and the adoration—the only hints he likes it at all being the slight quirking up at the corners of his lips and the way his gaze softens and shimmers, the way his voice is suddenly dusted with icing sugar; tender, sweet—and he would enjoy learning new things from you, too!

with that being said, he is not here to lead you (like ayato would), he is here to guide you, to journey with you, and be just a teensy bit smarter, stronger, wiser, and better than you (leading requires way too much responsibility and, as we all know, the man is not about that. he doesn’t ever want to be bogged down with obligations and duties in that sense! they get in the way of his own endless pursuits of knowledge, and hinder his spontaneity). he isn’t looking for a pet to own, he’s looking for a genuine partner. this is why i think he’d be such a great daddy dom!!! he genuinely wants the best for you and genuinely wants you to keep improving yourself, while also being able to enjoy being the superior, the one in charge, the one calling the shots.

#literally i could go on forever #i love dissecting characters and analyzing them #and that's why i love writing AUs! #and explore how *i* personally think they'd react; my own interpretation and all that #anyway WHEW #talk about rambling!!!! #thank u for ur question anon!! <333 #enjoy the week ahead and pls stay safe + hydrated!! #inky.bb #clari gets mail

[rollercoasterwords]

thoughts on andrea and michonne?? the most fucking queer coded relationship everrr they WERE dating idc

ok it has been literal years since i've watched the earlier seasons of the walking dead but NO UR SO RIGHT michonne was literally in love with andrea like. ok no u know what u have actually unlocked a rant lmao this is ur own fault for coming into my inbox to talk about twd

(spoiler warning)

ok so i actually HATE what they did to michonne's character over the course of the walking dead, and i think like. looking at what's going on with her character is essentially a case study in what i dislike about the show.

and like, when i say dislike--here's the thing. twd is like. undeniably one of THE most influential pieces of zombie media to ever exist. like it's the quintessential zombie tv show, it helped pioneer the genre, etc etc. and the show has really, really good moments, and there are things i really enjoy about it. so when i say i dislike it, i'm not trying to say that it's like...a bad show, if that makes sense? BUT the thing i hate about the walking dead and i think genuinely one of the biggest flaws underlying so much of it is that like. the setup of the show is the setup of pretty much any zombie apocalypse, right, where you get Normal Society completely turned on its head and destroyed. and for a queer viewer (me, for example) this is so much fun because it's such a site of potential. like--BAM! old world order is meaningless. it's been destroyed. what new shit are you gonna create? what matters to you now?

but the walking dead does the thing that so much zombie media does (unsurprisingly, because most media in generally does this in some way shape or form), which is invest itself in reproductive futurism; essentially, focus on recreating the past in the future (specifically through the figure of the Child--hi Carl! and then bye Carl, and hi Judith, and...well, yeah.) so, we see these groups of survivors coming together and struggling against the way things are so that they can go back to the way things were, with very little change to any of the social structures that caused problems in that old world order in the first place.

and this is super interesting for the way it plays out with queerness, because so much of gender is inherently queered in the apocalypse. like, suddenly the rules have changed, and people cannot perform gender in the ways they used to. but rather than explore that, by and large the walking dead just finds ways to reinforce Old Gender Roles and emphasizes this return to the past as evidence that we haven't Lost Society or Our Humanity (i have written an entire paper about this topic i truly. could go on and on. this is the Sparknotes i promise lol)

OKAY SO. michonne. there's this article i like, Queering and Cripping the End of the World: Disability, Sexuality, and Race in The Walking Dead, by Cathy Hannabach, (you can find it in this book) which talks about the inherent queerness of michonne's character. she writes:

From her introduction to the series all the way through her every scene, Michonne remains the most resistant and “othered” body on the show. Simultaneously marked as African American, queer, butch, and disabled, Michonne represents all that the show seems to be working against. Yet because of this she provides one of the clearest examples of the tenuousness of compulsory heterosexuality, compulsory able-bodiness, and compulsory whiteness in post-apocalyptic Atlanta.

and she later goes on to say about michonne + andrea's relationship:

By employing camera angles, framing, costumes, blocking, and eye line matches that we have been trained to read as signifying sexual coupledom, indeed the same ones used in the show to represent heterosexual couples such as Lori/Rick and Maggie/Glenn, The Walking Dead can plausibly render Andrea and Michonne a lesbian couple and make their relationship central to the narrative without ever having to explicitly declare it....In this way, Michonne can be queered through her removal from normative constructions of gender (femininity) and race (whiteness), thus offering a momentary critique of those ideologies, even while the show as a whole can maintain its overarching ideological investment...

so, in summary: michonne is a queer character. and, in fact, throughout the show she's often used as a sort of counterpoint to the normative/dominant structures at play--for example, hannabach goes on in this article to discuss michonne's distrust of the Governor and how it separates her from the other survivors. (edit - i've received two messages about my labeling of michonne as a queer character here, so i want to be clear. while hannabach labels michonne as butch, that is not an argument that i am invested in, and the perceived masculinity of michonne's character is not what i'm talking about here. to me, michonne's introduction to the show is queer because of her relationship with andrea and the way the two characters act, as well as her structural position outside dominant power structures. as in, her wariness and suspicion regarding the other characters' project of trying to re-create society as it once was.)

BUT. this article was written sometime in...2014? or at least, that's when the book it appears in was published. AFTER this article was written, in season 6 of the show (which didn't air until 2015), michonne and rick become a couple, and remain a couple all the way through season 11. in fact, they're now getting their very own spinoff show! (edit - again, since someone sent me a message abt this: i don't want to downplay the importance of michonne's relationship with rick in that it provides representation of a black woman as a prominent love interest, a role that black woman have historically been excluded from in american media. however, i don't think reading her as a queer character is at odds with this representation, as she could just as easily have been a prominent love interest for andrea. and while michonne's relationship with rick is progressive in terms of representation, it ultimately contributes to a character who was once suspicious of this project to re-create society becoming deeply invested in it. that is what i am saying disappoints me here.)

so what we end up with is this very queer character who is ultimately folded back into the project of heteronormativity + reproductive futurity, who herself becomes a Mother and the protector of the Figural Child (RJ, and also Judith), and ultimately, despite her very queer introduction into the show, ends up being one more proponent for the Return To How Things Were. boooooooo!

#don't even get me STARTED on twd finale #like....was i surprised? #no #but was i still disappointed? #yes. #like. they could have at least done what they were trying to do WELL #if ur gonna commit to the bit then COMMIT yknow #anyway #yes michonne and andrea were in love #or at least michonne was in love w andrea i could see it going either way in terms of whether andrea reciprocated #but yeah. if u ask me anything abt zombies u are probably getting an essay back #this is perhaps the topic that i am The Least Normal About

[rosemaeridream]

lecturer!aeri x reader (M)

Mature content (18+)

warnings: college au, lecturer!aeri, student!reader, fingering, mentions of strap, light smut, dom!aeri, slight power imbalance, technical age gap but no references to it

A/N: DO FUCKING NOT START RELATIONSHIPS WITH YOUR EDUCATORS. I DO NOT CONDONE IT IN ANY WAY. for context, i'm not american so when i say lecturer, you say professor, i was never gonna post this because 1. don't sleep with someone who could fuck up your education, 2. i have more and more thoughts about this every day so i can't find a place to stop it at, 3. i'm pregnant with lecturer!aeri's baby, she makes me genuinely crazy 4. i was considering making this a long form-piece but oh well look where we are now

word count: 2.3k

Tell me why I wanna write lecturer!Aeri x student!reader, like imagine Aeri pulling you aside before you can walk out of the auditorium to 'talk about' the email you had sent her the night before - something about your further readings and extended material, blah blah blah -and her gaze keeps dropping to your body or your lips, and she's smiling the whole time - happy to talk to you more about the subject because it's her profession, it's definitely nothing to do with imagining you pushed up in the stairwell 20 metres away with her hands down your pants.

She's been watching you from a distance, noting your schedule and when you’re on campus, ‘accidentally’ bumping into you at coffee shops or in the library when you’re studying. she always gives you tips, “oh, you should add a second critical study here” or “read this, it’s much better than the shit they assign you”. In the back of your mind, you know she’s interested in you - she downright looks like she wants to fuck you every time you’re alone - making eye contact with you when you sit down the front of the lecture theatre, gives extra praise when you answer questions, even going as far to say ‘good girl’ in front of the entire lecture after you offer your opinion on a more complex topic. (literally gagged myself thinking about that)

Then she starts pulling you aside more often, still under the guise of helping you with your coursework, but it’s all so intimate - sometimes you show her parts of your assessment on your phone, and she’ll slide her hand up your arm to steady it so she can read, or she’ll practically back hug you, looking over your shoulder, her breaths on the shell of your ear. Her eye contact is on 100%, 100% of the time, making you flush red whenever you talk to her. Eventually, she asks for your number, saying that your emails get lost in her inbox due to being the coordinator of her subject, “if you need anything from me, just text me”

You end up using her number this one time after you’re panicking over an assessment, and no one else you’ve asked has had the answers to. You’re sure she’s busy, the previous lecture she had mentioned to everyone that she’ll be unable to take questions this week due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’. But she texts you back almost immediately, answering so precisely that it’s almost as if she was waiting for that specific question. It turns into a back and forth that just doesn’t sort of end, mostly about the curriculum, but sometimes parts of her life, or your own get sprinkled in there - she’s visiting japan next weekend to see her parents, your favourite artist just released a new album that you like to listen to while you study, ect, ect.

Then there’s this one question that’s ‘too complicated to answer over text so she asks to meet you at the library. She sits in a secluded part where no one really goes - you never question it, just thinking that she chose this spot because it's quiet, or that you shouldn’t be seen getting extra help from the person who will no doubt be overseeing the marking of this assessment. 

For the first 10-20 minutes, you actually work on the material together, the essay word count growing slowly. Then Aeri reaches over to take a paper from the other side of you, and her  face is like a breath away from yours, and your mind goes fucking blank. Unable to do anything else, you act on impulse and straight up kiss her. I mean- when someone that hot is that close, the only natural response is gonna be to start making out with them, right???

She's sorta stiff for the first two seconds, while you’re still processing what you’ve just done, but then her hand is on your jaw, pulling you closer and parting her lips to lick into your mouth. And oh my god. Oh my god. You’re a changed person, she’s literally ruined the thought of everyone else for you.

After a minute or two you go back to your work, Aeri sort of just laughs it off, but it’s clear that you’re not paying attention the rest of the study period - you get like another 100 words into your essay but its such a struggle when Aeri’s reading over your words and all your thoughts are on panic mode - her breath yet again tickling your ear whenever she suggests edits.

She doesn’t bring up the kiss, so nor do you, pushing the thought away and pretending it never happened. Except when you’re watching a pre-recorded lecture of hers, and you’ve just woken up and you’re hot and bothered and fuck, Aeri’s voice and the way her glasses sit on her nose as she talks and makes extended eyecontact with the camera, forces you to shove a hand down your pants and fuck your leaking cunt while imagining that it was her fingers instead. The thought of Aeri’s mouth on yours and everywhere else makes you cum hard, your laptop sliding off your bed as you recover, forgetting about the lecture and falling back asleep. 

Unbeknown to you, Aeri’s pretty much been doing the same thing for the past couple months, getting off on the thought of your innocent eyes widening as she pounds her strap into you. Sometimes it makes her feel so dirty, that she’s fantasising about someone she’s meant to just grade their work and offer feedback, but my god, whenever she catches you staring at her, or biting the end of your pen, deep in thought, she just can’t help herself.

You’re at a bar one night, your uni acquaintances having sorta ditched you alone, drunk, not at all mentally there, so the bartender asks if they could ring someone for you - and the first responsible person in your mind isn’t your best friend or your mother, it’s straight up Aeri. She arrives in a bustle, worry pinching at her brows as she sweeps you away to her car… asks for your address multiple times, but you’re so out of it and half asleep that she does the most realistic thing and just takes you to her own home. Literally takes all of her restraint not to do something with you, let it be letting you grind one out on her thighs or to just kiss you senseless. Even though she’s 100% sure that you’d like it, given the way you’d just kissed her randomly a couple weeks ago, you’re still her student, not some conquest. However she does allow herself to sleep in the same bed as you, perfectly happy to take advantage of your drunk cuddliness, pleased when you curl into her side, head mushed into her chest.

You wake up disoriented and embarrassed, until you see that you’re in bed with Aeri and suddenly everything is so much worse and you’re panicking - why are you in bed with your lecturer??!?! Then Aeri wakes up and she's so much more welcoming than you'd ever think she could be, rubbing your back and explaining the situation until you calm down. After that you fall into this sort of odd routine where she makes you breakfast, and discusses your courses, slowly leading into your other interests and hobbies. For some reason, in her own home, the knowledge that she’s your lecturer starts to fade until you’re both just chatting and learning about each other like you’re close friends.

And on the inside, Aeri is definitely not fantasising about yanking your pants off and eating you out on the kitchen counter. Making you whine and scrabble for something to hold while she mercilessly holds you down.

After that instance, you text her a lot more often, coming to her for life advice as well as help with coursework. Aeri’s beyond happy to help, always texting you back within 10 minutes of your question, which you never think is strange, even when you’re sure she’s giving a lecture to another class right now. 

You start having lunch with her when you’re on campus at the same time. She’s adamant that you don’t eat together in cafe’s though, making sure to take you to quiet spots where no one else finds the both of you. At this point, you know she’s doing it on purpose, waiting for you to show any kind of sign that you want her. It’s always you, you, you. In lectures she’s always meeting eyes with you, always choosing you to answer, to the point where some of your friends in the course have started to notice, joking that you’re the teacher’s pet, or that she has a crush on you.

And Aeri refuses to make the first move. If she’s going to have you, you have to show her. Her touches don’t go past your mid thighs, hands always stopping at your hips if she’s resting them on your body. It’s making you crazy - the brush of her fingertips against the side of your breasts when she grasps your arm, or when she forcefully turns your head back to your work by gripping your chin when you’re getting distracted.

Finally you break, you’re in a small rooftop garden that barely anyone knows exists, talking to her animatedly about one of your hobbies, while she just smiles at you happily, prompting you with questions to keep you talking, when she reaches out to brush a crumb off your lips, no doubt from the cake she bought you. She’s been subtly flirting with you the whole time, eyes flicking to your lips or your body as they always do, and her slight touches on your wrist or arm whenever she’s explaining something. So when her thumb rests on your lip for a second longer than it should, your instincts tell you to wrap your mouth around it, flicking your tongue against the tip. You guess it makes her crazy too because the next moment you’re in her lap, gasping into her mouth and pawing at her jacket to try and get it off. 

Aeri doesn’t even have the patience to get you naked, pushing your pants halfway down your thighs and almost ripping your panties at the lack of constraint that she has. She doesn’t even react when she feels your soaked pussy, just sliding her fingers through your folds and licking further into your mouth. There’s a moment of silence, then the wet squelch of her fingers inside your hole makes you groan, cutting off the kiss.

If there were anyone else near the rooftop, they’d for sure hear your moans and fucks and Aeri(s) and pleading, but you’re lucky that she’s thought this all out. Your hips stutter in her grip and she’s already calling you ‘good girl’ and ‘pretty princess’ and praising how your ‘tiny pink pussy took her fingers so well’. 

And shit. You’re gone.

University is so much harder now that all your study periods are taken up by Aeri and her fingers and her mouth, sitting down next to you while you have your laptop out and slowly pulling your attention away from your work. You know it’s bad, but who fucking cares when you know Aeri will make up for it later, whether that be via letting you suck off her strap, then having you sink down till you meet her pelvis, fingers threading through your hair as you try not to cum straight away, or promising to edit your essay before you hand it up. 

You’ve got all the storage and soundproof study rooms mapped out in your mind whenever she’s around. Your parents have noticed that you’re out a lot more, but they just assume that you’ve found some good friends at uni and you’re making the most of your early 20s, not that you’re getting pounded in a storage room or cockwarming a strap while sleeping over at your lecturer’s place.

Sometimes you ask her to wear her glasses while she’s fucking you, loving that her sweaty bangs get caught up in the frame and that they fog up after awhile, even going as far as pushing them back up her nose for her while she’s slamming her strap into your soaked hole.

She’s never gone as far to ask you to call her Ma’am or Ms or Professor, but sometimes Aeri likes to play up the whole dynamic, calling you a slut and mocking you for whoring yourself out for a grade even though it's anything but at this point. She knows it gets to you too - your pussy tightening around her fingers whenever she does it, reassuring her that it’s within your limits.

Aeri is altogether pleased about having you all to herself. She’s always thinking about you, buying/giving you clothes to wear, smiling to herself when you’re halfway up the lecture theatre in her hoodie, gifting you a coffee whenever you meet up on campus, taking you on trips far away from the uni so that you can spend time together like a real couple - kissing in public, letting her hold your hand, feeding you at restaurants, etc. 

Your instagram page is literally filled with pictures she's taken of you - sometimes your friends ask you who your photographer is to hook them up, and you stumble your way through a conversation trying so hard not to reveal who it is. Her’s often has pictures of you, but never enough to fully identify you. A picture of her hand holding someone else’s, the top of your head in a city skyline shot or your fingers in the background of her lunch. 

You find yourself with her more often than not, at her apartment, sneaking into her office at the university, eating with her, showering with her, sleeping with her (in more ways than one). You’re practically living with her at this point. Honestly, Aeri just accepts your neediness, fully prepared to let you officially move in whenever you decide to.

And the way she fucks? Well, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

i am begging someone to tell me to post more about lecturer!aeri because i am so incredibly down bad

#!! dreamy’s pieces #giselle x reader #aespa smut #uchinaga aeri x reader #kpop imagines #kpop oneshots #giselle smut #idol x reader #aespa imagines #kpop x reader #aespa x reader #giselle x fem reader #lec!aeri

[mandala-lore]

You can send me (respectful) questions about gender identities if you're genuinely confused or have a different opinion, but I'm still blocking terfs going forward. I don't mind engaging in a dialogue, but I'm not going to end up on the defensive for my (many) loved ones on my own damn blog. Boundaries. I'll do my best to answer thoughtfully or send you better resources.

I'm actually mad (and baffled) enough about my post getting interaction from transphobes that I had to login to tumblr on my work laptop to write all this because I am an Elder Millennial and cannot type well enough on my phone.

I'm also trying to be extremely careful and thoughtful with my language to avoid misunderstandings and to encourage people to ask questions and interact here IN GOOD FAITH (yes, even transphobes / terfs / radfems).

The transphobes I blocked were reblogging and interacting with my "What is Consciousness" poll, of all things. Not that the post itself really matters here, because the fact remains I just simply don't want transphobes interacting with my blog if I can help it. But I am especially annoyed and confused at why THIS post... and if we think about it for a moment, it's illustrative of how transphobes are woefully lacking in critical thinking skills (even if just about this one topic).

[[I have some guesses about why this post, and not others, got picked up: radfems and terfs like to think of themselves as enlightened feminists / gender philosophers (hence "gender critical"). They just see an (ostensibly) cis-woman (me) posting intellectual content (poll) with no clear agenda/purpose and relate to that and like it. It's also possible that just because I had one transphobe follower sneak by unnoticed that the post started to circulate in that community for various reasons. Idk.]]

But that this post in particular was picked up is especially frustrating to me... And I was going to wait until the poll closed to write something thought-provoking and fun about states of consciousness but.... now I'm pissy, so...

Anyway, my entire point with the consciousness question was to show that we do not have a good working definition of consciousness. The definition changes based on need, purpose, subject or area of study, time, culture, language, etc. Even philosophers and neurologists will say that consciousness is not sufficiently defined - OR that we have an extremely limited understanding of consciousness (personally, I think that's just semantics, but on another post we could talk about the distinctions here). Hell, I've seen specific writers offer up a specific definition of consciousness just for one paper or book, fully admitting that it was necessary to even begin writing their other thoughts because consciousness is so unmanageable.

Point being... consciousness is muddied and indistinct. It's subjective. It changes. It's fluid.

And yet... we all know, at least on some level, what people mean when they talk or write about consciousness. We don't have any real doubt that other people are conscious, even though we can't actually be sure of it (it cannot be proven). We can indulge thought experiments about it, but that's not how most people interact with the concept of consciousness.

On a daily basis, most of us expect that other people will treat us with the dignity and respect we implicitly agree all conscious beings deserve - and that does not mean we have to be besties with everyone. We interact with each other with the almost unconscious belief that everyone we encounter is conscious (you see why there's a phrasing problem here). Some people even make the argument that we should treat animals, plants, and our environments better because we can't be sure they're not conscious (which, yknow, fair.).

It would be the height of indignity, it would be fascistic and dehumanizing, to seriously imply that other people lack consciousness or are undeserving of consciousness / sentience. You would sound like a Nazi.

Gender is the same.

It can be difficult to define or explain gender - because it's highly subjective, fluid, and changes across time / culture / place. Like consciousness, gender is (at least partly) socially constructed, yet also highly personal.

And yet... we should not have any doubts about what people say and think about their own gender experiences. It's like consciousness - it cannot be proven or fixed. Only some facets of it can even be studied, recorded, explained, verbalized. It's also so fundamental to so many people's sense of self and identity that it should be considered wrong, rude, and downright dehumanizing to question or demonize or deny someone else's experience (or explanation) of their own gender.

And doubly so if we try to exclude certain persons from a class of gender simply because it makes some other persons uncomfortable. Any basic college course on gender, biology, or sex will expect students to understand the distinction between gender and biological sex - and to understand that biological sex itself is a flawed category (because all categories, by their nature, are flawed, but that's for another post). Any basic first-grader knows better than to judge someone based on what color they prefer or how they dress or what body parts they have.

There are just some things about the human condition we need to take on faith. We are all conscious. We all get to define our own genders.

Obviously there's more nuance here - and there's ample evidence and much more thoughtful writing from trans people about their own identities.

But it really bothers me - and baffles me - how self-identified feminist transphobes can be so purposefully ignorant and hateful and limited in their understanding of such a complex issue as gender identity.

May god help you if you EVER look at me and tell me I'm a woman simply because I have a womb. I don't mind identifying with the category of woman (on most days) - but my identity and my personal sense of my gender is so much more complicated than my body parts. And if you can wrap your head around why it would be wrong to categorize me (or any woman) in that manner, you should be able to wrap your head around why it's wrong to tell transwomen they'll never really be women (or transmen, men).

This doesn't mean you're not allowed to ask questions or explore the nuances of gender identity... but it CANNOT continue being at the cost of the dignity, humanity, and SAFETY of trans people. If modern philosophers can critically examine consciousness without reverting to 19th cen. (and earlier) racist, sexist, classist attitudes, then modern feminists need to get their/our shit together too.

Pick up a 21st century book about gender. Read and listen to trans people IN GOOD FAITH. And if you honestly can't get passed "sex and gender are distinct yet sometimes connected," then I don't know how to help you. You are having a kneejerk reaction and are being utterly unreasonable. If there's no foundation to build from, there's no dialogue to be had.

Tangent Epilogue:

I think a lot of this helps put my own values and identity into better perspective for myself too. Being a feminist used to be so deeply tied to my sense of identity. But when I got more and more comfortable with my queerness - and met people who validated both these things - I've slowly pulled away from radfem ideas. Because so many of them are hollow and demonstrably wrong, and many of them clashed with my own sense of gender and my own sexuality. Not to mention my loved ones' safety and dignity.

Being Queer (identifying as queer, knowing myself as queer) is so much more important to me now than being a feminist (although I still have many of the same concerns about women's liberation), even though I still identify with both words. Queer people and queer/gender studies have done more good for the liberation of ALL people (cis-women included) in the last three decades than radfems ever accomplished.

Part of why I love the word Queer so much is that it establishes that my identity can be fluid, personal/private, and does not require further explanation. I'm happy to talk about what this means for me if people ask (in good faith), but I don't feel the need to constantly justify my own existence either...

#blog related #apparently i want to have a discourse on tumblr today??? #i actually do not but here we are #debating whether to still make the consciousness post or not

[realtalk-princeton]

genuine question - what makes writing sem so difficult to get an a in? is it the amount of work they assign? or the rubrics the professors use to grade? or something else?

Response from Heisenberg:

TL;DR: ppl summarize the evidence in their papers instead of writing analytically rigorous arguments. Bit lengthy, from my experiences, and obv doesn't speak for everyone but here are my 2 cents.

I’ve found that it’s because students typically don’t know how to go in-depth with the literature of their topic. That is, effectively organizing a cohesive argument, finding nuances within the arguments and creating novel points to argue for, and perhaps even adding to the academic conversation (the “literature”) about the topic with one’s own ideas instead of merely providing a summary of the evidence with no new ideas. Writing seminar is NOT designed to teach you how to write for the New York Times or how to publish a best-selling book. It is designed to demonstrate how you should interact with the literature of your chosen topic in preparation for independent work later on at Princeton. Notice how I phrased that: yes, engineers, this applies to you as well. Indeed, very talented writers may find themselves struggling in writing seminar not because they suddenly lost their ability to write but rather because of the different context under which they write.

More often than not, what ends up happening is people just write the basic 5-paragraph essay they learned in high school that’s very “robotic” and doesn’t allow for the flexibility of going deep into a particular nuance while having the flexibility to pivot/transition to the next argument and how it could relate. It’s like thesis: here’s what I think -> now here’s reason 1 -> now here’s reason 2 which doesn’t really flow from reason 1 but is another reason that I think is valid nonetheless -> another reason 3 that may or may not make improve their paper’s quality -> conclusion that just summarizes the paper. This demonstrates your ability to read from the assigned readings, clearly, but not necessarily your ability to actually synthesize what you've read and write an analytically rigorous paper.

Regarding the workload, I actually don't think it's as bad as people make it out to be. You get some assigned readings that may take ~90-120 minutes to read through it all (but you have the entire week to do so) and then you just write papers ranging from ~5-12 pages (I forget how long exactly but it's not excruciatingly long). The issue is the onslaught of work comes from refining the quality of your produced works and NOT from the volume of the work. Others just end up procrastinating on their work (maybe because they were assigned an uninteresting writing sem or what have you), which you can imagine would make the class harder. It's especially understandable, though, since the transition to life at Princeton certainly takes some time to adjust to.

What I think the two biggest problems are: 1). most papers just end up being a summary with no analytical rigor, or 2). they might bring up novel arguments but they’re non-rigorous and often biased by their past beliefs.

The former is what makes people say that writing seminar is “hard” because they’ve simply never written anything that has required this much work to write with ironclad rigor. The latter is what makes people say writing sem is “BS” or that it's "not applicable to other classes,” and it actually occurs quite a bit. I've literally heard people self-proclaim that they have this uncanny ability to wiggle themselves out of any paper by making up some argument that may sound profound or superficially spectacular but is actually unfounded once granularly dissected. Granted, this approach may actually work in some classes here, but it ain't gonna work in writing seminar. This ends up being a revelation for a lot of students and it's the main reason why students are unhappy with their B on any given paper: thinking that their arguments were sound but in reality there were numerous illogical jumps and inconsistencies in their paper.

I remember some of my friends fuming about their R1/2/3 grades and were intent on giving their professor a piece of their mind at office hours, but then I would read their papers and see exactly what their professor were talking about. Obviously, I would try to sympathize with their situation and offer some constructive feedback in case they wanted another viewpoint on it. But it’s almost like cognitive dissonance when this is the first time that freshmen receive actual critical feedback in their life. Referring back to the first paragraph about talented writers, some may actually choose to maintain their belief that their writing ability is infallible. They conclude their professor must be mistaken and so they never actually change their writing habits and end up bombing the course.

It's interesting because you can imagine this is more likely to happen if you got into a writing sem with a topic you’re really “comfortable” with. This is because you’re more inclined to not objectively look at what the assigned readings (the evidence/literature) say because you already have such a molded idea of what you think is “right” in your mind.

Combine this with the fact that there is really no rubric per se (the profs just feel whether it’s an A, B, or C paper lol) and a group of students accustomed to perfectly following very specific rubrics that would guarantee them an A in any assignment during high school and you have some very unhappy freshmen.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[blue-thief]

TUA S3 RANT/REVIEW

obviously, spoilers ahead

why is luther in love with his sister again??

yes, i know, no blood relation, different timelines, weren't raised as siblings, etc, but come ON. i thought you learned your lesson netflix!!

even if you ignore the whole "not technically incest" thing (again), luther x sloane was just very poorly written

too insta-lovey and there was literally no reason for them to fall in love. esp in like five days or whatever

like at least luther and allison made some sense??

klaus and dave literally had a more believable romance in a 30 sec montage than luther and sloane did throughout the entire season

SPEAKING OF KLAUS AND DAVE

no dave? *slams phone against the ground*

this is homophobic /j

in june too!!

like i totally get that they'd probably wanna have klaus' character revolve around something other than dave for once

but at the beginning of the season, viktor and allison did some basic research to find out what had happened their 60s s/os

wouldn't klaus have been curious to see if the sacrifices he made in s2 ended up being worth it??

COME ON I JUST WANTED DAVE TO AT LEAST BE MENTIONED

and while we're still on the topic of former love interests that just got completely forgotten about

i get that diego x lila is gonna be endgame and i'm not complaining

but wtf ever happened to eudora??

she's not even plot relevant anymore ik

but she just got treated terribly by the show

she was killed off for the sake of giving diego motivation in s1 and was never mentioned again

also the concept of diego trying to be a better dad than reggie ever was is a really good concept!!

but the way it was executed...

first, they relied wayy too much on telling, not showing

second, it was just really messy??

"take care of our son.", "we have a son?? well damn i've kinda got a lot going on but i'll try my hardest to-", "jk lmao he's not actually our son.", "wha-", "yeah i was just using him to see whether you'd be a good father or not.", "why would you-", "cuz i actually am pregnant :P"

i'm thinking of making a post outlining a better way to execute everything in this season and the diego dilf thing is on the top of my list lmao

i get that they were already balancing so much stuff, but damn, viktor's coming out...not even an arc went by really fast

from accepting it to coming out and stuff

i know that wasn't supposed to be the main focus of his character this season

but when you compare it to how s2 confronted racism and homophobia

idk it just feels really rushed? they could have gone through that whole thing quickly without making it feel rushed, you know what i mean?

klaus' thing was pretty decent ig but i feel s2 did a really poor job at bridging his s1 arc and s3 arc

i also don't really mind the whole thing with him making up with reggie on paper but. that was also executed really poorly

idk i just feel like the writers kept on flopping back and forth on whether reggie is a better person in the new timeline or not

he's still bad but i genuinely can't tell what his treatment of the sparrows was like compared to the umbrellas

he was still a bad father, but i only know that bc some of the sparrows said he was

in s1 we actually got to see how terrible of a father he was by actually showing us how he treated the umbrella academy and how that treatment still affects them to this day

we didn't get that with the sparrows!!

bad writing! bad!

and the sparrows...

you know, i was really excited about marcus. then he died. so uh. nvm then

jayme and alphonso too!!

i also didn't realize sloane's powers were gravity manipulation at first

i just thought she had telekinesis and i was about to get so upset bc that was supposed to go to klaus lol

but based on what we saw from her, powers seem to be more of a reduction of gravity thing rather than actual gravity manipulation

but there was that one thing with the kugelblitz?? so maybe it's actually gravity manipulation???

if her powers are actually gravity manipulation i'm gonna be so upset because that means her powers were underutilized as FUCK

if you wanna see a really awesome and bad-ass execution of a character who can manipulate gravity, check out nakahara chuuya from bungou stray dogs

though i gotta say fei and ben's dynamic was kinda hilarious. they were just two overly dramatic, emo edgelords. good for them

there was a huge missed opportunity with christopher (#7) being treated just like any other sparrow being paralleled with how viktor (#7) was always left out of the umbrella academy

anyways i'm pretty sure all of these really crappy writing choices were all made for the sake of getting allison's arc done

and holy fuck! allison's arc!!!

that was actually really fucking good

she snapped!!! like really snapped!!!!

it's what she fucking deserves!!!!!!!

that thing with luther made me uncomfortable as fuck tho bro

if only everyone else had their character treated just as well!!!!!!!

oh yeah there's also five

and i totally get that they have to give him the exact same conflict as the first two seasons, but this time just really lacks... something

and then i realized that there wasn't enough angst

in s1 we witnessed five land in the apocalypse and find the corpses of his entire family

then in s2 we witnessed him watch his family get slaughtered in front of his eyes

we didn't get anything similar in s3 to remind us what is at stake for five and why we sympathized with him so much in the first place

also the whole thing with lila also sounds really good on paper, but again, really messy execution

i'll go more into depth with that in my outline of my personal rewrite of s3

k but yeah, in conclusion, i didn't really enjoy this season that much. there was just so much going on, and almost every single idea got butchered in the process. really, the only thing i think was executed really well was allison's corruption arc, but even that wasn't enough to save this season imo

#tua #the umbrella academy #tua spoilers #the umbrella academy spoilers #tua s3 spoilers #the umbrella academy s3 spoilers #luther hargreeves #diego hargreeves #allison hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #five hargreeves #ben hargreeves #viktor hargreeves #sloane hargreeves #tw psuedo incest #tw incest

[raggaraddy]

Can you please do a yandere hyung line reaction to MC being jealous and tries to hide it ( For jin could you please make it as his wife has come back for a short holiday or something)

A/N: My brain did not want to do the writing thing the last couple of days, but I got there. I think these stories are good? but somehow they all ended up a bit soft. I hope you like them though 🤞 because it was a great request! Thank you 💜💜💜

@blacksnow160

Summary: Hyung line reaction when you get jealous.

Trigger warning: Smut, violence, blood-drinking, murder, abuse, yandere themes.

Alpha! Namjoon

Normally you didn't consider yourself clingy. You enjoyed your personal space and your time alone. But at the same time, you've also become accustomed to Namjoon dropping everything to take care of you. This entire week though, he's been preoccupied with a territorial issue, and the last 3 nights he hasn't even come to bed.

Leaving you feeling a little discarded, to say the least.

Nevertheless, you're a mature adult, and you were able to let it go with the knowledge that Namjoon is an Alpha who has responsibilities and knowing that he would still rather be with you.

It is, however, a comfort that you have trouble holding on to whenever you see the new girl around him. It's not like you're jealous. It's just that she doesn't seem to know how to behave respectfully or appropriately around Namjoon. She always stands too close or looks at him a bit too much, and she's way too touchy. Only his elbow, arm, or shoulder. But it's like, get your fucking hands off him.

Rationally, you know Joon is your mate and you own his heart, mind, and body. Still, it doesn't stop you from tossing restlessly, laying in bed at 2 am, once again alone. The two things added together making you feeling sour. Feeling sick of being sent away while this other girl gets to stick around being way too familiar with your Boyfriend.

Coming downstairs in your pyjamas, you weave in among the wolves working your way to Namjoon. Standing at the dining table, looking over a mess of paper, he notices you right away a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"Y/n, what are you doing up?"He asks, checking his watch.

There she is again, right next to him. Her hand casually coming off his shoulder when she sees you.

"It's late. Go back to bed, Beautiful." he coos.

You ignore his instruction. Wrapping to his side by pushing yourself between him and this girl, creating space for yourself with a not-so-subtle shoving of your elbow into her arm. Smiling up at him sweetly as he accepts your presence, hugging you tightly.

"We're going to be busy most of the night. You should go to bed." he leans down to whisper, his breath tickling your ear. He's trying not to draw the focus from the rest of the table into your personal discussion.

"I'll go up when you come with me." You whisper back.

"It's going to be a few more hours still baby." He sighs, seeming frustrated with the circumstances.

"Then I'm staying here."

"You shouldn't-"

"Don't argue with me Kim Namjoon. You're not going to win this one." While it's said in jest, you also mean it. He'll have to drag you upstairs to make you go. And if he steps foot in that bedroom, you both know you'll be able to make him stay.

"Oh really?" He challenges, fighting the smile growing on his face, not wanting to encourage your mischievous behaviour.

Grabbing the collar of his black tee, you pull him down to your height, smacking your lips against his. Kissing him passionately and longingly. Something you haven't been able to do for nearly a full week.

Letting his shirt go, his smile is fully grown. His dimples on display.

"Really." You finalize, looking up at him coquettishly.

You can see the struggle playing in his mind. He's extremely tempted to throw you over his shoulder and take you upstairs right now, his wolf fighting to shirk his responsibilities and give in to desire. His chest rumbling lowly as he winks down at you.

"Okay baby." his fingers dig into your hips, "If you're gonna play dirty, you can stay." He teases with a chuckle. Resisting the bait.

Feeling calmed and relaxed on the warmth of his hold again, a smug sense of pride fills your chest. From the corner of your eye, you can see her attention on the two of you. Your ego is not able to resist, and you shoot a cold pointed glare at her. A smirk creeping onto your face as she looks down, avoiding your eye line.

"Seeing as it's late, do you wanna make coffee for everyone?" You order her in the form of a question, speaking loudly enough for both her and Namjoon to hear your sassy, obvious tone.

She looks a little stunned. She'd just been promoted to the inner circle for this problem-solving session, and she doesn't seem pleased at being asked to perform menial tasks. Trying to go over your head, she looks at the Alpha for confirmation. But he doesn't give it to her. Instead, you can feel him nod, supporting your order. A full smile filling your face as you get his backing.

"Of course, Luna." she obeys, looking a little dejected.

"Thank you." you shoo her to action with a sing-song voice. Curling into Namjoons side, you can't help but feel authoritative. And a little bit victorious.

King! Seokjin

It had been nearly two weeks since you had seen Jin last. As frustrating as it was, you were genuinely missing him. There was a kind of energy he had when it was just the two of you. Something that filled you, and without him you were feeling like your own spirit was draining away.

It would be okay though, today Jin was coming back from visiting his wife and children. You're sure he missed you just as much as you missed him. That he was as excited to see you, as you were to see him. You were a little worried knowing that you would have to satisfy his sadism first, but you can tolerate it, thinking that at least you'll get to see his smile.

As the day is drawing to an end, you've finished all your tasks but you refuse to retire for the night, certain the King is going to call for you at any minute. Feeling a mix of excitement and relief when the staff manager comes to collect you.

Nearly skipping you rush to the dining hall, having been instructed to serve dinner to the King and his guest. Working with another maid to bring the meals from the kitchen.

Walking in, the smile you were trying to conceal disappears completely. Your stomach dropping. Jin's guest is the Princess. His wife.

You have to control your expression to hide your distress, feeling sick while serving him. His wife never comes down. She hasn't in a year and a half. Jin doesn't even really like her. It doesn't make sense why she's here.

With a curt bow, you remove the closh and place the plate down. Meeting the King's eye for a moment, you do your best to placify your appearance. Your efforts cracking when you see his lips pulling ever so slightly into a knowing smile.

He dismisses the other maid, but not you. Sending you to the waiting station by the wall. You're stuck watching over their conversation. Feeling more and more insecure as you look at the Princess's regality and beauty. Getting more frustrated as your mind runs rampant.

How long is she going to stay? It doesn't seem like they brought the Princes, so she has to go back soon. And what kind of mother leaves her children alone? It doesn't even matter that she's here, you know Jin likes you more. So what if she is really pretty, he can't hurt her like he can you. You make him happy. She's just a prop he was given to secure a treaty. He actually chose you.

Slowly, you're building yourself into a craze. Making yourself feel sad until the very end of the meal. Finally, their dinner date ends and he stands, kindly bowing to see her off. Leaving only you and him in the hall.

Relaxing back in his seat, he finishes the remainder of his drink.

"Y/n." Holding his empty glass to the side, he calls you over. You follow his gesture and top up his cup. Avoiding looking directly at him again. Pacing back to your place when he stops you.

"Come here." He grins, enjoying how uncomfortable you are. "You met my wife today." He pushes the difficult topic, again probing for your reaction.

Nodding softly, you're trying to not let your bitterness out. You know Jin doesn't like it when you pout.

"Are you jealous Princess?" He holds his hand out for you to take, leading you closer to him. Leaning back to create a space for you on his lap. Guiding you over him with your legs spread.

"No, your Majesty." You shake your head, your pause and hesitation giving away the truth.

Jin's gentle touch comes off your hand, his grip instead ripping back your hair, arching your back and nearly yanking you off of his lap. Biting back a shriek, you can't keep entirely quiet, whimpering as his fist curls tighter and closer to your scalp.

"Are you lying to me?" His mouth latches onto your shoulder, biting into your muscle vindictively. Unbridling that scream you had tried to smother.

"Yes. I'm sorry your Majesty!" you cry out, tears building in your eyes. "I'm jealous. I missed you. I want you-" all the truth is pouring out, but you hesitate worried you're being too bold, "all to myself."

His grip comes out of your hair. His hand instead raking down your chest, leaving painful red marks as each nail digs along the skin. Continuing lower, tearing the buttons on your dress. Yanking down your bra also, exposing your breasts. His other hand hikes the fabric up around your thighs, stopping on your waist, lowering your hips into him.

Pinching your nipple, he draws you closer until his lips are just off yours. Gasping through the initial pain, you can only whine and bite your lip to further keep quiet.

"Go on Princess. Prove to me why I should have missed you."

Assassin! Yoongi

Over the past couple of weeks, Yoongi would be gone for days at a time. Coming back in a strangely talkative and happy mood. You were as miserable and depressed as always, but his vigour was somehow revitalizing and comforting. It made him easier to deal with. It made him less moody. And it made your life easier. So to begin with you were very happy that he was happy.

That was until he mentioned a name in passing. A woman's name. Someone he was working with on a project.

As soon as you heard him talking positively about her, a pang of anxiety spiked through your stomach. From then on it rested in your gut, making you irritated, uncomfortable, and flustered every time you heard about or thought about her.

It was the strangest thing. You hated Yoongi, you're sure of it. But he was all you had. And hearing him talk about another woman, even though it sounded platonic, the adoration in his voice was hurting you in a way you never expected.

Slowly you had to work through this feeling on your own. You couldn't bear to let Yoongi know, not certain what he would do with the information that you were, in lack of a better word, jealous.

The more you heard about this woman, you knew you could never be as impressive as her. Every detail sounding equally terrifying and awe-inspiring. To be honest the specifics slipped your mind, as you were mostly wrapped up in self-pity when Yoongi spoke about her.

All you know is that you felt inferior, and you were craving, longing to feel that kind of importance to Yoongi, also. Resenting the fact that this other person was so easily able to bring joy and energy out of him.

Over the next couple of weeks, you spent every waking moment thinking about how to make Yoongi happy. Not just avoiding annoying him, like you usually did, but instead thinking about how to bring him genuine enjoyment.

One time you spent hours making him a meal. Making something you knew he would love. But, unfortunately, he only complained about the mess. He said he wasn't hungry and left you to throw the food away and clean up.

Another time, you had planned a full evening of activities. Movies, snacks, games that would help you get to know each other better, anything fun you could organize with your limited resources. Only, he wasn't in the mood to play, or talk. He only wanted one thing, and when he was done, he left you alone in your room, feeling used and a bit sore.

However, that gave you an idea. Maybe you could connect with him physically first. Then that might give you a way for something, anything more to develop.

This time, you set the house up with candles, music, wine, chocolate strawberries, everything you'd seen in movies. Waiting for him on the couch in something a little provocative. But, as soon as he comes in from the garage he looks more annoyed than impressed. Rolling his eyes, ordering you to your room.

By this stage it's late, you're tired, and you're losing your mind trying to make him happy. You were fighting so hard for his attention, and he was barely tolerating you. You aren't thinking clearly as you snap at him.

"Why?!" You yell, stomping your foot down. "I'm working so hard and you're just being an asshole!"

The words come out and you instantly regret them. His straight expression hardening.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." You rush to him, wrapping your arms around his chest trying to soothe any reaction. "Just tell me what I can do." You plead. Exasperated by so many failed attempts.

"That depends. What do you want?" He honestly questions, looking down at you.

You weren't exactly prepared to answer this question. You're not sure you really know.

"I'm your's right?" you say with big eyes, your voice coming out so softly, feeling embarrassed even though you're mimicking his words. "I get that I have to be yours. But then you have to be mine too." Your voice trembles.

Finally, it makes sense to Yoongi. Your change in demeanour, and in behaviour. Why you've been so needy. Why you've been trying to get his attention. He understands now. And that was most of what was annoying him. Not knowing why you were acting differently.

He steps out of your grasp, calling for you to follow him upstairs. You're not so nervous as you do. Surprisingly, the revelation has given Yoongi has a warm smile.

Falling back onto his bed, he taps the space beside him, inviting you to join him. You climb into the middle of the bed, resting in the place he set for you, his arm laid out under your head. He curls into you, gently wrapping his arm over your waist. Hugging you.

For the first time ever, he is showing you some kind of affection. For the first time, he's actually making a gesture of warmth and comfort. You couldn't even let yourself think that Yoongi could be capable of this. Having spent so many months isolated and alone. Even when you weren't locked up.

Hating yourself for not being stronger, you break into silent tears. Biting your thumb to stifle any sobs.

While reason is battling in your head, telling you that it's a bad idea to form any kind of emotional attachment to him, you don't want to listen to logic right now. Letting yourself cling to Yoongi and the desperately needed human connection.

Vampire! Hoseok

There was a delicate balance to your relationship with Hoseok. You couldn't exactly rely on his moods to be stable, but you could rely on his obsession with you. It was the only thing that kept you feeling secure. Feeling certain that when he bit you next he wouldn't let you bleed out. Or that when he hit you or cut you or hurt you, that he wasn't going to leave you to suffer in agony but would heal you. Because he wanted to keep you. You were his.

It was a twisted kind of reassurance. But it's what you had, so it's what you worked with.

You knew the source of his obsession. It was you as a person, sure. But you weren't kidding yourself. Mostly, his infatuation was with your blood. Hoseok wasn't specific about it, but you had overheard some of the other Vampires discussing you. Apparently, you smell delicious, and that's why he never lets you wander the house with any cuts. That's why you were locked away every 28 days. And that's why you were his only.

It didn't make sense to you, there was nothing different about you.

But somehow you'd fallen in and become the star of your very own YA horror story.

Whatever the cause though, you were aware that Hoseok's addiction to your blood was the reason that he kept you. Without that, he might simply kill you, or worse, he might throw you to one of the other bloodsuckers who look at you like a happy meal they want to fuck.

Which is probably why you were so defensive when you saw him biting another girl.

Sitting on the back terrace looking over the gated property, Hoseok and a few of his creations were sitting in the moonlight enjoying a drink. You'd come downstairs expecting to be his refill when you see him sinking his fangs into the arm of one of the human pets.

Frustration floods through your body, a new kind of anger making your hands shake. A malicious and honestly, not-all-together thought out idea springs into your head. You've never seen him drink from anyone else before, and you need to remind him that he should only want you.

Taking a serrated peeler from the bar at the side of the terrace, you hold it concealed in your palm, going up to the first Vampire leaning there.

"Are you thirsty?" you ask, speaking lowly. He, like all the others, know you're Hoseok's, and so he rightfully looks uncomfortable being near you. Stepping into his personal space, you raise your arm under his chin and run the sharp blade across the top of your forearm. His eyes immediately going black, his fangs bared. Unable to resist what you're offering.

Behind you, every single one of them turns their heads, smelling you the second blood gathers on your skin.

In a flash, Hoseok is between the two of you. Ripping his teeth into the guy's neck, tearing his throat out. Killing him in an instant.

Breathing heavily, he turns to you with blood washed down his front. His eyes murderous and cold.

Retaliating, you storm towards the human-pet and shove her with all of your might, pushing her down the stone tile steps onto the grass. Watching her tumble into a heap.

Those around you have gone dead quiet, none of them even daring to look directly at either of you.

"How dare you?" He seethes, stalking towards you. But you're not backing down. You know better than to retreat from him when he charges.

"How dare I?" you scream. "How dare you drink from that skank!" An enraged Hoseok is something all of his offspring know to fear. Steadily you can see them clearing the space around the two of you. Withdrawing from whatever this is leading to.

"You want to tell me who I can eat?!" He growls, his hand shooting around your neck, holding you but not choking you. "You're a blood bag that I keep as a toy!"

"If that's all, then I'll let all of them feed on me too."

His hand constricts, restricting your air. "I'll kill anyone that tries."

"Then," you gasp, your words coming out short. "only me." you pull your hair off your shoulder, turning your neck as far to the side as you can. Throwing his head back, he takes the invitation, sinking his fangs into your jugular, swallowing down mouthfuls of your blood.

Holding onto his shoulders, you jump up wrapping your legs around his waist, pushing yourself closer to his mouth. Hoseok's arms wrapping around your ass, keeping you up.

Pushed back by your momentum, he stumbles a few steps, dropping down onto the open sofa chair. You landing on his lap, straddling his thighs.

As more of your blood is drained, and you get lightheaded, the pain starts to slip and your body starts to float. A euphoric sensation, akin to being high consuming you.

You tangle your hands up into his hair tugging it, massaging his scalp. You've become so accustomed to him fucking you when he feeds from you, that whenever he bites you, you get turned on. Your body reacting out of instinct. Slowly grinding down, rocking your hips into him as you start to get him hard. The friction feeling good making you moan. Making you move faster with pleasure tingling through your core also.

"Hobi," you moan. Shivering, as his tongue runs up your wounds.

Your gentle whine catches his attention. A surprised expression on his face that shifts into a smile as he leans back to watch you. His focus on you making you feel slightly embarrassed, slowing your motions until they stop altogether.

Biting his tongue, your eyes meet for a moment before he kisses his blood into your mouth, the copper taste feeling soothing and familiar. Your body relaxing completely knowing you'll wake up healed.

"Mine." He whispers into your lips.

The blood loss pulls you into unconsciousness, your head dropping onto his shoulder. The euphoric feeling swallowing you up as you purr back. "Mine."

#bts #yandere bts #yandere #bts fanfic #bangtan #yandere bangtan #bts smut #bts reactions #yandere yoongi #min yoongi #bts smut reactions #bts fan fiction #bts fanfction #bts requests #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #jung hoseok #yandere namjoon #yandere jhope #yandere jin #vampire bts #alpha!namjoon #king!seokjin #assassin!yoongi #vampire!hoseok

[supernovafics]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇

pairing: dylan o’brien x best friend fem!reader

summary: in which dylan has been your best friend for as long as you could remember. your busy lives and schedules may have pushed both of your lives in vastly different directions as you’d gotten older, but somehow you two would always be led back to your hometown, and each other, during the holidays. however, one moment causes all of that to change. 

warnings: angst (what else is new), some fluffiness, mentions of past trauma (the maze runner incident), existential crises, explicit language

word count: 3.6k words

author’s note: idk why i decided to write something christmas related in the summer but it happened lmao (also i feel like it’s slightly important to mention that this takes place in 2016)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The rocks being thrown at your window were not what woke you up. Instead, you had been lying awake for hours; getting little to no sleep was something that you had become used to at this point.

However, on this specific night— or morning, depending on how one looked at it— you were glad that your sleep had been restless once again because it made it easy for you to get out of bed and walk to your window when the rocks began hitting it.

There was really no need for you to push open the curtains and check who was doing the throwing because, of course, it was Dylan. Ever since he moved onto your street in Hermosa Beach in middle school and the two of you easily became friends, he was the only person that would ever wake you up in the middle of the night with the soft pings of rocks, especially on this specific day at this specific time.

You waved at him and gestured that you would be down in a moment. You slipped on a random pair of sweatpants along with a hoodie and then placed the Christmas gift that you bought for him in the pocket. The item was small enough to fit in the not too big pocket of your hoodie; however, it did awkwardly protrude a bit.

All of this was a sort of unspoken tradition that the pair of you had developed over the many years you’d known each other. Meeting at five in the morning on Christmas day, walking to the beach that was only a few blocks away from your respective childhood homes, and exchanging Christmas gifts with each other as you both watched the sunrise. It started when you were in ninth grade, and you hadn't missed a year since, not even when the ending of high school pushed your lives in vastly different directions, especially since Dylan graduated a year before you and was almost immediately thrust into his acting career.

But, it didn't matter that Dylan's career took off, and you eventually decided to go to college in Santa Barbara, because, no matter what, you both would always come back for the holidays.

When you opened your front door and saw Dylan lingering by the sidewalk no more than ten feet away, you were quick to go toward him and pull him in for a tight embrace. It actually hadn't been too long since you’d last seen him, maybe only five or six months, but for some reason, it still felt as if the last time he was in front of you was last December.

"Hey," Dylan breathed out in a short greeting, his arms wounding around your waist.

“Hey to you too," You responded, a small smile gracing your features when you both pulled away, and you looked up at him. "How have you been?"

It was quiet for a few moments as you waited for him to answer the question, but eventually, you were met with no verbal response, and instead, Dylan simply shrugged. The short action made your heart constrict in the most painful way, and it was then that you noticed the light remnants of a scar peeking out from behind his dark hair that covered the majority of his forehead. You were quick to peel your eyes away from the scar and instead cast them down at your Converse-covered feet, but that didn't stop the memories from quickly coming back.

The Maze Runner accident had happened back in March, but to you, and you knew to Dylan as well, it felt as if it was just yesterday, especially considering the fact that he was still dealing with the unavoidable repercussions from it.

"Wanna walk?" You asked, finally looking up at him once again.

Dylan nodded. "Yeah."

A silence that could only be deemed as comfortable lingered between them as the two of you took the five-minute walk to the beach and sat down side by side on one of the random empty benches.

"Merry Christmas, Y/N," Dylan said as he handed a present over to you. The present was messily wrapped, something that was not at all uncommon when receiving gifts from Dylan, and the sight of it made you smile.

Before you unwrapped the gift, you pulled out the one you had for him and handed it over. "Merry Christmas, Dyl."

The nostalgic sound of wrapping paper ripping could be heard as you tore into your gift. A simultaneous shocked and happy yelp emitted from your lips when you held up a Harry Potter t-shirt. But, it wasn't just any Harry Potter t-shirt; it was one with a version of the Goblet of Fire movie poster on it, which was your all-time favorite movie in the series.

"Holy shit."

"It's the original merch that was sold when the movie came out," Dylan told you. He hadn't opened his gift yet, and instead, he was playing with the green bow placed on top of it; he always liked to see your reaction first.

You looked at Dylan and then back down at the shirt as you processed his words. "Wow, double holy shit. I would put it on if it wasn't freezing right now."

Dylan laughed a bit. "Very understandable."

“Why haven't you opened yours yet? I'm dying to see what you think of it," You said. You were now holding the t-shirt to your chest, genuinely feeling like a little kid on Christmas morning again.

Dylan finally began unwrapping your gift to him, and when all of the paper was peeled off, there was a square box. "Aw, a plain white box. Thank you so much. This is what I've always wanted."

You rolled your eyes and playfully bumped him with your shoulder. "Ha ha. Please save all of these bad jokes for your stand-up act; I can't wait to boo you off the stage along with everyone else."

"So, what I'm hearing is you don't think that becoming a comedian is going to be the next best career move for me?" Dylan asked. He attempted to make the question sound as serious as possible, but there was a joking undertone to his words.

You bit back your laughter. "Please just open the box already so I don't have to hurt your feelings by truthfully answering that question."

"Okay, we'll circle back to that topic later," Dylan smiled and then finally opened the white box to reveal a slightly faded baseball. When he picked it up, he ran his thumb over the black signature written on it. "Now it's my turn to say holy shit."

You could feel yourself smiling at his awestruck reaction, and you wondered if that was what you looked like when you saw the Harry Potter shirt. The baseball was signed by one of the players of the New York Mets that had been Dylan's favorite player when he was younger, and he'd even caught a ball hit by him when he went to a game before he moved to California.

"I've had this idea for years, but I could never find a baseball signed by him," You began explaining, the excitement clear in your voice. "But, last month, someone named Paul Todd posted this on eBay and I immediately bought it. God bless that old man. It's completely authentic and everything."

Dylan was quiet for a few moments as he simply looked at the baseball in his hands, a small joyful smile on his face, and it made you happy to see him so genuinely elated with the present.

"This just made my gift look like shit," He finally said, a light laugh falling from his lips.

"I have always been the superior gift giver. I think that's my hidden talent," You responded with a playful smirk.

Dylan placed the baseball back in its box and then looked at you. "Next year you will receive the best gift ever from me. It will completely top everything that you have ever given me."

"You're saying that as if I should feel upset about receiving a trip to Italy as a Christmas gift."

"A trip to Italy?"

"In my strong opinion, that would be the best gift ever," You said with a smile and then looked down at the t-shirt, which was now in your lap. "But, anyway, I don't think this gift is shit. I'm in love with this shirt already."

Dylan let out a joking, overexaggerated sigh in relief. "Phew, okay, since you think this gift is great, that means I don't have to do the trip to Italy next year."

"What? Did I say I like this t-shirt? I hate it! Harry Potter actually su— Fuck, I can't say this with a straight face," You laughed, and Dylan was quick to join in with you.

The joking statements leading up to the laughter hadn't even been the funniest things ever, but it didn't matter because this was probably the hardest you had laughed in a while, and you were both glad and unsurprised that it was with one of your favorite people in the entire world.

You missed joking around and laughing with him. You missed simply being with him.

Eventually, the laughter died off, but there was still a smile planted firmly on your face. You looked ahead at the darkness in front of you and the ocean that looked completely black; it was still kind of early, so the sun hadn't begun to rise just yet. Your back pressed against the wooden bench, and you let out a small sigh, your head finding Dylan's shoulder as you leaned against him.

"How have you been?" You asked him, your words coming out both soft and slightly quiet, and before the mood became too serious with your question that was nothing but serious, you attempted to lighten it. "And please no shrugs as a response this time. I don't wanna get a headache due to my head bouncing off your shoulder."

Dylan let out a breath of a laugh at your final statements but refrained from answering the question for a few moments.  

After what felt like forever, he sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "I honestly don't know. My mind has felt so fucked lately, thinking about everything. I swear I've been feeling every feeling known to man these past months."

"What are you feeling right now? In this moment?"

"I'm really happy with you. This is probably the only normal and familiar thing I've experienced in a while. But, of course, there's still that confused feeling in the back of my mind revolving around everything else." He paused for a brief moment before continuing, his next words came out quieter. "I don't even know if I want to go back to acting."

You lifted your head off his shoulder and looked at him as you pulled his hand into yours and gave it a light, reassuring squeeze.

"No matter what you decide. I'll be right there to support you," You told him and then added a "bro" at the end of her sentence along with a small smile. Whenever things became too deep in a conversation you two were having, one of you would always throw a "bro" or "dude" in there to bring some playfulness to the mood.

The corners of Dylan's perked up a bit. "So, you'll support me when I decide to become a comedian?"

You were unable to stifle your light laughter. "Yes, fine, fuck it. I'll be the loudest one laughing at all of your shows."

Dylan squeezed your hand back because he knew exactly how reluctantly true your words were. "Don't worry, I promise not to put you through that."

"Thank you."

"So, how have you been?"

"No."

"Oh, come on," Dylan said as he playfully poked your side. "I'm not gonna be the only one exposing my feelings."

You sighed and then hesitantly nodded. "Okay, okay."

The truth was you had been far from good lately. Your life was moving, but for some reason, you felt like you weren’t moving with it.

You felt stuck.

Stuck in a confusing mindset where you had absolutely no idea what you wanted to do with your life. You thought that identity crises usually happened in high school, but apparently, yours had come five years late. But, you knew that this delayed identity crisis had been your own doing because you had convinced herself that you would figure everything out once you were in college; and you were both lucky and smart enough to receive a full ride to UCSB.

And although you were finishing up your Master's degree in Creative Writing and had a TA job at the university with the department, which was the reason behind why you could even pay for the Master's program, something in your "should be great" life simply did not feel right.

However, you felt absolutely terrified to say any of that out loud because admitting it would only finally make that statement a wholehearted truth, instead of just a spiraling thought in your mind. And even though Dylan was your best friend and you knew you could tell him anything and not receive any sort of judgment, it still felt hard to let the words leave your lips.

You thought about the way to perfectly word everything, but nothing felt right. You pulled your hand away from Dylan's and covered your face as you let out an exasperated breath. "I can't figure how to say it all."

Dylan placed an arm around you and then mimicked the same question you had asked him not too long ago. "What are you feeling right now? In this moment?"

You would have both laughed and smiled at the fact that he was using your exact words if the current circumstances were different.

"Scared," You finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what the fuck I wanna do anymore, and actually, I don't think I really ever did. I only went to college because of the scholarship, and I convinced myself that I would figure my life out when I got there. And for a while, things felt right because I found creative writing and genuinely enjoyed it, but something doesn't feel right anymore. And I actually do like school. Because it's stable, and I am doing things, even if it's taking a dumbass test. But, it's about to be over soon, and I have no idea what I'm gonna do."

Your words were coming out like vomit, and nothing could stop it because finally, everything you had been feeling for so long was out of your head and put into the open.

"And don't get me wrong, I do love to write, but I don't know, I just can't see myself doing it for the rest of my life," You admitted and then let your next words come out quietly. "Honestly, I can't see myself doing anything. I'm so unhappy here."

You did not say it aloud, but you didn't think you were ever fully content there. Aside from Dylan and your parents, you never truly liked California. You had grown up there all your life, and although there were millions of people that adored the state, you felt the exact way someone from a state like Wyoming probably felt.

Dylan did not verbally respond to your long confession at first; instead, he simply pulled your confused and stressed self in for a hug, and you let out the simultaneous sigh and breath that you had been metaphorically holding in for years at this point.

"Maybe you should take a break," Dylan finally said; his arms were still around you, an action that made you feel completely comforted. "Right after high school, you went straight to college, and I don't think you've ever really taken a break to really think about what you actually want. Like, maybe, it's becoming a zookeeper."

Your laugh was slightly muffled by the fact that your face was pressed into the warmth of Dylan's chest. "Zookeeper?"

"I don't know," He laughed too. "You said you would support me in whatever the fuck I decide to do, and I'll do the exact same for you."

Somehow a smile found its way on your face. "A zookeeper and a comedian. What a fucking dream team."

Another laugh fell from Dylan's lips. "The best fucking dream team."

"But, honestly, I wish I could've known sooner that this is how you've been feeling. I would've been telling you to slow down so long ago, but you seemed content with everything," Dylan told you and gave you another light squeeze. "Please take a break and don't stress yourself out over the future when your next semester is over. Just relax for the first time. You can even come stay with me in LA for a little bit if that's where you wanna take your break. I'll be here for you, Y/N. Always."

Something about his words hit you hard. The wholehearted honesty and sincerity behind his statement shouldn't have surprised you, but it did. And the worry he had for you resembled the same concern you had for him when the accident happened. You two were best friends, so it should not have been a shock that you would worry about each other, but still, in that moment and for you, it was shocking because it felt like so much more than just that.

"Me too," You whispered, finally responding to his previous statement.

The long embrace came to an end with you being the one to pull away; however, you did not pull away far enough for you both to become completely detached from one another. Dylan's arms were still around your waist, and yours were still around the nape of his neck, and your faces were dangerously close. Your hand somehow took on a mind of its own as it reached around and cupped Dylan's cheek. The miniscule confusion and tickle of panic that began to prick at the back of your mind because of the action were not enough to make you pull away.

The slight way that Dylan leaned into your soft touch was the catalyst for you to take the leap and lean in the tiniest bit to close the small distance between the two of you, your lips almost too easily finding his. The inward sigh of contentment you emitted when Dylan almost immediately kissed you back made you realize that kissing him was the one thing currently happening in your life that actually felt right.

Later, when thinking back to that specific moment, you would wonder if that "rightness" had always been there between you both.

However, that right feeling, which was both comfortable and familiar, was quickly replaced with dread and angst, at least on your part. Your mind was beginning to fully catch up with your actions, and it immediately told you that the current action was both bad and stupid, and there were many, many reasons that proved that.

Maybe there were moments where a younger, and even present-day, you did want more to happen between you and Dylan, but you would always push that thought away because you knew that your and Dylan's friendship was so much more valuable.

And then it was the fact that your lives were nothing alike. Even though you were immensely confused about where your life was going, you could say for certain that it wasn't going in the same direction as Dylan's; an acting career that he genuinely loved and enjoyed too much to truly give up. Something deep down told you that, and you could feel the truthfulness behind the thought. The holidays were the only time your lives would truly intersect.

You abruptly pulled away, not just from the kiss but from Dylan's body entirely, moving to the edge of the bench you were on. Your hands covered your face in nothing but pure embarrassment and regret, and you wished that you could take back the last minute and a half of your life. And you also absolutely hated that you couldn't help but notice how much colder your body felt now that it was away from Dylan's.

"Oh my God. I'm sorry. Fuck. That kiss— it was a mistake. I'm really sorry." Your words came out rushed and fumbled, and it probably did not make much sense, but you just hoped that there was at least a little bit of coherency with them.

As much as you wanted to look at Dylan, you refused to do so because you knew that you would only see the regret you were feeling written clear across his face.

"Hey, it's okay, Y/N. Everything's fine. Don't worry," You heard him say but could hear the uncertainty in his voice as if he really didn't know if everything truly was fine. And you knew that it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

The holidays were the only time your lives would truly intersect, and you had just completely ruined that.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know your thoughts <3

((((already potentially thinking about doing a part 2 to this….. but idk…))))

#dylan o’brien #dylan o’brien x reader #dylan o'brien imagine #dylan o'brien fanfic #dylan o'brien x y/n #dylan o'brien x fem!reader #dylan o'brien gifs

[astro-rain]

delicate; b. barnes

chapter thirteen - “sober desires & the reminiscence of a winsome smile”

delicate masterlist

word count: 4k

synopsis: wakanda gets a visit from our favorite captain, two drinks is too much rum for a reticent psychologist, and bucky knows (& feels) more than meets the eye.

pairings: bucky x fem!reader

[A/N]: this took so long to write but WHEW this chapter!!!! pls let me know what you think >:D

The knock on the outside of his hut was followed by a deep accented voice, one that he had heard before.

"Sergeant Barnes?" it called.

Quickly enough Bucky was outside, facing the king of Wakanda himself. He wasn't sure exactly what to say. You see, the majority of their past interactions included the Black Panther trying to kill him. T'Challa was kind and Bucky trusted him. It was just... a little awkward given the history.

"Your highness," he greeted.

He smiled bashfully at the title.

"I have some news for you."

Bucky's head cocked to the side, curious. News? Should he be worried? He hadn't been expecting anything.

"Captain Rogers is on his way here. He was alerted about our recent complication with N'Jadaka," he said, referring to who Bucky guessed was who Y/N called Erik Killmonger, "and he asked to come check in, make sure you're okay."

Steve was coming. His mood was immediately uplifted. He hadn't seen his oldest friend for months. It was weird to have Steve feeling the need to make sure Bucky was okay; it was usually the other way around. Nonetheless, he was excited. And he had the sudden urge to tell Y/N.

- - -

READER

"Sharon. Hey," she said into the phone.

The friends hadn't spoken since Y/N left for Wakanda - security measures since Sharon helped Steve and betrayed the... well everyone.

"Y/N!" Sharon greeted. "How is everything? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, no I'm totally okay. The Killmonger thing was more the royal family's deal than mine. I was just hiding out in some bunker with Barnes."

Concerned weaved its way into Sharon's voice. "Oh my god. Did anything happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, historically, stress hasn't affected him well..."

She wasn't sure why she almost got offended. "No... he was completely fine. He doesn't lose control out of nowhere and turn into the winter soldier. It's a lot more complicated than that... We were fine."

"Oh, that's good. Listen... I'm actually on my way to Wakanda right now."

"You're-... what?"

"Steve needed to check in on Bucky after Killmonger. Wilson and I are coming too."

They must all be together. It makes sense considering what happened after the disaster in Berlin, and then the airport fiasco in Germany and then... everything in Siberia.

Aw, they're in hiding together, Y/N joked in her head. She almost laughed out loud.

"Oh. Is that safe? For you? For everyone?"

"I've been careful. We've all been careful. But, things don't always go as planned. And T'Challa feels bad about putting you guys in a dangerous situation when he was supposed to protect you."

"It wasn't his fault."

"I know. We all know. But, it's kind of his way of making up for it: letting us stay so that Steve can check in on Barnes and we can cool off for a bit."

"Was Rogers mad?"

"Well, he wasn't thrilled that his best friend was trapped alone in a country that just got taken over..."

He wasn't alone.

"...he was mostly worried," Sharon continued. "Still is."

"Right."

"Alright, well I got to go. We'll be there in a couple hours."

"I'll see you. Be safe."

"See you."

- - -

BUCKY BARNES

"Hey Buck," the happiness in Steve's voice was genuine as he patted his oldest friend on the back in the middle of an embrace. "How you been?"

"A hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you, that's for damn sure," Bucky smiled.

Sam Wilson stood next to the star spangled man with a plan. Bucky briefly glanced at him.

"Wilson," he deadpanned.

"Barnes," he returned the greeting.

"I was worried when T'Challa told me about Killmonger," Steve said. "Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that they let you stay here, but I just didn't think I'd have to be worried so soon."

"It's alright. Everything turned out okay and I was fine the whole time. You don't have to lose your head."

"I'm not losing my head."

"You never had it in the first place."

The blonde changed the topic of conversation.

"You were with that therapist right?"

"Yeah."

"What do we think about her?" he asked with equal parts caution and suspicion. "Do you trust her?"

Bucky wasn't sure why he was almost offended.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, you know what happened the last time you were with a psychiatrist..."

"Yeah well, this one doesn't have a personal vendetta against the Avengers."

"You sure she's alright?"

He looked serious, and Bucky could see the genuine concern etched into his friend's face. Steve was truly wary.

"I'm positive. She's helped so much since I've been here. I really trust her."

"Okay, if you say so. I trust you."

Bucky smirked. "Hey uh... is Sharon with you?"

Sam said nothing but radiated a smirk to match Bucky's perfectly, a kind of smirk that only a ball-busting best friend cracks.

"She is..." Steve replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh nothing. Just wondering, that's all."

"She said she wanted to talk to a friend."

"Oh, she's probably with Y/N."

"Who?"

"Y/N. Dr. Y/L/N. 'The therapist.'"

"I didn't know they were friends."

"Why do you think Sharon recommended her?"

"She said she knew 'the best' person to help."

"That true. She's crazy smart."

"As long as she can do the job, I'm all for it, no matter whose friend she is."

In a short-lived thought, Bucky wondered what Steve Rogers would think of who else Y/N was friends with. He wondered if Steve would think it was strange to be friends with your doctor, or if he'd be pleased that Bucky had gotten close to someone, anyone else in this world.

"How long are you guys staying for?" Bucky asked.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. "Honestly, we were only planning on staying for like a week or so. We've been moving throughout Europe, and the other day, when we were in Prague... it was almost really bad."

"We need to stay low for a while," Sam added.

"What did you do?" Bucky asked, used to Steve getting himself into trouble.

"It's a long story..."

"What did T'Challa say about it?"

"He said to take as much time as we needed," Steve filled him in.

"You know, I'm startin' to really like this guy," Sam nodded, smiling. "Obviously when he went all cat murderer on you, he was a bit of a pain in the ass. But now? Guardian angel."

Bucky shook his head at Sam's nonsense. What an idiot, he thought. He wondered what Y/N would think of Sam, but then a more pressing question popped into his head.

"Where are you guys gonna stay?"

"I'm guessing there," Steve said pointing behind Bucky.

When he turned around, Bucky was shocked but he also wasn't. Behind and around his hut stood three more just like it, but slightly smaller. He could've sworn those weren't there yesterday, but that's the beauty of Wakanda. They were ten steps ahead of the rest of the world and he guessed that included speed building as well.

"I will never stop loving this place," he admired.

-

He tried not to sound too eager when he knocked on her door. She looked shocked but didn't really try to hide it.

"Oh," she sounded confused. "Hi, Bucky..."

"Hey," he grinned. "I have a proposition for you."

Her eyebrows lowered as her lips twisted into the most devilish smirk. She could communicate an entire joke with just her face.

"Not like that!" he exclaimed.

She laughed, smirk morphing into an endearing smile. "Like what then?"

"Steve wanted to have like a bonfire sorta thing to catch up since we're all together for once. You know, just like drinks and stupid stories from the forties. D'ya think you could part with your paper work to grace us with your presence?"

"Oh, uh... are you sure?"

"Of course. I'd love to have you there."

She wrung out her hands. "I don't know, Buck. Is that really appropriate? To have your doctor hangin' out with your friends?"

"That may be, but that's not what I'm asking. I want my friend to 'hang out' with my other friends."

Out of her composure seeped a meek smile. The air felt softer to him.

"And maybe you can analyze Wilson and tell me what his biggest fear is later," he added.

She snickered.

"Okay. Lead the way, James Buchanan."

-

The fire was a monster, roaring and crackling with all the life in the world. Bucky loved it. He loved the warmth, the heat, the lack of cold.

"I'm gonna get another drink," Y/N said. "You want anything, Buck?"

"I'm all set," he smiled, gaze lingering for only a second too long.

"Sharon?" she turned. "You?"

The blonde shook her head. "Oh, I think I've had plenty."

Surrounding the fire sat five chairs. All but one was empty as Y/N went to get her second drink. Of course they were in Sam's hut, Bucky thought. After all, even though it was Steve's idea, Sam was most excited about the whole thing, actually sitting down and just relaxing instead of fleeing from belligerent governments.

"Therapist's pretty," Sam noted with a smirk once she was out of hearing range.

"Y/N," Bucky corrected, mind going completely elsewhere. "She's so smart."

"Smart enough to call you Buck..." Steve said, catching on to Sam.

"What?"

"She calls you Buck."

"Yeah, so? You do too."

"Yeah, but I've known you longer. And I'm your friend."

"She's my friend too," he shrugged.

"She's your doctor..."

"And I'm a hundred year old man with one arm trying to get un-brainwashed in a country that the rest of the world doesn't even know exists. None of this is conventional."

"...fair," Steve said, with only a little bit of skepticism. "Are you guys close?"

Does spending hours alone talking with someone in a hidden bunker make you close? Does them comforting you after a nightmare and then subsequently allowing you to get the best night sleep you've had in forever? What about making daring voyages to quaint waterfalls and laughing a kind of laugh that makes your heart swell? What about-

"Buck?"

He shrugged. Again. "I guess so."

Sam narrowed his eyebrows. "How close?"

"Wilson," Sharon admonished exasperatedly. "Y/L/N's his doctor, come on. That's inappropriate to suggest."

Sam put his hands up in mock surrender. Briefly, just briefly, Bucky imagined kicking the leg of Sam's chair and watching him fall back. He didn't, obviously. But it would have been funny if he did.

The seemingly never ending conversation was cut short when Y/N returned, drink in hand, and took her seat next to Bucky.

"What'd you get?" he asked, demeanor subtly but swiftly changing into something lighter, something happier.

"I don't know, but it has rum in it," she shrugged sardonically before clinking her glass with Bucky's.

"Cheers," Sam raised his glass, trying to engage.

Y/N wordlessly, and with a half-smile, raised her glass in his direction.

"So," Steve started, comfortably crossing his legs and leaning back into his chair before asking Bucky, "you wanna know what actually happened in Prague?"

"Do enlighten me. I've been waiting all night."

"Jerk."

"Punk."

The rest of the night went on sort of like this. The group took turns telling stories and then listening. Cracking jokes and then laughing. Everyone but Y/N, Bucky noticed. She just... sat and drank, livelihood only extending to the borders of her seat.

He hadn't seen her like this before, and he found himself stuck halfway between confused and worried. Had something happened? Had something wrong been said?

He kept an eye on her as dusk melted into night. He told himself it was because he was concerned, but that was only in addition to the way he was magnetized to how she looked with the light of the fire gleaming on her skin.

After she would finish a drink, she'd stare into the fire for a little while, before leaving to get another. When he made sure no one was looking at him, he'd look at her. Discretely. At her eyes. The reflection of the fire in her pupils made him wonder if she would burn the fire before it could ever burn her. He was all too aware of the heat that accompanied her gaze. It was a ravishing burn that made him ache for the searing feeling as soon as it was taken away.

He didn't dare think of it for too long or else he would get distracted. And someone would call his name, pulling him out of a trance he didn't want to be caught in. A trance he wasn't sure he wanted to admit that he was in.

The night remained as such until someone - he couldn't remember who - said they were tired, and everyone bid their farewells, and wished their good nights.

Y/N spared about a side hug to Sharon before walking off on her own. Bucky half volunteered, half insisted on tending to the fire to make sure it went out, only to ignore it as soon as everyone was gone and follow after his psychologist.

He caught up to her as she was in the middle of opening the door to her living quarters.

"Y/N."

She turned around in the spot, door wide open, staring up at him.

He bore into her eyes, looking at something, noticing her dilated pupils and hazy stare.

"You're drunk," he said, but it sounded more like a question.

"Yeah."

"But you don't seem drunk?"

"I'm not wasted," she padded into the room, carelessly leaving the door wide open for him to walk through. "Just drunk enough to remember why I didn't drink in college."

She rubbed her eyes.

"Think I want another one," she sighed, heading for the door with a bitter smile. "More rum."

Bucky gently closed the door, maneuvering himself in front of it, and blocking her from exiting. Another drink is definitely not a good idea.

He changed the subject. "Why didn't you drink in college?"

Her eyebrows raised, introducing a look that said Really? You think I don't know what you're doing?

"Wow, look at you being the voice of reason for my otherwise inebriated brain."

Nevertheless, she cooperated.

She sighed. "It just... makes me miserable. I'm a sad drunk."

"Better than a mean drunk," he offered.

"Possibly. It's a real mood killer, though."

"That why you were off all night?"

"Off... ? I don't know, I guess so... I'm usually pretty inconspicuous when I'm drunk. Didn't think anyone would really notice."

There was no hesitation when he spoke.

"I did."

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be sorry. Just... why did you keep drinking if it only makes you miserable?"

"Alcohol is a depressant," she breathed mechanically, as if speaking was difficult. "It depresses your nervous system, then you get disinhibited. Then you don't care about rationality and just drink! Then in the moment it feels kinda good... but then it makes you sad... and then you need more to blur the feeling away. It's like... the worse you feel, the more you need to drink... but then the more you drink... the worse you feel..."

"How are you drunk but still talking... sorta still like you usually do?"

She smirked, looking like she was trying not to laugh. He was glad she was smiling.

"Maybe you're not the only one with heightened metabolism as a result of the serum..."

He looked at her quizzically, amused. She wasn't making total sense, but he couldn't find it in himself to give much of a damn. She smiled, again.

"Kidding. I just have outstanding self-control."

She plopped down on the floor, deciding that she no longer wanted to use her legs. Fine motor function was overrated for intoxicated people.

He sat down with her, next to her.

"If I tell you a joke will you be less sad-drunk?"

"I already am 'less sad-drunk.' I wasn't before, but," she took a breath in, "now you're here, so... improvements have been made."

"That's good 'cause I was worried before."

She glanced up at him with brazen eye contact. Her face held a mixture of what looked like a confused and pained expression, as something changed. Some sort of realization or reality check.

She wiped her hands over her face. "God, this is so ridiculous. I'm sorry. You shouldn't be worried about me, that's not your job. I'm sorry. I should just go to bed, and you can leave..."

"I know it's not my job. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I was alright- it... it's not like I was crying at the fire or something. I was fine."

"After your second drink, you were silent almost the entire time."

"You were counting my drinks?"

Not exactly.

"I was paying attention."

"To what?"

To you.

"You completely turned into yourself. Your elbows and legs were drawn in close to your body: unrelaxed and almost apprehensive posture. You were nonverbal, didn't make any jokes, no sarcastic commentary. I was literally purposefully saying things I knew you would correct or tease or laugh at and nothing. I was waiting for a 'smartass' or a 'there's a reason behind everything' explanation or anything science related. But there was nothing."

Her face was blank. It took her a second to catch up. Blinking slowly, she shook her head, eyebrows furrowed, all emphasis on the word. "Why?"

Her tone was truly confused. It was like she, in her heart of hearts, for the life of her, could not believe he was concerned.

"Y/N you're my friend," he chided. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She averted her gaze. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't know."

"Look," his voice was soft. "I know you know everything and you know my mannerisms and micro-expressions and you know when I'm lying and whatever else 'cause you're a genius psychologist. But is it really that hard to believe that, after all the time we've known each other, I know you a little too? That I saw you for once instead of you always seein' me?"

"I think you're the only person who sees me."

The words leaked out before he thought to analyze them, tone lower than a whisper.

"Well I can't seem to look at much else."

He had never felt such potent silence. Did he just fuck up majorly? They just sat, on the floor, eyes glued to each other like twenty year old dried cement. He didn't think he could move away if he tried.

"I see you now," she whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"Blue," she breathed. "Your eyes are so blue. I don't... think I've ever seen that shade of blue."

It happened exponentially slowly, but the closer her face got to his, the more his chest felt like it was going to burst in the best way possible. As if liquid light poured into his lungs, inflating his chest and igniting every nerve with adoration.

Her lips hovered over his so lightly it was as if it wasn't even happening, like her affection was a ghost. But it was happening, and he could feel it. He could feel the softness in her lips and the smell of the rum she drank as they combined into the wondrous dual sensation that permeated throughout his brain.

They weren't kissing by any stretch. Their lips were hardly touching. However, in that moment, he was at her mercy. He was prepared to bend the laws of nature to her will if she would allow the continuation of this feeling for even a fraction of a second more.

Until it stopped and she waned away like the moon bidding adieu to the morning sky.

Her voice shook. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't... it's-"

"No. It's not okay. It's not okay."

He leaned back, examining her face. She looked confused and embarrassed and scared.

"Y/N, it's fine. It's okay, seriously, don't worry about it."

"I'm sorry, I'm... I'm drunk and I'm disinhibited and it's affecting my judgement and making me impulsive. I'm sorry."

He couldn't be exactly sure, but it sounded as if she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince him.

Neither of them moved a muscle.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

She was silent, frozen. It reminded him of a past conversation about the fight or flight response.

Bucky stood up and offered his hand to the woman sitting on the floor in front of him. "Here."

She took it gingerly and stood up with him before wide eyes stared into his apologetically.

"Please don't feel bad," he pleaded. "Barely anything happened."

"Still..."

"Why don't you just get some sleep and we can talk tomorrow. I promise it won't seem like such a big deal when you're sober."

She nodded but they both remained motionless, hands still together. He knew they needed to let go, but her hand didn't move, and she just kept looking into him.

"Okay," she whispered.

She walked him to the door, hand still in hand, and until he was forced to let go of her to open it. He stepped, ever so slowly, out of her room and onto the grass outside. He looked up at her, the doorway between them suddenly feeling like worlds of distance. They stood on opposite sides of the open door like statues. Bucky didn't know what to do and he wasn't sure what to say.

He settled on a, "Goodnight."

He tried not to make it sound so weak and timorous but he failed entirely. He didn't want to leave her like this. Guilty and alone. God knows he knew what it felt like.

Her voice was dry and quiet. "Goodnight."

He wasn't sure when the door shut or which one of them had shut it. The only thing he was sure of was the feeling of formidable regret pooling in his stomach.

On one hand, there was regret for letting her lean in and get so close because now he was scared that their dynamic was ruined and worried that Y/N felt awful. On the other hand, there was regret that he just let her pull away. Regret that he didn't lean in more and shamelessly drown in her. Regret that he didn't unapologetically suffocate himself with the softness of lips, the inebriating smell of rum on on her tongue, and the utterly bewitching taste of her he was sure would follow.

He wasn't sure what he felt, to be honest. He was a muddle of emotions of which he had no idea how to sift through. Momentarily, he wished he was drunk so he wouldn't have to think so hard. Then, he remembered the saying, "drunk words are sober thoughts," and he was damn glad he was stone cold sober; he could only imagine the things he would say to her if he was drunk.

This lead him to pondering, it got the gears in his brain turning. It made him wonder. Maybe... just maybe... if drunk words were sober thoughts, then what if drunk actions were sober desires?

Thinking like this could cause him read the situation completely differently. Thinking like this could make him read the situation in such a way that conceived the slightest sliver of hope for emotions gone repressed. Hope is dangerous...

Hope is dangerous, so Bucky shoved it down into the deepest cavern of his brain, the very same cavern where his feelings for her resided. It was a monster in a cave, growling and hissing menacingly. Intensely.

It scared him, this intensity. It scared him so much that the only way he could fall asleep was by thinking about the way James Buchanan sounded when she said it with a winsome smile.

delicate taglist: ​@bakugouswh0r3 @thefridgeismybestie @strivingforelegance @ilovespideyyy @xpurpleglitter @bluelakeee @darkacademic2 @nickkie1129 @eclipsedplanet @paradisedixon @crazy-beautiful @coffee--writes @lilithknight1111 @buckybarnesishot310 @softladyhours @alwayssandy @quxxnxfhxll @those-sea-green-eyes @hero-ically @devilswaldorf

#bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #marvel #steve rogers #bucky fic #bucky reader insert #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fic #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes delicate #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #captain america civil war #black panther #marvel fanfiction #captain america #mcu #james bucky barnes #bucky drabble #bucky headcanon #captain america fanfiction #bucky fluff #winter solider edit #bucky imagine

[ckret2]

Do you have any headcanons about the Hazbin's (minus Charlie) lives back when they were alive?

I scrolled through all 42 pages of the hazbin tag on my blog and literally every one of my premortem headcanons are about Alastor and Sir Pentious lmfao

So sure! Want an entire novella about my headcanons for Sir Pentious's backstory?

For Alastor, I can offer:

a traumatic toddler experience

his mother observing him with ghosts as a child

Alastor working with demons (funny)

Alastor working with demons (creepy)

Alastor and his asexuality/aromanticism (mostly postmortem but it has some premortem flashbacks)

Alastor with friends in the 20s trying to explain he does not get horny

a fic that didn't ACTUALLY happen but that demonstrates my headcanons for how he works with demons

And moving away from fics and on to tumblr posts!

For Alastor:

Alastor fought in World War I

another WWI post

headcanon about how he died (I've since changed my headcanon—hunting accident rather than manhunt—but the position's the same)

excerpt from one of the fics above about Alastor's first kiss

early headcanoning on Alastor's relationship with the queer community in life

Alastor saw but didn't learn the lindy hop in life

Alastor's accent makes people (in this case Sir Pentious) think that he's upper class when actually he's just had theater training

Alastor's family tree comes from a mix of socioeconomic backgrounds and before he died he achieved fame but not fortune

Alastor does not feel broken/insecure due to being ace/aro and never has

what people in Louisiana thought of Alastor as a radio host

what did Alastor look like (and Sir Pent)

Alastor only saw 10% of the Golden Age Of Radio and that's fucked up

fun fact when Alastor was on air radio stations weren't "just news" or "just (one genre of) music," a single station would play music and news and soap operas and sports etc

random links of queer history, 1920s gay culture, slang, and NOLA history

Alastor's mother grew up while Sir Pentious was menacing the US and she has very vivid memories of living in fear of him, and also she doesn't know her son is a cannibalistic murderer

Alastor wore glasses in life and only switched to a monocle in death

Alastor was never identified as a serial killer and there's probably unsolved true crime documentaries made about his killings (and these documentaries unknowingly use a recording of the killer's real voice, a clip from a news broadcast where Alastor read about the killings on air)

check out how hyped this newspaper in the 20s was for radio like goddamn

Alastor listened to radio all day every day

more 1920s research links

very loose overview of New Orleans race relations 1890-1920

how NOT to write about Voodoo

reminder that "alastor did magic in life" is a headcanon until we SEE him using magic before he died—also "Voodoo" is a religion not a magic power

how Alastor avoided getting caught as a serial killer

I doubt Alastor was famous enough for queer historians to have discovered he existed, only niche radio broadcast historians know about him

Alastor was raised to be courteous to (respectable) women, but not to genuinely see them as equals in a modern sense

1920s hair facts and headcanons on Alastor's hair

scene from one of the above fics of baby Alastor being haunted as shit

Alastor is a hedonistic thrill killer not a mission-oriented killer

his killing method was shooting from a distance, like hunting game

Alastor was kinda psychic in life and his psychicness interacted with radio signals

this includes developing a hella accurate sense of time

Alastor's always been hella into Mardi Gras

here he is in a ridiculous Cajun Mardi Gras costume

how the Great Depression probably affected Alastor

Alastor feels 0% empathy for other people but 500% empathy for fictional characters in musicals

For Sir Pentious:

he was so infamous that today he's a common character used in historical fiction in the same way that Victorian-era historical fiction commonly uses Queen Victoria as a character

(and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle references him in a Sherlock story)

(and he really did call himself Sir Pentious in life)

(and every character who lived after him had to study him in school, including Vaggie writing a paper about him and Alastor was cast as him in a school play)

(and now let's talk about historians dying and meeting the people they studied in Hell)

he has a son who's probably now in heaven

Sir Pent is trans

no seriously he has a son

Sir Pent has a chain of deadnames he used before settling on "Sir Pentious" and all of them are snake puns

one of Sir Pent's chosen names

based on Victorian sexual mores Sir Pent probably got kinda homoerotic with some dudes

this is just big Trans Sir Pent energy

what did Sir Pent look like (and Alastor)

I don't think Sir Pent used a wheelchair in life (but do think he had to for a while after he died)

Sir Pent is Pussyeating World Champ no I do not accept arguments

Sir Pent and his wife were very loving until his wife went "nope, you're planning world conquest, that's too evil for me"

he rigged his clothes to self-combust so he could choose death if he was ever on the verge of capture

his wife was named Helena and here's why

this is his self-destruct binder/corset

the one headcanon everyone shares

Sir Pent ain't Jack the Ripper

And there's a ton more headcanons on @dontasktheradiodemon my Alastor ask/RP blog but listen, I just went through 42 pages of one tag and it's 3 a.m., I'm not going to comb my roleplay blog for every premortem headcanon I've ever mentioned about him over there. It includes stuff like "he did deliberately shitty horoscope readings on air" and "the first time he summoned a demon he was on the Western Front and also coming down with Spanish flu so he's not sure how much of the ensuing chaos was real vs fevered hallucinations or how much was the Germans' fault vs the imp's" and "he lived a few years in New York and did drag."

These are not the only headcanons I have. These are just the headcanons I've been asked about or made time to type down. (And not counting all my postmortem headcanons. Or the premortem headcanons sprinkled into postmortem fics.) Feel free to ask me for more. Ideally with a topic you'd like to hear about; otherwise asking me "do you have any headcanons?" is like walking into a library and asking "do you have any books?" Gimme a section to start with.

#alastor #sir pentious #hazbin hotel #headcanons #reference #anonymous #ask

[drowningbydegrees]

Something Ordinary - Part 1

This is my Novigrad Exchange gift for @aalizazareth who asked for fluff, road trip, or hurt/comfort, and I figured how about all of them? I hope this delivers! 

A huge thank you to @goodheavensgwen​ for betaing, but also for all the brainstorming and cheerleading along the way. This fic is so much better for having your input. <3

It’s in the same verse as Noonwraiths and Other Woodland Forest Creatures, but it’s not necessary to read that to understand this one. Not, this is largely fluffy and ridiculous, but there’s some canon typical mention of blood and injury.

Read on AO3

Ordinary people don’t… date witchers. Granted, Geralt has been coming to the diner where Jaskier works for the last year and a half, just about. Twenty-one months, but who’s counting? It isn’t a precisely educational experience, but between the pancakes and mediocre coffee he’s come to realize that Jaskier is anything but ordinary.

Geralt had never meant to do anything with that information. If he sometimes goes out of his way to stop in between contracts, it’s no one’s business but his own. It’s just nice to have one place he can go where someone is genuinely happy to see him. And alright, Jaskier is more alluring than he has any right to be. And perhaps Geralt spends his visits wordlessly nursing a cup of coffee just to have an excuse to listen to Jaskier chatter on about nothing in particular a while longer.

Well, he did, anyway. Things are different in the months since they exchanged numbers after Geralt stumbled in half dead after a contract. Jaskier’s conversation demands more participation, his smiles are more intentional. And though Geralt would like to think he put up at least a token resistance over these last few months (in which he has received what he’s sure are more text messages than his entire life before), somehow Jaskier has pulled Geralt right along with him.

The point is, Geralt doesn’t do this. He doesn’t let himself get attached to people. He doesn’t give himself a reason to maybe stay in one place a little more. He definitely doesn’t go for coffee shop dates. The fact that their current circumstances started with an attempt to do exactly that is completely coincidental.

Wednesday

2:15 p.m.

Like many things in Geralt’s life, things go sideways before they even start. They don’t even make it inside the coffee shop before his phone rings, and given the only person who calls him for frivolous reasons is right next to him, it’s probably important. All of which is why Geralt had to cancel and is pulling into the gas station before a six hour trip to Oreton.

He’s still not sure how Jaskier got here, though. It’s a bewildering leap from a coffee date to committing to hours in an enclosed space together, but by the time Geralt wraps his head around that Jaskier is already in the passenger seat.

“I’ll get snacks,” Jaskier offers, already opening the car door. “Do you want anything?”

Geralt motions to a box in the back seat. “I’m good.”

“Are those granola bars?” Jaskier makes a comically disapproving noise, sliding out of his seat. He leans over enough to poke his head back in. “Do you know who thinks granola bars count as road trip snacks? My grandma.”

“What’s wrong with…” Geralt starts, but Jaskier is already gone.

To Jaskier’s credit, he’s emerging from the gas station once more by the time the gas tank is full. Well, Jaskier along with a bag of what looks like more candy than someone could eat in a week and the two cups he’s juggling.

“I promised you coffee! I can’t guarantee it’s good coffee, mind you, but it is coffee,” Jaskier explains before Geralt can ask, circling the car to press a cup into the witcher’s hands.

He doesn’t do this, and supposes he could be mistaken, but Geralt is pretty certain the coffee isn’t actually the operant word in ‘coffee date.’ Still, it’s… it’s something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. Jaskier has always been friendly, but he’s taken up doing all sorts of things as of late that can’t be chalked up to it being his job, and they never seem to leave Geralt any less unmoored than he feels right now, staring at the paper cup aggressively warming the palms of his hands.

“It’s for drinking,” Jaskier prompts, and as silly as it is, the whole thing only gets more absurd. Because the glare Geralt responds with is normally enough to make people shy away, but Jaskier doesn’t even have the decency to pretend to be alarmed. He laughs, soft and lilting in a way Geralt never wants to let go of, like there’s nothing strange about any of this. Like the two of them are made for these ordinary things Geralt has never given himself the space to want.

But Jaskier has never been ordinary.

3:07 p.m.

He’s made a terrible miscalculation in this plan, Jaskier privately acknowledges about thirty miles from home. This plan. The one that was definitely an actual plan and not just an impulsive desire to go on an adventure and see Geralt in action. Does it count as a plan if he invents a purpose? Maybe he’ll write a song about it. The subject matter is a little niche, but that’s half the appeal.

The other half of the appeal is the man sitting in the driver’s seat, silently watching the nearly empty highway stretch out in front of them. He’s always pretty, but working third shift Jaskier has never really gotten to see Geralt like this, drenched in sunlight that softens his features and mutes the slight frown that seems to own permanent real estate on his face. It’s haunting, the way it lights up Geralt’s silvery white hair, like some particularly attractive ghost.

Therein lies the miscalculation, because the thing is, Geralt is no different than any other time Jaskier has been around him, which is about as talkative as the pet rock he had when he was six. Normally, that’s fine. Geralt tolerates Jaskier’s chatter at the diner. And since it’s Jaskier’s job, he usually only wanders to Geralt’s table for minutes at a time. But there are no places to wander off to in the passenger seat of Geralt’s car, and he’s barely gotten three words out of the witcher since the gas station.

“So, what are we hunting?” he tries, because it’s the one topic he’s seen loosen Geralt’s tongue. A lot, actually. He doesn’t remember even half of what Geralt tells him, but it’s terribly endearing all the same. Even if it leaves him longing to know more about what else Geralt cares about.

“I am hunting a leshen. You are staying in the car,” Geralt replies without so much as a glance his way. If he notices Jaskier’s exasperated sigh, he gives no indication.

“I… remember you mentioning those, I think,” Jaskier focuses on the leshen because it was very definitely on the list of things Geralt told him about the first night he successfully got the witcher to have anything resembling a conversation. He resolutely ignores all the words Geralt just said around that. If he doesn’t lie and say he’ll stay put, then he won’t be lying when he inevitably does not do that. Sheepishly, he ducks his head. “In my defense, there was kind of a lot going on that night. Maybe tell me again?”

That earns Jaskier a smile, however small and brief it is. It’s a win as far as Jaskier is concerned. Now if he could just wrangle a conversation.

“Tall. Sort of humanoid. Covered in branches.” Geralt says nothing else until Jaskier clears his throat, trying to prompt the witcher to give him something at least. “They have antlers.”

“Very informative,” Jaskier chides, shaking his head. He supposes he should have known better than to assume this would work. “Anything else?”

“They live in the forest.” Jaskier is so surprised to actually get an answer, he almost misses the way the corner of Geralt’s mouth twitches upward. “You know, like noonwraiths.”

Jaskier gasps, holding a hand up to his chest as if in shock. “Was that… I’m sorry. Was that a joke I just heard?”

It’s been a ridiculous joke between them for a while now, but it hits differently this time. It’s always silly, but for the first time it sinks in that it’s theirs. They have A Thing, and it leaves Jaskier all but vibrating to realize because that’s… well, that’s significant. It feels significant at any rate.

“You were serious about the woods though, right?” Jaskier asks once he remembers they were in the middle of a conversation.

“I was serious about the woods.”

Jaskier cocks his head to the side, trying to make sense of that. “Then, how is it an emergency?”

“This one was in someone’s yard,” Geralt clarifies. As much as Jaskier would like to be annoyed by the brevity, he has to admit that that actually more or less clears it up.

Jaskier tries to imagine this tree branch antler person… thing creeping over the fence of some poor, unsuspecting homeowner like a nosy neighbor. It’s a mistake, because Jaskier doesn’t know the shape in which those descriptors fit together, so it’s much more comical than frightening. He tries and fails to stifle an amused huff of laughter, but of course that would be the thing that finally gets Geralt to look at him for a second.

“Sorry, I…” Jaskier pauses, not sure he can actually explain why that’s funny since Geralt has the benefit of knowing how all his sparse descriptors fit together. “So, what are you going to do? Bribe it to go home?”

“Not this time. They’re intelligent, but you can’t reason with them. Most creatures kill because they feel threatened or to survive. Leshens are hostile. Always.” The explanation makes sense. It doesn’t sound like there’s any way around killing the creature, but Jaskier knows he isn’t imagining the sadness clouding Geralt’s features.

He has no idea how someone could possibly meet Geralt, who never takes a life if he can save it, who spends his existence keeping people safe, who has so much compassion for even the most unlovable of things, and think witchers are anything but good. Underneath the caustic disposition he shields himself with, Geralt is kinder than most humans. It makes Jaskier yearn to coax the world into seeing what he does.

Maybe he can. There’s the beginning of an idea, but before Jaskier can follow that thread, he’s distracted by Geralt. More specifically, he’s distracted by Geralt being distracted, something finally luring the witcher’s eyes briefly from the road. So, of course Jaskier turns his head to see what could possibly be so interesting.

“Horses?” Jaskier winces when he realizes he’s asked the question out loud. It’s not really even a question. They were definitely horses, one chestnut and one gray, happily grazing along the fence containing them.

“Witchers used to travel that way,” Geralt murmurs, before Jaskier even asks a question. It’s a good tactic, giving one piece of information to steer away from Jaskier’s pursuit of another. Or it would be if Jaskier wasn’t onto him.

“Yeah. Witchers and everyone else. It’d be pretty inconvenient now though, what with all the… highways and stuff. So, I’m not sure I’m following the significance.” Jaskier watches carefully, but Geralt’s expression betrays nothing. “Unless this is the part where you’re gonna tell me you’re three hundred years old or something.”

Geralt is conspicuously silent. Jaskier has never met someone who can express so much with the various ways he chooses to express nothing. It’s an exasperating quality, but impressive.

“Wait. You’re not actually, are you? I mean, not that that’s a problem, per se. Just that—” Jaskier pauses in the midst of his babbling when he catches Geralt turning his head away just the tiniest bit. It’s not fast enough to hide that Geralt seems to be biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

3:34 p.m.

There’s a lot of farmland out this way, miles of cornfields, sure, but animals too. Jaskier briefly entertains the notion that maybe Geralt grew up on a farm and is homesick or something. He’s a storyteller by nature, after all, and Geralt is such an enigma, surely he can’t be blamed for trying to fill in the gaps. Jaskier curiously watches Geralt when they lapse back into silence. They’re surrounded on both sides by… actually, Jaskier has no idea what those fields are. The only crop he actually recognizes is corn. But whatever it is, if Geralt has any attachment to it, his expression betrays nothing.

Jaskier is about to write his previous observation off as him reading too much into something ultimately unimportant when crops give way to a green, open meadow. It’s the kind of place Jaskier thinks looks about perfect for a picnic or laying out to watch the clouds drift by, or something. It’s also the kind of place where someone keeps a rather striking-looking horse, its coat a shade of gold just a touch warmer than Geralt’s eyes. “I’ve never seen one like that.”

“It’s a palomino,” Geralt replies, though Jaskier doesn’t think he’s actually looked that way. Either Geralt is even more subtle than Jaskier gives him credit for, or something about that merits remembering.

“The breed?” Jaskier presses. This is even more fascinating than coaxing Geralt into talking about monsters. It’s not a subject Jaskier knows a damned thing about either, but it’s an unexpected thing Geralt seems to be interested in, and that all by itself makes it worth pursuing.

“It’s not a breed.” Maybe ‘talking about’ is a little too charitable a description for the handful of words Jaskier gets Geralt to part with at any one time. That’s a puzzle too. Jaskier hasn’t quite sussed out whether Geralt actually doesn’t like talking or if it’s a side effect of the way humans tend to respond to witchers. It’s a shame either way. Jaskier quite likes listening to him.

“Okay…?” Jaskier prods. It’s only afterwards that it occurs to him that if Geralt truly isn’t interested in talking, maybe when the witcher is stuck a foot away from Jaskier and can’t extricate himself from the situation is not the right time to push the matter.

“It’s a color.” After a slight pause, Geralt adds, “Gold coat. White mane and tail.”

There’s more after, not that Jaskier can keep up with most of it. Often, even when Jaskier is actively trying to engage, all he gets from Geralt is a wordless hum or a raised eyebrow. So, the fact that there are a number of words in a row is noteworthy already. That Geralt is continuing to speak without being prompted is nothing short of a miracle. Maybe pushing wasn’t the problem so much as finding the right subject matter.

And thus, a new game is born. Whether out of some sense of dignity or something else, Geralt doesn’t actually mention when they pass by horses. It’s the very slight shift in Geralt’s body language, something Jaskier would probably say was him perking up if it were more explicit, that clues Jaskier in if he doesn’t see them himself. But the minute Jaskier mentions them, Geralt appears all too happy to talk about the precise measurement that differentiates horses and ponies (14.2 hands or less, which then becomes an extended conversation about why horses are measured in hands), the Lippizaner stallion troupe (which Jaskier will admit he would really like to see if they’re even half as impressive as Geralt suggests), and that one breed of wild horses that are maybe possibly completely divergent from domestic horses (Jaskier immediately forgets how to pronounce their name, but he does remember they sort of look like especially stocky donkeys).

“How do you know all this, anyway? I’m starting to think you should have gone to work in a stable or something instead of being a witcher,” Jaskier teases after a particularly emphatic explanation about what an utter failure Redania’s wild horse adoption program is. “I mean, it would definitely be my loss, but…”

He trails off, teasing smile immediately fading as he happens to look over at Geralt. Even when he’s happy, Geralt’s expressions tend to be a bit muted, but there’s no trace of anything like happiness now. His head is subtly bowed, like he’s ashamed of something, and that just won’t do at all. There’s nothing shameful about the details that make up a person. Before Jaskier can ask what exactly dampened the mood, Geralt softly replies, “I was going to.”

“You were?” It might be a mistake. This was meant to be fun. It’s just that Geralt so rarely gives Jaskier anything about himself, and Jaskier so desperately wants to know him. He rationalizes that if he drops the matter, Geralt will think he doesn’t care and won’t ever try again. “What happened?”

“Not important.” The words are clipped, but Jaskier has at least known Geralt long enough to differentiate between the witcher being actually irritated and any of the multitude of other emotions that make him sound irritated. This is definitely one of the latter.

“Of course it’s important if it makes you look like that.” Impulsively, Jaskier reaches out to lay a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. The way Geralt nearly jumps out of his skin is a stark reminder that he’s not quite so instinctively tactile as Jaskier is. Geralt doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t answer either, so Jaskier only lingers briefly before pulling his hand back into his lap.

“I thought everyone was exaggerating about how things would change when they made me into this,” Geralt explains, so quiet that Jaskier has to listen carefully over the engine. It’s an aching, vulnerable thing, as human a confession as Jaskier has ever heard before Geralt’s expression abruptly shutters.

“I’m so sorry… Wait, made you?” Jaskier realizes, not for the first time, that he knows nothing about witchers. Nothing true at any rate.

But whatever strange magic had coaxed Geralt into speaking has passed, and the witcher doesn’t even acknowledge Jaskier has said anything. He longs to know more, to soothe whatever it is that hurts so much, but Jaskier has at least enough sense to realize that if he presses now, Geralt will think twice about telling him anything later. The minutes stretch out between them like taffy, the silence deafening until Jaskier absolutely cannot take it. He impulsively reaches for the radio, turning the dial until the static of a station that’s long since out of range is coming through the speakers. “So… music!”

Geralt’s lips purse in… actually Jaskier isn’t all that familiar with this particular expression yet. His default state is so grumpy, it’s hard to tell this time if he’s annoyed or uncomfortable. Neither one is what he’s going for, so he pointedly does not ask what that station is, immediately setting about adjusting until a melody cuts clearly through the hissing noise. Fic Masterpost

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #the witcher #my fic #Featuring a lot of road trip shenanigans

[alldayangst]

gold rush (Tom Holland)

All of my fics are LGBT and PoC friendly. Inspired by gold rush by Taylor Swift. Everybody wants Tom, but you don’t like a gold rush. WC: 2.7K words. 

“Y/N, I just wanted to say again, thank you for coming in today and doing this for us.” Tom’s dad, Dominic, said as he displaced papers across desks, earl grey swaying like an angry lake in his mug. Approaching footsteps hinted that the star of the show was soon to be hold. In other words, Tom was running behind.

The door creaked and light from the corridor crept through like Sun peeping through curtains of the Night. It refusing to shut after Tom budged and pushed was maybe divine punishment for him being so late, and maybe provided the bit of laughter you needed after rolling out of bed at 6am for this, for him. When the door eventually did close, Tom turned around and saw you in all your glory; much taller than he remembered, more assured than he’d imagined, and more gorgeous than drowned out and half forgotten memories of you could ever fabricate.

You and Tom ran in the same social circles, but hadn’t seen each other since Tom’s career imploded when you were both nineteen. As much as Tom felt he owed his heart and soul to the UK, he maintained an almost permanent fixture on the States. It started to feel like his trips back to England were in fact actual holiday. At one point, you were in love with Tom, but meeting became a constant battle of ‘here, not there’ and your heart grew tired of the duck and goose chase. The gravity of the situation was too much for you, whom hadn’t even tasted their twenties yet. 

“Y/N!” Tom launched at you and held you in tight embrace. You let go of the hug, but he didn’t. And his dad watched on in momentary awe as you wrapped your arms around Tom once again, who breathed in every part of you with unwavering adoration.

“Tom!” You rubbed along his back as he hummed. “When I was told we were gonna have a ghost writer, I had no idea it was gonna be you.”

Tom and his dad (being an author) were collaborating on a book, a million dollar idea that’d been years in the making. Tom had stalled it, his dad told you out of simple insecurity. Now that the world was a stage, he was worried people would criticise his dyslexia with every line he wrote, that every stroke of his pen would reveal him as a rare type of monster that lacked intellect, he pondered that he wasn’t insightful enough in some way. His dad may have written a book about Tom outfaming him, but Tom felt like he’d always live in Dom’s shadow in this respect. Fresh from Oxford with an English Bachelor’s degree, Dom employed you to get grease on the gears to commence writing. Tom had always come out of his shell when you were around.

Your writing session lasted from 8 til noon, when Tom had promo with LadBible or Entertainment Weekly or whoever had bid the highest from his presence that day.

The door swung open and three men in all black and mics saddled around their waists called for and led Tom out of the room.

“Tom, session’s over. We need to get you to your BBC promo in 30 and we’re already running behind schedule.’ One cloaked Tom in a jacket you were sure was more expensive than your own home and another whispered something into a walkie talkie: “Holland is on the move. Check the back entrance is clear.” With that, Tom rose to his feet and left completely opposite of the way you came in. Without a word, no goodbye.

You and Dom left the building together around ten minutes later, where ten men with large cameras stood, lenses focused on you, glaring at you, not sure what to make of you. One of the men screams “Hey! You dating Tom Holland” and after that all you hear is clicks and all you see is bright flashing lights and Dom clenches your hand and leads you to your taxi cab.

The next time you see Tom is sooner than expected. The Hollands were hosting a last minute dinner party and you found yourself sitting opposite Tom, feeling his hard, hot and heavy gaze on you. The tension in the room was so thick not even a chainsaw cut through.

“Next topic,” You picked up a card from the deck and read it aloud. “Politics!” You said devilishly as you sip on what was left of the white wine in your cup, and now that your thought process is blurred; Tom’s longing gaze puts you at dismay.

“Fuck!” Harry exploded, and you hear their mother hiss. “Fuck I hate politics, there’s no making it out alive!” he remarked as he drummed on the table cloth, drunken excitement brewing a new energy in the room.

You go on like this for hours until dinner party is dinner party no more. And while Dom, Nikki and all of Tom’s siblings have chosen to exit stage left, it’s 1am and you and Tom have yet to leave the scene.

Tom sets down your deck of debate cards in favour of a genuine moment.

“What are you doing these days, Y/N?” Tom’s not looking at you, he’s looking at your knee as he rubs circles on it. You want to look down there too, see what he finds so intriguing; but you decide against it in fear you might spontaneously combust. You don’t know if this moment’s supposed to be intimate or innocent and you’re not sure if you want to find out.

So you put up a wall.

“I should be asking you the same thing, Holland.” You say sarcastically. “What have you been doing these days? I haven’t seen you around.” Your eyebrows scrunched up together but you’ve got a big, idiot grin on your face that’s more than telling. Tom giggles at your facetiousness.

Tom scratches his head in mock thought. He never clocks out, always putting on a show. “I don’t know - uh.” You’re laughing before Tom has even told the punchline, ‘cause I guess anything’s funny when it’s said by the one you love.”I’m kind of -” He snatches an old Spiderman comic off the floor. “I’m kinda doing this acting thing at the moment. Playing, y’know, this guy.”

“Well I wish you better luck in the future.” Tom has stopped rubbing circles but instead places his two hands on your knees as you rock back in laughter.

“I’m serious, Y/N. What do you do now?”

“Um.” You suddenly forgot your entire career as Tom, with no shade of subtlety, stares right into your soul. “I got my degree. I write like little stories, y’know? Have you ever heard of folklore?”

Tom shook his head.

“They’re like these little, old beautiful myths. And I write them for a living. And if I’m lucky, they get published in The Times. If I’m even luckier, I get to work with my old best friend - ” You feel your world stop temporarily as you call Tom your ‘best friend’ and you pause for all of 0.3 seconds to register Tom’s reaction but his face doesn’t flinch. “-Writing a book with him and his dad.” And that makes Tom smile. So he doesn’t have to tell you he missed you, you just know.

‘Undivided appearance’ and ‘undivided attention’ don’t necessarily mean the same thing in Hollywood as they do in real life, and you learn that the hard way in your writing session.

Tom may have been sat right next to you, but he was miles away. He was doing press with Cosmo, who hadn’t stopped tagging him with blue hearts on his Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat stories, causing his phone to go off every two seconds. You looked at the phone and then at him who then got the hint and put it on silent. Then there was a knock on the door. Tom rushed to open it, expecting that Dom had sent down a food delivery to egg you on finishing this chapter. You rehashed his childhood like a million times - in fact, you were part of it - so when it came to writing the parts that hurt, where you took a more supporting role in his life, you needed his help. The fact is, the knock at the door had come from one of Tom’s men (Tom liked to call him Man In Black no. 3) who hadn’t said as much as a ‘hi’ before he made his announcement. “Tom, you’re on the line with Cosmo in 10.” The man stepped back and pulled out his walkie talkie, “Holland knows he’s on the line with Cosmo at 10.” And then continued to pace around the hallway.

Cosmo called as he said they would and you almost felt for. second like tom might enjoy an entertainment magazine’s company more than yours. The interviewer made glaring comments and passive flirts at Tom who just blushed and chuckled and sipped his water like the woman on the phone calling him ‘hot’ was just too much to handle. At one point, she says: “What must it be like to grow up that beautiful, Tom? With your hair falling into place like dominoes.” You’re not expecting it when Tom tilts the phone so you’re in view. “Well I’m with the most beautiful being on Earth right now so..” Tom looks at you as if to ask ‘is this okay?” and you know it’s too late for these kind of questions, because that moment is headline fodder, so you smile not to make him feel bad for opening Pandora’s box. But Tom is merciless and likes to rub salt in the wound. “This is Y/N! Y/N’s helping me write the book with my Dad! We go way back.” He covers his mouth as soon as he says it. “Shit! They’re not supposed to know about the book yet.”

This is the moment, you think, where you believe when they say your first love is the one you never let go.

And you can’t think of anything purer than the love you have for him.

Tom thinks being on land is boring. He likes being strung from chords 30 feet in the air, and drowning in despair through scenes of emotional turmoil. You want to tell him you’re an arrow from Cupid’s bow about to reach him, but you couldn’t recover from the splinters if Tom shut you down. After all, Tom was a gold rush. A treasure that everyone had discovered but nobody owned. How precious is a jewel that anybody could take home with them?

Tom had invited you to a visit to Brighton with him, a city near the coast, for some inspiration on writing his section of the book. 

You accepted. And because you did, you found yourself at the beginning of the end, on Tom’s boat in Brighton. “We don’t have to talk about the book right now.” Tom throws a stack of blue tinted paper on the floor. His dyslexia meant that spelling and reading was so much easier when done on blue pages, and you could only guess that was the reason the body of water around you brought him so much peace. So when you saw that something might compromise your best boy’s happiness, you point it out. To give Tom a little bit of time to exit before things got ugly.

“Tom, I see someone in the bushes.”

“Yeah. It’s a pap.” Tom mumbled nonchalantly. 

“They’re here to get pictures of me,” He turned to face you. “and you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, the fans ship us. Think we’d be a good couple after that Cosmo stunt. We would have been a good couple when we were like, 18.” He laughs.

“Huh, yeah.” You look down.

“The best one around.” And you can’t tell if he’s serious.

You rip off one of his blue sheets. “I’m coming. I got hit with inspo.” And you trail to a different section of the boat. A very obvious click of the camera from a shrub nearby coaxes your pen to write without a second thought, How is he so accustomed to this? Fake private moments, protected by sheer glass curtains?

You scrunched your paper, well his paper, into a ball. 

Your mind had turned his life into folklore. You weren’t sure if that was crossing a line, so you just put the ball into your bag and hide it until he hits you with the spark again.

“Let me see it.” Tom says.

“No.”

“You ran off to write it and won’t let me see it?” 

You held your bag at your hip in defence. “No, Tom. Drop it.” 

Tom’s face drops a little bit, but then he reaches into his own bag and reveals a deck of your debate cards. “I know what will cheer you up, good ol’ Y/N.” He sets a card on the wooden table between you two. 

“Do you believe in a higher power?”

You toyed with the pendant around your neck which revealed your faith. “Do you?”

“I don’t. But I believe in soulmates.”

You look to the left to really ponder on what Tom is saying, and a paparazzis captures another photo of you in the corner of your eye.

“And you don’t think there’s a higher power that manufactures our souls to make our soulmates?”

Tom feigns a scowl. “That’s ridiculous.”

You scoffed. “How very contrarian of you.”

“What the fuck does that mean.”

“It means you contradict yourself, Thomas.” You laugh as he holds his chest in fake hurt.

“Are you implying I’m anything less than perfect?”

“Never.”

Never. Because you didn’t believe that to be true. 

“Good. Cause you’d have to be punished.” Tom picks you up and throws you in the water below before jumping in with you.

On your way home you stop at the yours and Tom’s writing booth, scavenging through your bag to drop off Tom’s notepad, some scrunched up blue and white papers you and Tom thought could still help you write his book. You’d made an addition to your love-hazed scribblings about Tom and reckon you’d die if he found it. You managed to throw the other in the water, excusing yourself with “It’s utterly awful.”, to which you and Tom agreed you wouldn’t throw any more paper in the ocean cause the poor fish already had it hard enough.

You and Tom had a session the next day. Tom was excited for the day, and you could tell because he’d given his phone to one of his big babysitters for the time he had you.

“I think that’s all of yours.” You and Tom made a business out of unscrunching your paper balls to see if they had any useful ideas. You were certain you reached the end of Tom’s. All of his notes had ‘T.H’ written on the back in big and were scribed on blue paper. When it came to your little ‘secret admirer’ notes you weren’t worried - you had an English degree and were quick to think on your feet and was ready to make something up when it came to opening it. 

“No, this one’s mine.” He’s confident, so you let him have it. He goes to pick up your tea and then realises it’s nowhere near warm, and was the one you made for yourself when you crept in yesterday evening. Tom has a smile on his face, and then he doesn’t. Before he goes to read it aloud, his eyes tell you he’s reading it again and again and again. “At dinner parties, I’ll call you out on your contrarian shit, and the coastal towns we wondered round will never see a love as pure as it.”

The look on Tom’s face gives you the splinters. He tries to look at you but you know he can’t. You don’t blame him. You can’t look at him either. “I really thought this was a good friendship.”

You hum and nod your head in agreement, pull your lips into a thin straight line as streaks of tears abandon your eyes. This was worse than Tom rubbing salt in your wounds. He’s rubbing dirt in your painful fucking gashes and you are reminded of why this didn’t work before, why it will never be.

And you wouldn’t dare to dream about him anymore.

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