#I hope this formatting comes out legible

[idlebeks]

A Jumble of MDZS Fic Recs

I am on vacation, and I am so very bored. Relaxing is hard. So, have an incomplete list of my favorite MDZS fics from my AO3 bookmarks. These are almost entirely Wangxian, but there are a few other pairings and gen fics scattered in. I have made no effort to organize by theme or pairing, or anything else, so this runs the gamut from angst to crack. Check the tags for your own mental health. I may or may not do lists from other fandoms. I have five whole days of vacation left to burn after all.

murky waters by newamsterdam

Convinced Jiang Cheng and Wei WuXian will never reconcile of their own accord, Jin Ling takes matters into his own hands by trapping both of his uncles alone, together, without their cultivation.

please don't let me be misunderstood by sysrae

Lan Wangji has known Wei Ying for a fortnight, the first time he sees him get hit by a car.

I Started From the Bottom/And Now I’m Rich by x_los

Wen Qing traps Wei Wuxian in the Demon Slaughtering Cave, but Wei Wuxian isn’t interested in being the beneficiary of the Wen Remnants’ noble sacrifice. His efforts to free himself accidentally send him back to the beginning of the Sunshot Campaign. Coreless but armed with demonic cultivation, knowledge of the future and his wits, Wei Wuxian takes advantage of this opportunity to come out on top of both the war and its aftermath—before either has a chance to happen—by marrying and swiftly burying the cultivation world’s worst men.

the field meets the wood by astronicht

Wei Wuxian is a dark shadow in the barley. Wei Wuxian is sorry for the kind of compassion that he is about to hand out.

Drowning in the Sun by Zelos

He was vengeance, he was hatred. He was the last sons of Lotus Pier, combined.

A fill for a kinkmeme prompt: Golden Core transfer, but Jiang Cheng's aware.

Three kinds by apathyinreverie

“Let’s see them choke on their own demands of ‘respecting clan secrets’ for once,” Jiang Cheng grumbles darkly to himself.

Across from him, features still gaunt and hollow-eyed from three months of who-the-hell-knows-what, Wei Wuxian huffs a softly amused laugh.

A Long Road by Vathara

The diplomatic mission went fine, until the white horse yao kidnapped the necromancer's boyfriend.

(The Companion would like to object to yao.

(Lan Wangji objects to boyfriend.

(Wei Wuxian objects to... Fine, whatever. The locals have a word for the ghost path? Roll with it!

(Queen Selenay would just like to know when the gods will stop dumping legends on her doorstep.)

in the arms of the angel by ScarlettStorm

So there was this jar, and it had so much peanut butter still in it, and when his fox nose scented it and didn’t catch any poison or spoilage, what was he supposed to do? Not avail himself of this gift? No. He shoved his delicate little snout right in there and got to licking, but, you know… Elegantly. Definitely not snarfing and making horrible little fox sounds and rolling around on the ground while he went ham on the jar. Sure, he had to work a little bit to get at the last of it, but anything good is worth working for, right? So finally, triumphant, no longer starving, and maybe a little thirsty now from eating half a cup of peanut butter in about two minutes, he’d tried to remove his head from the jar.

Operative word tried.

Or: Wei Ying gets stuck. Lan Zhan helps.

refrain; a musical phrase repeating in a song or instrumental piece by Cerusee, Mikkeneko

Wei Wuxian attempts to Set Right What Once Went Wrong by sending his consciousness back in time; in true Wei Wuxian fashion his inventions work, but with some very unintended consequences.

By Any Other Name by ShanaStoryteller

Wei Wuxian wakes up in Mo Xuanyu's body and heads straight for Lotus Pier. Wu Yingtai is the newest member of the Jiang Clan and rumored to be the future wife of Jiang Wanyin.

Lan Wangji is not in love with her.

In Memoriam by NevillesGran

A young man walked out of the Burial Mounds. He seemed to be alone, but of course he wasn’t: the dead accompanied him. The dead always accompanied him.

(In which the spirits of the Burial Mounds demanded a higher price for their aid.)

Wei Wuxian's Second Best Lay by LemonCakeDesign

Wei Wuxian really has the worst luck.

In The Dark Right Now by phnelt

What used to be a wide open cave mouth, propped up with stalactites and mites, has collapsed, leaving a wall of uneven rock. Caving is always a danger, but they’d thought this cave was pretty safe for their study of bat behaviours. The colony living in it is stable, had been here for at least fifty years, and of course the cave has been here for millennia. Nothing going wrong for so long and then a bunch of rocks falling? It’s just his luck, really.

the stone-filled sea by yukla

He forgets how quickly Wei-qianbei changes faces, sometimes. Like pulling a theater mask over a bruise—color over color, a diversion with the swipe of his hand.

Lan Sizhui navigates a world that hates his father, one endless wave at a time.

10 RMB lucky chickens by Raitelzen

This was a love story between a pair of right cocks.

Not on Jiang Cheng's watch.

(The one where Jiang Cheng's a PhD chlamydia researcher; Lan Xichen's the NEET social recluse who moves in next door; and they come together because Jiang Cheng's pet chicken Wei Cluckxian won't stay out of Lan Xichen's chicken Wingji's coop).

Calling Heaven by mondengel 

Lan Wangji had not wanted to come at all.

Wireless by mondengel 

The Jiang Sect was famous for it's marvelous creations. Lan Wangji is just as enthralled as everyone else until he gets a closer look.

among the stars by plonk

Twelve takes on Wangxian in Firefly-flavored space western settings, plus one in our world.

Featuring: psychics, outlaws, Companions, two kidnappings, both of which end surprisingly well, a hot butch mechanic, a new god and his chief disciple, a couple of cowboys out on the range, and some present-day comic con dads.

The Long Way Home by tangelotime

For the longest time, anger was the strength Jiang Cheng used to stand up straight and face the world. He was sect leader. He had expectations to meet and obligations to fulfill. But when his grip on his anger begins to slip, he needs to find what else can hold him up.

The Piper of Yiling by theLoyalRoyalGuard

Thirteen years after the death of Yiling Laozu, a ghostly flute plays in the hills above Lanling, and those who are outside to hear it are never seen again.

Then the brightest disciples of the sects begin to disappear, and the whispers begin.

You took my son. Now I take yours...

Old Foreshadows by protos_metazu_ison

With the threat of the Wen sect looming, the other major sects decide to summon the aid of a man they’d killed centuries ago: the Yiling Patriarch, Wei Wuxian.

Start a Riot by ohwhatevrewhatevr

“They killed A-Die and A-Niang,” Jiang Cheng says, his sharp, defined muscular frame curling in. He's all lean, purposeful muscle, nude and bruised. 

“Wei Wuxian -” Jiang Cheng grits out in a dangerous, furious rasp - there’s a slight tremor to it still. He still isn’t looking at Wei Ying, just lying there limp, his face to his side, showing his profile and those sharp cheekbones. “Where the hell did you go? Where did you go that was worth leaving me behind ?”

“I-”

“And why won’t you tell me? Why won’t you-”

TL;DR Jiang Cheng goes into heat, they fuck, and hormones make them spill some of the beans before they go spill some Wen blood. (no romance happens :/, just sex)

Not Yet (There As Needed) by sunrise_and_death

As always, he arrives with no forewarning. One second, Lan Sizhui and the others are struggling against the hordes of resentful spirits created by some villagers’ accidental disruption of an ancient burial ground—far more spirits than had been initially reported, far more than they had been prepared for—and the next, he’s there, striding fearlessly into the mix, the sound of Chenqing piercing the air.

Or: A meditation on family and the merits of communication, courtesy of Lan Sizhui.

of the things unsaid by Seeliteer

Then Wei Wuxian emerges from the Supervisory Office shrouded in resentment, daemon settled as a pitch black crow by his side.

He emerges, and he breaks Xichen’s brother’s heart.

Daemon au through the eyes of Lan Xichen

The Uncle Trap by ladyshadowdrake

Post-cannon, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng forced to cooperate to rescue their disaster!nephew, with guest appearances from Lan Wangji, Sizhui, and a very startled troll.

Helping Yourself by nirejseki

Wei Wuxian leaves the Burial Mounds with a brand new power, but the resentful energies have so corroded his mind that he's forgotten - many things. The name of the cultivator in purple, for example. The reason they hate their enemies so much. All he knows is how he feels about them.

And there's this one cultivator in white that makes him feel - something else. Wei Wuxian is pretty sure he knows what that something is.

the dead horse by curiositykilled

Dying hurts. She’s grown up with stories, of course, legends and histories alike about the glorious deaths of heroes. They’re often on battlefields like this, but no one mentions the chaos or the pain.

Lying in the ashes of clan members and unquiet spirits alike, Yanli thinks that was a pretty big oversight.

Her back burns with red-hot agony, and her chest is a cavity of pain so deep it’s almost numb. Already, the screams are blurring, smudging like smoke, like the black ribbons coiling off and around her little brother. Her eyes slip shut and the black swallows her.

anyway, here's wuji by kakikaeru

The melody gets a little clearer when he breaks out of the trees, and Jingyi changes course with certainty, barreling down the back hill and through the Cloud Recesses, dodging scandalized disciples left and right. He throws open the doors to the Receiving Hall without announcement and bows nearly double, eyes on the floor instead of on the shocked faces of the Mei delegation and the impenetrable gaze of the Chief Cultivator.

"Forgive this disciple," Jingyi shouts, because he's going to get punished for rule breaking regardless. "From the back hill, Hanguang-jun, there is a song in the wind!"

Pigtail Pulling by protos_metazu_ison

“Tell me I’m beautiful, Lan er-gege!”

“You are well aware you are beautiful,” Lan Wangji says.

Wei Wuxian trips over Jiang Wanyin and sends both of them to the ground in a tangle of limbs and bruises.

three days gone by occultings (microcomets)

“I’ve been mooning over Lan Zhan since far before I even realized I was mooning — since before you were even born.” Wei Wuxian grins slyly at Jin Ling. “Where do you think you got your courtesy name from, little nephew?”

Jin Ling’s face goes slack with shock and horror in equal measure. “No. No. Absolutely not.

Or: While missing Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian hazes his nephew. And maybe helps him beat up a guy.

save a sword, ride a socialist by sysrae

In which Lan Qiren and Jin Guangshan are conspicuously terrible, Lan Wangji decides to fake-date Wei Wuxian about it, and literally no braincells are consulted.

A Spark in Dry Brush by mondengel 

Blood dripped to the earth with a wet patter, dirt ground beneath a boot as loud as fireworks in a staggered step backward, and then Lan Wangji fell.

The Good That Won't Come Out by raisedbyhyenas

“I mean, yes, an entire family disappearing and vanishing cultivators aren’t ideal,” Wei Wuxian says, waving his hand. “But being out here! Investigating a mystery! Mortal peril, even! I mean, Lan Zhan, imagine — it’s been months since someone last tried to kill me — ”

Lan Wangji flinches. 

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji investigate a disappearance.

Neatly Arranged by thunderwear

Betrothed.

 

Lan Wangji was six the first time he heard that word. He wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but his mother didn’t seem to like it, so he decided that he didn’t like it either.

coming of age, coming alive by narie

"That Mo Xuanyu," Jingyi grumbled, "I don't like him. He has the thickest face. And he's dishonest, too - he's no more of a lunatic than I am. So why does he keep pretending anyhow?"

Sizhui hummed his acknowledgement. The way their new guest's moods could shift from shrillness to stunned stillness seemed something other than lunacy to him too. "Hanguang-jun trusts him," he said, when the silence between them made it clear Jingyi desired more conversation.

"I know." It was, apparently, a source of deep frustration for him. "I just can't understand why."

Out of the Bin and Into Your Heart by Alaceron

"Lan Zhan!” Wuxian exclaims as soon as the door to Lan Wangji's apartment opens. “Fake-date me!”

The door slams shut in his face.

i don't love you (but i always will) by sixstepsaway

They’re not soulmates.

Lan Wangji’s soulmate is a soft-spoken, even-tempered son of Jin Guangshan, and Wei Wuxian’s soulmate is the strong-willed and loyal Wen Qing.

They’re perfect matches, just like fate would decree, and Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian?

They're not soulmates and they never will be.

the shadow of a name in skin by iliacquer

Wei Wuxian doesn’t let the Wen Remnants hand themselves over after Jin Zixuan’s death. Instead he makes one last sacrifice to ensure they survive. Months later, a Lan cultivator kneels at the edge of the Burial Mounds, ready to offer himself to the feared Yiling Patriarch.

Or: Sacrifice is an old magic, but love is even older.

the necromancer's fairytale by iliacquer

The Prince of Gusu is kidnapped for ransom. He’s saved by a nightmare made flesh.

Or: A necromancer, his palace of bones, his long-lost husband, and the rise of their dark kingdom.

if you can't beat them, recruit them by moeblobmegane 

Rather than mourning a future that had not happened yet, he would rather work with all his might to prevent it from happening. [...] His aim was to fortify his home and his family so that they would never again be left vulnerable to greedy cultivators aiming for his genius. For that, he needed help.

He may be a genius, but he was not the cunning manipulative man they thought him to be.

No, that was not him.

He knew who was, though.

(Or: Wei Wuxian uses a powerful array to go back in time and builds a secret squad to prevent the misfortunes of the future.)

Cotton Wool by incendir

4 times someone protected the yiling patriarch's virtue, and 1 time he did it himself.

his heart an open wound by TheDameJudiWench

It's Sizhui who brings it to Lan Wangji's attention, his words so careful and apologetic that at first, Lan Wangji wonders what his son could possibly have done to be so apprehensive.

And Time Is But a Paper Moon by sami

"Zewu-Jun. You once told me about a house surrounded by gentians, where you visited once a month, and how Lan Zhan still waited there, even when the door no longer opened."

Xichen feels light-headed. He feels shocked, and angry. He has never told anyone such a thing, but Lan Zhan is giving Xichen a look of utter betrayal.

"You told him?" Lan Zhan whispers. "When?"

Wei Wuxian takes Lan Zhan's hand. "About twenty years from now."

#mdzs fanfiction #the untamed fanfiction #I hope this formatting comes out legible #because this was a lot of work #my first post in several years #I will now return to quietly lurking in the depths #fic recs #wangxian #fanfic recs

[prof-peach]

You've mentioned that you are dyslexic and I was hoping you might be willing to answer some questions? No pressure if it's too personal though.

I'm trying to revamp my blog* and make sure it is accessible to as many people as possible. I have already figured out contrast for colorblind individuals, but moving on to the font has been a nightmare. I know comic sans was designed for people with dyslexia, but my old literary magazine teacher is in my head telling me I can't use it. Are there any other fonts that make reading easier for you personally? Or just other things I could do to the text (size, color, boldness, ect.) that would make it more accessible for you?

*not the blog I'm sending this ask from

Sure, though don’t know how much help I’ll be!

Colour choices are very helpful, dark mode literally saves my life on a number of websites, a lighter text on a darker background often helps me focus up. I find a larger font is better too, more because when I’m reading my eyes will jump around irrationally between words to do so.

Most people will apparently go from A, to B, to C, ect ect. In order?? Sounds wild to me haha

I tend to go from A to E, to C, back to A, to B if I’m lucky. Takes me a while to get through big chunks of text. A lot of how I adapt involves a physical item on my end. A card, a pencil, a piece of paper, something to separate the line of text I’m on to stay on that one point.

I am not educated in terms of what others go through, this is just my issues, and I won’t lie, there’s defo a little tism and adhd in the mix, it’s a hot pot of distractions haha!

So bigger text makes lingering on one word easier, least from where I’m standing.

Breaking things up into more manageable chunks is handy, formatting helps, big paragraphs (which even I am guilty of writing) are hard to get through in one sitting. I gotta highlight where I got to, get up and come back to it sometimes. Or if I’m in a rush read it like 4 times for the information to go in and stick around. Even then I’ll forget stuff.

As for comic sans. I personally loathe it with a burning passion. It’s a combination of art eye that hates how it looks, growing up with teachers using it “for legibility” but not realising it’s like…a child font. It bugs me so much. What’s worse is I live with a really talented graphic designer, who makes all his fonts himself more often than not, and so his hatred for it only fuels mine haha!

‘Helvetica Neue’ is designed for ease of reading, used in public transport particularly in new york subway systems, it’s whole thing was to be glanced at and quickly be legible. So try that one? Might be easier on the eye.

Sorry I don’t have better advice, I can only say what I do to work around it, but it might help a little? I’m sure people can message you or chime in on how they adapt and cope with dyslexia.

#ooc #blog help

[moons-of-dewclan]

hello friend, i joined tumblr because of your comic because its neat! I have been dying to make a comic and clangen smacked me in the face with some juicy drama. Just one question: what size canvas do you use for your moons/pages? Idk how tumblr formats things and what I need to do to make things legible Splinterclan coming to y'all soon, hopefully with some Cool Shapes and Angst (TM)

WAAAAA SO FUN. i hope you have so much fun with yours my canvases for this particular comic are 1200px wide, and anywhere from 2000 to 3000px high../long!?! depends on the moon, length wise.. but i try to keep it small enough, width wise bc i feel more confident and easygoing, the smaller my canvases are LAKSNDK the thing with tumblr, is the longer your pages are, the more .. narrow? they end up seeming? bc you can't click to enlarge it much at all. FORMATTING IS WEIRD HERE. so honestly i'd split up longer moons into multiple pages and go like, 1000x1500px wide if you like to work small. it looks the nicest, i think! and make sure your text is big enough! THAT SAID, i work with a small monitor atm so maybe it's not as bad on bigass screens I LOOK FORWARD TO SPLINTERCLAN. DON'T HOLD OUT ON US FOR TOO LONGGG

#kasks

[welcome-to-green-hills]

Okay okay okay, that cool thing that you did with Sonic’s handwriting, could you do it with Eggman? He’s got a canon handwriting too!

OhthankgodIcanansweryourask…..

Hey Hon❤️✨

I 100% appreciate your ask. I do. It’s incredibly sweet that I get asks like this. But I must warn you. As I’ve shared in my previous post exploring this topic, I would advise you to seek either a forensic anthropologist, a graphologist, a linguistic anthropologist, or a psychologist that specializes in learning development to answer this question. My background in anthropology (besides the broad topic) is focused more in archaeological studies. Meaning I can only go so far with my analysis. If you’re interested in exploring this topic further, I can check my personal library in my lab and share some book titles here. Just some food for thought, no pressure!

Now onto your ask… Dr. Eggman (game version) is right-handed.

I’ve shared in my original post that we look for specific traits when it comes to identifying a dominant hand. These traits include how specific letters are written (I.E., an “O” or an “E.”), smudging, diagonal lines, and curvature in lettering.

The first thing to note is the way that Dr. Eggman writes his “G’s.” The loop for the lower part of the G has a harsh blot to it, whereas someone who is left-handed might have a blot from their line towards the top. The word “might” is stressed in my statement. The stroke could’ve been formed due to how the name is positioned on the photograph. The photo wasn’t aligned properly with his person in order to write in a straight line. This leads me to believe that the photo was either out of his reach, or that he didn’t necessarily put much effort into writing his name. The blotting is a result of him trying to angle his writing instrument properly at an angle. Knowing Dr. Eggman, I’m sure that he didn’t think much of it since he’s got other important things to do. The entire name is hastily scribbled with a hybrid writing style. This means that the mad Doctor swaps between writing in both block letters and cursive. This also leads me to believe that the hybrid writing style is his way of writing something quickly, but making his name legible to read.

If anything, I’m willing to argue that the best supporting evidence of him being right-handed is how he write his “E’s.” We can see in the way that each stroke is formed where the line is meant to start. The starting point for each line forms from right to left. This differs from when I talked about Game!Sonic’s line formations in the “H” for “Hedgehog.” His lines move from left to right. This is a trait for those who are left-handed.

Fun fact, American writing encourage the first letter of each title to be capitalized. So for abbreviations like “Mr., Mrs., Ms., Dr., and Mx.” will always have a capital letter. In the photograph, “Dr.” is written as “DR.” This isn’t an error in spelling whatsoever, this is personality. This indicates that he takes his title of “doctor” seriously and does not want you to forget it. It’s etiquette that Eggman wants you to adapt when you’re around him.

I hope that this answers your question, my dear! Let me know if you want me to do some more!

#I love getting big brain questions #They’re fun to answer and I love seeing the “ah-ha” moment y’all get when the info clicks. #sonic the hedgehog #Dr. Eggman #Dr. Robotnik #I’m really sorry that this isn’t as fancy as my other ones are. I’m having a bad eczema day but I really wanted to answer this #I am an anthropologist #I am an archaeologist

[stingyslegslookweird]

A week or so ago, I made a post about Yukari's letter from episode 42 of Kamen Rider Agito, asking if anyone had turned the stylized English it was written in into a font. From what I could find, no one had.

So I did.

Say hello to Limitless Evolution, my first (and so far only) custom font, based off what's more or less the catalyst for the entire plot of the 2001 tokusatsu, Kamen Rider Agito. It's available in both OTF and SVG formats, and I've included the .txt save file for the website I used to make it, in case you want to mess around with that.

left: the screencap from my original post. right: the first paragraph of the letter, typed up in wordpad using the Limitless Evolution font.

And if you're wondering, here's what it says in readable English:

"In the beginning was Theos. Theos divided the light from the darkness, the day from the night, the firmament from the earth, and the land from the sea. Thus the world was finished."

A list of changes I had to make, for those curious:

The letter never uses the letters J, Q, X, and Z, so I had to come up with my own designs for them.

There are no parentheses, mainly because by the time I got to those characters, I couldn't think of any way to make them look good and consistent with the rest of the font.

Idk where else I can mention this but I realized partway through making this that, because all of the characters use straight lines, the Unknown (or whatever entity is responsible for this "language") likely used to write on wax or stone, since straight lines are much easier to legibly write with on those surfaces. Of course, this means there are absolutely no curves anywhere in this font (at least in the custom characters).

You might notice a few re-uses of specific characters here and there in other characters. Had I not done that, I 100% would've gotten burnt out halfway thru and never finished this.

The numerals are obviously not Arabic. I took inspiration from the weird "gang signs" the Unknown do before they commit murder and made the signs for numbers look like fingers on hands. I imagine their counting system works exactly like Arabic/base-10 counting, just with different symbols.

I replaced the tilde with a "does not equal" sign. The tilde sometimes signifies "is approximately equal to", and I figured the Unknown probably wouldn't vibe with that kinda thing.

I was gonna make the @ sign the Agito symbol but I forgor. 💀

The dollar sign ($) is also custom. It's the symbol for G with a line thru it. The Unknown strike me as a culture that would use Gold, plus it looks kinda like a crystal, which they might also perhaps use.

The ampersand (&) and plus (+) use the same symbol. I figured they mean basically the same thing, so why not, y'know? Also I couldn't come up with a good design for it.

I literally just realized as I'm writing this that the lowercase M is only slightly smaller than the capital M, and the lowercase and capital Ns are the same size. My bad. When/If I make an updated version of this, I'll be sure to fix that.

I used the comma in like six different characters. It's not laziness, it's resourcefulness.

Lastly, the greater than (>) and less than (<) symbols are meant to represent people bowing/praying, since I figured the Unknown would probably see it as whichever number was more "powerful". Kinda like the alligator thing but with fighting instead of eating.

So yeah. If you want, you can download the font by clicking its name earlier in this post, or here if you'd prefer:

Lemme know if there's any improvements or adjustments I should make in the next version that may or may not come out some time in the near or distant future. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ idk. Hope you enjoy regardless!

Update: In case you missed it, I released an updated version of the font that adds parentheses, brackets, some diacritics, and other fun things. It, along with the original version are both downloadable from the Google Drive link above (hopefully). I’m still planning on updating it again in the future, so if you have any suggestions or issues you’d like to see fixed in the future, lemme know and I’ll see what I can do.

#kamen rider #kamen rider agito #kr agito #masked rider agito #agito #agito spoilers #font #fonts #custom font #custom fonts #thing i made #sorry if the inconsistent sizes of the letters bothers you #the thing i used to make the font was easy-ish to use in every aspect OTHER than that #and for some odd reason the thing they give you to test the font before downloading it just didn't work for me #but anyway imma go relax #it's 6:30 and i've been working on this since noon #i am so tired

[rottingmanifesto]

16 or 36 for anything you feel like writing currently! :D

Trying out some different formats. Hope it’s legible. Fair warning that I got way too carried away with ‘total control’, so it’s under a cut.

16. in dreams

Journal, Lincoln, 1st person.

Keep havin’ weird dreams. Can’t explain them very well, all I know is I keep scaring the hell outta a few of the guys when I jolt up. Davis suggested I see the Chaplain ‘bout it. Pretty sure it’s not demons, so unless he’s got holy-water-melatonin, I don’t think he can help.

One of the dreams is about Danny and Nicki arguin’ over their old man’s body. Cancer or poisoning or something of the like. Not sure why I’m there at all, I just am. Both keep beggin’ me for an answer. I can’t. Someone’s cut out my tongue and noises don’t help. He’s dead, they’re arguing, I can’t do anythin’.

Father said something offhandedly in a letter about my nightmares being chronic. Happened when I was a kid, stopped for whatever reason, an’ now they’re back. Never told him I was having any, but that’s Father for you. He jus’ knows things. Didn’t tell Sammy or Ellis though, both seem to think I’m fine. Not sayin’ I’m not. Just don’t think it’s worth tellin’ them, worryin’ them over stupid shit like dreams. Got bigger issues than that.

36. total control

Script-ish, John and Connor, 3rd person.

J: You were supposed to die.

A: Yeah, firing squad. I remember. Hard to forget.

J: Would’ve preferred a hanging, actually.

A: Didn’t know the United States still used that method.

J: I’m sure they’d make an exception.

A: (mild discomforting laugh) Of course they would.

J: (faltering, lowering gun, searching for words)

A: Maybe you should set the gun down. Your hand’s twitching. Don’t want a misfire.

J: Shut the fuck up.

A: What, I can’t look out for you? What happens if you twitch and kill that friend of yours out there?

J: Don’t bring him into this.

A: Lincoln, right? Hear he’s taking after you very well. Brazen and theatrical.

J: Yes, because you’re a master at subtlety.

A: Comes with the job.

J: Jesus Chr—a fucking warhead isn’t subtle.

A: Neither is hanging a man from a Ferris wheel. Or, you know, (signaling to cheek with J’s given-cigarette) this.

J: That was self-defense.

A: Sure. Of course.

J: Can you just go one fucking sentence without being an asshole, or is that above you?

A: Give me a reason to, and I will.

J: I have a gun and you don’t.

A: That’s not enough, Johnny, and you know that.

J: Don’t call me that.

A: Sorry, I’m delirious from the blood loss. I thought you were that kid I helped so many years ago. He looked an awful lot like you, too. (painful cough, takes a drag to cover up whatever expression he has on his face) Forgive me, Mr. Donovan.

J: You know, I used to believe in you back then. (voice breaks, begins to pace, having his back to A) Thought you represented everything great about this country.

A: Don’t I still?

J: You don’t. You’re just as fucking greedy and selfish as everyone else. (wheels around to face A, pointing a quivering gun between his eyes)

A: Exactly. That’s the real America. The one that doesn’t care about drafted soldiers drowning in mud, or those who come back seeing shit and knowing they fundamentally aren’t right anymore. The one that doesn’t care about people like your friend out there. The one that would sooner hang you for being a homosexual than me for being a so-called “traitor”.

J: So you’re justified with selling a goddamn nuke, is that what you’re saying?

A: (still fucking smiling) Your comprehension has improved some. Congratulations.

J: (crouches down to be eye-level) So the money was just to sweeten the deal, huh? To ease your conscious— (he presses his hand into A’s wound as harshly as possible, causing A to jolt in pain)— when innocent people inevitably fucking die?

A: We both know I won’t be the last person to do so. If it isn’t the NVA, it’ll be someone else. It’ll keep going until the United States is destroyed.

J: (begins to pace again, silent, blinking hard to avoid tears)

A: I was going to end it, John. I was going to make everyone free from this bullshit. Including you. Including your friend. Including everyone else who is subject to America’s tyranny. I was going to do what you’re too cowardly to do! I was going to end it all!

J: (whips around sharply) Are you finished?

A: (panting, out of energy, the pain finally overcoming the adrenaline and pride, he realizes he’s no longer in total control.)

A: It appears so.

#mafia 3 #john donovan #connor aldridge #lincoln clay #my writing #I’m not insanely happy with this but I wrote and that’s what matters #oh yay I can edit tags now so edit: I’m probably gonna delete this later

[amarantine-amirite]

Be Careful What You Say

The universal college experience, no matter your major, is learning how remarkably fucked everything is. The sole exception is business majors, who never learn this because they don't have exams.

I used to think that the thing about business majors was true. Something happened that made me realize that it wasn't: what happened with my course in Operating Systems. 

We arrived in class on the first day. Our instructor, a skinny blonde woman, came in with a stack of syllabi. “Good morning everybody,” she introduced herself as she passed out the syllabi, “my name is Dr. Palmer, and welcome to Operating Systems.” 

Kids looked at the printouts. “Now, if you look at the syllabus, you will notice that there is no final exam despite being a sophomore-level course,” she said with a chuckle. “We actually can’t assign finals for this class anymore because of a problem we had last semester.” 

She then proceeded to tell us about all of the glitches that made the previous semester's final impossible to complete. The exam had 20 questions, but no Question 13. Some of the kids took it just assumed they skipped it on purpose due to superstition, like some buildings do with the 13th floor on the elevator. A Spanish question preceded a calculus question, neither of which had any relevance to the course. Some questions inquired about your sex life. To nobody's surprise, loads of people decided to duck away from that one, and when they did, they discovered the "pass" button, meant to skip questions and come back to them later, wasn’t working. One of the questions was written in Wingdings font, and nobody could make heads or tails of it. 

Kids complained. Nobody finished the test and their grades reflected it. The complaints made their way to the board of directors and the dean’s office. 

To everybody's shock, the dean's office forbade anyone teaching second-year OS design to create a final, and to assign a term paper instead. The argument was that if you can't complete your test due to one or more problems with the test itself, that’s on The course staff, and that penalizing students because of it was tantamount to fraud. 

The term paper was always on an extremely niche area of the subject. Dr. Palmer assigned topics randomly. The topic I got was so niche that I could find only one text on it. It was a good source with a three-page-long mathematical proof. I cited this proof as the fulcrum for my paper.

About 4 weeks before the deadline, Dr. Palmer left, and Dr. Mendez took over the class. The night before his first class back, he sent out an email instructing us to turn in my rough draft. It caught me by surprise, but I managed to put together a bibliography, get it legible, and hand it in.

Roughly a week after I handed in my draft, I got an email that said this: you have been founded gilty of ploariozaiton on yr term paper. 

I couldn’t help but laugh that an email from the university had that many spelling mistakes. I was positive it was a joke. 

The following day, Dr. Mendez pulled me aside at the end of class. I discovered that the email wasn’t a joke. “You wanted to speak to me, sir?” I asked timorously. 

“Ah, yes, Sophie,” Dr. Mendez said

I pulled up the email on my phone. “would it be related to this email that I really hope I read wrong?” 

Dr. Mendez dug my draft out of the pile on the podium of the lecture theater. “Look at this bibliography, tell me what you see.”

I looked at my bibliography. It only had one text cited. “the book with the proof?” I asked as I pointed to the lone item in the bibliography.

Dr. Mendez slammed the paper down on the podium. “You plagiarized this paper,” he barked. 

“Plagiarized?” I asked in horror. I clearly cited the book, I couldn’t have possibly plagiarized anything. 

“You used the wrong style of citation,” Dr. Mendez scolded, “That constitutes plagiarism.”

“The instruction sheet for the assignment said to use APA format”

Dr. Mendez shook his head. “It's supposed to be Chicago format,” he said. He had his mind made up and didn't want to be confused with the facts. 

“Even still, it was what I was instructed to use at the time,” I shrugged, “It's only a rough draft, I can fix it later”

I hoped he’d listen to reason. He didn’t. “Doesn’t matter,” Dr. Mendez blurted, “the citation style is still wrong.”

“But, this isn’t plagiarism,” I said, gesturing to the paper hard enough my fingers hit the page. 

Dr. Mendez got his bag and left. “Well, that’s for the council to decide,” he said as he exited

My hearing took place the following week. I showed up on time, and Dr. Mendez showed up half an hour later. Someone from the Academic Accountability Office arrived to take notes. 

The people at the student union told me that they let the student speak first. Before I could say anything, the notetaker passed me some printouts. “Sophie, do you recognize these?” he asked

I did. The printouts were hard copies of my long-since deleted LinkedIn profile from high school.

Yes, I had LinkedIn in high school. I had to take a careers class that required us to make a LinkedIn profile for ourselves. I only used it for that class.

About a month after the class ended, I got up in the middle of the night and saw a guy on LinkedIn named Jose was flexing his salary and boat. I very stupidly made a comment involving the words "No way Jose."

It swiftly devolved into madness. People made racist death threats, 25 people got their accounts suspended, and Jose ended up committing suicide. 

Dr. Mendez glared at me. “Sophie, do you remember what happened next?” he hoped to hear me say my account got suspended.

“Well,” I began, “after the Jose incident, I threw out the old LinkedIn account. I didn't get back to LinkedIn until after I graduated high school.” 

Dr. Mendez fixed his gaze on me like a laser drilling out a part. “Your stupid joke killed my son,” he growled. 

My jaw dropped. “Jose was your son?” I asked.

Dr. Mendez sighed. “Yes, and you need to learn your lesson,” he stood up and slowly lurched in my direction. “I gave you that topic because our library only had that one book on the subject. Honestly, I just thought you’d simply photocopy the proof and hand that in.”

The meeting ended like that. Not only did they find me guilty of plagiarism, but they found grounds to immediately remove me from campus. They usually only reserve that for kids to get kicked out due to violent behavior, not cheating.

The next day, they told me I had 6 hours to pack my things and leave or they would call the police and I would be found guilty of trespassing. I cried as I had to quickly pack my things and move back in with my parents who would be beside themselves once they found out.

I couldn't get everything packed in 6 hours. I had to leave about a quarter of my stuff behind. I’m not even allowed to go back there, so I can’t even pick it up.

It doesn’t matter whether you have an exam. College teaches you everything is fucked. 

@write-it-motherfuckers

#Writing #Writers #writers on tumblr #short stories #short fiction

[hamishpetersen]

Pākehā Listening: my BA (Hons) Thesis

Pākehā Listening and Indigenous Voices in Contemporary Art Research: Troubling neocolonial methodologies toward reciprocal relationality; Working on relationships with Cora-Allan Wickliffe.

Submitted November 2018, Department of Art History and Theory, University of Canterbury, Ōtautahi Christchurch, Aotearoa New Zealand.

From the introduction:

"In this text, I am telling my story of coming to an orientation towards research, towards researching Indigenous artists while being Pākehā, and towards my relationship with Cora-Allan Wickliffe (Ngāpuhi, Tainui, Alofi, Liku). In the face of a global higher education largely fixated on the resolution of inequity with knowledge, language, methods, values, and people descended from the imperialist, European ‘west’—and my lived position within that worldview—I am seeking a methodology that unravels this worldview’s power and implicit oppression of those in its margins through the weaving together of relationships. I attempt this not in order to become the same as, or fully know the indigenous collaborators my Pākehā/Tauiwi self seeks to have a relationship with, but rather to have a relationship that is about difference, in order to reciprocate with one-another by offering ourselves where one of us needs to speak, while the other must recognise the need to listen. Therefore, I am not telling Cora’s story here. I may present Cora’s words as stories on their own, with all the contamination of editing, structure, and framing that this written format implicates. However, through a queer autoethnography, I will tell my story of what happens while feeling, reading, writing, sensing, talking, and listening to my relationship with Cora."

From the Conclusion:

"Judith Butler and Stacy Homan Jones recite a duet about the precarity, obligations, and potential we recognise, when we recognise people as real ‘as they are’ and not as only real ‘for them’. “There is losing; and there is the transformative effect of loss. Neither can be charted or planned.” “After all, if someone is lost and that person is not someone.. ‘Then what and where is the loss and how does mourning take place?" “Queer stories also recount the debts we owe to other’s voices, words, and ways of living and loving—not as a way of getting over or closing down grief or moving on, but instead as an opening up and out into new ways of relating.” Indigenous, Queer, and other exploited and oppressed knowledges and people must be materially empowered as being real, legitimate, speakable, and legible ‘as they are’. Those of us in positions of power must learn to relate in new ways to these people and knowledges not for the survival of difference as a hollowed-out, marketable brand, but rather for the flourishing of healthy ecologies of reciprocity because of difference in order to escape the grips of our shared anthropogenic, and earthly catastrophes. Braiding together people, cosmologies, critiques, and disciplines I have traced a thread through the material, personal, and metaphysical. I recite a story to you, hoping it might pass as a legitimate stepping stone upon which new, equitable methodologies might be realized and practiced."

#writing #art history #anthropology #Māori Contemporary art

[experi-sketches]

“Iron Blood” Snippet 2

Felt like sharing another brief snippet! Doubt many will see this since I’m so inactive on tumblr, but in case you want some context, here’s a quick re-cap from the last snippet post:

These past few months I’ve been working on a fantasy story, trying to make some sort of legible draft from the mess I’ve accumulated. I don’t think it’s ready yet, but I thought I might post a snippet here or there, for those who might care.

Working title for the story is An Iron Blood Tale, though that may change. Projected at two novels, Iron and Gold & Soot and Blood, I plan to eventually post it on AO3. Not going to say much about the plot at this point, but it’s a long-format dark fantasy story whose core themes focus on the corruption of ultimate power, the poisonous nature of prejudice, and the battles we face, both external and internal, when we survive truly awful experiences.

The bit below is from early on in Soot and Blood, just a quick little snippet! Apologies for any typos etc, I always manage to miss a few lol. If you enjoy or want to read more of my stuff, give a like or a reblog, and you can find me on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/experi_neverendum 

 Thank you for reading!

~~

Emrik knew he was getting close to the town when the forest began to thin, and sure enough, he soon spotted a packed dirt road that ran east to west. Remembering how he'd seen the distant smoke rising against the sunset the previous evening, Emrik went west, and a short while later he came to the forest's edge. The world beyond opened out into flattened grasslands and wide, stretching fields, the trees long ago cleared away to make way for farmland. The road ran along the forest's edge, and Emrik followed it for some hours until the first herald of civilization came into view, little more than a dark, sagging cottage nestled in the center of some sprawling, unkempt farmland. Despite the dimming rays of the afternoon sun, no lights glowed from inside the cottage. It looked abandoned.

At least now he knew he was headed in the right direction.

Emrik went on past the cottage and some time later saw another small home appear on the horizon, this one clearly inhabited. Distant figures were out working the fields, doing as much as they could before they lost the daylight. They noticed Emrik coming down the road and stopped their work, silently watching him pass by the farm from across the wide field. Emrik didn't make any attempt to hail them. He never knew what sort of reception he could expect from humans, especially when they were in groups, so he usually made very little effort unless it was a necessary hassle. They were well out of earshot besides. As he passed the home one of the figures ran across the field and inside the cottage, and soon enough a few more people stepped out onto the porch to watch him stroll along. Emrik hefted his knapsack, adjusted the strap across his shoulder, and tried not to let their wary gazes pick at him.

Honestly, sometimes it was as though he'd sprouted a tail or an extra set of limbs. If this was any indication of how the townsfolk would treat him, Emrik wasn't going hold out hope for a warm bed or hot meal tonight.

He went on past this farm as well, content to leave them be, and soon he caught a glimpse of the same rising trails of smoke that he'd seen yesterday, and knew he was close to civilization. Focused as he was on the thought of facing a crowd of pale, gaping faces, and the hazards that might present, Emrik didn't notice the approaching footsteps until it was too late.

His attackers were on top of him before the footfalls cut through Emrik's exhausted thoughts, and he barely had time to spin around and get his arms up before a shovel came wailing down upon him. Not enough time at all, actually—Emrik sloppily tossed his arms up over his head as the flat, broad side of the shovel cracked across his skull. He cried out. Luckily he'd moved quick enough to blunt the blow, but the bright shock of pain made his ears ring, echoing in his head like thunder. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and stumbled backwards, seeing double.

"Move off, devil!" His attacker cried, raising the shovel again. "We won't have any more of your kind here!"

"What? Now hold on—Siho!" Another blow, but Emrik saw it coming this time.

He caught the shovel in his hand, and as his vision cleared he was able to see who had ambushed him: a man, older, though Emrik wasn't exactly sure how old, it was so hard to tell with humans. The man tried to pull the shovel back from Emrik, but Emrik didn't allow it. He had the advantage of height and weight, and ripped the shovel out of the old man's grasp, like taking a wooden spoon from a child. The man yelped as Emrik yanked it away, his eyes going wide as dinner saucers in his weathered face.

The man's companions, two younger men—no doubt his sons—also had makeshift weapons, a rusted old rake and pitchfork. They raised them, stepping in front of their father. Emrik huffed.

Well then. Coming here may indeed have been a mistake.

Their attack was sloppy, almost to the point of being laughable. It caused a flare of annoyance to spark in Emrik's belly at the throbbing in his skull. How had he let these fools get the drop on him?

They swung their weapons wildly, and Emrik used the shovel's wooden handle to easily glance away the blow from the rake, and then jammed the handle between the prongs of the pitchfork. He used the shovel as a lever to rip the pitchfork from the young man's hands. The man made a surprised noise as Emrik turned and swung the pitchfork away; its prongs slipped off the shovel's handle and it went flying off, landing a fair distance away in the tall grass. The man with the rake shouted and brought it down again, and this time Emrik simply caught it in his hand, the wood smacking against his palm, and one-handed made to pull it out of the man's grip. The man clung on for a moment or two, stumbling forward a few steps as Emrik yanked. Emrik brought his foot up and gave the man a gentle shove with the sole of his boot, and he went wheeling backwards, falling down onto the dirt road, kicking up a little cloud of dust.

Just as quickly as it had started, the scuffle was over, Emrik left standing victorious in the road with a shovel in one hand and rake in the other, the last of the ringing clearing out of his ears. Three wide-eyed faces stared back at him.

"Please don't do that again," Emrik said in rough Pulgavi, throwing the makeshift weapons down onto the dirt. The three men backed away from him. "I've already had a pretty shit few days, you wouldn't believe."

"Stay back!" One of the younger men shouted, throwing his hand up protectively.

"I didn't move," said Emrik.

"Devil!" The father yelled, throwing some sort of hand sign, no doubt a religious symbol of some sort. "Hasn't your kind done enough? Just leave us be!"

"I was only walking into town." Emrik assumed these men were farmers from the cottage he'd just passed, valiantly protecting their land from peaceful passerby. He fought the strong urge to roll his eyes. Great Iron Lords, humans.

"Don't spin tales," one of he younger men said, glaring at Emrik while he half-hid behind his brother. "We know your sort of filth well enough. We've had our fill of devils in Sysse. Why can't you stay away?"

Emrik sighed. Much as he would love to move along and leave these people to their business, their talk of devils had drawn his interest. This farm was, after all, still quite close to the Gate. Emrik had thought his work here finished, but perhaps the Strixa hadn't been the only abomination to slip through. It was possible that these people, while annoying, were not entirely insane. "Look," he said. "If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already. And I'm not a devil."

"Then what are you?" The father spat.

"An elf," Emrik said. "And a tradesmen, of sorts."

"Not like any elf I've ever seen," one of the sons said.

"You've never seen an elf at all," said the other, earning a quick jab in the ribs from his brother.

"Shut up! You know the prayers. The elves are His hands. Does this thing look like a holy creature to you?"

"I am standing right here, you know," Emrik said, flat, and all three looked at him again. "Look, I really am an elf. See? Pointy ears." He lifted his white hair away from his temples, showing the ears in question. All three blinked at him like startled sheep. "Now. I might be able to help with your devil problem."

The father opened his mouth, then closed it again. "What?"

Emrik sighed again, and pointed at his own chest. "Elf," he said very slowly, drawing the word out, then pointed to the three farmers in front of him, his patience growing thin. "Idiots. But it sounds like you might be idiots with a genuine problem. If you point me in the direction of someone who actually knows what they're talking about, I may be able to help you get rid of it."

"You're lying," the father said.

"Am I?" Emrik shot back. "Tell me, what exactly have I done to hurt you? You attacked me. This devil you keep talking about, is it usually so peaceful? Does it usually talk?"

They were all silent for a long moment, but Emrik could see them thinking, the wheels turning behind their vacant eyes.

"Why would you help us?" The father asked at last. "What do you want from us?"

"Like I said, a place to sleep. A hot meal or two. And some coin." Emrik smiled at them, but it didn't look as though it brought them any comfort. "You make your living farming, and I make my living hunting. It's really not so complicated." He watched them shuffle nervously, looking at one another, their uncertainty written in the hunched line of their shoulders. "Tell me, wouldn't you like to be rid of that devil once and for all?"

The father glanced at each of his sons, then back to Emrik. "You really think that's possible?"

"Trust me, the way these things go, I'll either do it, or I'll die trying. Either way, you really haven't got anything to lose." Emrik figured that was close enough to the truth.

The father looked at him, a spark flaring behind his eyes. "Hirr's blessing, you're actually serious."

"As a whore at judgement." They all gawked at him. Emrik cleared his throat. "Now, who can tell me more about this devil?"

~~

Thanks again for reading! I know it was quick and out of context, but I hope you liked! If you did, let me know :D And here’s my AO3 one last time: https://archiveofourown.org/users/experi_neverendum

#iron blood #writing #Original Work #original writing #My writing #MY OCs #fantasy #Novel #fantasy novel #elf #elves #magic

[glyphwright]

Was looking through some RPG rulebooks recently, and had developed enough opinions on the topic of NPC stat blocks that I had to get them out somewhere. Check below the break for a rant.

I've come to a unilateral and flawless conclusion: if you have a tabletop RPG or a wargame with big squads of people/NPCs, if you can't put the unit's stat block on a Yu-Gi-Oh card with no art and have it be legible, I want no part in it.

Was looking through some systems for a tabletop campaign idea I had, and found one that I won't name but thought I'd really enjoy. And for the most part, I did! I loved so much of the player-facing systems and was gearing up to start really digging into this campaign when I hit a snag with the system.

See, the system is a 2d6-rolling skill-based system. Which is awesome, I want to get away from D&D type stuff and this was a really good path to go. There are 24 skills split up into 3 categories of 8. Really nice way to categorize things. But... All the enemies ALSO had numbers for all 24 skills. Plus the other stuff that's actually important for running mook NPCs in an RPG battle.

The enemy stat blocks felt so bloated, my eyes just kind of glazed over while reading them and all interest in the system dried up. And that kind of disappointed me!

Throwing my mind to wargames and skirmish games for a reference here, I'm reminded of both Battletech and Battletech Alpha Strike, two opposing ends of the unit card spectrum.

Battletech Classic has BIG record sheets, each mech is its own 8.5"x11" piece of printer paper. However, because the system is crunchy and simulationist, all these gubbins and tables are necessary for play, and each player only runs 3-5 of their own mechs, which really limits the overhead on what they need to have in front of them.

On the flip side, you get Alpha Strike. The Alpha Strike rules cut down heavily on the simulation and crunch in order to streamline the game, for an alternative ruleset that plays faster and can also more easily support large amounts of units. Everything fits on basically an index card, and if you cut out the art you can make the card even smaller if you made a custom layout.

Outside of Battletech, I think these unit cards for Warhammer 40k Kill Team are also very readable. This has a lot of empty space, as the unit itself is pretty simple, but it has all the necessary numbers on it without making my eyes glaze over because there's no chaff numbers.

I probably haven't been looking long enough at other systems, but I hope that combat heavy tactical tabletop RPGs start picking up some formatting styles from skirmish games. I feel it would do so much (for me at least) to make things easier and faster to run.

If anybody who took the time to read this knows about any combat-focused TTRPGs with really slick formatting on unit stat blocks, let me know, I wanna check them out.

#tabletop rpg #ttrpg #tabletop wargaming #wargaming #i just like clean and readable UI #all your cool design is meaningless if your formatting makes me not want to read it

[peachiimilquetea]

𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 boyfriend has never been too sexual of a guy... or so he thought

this authors note is gonna be a bit longer so bare with me pls. so this is the very first request im doing! woo! tysm to @m0chilattae ​ for this request it was so good and i had a lot fun fleshing it out! this is also my first scenario so its not gonna be in my usually bulleted format. I hope you guys like it and please let me know if you have any preferences for legibility or anything like that!

length: 2.6k

contains: sub!bf x dom!reader, afab/fem!reader, light b0ndage, edging, teasing, use of baby boy, use of miss/mistress, light degradation (m!receiving), face sitting/ oral (mostly r! receiving), light overstimulation (m! receiving), 69 technically?, vibe play

“wow you didn’t even flinch,” you murmured

you and your boyfriend sat on the couch cuddled up together, the dim light from the tv softly reflected on your faces. this movie almost was unbearably long, but he had insisted you had to see it and so here you were almost an hour later.

“what?”

you pulled your eyes away from the screen to look at your boyfriend.

“this woman is getting some of the best dick of her life on screen and you didn’t even miss a beat,” you giggled.

you weren’t even trying to be funny. the actress on screen let out an exaggerated moan as the man in front of her practically plowed into her, almost to prove your point. the scene wasn’t really your cup of tea but even you were a bit affected, feeling heat prick your skin as you watched the sex scene unfold.

your boyfriend, however, seemed extremely disinterested.

“hey can we skip this scene?” he asked and you grabbed the remote to fast forward.

the rest of the movie went pretty well. your boyfriend made a pretty good choice for this week’s movie night, but you were more focused on what he said earlier.

“babe?”

“hm?”

“so that scene really didn’t make you feel anything? not even a little stomach flutter?”

“nope,” he said popping the p for emphasis, “its just not my thing i guess.”

it wasn’t a secret in your relationship that your boyfriend had a significantly lower sex drive than you did. it was a running joke among his friends and he was almost notorious for not really being too interested in the cultural narrative of traditional sex.

you didn’t hold it against him of course, you loved him all the same and he even got you some toys for the times that he just wasn’t feeling it, but something was always off about his apathy towards getting down and dirty with you. there was, however, one thing you had not tried yet.

you were a switch, but you had never tried to turn the tables on your boyfriend. it could be the missing piece you thought, as you cleaned up the living room. as he took the dishes to the kitchen to wash them you made the executive decision to test your running theory

“you know, i think we should try something later this week,” you came up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, hugging him from behind.

“yeah? something like what?” he turned off the water and sighed, leaning into your touch.

“hmmm its a surprise. but you do have to come up with a safeword for me.”

“ill think about it”

and thus your plan was set into motion.

on the days leading up to the finale of your master plan, you decided to start small with the teasing. you had never attempted to turn the tables on your boyfriend and you were extremely curious as to how things would go.

you had asked him to go out and pick up some things for dinner.

“im home!” he called and you directed him to the kitchen with his bags.

“i was just about to start cutting up veggies, so perfect timing babe. did you get the salmon i asked for?”

“yup! i got the last fillet.”

“good boy! you’re so helpful baby i was afraid there wouldn’t be any left”

your boyfriend paused mid-action as he processed what you had just said to him. he didn’t notice the way you were subtly taking note of how his face heated up slightly and how he began to fumble over his words just a little.

the pet name made his stomach do flips, but why was that? did he like that? he didn’t even know himself, but he pushed it down and continued to help you unpack the groceries and set up for your meal. 

the second time you teased him was when he was doing some work for school. he had managed to give himself a huge papercut and came out of his room to find you for help.

“what the hell happened?” you gasped as you saw the state of his finger. he would live but you had no idea how he managed to do this with one sheet of paper.

“s’just a papercut but it stings like crazy. do you have a bandaid?”

you hurried to get him fixed up so he could get right back to work,

“you have to be more careful, baby boy, you only get 10 fingers,” you smiled at him, knowing your words would have an effect on him again.

he sputtered, whatever he was going to say becoming a jumbled mess in his mouth at the casual way you called him baby boy. it was so natural for you, and it sounded so so good to his ears.

“what?” he croaked out, desperately hoping you would repeat yourself.

“are you feeling ok? you’re looking a bit flushed, babe. i just said you need to be more careful, how much blood did you lose?”

“n-not too much,” he ran a hand through his hair to subtly calm himself down, “it was just a paper cut.”

“well ok, if you need anything else you know where to find me.”

the smile in your voice was a new kind of torture to him. he didn’t even know he could feel so hot all the time, let alone from words alone.

you, on the other hand, were growing more and more excited as the days passed. the build-up would make the end of the week that much sweeter and you were determined to make it good for him.

the end of the week couldn’t come fast enough for the two of you. your boyfriend had never been this horny in your life and you had never been so ready to help him out.

as you gently adjusted the restraints around his wrists he felt all sorts of anticipation bubbling in his stomach. he didn’t know what you had planned but he was almost itching to find out. so much for not being too interested.

“do you remember the safe word?” you asked, tugging the chain to check its security to the bed.

“yes,” he breathed.

“good.”

you left the room to collect yourself and to give yourself the element of surprise. you had to make this a performance, and a damn good one at that.

giving yourself one last look over in the mirror, you stepped back into the room and put on your dominant demeanor. it felt good to be back after such a long time.

“you know,” you started, circling your boyfriend on the bed, “i almost feel silly for not picking up on this sooner.”

your boyfriend said nothing verbally, but his eyes followed you like a starved animal, mind holding onto every word you said for dear life. his mouth was so dry and he was so turned on.

“its funny really, i never did anything because i didn’t want to scare you. isn’t that ironic, baby?” you mused out loud, “the one thing you wanted all along has been here the whole time.”

he finally found his voice, asking, “and what’s that?”

you came closer to him, hooking your leg around his other side and sitting on top of him. you teasingly rubbed your hands all over his chest and stomach, reveling in how he squirmed for you made such small and cute sounds.

“you wanted someone to take control.”

he screwed his eyes shut and let out a low “fuck” at your words as you rubbed over his nipples lightly. he stared at your tits, desperately wanting to grope you back but being stopped by his restraints. 

he bucked in surprise when you pinched them, letting out a loud gasp and throwing his head to the side.

“awww, my baby boy is so sensitive,” you crooned and you swore you watched him die and go to heaven when you called him that.

“you like it when i call you a good boy?”

he groaned, nodding his head feverishly. you caressed his face and kissed him on the forehead, getting off his lap and getting out your box of toys from underneath the bed. it was time to really make him see stars

“as glad as i am that we’ve gotten to the root of your issue, you still need to be punished for not being truthful with me.”

“but _____ i didnt-”

“who?” you asked, voice turning icy in a split second, “you call me miss or mistress. do you understand?”

“yes miss,” he shivered.

“now, are you going to behave?” you asked, vibrator in hand.

he eyed the toy down but still nodded. you motioned for him to lift his hips up and got his pants off, leaving him in just his underwear strapped to your shared bed.

it was a sight you never thought you were going to see, so you savored it, drinking in his naked and flushed form, and really enjoying how antsy he got under your gaze. it was truly intoxicating.

“you always told me your sex drive was low, and yet here you are, practically keening at the thought of me using you like the toy you are. do you want me to touch you?”

he began to nod but you grabbed his jaw, making him look you in the eye, “use your words like a good boy.”

“yes mistress, i want you to touch me so bad”

“where do you want me to touch you?”

“o-on my c-chest and stomach. a-and on my… you know,” he mumbled shyly towards the end.

“you have to say it, baby boy,” you grinned pinching and twisting his nipples again. he cried out in surprise and pleasure.

“my cock! i want you to touch my cock! please miss!”

you smiled as he started to crack and looked down at where his dick strained in his underwear. his cock head was practically dripping, leaving him with a dark patch right on the front of his underwear. you hadn’t even properly touched him yet and he was almost cumming in his pants.

you pulled his briefs down, enjoying the view of his cock bouncing back up and hitting his lower stomach. grabbing it with some force, you started to stroke him, thumbing his slit to spread his precum around and use it like lube. 

“we’ll have you get you a cock ring soon because this won’t do,” you said, making a fist for him to buck up into.

he was moaning pretty loud now, the loudest you’d ever heard him outside of receiving head. there was a familiar but searing heat blooming in your stomach but you pushed it down. right now the focus was on him.

turning on the vibrator, you concentrated it to the underside of his head. he let out a yelp, then a hiss and a whine as he felt the waves of pleasure crash over him.

“t-this- its too much! s’too much!”

you let it continue for a few seconds before turning the vibrator off and moving away from him. 

you watched as your boyfriend fought against his restraints, bucking into the empty air for even a semblance of friction.

“i was on the edge! w-why did you stop?”

“you thought mistress was going to let you cum that easily? you’re working for this baby,” you stepped back up to him and grabbed his cock again, turning the vibrator to a higher setting than before.

back and forth you went edging the boy on the bed. as you teased him more and more, he became more restless, thrashing around more and really letting himself feel every stroke, change of pace, and new vibration. 

after a while, you couldn’t take the pangs of white-hot need shooting through your abdomen so you decided to put him to good use. you turned the vibe off, leaving the poor boy at the edge and climbed back on top of him, scooting yourself over to where his face was.

his eyes widened as he looked up at you, realizing what you had planned for him in real time. 

“do you think you can handle me sitting on your face?”

he audibly groaned, “yes mistress. i would love- mmmph!”

you cut him off by lowering yourself down on him, relishing in the relief of his tongue on your cunt. he moved in long and languid strokes at first, almost teasing, but then began to really eat as if his life depended on it, sucking on your cl!t and fucking you with his tongue.

you could feel your legs shaking as he went to town. you grabbed the headboard and unconsciously began to grind against his face, giving him little pockets of air now and then. you then got an amazing idea.

you completely dismounted off his face and turned around so you were facing his cock. he was still tied up very well, and he bucked his hips up at the view of your ass right in his face. 

he lifted his head to take a bite out of it and you slapped his thigh, chuckling at how eager he was. he had earned the right to be a little bit playful at least.

“do you want me to make you cum? you’ve been a good boy so i think you’ve earned it.”

“yes yes! i wan- i want it more than anything- i-”

“but,” you grabbed his cock, “ you have to make me cum first.”

“i-i can do that,” he moaned and you lowered yourself onto him and let him take over. it felt so good you almost forgot that his cock was right there.

you pressed a few light kisses to the head and almost immediately came his muffled moans from being deep in your pussy. you were so close you just needed a little but more.

he sucked on you with vigor, finally tipping you over the edge with a harsh suck to your clit. you cried out and braced yourself on his thighs, riding out your orgasm all over his face. he groaned as he tried to keep up with you, licking up everything that gushed out with vigor and you spasmed in slight overstimulation as he cleaned you up.

“you’re such a good boy,” you sighed.

you flipped around once again, catching him in a searing kiss before sinking down on his cock without warning. you swallowed a garbled moan of his as you continued to kiss him and leave marks on his neck and chest, riding him slowly.

“miss, im not gonna last long at all,” he whimpered and you ran a hand through his hair to push it out of his face as you looked at him.  

“that’s ok, baby boy. just let go”

two more strokes and he was cumming in you with a loud groan. his heavy breathing fanned your face as you continued past the threshold of pleasure he was prepared for.

“m-miss- i-ah! i finished- finished!” he babbled as you rode him into an overstimulated frenzy

“hurts-it hurts! please mistress no more!”

you finally slowed to a stop and let him just calm down inside you. after unsheathing him and taking off his restraints, you laid in your bed together in comfortable silence.

“what was that?” he asked and the both of you dissolved into post-coitus giggling. 

“well i’ve always been a domme, but i never thought you would be into that kinda thing. you never seemed like you were into any kind of thing.”

“that is true. i just didn’t know i was into… that”

he sighed as you played with his hair, “well now that we know, we can do more. a lot more.”

he looked up at you with a lazy smile, “most definitely”

𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐮 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @kixa​

#[🍑]peachiiwrites #[🍦] #[🍑]peachiimilquetea #peachiileafrequests #dom!reader #sub!bf #scenario #oneshot #request #overstimulation

[bravewielder]

General Info, About & Basic Blog Rules under the cut !!

I. BACKGROUND

This is my first formal foray into properly RPing Riku since the early days of the tumblr RPC.

Meaning, whilst this isn't my first time RPing him, I am now just coming back into the fandom after years and years of being away from it (mostly keeping it at arms length). So I am only now just catching up on all the lore and theories surrounding his character as well as the over arching lore of KH as a whole.

I do not boast an encyclopedic knowledge of every little detail in this game series (given how long and convoluted it has become), I have not played any of its spin offs, remixes or mobile games- so apologies if sometimes some things might be inaccurate (even despite my best efforts for extensive research). I am knowledgeable of what’s generally known in the Mainline Titles. So if there is one particular obscure thing of topic you wanna integrate into any of our threads, do let me know. I’d love to learn and talk about it! I’ve been away from this fandom for so so long I wouldn’t mind bouncing off ideas and theories with new friends.

That being said, I would very much like to discover Riku’s character for my own before getting influenced with any preconceived ideas that have sprouted here and there.

So basically my Riku is a clean slate fresh out of KH3.

I know how important Riku's character is for a lot of people and I hope I can do my very best to at least portray him as good as I possibly can for any of the folks I do end up interacting with.

II. INTERACTION

Please note that English isn't Mun's first language, hence why I take so long to write a reply/starter because I check, double check and triple check if my writing is grammatically correct. And sometimes I only have the time and energy to do one post a day.

But as stated in my quick rules, I am selective with threads and asks so if I really do not get around to reply to yours, I’m sorry. Muses are fickle things and sometimes they just don’t wanna. So don't be disheartened when I haven't answered your ask/reply immediately. Please know that I hold every single one in my heart and I hoard them for a little while before I finally have the time to reply in short bursts.

Also mun’s line of work is kind of hectic with production shoots and what not. So I may be abscond for a few days at a time.

In terms of following and mutuals. This blog is mutuals only but if I haven’t followed you back you are more than welcome to send me an ask or DM.

Duplicates. I actually don't mind following and interacting with other Rikus (since he does have a lot of interactions with his other selves). But for the most part I am pretty much content to admire other Riku blogs from a far. I am well aware that some portrayals are near perfect and some of you would have your favorites and I take no offense to this if you prefer to interact with them.

III. FORMATTING & WRITING

Icons, formatting and graphics. I do enjoy using icons and formatting on my posts, but I do it in such a way that is minimal where its still legible. I just like making things look pretty and clean. Though I do not mind interacting with iconless or nonformatted threads/blogs. This is just my own preference.

I am ok to do one-liners to short-para threads, unless things would be needing a huge set up that it requires to become novella. Let me reiterate that English isn’t my first language and there is only so much English you could squeeze out of me before I give up. (Lol) So my tone and writing would sometimes sound very blunt and straight to the point if I’m not feeling like doing any flowery words and purple prose.

IV. SHIPPING

I'll state this here and now: Mun is part of the LGBTQ and has been in a committed same sex relationship with my lovely fiancé for almost 10 years.

That being said, I think it goes without saying what I prefer to portray Riku as a character by default.

Yes, he does swing that way (although right now he hasn't figured that out for himself yet). Yes. He is very much hopelessly madly deeply head over hills committed and devoted to Sora. This has always been a HUGE part of his character throughout the entire series, and to not acknowledge it or at least allude to it, would be a crime.

However!! This does not mean I am not open to exploring other ships, even heteronormative ones. Or do shippy things with any character under the gender spectrum. If it does come to that, I like to keep it ambiguous.

At the very least, Riku is demisexual.

But, In any case, shipping will not be the main focus of this blog and I would like to maintain a neutral ground for all of it. Platonic things shall always be at default.

V. NEGATIVITY

Although I will try to make this blog as wholesome as I possibly can (with little to no risqué content)  - I have been RPing on and off tumblr for the past 20 years and honestly i am far too old, jaded, and tired to put up with any drama or upset. I will not involve myself in any sort of petty discourse and if I see anyone trying to start something, I am sorry but I will have to unfollow.

But, on the other hand, if there is anything at all that you find offensive on my blog, please do TELL me. Lets talk it out like the adults that we are. I will gladly tag anything that you wish to be tagged. My DMs are always open for discussion.

Or better yet, please make use of the block button. I will not question you on how you curate your own space and I hope you would also respect mine.

I stay on my lane and you stay in yours. Got it?

VI. SIGN OFF

Lastly. I am here to just have FUN, VIBE & CHILL. I might do some crack things here and there and I shall be tagging those if you don’t wanna have them be clogging your dash. But yeah, I just wanna have fun without the pressure of being judged. All I want is to create a space where I am allowed to write for a character who has been very important to me through out the years and all I want is to share that love with all of you!!  .･ﾟ: * ✧ *  ♡

#┊ return to light | ooc; ┈ ✧ #┊ psa; ┈ ✧ #and here it is finally! #Just gunna be putting this here for now before I transfer it to gdoc/carrd #but feel free to read up! #asdfhjkl sorry if this is such a ramble

[soazzar]

Hey, it's me again 🙈 I'm still drawing rdr2 fanarts with my horses and Arthur, I'm trying something and I think I've reach a decent level, because at this point I like how they come out, but I want to improve and I was wondering if you have any tips on how to render the images super clear. When I draw I like to add details and I zoom in and when I zoom out they're still legible, but not in the same way your drawings are. If I zoom on yours, they are perfectly clean. I assume you use Procreate, like I do. Do you have any tips? I hope you don't mind check on my rdr drawings (I tag them ith #rdr2 also) to have an example of what I'm saying. Asked publicly so your answer may help someone else too. And thanks for reading 👽

Hi! Sorry for the late answer I only see it now 👀 so here are a few tips:

I draw with photoshop, always on a A4 format, 300 dpi and .png file. On IG, image rendering is a nightmare so oddly I do light file (150dpi / .jpg when I save them). It's useless to zoom in like a psycho just because you can, so keep maximal zoom at 100% or 120% big maximum. Zooming in too much is a loss of time, and some details won't be seen. In the end, I always zoom out a maximum and I should be able to still read the image. So always keep in mind that your eyes follow a path and need a spot to rest. The brush are heavy on the balance too, I prefer sharp brush with, with time, not so much pressure sensibilty. Nice and clean.

That's all I guess. And thank you for the ask!

#ask #drawing #tips #i guess #thank you #rdr2 #waow i just figured out how to change text size

[writingkitten]

L!Joker x Reader: Dogs

Note: pure fluff, v short, and super inspired by a post I saw awhile back about the three (? I think three) Rottweilers being loyal to J and all that. Also I’ve been busy working on this other project that I kinda let this one have not-as-great quality, but it was cute so there. Double also, pls forgive formatting, both the shitty paragraph spacing and the lack of italics. Tumblr fucked up the format and I don’t feel like fixing it lmao

Warnings: like, swear words? And some graphic descriptions of violence? But that’s it, not too sinful

In the dwindling hours of the day, dusk heavy on the horizon, you trudged home. Exhaustion plagued your body, the frigid air and harsh winds further driving your desire to get home. It wasn’t far from your work, only a few blocks, but it was on days like this that you cursed yourself for not taking a car. Even the thick mauve sweatshirt you wore couldn’t keep the cold away.

You had been out since 8am, almost 10 hours ago by now. Your throbbing head told you that cooking dinner tonight was a no-go, and so you’d stopped to pick up some warm comfort food. A treat for you, and a nice little surprise for J.

He’d been away all day yesterday, leaving before dawn and never returning. It did worry you a bit, but J had disappeared for much longer in the past, either running a scheme for days on end, or staying at his other hideout — an abandoned warehouse just outside of the city limits — to avoid leading whoever was after him this time back to you. Still, you worried, your mind racing with every bad thing that could’ve happened, like a kid whose mother was taking too long at the store. J knew this, though he continuously tried to convince you he would always come back. He knew your anxiety was far too engrained into your very being to not imagine the worst case scenario, but he still tried, if for no other reason than the hope that his constant reminder would dig itself deeper into your psyche than the anxiety.

But that had yet to happen, and so J had taken to other means of calming you. Keeping you informed was first and foremost. He’d call to tell you where he was, or text if he was in a rather boring meeting with mob bosses. He’d perfected the art of maintaining eye contact and taking part in the particulars of the conversation, while simultaneously writing a text with his phone under the table. Always a new phone, always a new number, but he had yours memorized, and you knew who it was when a message from an unknown number popped up.

That’s why, despite the apartment being empty when you left this morning, you knew he was there, waiting. It had only been about ten minutes since you’d left, so, by the time you headed home, he’d been there all day. Alone. You hoped he had caught up on his sleep, but you knew him better than that. You knew he was too bored sleeping alone, as wild of a concept as that seemed. No, instead you’d probably come home to see parts of makeshift weapons on the coffee table, or maybe the kitchen torn apart like a rabid raccoon had broken in.

At least he’d be home, you thought.

Finally standing in front of your door, you couldn’t unlock it fast enough, your feet aching, begging to be given some reprieve.

“J?” you called out as you entered.

You heard him say something, his voice too quiet to make out anything legible. Just as you were about to ask what he’d said, a massive black form sprinted towards you. Screaming, you dropped the bag of food on the floor, holding your hands out to stop whatever it was.

You eyes were screwed shut, but nothing happened. At least, not what you expected. Instead, you felt something prop itself on your shoulders. Hot breath hit your face, smelling of peanut butter. If that hadn’t given it away, the hassling sure as hell did.

Opening your eyes, you were met with the dark glassy eyes of a Rottweiler, standing on his hind legs, front paws gripping your shoulder.

J said something, this time louder, though you still didn’t hear him through your shock. The dog jumped down and ran back to the living room.

Ripping yourself from the frozen stance that you had been put you had been stuck in, you followed the Rottweiler.

On the floor sat J, his coat and blazer off, sleeves rolled up. There were strange stains on his pants. Peanut butter. Several dog toys lay around him, and two giant buckets of dry food and water sat in the corner. Most surprising, however, were the two other dogs that sat next to him.

J hadn’t looked up to greet you, busy filling some kongs full of peanut butter, seemingly the only treat he had for them.

“Uh, J?” you said, mouth agape at the sight.

“Hiya, doll,” he said, finally looking up at you, “I like that color on you.”

You had no idea what has happening, you didn’t know how to react. All you could really do was laugh.

“What the fuck is happening?” you asked.

“Uh, peanut butter time?” he said, as if it was obvious.

“J, why are there three massive dogs in our apartment?”

J sighed dramatically, “Well, I was just attending a little meeting with the Russian guy. And, wouldn’t you know, somehow he got locked up in their cages, and they just ripped off his limbs and ate him! Really fuckin’ weird cowinky-dink.”

Your eyes widened, “You fed him to his own dogs?”

J looked up at you in disbelief, “Didn’t ya listen to the story, doll?”

“Right, because you’re known for telling the truth.”

J growled, “...I’ll feed you to the dogs.”

“Ha,” you said, knowing full well that J would rather feed himself to the three than put your life on the line.

You left J on the floor as he passed out the stuffed kongs, taking the food out of the bag and setting it up on the table. Well, you were, until J turned around and watched you with an eyebrow raised.

“Uh, doll, I’m eating with them,” he said, as if it were obvious.

“...What.”

What the hell is happening?

“I’m building trust with these guys, I gotta show ‘em that not everyone is an abusive prick.”

You were silent for a moment, staring at J. Compassion was not a common experience to have with him, at least, not for other people. Towards you? He was very compassionate, even if he showed it in his own gruff way. But anyone else was lucky if they didn’t get the business end of J’s blade shoved through their throat.

Then again, that was still the case. He hated people, despised their selfishness and callousness, especially after experiencing that evil when he was still young and innocent. But animals? They were pure, only acting on nature with no societal influences. They were loyal as long as you were loyal to them, something that couldn’t be said for many people. That was one of the things he liked about you, your loyalty. You knew what he did, even if you didn’t know specifics. You knew he killed people, tortured them, destroyed the city and disrupted “society”. Yet you stood by him, loving him without question. Why you did, he’d never fully understand. But you did.

Instead of just bringing J his food, you brought your own, as well.

“I still wanna eat dinner with you,” you said, sitting down next to him.

“Aww,” J said, his voice mocking.

As soon as the containers were opened, the dogs abandoned their treats and sat around the two of you. Their eyes bored into you, pleading for a bite. Having all three of them up close now, you could see their bones, and thick scars that broke through their fur.

J tossed food at each of them, all three catching it mid-air.

“Good boys,” he said, reaching out to them and scratching around their face and neck.

“So, I assume they’re yours now?” you asked as you ate.

“Ours, bunny. They’re guard dogs, they’ll protect ya from, uh...bad guys.”

“Like you?” you asked with a smirk.

He grabbed his chest, feigning pain, “Shot to the heart, doll!”

———

After dinner — which J pretty much ate as much of as the rottys, giving them most of his food — you showered and got ready for bed, too tired to stay awake any longer. J stayed in the living room, working on a new idea, and, you had assumed, training the dogs. However, it seemed as though he was testing them now that you were home. Everywhere you went, you had three massive shadows following you. They stayed in the bathroom while you showered, laying next to the door, watching you. It felt as though they were ready to both protect you from an intruder, and come to your aid if you slipped and fell.

J couldn’t have trained them that much by now...right?

Once out, they practically escorted you to your bedroom. You got in bed, laying on your usual side. The three followed suit, taking up J’s space. One snuggled up by your feet, resting his head on your legs, staring up at you, while the other two did their best the lick your face. After the first few swipes, your face had practically been rewashed.

You laughed as they licked, “Oh, you’re so sweet! Thank you, thank you! Sweet babies!”

“So, am I gonna have to actually sleep in the dog house, now?”

J stood in the doorway, watching you laugh and love on the dogs. He mouth twitched, a quick smirk gracing his features when he saw the look of pure happiness on your face. It wasn’t something he got to see often, most of the time your happiness being qualified by some cloud of negativity. Depression, anxiety, self-loathing...it was a welcomed sight to see your unhindered smile.

He said a quick command, something in Russian that you couldn’t understand, and the dogs jumped off the bed. It was only then that you noticed three massive dog beds lining the wall next to yours.

“They’re so sweet,” you said to J, watching them curl up, getting as close together as possible.

“Yeah,” he drawled, climbing into bed beside you, “that guy got what he fuckin’ deserved. He kept them hungry, beat them, locked in cages too small for ‘em...”

You could see the anger rising in J’s eyes, his jaw clenching with malice as he stewed in his thoughts.

You reached out and took his hand, “They’ll have a good life now, J. We’ll spoil them.”

J looked over to you, “You know, that one that was at your feet was actually a service dog. Saw it in the papers the Russian kept. He’s trained for depression and anxiety.”

You perked up, “Wait, so I can take him around with me?”

“I’d want you to take all three, in case someone wanted to mess with ya and I wasn’t around. Bu-t you can have him with you at work and all that.”

The thought of having a dog to stay by your side at all times — and two more to come home to — was already making the knowledge of J leaving again much more bearable. That night, you fell asleep wrapped in J’s arms, him squeezing you far too tight to his chest as always, feeling invincible with your boys by your side.

#joker #joker x reader #l!joker #tdk #heath ledger joker #im sorry its short and shit quality #all of my creativity has been going towards my script and my brain was hurting itself writing this #it was supposed to be a nice little break #but fuck me in the ass it was NOT #also forgot that they were rottweilers and not dobermans #so if you see doberman in there its my bad because im stupid

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 1/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Notes: For @silver-colour

Written for the @tricketyboo2020 prompt "Creepypasta format story (like a found footage or witness statement kind of thing)" by silver-colour. It is a mild reworking of an older fanfic of mine, but that goes tongue in cheek with the ending of this story sort of. XD I would put this between Spooky Level 2 and 3, with 3 being "major and minor character death, disturbing images or concepts, major dark themes, major violence, etc." But there's only minor mentions of blood/body horror. But the whole undead thing is a trigger for some people and I lean into that imagery a bit. I wanted this to be a sort of leveled up Goosebumps tale. Tl;dr proceed with caution <3

Chapter 1

 I am going to die.

I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die.

I have to keep repeating it because I have to come to grips with it.

I am going to die.

Not in sixty years.

More like sixty minutes.

Oh, Amanda. I am sorry.

If you ever hear this … I never meant for this to happen.

My name is Warlock Dowling and I am 34 years-old. Devoted son and husband, I’ve spent over a decade working towards achieving my dream of following in my father’s footsteps and entering politics one day.

It’s a dream I don’t think I’ll be seeing through to the end.

I am telling you this because after reading what I’ve just read … and hearing what I’ve just heard … I am not certain I’m going to make it through the night.

I broke the rules.

There were four. Only four. And I broke them.

I didn’t break them by accident. I absolutely did it on purpose. I’m not suicidal or anything, but you only live once - am I right?

For the record, I don’t regret a single thing.

…

That’s not entirely true.

I’ll regret dying before morning if that’s the way things play out.

Today happens to be October 31st - Halloween night. I’d been tasked with clearing out the attic above a cottage in The South Downs which once belonged to a pair of old family friends. Technically, they were ex-employees of my parents from back when I was young, but I thought of them as surrogates. They practically raised me, educated me, taught me everything I know about coping in this cruel, pathetic world.

I held them in the highest regard.

They were the only people in my life who treated me as if I could become more than what I had been born into, that fate had something else in store for me. Because of them, I met the best friends a boy could ever have.

I will forever be grateful for that.

Cleaning out this attic was the least I could do to repay them, but to be honest, I don’t know who summoned me here. I assumed it was the executor of their estate, but now I’m not so sure. Looking over the letter in my hands, there is no legible signature. And the gold embossed emblem at the top that I took for granted as belonging to some upscale legal firm is, on closer inspection, gibberish - a mess of fleur-de-lis underscored by Latin words that roughly translate to “the cows shall rise”.

Ludicrous, right?

How did I miss that?

But more ludicrous - and confusing - are the rules.

I had been given rules about cleaning this attic.

The first rule on the list was to touch only what I could see. Under no circumstances was I to open any of the boxes or chests.

So, naturally, I opened every single one.

The second rule was not to put anything on. Fine by me. The only clothes up here are old lady outfits and a pair of white satin shoes.

But …

There was an awesome vintage leather jacket hanging on a dressmaker’s dummy in the corner and … well … it had my name written all over it! I had to try it on, see if it fit.

And it does.

Rule number three - keep to my torch. Don’t light any candles.

Nuh-uh! It’s Halloween! And torches are lame. So on the candles went. Jeez, there are a lot of them. Enough to burn down the whole place if I’m not careful. It actually seems like they’ve multiplied since I’ve been up here.

I won’t lie - it’s unsettling.

But according to the list, rule number four is the most important:

Don’t read any books I find. And definitely not out loud.

The first thing I saw when I entered the attic was a stack of leather-bound books. I scoffed at the sight of them, piled up to my chin, right inside the entryway. Isn’t that a bit like putting a huge bowl of candy front and center on your dining room table in the middle of dinner with a huge sign saying, “Do not eat?” If the most important rule about going into the attic is, “Don’t read anything!” why not put all the books on a high shelf?

Or the moon?

I’m not a book lover. I read hundreds of pages a day for work. I definitely don’t do it for fun. So this shouldn’t have been a hard one for me to follow.

But they looked like diaries.

And diaries hold secrets.

That made them a different matter all together.

I couldn’t resist.

But once I opened the top one, I knew I’d made a mistake.

These weren’t just any diaries.

They were the diaries of my two friends - Aziraphale and Crowley.

There had always been something odd about those two. I didn’t believe for a second that they were a proper nanny or gardener, not even when I was a young, impressionable child. But they were funny - a distraction from the dull as dishwater life of an attache’s son.

Yes, I was a spoiled little rich kid with everything I could ever ask for handed to me and, on top of that, diplomatic immunity.

Woe was me.

I realize how much of a douche whining about that makes me sound.

My life was still dull.

I was still lonely.

I never knew for sure what happened to them after they left us. I made assumptions - erroneous assumptions. I thought they lived happily ever after at least.

Now I know … that wasn’t the case.

I’m recording this in the hopes that someone will find it, so that you might know the true story of what happened to them …

… and why you might not be hearing from me again.

***

The Diary of Aziraphale Fell - Reluctant Widower

January 14th-

“Please, sir,” the decrepit woman hissed, but not unkindly. She came about her speech impediment by a mixture of symptoms - her thick accent coupled with her indeterminable old age caused her to talk that way. “Please, reconsider this decision.”

I glared at her regardless. I knew my eyes were bloodshot; my hair a mass of tangled, wayward strands; my lips quivered from constant, unrelenting crying.

“You said you had it!” I screamed, bypassing her arguments. “You said you would sell it to me! Wh---why else would I come here!?”

“You need to understand,” the woman implored, opening her hands in a pleading gesture. She fixed me with one clear blue eye, the other eye clouded – a useless, milky white lump of tissue bulging inside its socket, “what you ask for … it is unnatural.”

“But your granddaughter said it was a done deal!” I persisted, shooting a steely glare at the simpering young woman who ducked behind her grandmother to hide from my volatile stare. I wasn’t about to leave without the item I came for. At this point, I was willing to tear the place apart and everything inside - including the two of them - to get it.

They must have sensed that.

Even as the woman continued to defy me, she looked slightly more afraid than she had a minute ago.

“My granddaughter is foolish!” The woman directed the comment over her shoulder to the girl cowering there. “But she means well. We need the money. She was thinking with her head and not her heart.”

“I can pay you twice what you’re asking!” I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. “Three times! I’ll give you whatever you want!”

The girl, intrigued by my proposal, peeked over her grandmother’s shoulder, but the woman turned and barked sharply at her in a language I could not understand.

That was when I began to think I might be in danger.

I’d spent my entire life studying languages, so hearing one I didn’t comprehend, not even an inch, sent a shiver down my spine.

“Mr. Fell …” The old woman reached out, I presumed to comfort me, and took my shaking hand in hers “… your husband is dead. And I am more sorry than I can ever express at your loss. You carry your love for him like a beacon. I see it in your eyes. It shines from every part of you. With him gone, it is up to you to carry it. It will never fade as long as you remember him.”

Those were, without a doubt, the kindest words anyone had said to me since my husband passed. I crumbled, new tears falling hot down my cheeks. But regardless of her sympathy, sincere though it might be, I refused to relent.

I refused!

“I don’t want to remember him!” I whimpered, my anger renewed at the sound of my voice fracturing. “I want him here with me! I need you to help me bring him back!”

The woman sighed in pity but shook her head.

“The effects of life are varied, Mr. Fell. Our fate … it changes every day, with every choice that we make. But the effects of death should remain permanent.”

I flinched at that word as if she’d struck me across the face.

Permanent.

Crowley dead … my husband gone … and nothing for me to look forward to in life but emptiness. We’d had every moment of our lives planned together.

One arsehole drunk driver later and now I was alone.

I literally had no one.

I had lost contact with my mum early in life, never knew my father, didn’t have children of my own. My boss and mentor was an abusive prick who tormented me throughout the span of my career until I found a way out from under his thumb.

Until Crowley helped me discover a life where I didn’t need the man’s guidance or control.

But now I was going to lose him!? The only one who had stuck by me, who defended me, loved me through thick and thin!?

No! That was beyond cruel! And I wasn’t going to roll over and accept it!

I let the sorrow within me curdle, turn sour as I yanked my hand out of the old woman’s grasp.

“Your granddaughter said there are other methods of getting what I want!” I snarled. “Dangerous methods. Methods that might require payment in sacrifice … even blood. And not necessarily my blood. Innocent blood, if you catch my meaning.”

Both women gasped.

Despite the conversation at hand, I smiled.

Good, I thought. We were finally all on the same page.

Up until a few days ago, I never considered violence to be the answer to anything. But I had since come to a crossroads where an exception had made itself clear.

I was prepared to annihilate my humanity to get my husband back.

The old woman snapped her head over her shoulder, scolding her granddaughter in a harsh, guttural voice. The girl, who had started to brave coming out of hiding, shrank down once again.

“Be reasonable,” the woman begged, “please, and think about what you are saying. What you are willing to do.”

“No,” I said, my calm more potent than my anger … or so my husband used to say. “The time for me being reasonable is over. I will get what I want, no matter what the cost. The question is whether or not you will be the one to give it to me.”

The woman looked down at her gnarled hands and sighed a long, exhausted sigh. “Alright, Mr. Fell. I will sell the potion to you at the promised price.”

I stared at her for a moment in shock. I was relieved, of course. I hadn’t thought I would get this far. It frightened me how much I had begun looking forward to throttling her with my bare hands, imagined her neck snapping within my grasp, effortlessly like a twig.

That couldn’t be me though. I wasn’t that kind of person. It was this place - this shop and all of its trinkets, their age and professed magical abilities amplifying my grief, turning every rational thought I had into rage.

I had to get out of here and fast before I did something I might regret.

I opened my wallet with the onset of happier tears and thumbed through the bills, pulling out extra for the joy of getting what I wanted. I handed the money over, but the woman refused to touch it. She waved it away, her granddaughter popping up long enough to grab the money and then scurry off again. The woman reached into the folds of her skirts and retrieved a leather pouch that hung from a thin belt around her waist. From it she fished out a tiny blue bottle with a cork stopper sealing the mouth. She gave it a long, troubled look, then handed it to me.

For the first time, her hand trembled.

“Pour the contents of this bottle into your husband’s mouth, Mr. Fell,” she instructed, “and your husband will return.”

I held the bottle up to the dim candlelight of the musty Soho shop. The blue glass glimmered, a thick liquid inside swaying back and forth, shimmering like sun-tossed sparkles across a dark, foreboding sea.

“There are some rules that go along with that potion,” the woman said, her voice weeding into my head, summoning me back from my momentary trance, “and a few warnings you must heed as well.”

I sighed. I had hoped it would be a simple matter of giving my husband the liquid and living happily ever after, but I knew in my heart that nothing was ever that simple.

“Okay,” I said, slipping the bottle carefully into my pocket and patting over it twice to ensure its safety. “Tell me. What are the rules?”

“First of all, you will give that to your husband, but what will come back …” she paused, swallowed hard “… will not entirely be your husband.”

I nodded. I had expected her to say something along those lines, like a scene straight from an old time-y horror movie.

The woman locked both eyes, one clear and one clouded, on my face as I waited for her to finish her speech, eager to go back home and get on with my life. She realized, with regret, that I had every intention of going through with this, and took on the heavy burden of allowing this to continue.

“Be there to look into his eyes when he wakes,” she said.

I hadn’t dreamed of leaving his side, but since the woman made such a point of it, I asked, “Why?”

“He is being reborn, in a sense. And like other simple-minded creatures, he will imprint on the first person he sees.” She took my hands and squeezed them. “That person needs to be you!”

My gulp was audible, the weight of her words and of my plan suddenly settling within me. They pressed in on me, like that moment when the police came to my door. Their words – “Mr. Fell? I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but … it’s about your husband …” had turned me inside out, left my heart out in the cold.

I felt that cold now.

“Once the potion absorbs into his tissues, it will restart his heart,” she continued. “Then the potion will replicate. It will begin to take the place of his blood. It will make him calm, easier for you to control.”

I nodded again. I wanted to say something, assure the woman that I understood, but she didn’t pause long enough for me to speak. It wouldn’t have mattered. I saw the trepidation in her one, clear eye. I had no clue what to say to make this better.

“It will be a slow process, and you must learn to be a patient man!” She raised her voice, letting go of one hand to waggle an emphatic finger in front of my face. “You will be teaching him, raising him as you would a child. Remember, even if only a small portion of his soul returns, that soul belongs to your husband, and you must love him or this will not work!”

The woman stepped back, out of breath from her outburst, and her granddaughter (whom I had forgotten about) returned, pushing forward an ornate but dusty antique chair to catch her in. I held the woman’s arms gently and helped her into it, feeling strangely protective. The woman sat and waved us both off, not wanting us to make a fuss when she still had more to say.

“But most importantly,” she labored on, barely missing a beat in her speech, “do not let him taste blood.” I knelt down so that she didn’t feel the need to yell for her words to reach me. “He cannot eat meat, but most of all, don’t let him bite you or lick your wounds. Or anyone else’s – human or animal.”

“Will … will I become a zombie? If he does bite me?”

I’m not quite sure why the word ‘zombie’ leapt to my mind. In every interaction I had had with the woman’s granddaughter before tonight, she had been so careful not to use that term. She used other, more romantic euphemisms such as ‘bring back to the land of the living’, ‘re-associate with life’, and the most used - ‘rebirth’. But that’s what he would be, right? When we moved past the flowery vernacular and got right down to it? This potion I had pocketed would turn my husband into the walking dead, - a simple-minded creature that was once deposed from this Earth.

And that meant ‘zombie’.

As if I had nothing more pressing at hand, I suddenly recalled the Walking Dead marathon Crowley had convinced me to watch (against my better judgement). Crowley thought the show was hilarious, but I could barely make it to the middle of the first season. I had started watching with my hands over my eyes, then with my arm locked around Crowley’s, anxiously smacking his shoulder, and finally with most of my body lying over his lap and my face buried in his shirt.

It wasn’t just the gore in the show that skewered me, made me nauseous, unable to breathe. It was the fear and the pain those characters felt, being chased by a relentless enemy that needed no rest, constantly running into people they couldn’t trust, people who were so out for themselves they no longer believed in the sanctity of life, with nowhere to hide, nowhere safe at all, even behind thick, concrete and metal walls.

Watching your loved ones get turned into soulless monsters - still there, but everything about them that you had once loved out of reach.

And this ‘illness’ or whatever these people had - it spared no one. Even children had become zombies. And in the game that was survival for the remaining uninfected, children had become pawns.

Everything about it seemed so horrendous.

And while I suffered through my existential crisis, Crowley laughed at my antics.

I fought not to smile at the sound of his teasing voice.

“Uh … a little squeamish there, are you, angel?”

Angel.

From the first day we met, that’s what he called me.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to hear him call me that again!

The old woman chuckled, bringing me reluctantly back from my daydream. “No. Not in this case. That’s not the nature of this spell. No, blood will give him back his memories.”

I looked at the woman, bug-eyed, and shook my head. “I … I don’t …”

“It will ignite his brain. He will begin to feel. In many ways, he will become more the man you married than in any other.”

“Wha---?“ I stuttered, baffled as to how that could be a bad thing. If drinking blood could make Crowley more Crowley, I’d set up an IV drip the minute I got home! I would serve him cups of blood with every meal! I’d make donating blood a requirement for entrance into my bookshop! (That one would definitely kill two birds with one stone. In fact, I might consider doing that anyhow.) “And why wouldn’t I want that again?” I asked, trying not to sound like turning my husband into a blood-sipping fiend was the greatest idea in known history.

The old woman smiled, but it wasn’t fond. It was shrewd, as if she could read every one of my thoughts.

And she didn’t approve.

“Once he has his memories back, he will start to crave it. Soon, drinking blood won’t be enough for him. It won’t work as well. It won’t keep the memories as fresh. He will have to go further, do more. He will become a killer.”

My face must have gone as green as I felt because the woman laughed again, this time with a touch of wickedness. A killer? My Crowley? My sweet, kind, compassionate Crowley?

Okay, maybe I was going too far with the endearments. He’d been a bit of a bastard, after all. Which was why I could picture Crowley becoming a full-fledged bad boy. With that leather jacket he wore like a second skin and his gleaming classic car, he’d been well on his way.

But a killer? No.

Then again, I was willing to become one myself a second ago, so maybe I wasn’t in the best position to judge.

“You are playing with the laws of nature, Mr. Fell,” she said, patting me on the cheek. “You are responsible not only for your own life, but for the lives of those around you.” The woman leaned in close, those eyes – one alive, one dead - more menacing than when I had walked into the shop; her face no longer that of a frail old woman but of a powerful witch.

This time, it was my turn to feel afraid.

“So don’t fuck it up.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #tricketyboo2020 #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale #Crowley

[toothlessturtle21]

A Love Letter To The Ninjago Fandom

Alright, so this was kinda spur of the moment so forgive me if this is more of a ramble than a letter. I’m a sap at heart I suppose, and so I wrote this to articulate feelings that I’ve held for a while now. It’s not that long, but I hope I get my thoughts across nonetheless. <3

Hey Ninjago Fandom, it’s me, ya girl.

It’s been what, eight years since I discovered the show? I still remember running around in my elementary school playground pretending I was the green ninja. Good times. I went from talking about my favorite characters with my friends, to reading their wiki pages, to writing shitty fanfic in the pages app on my iPad Mini (seriously, I’m so glad that that thing broke. never see the light of day again), to eventually searching for fanfic of my own.

And boy, am I glad I did. The first fanfic I ever read for Ninjago (and my first fanfic ever in general) was one where the ninja got hit by the Megaweapon and were turned into dogs. I was maybe twelve or so at the time. This may seem like the simplest thing ever, but it blew my mind. Someone out there wrote something like that and published it, and I could read it for free. It only encouraged me to write even more of my crappy fanfic, this time a new one, and I started sharing it with one of my best friends, who has most likely since forgotten that it ever happened at all. Hopefully she doesn’t unknowingly follow me on Tumblr. 

Now, I knew I wanted to make a fanfic account. If these people could share their own fic, then why couldn’t I? So, in the prime years of middle school, I finally, finally, made an account on fanfiction.net.

Thank god it happened then and not earlier, because my name would have been something cringy and TheDiamondMinecart-esque, because I was a huge DanTDM fan at the time with hopes of being a Youtuber myself. It would have been horrible. Thank goodness for my How To Train Your Dragon obsession, yeah?

And so I published my first fic.

And dear god, it was awful.

It still exists though, because I’m stupid and haven’t taken it down, so if you only know me on Tumblr and want a good laugh go find my ff.net account. Seriously, I can’t read it because I’ll probably start to cry. Author’s Notes, man... who let me think I needed those?

But you know what? I’m glad I wrote the shitty self-indulgent fic that I did, because I remember the feeling of getting my first review was something like no other. I mean, yeah, it was just telling me to fix my formatting to make the fic even legible at all, but it was still something! It made me want to write more. 

So I did. I wrote my stupid OOC fics and my needless angst and my overdramatic plots, but I had fun. And although my IRL friends don’t know my account name because I’d rather die than show them my old stuff, I’m glad I kept them around for a reminder of how far I’ve come (or at least I hope I have, anyway). 

Teachers have commented for years on how descriptive my writing is, how I can take any topic and find just the right word for it. Yeah, I think, I’ve had years of practice online.

And now I get to the fandom itself.

I only truly started interacting with you guys recently. I was never that into Tumblr or fandom Instagram, so the vast majority of my interaction was through reviews, whether they be AO3 or ff.net DMs asking me to update my newest fic only hours after the last update. 

I joined a discord server (thanks Cy) and started connecting with some other people. I’ve become more active on Tumblr. I’ve started to recognize names, and I’ve realized that some people actually recognize me, which is a scary thought.

But I digress.

You guys were so instrumental to my growth as a human being. You celebrated pride with the characters that I love, you keysmash in my reviews for little reason other than that’s how my stories made you feel, and you actually read my self indulgent fanfiction that I write for a show that was originally created for preteen boys. Seriously, you guys rock.

So I felt the need to thank you. I know not many people will read this, but nonetheless I hope some part of it resonates within you, whether it be the shitty fanfic starting or the cries of plz update in your inbox. Thank you, Ninjago Fandom, for always being there, even though you never knew it mattered.

-Toothlessturtle21

#toothlessturtle21 #ninjago #ninjago fandom #ninjago fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfiction.net #ao3 #love letters #brain dump