#do i think these writers don't know how fucked up the world they wrote is? and that it's odd their mains don't seem to care?

[unofficialadamtaurus]

This thought isn't entirely formed, and I can't make sense of it, but it's really weird how the writers use suffering as a cosmetic signifier for villain status instead of a symptom that reveals the true evil sickness... that is capitalism and hoarded power.

Adam has a branded eye revealed before his death, it shows the disregard for faunus life and how a global conglomerate built capital and shaped the landscapes of society through faunus exploitation and abuse, but adam's suffering as a faunus is just a reason for his madness. Ozma is cursed by god to live as a parasite, watched his children get murdered, and was hunted for centuries by his abuser in a never ending cycle of suffering, but that is all just background stuff for why he lies and trusts no one. Even Cinder was raised in an orphanage where living conditions are abysmal thus showing the lack of social protection and welfare for children, she got human trafficked and wore an electrical collar thus showing how there is canonically a market for slavery, and the huntsman that wanted to help her had no legal channels of freeing her, but that is all just set dressing for why cinder craves power.

I am so confused, because these characters are supposedly hate sinks, especially Adam in particular. Miles has gone on record going on about how he hates adam and he is disgusted while writing adam. And like, my dear old man oz aint getting peace and they said cinder will never change. So, why write them like this? Why give the bloodthirsty monster a wound that shows how he survived a more despicable monster? Why show the lying man behind the curtain's heart of gold that remains beating through centuries of agony? Why reveal that the evil pawn with no purpose fights for the control she never had in life? Bruh, if the writers wanted us to root for the heroes and hate the villains, then just have villains that enables and thrives from systems of abuse and exploitation. Why is rwbyjnorq+ always out here fighting victims of the systems? Is Nicholas Schnee too expensive to model and animate? Is the punk in hope-punk suppose to mean being a cop and protect the systems against villains that are rude about being traumatized? Miles please sit, this is an intervention.

#anon #unofficial adam answers #rwde #yeah even if the thought isn't entirely formed it gets the point across crystal clear #do i think these writers don't know how fucked up the world they wrote is? and that it's odd their mains don't seem to care? #who's to say

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

#every time someones like ''AI will replace u" im like. u will have to fucking KILL ME #there is no replacement here bc i am not filling a position. i am just writing #and the writing is what i need to be doing #writeblr #this probably doesn't make sense bc its sooo frustrating i rarely speak it the way i want to #edited for the typo wrote it and then was late to a meeting lol #i love u people who mention my typos genuinely bc i don't always catch them!!!! :) it is doing me a genuine favor!!! #my friend says i should tell you ''thank you beta editors'' but i don't know what that means #i made her promise it isn't a wolf fanfiction thing. so if it IS a wolf thing she is DEAD to me (just kidding i love her) #hey PS PS PS ??? if ur reading this thinking what it's saying is ''i am financially capable of losing this'' ur reading it wrong #i write for free. i always have. i have worked 5-7 jobs at once to make ends meet. #i did not grow up with access or money. i did not grow up with connections or like some kind of excuse #i grew up and worked my fucking ASS OFF. and i STILL!!! wrote!!! on the side!!! because i didn't know how not to!!! #i do not write for money!!!! i write because i fuckken NEED TO #i could be in the fucking desert i could be in the fuckken tundra i could be in total darkness #and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it #im not in any way saying it's a good thing. i'm not in any way implying that they're NOT tryna kill us #i'm saying. you could take away our jobs and we could go hungry and we could suffer #and from that suffering (if i know us) we'd still fuckin make art. #i would LOVE to be able to make money doing this! i never have been able to. but i don't NEED to. i will find a way to make my life work #even if it means being miserable #but i will not give up this thing. for the whole world.

[odinsblog]

“One weird, silver lining positive from the WGA's strike has been a sense of calm over a reality that has plagued me with anxiety for years — the fact that despite having a great agent, manager, and lawyer, despite having been in hundreds of rooms with top execs and producers, despite having pitched countless networks, and despite having sold multiple pilots and pitches, I still work in food and bev. For so long, it felt like such an embarrassment in so many ways because it felt like I was the only one who was biding time in between sales with a side hustle. When I would tell people at work that I wrote television, they'd look at me like I had ten heads, or like I was delusional. They couldn't IMAGINE someone who *actually* wrote television would also be asking them what temp they wanted their salmon.

But the reality is, TV money goes fast, especially when it's just a pilot sale. And if shit doesn't get picked up to series, that money only lasts for so long. Being responsible meant swallowing my pride and keeping a job that was more consistent and steady but also gave me the ability to take pitch meetings, to write on my down time, do rewrites, answer e-mails, and take notes calls.

And for so long I thought I was a minority in that regard. Like I had done something wrong to not be successful enough to rely solely on my career as a writer.

Yet the strike has pushed SO many stories to the forefront of writers doing the exact same thing I've done, GOOD writers, great writers, writers who shit I watch all the time, whose names I instantly recognize, whose reputations in this industry precede them. So when the studios leaked that the goal was to bleed writers dry, to make it so we lost our homes, I had to laugh. Writers like me will literally do anything to keep the dream of writing alive. It's in us. It never goes away, no matter how many steaks you server, how many martinis you mix, how many cold calls you make, how many Uber passengers you pick up, how many pizzas you have to deliver. We always always always find a way to make it to that next great hope of a pitch, a sale, a green light.

And that's how you know that the CEOs are so fucking out of touch with reality. With the industry. With the POINT of the industry the point for most (not all, but most) has never been to be filthy rich, or own a yacht, or even have a membership to SoHo house. It's been to make something we love. To see it come to life, and make other people happy, or sad, or angry, or scared. To take this story you have kicking around your head and turn it into some epic journey. To be part of the process of making worlds and characters come to life. To tell stories.

The CEO's point has been to make as much money as humanly possible. And so they think that's all there is motivating writers. it's not. It never has been. Just because those CEO's wouldn't wait tables or mix drinks or drive a Lyft in order to keep a dream going, doesn't mean the rest of us wouldn't. The CEO's don't have a dream, they have a lifestyle. And I promise you a dream is a much better motivator than a yacht or a Porsche.

Try to bleed us dry, guys. Just because you'd let your own dream bleed to death, doesn't mean we would. We will always find a way to keep it alive.”

—Stefanie Williams, a tv writer on strike

#hollywood #writers strike #corporate greed #bob iger #disney #living wages #wga strong #sag aftra #writers #writing #dreams

[mangowafflesss]

HATRED FOR YOU | PART. 1

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Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem!Writer!Reader

Summary: You are a writer who spends most of your days and nights writing your next book in the series. The man next door who you don't think likes you very much is obsessed with your books. What will happen when he finds out you are the very writer he loves so much?

[Part 2] [Part 3]

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The rhythmic tapping of your fingers against the side of your desk filled the room as you thought of something to write for your book. It was the fourth in your most popular series and you were… stuck. 

Glancing down at the time on your computer screen you groaned when you realised you stayed up the whole night staring at the bright light of your screen. It wasn't all too bad though seeing as you wrote a whole entire chapter with the little burst of motivation you had at 9pm. 

Feeling the slight rumble in your stomach you sigh softly while making sure everything was saved and okay before turning off your computer and swivelling your chair from under your desk. Rubbing your eyes, you trudge out of your office and go searching through your kitchen pantry looking for something. Anything. 

Frowning, you sadly couldn't find anything quick to snack on that didn’t have to be put in the oven or have multiple ingredients added to it. Your fridge didn't have much luck either with just some cheese and condiment bottles lining the door. 

Looking at the time again - noticing it had only been five minutes - you scrunch your face up at the thought of leaving your apartment so early but you also know your favourite bakery down the street had just opened five minutes ago. 

“Fuck it, I deserve a treat after what I just wrote” you say to your reflection as you slid on some shoes by your front door. The mirror on the wall showed the real you and it was something you hated, the tired look on your face that you cover with a smile or a ‘I’m okay’ if someone asks you something. 

Blowing out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you wrapped your coat around yourself and also a fluffy scarf to keep the colder morning away from your neck as if it was a vampire. 

Pulling open your door you're met with quiet and softly closed the door behind you, not wanting to disturb your still sleeping neighbours. You pressed the button for the elevator and waited for it to arrive while looking out of the window that was next to you. It was foggy and looked cold, you loved the cold but sometimes it was just a little bit too cold. 

Getting into the elevator you pressed the button to the ground floor and rolled your shoulders to relieve some of the tension you have in them. You knew sitting at your desk for hours every day was bad for you but the benefits from doing so was worth it. You have gotten many messages from readers all around the world telling you all about how they love your books and how somehow they've helped them. It filled a sense of pride in you that you didn��t know you needed. 

When you got to the bakery you smiled so hard when you smelt the familiar scent of sugar and vanilla. This will always have a special place in your heart as this is where you spent most of your time writing your first book, where you also felt the sense of hopelessness for the first time. The owner, Rocco, had helped pull you out of that stump with his wise words and baked goods - and a lot of them - you dedicated the first page of every book you’ve written to him and it will never change. 

Pushing open the heavy door, the scent from the outside got stronger the further to the counter you went. You felt as if a heavy blanket got placed over your shoulders at the familiarity of the small bakery, it made you feel as if you were home. 

“Y/N?! Oh my, what do I owe the pleasure so early in the morning” the tanned blonde called out to you as soon as he heard the door jingle. 

“Some of those shortbreads you know I adore” you looked at the display case that showcases the specials for the day and also the classics everyone loves. 

“Hard night or should I say morning?” He laughs while placing three equal pieces of shortbread into a small paper packet. You sigh while resting your arm on top of the counter while holding your head up with your hand “Do I look that bad?” You ask with a groan which just makes the man laugh. 

“Do you want anything else?” He asks while taking a sip from his coffee. You hum while sliding your eyes over to the case again. “I’ll try the midnight delights, they look delicious” your mouth was practically watering at the sight of them, you didn’t know what was in them but as long as they taste good as they look you don’t care. 

“Do you have any food in the house? Need Steph to get you anything?” You shake your head while hiding a yawn behind your hand “Nah I’m all good, just went grocery shopping a couple days ago” you lie straight through your teeth but you know Rocco could see through your lies. 

“Alright, here’s your stuff, now get out and get some sleep” he pushes the paper packets your way and you hold a hand over your chest feigning disgust. 

“Is that a way you should be treating customers?! How dare you, I’ll be leaving a bad review after I eat these delicious goods!” You say while slamming some cash into the tip jar and blowing a kiss as you back out of the door. 

You giggle the whole way back to your apartment with your hand full of your favourite things. Once you stood in the elevator you pressed the button to your floor and snapped off some shortbread before plopping it into your mouth. 

The doors to the elevator stopped and you looked at the gloved hand that was in between them. The doors reopened and a man strode into the elevator, he stood next to you and pressed the number which leads to the same floor you are on.  

Oh. 

You try to catch a glimpse at his face but it's covered with a scarf and you didn’t want to catch him staring at you like a creep - especially if he is your neighbour. You really want to see his face, but how? 

You clear your throat before holding up your bag of shortbread “Would you like one? They’re freshly baked and really tasty” you rattle it to get his attention and he looks down at them before raking his eyes over to your face. You give him a friendly smile but it was a sort of grimace due to you having zero energy. 

The elevator stops and the doors open to your floor, he walks out immediately and you stand there with your arm still up in the air looking like an idiot. You watch as he marches down the small hallway with his bag swishing as he moves. Okay, maybe he doesn’t like shortbread. 

Shrugging your shoulders you go to your door and unlock it but before you walk inside you see the same man looking at you over his shoulder before walking into his apartment and shutting the door behind him. 

You look around your apartment and sigh as you take in the dirty atmosphere, there is a small layer of dust on your things and a pile of dirty dishes either in the sink or on the counter. Placing down the baked goods you take off your coat and shoes before rolling up your sleeves. It wasn’t going to get done and it will probably be on your mind the entire time you even try and get some sleep. 

You cleaned your little home in an hour and stood in the middle of your living room with your hands on your hips taking in your work. You had your eyes locked onto your vacuum cleaner and made a noise with your mouth as you thought about it. You eventually decided against it when you realised it was only eight in the morning and it wasn’t probably what people wanted to hear right now. 

Taking a quick shower, you then crawl into your bed but accidentally stubbed your toe on the bed frame with how fast you were moving. “Ah, fuck me. Stupid bed frame” you crumbled onto your bed and cradled your foot in your hand while rolling on your side like a foetus. When you finally got over that little moment, you got under the covers and closed your eyes tightly before dozing off into a land of dreams. 

On the other side of the wall, however, Ghost sat awake. He had heard you hitting your toe on the side of your bed and could hear the cars moving around outside of his open window. The cool breeze made the room drop in temperature but Ghost didn’t mind and much preferred to sleep in these conditions. 

He wouldn’t be able to go to sleep yet so he reached over to his bedside table and picked up his copy of ‘Hatred for You’ and turned to the first page. The pages were worn and he had read it many times along with the others in the series but he wanted to read them all from the beginning. He'd never wanted anyone to know he read such books and didn’t ever let them leave his apartment but he was obsessed with them. 

He loved the writer. 

The writer who was currently on the other side of his bedroom wall sleeping.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x female reader #ghost x female reader #simon ghost x reader #call of duty

[bluespiritshonour]

Oh my God!

I just caught up with World's Finest: Teen Titans and I absolutely have to write this out:

First of all, I love this cover:

The thing that caught my eye: “you're grounded.”

Not the dramatic “you're fired” as if the motherfucker didn't raise that damn kid in his own damn house for YEARS.

(I know. I know. Bar on the ground, but what would you?)

Also, the anger palpable on Bruce's face and Dick's absolute disregard for it. I'm laughing here y'all. This is what teenagers act like. This is what fights between parents and children look like.

Also. Dick Grayson, I've been missing. You're back from war!

I love how curt he is. The “Get lost” hits in all the right places. We love a strongly-principled character that stands for what he believes in. With all the lukewarm Dick Grayson writing floating around I felt like walking into a coffee shop while it's snowing outside.

More of this writing, please.

I'd been waiting for this moment all through this series.

This conversation.

I compare things all the time. It might not be the right thing in every field but I think it serves well when it comes to comic books. We all have personal “canon criteria”—for example, mine are “Darwyn Cooke wrote this Bruce so I'm taking it as valid characterisation ” or “Every version of Bruce played by Kevin Conroy is valid”. (Minus Bruce Timm bullshit!)

Which was what cinched my hatred for Bruce after reading a Robin short story that Cooke wrote and alluded to Robin: Year One in it. I mean, I might not fuck with Dixon, but am I going to call even Cooke's Bruce OOC? No. It means Bruce is a jerk. Full stop.

Waid is one of the writers I respect (excluding Kingdom Come. I hate it and I can't put my finger on the why. But I just do: I hate it. I hate it for Clark. I hate it for Diana. And I'm a professional Bruce-hater so let's not even go there. I hate it for Dick too.)

And Dick and Bruce's relationship has a lot of baggage from the fact that a) Bruce is himself traumatised and fails to meet Dick's emotional needs b) he wasn't ready to be a father when he adopted Dick c) Dick simply suffers from being the eldest—the test child.

And very rarely have I seen writers manage to walk on the thin line of complicated-but-dedicated-and-strong.

Young Justice cartoon did it. Dick and Bruce's relationship is going strong. But they fight and have different values. And Dick can see all that is wrong with Bruce's approach to vigilantism in particular and life in general.

Grimm (Legends of the Dark Knight #149-154) did it right. Where Bruce hurt Dick deeply and made him feel unwanted all the while overthinking about Dick's well-being. Way to go, buddy! You can see the repercussions it has for Dick while simultaneously stare at this man who's tying himself into knots trying to think how best to parent.

I think that's what most Bruce and Dick comics miss: the excessive worrying. They don't show the worry, make them fight for drama, never address it apart from throwing out a “it's because Bruce's worried” (bitch, where?) and have Dick running back to Gotham at the first chance. It sounds an awful lot like “your parents hurt you 'cause they love you” bullshit.

I think World's Finest manages it well because foremost, Bruce says, in words, that he's worried about Dick's well-being. He's taciturn, he's putting constant pressure on Dick all in the hopes of making him quit Titans. All this makes him a jerk. But I don't hate him for it.

It's between Dick's “you don't trust me” and Bruce's “no, I don't trust them.”

Most teenagers clash with their parents. It's normal. That's what Waid has shown here and I love it. It feels very—normal?

Especially when the Bats aren't normal! Bruce sure as fuck ain't a normal parent. But there was something very bitter-sweet coming-of-age in this conversation.

Bruce does all those things that are bad for Dick and his growing independence. You're not supposed to handle teenagers like that.

He's worried and taking desperate measures. “If I punish him, then maybe he'll obey me and quit Titans and then he'll he safe”—lots of parents who don't know how to deal with teenagers do it.

But the sequence of it: Bruce is worried → Bruce wants Dick to quit Titans → for Dick it means proving himself to be better, to not get hurt (as if he can control that beyond a certain point) → Bruce being alarmed at Dick's insistence to stay with the Titans and taking desperate measures like benching him.

At least it makes sense.

Compare it to Dixon's Nightwing origin story, which honestly, personally I think was lazy writing. Drama for drama's sake. “You’re fired because you're spending too much time with the Titans.” The same writer also had Bruce say that he did it because he wanted Dick to strike out on his own. Blah, blah, blah.

And no matter whatever happens he'd never ever say it to Dick's face that he's worried about him because—well, reasons.

Robin: Year One logic:

I'm worried about Dick's health so I fire him. He runs off and can get hurt? He joins a school for assasins? None of my business. He can get hurt on his own, I don't care as long as it is not on my conscience. Peace.

—Bruce “professional narcissist” Wayne.

So, yes. When faced with this book(WF: TT), I'd call Dixon's writing lazy.

I'm also comparing this to several other instances when Bruce verbally says (never to Dick, mind you) that he loves that Dick's a better person and better vigilante than him. But in the same book he'd yell at Dick for exactly the same thing. (I consider that lazy writing, since BTAS made sure to show a shot of Bruce smiling whenever Dick was happy/not like him).

I like this thing here where he says it to Dick's face. He's still grounding him for “discipline's sake” or whatever—very, very IC for Bruce.

But he also lets Dick know that he appreciates his values, that are different—better—than Bruce's own.

I can stomach that.

Honestly Bruce's writing in this book felt like BtAS writing (pre-Bruce Timm fuckery). That's a compliment.

P.S. Waid's a good story-teller overall. His Superman: Birthright was one of the first Superman comics I read and I fell in love with Clark right away.

Peace ✌️😂

#dick grayson #bruce wayne #batman #world's finest #teen titans #robin #titans #wf: tt #world's finest: teen titans #dc #comics

[sissylittlefeather]

Role Play Part 5: Something Borrowed

A/N: Well, shit. I accidentally finished this series. If you're a writer, you understand how sometimes these stories just write themselves. If you don't write, let me just tell you sometimes it really feels like I am just a pen for words with a life of their own. So, this chapter wrote itself and ended the series. Will there be an epilogue? Oh yeah. But please enjoy the end of this series. It's been a labor of love.

Need to catch up? Here is my Masterlist

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, kissing, cussing, p in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, angst

Word count: ~3.2k

In the morning, Elvis wakes up before you. That's strange, because he rarely wakes up before the afternoon, but he seems to sleep better with you there. At first, he lays there holding you, listening to the even pattern of your breathing. He knows he has to tell you to go home today, but the prospect of doing so is not a pleasant one. He slides out from under you and goes to the bathroom and gets a glass of water. When he comes back, you're still asleep, naked, laying on your stomach with your hair spread out across your back and the pillow. You look so peaceful and angelic in your sleep. For a second, he considers pulling out his camera and taking some photos of you. This is the image he'd like to keep, that he wakes up every morning thinking about. Your eyelashes flutter and he sets the glass of water on the nightstand, slipping back into the bed beside you.

You feel his hand on your back as he strokes your hair and it makes you shiver. Groaning and stretching, you scoot over close to him and put your arms around his waist. You feel him kiss the top of your head and linger there, inhaling your scent.

He's trying to figure out how to tell you to leave when all he wants in the world is for you to stay right there in his arms. But that's exactly why you need to go. He'll tell you when you're more awake. It would just be cruel to do it while you're still half asleep.

After a few more minutes you sit up and yawn. You kiss his shoulder and roll over him out of the bed to go to the bathroom. He watches your hips sway as you walk away from him and before he knows it, he's fully erect. That's when he hears the shower start. You come out of the bathroom and he looks you up and down all the way to your perfectly painted toenails.

"Thought I'd hop in the shower. You want to join me?" You say it seductively and do a little shimmy to tempt him. His cock is so hard it hurts, so it's impossible not to notice when he stands up. "Mmm. Good morning, soldier. You comin'?"

He growls and wraps himself around you as you turn to walk back to the bathroom, whispering in your ear.

"Not yet, but I bet I will be soon." You giggle and the sound fills the room in a way that makes his heart swell. As you tumble into the shower together, he decides he can tell you to go home after this is finished. One last time won't hurt.

In the shower, you fall into each other easily and it's all mouths and hands and moans and whimpers as he slides in and out of you, your wet skin hot against his. He starts out behind you with your hands against the shower wall as he holds your hips with both of his. Then, he turns you and picks you up, pressing your back against the wall and fucking into you with every ounce of his power. The steamy smell of sex fills the bathroom and you both get louder and louder as you approach your climax together. The water runs down both of your bodies and mixes with your sweat, your hair sticking to your forehead and shoulders.

"Oh, fuck, YES!" He finally yells as he slams into you one last time and fills you with his warmth. You can't make any noises as your orgasm pounds you and you lose hearing in your left ear. All you can do is hold onto him and shake as he kisses your neck and cheeks and mouth. Slowly, he sets you back down, but your legs are so wobbly that he switches the shower to a bath and sits down with you, situating himself behind you so that you're leaning against his chest.

"Are you okay, honey?"

"Mmm yeah, I'm better than okay. That was amazing."

"Yeah, it was." He tries to get up the courage to ask you to leave after the bath, but he just can't. Maybe he'll let himself enjoy this day with you and you can leave tonight.

******

You spend the next half hour or so in the bathtub together just talking and cuddling until the water isn't warm and your skin starts to prune. Finally, you get out and get dressed. He watches as you put on makeup and fix your hair. Every detail of you is interesting to him and he wants to memorize your every move.

You make your way to the kitchen together and eat some sandwiches before he takes you to show you around the house. He makes sure you get a taste of what each room has to offer: a game of pool, some TV, the piano, and he even lets you actually shoot a couple of his guns. You're out in the yard with the horses when the sun starts to set and he asks what you want for dinner.

"I can have the staff whip up pretty much anything you want."

"No. I have a better idea." The devious glint in your eye makes him nervous.

"What?"

"We're cooking."

"I can't cook!"

"Good thing I can. I'll show you. You can be my little helper." He rolls his eyes and puts his arms around you.

"Honey, are you sure?"

"It'll be fun. Come on. When have you not had fun with me?"

"That's true. Alright, we can try it." He leans in and kisses you deeply. Dinner. Then you have to go home.

******

In the kitchen, there's food everywhere as you try to make a meal out of the ingredients you found. Not surprisingly, you found stuff to make meatloaf and mashed potatoes. You also insist on sautéing some zucchini to go with it. He's not sure why you need a vegetable, but you tell him he'll eat it anyway. He peels potatoes, or tries to but he keeps dropping them in the sink and cussing, and mixes the meatloaf for you. He does not appreciate the texture of it on his hands, but for you he'll do just about anything. Luckily, you made him take his rings off before starting this process. Finally, pretty much everything is done and you're just waiting for the meatloaf to finish baking. You're at the sink doing dishes and he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you, setting his chin on your shoulder. He does this so often and it's your favorite thing.

"You look pretty doing dishes in my kitchen."

"Oh yeah? You like your women domestic?"

"I like you domestic." He kisses your cheek and your ear and down to the back of your neck. You grab a towel and dry your hands and then turn to face him. He kisses your mouth, parting your lips and sending his tongue to move against yours. With his hands on your hips, he walks you to another counter and picks you up, setting your bottom on the countertop. It's impressive how quickly he gets your pants and panties off and tossed to the side. Your hands go to the clasp on his pants and you drop them just enough to pull his cock out. He's mostly hard already and it only takes a few seconds of you stroking him with your hand to get him erect enough to push into you. You both let out a moan at the relief of him being inside you again. It feels like you'll never get enough of that sensation and he begins to slide in and out of you in a steady rhythm. He's convinced he could fuck you a million times and it still wouldn't get old. He pumps faster and faster, speeding haphazardly towards his climax, slamming into you harder and harder. He nips at your neck while he pounds you and you drag your nails down the back of his shirt. There's something very comfortable and intimate about the way he fucks you this time and it feels like you're going to keep doing it like this forever. He buries himself in you over and over again, hitting the most sensitive place inside you each time. You feel your orgasm beginning to build and you know you won't last much longer in this position. He seems to be experiencing the same thing as he grunts while he ruts into you. He looks down at the place where you connect and it nearly pushes him over the edge.

"God, baby, I could do this forever."

"I wish you would."

"Mm... mmm... baby, fuck!" His hips meet yours one last time and he cums deep inside you again. You hold him to you while you both think about what he said just seconds ago. Did he really say forever?

Just then the timer for the meatloaf goes off and you both jump. He erupts in laughter and you both stand there laughing and holding each other for another minute or so. Then, he pulls out and hands you your pants so you can get the meatloaf out. Both of you pretend to forget about what he said as you sit down to eat.

******

After dinner, he knows it is time for you to leave, but instead he offers up the idea of a movie in the TV room. You eagerly agree, completely oblivious to the fact that he's been trying to ask you to leave all day. He throws his arm around you and lets you snuggle into your place on his shoulder. Or at least, it sure feels like it's your place. The movie goes on and you laugh together and almost cry together at one part. He tells himself that as soon as it's over, he'll walk you to the door, give you a quick kiss, and be done with it.

And then he hears how evenly you breathe and notices how limp your hand is on his knee.

You're asleep.

His heart leaps and he smiles. He can't make you go home now. It would just be irresponsible to send you driving off this sleepy. Instead, he turns and scoops you into his arms. He carries you up both flights of stairs to the bedroom and lays you in the bed, sliding in next to you. He's laying behind you, so he looks down at you and watches you sleep for a bit. Then, you roll over to face him. He moves your hair out of your face and kisses your forehead.

It takes everything in him not to whisper that he loves you.

******

The next morning, you wake up first. Elvis breathes softly next to you and you run your fingertips down his nose and jawline, where the shadow of his facial hair has appeared overnight. Your heart breaks a little when you realize this is the last time you'll wake up next to him for a while. Maybe ever. It certainly feels like there's something real between you, but you can never be sure. He is still married.

You're trying to hold back tears when he stirs and groans. He puts his arm around you and pulls you in close to him and then kisses your forehead.

"Good morning, baby."

"I'm sorry I fell asleep last night. We didn't even get to do a role play."

"Are you kidding? We role played a married couple all day. You falling asleep on the couch before we could have sex was just part of the act."

You both laugh and try to ignore the implications of what he's just said. To keep it light, he doubles down.

"Now I just need you to nag me all morning and then it'll feel more real." You sit up and grab a pillow, hitting him with it gently.

"Oh yeah? That's the kind of wife you think I'd be?"

"Is there such a thing as a wife that doesn't nag? You made me eat a vegetable."

"Elvis! You little shit! It's good for you!" You hit him again with the pillow and he grabs it.

"Ahh, stop, this is exactly what I'm talking about!" He hits you with the pillow and then wrestles you down on the bed until he's on top of you. He leans in and kisses you gently.

This time he undresses you both carefully, dropping kisses onto your skin whenever he gets a chance. He takes the time to caress your body and press his lips and tongue in all the right places. Your orgasm washes over you like water and runs out to the edges of you sensually. When he pushes into you, he goes slowly so that you can feel every inch of him. He's unbearably gentle and he kisses you deeply and passionately while he slides in and out. There's nothing rushed or harsh or animalistic in the way he meets your hips with his. And he's noticeably silent, only letting a soft moan escape him here and there. When he presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes while he shudders and fills you with warmth, you realize what's happening.

He's making love to you.

And he's telling you goodbye.

When he's finished, he lays his head on your chest and you swear he's trying not to cry. You hold him and let the tears slide onto the sheets while he can't see them. He lays there for a while just trying to breathe and you finally get ahold of yourself.

"I should probably head out soon."

"Yeah, probably." He manages to drag himself up out of the bed and put some clothes on while you do the same and pack up all the things you've strewn around the room since you've been there. You do this in silence without meeting each other's eyes.

Finally, you find yourself at the door just standing in front of him and staring at your shoes. Your heart is pounding.

"You know, honey, we probably should... well... I don't know if we should..." You know what he's trying to say and if it's really the end then you have nothing to lose.

"Elvis..."

"Yeah?" He looks up at you nervously and you finally make eye contact.

"I love... being with you. But-" When you start the sentence his heart jumps into his throat, but the last half of it drops it to his stomach. Hearing you say the words might've changed his mind. But he can't be in a one-sided love affair. Not while he's still married.

"This is over." He says it with an undeniable finality that cuts through you like a knife.

"Okay. I understand."

"It's been really great. You're really great and I-"

"It's okay." You put your finger on his lips before he says something he doesn't mean. Then you turn and open the door and walk out to your car. You drive away and try not to let yourself cry. Elvis goes back in the house, picks up the closest knick knack, and throws at the wall as hard as he can.

He stands with his hands on his hips looking up at the ceiling, his flowered silk shirt sticking to his back from the sweat. You almost said it. You were so close. Do you love him? His mind races over all the times you were together: the way you breathed life into him with the cop scenario, how you laid together talking until the sun came up after the French maid, when you let him take that dirty picture of you and how you felt sleeping against his chest, and this weekend. This weekend. It's happened fast, but he's in love with you. The thought of never seeing you again, never feeling the calm that settles in him when you're around, never hearing your laugh, it's unbearable.

"Fuck it."

He grabs a set of keys and heads to the carport. He has to look to see which set he grabbed and makes his way to the Blackhawk, quickly unlocking it and sliding into the front seat.

As he drives, it starts to drizzle, but he makes his way across town quickly. Luckily, he remembers where your apartment is. When he gets to the complex, he swings into a parking space and gets out and stares at the buildings in front of him. He remembers the address, but not the apartment number.

"Goddammit." He goes from building to building trying to remember. He figures out which building it is, but doesn't know which staircase to use. Finally, he just looks up and yells at the top of his lungs.

"Y/N!!!!!"

You've been moping around the apartment for the last twenty minutes, just letting all the tears you've been holding in fall. Your hair is a mess and you probably have makeup everywhere. But it doesn't matter. Your heart is in pieces and you're about to just crawl in bed for the afternoon. That's when you hear him. You run to the window and open it. The rain is starting to come down pretty good now.

"Elvis! What are you doing here?!"

"COME DOWN HERE!"

"It's raining!"

"I'm aware! Come down here anyway!" Your heart is pounding in your chest with hope for why he's here. You run to the front door and open it. You don't even think to bring an umbrella or jacket or anything. You just walk out into the rain towards him. When you get to him, he stands in front of you breathing heavily.

"Elvis, what-?"

"I love you." It takes your breath away.

"You what?!"

"I-I-I I love you. I'm in love with you." You stand there in awe, heart stopped and breathing shallow. "And I don't even care anymore if you don't-"

"I love you, too, Elvis."

"You do?"

"Yes!! Of course I do!" He smiles and laughs, relaxing. Then, he steps forward and wraps you in his arms, capturing your lips in one of the most passionate kisses you've ever experienced. Your mouths move against each other in a rhythmic tandem that only the two of you understand. The rain continues, but you don't even notice how wet you are. There is only you and him and your love for each other. He scoops you into his arms and carries you up the stairs to your apartment, still kissing you. When you get there, he kicks the door open and carries you straight to the bedroom.

But this time you don't have sex. You strip off your wet clothes and lay naked in the bed together. No costumes, no props, no pretending. Just the two of you. You talk and laugh and kiss and the love between you grows stronger by the second. The situation around you may be complicated, but you and him together is not. You'll figure the rest of it out. You love him and he loves you. Nothing else matters.

******

The End

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

@ccab @elvisfatass @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @deltafalax

#elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis smut #elvis presley fic #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley #elvis fic #elvis fanfiction #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley smut #elvis presley x you #role play

[that-sarcastic-writer]

Heartless

Takeshi Kovacs X F!Reader

Summary: you get hurt, and all you want is for Takeshi to comfort you

Warnings: explicit sexual content, minors dni, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, choking, praising, bit of soft!dom!Tak, creampie, explicit language, mentions of murder, blood, typical violence for this show

WC: 4.5k

A/N: please I know, lia you wrote something??? Ik, fucking wild. Its been like 6months lmao. But I was rewatching altered carbon and man I really missed tak. I might slowly dive back into my joel era but for now this is this. I dedicate this to @a-reader-and-a-writer. If this flops oh well, at least I was happy writing it.

You often regretted your life choices. Stupid decisions you made as a teenager that ultimately led you into a world of violence and death. It seemed never ending. Because no matter how many times you tried to go straight, use your skills and intelligence for something good, your reputation always preceded you, and you would end up in the same place; with a gun in your hand, covered in blood, and with another body to add to your conscience. Though, ninety percent of the time it wasn't your fault. Just like this time it was not your fault. Trouble just seemed to find you. Or you liked to find trouble, or maybe both. 

“Ah Miss, what a pleasant surprise.” The AI that was this lovely hotel greeted you. “Oh. It appears that you are injured. Do you require medical assistance?” 

You looked down at your blood stained clothes and hands, you felt the slightest throb on your shoulder from where a bullet had grazed you, and the stinging burn on your side from where a switchblade slashed at your skin. But to be completely honest you had grown numb to it. You simply shrugged. 

“Nope. Just need a shower and some tequila.” You waved him off and you walked straight to the elevator, but before you entered, you turned around in your tracks to narrow your eyes at Poe. “Where is Takeshi?”

“Ah, Mr. Kovacs is not here at the moment. He left some hours ago to attend to some private matters he didn't disclose with me.” He answered plainly and you nodded. 

“Shocker. Well if he comes, don't tell him I'm here? Cool? Great.” You were about to go up to the room you used whenever you and Takeshi were fighting, when Poe spoke again. 

“Why is that? Wouldn't he like to know you are injured?” 

“Oh fuck, no. Don't even tell him you saw me like this.”  

Takeshi would go absolutely mad if someone spoke to you the wrong way. You still remember one time you joined him on one of his interrogations, for one reason or another. The man wouldn't keep his eyes off you, though you paid it no mind, you were used to men being nothing short of disgusting, or them calling you every sexual name in the book. But Takeshi? Man, pissed was nothing to describe the level of anger going through him. He didn't stop until the man was nothing but red. You, of course, while amused by his protectiveness of you, got him to stop. 

“Tak, sweetheart, you need him conscious and breathing, don't you think?” 

“He won't be doing much of either anymore.” 

Takeshi was cute when he was angry, more so when he was overprotective of you. But even then, there were some lines you never wanted to cross. And if he ever saw you like this, the thought of someone hurting you like this would drive him mad. No stack would be left unharmed by him if he had any say in the matter. 

So for the sake of the men you did leave alive, it would be best if Tak didn't see you like this. 

“Well, why not?” Poe pushed, clearly he didn't understand the level of insanity Takeshi was capable of reaching. 

“Because, if Tak sees me like this, he is not going to be very happy. He is going to actually cut somebody's head off—Again. Actually no, scratch that, he is going to decapitate and destack a lot of somebody's,” You said as slowly and as clearly as you possibly could, pausing to stare at the hologram as if to make a point. “So do not tell Takeshi I'm here, or that you saw me like this.” 

So much for wanting to stay out of trouble for once. 

~~~~~~

Man what a fucking shitshow. Truly, he didn't understand when the world had gotten so damn complicated. He didn't like to leave messes, he really didn't, but sometimes people would just force his hand, he had to get answers one way or another. 

He should call you. Yes. He should do that. If there was one thing in this fucked up reality of his that he knew would never go wrong, it was seeing you. 

“Mr. Kovacs,” Poe appeared at the bar, getting Takeshi's attention, but he didn't even bother to look. “I was not expecting to see you tonight. Were you able to attend to your matters?” 

“Yeah.” Was all he responded to as he walked towards the elevator. His eyes were glued to the ground as a cigarette hung from his lips, he was tired and annoyed, frustrated and even more tired, but something caught his attention as he thought about his own self misery. 

Blood. 

“Why is there blood here?” He asked Poe with a slight shift from apathy to alarm as he traced the trails of blood droplets back the way he came.

“Oh… Yes.. That… Well you see.” 

“Was someone here?” He asked with sharpness in his naturally baritone voice, looking around for anything out of place or broken, but everything looked normal. 

“No. Well… Yes.. But..” 

Takeshi’s head snapped to look at the AI, eyes narrowed as he stared intensely, waiting for an answer. 

Oh. It better not be. 

~~~~~~

Just get in the shower. You can do that, can't you? 

Apparently you struggled more than you should have with that. It wasn't like you had a bullet in you, but then again, you also had gotten thrown through a table, and punched repeatedly, and stabbed, and shot—kind of. But man was the pain starting to infect every muscle, every joint, every crevice of your body. You weren't exactly sure how you got out of the shower. But you managed to wash the dried blood off you. Though you were still left with two open wounds that were most likely going to have to be cauterized. 

You weren't going to enjoy this very much. 

You were hoping to just throw yourself on the bed and get it over with before Takeshi decided to spontaneously show up. By then your wounds would have been closed, what were two new scars? It's not like Takeshi would notice two more among so many. Or maybe he would notice, but by then it would have been enough time for him to be angry about it but not actually do anything about it. 

Pushing through the now throbbing pain shooting through your shoulder every time you moved your arm, you managed to get yourself into your underwear, but that was as far as that went. 

You had made it halfway from the bathroom to your bed when you heard your name being called, rather loudly, by a voice you were all too familiar with.

Well fuck. 

Takeshi followed the blood. There were drops on the elevator floor, stains on the buttons of the elevator. When the door opened, he followed the drops as his heart began to race. It wasn't a lot of blood, you weren't bleeding out, that was for sure, but his mind wouldn't stop racing. He called your name as he walked further into your room. 

His jaw tightened at the sight of you, slightly hunched over, holding your side as you limped across the room. And the look you gave him was one of deer in headlights. 

“Takeshi…” Your voice was hesitant, soft, wary as you leaned on one of the couches to support yourself. 

He was in front of you in three, maybe four, long, heavy strides. His eyes were frantic, darting all over as he looked over your face. Your eye looked like it was going to bruise, your lip split and your jaw looked angry with a forming bruise. 

“Who..” His words were barely audible, just barely above a rasp as he gripped your non bruised jaw tightly, forcing you to look at him. 

“Tak…” 

“Who the fuck did this to you?” 

You should not be getting wet at the sound of his angry words, but the rasp laced in his tongue had you clenching your thighs together. Takeshi was hot when he was angry. 

“It's fine, Tak. I'm fine, really.” You looked up to find his frantic eyes filled with fiery emotions, his jaw clenching and unclenching with each uneven breath he took. “You should see the other guy.” 

Normally Takeshi found your dry humor amusing. But he couldn't get himself to even let out a chuckle, instead he huffed as he looked over your face. 

“I want a name. Right now.” His words were barely audible, between huffs and puffs as he begrudgingly helped you sit down on the loveseat. You couldn't help but roll your eyes. 

“Can't. Kinda shot him in the stack.” You answered flatly, huffing out a small breath as you threw your head back over the armrest. Takeshi narrowed his eyes at you, noting each bruise and mark on your torso, including the angry looking cut on your side. 

“This wasn't just one person,” it wasn't a question, it was a fact, he knew that. He stared blankly at you as he waited for your response. The sigh you let out was confirmation enough. “What happened? And I want an answer without the attitude.” 

You winced, a hiss of discomfort leaving your mouth as he ran the laser over the large gash on your side. You closed your eyes, counting to five in your head before you answered. 

“I thought I was going in for a job. Something about needing access to some encrypted files,” You recalled what you had so innocently assumed to be just a simple hacking job, in and out with a decent pay, oh how mistaken you were. “The dude that had contacted me suddenly starts getting all up in my face, and asks me some weird questions about you. And when I told him to fuck off, his friends came out.” 

You shot him a glare when he silently moved to your shoulder, but that one was less deep so it didn't hurt as much, it definitely didn't hurt as much as when the bullet actually touched your skin though. 

“Why didn't you call me?” His eyes were sharp on you as he waited for your answer. Was he seriously angry at you?

“Oh right, and what was I supposed to say, ‘oh, hey sweetie, could you please come shoot some people I was doing illegal business with in the stack with me, pretty please?’” You raised your voice to a higher pitch, doing this valley girl accent which only made him inhale deeply. 

“Do you ever answer anything without the bullshit?” He muttered with exasperation as he angrily lit up a cigarette and took a drag out of it. 

“I handled it, Takeshi. Let it go.” You ultimately sighed, reaching over to brush your bruised knuckles over the side of his face. 

His eyes found your face, he saw the forming bruises, and he remembered the blood. Somebody did this to you. Somebody hurt you and he wasn't there to stop it. You could have died. He could feel the anger settle in the pit of his stomach and he began to feel the urge to rip somebody's stack out with his bare hands. His fists clenched at his sides. 

“Like hell.” He stood up so fast it gave you whiplash. You didn't want him to go. You needed him. 

“Don't go,” You stood up so fast your side was definitely screaming at you but you didn't care. He wasn't looking at you, his eyes looked way past your head at the nearest wall. But you grabbed his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “I need you.. Please? For once just stay with me.” 

Please. 

You didn't beg often. But when you did, there was not a thing in this world he could ever deny you. He found your eyes, big mistake. The second he saw those pleading eyes he was done for. He hated the ways in which you could so easily tug at the strings of his cold heart. For the longest time he thought he didn't have a heart, until he saw you for the first time and that thing started beating. 

His mouth was on yours, he kissed you long and hard. He grabbed your face as he slipped his tongue inside your mouth. He held you, pulling your body against his. Your fist bunched around his shirt, gripping it like vice as he kissed you with fervor, like this was the last thing he ever wanted to do in this world. 

“You wanna take care of me? Hm?” You spoke softly against his lips, your fingers now threading through his long golden strands. 

The grunt that rumbled in his throat was almost animalistic. He wanted you on that bed and he never wanted you to leave it. 

“You're in pain..” He muttered through deep breaths as his long fingers gripped your jaw, forcing your head back as he brushed his nose against yours, holding on to the little stability he had left. “Don't wanna hurt you.” 

“I like it when you hurt me. I want it.” Your words were soft and desperate, quiet as you brushed your lips over his. Pain was the last thing on your mind when you had him this close, when you felt his touch, when you knew he was hanging in by a thread. You needed this more than you needed air in your lungs. 

“You want it?” He repeated, voice as low as it could go, eyes closed as he waited for that confirmation, for your permission, to absolutely ruin you. 

“Yes. Please Takeshi, I need it.” 

There wasn't anything better than Takeshi's cock in your guts after a brush with death.

His large calloused hands found the back of your bare thighs, he so easily hoisted you up around his waist as his lips crashed against yours without another word being said. He was a man of little words afterall. He was a man of action. And he was goddamn sure he would give you exactly what you needed. 

Your back landed on the soft duvets, but his lips never parted from yours. Your frantic hands shoved his coat off his shoulders, then the buttons of his shirt as he fumbled with his pants. It took some time, between desperate grabs and frantic hands, he was just as naked as you, only your underwear left between the two of you. 

His lips found your neck, wet kisses all over the skin as his hands roamed your body. He pulled back enough for his eyes to look you over. He would never get tired of looking at you. 

“You're so…” He didn't have to say it, the look in those hazel eyes of his said every word he wasn't capable of saying out loud. 

You gave him a smile, your eyes big with both longing and endearment. He kissed you one more time before he tugged your panties down. He settled just beside you, thick thighs caging one of yours as his long fingers brushed over your clit, leaving you to gasp against his mouth. His lips curved up slightly as his fingers moved in slow, long circles. He could feel you get wetter and wetter the longer he kept up his torture. He liked to hear you whine and beg for it. 

“Tak..” His name fell from your lips when you no longer could keep your mouth closed, you were gripping at his shoulder as you helplessly grinded against his fingers, desperate for more. 

“Mhm?” His lips were on your ear, his warm breath ghosting over the side of your face with each sharp inhale he took. “Need me to fuck you with my fingers, then with my cock? Is that it?” 

You were nodding so hard, gasping softly when he circled his fingers around your wet hole, teasing you. 

“Mhm!—Please—” You didn't even get the chance to finish your sentence when two long fingers buried themselves deep into your cunt. 

Your lips fell open as your eyes unconsciously rolled back into your head, the delicious feeling of his thick fingers filling you. It wasn't long before Takeshi was all but fucking you with his fingers, and you were nothing but sobs of pleasure. He buried his fingers to the knuckle, brushing your most sensitive spot with each snap of your wrist. 

Fuck did you look pretty like this. But you looked prettier when you were drunk on his cock. 

His free hand gripped your hair, keeping your head in place so he could watch the way your face would contort with pleasure. The lewd sound of your wet cunt being filled by his fingers wasn't lost on him either. He loved it. He was addicted to it. 

“That's it, let it go, sweetheart.” He grunted through his teeth when he realized you were so close, the way your hips were so desperately following the movements of his hand and the grip you had on his wrist was all but telling. He gave you a long satisfied hum when he felt your release coat his hand with a sob of his name. 

His fingers only left you when you were digging your nails into his wrist. His lips curled up in amusement at your desperate attempts but he ultimately complied. His lips were on your forehead as he eased you back into steady breathing.  

“You okay?” He was quiet, but you heard it. You simply nodded in response, still not fully able to find your voice. Good enough. “Good, ‘cause I'm gonna give you exactly what you deserve now.” 

He grabbed your arms and flipped you on your stomach with ease. You were taken aback, instinctively pushing yourself up on your forearms, but a hand on your back forced you back down. 

“Easy. Just relax, sweetheart,” he shushed you softly, you felt him move around for a second until you felt him behind you, right in between your open thighs. “Lemme take care of you, hm?” 

Your response was in the form of a soft hum, you lied flat on your stomach, your head to the side so you could breathe and your ass up enough for him to do as he pleased. And you waited, rather impatiently. You could feel Takeshi's hands on your hips, then up your back, until one of them settled on your shoulder blades. 

You were about to open your mouth when you felt the head of his cock brush over your wet clit. The only sound leaving your throat was that of a choked out moan. 

“You want it?” His lips were on your ear, voice smooth, but with this baritone rasp, a combination that drove you insane. You were nodding into the blankets. 

“Yes, Takeshi. Please.” 

Fuck, he was rolling his eyes at the sound of his name leaving your lips like that. He didn't need to say anything else. He pushed himself into you with a long, hard thrust that had you gasping. 

“Ahh….” You squeezed your eyes shut, hands squeezing the sheets in front of you at the feeling of his cock stretching your walls. You have been with Takeshi for some time now, but you never truly got used to the size of him (with this sleeve at least). “Fuck— you're so..” 

He eased a hand up and down your back, shushing you softly, he was used to it by now. When he felt you start to back into his cock he knew you were fine. He dug his fingers into your shoulder, holding you down on the mattress as he snapped his hips. A gasped cry left your lips. Again, and again with each brush of his cock, until he had you sobbing into the mattress. 

Takeshi, he fucked hard, and he liked it rough, but he had learned to take his time, he learned to take it slow, drag out the feeling for as long as possible, until you were nothing but a sobbing mess. His hand was wrapped around your hair, pushing your head down as he leaned over you. His chest was flush against your back as he rutted his hips against your ass, his lips on the back of your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses everywhere he could. 

Takeshi wasn't very talkative, ever, but goddamn was he noisy. His heavy pants, ragged grunts, the occasional fuck, were all in your ear which each delicious drag of his cock. 

“Goddamn,” he breathed out, nipping at your jaw as he pulled your head up enough to look at your fucked out face, “you feel so fucking good.” 

“Mhmmm. Shit, Tak. Feels so—” You couldn't even finish a cohesive sentence you were so cock drunk, so high on the feeling of his cock brushing that one spot that had you rolling your eyes. You reached behind you, trying to grab him, any of him. 

“Feels good, doesn't it baby?” You could hear the slight smirk on his lips as he wrapped his arm over your neck from shoulder to shoulder, almost as if he was putting you in a headlock. 

“Yes! Fuck yes—” 

“Of course it does.” 

That was enough of taking it slow for one night. 

Takeshi held you in place with his arm over your neck as he drilled into you. The only sounds leaving your mouth were sobs and choked out pants. You couldn't say any words at that point. He was fucking you so hard into that mattress you didn't even realize when the burn in your stomach started to build. All you knew it was that you were digging your nails into his arms so hard the marks would be there for days. It felt good to be caged under his body, with nowhere to go. Not that you wanted to be anywhere else. 

“C'mon, let me take care of you. I'm right here.” He rasped out, hanging on by a thread himself. God, it felt so fucking good. You were barely hanging on. But the second his thumb found your swollen clit you were done for. You couldn't even make a sound, you fell into a silent cry, eyes rolled into the back of your head as your release washed over you. “That's it. I got you.” 

He could feel your release coat his cock, and the feeling of you coming all over him only made him go over the edge himself. He gave you two, maybe three more long, hard drags of his cock before he was spilling himself inside you with a breathy fuck leaving his lips in the process. 

You all but collapsed, your head falling on the pillows as you panted, Takeshi did the same. He dropped his face on your neck, eyes closed as he steadied his breath. He stayed there for some time, he couldn't hold himself up forever, but fuck this felt so nice. You underneath him, wrapped under his arms, nobody could hurt you here. His lips eventually found the side of your head for a chaste kiss before he moved to lay beside you. But the distance between you lasted a whole five seconds because he was pulling you to him. He positioned you to face him, one leg thrown over his torso as both of his arms caged you in. He would keep you here if he could. 

Silence ultimately drowned out your soft breaths, but not once did he stop looking at you. And you could tell something eating at him, weighing on his chest. You brought a hand to his face and you saw him close his eyes with a sigh. 

“I'm sorry I wasn't there.” He finally said, riddled with guilt and anger all over again. You frowned softly and shook your head at him. 

“Stop that, okay? It wasn't your fault.” You answered, smoothing out the soft frown above his eyebrows. He looked at you, watching as you brushed the loose strands of hair out of his eyes but he said nothing. “I'm a big girl, Takeshi. What I do or what messes I get myself into are not your fault. So stop. If I was mad at you I wouldn't let you rearrange my guts, would I?” 

Takeshi didn't laugh often. Or ever really. But sometimes your absurdity brought on a genuine chuckle out of him.

“Aw, so he has a sense of humor. He's not a robot!” You snorted, raising your voice like you were announcing it to the entire city. He rolled his eyes at you. 

“I don't fuck like a robot, do I?” There was a tiny shit eating grin on his face which made you shove his shoulder playfully. 

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up.” You kissed him with a soft laugh. 

~~~~~~~

Goddammit Takeshi Kovacs.

This man just simply couldn't wake up and stay in bed with you for one day. Just one fucking time, you asked. 

You groaned tiredly as you stretched out your sore muscles before sitting up. No tall angry looking envoy anywhere. How tragic. You were about to get out of bed when the door swung open. You were about to reach for your gun on the nightstand when you saw it was just Takeshi, and he looked rather amused. 

“You're awake.” He raised his eyebrows at you in surprise, expecting you to be passed out after the night you had, partly his doing. You looked at him with suspicion as he walked to the bed. “I have something for you.” 

“Is it a decapitated head?” You blinked at him, feigning innocence and he chuckled.

“No. Well I didn't bring it here anyway.” He shrugged as he handed you a red and blue switchblade. It looked kind of cool. You stared at it for a good few seconds before you looked up at him with confusion. 

“What's this?” 

“The owner of this.” He pointed at the brand new scar on your side. Your eyes widened with realization and your mouth fell open. 

“Takeshi—” 

“I don't want to hear you.” He cut you off before you could even yell at him for not letting it go. You frowned at him deeply. He sighed as he sat beside you. “They had it coming. They touched you. It's that simple.” 

You stared at him, and you wanted to force yourself to be angry at him, angry at him for not letting it go, angry at him for treating you like some damsel in distress who needed him to save her. But when you looked into his eyes you didn't see the hero's complex. Not at all. You saw a man who was looking at the only thing that mattered to him in this world. And he'd be damned if he ever let anyone take that away from him again. 

“Awe, baby, so you aren't so heartless after all.” Your smile was mocking on the outside, but deep down it was one of endearment.

“Fuck you.” 

You loved him. And even someone as heartless as him was capable of love, too.

#takeshi kovacs x reader #takeshi kovacs smut #takeshi kovacs x fem reader #takeshi kovacs x f!reader #takeshi kovacs #altered carbon #joel kinnaman

[nolita-fairytale]

hi gen! hope this finds you well!!!! and hope i’m not late to the party… but i’ve been thinking about luca having a long distance relationship. and since most of the time chefs have cooking as an act of care, could you think of hc for luca in this situation?

@translatemunson thanks for sending this one in.

dating chef luca long distance: a headcanon

dating chef luca long distance would look like:

while luca works early most mornings, the two of you make sure to keep in touch. texts, voice memos, phone calls and facetimes when you can because he wants to connect with you as often as possible.

luca is always sending you tiktoks/instagram reels once he's off work -- things he thinks you might enjoy. you love to send pics back and forth: things you're doing, a great meal you had, a selfie when you have something funny to tell him or just when you miss him.

luca does not have read receipts and neither do you because truly, read receipts are unhinged and just make everyone involved anxious. (not me coming for read receipts, oops)

you try to physically see each other every 1 - 3 months, depending on where you're located, at least until your make it to your long distance end date. hear me out: i think that luca is going to move to you. "there will always be work for me as a chef, babe. and i want to be with you."

the week before a scheduled trip, it feels like time can't move any faster. you normally don't have too much trouble with distance, aside from missing him, but that week leading up to always feels agonous.

speaking of, leading up to a trip, luca busies himself with planning out menus, things he wants to make you, places he wants to take you, knowing that food is such a strong love language for the both of you.

the moment you reunite is always so sweet. in some ways, you don't mind the distance because it always feels so exciting when you see him for the first time after a few weeks to months apart. and can we talk about the reunion sex?! it is hot, hot, hot and it's the first thing the both of you want to do when you're reunited. (fully projecting here because i once had a long distance relationship and that ways always the first thing we did).

when you're not together... i don't think you and luca are big sexters... per say... but the man will indulge in phone sex when the mood strikes. just picture it. that deep voice over the phone telling you to touch yourself?! asking you how it feels? moaning with the phone on speaker while you tell him how much you need him?! how you can't wait to be together, jfc.

every day with him feels special, whether it be luca making you breakfast in bed or the two of you just doing nothing together, watching movies, cooking something together. he makes the most mundane of things feel like magic because the man has your heart.

somedays are harder than others, and you feel like you're missing out -- when his hair is longer, when he finds a new cafe that's become routine for him but is something you're only just finding out about -- and it makes your heart ache for the day that you get to live in the same city together.

long distance is hard, but you and luca make it as easy as possible by being kickass communicators and by meeting each other halfway. on the days it feels harder than others, you hold space for each other, recognizing that, while normally you feel good about it... you really fucking miss each other.

i know i wrote this in burn your life down but i stand by it: luca is a letter writer. perhaps after a particular tough day where you're missing the hell out of him, luca decides to surprise you by sending you some snail mail. you receive it a few days to a week later (depending on where you are in the world) and the care and love he poured into this surprise reminds you that it's all worth it.

this song and these lyrics make me think of dating luca long distance, so i will leave us on this note:

"so, can we strip down to our vitals? i'm obsessed with your design and I've missed your soul forever" -- superbloodmoon, holly humberstone & d4vid

#chef luca #will poulter #luca the bear #the bear season 2 #the bear headcanon #luca x reader #the bear hulu #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #chef luca x reader #pastry chef luca #nolita fairytale's follower celebration #nolita fairytale’s follower celebration

[dwntwn-strnlo]

OPIA matt sturniolo

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓁𝓎, dwntwn-strnlo.

↳ 𝐀/𝐍. this will contain a glossary at the end bc mark twain is hanging in my head rn and he needs to get out of here before I destroy his bloodline (I'm literally his bloodline) and he's making me feel very writer esk rn

PLEASE excuse the spelling errors LMAO i wrote this at 2am

↳ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. matthew sturniolo x reader

↳ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. not everyone is going to hurt you

↳ 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃? no!

↳ 𝐂𝐖! use of 'y/n', crying, mentions of someone walking out of a relationship, unresolved ending, not proofread

walking out of your bedroom, you're met with a knock at the front door. startling your dazed state.

you rub at your eyes, harsher than you had intended. pulling your hands back to leave your vision blurry for several long seconds.

you don't want to answer the door, but you know if you're going to play this 'im fine' role, you can't ignore the gentle tapping.

more hurried knocks ring throughout your living room, finally sending you up to the wooden door. checking yourself in the mirror, you quickly pull your hair out of a claw clip and look through the peephole.

finding matt on the other side, hair wet from the light rain. his face shows worry, and slight panic.

letting out a hushed breath of air, you unlock the door and pull it open.

matts eyes immediately flash to yours, but you look at his car, avoiding his gaze. "are you uh- fuck." he mumbles, running his hands down his face. "I heard what happened with troye."

you shrug, switching your eyes to the ground. staring at the metal piece under the doorframe that separates your home from the world. "im fine. i knew he was gonna leave anyways."

when his breath hitches, you finally meet his eyes. he looks at you with a look that isn't intended to be hurtful, but it does. 'do you think im a dumbass?' his face read. but you aren't surprised that it hurt you. everything's hurt you the last few days.

"can i come in?" he queries, "or do you want space?"

shaking your head, you bite down hard on your lip. meeting his eyes when you unintentionally bring a metallic taste to your tongue. "don't give me space, please." you say softly, "space is that last thing I need from you right now."

his eyes glow for the split second it takes him to forget the circumstances in which he stands here right now. he nods gently, taking a step into your home.

you can't describe the rubatosis that floods your brain. the utter feeling of your heart pounding echoes in your brain and in your blood. threatening to burst out and let you hit the floor. you feel nervous. ready to fall to your knees with nausea, nervous.

shutting the door slowly, you search for the euphoric sensation of the rain pattering against your window, and your best friend standing in your living room.

turning to look to matt, his eyes soften as he finally gets a good look at you. rain no longer clouding his vision.

"tell me how i can fix this," he intoned, taking a cautious step towards you.

you bite back a laugh, you felt pathetic. you didn't even call matt, but yet here he was. coming to rescue you from your mentally draining ex boyfriend.

"you can't." you mouthed. your voice hushing itself to a heartbreaking whisper, barely audible over the television playing at a low volume.

watching the heartbreak in his eyes, you couldn't stand it. you were trying so hard not to cry in front of him but the opia was so frustrating.

he felt such an aenonic love as he stared at you. watching you make your way to the couch. sitting down with your knees tucked tightly up to your chest.

it hurt him to know that the person he loved so deeply felt hurt in the air of her own home.

"you deserve more," he whispers. "you look so run down, y/n."

"im fine, matt." you mumble. your voice still low and tremulous.

"lying is gonna get you no where." matt shakes his head, stepping towards you and kneeling down on the floor. taking your hands in his equally shaky ones. "you can look at me," he smiled reassuringly. bringing your knuckles up to his lips. "i promise you it's gonna be okay."

you met his eyes hesitantly. not sure how long you'll be able to maintain eye contact with him. "I can't do this, matt." you breathed. tears finally escaping and trickling quickly down your cheeks.

his eyes widen at your sudden sobs, pulling you close to him. "shh," he hushes lightly, rubbing circles into your neck with his thumb. "im sorry," he whispers. "im so, so sorry."

you couldn't bring yourself to speak. knowing your voice would break halfway through the first word anyways. you hugged matt as tight as possible; never wanting to let go.

"not everyone is going to hurt you," matt insinuated, pulling you deeper into his arms. carefully holding your head in his neck in an attempt to keep himself from crying too.

the boy stared tiredly up at the ceiling, biting his lip to keep himself from saying too much. keeping himself from telling you how much he hated calvin and how he knew he would hurt you, but he couldn't do that. he also couldn't mumble out the three words of affection. which hurt him. "im sorry," is all he could muster up, mumbling into your hair.

"please-" you husked, "please don't leave me too."

and that's all it took to break matt.

he tensed up in your arms, tears finally fighting their way out of his eyes. "I won't," he mouthed, you could barely hear him, but it was enough. "I promise I'll never leave you. you're my best friend, I'll love you forever."

he winced at his own words, only making himself cry harder.

he hated that stupid kid and his stupid face and the stupid way he made you fall in love and the stupid way he left you for a stupid girl. he hated the way calvin made you happy and not him.

"it's all going to be alright." matt hushed, pressing a soft kiss into the top of your head.

GLOSSARY

rubatosis - the feeling of ones own heartbeat

euphoric/euphoria - happiness

opia - the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye

aeonic/aeonia - internally everlasting

TAGLIST

@thetriplets3 @stxrniqlo @ifilwtmfc @iha8you @oneirophobic @20nugs @gracietaylorsversions @fenoy7 @mlimmm @prettysturniolo @ssturniolo @gabbylovesreading @oh-toseewithoutmy-eyes @matthewmurdockswife @jellybeanbby

#matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo x you #matthew sturniolo angst #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo imagine

[pessimisticpigeonsworld]

you guys are so pathetic talking about Olivia “she’s painting Alicent as a conflicted character instead the bad stepmother, she’s projecting!” fucking losers and pathetic, hotd fans stop being the most insane fandom challenge 🤡 team black stans only talk about alicent this, alicent that, invent lies in twitter just to talk shit about Olivia, give it a break, she’s not responsible of the writing of the show and you guys make it seems like she personally wrote alicent like that, most of you forgot how the asoiaf behaved towards Sophie (mind you when she was just a kid) and Lena for playing Cersei. Actors are entitled to defend themselves when crazy stans attack them and look for personal excuses to “hate” and dislike them that goes beyond of “I don’t like your character” just awful but what can we expect with targ stans tbh you all got so fucking cry babies after the end of GoT

I don't think you realize that you're actually agreeing with one of my points about Olivia Cooke. I've literally already talked about how toxic fandoms go after the actors and actresses of disliked characters wrongfully twice. It's a symptom of how people struggle with separating reality from media.

Accusing me of ignoring that when I literally talked about it in my original post is ridiculous. It shows how you're not actually fucking reading what I'm saying, like all Alicent/TG stans who interact with me. What I said in my post is how I disagree with Olivia's interpretation of her character and how it seems like her fear of the earlier issue is impacting how she wants to portray Alicent.

I know she didn't write Alicent and that she didn't have any influence on that. Do you know why I know she has no control over that? Because she outright contradicts the writing choices Condal and Hess made and talk about. The most obvious one is how she said she "refused to play Alicent as a woman for Trump" when that's how she was written and Condal literally said that's how she is. I'm criticizing how she clearly doesn't like how her character is written but still tries to constantly defend her by refusing to acknowledge the parts she doesn't like.

You literally just word vomited into my inbox, you don't make an actual argument. You don't want me to criticize your fav or the actress who plays her, but you're not trying to defend the points I make. It's ridiculous and pathetic.

Also I've literally never seen people complaining about Alicent being "conflicted". Our issue is actually how Alicent was written by Condal and Hess to be inconsistent, hypocritical, and a constant victim despite being one of the most powerful people in the show. If you look on my page, literally all of my complaints about the writing are focused on the actual writers. You're arguing with your imagination, which probably explains why you're not making any actual points other than "how dare you criticize her 😡".

You know, you're coming across as the "crybaby" in this scenario, since you're just crying in my inbox and ignoring what I'm saying. You complaining about Dany and Targaryen stans being upset with GOT is very ironic, since Alicent stans are the one of the most sensitive group in this fandom (case in point).

Olivia Cooke is a person, she's fallible and it's totally fair and allowable to criticize her. You're right, she shouldn't be hated and harassed, but that doesn't mean she's perfect and above messing up. You just hate anything connected to Alicent being criticized and it very much shows. Stop projecting your obsession onto TB stans, it's annoying and just plain wrong, you'd know this if you actually looked at what people actually say instead of living in your delusional world.

#anti alicent stans #anti team green stans #anti team green #anti alicent hightower #house of the dragon #team black

[friendshiptothemax]

hi i bet you get this all the time and you dont have to answer if you dont want to BUT what was your journey to being an Actual Tv Writer like? im looking into becoming a writer but im so out of my depth on how to do it

My journey to being a TV writer is incredibly regular -- it's kind of the template of how it should work. That being said not everyone goes this route, and not everyone who tries it is as lucky as I was! But it's kind of the most "basic" method.

I moved out to LA in 2011 to go to grad school. I don't think grad school is necessary for everyone -- the two biggest things I got out of it were time to write and a close group of friends, so if you can obtain that in other ways you might as well save yourself the $$. While I was in grad school, I worked a little in the industry, freelancing as a script supervisor on a number of student films, vanity projects, webseries, and commercials. I also worked at a couple of internships, where I met more people than just my classmates.

Once I graduated, I kept doing the un/underemployed thing (I read and reviewed self-published novels for rent money) until I was lucky enough to get a job as a production office production assistant on an NBC show called Aquarius. I spent a season getting lunches and running copies for the production office (which includes the accountants, art department, locations, and general office staff). I did that on two more shows before I got hired as the writer's production assistant for The Blacklist. I was still getting lunches and running copies, but for the writers! Woohoo!

After two years of that, there was an opening in the writer's room for script coordinator. The script coordinator is kind of between assistant and writer. I read every script about 1,000 times, proofreading, looking for continuity errors, and keeping up the entire writer's room, cast, and crew all on what was the most current copy of the script. It was an amazing job that was hard as fuck but I really enjoyed because I got to really get into the heads of my bosses. In my second year of that, they told me I could pitch them ideas, and I pitched an idea that became episode 618. I wrote it and it went really well, I think in part because I was so familiar with their voice. After that, they brought me on as a writer full time for season 7, and I was a writer there for the next four years.

My advice to you is twofold --

Work on your writing. I really like Pam Douglas' book "Writing the TV Drama Series." There are some good podcasts, particularly by John August and Craig Mazin, though I'm sure there are others. Read as many scripts as you can. When you have a script, enter contests to get feedback. Here is a great list of the most reputable ones, so you can get feedback and hopefully a little credit to your name if you place highly in one.

Make friends. I find that "networking events" are stupid, but HAVING a network is invaluable. Every TV job I've ever gotten is because I knew someone already working there. Move to LA and start meeting people. For me, besides my grad school classmates, it was improv classes, D&D, and working on the low-budget sets as a script supervisor (different from script coordinator, I know it's confusing), but you can find your own thing. The more friends I made in the TV assistant world, the MORE friends I made. As they say, a rising tide raises all ships, and that has been very true for me. Be nice and cool to everyone -- you never know when that construction PA you worked with on one show might be the in to your next.

Good luck!! Let me know if you have any more questions! :)

#screenwriting

[iamyouknow-yours]

Marcel is a Mikaelson. He does not have to call himself a Mikaelson as he is fully within his rights to denounce the very toxic family but he is one.

I hate the way the show treated him, I hate the way the characters treated him, and I hate that he is involved with Rebekah. I hate the way he and Hope are only kinda sorta siblings.

1. The show:

So we know Julie Plec is very much a white liberal. We know this. We know she has sexism issues, we know she has racism issues (black women will save us all, really Julie????). I don't know which of her multitude of biases made her (and the rest of the writers) think that the way they wrote Marcel and the Mikaelson's relationships with him, was normal (or like normal in the context of the show). But boy howdy.

The plantation house. We're just going to have the Mikaelsons move into the house where Marcel was owned as a slave????? That's what we're gonna do?????? And where his abusive biological father lived and y'know, abused him. Fucking what the fuck?? I feel like this just epitomises the way the show treats Marcel.

2. The characters:

The family never treats him as part of the family unless they want something from him.

They did not raise him as a son and it is weird and terrible and he was a child!!!!! Why did you adopt him if you didn't want a child???

Why is Klaus so scared of having Hope if he's already had a child?

Why does Klaus treat Marcel the exact same way Mikael treated him just because they're not blood related?? (if they actually explored this it could have been interesting but no they just only half treat Marcel as a Mikaelson).

YOU'RE TELLING ME THEY DIDN'T CHECK?? THEY DIDN'T CHECK HE WAS DEAD????? Not once in the 80+ years did Klaus or Elijah go back to New Orleans or even send someone to fucking check that his SON was really dead??? Didn't think to do that???? No???

3. Rebekah:

Oh my god what do I even say about Rebekah?

They could have at least made her be daggered for the time when he was a child and only meet him when he was already an adult and a vampire because that way she's only technically his aunt and not a full fucking adult who saw him grow up!!!!!!!!

Hope:

Idk man, they were siblings. Let them be siblings. The whole thing in Legacies where the Mikaelsons just kind of left Hope alone? Weird. Bonkers. Batshit. I know it's because they couldn't get the actors but maybe think about that before writing your fucking show my guy.

Or in TO where Hope was just left alone and Klaus was not there as a dad for like 5(?) years.

Hayley was the only good parent on The Originals or Legacies canon, fight me.

(side note, you're telling me Caroline would leave Alaric, Alaric, an alcoholic, vampire-hating, weirdo (Caroline and Alaric being romantically involved briefly WAS WEIRD GUYS, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK HE USED TO BE HER FUCKING TEACHER) in charge of the school for supernatural children??

You're telling me she left him in charge of parenting Lizzie and Josie?? Yeah okay sure.

And look how well that turned out. Locking teenagers in goddamn prison worlds, excellent headmastering there Alaric well done. And just swell parenting of the twins. Favouring Hope over them at all times and letting them bully each other weirdly for years and allowing your mentally ill children to just get more mentally ill from your parenting. Great moves. Very good.

Okay Legacies rant over)

Yeah okay my whole rant is over I think.

TL;DR: Marcel deserved better.

(and so did the kids on Legacies.)

Also PSA, the only reason I have so many feelings about this is because I like the freaking shows okay? I like the characters (except Alaric and Damon and the ones we're supposed to dislike like Mikael and Esther).

#the originals #legacies #the vampire diaries #TO #tvd #marcel gerard #marcel mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #hope mikaelson #hayley marshall #hayley mikaelson #alaric saltzman #caroline forbes #lizzie saltzman #josie saltzman #anti-klaus #a bit I guess #anti-alaric #rant #long post

[coralpolyp]

I'm not dead!

Hey look here's a redraw of the really terrible bit of digital art I did for last year's Mar13 day as proof! Apparently I didn't even finish the first one on time! Yikes!

I'm well aware that it's been a minute or two since I last posted anything on here or on AO3 - to be more precise, it's been since Splatoon 1 died and I wrote that 8000 word depressing thing - I don't know why 8000 words always seems to be my sweet spot, but it's good to know that I have one. That being said, and with Side Order: Dark Side Mix currently MIA, I thought it'd be a good idea to to have what it is that I'm doing right now on-record in some capacity, for the one or two people who were wondering.

The next few weeks are exam season, so I don't think it's going to be smooth sailing per se, but Dark Side Mix will be completed. After running into a snag with the opening act - namely with the fact that it sucks - I started reworking the entire fic from top to bottom under a new name...and then I lost motivation to do that because perfectionism set in, and I haven't really touched it in a little while.

In the time that I've been away from it, I feel like I've become increasingly aware of how that perfectionism negatively effects me and my work - namely the fact that very little of it actually exists. I mean, sure, people seem to like the stuff that does exist, but there isn't much, and a lot of things are unfinished - usually because I placed too much value on the potential of "the idea", and spent so long labouring over the start of it that by the 10,000 word mark I had realised the flaws of the idea and lost interest in it.

I can't help thinking that's a bit lame. Every other writer has 100s and thousands of words of terrible amateur works they can go back to and laugh at, before they created the masterpieces they're known for now, and my story is that I just kinda show up every once in a while.

I think there's a real beauty to that - creating for the sake of creation, with no fucks given. Maybe this isn't the finest example, but I finally started listening to My Dad Wrote a Porno recently and...I mean... the sheer lack of fucks given is well and truly a gift that keeps on giving. Same goes for Philosophy of the World. Or SMG4 back in like 2014. Or old Eddsworld stuff. There's just a certain carefree joy (or existential dread in the case of the Shaggs) to it all that you never get anywhere else. It's like the difference between a 30 second gesture drawing and 6 hours of carefully-deliberated-over anatomy.

All that is to say - Dark Side Mix is a fundamentally flawed story. It is not high art, it never will be. I should probably just get it out there in it's entirety for the world to see in the time I have available to write, and then move on to the next "brilliant-idea"-that's-actually-just-ok. Nobody likes an "idea guy" - what good is it to spend one's entire life going around saying "I never finished this story, but it was great in my head, and the bit that you can actually read was alright too,"? Creativity should be about getting in there, making a mess, and having fun - let fanfiction be fanfiction, with that being addressed to nobody but myself, because nobody else needed to hear it.

Oh, also, another reason for my absence besides creative block and exams - I'm getting into comics! That, and practising my art fundamentals a whole bunch - I don't think my drawabox is particularly interesting to look at, so I haven't exactly been posting it. I've decided that I want to try giving an idea I had for what would've been another depressing Squid Sister 8000-worder the comic treatment, although you shouldn't expect to see that anytime soon, considering how long it's gonna take, and the fact that I would want to release something like that in no more than two parts.

#splatoon #beginner artist #marie splatoon #splatoon 3 #splatoon fanart #fanart #squid sisters #splatoon fanfiction #splatoon fic #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #vent #writer problems

[gadriezmannsgirl]

Nothing's Going On -P.G

Warnings: A bit of mature content, nothing too explicit (IT'S SAFE FOR EVERYONE TO READ)

Summary: Your boyfriend catches you reading fan fictions of him and teases you about it

It had all started as a joke. You knew your boyfriend's fangirls wrote some fictions about him (You knew because you also read in your 1D times, Niall Horan's and Louis Tomlinson's fanfic, you could imagine). One day, you were chilling around watching IG when you stumbled with a reel

It had said *POV: Imagine your boyfriend Gavi braging to his mates about you* and there was this video of him talking with Pedri, Balde and Ansu while the author of this edit, edited what they were saying with subtitles underneath.

You awed, it was cute.

Have you heard that saying curiosity killed the cat? Well, that was you at your best moment.

You went in your laptop and opened Google, by the tags on that video you decided to put in the browser *Pablo Gavi x Reader*. Tumblr inmediately appeared with a hundreds of blogs.

You created an account x and started reading.

You gotta admit, these girls had their imagination on the highest level, inventing these amazing stories, backgrounds, edit along with everything else... And you couldn't even know how to start a simple essay

You laughed at some stories, you fell in love with the majority, you felt lust while reading others, hell you even cried with the heartbreaking ones, or what they liked to call Angst. You even found a PEDRI X READER X GAVI POLY

"These girls are crazy in the greatest way ever" You murmured shaking your head

Being on your world, you didn't noticed when your boyfriend came home from his training and was crunched down behind you

"What are you reading?" You heard his voice ask right next to your ear as you yelled out scared

"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL-? PABLO!" You shut your laptop down as your hand went to your chest "YOU ALMOST GAVE ME AN ATTACK"

"You're reading fictions about me?" He asked with a smile as you looked at him dead in the eye

"...No" Your doubting tone made him laugh a little

"Why are you doing that?"

"OK, I WAS READING FANFICTIONS ABOUT YOU! IN MY DEFENSE... Your fans are really skilled and lots of them like our relationship" You nod

"Is that it?" He asked laughing

"Ok, an edit appeared in my IG feed so I saw it and curiosity got the best of me. I have spent the whole afternoon reading these things, they're fucking amazing and absolutely gorgeous. There are some other that are way to explicit but still they were sent by God because Gavs... They're incredible. And the angsty ones? OMG...! They are a blessing and- hijo de tu mamá, ¿Te estás burlando de mi?" (Son of your mother, are you laughing at me?)

"You know you've the real Gavi one and that you get to experience the fluff, a few fights and the sex, all of that in reality?"

"I do! But they're amazing" You opened your laptop and showed him another fic. This one was fluff and smutty

After some minutes reading it you were the first one to talk

"See?! It's so well written and the structure, their beggining, the middle and the end it's so precious... Some of these would do great as real writers; don't you think so, baby?"

You turned around facing Gavi who's expression was unreadable "Love?"

"You're right they're pretty amazing" He nods "On the other hand, way too explicit, it feels a little uncomfortable reading all those things about myself and at the same time boosts my ego up" You roll your eyes "Good side of this is that, I can try and do all these things they write, to you" You clenched your tights feeling hot all over your body

"Now?"

"Now" He said as you both jumped off of the couch into your shared bedroom. Laptop and fanfictions long forgotten

Yes, it may have been a bit embarrassing for you the fact your boyfriend saw you reading fanfiction of him, but it was definitely worth it.

°°° °°° °°° °°°

Tag list: @gaviypedrisbride

#M. is writing #fc barcelona #pablo gavi #fc barca #gavi #writing #pablo gavi x reader #pablo gavi icons #pablo gavi one shot #pablo gavi fanfic #pablo gavi is so beautiful #pablo gavi x y/n #pablo gavi x you #pablo gavi fluff #pablo gavi blurb #pablo gavi angst #pablo gavi smut #pablo gavi imagine #gavi x reader #gavi x you #gavi imagine #gavi icons #gavi one shot #gavi x yn #gavi fluff #pablo martín páez gavira #gavi angst #gavi fanfic #gavi smut #football

[aingeal98]

I have like. Two versions of Damian Wayne in my head. I think it's a consequence of getting to know and love him via Morrison's run on him and then wanting to know more, doing research into his mother's side, and being horrified by how racist the retcons made were. It didn't really change how much I enjoy Damian in any significant way, because I liked him for his dynamic with the batfamily and how entertaining he is as Robin. It's just that when it comes to anything deeper than that, about what motivates him, what he internalized growing up, the impact his childhood abuse had on him, anything to do with Ras or Talia really... A lot of writers fail so badly at making it compelling and instead just make me cringe and want them never to touch the al Ghuls again. And so we end up with two Damians:

Damian Wayne aka the Damian I love: Most easily described as an in-character, well written Damian with a solid backstory. Robin Son of Batman and his Robin run both pull this off pretty well. They don't downplay the horror of his childhood but they don't cross over into cartoonish territory either, and they allow Damian to have complicated thoughts and feelings about what he did and what was done to him. You can see how his abuse shaped him without it being shoved hamfistedly down your throat, and I don't come away thinking "I have to ignore all of this no matter how important it is to his character because logically Ras and/or Talia would not fucking do that". Also he's hilarious and makes me root for him whether he's insulting his enemies or electrocuting Jason or dying for the fifth/sixth time. Like that's my son and I can write a million words on his mentality and how it's changed and his opinions on his parental figures and his character development and how he'd interact with x or y character and-

And the second Damian, aka the Woobie Damian. The one you get where hack writers want to give him a sad backstory to justify how Edgy and Badass and Damaged he is and write the most cartoonishly over the top evil Ras and Talia possible. Most recent example I can think of is Tom King saying Ras locked Damian in a box with no water for a week because he didn't tie his shoelaces right. Or Morrison's Talia murdering her own son. Or how SuperSons wrote Talia. And look, it's not that I won't accept horribly, ridiculously evil villains. My favourite character's dad abused her in more extreme ways than even the worst al Ghul writer could come up with. It's that these are characters with already established personalities and traits. Unless they are being mind controlled they would not act like that and do these things. Just like how Bruce Wayne wouldn't lock Dick in a cave and feed him rats. There are ways you can show the impact of growing up in a cult and raised by an evil grandfather and being told repeatedly that you are destined to lead them all into a better world and trained in the art of killing a man. And these writers fail miserably at pulling any of that off. It's as shallow and boring as "You know why I'm mean to you all the time? Because my family taught me love is a weakness. I said mean things to you and stabbed you but my grandfather used to beat me for showing kindness to animals. Don't you feel sorry for me now?"

It sucks. I hate it. Anything with that Damian in it, I automatically filter out of my personal canon. The only way I can think of making it good is if it's like the "Slice the Baby Saturday" meme, where Damian is just bullshitting to see how much he can get away with and deliberately testing his family with stereotypes. But unfortunately those writers are dead serious about Ras making Damian climb up a whole mountain with no safety gear even if he falls and breaks his arm or dies. Because that is definitely something you would do with your one and only heir. They're literally two minutes away from saying Ras gave Damian a puppy and then told Talia to kill it in front of him.

So basically when I say that I love Damian and he's my favourite male Robin, know that woobie Damian is not a part of this conversation. Real Damian I would kill for. A writer puts woobie Damian in front of me and says his mom stabbed him I say let him bleed out so I won't have to endure comics about him anymore.

#dc #damian wayne #talia al ghul #ras al ghul #dc rambles #sorry it's time for my monthly al ghul rant #I bottle it up every time I see a bad Damian comic and then vent it in posts like these #abuse tw

[sgiandubh]

Gooooodnight! Did you manage to finish watching the movie after all? What do you think?

Dear Ford v. Ferrari Anon,

Just finished it, after four failed attempts to get into the right mood - local time, 1:45 AM, Thursday morning. As you might know, Cancer people are very stubborn (even pertinacious) people and I am no exception to the rule.

I now totally understand why so many people wondered if I was really watching it, or confessed they could be remotely interested in doing so for about ten minutes, tops. The start is horrifically lackadaisical and I hit stop four times in a row, increasingly frustrated and feeling like a brain scattered idiot. But if you persist, this little movie, eons away from my world, could actually surprise you for the better.

Three tiny things redeemed it from the scrapheap for me: a) the Sixties, b) that Mad Men aesthetics and c) Lee Iacocca. Once this very familiar guy hit the screen, I knew I would be glued to whatever shite happened on it for the duration. Mind you, not the actor (entirely forgettable), but the business honcho whose Autobiography I read by complete accident at around 16. My brain could finally relate to something and start to make sense out of a completely alien, bloody mess. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, things began to emerge: the script is so fucked up, I couldn't help but wonder what possessed someone as discerning as C to go for it. Other than a ferocious will to be there (anywhere, really), for further consideration, of course.

This is an underdog story through and through, and with a little bit of luck it could have been Oscar material. The reason it isn't so relies entirely on the writer's frail shoulders: I can't be arsed to check whodunit, but that person clearly bit more than they could ever chew. No Christian Bale and no Matt Damon could have dragged that script to Premier League, no matter how hard the effort. And the same person who wrote that Bale presented himself at the TIFF as a sociopathic boor has always deeply appreciated his past stellar performances (Empire of the Sun immediately comes to mind, of course). Seriously, I did and this movie is no exception: he is way better than I would have expected, especially when compared to a disappointing Damon.

What about C, then? In this very Anglo-Saxon sports stew, let's say she is an indispensable condiment, despite the absolute lack of chemistry with Bale and the sometimes formulaic presence, allowing for simplistic and expected dramatic solutions to complex situations. As in S's case, she sometimes drags along her Claire Fraser mannerisms, although less conspicuously than in Belfast elsewhere (or was it because we really don't get to see her a lot?). This particular script left me hungry for more, and not in a good way. She was very much there, she clearly worked very hard for it and yet, it feels as if she were obliterated, for some reason. That film didn't do her justice and scenes like the car tantrum could only give you a sort of nostalgic 'what if' idea:

Easily my favorite C scene of the whole movie (spoiler: there aren't many at all). But let's be blunt, here: if you have no idea about who C is, no OL mystique to boot and you just watch that movie leisurely, you'd blink twice and miss her. And not remember her at all, perhaps.

Would I recommend it? I am not sure, despite Bale's Golden Globe nomination and two rather technical Oscars (for Film and Sound Editing). It could be me, after all and sports movies have never been my jam. It's a decent way to fill in two hours and a half of emptiness, but not nearly good enough for a re-watch. I'd be merciful and give it ⭐⭐/5. For the Sixties, my Paradise Lost.

Happy, Anon?

#anon #fandom #shitshow