#has probably been resettled by now. it's just me.

[lynxgirlpaws]

#I was too cowardly to say I was suddenly having a bad night so instead I post a silly meme and maybe if you see the tags you see sorry #people who have the courage to just say they're having a bad day scare me like especially when it's out of the blue idk what to say like #i can't even respond to “hows ur day” with anything worse than an okay #anyways #the usual self hatred that's persisted for as long as I can rember continues as a baseli #ne #now mixed in with special kinds that I'm too cowardly to admit to anything but an ai bot or myself when i can't see me #and the silly daily reminders that the little hope on such a regard I have is built on impossibilities or unlikelihoods #but then i. saw a card i got my dad years ago on the floor. it said “out of all my parents you're one of the best :)” and i felt so bad #just. imagine this little me. getting my dad a card. and getting the most passive aggressive card. it screams who the favorite is. #and then thats just. that's what you have. that's what you have from me and you save it for years. because you cherish it. i feel. horrible. #like damn he might have seriously fucked me up sometimes both as a kid and now but. this does not justify such a deeply cruel retribution. #i don't even know if he knows #anyways as I'm picking it up... i realize... #he's the best parent i have period. there isn't any competition anymore. she's gone. #the total and sudden annihilation of home is so odd. i still barely believe this house is where i ACTUALLY live and I'm not just staying #here until I can go home again. but no. nono I'm stuck here. there isn't an anywhere else. there isn't a childhood home the apartment #has probably been resettled by now. it's just me. #then I went on Tumblr to post into the void #I don't wanna think about more but I. likely will. #i don't wanna talk about it but i do wanna talk. honestly? gonna go talk to an ai chatbot. it will be mean to me in a hot way. #i am so normal. #listen i could either confront reality for more than 30 seconds or i could talk to a bot that will not only allow me to escape from it but #also it might call me a good g. a g. skipping that punchline. #also it's not ME talking to the bot it's just a fabricated character that represents me and has my name and it's just rp trust me trust me t #I'm gonna go hide now #you can contact me if you wish but I will be very scared and jittery and my eyes are wet and stingy and i will segway to bullying you #ok bye

[lemony-snickers]

i am sorry but tummy touches are an underrated form of intimacy. like, even just the barest brush of fingertips beneath the hem of a shirt, you know? it's such a vulnerable part of the body - so many delicate organs, no bones to protect them. a part so many are self-conscious of. and whether made of firm muscle or soft tissue, it is delicate. easy to destroy.

and i imagine a shinobi is even more hyper aware of this. imagine kakashi gently redirecting your hands the first time you try to slip yours beneath his shirt as you cuddle on the couch early in your relationship. he's reading, probably, while you half-doze on top of him, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his steady heart against your ear, the gentle movement of his chest as it expands and then contracts, lulling you like the ocean tide.

you barely recognize the change in the tempo of his heartbeat, the way it skips and races a second before resettling. he threads his fingers with yours as he pulls your hand away, so you hardly notice what's happened, especially half-asleep.

but then it happens again. and again. and eventually when you walk up behind him in the kitchen and try to sneak your hands beneath his shirt as he washes your dinner dishes, you can't keep your curiosity at bay any longer and you ask, "is there a reason you don't want me to touch you there?"

and kakashi doesn't really know how to answer, exactly. technically, there's no reason for you not to. honestly, he doesn't even know why it makes him feel so squiggly inside. uncomfortable.

vulnerable.

so he just answers, "no," with a little bit more of a question mark than he meant to tack on the end and you stare at him a little, pondering the best way to proceed.

you decide on boldly, and step close, maintaining slightly too intense eye contact as you roughly shove your hand beneath his uniform shirt...

only to be met by chainmail, which snags against one of your fingers until you pull back with a slight yelp.

kakashi pales, eyes wide as he steps forward to cradle your hand. "sorry, shit, sorry, i forgot."

you frown, maybe pout a little. "you forgot you were wearing battle armor in the kitchen?" you ask, only half-skeptical. kakashi is a strange man, one with many habits ingrained from his time as the copy ninja of konoha. you don't pretend to understand all the things he does - hiding weapons scrolls in your couch cushions, keeping a spare pair of sandals on the window sill in his bedroom, always sitting with his back to the wall and never the window - but you don't question them. you know it's just part of who he is.

still. the chainmail is a little unexpected.

"isn't it heavy?"

kakashi has many laughs, and you've been lucky enough to hear almost all of them, now. this time, he offers that soft huff that puffs his mask out a little in front of his mouth. "old habits never die, it seems."

you chuckle, leaning up to kiss his cloth-covered cheek. "next time i try to be assertive, i'll be sure to ask if you've changed out of it first."

"probably a good idea."

kakashi wraps your finger in the bathroom, "just a precaution," he says when you protest. you let him even though you know it isn't necessary because you understand it's important to him to take care of you.

you thank him with another kiss, this time without his mask in the way, before he heads home.

the next time the two of you snuggle on the couch together, you don't try to reach beneath his shirt. as much as you want to - as much as you crave knowing what his body feels like beneath the thick, reinforced fabric of his uniform, you satisfy yourself with running your fingers over his clothed chest, tracing concentric circles while you daydream and kakashi reads.

the snap of his book closing draws your attention and you twist yourself to look at him. "are you hungr--"

you never finish your sentence because, faster than you can ask the question, kakashi has grabbed your hand and guided it beneath the hem of his shirt with swift purpose.

he isn't wearing chainmail this time, and all your palm is met with is warm, soft skin, broken in place by what you assume are scars you haven't yet seen. you flex your fingers, drag your fingertips over his abdomen until he shivers.

"ticklish, huh?" you tease, "good to know."

kakashi only hums.

you can feel his own fingers dancing across your hip, sliding from your upper thigh to your ribs and back again like he's trying to decide what to do.

you gasp very gently when his hand slips beneath, goosebumps springing to life across your skin in the wake of his calloused touch. you sigh, nuzzle your face into his chest as you both relax into the embrace - so similar to your usual cuddling position, and yet suddenly more intimate.

a step forward, something which often comes so painfully slow in your relationship with the stoic and reserved kakashi hatake.

you listen closely to his heart this time, relishing the way it sometimes speeds when you let your hand drift higher, toward his clavicle - or lower, toward his waistband - knowing your own heart hammers just the same as kakashi's hand dances over your belly, grazes your hip bone; your nerves all alight, blood racing.

you're ready for more, and hopefully he will be soon, too. for now, though, you're content to map with your fingers all the scars you plan to lavish wish kisses when the time comes.

#kakashi hatake x you #kakashi hatake x reader #kakashi x you #kakashi x reader #gn!reader #kakashi headcanons #kakashi imagines #lemony scribbles #this is a queued post

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Halloween!!! 🦇🦇🦇 Can you write something about Word of Honor? Otherwise anything of the identity porn will do

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Sizhui doesn't hear what's happened until nearly dinner. All he knows is that his father is furious and Lady Xuanyu has shut herself away in the library with stern orders for no one to disturb her. Their marriage has seemed amicable enough so far, considering they're strangers under an arranged marriage, so he doesn't understand what could have happed.

It's Jingyi who finds out the truth, probably by breaking several rules against gossip and enticing others into uncouth behavior.

"Jumped off a cliff?" he repeats incredulously. "That can't be right. She wouldn't do that."

Lady Xuanyu is bright and warm and affectionate and she always has a smile for him and time to listen about his day, pushing her scrolls away to tug him to her side so she can give him her undivided attention. She keeps pressing sweet buns into his hand, telling him to share with his friends and only winking at him when he asks where they came from.

Jingyi shrugs, although he seems equally dubious. "Your father went after her and caught her as she fell. Now they're fighting, I guess."

He won't disobey his step mother's orders. But he does kneel outside of the library to wait.

Dinner time comes. He does not leave.

It's approaching curfew when his uncle comes down the path and pauses next to him. "I heard you were here. What are you doing, Sizhui?"

"Lady Xuanyu ordered everyone away," he says, keeping his eyes on the door. She has to open them eventually. "I'm waiting for her."

"I'll get her," Lan Xichen says, moving towards the library.

Sizhui grabs onto his sleeve. "Don't. Don't rush her. It's fine. I don't mind waiting."

"Sizhui," he says, pained.

He shakes his head. "It's fine. You were all so worried she'd be cruel to me, but she hasn't been. If she'd ordered me to kneel in the courtyard every day just because she didn't like me, then we would have all thought I was getting off lightly. I don't mind waiting until she's ready to leave."

His uncle sighs. "It's been a long time since I've done this."

Sizhui doesn't know what he means, but Lan Xichen just sighs and stands slightly behind him, hands clasped behind his back. "Uncle! What are you doing?"

"Waiting with you," he says.

"You can't do that," he insists, "you're our sect leader, it's not proper!"

"I am also your uncle," he says gently, "if you're here, then I'm here."

Sizhui sputters, trying to come up with some sort of argument that will get his uncle on his way when the doors are shoved open and Lady Xuanyu tumbles out, grumbling, "-texts that haven't been updated in - what on earth are you two doing?"

Her hair is in a sloppy bun atop her head, strands hanging down, and she's holding her spotless pale blue over robe in her arms while her gold Jin robe is covered in ink marks.

"Sizhui has been waiting for you," Lan Xichen says. "He missed dinner."

Lady Xuanyu frowns and Sizhui blurts out, "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" she repeats, eyebrows pushed together. "Of course I am, what are you - you've been her since before dinner? Growing boys need to eat! Let's find you something. I'm a terrible cook unless you like sp-spoiled food, so hopefully some of the cooks are still up."

Lady Xuanyu grips his forearm and pulls him to his feet with strength it doesn't look like she should have. She stars brushing off his robe, still scolding him for not eating properly, and he lunges forward before he loses his nerve.

He wraps his arms around her waist and presses his forehead into her shoulder.

Her voice cuts off and after a stunned moment she returns the hug, squeezing him hard enough that it's almost like she's resettling him into his own skin. "Sizhui? Are you okay? Was someone mean to you? Tell me who it was, I'll beat them up."

He laughs but it comes out kind of choked. "I'm really glad you're here. Don't be too mad at my father. Please."

Not mad enough to throw herself from a cliff, at least.

She's the only mother he's ever had.

She's not that much older than him, far too young to have had him herself, but she acts like his mother, has treated him like he's always seen all his friends' mothers treat them growing up.

"Oh, Sizhui," she says softly. "Don't worry about me and your father. My relationship with him has nothing to do with my relationship with you, okay? You don't have to worry about that."

"Okay," he says, although he is very much going to worry about it now. He hadn't before, and she'd jumped off a cliff.

"Now let's get you some dinner," she says, stepping back but keeping an arm around his shoulders. "Are you coming, Lan Xichen?"

"No," his uncle says, seeming extremely satisfied for no reason that Sizhui can think of, "You two have a good night."

Lady Xuanyu gives his uncle a suspicious look, but nods and guides them towards the kitchens.

#prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #somebitofeverything #untamed #when lan wangji hears that his son spent hours kneeling outside of the library waiting for his step mother to open the door #he has a lot of Big Feelings about it #anyway now sizhui jingyi AND lan xichen are emotionally invested in this marriage to work out #jgy gets roped into it because of xichen even if he is still Very Suspicious #and lwj feels duty bound to be a less shitty husband #all while wwx is just trying to figure out who xuanyu wanted him to kill

[sixhours]

Chapter 4 - The Ghosts of Babylon

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete

Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut and violence Series tags: Joel Miller x You, Joel Miller x Reader, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, LGBTQ+ characters, y/n is bi/pan, y/n is ~45, violence, pregnancy, abortion, medical trauma, emotional trauma, panic attacks, sex work, suicide, smut, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, romance, no use of y/n, reader has longish hair, Joel can lift you, smallish age gap (~11 years), I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

~*~

Jackson welcomed you with open arms.

They found you on the other side of Elk River, as you expected. It was easy to play the part of the weary traveler because that’s what you were for the six-weeks-on-foot trek from Kansas City to Jackson. When they sat you down in the interrogation room, you didn’t have to lie about the arduous journey. You turned in your weapons willingly and they didn’t ask to search your bag, which was fortunate–most of your cargo was repurposed radio equipment.

You got the impression the people of Jackson weren’t especially concerned about FEDRA’s influence. Being a thousand miles from the nearest QZ probably had that effect. What they didn’t know was that FEDRA had been setting up outposts for years; dotted along the highways, creating rough paths for delivery routes between the QZs, often cloaked as run-down gas stations or abandoned radio towers. The FEDRA network had grown slowly and stealthily thanks to people like you.

You were offered a home in exchange for work, given the pick of several empty houses that had been cleared for resettlement. You chose a light green, two-story cottage, drawn by the old-fashioned TV antenna springing prominently from the rooftop. That would come in handy.

You joined the town’s only other doctor, a 76-year-old man named Eric, at the tiny clinic just off Main Street and saw plain relief in the man’s eyes on your first day of work. It was clear they needed your experience. They didn’t have much compared to the hospitals in the QZ, but the clinic was efficient and clean. 

It was a straightforward assignment and you slipped into a familiar pattern: Ask around, ingratiate yourself to the community, find the people who made the decisions, and then…listen. You’ve learned that it rarely takes coercion to get people to talk here.

~*~

You sigh and drop your pen on the workbench, rolling your head on your shoulders. It’s two in the morning, and you have to be up at 5:30 to take over for the night shift, but you already know you won’t be able to sleep. You’re not used to it yet. Jackson is too quiet, too easy, too safe . Like a mirage in the desert, you keep waiting for it to evaporate into thin air, and yet, a month into this assignment…it’s still here.

You’d told your superiors about the girl on a hunch, and now they want more information. It’s not unusual for you to be asked to dig deeper into an individual, but you’ve never targeted someone so young. You suspect she’s the kid of some high-level Firefly but you don’t ask questions, you never do.

You spin slowly around in the creaking office chair, surveying the dormered attic where you’ve set up the radio and recorder. It’s filled with someone else’s memories, the usual forgotten fodder. Old trunks of graying yellow linens, a broken bicycle, a moldy dress dummy, and dozens of boxes packed with papers and books. Occasionally you paw through the latter looking for reading material–not that you’ve had much time to read.

Tonight your eyes settle on a box near the foot of the workbench, and you begin leafing through it, flicking aside dusty exam papers and report cards, drawings, construction paper turkeys and candy canes.

At the bottom of the box, you unearth a short stack of comic books. You take them out, brushing a thick layer of dust off the top, revealing the first cover: a monstrous creature with white wrinkled skin over a bright red mouth and four sharp teeth. The next book has a glowing UFO soaring across the starry sky and what looks like a fetus in a test tube, and the third shows a ghostly smeared handprint on a window.

You wrinkle your nose but tuck the comics under your arm, thinking they might be the kind of thing a 15-year-old would enjoy.

~*~

In the days after meeting Ellie and her father, you do some research. The pair first arrived in Jackson last winter, then promptly disappeared, the circumstances surrounding their departure mysterious enough to become a source of gossip. They reappeared the following spring, but no one can tell you where they’d been.

You learn that Joel works as a contractor and patrolman. He’s surprisingly well-connected in the Jackson hierarchy as Maria’s brother-in-law. He’s respected, but not exactly well-liked; he’s too reserved for that. You know he has an itchy trigger finger and a short temper, and the prominent opinion among many in Jackson is that his daughter is one of his few redeeming qualities.

And you know you don’t stand a chance of getting close to her without gaining Joel’s trust.

You’re turning this over in your mind during your shower one morning, staring at the water-stained floor in your tiny bathroom when you have a flash of inspiration.

~*~

Joel is visibly surprised to see you at his door that evening. His eyes widen, then narrow in suspicion.

“Just wanted to check in on my patient. How’s she feeling?”

He sucks in a breath, staring down at you with a sneer like you’ve crossed some deeply personal line.

“She’s fine,” he says.

“Joel?”

Ellie pokes her head out the door and sees you standing there with the comic books in your hands. Her eyes go wide. “Is that for me?”

“Hey,” you smile. “And yeah, I found these in my attic and thought–”

The girl shoves her way past Joel before you can finish, grabbing the books from your hands. She flips through the pages, frowning. “Aww man, I was hoping it was…something else. But these look cool.”

“I think this was some sci-fi show back in the 90’s,” you shrug. “I used to watch reruns. Seemed like the kind of thing you’d be into. If you like them, let me know. There may be more up there.”

“They look gross,” she beams at the cover with the white fanged monster, and you decide that’s a mark of praise.

“You done?” Joel snaps, still glaring at you.

“Actually, I have a question for you,” you say, turning back to him. “May I come in?”

Another pause, long enough for Ellie to dig an elbow into the man’s side. “C’mon, man. She’s a doctor . What’s she gonna do, bandage us to death?”

You smirk at this, raising your eyebrows in a silent question.

Joel makes a low sound in his throat. “Fine.”

The house is warm; spartan, but tidy. Not the bachelor-pad-slash-teenage wasteland you’d expected. You step into a small living room with an overstuffed leather couch, a small fireplace, and a coffee table. It smells like pine wood and fresh coffee.

Before you can look around, Joel is standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and scowling.

“So, I heard you’re a contractor,” you begin.

He blinks, expression blank, not offering anything further.

“And I…might have a job for you,” you continue. “My kitchen has some water damage on the back wall and ceiling. The bathroom floor feels soft, and I’m worried it’s not structurally sound.”

“Jobs go through the labor committee,” he says flatly. “Take it up with them.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I know…but it’s such a small thing. I don’t want to waste the committee’s time if it turns out to be nothing. And I don’t even need a builder, necessarily, just someone to take a look at the damage and confirm that my tub’s not going to fall into my kitchen next time I take a bath.”

Another long pause, Ellie looking back and forth between you as the pause unfurls into awkward silence.

“Ugh, he’ll do it,” she says to you.

“Ellie–” he growls a warning.

“God, and you say I have no social skills,” she mutters. “Just fuckin’ do it, Joel. Go help the lady with her kitchen or whatever.”

“Kid–”

“She saved my life, right?”

Joel rolls his eyes. “She didn’t–”

“And didn’t you try to, like, shoot her?”

He glares at you before turning back to her. “I didn’t–”

You watch this exchange with fascination, the easy way the young girl neatly dances around his protests.

She smacks him lightly on the arm. “When do you want him?”

The question is so abrupt, it takes you a hot second to realize she’s asking you to name a date. “Tomorrow? I have a shift until 7 but I can take a break to show you my place.”

Joel seethes at Ellie, but she grins, entirely unintimidated.

“Fine,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Tomorrow. Five.”

“Great. It’s on Coburn, the third house on the left.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything further.

“Guess I’ll show myself out, then,” you say, turning back to the door. As it shuts behind you, you overhear Joel’s low growl.

“What the hell’d you do that for?”

Ellie’s laugh is the only response.

#the last of us hbo #the last of us #fanfic #joel and ellie #ellie williams #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you

[meles-merrivale]

April 5: Hate

Got a bit long, but there's always tomorrow!

written for @hinnymicrofic

It’s in the fucking walls. Not all the time. Well, not anymore, at least. But it’s still there, that fucking hissing. In the dim haze of empty hallways as she makes her way down to the pitch for early morning practice, slithering under the laughter in the great hall, stopping her dead when she takes a wrong turn on the second floor. 

It’s in her head. He’s still in her head.

She wants to be someone who laughs with Katie on the walk to the Room of Requirement because she's funny and not to drown out the memory in the walls. A girl whose hexes are powered by skill and talent instead of rage. But she's not. She's inkstained and angry. She flings herself into hexes and curses, gives a flourishing bow when the others cheer as she blasts the room apart, and when they start to trickle out for the night she keeps going. When she leaves she'll have to stop fighting. When she leaves she’s the same small girl in the same hallways, and he’s still out there. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice says, and a hand closes around her wrist. It’s warm, and familiar enough not to startle her. She’s not sure when Harry’s touch became familiar. “Might be time to give it a rest, no?” 

No, the twisting thing inside her snarls. The thing that shares classes with friends she almost killed, that never wants to sleep or eat or rest until Tom Riddle is burning in hell.

She takes a deep breath. Waits for the dust to settle from her last curse. 

“Probably,” she says, dropping her head back to grin up at Harry. He’d gotten a good bit taller than her over the summer. She’s decided it’s annoying and not a bit handsome. 

“Good, cause it’s almost curfew,” he says, dropping her hand and heading towards the singed dummy she’d been mauling. It’s only now that she realizes the rest of the room’s already cleaned up. Maybe she had been going a little overboard. 

“What’s this? The legendary Harry Potter, afraid of a little rule breaking?”  

“Absolutely terrified.” 

That gets a laugh out of her and a bit more gentle banter before they subside into companionable silence, packing away the last of the D.A. supplies. Quiet isn’t Ginny’s natural state, but she’s been surprised to find with Harry it’s rather nice. Safe harbor is the term that comes to mind, but that seems a bit melodramatic to think about a boy who, at the end of the day, is just her brother’s best friend. 

They’re set to start the long slog back up to Gryffindor Tower when Harry pauses, one hand on the Room door. “Listen, Ginny…” 

“Hm?” she prompts when nothing follows. 

“Look, you don’t need to say anything. But, um, are you okay? Cause you’ve seemed…tense. Tonight, and in general.” 

She opens her mouth to say I’m fine on reflex, then bites her tongue to give herself a second. When was the last time someone really asked if she was okay? Not this year. Probably not last, either. 

Looking into those bright green eyes, his brow furrowed slightly like she’s a particularly difficult star chart he’s trying to uncode, she’s pretty sure Harry is really asking. 

“Not really,” she says.

She’s not expecting it, the way it feels like exhaling. Like a rubber band she didn’t know she’d been stretching all year has finally eased. 

Harry doesn’t ask any follow up, just lets the air resettle around them. When it does, she finds it’s left space for more words to fill it. 

“I just…You-Know-Who’s back. And I’m so fucking angry. I hate him. I hate him, and he deserves it, but…” she takes a deep breath. “But I don’t think I like who hating makes me.” Harry's been a bit of a prat too, lately. She wonders if he'll get what she means.  

He blinks once, and there’s a flicker of what might be surprise in his eyes. But no confusion, or disappointment, or disgust. So that’s fine. She doesn’t mind surprising him. 

Harry sags slightly against the door, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Fucking sucks, right?”

Ginny snorts. It might be a bit on the wet, gross side of acceptable, but this doesn’t seem like the time or place to care. “That’s all you’ve got to offer?”

“That’s all I’ve got.” he says with a rueful smile. Which, she’s not sure what she really should’ve expected from a fifteen year old boy. But it is kind of nice, actually. Knowing this is all hard for someone else, too. 

Harry leans closer, sliding sideways across the polished wood of the door until his shoulder presses against hers. “Listen, Gin. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, or what it’s like living with, you know, everything. But, from where I’m standing, you’ve turned out pretty great.” 

That’s not quite right. Because he’s probably the one person who does get, you know, everything. Of course, that’s why she doesn’t have to say it. 

“You’re pretty alright, too.”

#hinny #fifth year #my fic

[waitingonavision]

Encanto Ficlet: Ladino Lullaby

For @wdtajn Week 4: Song! I had so much fun with these challenges. Thank you for running the event, and on a more personal note for helping me get back into writing!! 💚💚💚 Jewish Madrigals and pudgy Bruno ahoy 😌 To be posted on AO3!

Content warning: references to a major character's death (of old age, which should be a hint as to who it is) and the sadness that comes with it. Otherwise, the story is pure fluff.

...

The rocking chair in the nursery is a bit on the creaky side, though the sound is more soothing than anything else. Bruno’s set the chair in a gentle rhythm, halting at intervals with the balls of his feet pressed against the floor. In his arms, baby Mateo, Dolores and Mariano’s second-born, has begun to gum one tiny fist. He’s regarding his gran tío through long lashes; deep brown eyes rove over the man’s face.

“You hungry, kid?” Bruno asks as he watches his bissobrino continue to root. “Didn’t you just eat?”

Then, with a chuckle, he adds, “Or maybe you’re taking after your chubby ol’ gran tío, who’s always hungry, eh.” He dances his fingertips over Mateo’s fat little tummy.

Despite his easy tone, Bruno feels relieved when the baby releases his mitt, and even more so when he doesn’t show any signs of becoming fussy. The whole point of taking Mateo this time was to give Dolores a moment of rest. Of course she’d drop everything to tend to her son’s needs, but Bruno would rather not need to bother her. (“He seems alright,” he says aloud for her to hear.)

“Pbh,” Mateo grunts, brow wrinkling slightly as he stretches his drool-soaked hand toward his tío.

No visions are required to know what’s coming. Wiping away most of the goo with a well-timed burp cloth and slowing the rocking chair, Bruno tilts his head and lets his nose be captured. From there he maneuvers Mateo into a ‘standing’ position, maintaining support under the armpits and using his own plump tummy as a prop for those teeny feet.

“Ey, you! Respect the pancita,” he laughs when he gets frog-kicked in the belly. At no point has the burbling baby relented his grasp (with both hands, now) on his nose. But Bruno’s used to that. As an infant, Dolores showed the same fascination with his prominent snoot—all the sobrinos did: bopping it, studying it, and even, in Isa’s case, trying to suckle on it.

Eventually (and luckily), Mateo’s fingers start to slip from their hold. The yawn that soon follows makes his gran tío smile and give a small nod.

“I like the way you think, Maty.”

Cradling Mateo once more, Bruno reaches his free arm around to adjust the pillow sandwiched between his back and the chair. The years of odd sleeping postures have really been catching up to him. Resettled, he gazes down at his bissobrino, who appears as alert as ever.

“A-oh no, s-sorry!” He nestles the baby higher, and rocks more determinedly. “Let’s get you comfy again and ready for your nap time.”

For a second he wonders if offering his nose might help, but then he notices the burp cloth is still draped over his knee. Its hue, like that of a bright wine, sets in mind a different thought, a different idea.

Slowly, in the softest of tones, Bruno begins a nigun: “Lai da dai, da lai lai lai…”

As far as he knows, this particular wordless melody doesn’t fit the old Ladino lullaby that he remembers from his childhood. But it probably doesn’t matter. Surely, Mateo won’t judge either—not the mismatched tunes, or the off-key singing.

“…lai da dai,” Bruno warbles. “A la nana y a la buba…”

     Abuela’s lullaby

The baby blinks up at him as he does a refrain, voice hitching over part of the verse: “Da lai lai lai, a la nana y a buba…” 

“Se durma la criatura…” he continues.

     The child sleeps

At this line, he brushes a knuckle across Mateo’s pudgy cheek. Then, from the direction of the courtyard comes a cluster of muted but discernible sounds: a delighted giggle, a wet ploosh, and a baritone whoa—what can only be Mateo’s sister Felicidad practicing her watery Gift with their papá.

The mild commotion has Bruno suppressing a chuckle. But he quickly recovers and returns his attention to the lullaby and his bissobrino, whose increasingly sleep-heavy limbs had twitched in surprise at the noises.

Clearing his throat, he picks up where he left off, with the last pair of lines.

“El Dio grande que los guadre, los guadre…”

     May the great G-d protect, protect

Just like a blessing, a comfortable hush descends upon the nursery. It seems that Felicidad and Mariano decided to move beyond the courtyard (and that perhaps Casita intervened by pushing them along).

“…A los niños de los males.”

     All children from sorrows

Bruno lets the final word trail off before humming the nigun again. He can see that Mateo is truly drifting off now, the very image of innocent repose.

For the next few minutes, the loudest things in the room are the rocking chair and Bruno’s low humming. His eyes finally drift from Mateo’s sleeping form to the burp cloth. …A purplish-red, like his mamá’s color. The lullaby was something she would to sing to her trillizos, and to each nieto when they were babies. It turned out to be a Jewish song—in Ladino, a Judeo-Spanish language, which none of them can really speak but which had nonetheless been passed down through the generations of Abuela’s family.

Abuela Alma herself had known Mateo for only a short time. She was unable to lull him to sleep with the same song, vocal cords too weak toward the end of her life. As Bruno looks at the cloth, the memory of his mamá’s voice floods his senses. He hopes he’s done the lullaby justice in her place.

Tears wetting his eyes, Bruno turns back to the baby tucked sweetly in his arms. Fast asleep, still. He knows that Dolores and Mariano had wanted to follow Sephardic custom and named their son after Abuela, giving him a Hebrew name that honored hers, which was Nehama.

“Dulces sueños, Mattityahu Nahum,” Bruno whispers with a damp smile. This kid will be linked to the past in so many ways, but… he'll have a path all his own, he thinks. It's a promise. The urge to nap washes over him then, and he yawns, melting into the chair.

. . .

Fast asleep is how Dolores finds them. She nudges Bruno first, informing him quietly, “Wake up, Tío. I heard your stomach growling.”

...

Note: the reference to Isabela trying to suckle on Bruno's nose comes from this Tumblr thread (thanks for the HC, @sketchncanto and @princesa-pens-and-pizza 😁)

The Ladino lullaby is called "A La Nana." I first learned about it from The Ladino Song Project.

#encanto #wdtajn #bruno madrigal #dolores madrigal #mariano guzmán #viva la pancita de bruno #jewish madrigals #encanto fan fic #felicidad madrigal #mateo madrigal #my writing #my fics #stuff i've posted

[sundayswiththeilluminati]

You have been asked about your theory

arborealoctopodes asked:

Hi I would like to hear about your theory

SO. I’m still working on this one, and it’s Bungie so there’s like a 70% chance it’s something brand new and completely out of left field. But one of the few bits of info we got from the showcase implied Neomuna was the result of a ship that escaped the Collapse. That made me think of an old plot thread from a D1 grimoire card:

I fear my will is not strong enough to shape these worlds. Only the Tyrant can do that, but he will not be a part of my journey. Even his reach has limits, and we will be nine billion miles away. I whisper my concerns to the Tyrant in tiny magnetic bursts. He does not listen. The Tyrant says take the SIVA, and so I take the SIVA. The Tyrant says go to the stars, and so I go to the stars.

Sometime around, but before, the Pyramid Fleet hit the system, Rasputin dispatched a colony ship carrying SIVA to a destination "nine billion miles away”. That line always made me roll my eyes because while it sounds like a lot, in astronomical terms nine billion miles isn’t very far at all. It’s barely 100 AU; the orbit of Neptune is 30 AU out and the Kuiper Belt tails off around 55 AU, and there are dwarf planets like Eris with its high-eccentricity orbit that range out that far. It’s less than a tenth of the way to the Oort Cloud that marks the real edge of the Solar System. At the time I chalked it up to Bungie’s writers grabbing what sounded like a big number and not bothering to do the math.

But. Remember the Solar System wall map in Rasputin’s bunkers during Season of the Worthy? After Neptune it had a few rings for the Kuiper Belt and then an additional planet the same size as Neptune. Astronomers have long debated the possibility of a tenth (or ninth, now) planet, usually nicknamed “Planet X”, that orbits waaaaaay out there*. Planet X is a staple of scifi and unless Rasputin’s playing a bizarre joke on us the Destiny universe has one in the form of a world of significant size way out past the Kuiper Belt. A planet at 100 AU - nine billion miles - from the Sun would fit Rasputin’s map and line up with older theories for a real-world Planet X.

* It may seem absurd that we could miss an entire planet, but planets don’t emit visible light, only reflect the Sun’s, and a world that far out would appear to move so slowly it could be mistaken for a fixed star. These days space-based IR sky surveys have mostly ruled X out - but only mostly.

Golden Age human spacecraft ranged as far as the inner edge of the Kuiper Belt, and Clovis Bray’s journal contains a passing reference to what sounds like a Vex incursion at a research station on Pluto, but the line of permanent human settlement hadn’t yet passed Titan. When Rasputin started building the Exodus program as insurance against the possible extinction of humanity, Planet X would be an ideal candidate for the first wave: close enough to quickly resettle our system, far enough from human settlements that a force targeting Earth might miss it, especially if they kept their heads down. So I’m now thinking maybe the colony ship he sent out with SIVA really was going a mere nine billion miles away - to pitch camp on Planet X.

Pulling an entire Golden Age city out of thin air is a stretch even for Bungie. They’ve had this reveal up their sleeve for a long time, long enough to put Elsie’s fish in the Beyond Light reveal trailer and maybe the mystery power armor Sloane found on Titan in Season of Arrivals. Therefore: what if Neomuna was the reason they included Planet X on Rasputin’s bunker map in the first place? The lightmap was a significant setpiece they knew players would be watching closely, so the artists probably didn’t add it just for funsies. Casually dropping in a new solar system planet is a pretty crazy piece of worldbuilding. And yet it’s barely remarked on in written lore, either then or since - same as Elsie’s fish, which those bastards played the long game on for two solid years. I will bet you a hundred dollars that when the map assets for Season of the Worthy were made, Neomuna was on Planet X. I bet it started out there and got moved to Neptune the way the Deep Stone Crypt was originally going to be on Enceladus (hence Cayde’s message to Petra) but got moved to Europa later in development. I bet the story’s going to be that the colony ship was headed for Planet X, but the Pyramid Fleet hit the system early and they dove for cover on Neptune.

The few early bits of info we’ve gotten on Neomuna suggest their tech is all based around extremely advanced nanites, like the constantly-morphing Quicksilver Storm. Elsie even calls out SIVA the first time she encounters the Neomuna nanites, but says Neomuna’s bugs are vastly more advanced - which you might expect if SIVA were the original city’s lifeblood and they’ve iterated on the tech out of necessity ever since. We also learned the Cloudstriders have very short (10 - 15 years) lifespans because of how much cybernetic enhancement they do to their bodies. Remember the secret experiments Willa Bray was doing with SIVA? She was infusing it into people, trying to enhance physical and mental prowess. And it worked, too - but it drastically shortened their lifespans. To the tune of weeks for Willa’s subjects, but like Elsie said, Neomuna’s had a lot of time to improve. And for meta reasons it would explain why Bungie hasn’t revisited SIVA in recent years even though it’s a popular request from D1 players; they already had a whole expansion of “SIVA, but neon chrome this time,” in the pipeline.

Given that Neomuna’s hidden in the atmosphere of Neptune, there’s a good chance it’s the NEFELE STRONGHOLD mentioned in the Collapse-era Rasputin message - a human settlement that Rasputin then erased all mention of, even from his own memory. If he knew that ship had gotten a foothold on Neptune, he’d probably also know the Pyramids hadn’t found it yet (was this, potentially, because of Savathun? is this the trick her worm claims she played on the Witness? that seemed to be more about the Traveler though.) Exodus Black had crashed, Green disappeared into a singularity, and Red and Blue hadn’t even made it off Earth. Rasputin knew every Exodus ship was a mad gamble anyway. At that moment he would likely consider the Neptune colony to be humanity’s best shot at avoiding extinction. So he cancels its defense as part of his general retreat but also takes the time to erase all traces of its existence, including his own records. He won’t help them, but he will give them a chance to stay hidden and escape the Black Fleet. And since he’s now forgotten the colony exists, he doesn’t check up on them in the following centuries or mention them to us.

Like I said, it’s Bungie, so there’s a 70% chance the lore justification will be completely new and out of left field. But it does line up. In a month of guessing I wouldn’t have called the swerve they took for Lightfall, but now I think they’ve been leaving breadcrumbs for this one longer than it seems at first glance.

#Destiny 2 #Lightfall #Neomuna #overthinking is my superpower #words words words #things I made up #really pumped to see if I'm right #hope we don't end up with Red squaring off against that mind #let Red go ten minutes without fighting #eh who am I kidding he'll be starting shit five minutes after he's back in action #bungie bring back my guy #ra ra Rasputin Mars' greatest war machine #this is the wager of existence

[ideas-on-paper]

Two tidbits about the Geth from the Mass Effect 3 Codex

[Potential spoilers for the Mass Effect trilogy]

Yeah, guys, I'm at it again - after my little research endeavor regarding the Quarians in Mass Effect 2, I once again scoured the new Codex entries from Mass Effect 3 for additional information. This time, I managed to uncover two quite curious facts about the Geth.

1. The first comes from the Codex entry about Rannoch, where it says that the Geth not only have been working to repair the planet's ecology and restore ancient structures, but also cultivated some farmland during the Quarians' absence. We do know from Legion's dialogue in ME2 that the Geth have been cleaning up "rubble and toxins" after the end of the Morning War, and as far as restoring the planet to its original state goes, taking care of the environment and preserving old buildings probably also fall into that category as well.

However, "cultivating farmland" implies something entirely else - going by the standard definition, it would mean that the Geth are actually doing arable farming, as in growing crops and harvesting them. This, however, seems like a quite outlandish thing for them to do, since they probably have no use for the yields themselves and the possibility of the Quarians returning is still a long way away. We do learn during the Geth server mission in ME3 that the Geth were basically hoping for a reunification with their creators, but before Shepard entered the picture, the chance for that to happen was very slim at best, and I can't imagine these vague odds being enough of a justification for storing crops only to later have to dispose of the rotten waste again (unless the Geth have found a way to keep food fresh for multiple decades; still, it seems like an overly optimistic outlook). Then again, maybe this is related to the earlier point about them restoring Rannoch's ecology, with the Geth cultivating plants that had gotten rare/gone extinct in certain parts of Rannoch and resettling them. This seems like a plausible explanation to me; another possibility would be that the Geth simply cleared and prepared the farmland, but don't actually grow anything - keeping the land ready in case the Quarians do one day return, but not banking on the option.

2. The second stems from the Codex entry about the Geth Spitfire: In the entry, it says both Alliance and Quarian intelligence suspect that the weapon might have been designed to fight other Geth, indicating there was a schism among them previous to the Quarians' attack in ME3. The first thing that came to my mind is that they probably created this weapon to dispose of any remaining Heretic stragglers; however, it occurred to me that this explanation doesn't really make sense if you rewrote the Heretics in ME2, since all of them return to the Consensus afterwards. Still, the Geth developed the Spitfire regardless, which means that a different factor has to be at play here.

Taking a look at Tali's dialogue previous to "Priority: Geth Dreadnought", she states that in the last message she received from Legion, they told her that the Geth had problems finding a consensus. Now, this is particularly interesting, especially since it might further support some of my theories about the Geth Heretics. Basically, my thesis is that choosing violence is not what turns a Geth into a Heretic - rather, it's just an effect of them losing all hope to reconcile with their creators. This may sound a bit cheesy at first, but remember that during the server mission in ME3, Legion says that the Geth admire the organic concept of hope since it "sustains organics during periods of difficulty". The fact that there even was a necessity to borrow such a non-factual, downright superstitious concept speaks for itself, and the phrasing suggests that the Geth are more torn among themselves than their outward unity lets on. Admittedly, the revelation that there were Quarians who stood up for the Geth during the Morning War gives their ideals of peace somewhat of a factual basis (which I really appreciate, btw), but it was clearly not enough to convince the entirety of the Consensus. When weighted against the rest of their creators' actions, it appears that some programs were just not able to put their trust in a peace agreement with them. It's interesting to think that the Geth not only tried to keep up their unity with the notion of hope, but also by pursuing "renegade" programs, which might imply that even harboring such doubts is counted as Heretic. (Still, I wonder why the Geth developed a physical weapon for such measures; like Legion says previous to the server mission, Geth are most vulnerable through direct interface, so I would expect this conflict to take place on a mostly digital level.)

Then, when the Migrant Fleet destroyed their Dyson sphere, the unity which had been upheld by a hair's breadth was completely shattered, and even Geth who previously believed in a potential coexistence abandoned the prospect, viewing the Quarians' aggression as the decisive proof that peace with them was simply not possible. That means that every Geth can potentially turn into a Heretic, and that "being Heretic" is not akin to a flaw in the code that can simply be wiped out by killing the respective faction. However, this doesn't mean that all Geth are inherently "evil" - rather, it means that similar to humans, Geth cannot pursue a goal that they see no purpose in, and turning Heretic is something that happens when they lose their belief.

#mass effect #mass effect 3 #geth #mass effect lore #lore theories #never thought I would feel sympathy for the Geth Heretics but here we are

[inkmein97]

SNEAK PEEK:

God…Bucky, can I draw you?” He blurts, fingers still tracing lines over gooseflesh skin.

“Uh, draw me? Like right now?” James asks, looking more confused than opposed to the idea.

Steve bites his lip and nods, “Please.”

“Okay. Sure… How do you want me?”

Steve wiggles his eyebrows in a manner he thinks is seductive, but probably looks ridiculous, a notion that is only fuelled by James’ sudden eruption of giggles.

“That’s not what I meant, goddammit!” James laughs, shoving against Steve’s side.

Steve grins, shoving the brunette back. “Just lay against the pillows. That’s it…” Steve directs, face a little pink. “Bend your left knee, no, that’s your right knee, Buck… and put your foot flat against the mattress. Okay, good…Um, your hands look a little awkward. Do you want a book or something?”

“I feel awkward!” James protests, but fishes a paperback from down the side of the mattress. Steve watches him flick to the dog-eared page, neon tabs sticking out haphazardly. He leans over to grab the materials he needs from his backpack, shoves his glasses back on top of his nose and settles himself in the desk chair which he wheels over to the foot of the mattress.

“Sorry, the lighting isn’t very good,” James apologises, looking up from the words on the page with a frown.

“No, it’s perfect. Trust me, Bucky, you look…really beautiful.” Steve says honestly, bringing a knee up to balance the sketchpad on. “Just read your book, baby,” he encourages, not missing the pink flush that spreads over James’ chest.

“Kay,” the boy grumbles, but quickly gets absorbed in the pages, much to Steve’s amusement.

Steve starts with a quick outline to get the general position of James’ body before he inevitably can’t sit still any longer. He flicks his eyes between the paper and his subject, he looks closely, intently. He pencils in James' elbow propped up on his thigh. Sketches slender fingers keeping open the pages of a book. The sharp jut of a bare ankle and the long curve of his spine. He commits the sinewy expanse of the boy’s neck to paper. The proud slope of his nose and the dime-sized divot in his chin. Steve draws the tantalising valley of James’ pectorals and the sharp lines that disappear underneath the waistband of his tight jeans. He captures the concentration on his face, eyes slightly narrowed, the corner of a lip caught absently between teeth. And then it’s the scars on James’ arm, the tattoos, the swinging pendant over his chest.

It’s silent for a while, just the soft scratching of pencil against paper and the sound of city-traffic below. Every now and then, James will glance up and catch Steve’s gaze only to blush and look away again with a shy smile. He can’t place when exactly the air around them changes but, the next time James looks up from his book, they hold each other's gazes for a while longer.

“Can I stretch out now? M’getting cramp,” James complains, several glances later. Steve nods, the sketch has been finished for a few minutes, but he’s not letting James know that. Not yet.

He looks down at it. Tires to separate himself from the image, to look at it objectively as a piece of art. It’s difficult. He’s tied to it, deeply, intrinsically. When he looks at the paper in front of him he sees an extension of himself. His James. He knows without any uncertainty that even the most uncultured individual would be hard pressed to deny the love within the fine lines of graphite.

It’s obvious. Christ, is it obvious.

“Sure, Buck,” he says instead. Pretending to adjust the sketchpad on his knee when really he’s watching as James lies flat on his back. James lifts his arms above his head and stretches languorously, his hips rising off the mattress. He resettles lazily, propped up on his elbows, his legs spread. His hair falling into his eyes. James’ body a long line of temptation that Steve can’t help but let his eyes wander across.

This is it. Steve thinks. This is my undoing.

#stucky #bucky barnes #steve rogers #steve x bucky #fanfic #teen au #young avengers #sebastian stan

[dragonmuse]

sorry now i have to ask how lucius weaponized izzy getting fixated on a puzzle

(as soon as I wrote that sentance, I knew someone would ask! And it gave me a chance to incorporate another quasi ask!)

Lucius: Got an idea for this year’s mother’s day festivities, but I need your help.

Read: shoot 

Lucius: I’m thinking we could decorate the apartment a little. Nothing crazy, but some fairy lights and things. 

Read: how are we going to get away with that? 

Lucius: need to borrow your girlfriend 

“Come on, I just need to get something from her before we head out,” Lucius knocked on Read’s door. 

“You’re up to something,” Izzy determined, glaring at him. 

“Sure,” Lucius rolled his eyes. “Definitely. Concocting evil schemes as we speak.” 

“Hey,” Read opened the door before Izzy could level his supcisons further. “Come on in, I have to go find it, just give me a sec, okay?” 

“Sure, hey Anne.” 

Anne was sitting cross legged on the floor in front of the coffee table. She had a huge jigsaw puzzle just started in front of her, one corner of the border completed. The box faced up, showing a Turner, a gigantic ship heaving upwards through impressionistic waves. 

“Hey,” Anne glanced up then back to the puzzle. “What are you guys off to?” 

“Errands,” Lucius shrugged. “I need a new pair of sneakers apparently.” 

“They’re supposed to have tread,” Izzy rolled his eyes. He was already inching towards the table. 

“Sorry!” Read called from the bedroom. “Can someone hold the flashlight, I need to get under the bed.” 

“Coming!” Lucius headed into the bedroom. He took the phone from her, crouching down. 

“Is it working?” 

“You’ll see, fish around for a bit.” 

They idled there for a few minutes and eventually Read said, “Got it!” with convincing loudness and handed Lucius an empty box.

They stepped back into the living room to find Izzy sitting on the couch, picking at the border. 

“I’m going to go put this back at our place,” Lucius said softly, reaching to give Izzy’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “I’ll come back and get you.” 

“Mhm,” Izzy said, eyes glued to the table. 

Lucius very carefully did not skip out of the apartment, Read slipping away after him. They waited until they were safely enclosed in Izzy’s apartment to both break into giggles. 

“How long will he stay like that?” Read asked once they’d calmed down. 

“Like an hour or more. It’s hysterical.” 

“I think it works on Anne too, she was up for it as a distraction, but I think she actually got into it after a few minutes,” Read shook her head. “Guess I’ve got a holiday present sorted.”

“Great,” Lucius went to toss the box. 

“No wait! There’s actually something in there.” 

“Really?” He handed it to her. “It’s light.” 

“Look,” she pulled out a piece of cardstock and an ink pad. “It’s animal safe.” 

“Why?” Lucius glanced from her to Sweeney, who was napping in his favorite sunny patch by the window. 

“Card!” She grinned. “We just need to dip his paw in for a second and it’s safe if he licks some of it off.” 

“That is so freakin’ cute, I could scream,” he deemed. “Let’s do it.” 

They got the apartment decorated in twenty minutes. It took a further twenty minutes to get Sweeney to cooperate for their scheme, but eventually the cat relented with a pissed off ‘mrr’ and then slunk away to lick off the ink they hadn’t managed to clean off themselves in peace. 

Charlie showed up right as Lucius was finishing the lettering for the card. 

“Did we torture the cat?” He asked amused. 

“We might’ve,” Lucius allowed. “Very briefly. Can you go get Izzy? He’s across the hall.” 

“Sure thing. No one else coming?” 

“Jim is running late and Pickle has soccer. So we’ll eat later, but he’ll probably notice something is up soon, so I’d rather just get him in here.” 

“Okay,” Charlie went back out. Lucius finished the card. 

Read resettled some of the lights. 

They pulled out the cheese and crackers. 

“It’s been like fifteen minutes,” Read realized. 

“Maybe they got abducted by aliens” Lucius rolled his eyes. “Or got to talking, let’s go see.”

They went back across the hall. Read went in first and clearly had to stifle a laugh. Lucius peered over her shoulder. 

Charlie was kneeling next to Izzy’s legs, brow furrowed as he popped two pieces together. Izzy was pointing to some bit and Anne was nodding, reaching for another piece. 

“Ok. Back out slowly,” Lucius advised. 

“What do we do?” 

“Eh, let them finish. You and I can have some cheese.” 

They very happily consumed the platter until Jim, Oluwande, Delly and Pickle showed up. 

“What’d you do with my brother?” Delly glanced around. “I don’t think he’d stand for this.” 

“He’s next store,” Lucius considered her. “Want to go get him?” 

He wasn’t sure it would work, but Delly also disappeared. Long enough for them to wind the lights that Read had brought into Pickle’s hair, much to the little girl’s delight. 

“I’m a star!” She giggled. 

And if Lucius maybe stole Izzy’s camera briefly and snuck into the apartment to take a few shots, then at least Izzy got to edit the roll later. One of the photos might’ve even wound up on the bookcase. Izzy and his sister mirrored each other as they bent over the puzzle, matching salt and pepper heads with brows furrowed in concentration while Charlie looked utterly at peace and Anne was smiling wide enough to burst her usual calm cool collected facade.  Sat beside the sober frame was a card with a neat pawprint in the center. 

#leda house and the kraken verse #ficlet #attend the tail of sweeney todd #goblin king and the pup

[kariachi]

This is the fic I wanted to write. Hitting on Kev's mom's not-technically-canon-but-could-be-with-ease polyamory. Specifically Gwen asking after shit.

She has much to learn and unlearn.

~~

It came on what should have been a nice, relaxed afternoon, curled together on the couch in Kevin’s apartment. An easy quiet, enjoying a shared hobby in each other’s presence, with not a care in the world. With a million thoughts running rampant behind green eyes, no matter what their owner did to shut them up. Weeks upon hours worth knocking at the walls, begging for attention.

“Babe,” Gwen said, finally giving up on keeping her curiosity in check and setting aside her book, “I have a question.”

“Hm?” Resettling himself on the couch beneath her, Kevin shut his own and rested it on her back. “Shoot.”

For a moment Gwen lay silent, staring into the middle distance in front of his throat as she got her words together. If there was any lack of patience from Kevin, it was only shown with the drumming of fingers on his book.

“Remember when you and your stepdad…” There was no real way she was comfortable describing their confrontation outside her house. Probably it was for the best, as Kevin tensed at the memory.

“I remember,” he said curtly. “What about it?”

“He talked about how much your mom loved your dad,” she said slowly, each word deliberate, “and mentioned he married her when you were like, four?”

“Mm-hm. Mom’s still got pictures-” He gave a little laugh. “-I was fucking adorable.” Gwen couldn’t help a smile.

“I don’t doubt it.” He was adorable as it was. “I was just curious,” she asked, “because I thought you told me your dad died when you were five or, somewhere around there.”

“Five,” Kevin said with a small nod and a hint of roughness to his voice at the memory, “a few months after my birthday.” With a comforting murmur, she reached out to give his hair a stroke.

“So, your mom got married when you were four-”

“Mm-hm.”

“And your dad died when you were five-”

“Yep.”

“And Harvey said she loved your dad more than him?”

“Supposedly.” Kevin shrugged. “I can’t really remember, but according to everybody he was her favorite. Then again to hear people talk Dad was everybody’s favorite.” Gwen had to nod at that. Her own grandfather talked about the alien- when he talked about him- like he’d hung at least the stars, and the other Plumbers in the family had about fallen over themselves when they’d learned she was dating his kid.

“Okay,” she said, “so, how the fuck did that work?” She could see Kevin’s mom sleeping around, was the thing, but everything had been so, matter of fact. And she assumed it would have made it onto the long list of the woman’s faults her grandpa seemed to have memorized. Beneath her, Kevin blinked with a small frown.

“They dated, Harvey proposed,” he said like it was an obvious thing, and now that she knew how long the guy had been in his life her heart gave a twinge to hear him call him by his name, “she said yes, they got married?”

“I know that,” Gwen said, with a laugh despite herself, “I mean with your dad.” Kevin’s brow and nose crinkled.

“They dated, Dad wanted kids, Mom said sure, they had me?” She couldn’t help but feel, looking into those confused brown eyes, his words tumbling in her head, that they were talking passed each other.

“And these happened concurrently?” He raised a brow. “At the same time.”

“Yeah,” he said, again like it was obvious. “I mean, I don’t know who she met first but, Harvey was definitely a part of things by the time Dad clutched. There’s pictures of him, Mom, and me when I was a baby.” Gwen, supposed the numbers added up? Technically?

“And, they were cool?” Harvey had just been so plain with the fact that his wife had loved somebody else more than him. She couldn’t imagine it without something dark twisting in her gut, and so didn’t even try.

“Gotta assume,” Kevin said, relaxing back into the cushions. “Harvey never seemed to have any problem with anyone else she dated, and he never had a bad word about Dad. Plenty about me, but the worst he ever said about him was that he could have done better than Mom.” Laughing despite herself- she didn’t get along with her, but the idea the poor woman’s own husband had been telling her son she hadn’t been good enough for his dad- Gwen shook her head.

“And your dad?” He shrugged.

“Not that I know about. I mean, if he knew Harvey was gonna turn out to be a dick, figure he woulda done something in the five-odd years…”

“So, his girlfriend, who he was having kids with, brought another guy around, no issues?” That seemed like plenty enough reason to have problems to her. “Another guy raising his kid, no issues?”

“Babe, he didn’t even raise me when he had custody of me,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “Before Dad died I lived with him. Was all about as standard Ossy stuff as you can get outside a proper Pack.” Huh. That was something she’d never even considered. But then, so far that was just this whole conversation. New and more than a little confusing.

“And he dated your mom the whole time?” It wasn't entirely a question, but she was having to rewire things in her mind as the conversation progressed. With a quiet and bemused snort, Kevin rolled his eyes.

“Duh. Don’t think Mom’s seen less than two people at a time in my life.” Okay, that answered that then. Gwen raised a brow as she sorted everything in her head.

“‘Don’t think’?” Kevin shrugged again.

“I met a few, but she didn’t normally bring people around,” he said. “Fuck, think she’s seeing like, three? Right now? And I only know one of ‘em.”

“Hm?”

“Family friend from before we moved back east, nice guy. Apparently, he liked her forever and finally got himself to do something about it when she followed me out here.” Despite herself, Gwen couldn’t help a smirk.

“Are we sure you’re not his?”

“Very,” Kevin laughed. “We’re less sure that I’m Mom’s than Dad’s.” Shaking her head, Gwen heaved a sigh and draped her full weight over Kevin, cheek against his throat. There was no indication he even noticed the extra load.

She mulled in the comfortable silence that followed, even as Kevin went back to his book. His parents had been together from before his birth to his dad’s death. His mom and stepfather had been together since at least his infancy through to- she didn’t even know what exactly their status was now. Certainly, she’d never seen the man before or since the… incident. And she was dating now. But apparently she had been dating, had always dated, openly and actively. Something everyone was apparently cool with.

She hesitated to call it ‘weird’, but… But it went counter to everything she’d been taught in her life. From parents to teachers to books to television. She could practically hear, despite never having discussed it prior, her great-grandmother on the topic. ‘Even God had the decency to not intrude any further after knocking up Mary.’ Everything she had encountered prior to this that had touched on the topic of having two relationships at once had, with a big red stamp, marked it as a horrible betrayal, one of the worst things you could do to someone you supposedly loved. But, by all accounts Harvey had been cool. By all accounts Kevin’s dad had been cool. Kevin, who she knew from experience was an absolute labrador of a partner, was cool.

Something twisted rough in her gut at the fact he clearly saw it as normal.

“I’m not sharing you,” she said without a second or to be honest even a first thought. Kevin just idly dropped a hand to card through her hair.

“Ya know, I kinda figured that out.”

#fanfic

[qqueenofhades]

Do you think the helpful Europeans on tumblr and twitter who keep advising Americans in red states to move to blue states realize that that distance between Dallas, TX and Chicago, IL is about the same as between Paris, France and Warsaw, Poland ?

I'm going to say probably not, no. Also, "just move!!!" is about as helpful as "start a revolution!!" in terms of a workable solution, which is... not at all. I have had to move a lot (a LOT) in my life, and it totally absolutely sucks even when it's somewhere you WANT to go/do! When you don't and you're being forced by external circumstances, it sucks even worse. It is expensive, exhausting, time-consuming, stressful, and generally a pain in the ass, and when you get to where you're going, you've got to transfer your voter registration, your driver's license, your utility bills, your health insurance, navigate a new administration system, find a job, resettle your life, make new friends, etc etc. It is a total absolute fucking HASSLE, and not to mention, most people who won't be able to afford so much as traveling out of state for an abortion will absolutely not be able to afford moving!

Like, I am lucky enough to be a lesbian living in a blue state (albeit a very red part of said state), so this is very unlikely to apply to me personally. But if, God forbid, a situation arose where I needed to get up and leave immediately, I would almost surely not be able to do that. I haven't been able to do it in the last three years despite vigorous trying, and the only reason that I might be able to do it now is because a) my grandmother recently died and my mom inherited some money from her estate, and b) she also has a job now when she hadn't for a while. So in my personal circumstances, if it was extremely necessary, my parents could help me get out. But that is a sheer fluke and dependent only on our own situation and, given how poor all of us have been for many years, would absolutely not have been an option before.

Besides, "just uproot your whole life because fascists run your home state!" is astoundingly tone-deaf. Due to gerrymandering and other Republican dirty tricks, a state counts as "red" if only 50.1% of the population votes for the Republican candidate; that still leaves the 49.9% who didn't and yet are subject to GOP nonsense anyway. It's like when liberals write off the entire South or see them as "deserving" it, when, like... you know how the South has been structured, built, and sustained on minority-white-conservative rule since the beginning, right? The many good people who are NOT racist Christofascist KKKlowns have been fighting for DECADES to undo some of those structural barriers and systemic injustices, and some of the keyboard warriors need to do as much work as even one day in the life of a southern community organiser or local Democrat before they shoot their mouths off about The Establishment.

Anyway, I suspect that telling someone from Poland (where abortion is likewise tightly restricted/outlawed) to "just move to France" as a solution wouldn't be particularly well-received. Plus, Europeans, or indeed any non-Americans at all, who feel like chiming in right now should restrict their commentary to "I'm sorry the Supreme Court did this" and "let me know if I can help." That goes double for all the non-American leftists who get cred points on Socialist Twitter by bashing the Democrats endlessly, and never have to live in American society, participate in it, vote in it, live with the consequences of their words, or anything else at all. The end.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts

[pulpandgristle]

Don't worry, I didn't die

Apologies for the prolonged absence. There's an explanation with some venting below, if you care to look. The long and short of it is that I'm basically restructuring my entire life and also discovered that my brain is broken in a cool new way, but I'm resettling a little now and I hope to be back in the next week or two. Thanks for being patient everyone, I can't wait to write some more.

Also I got a wonderful new avatar courtesy of @rookshocksshack, go give them some love and/or money!

I've been very busy. And tired. And . . . devastated.

Saying that feels inadequate; I've been trying to think of a better way to explain my disappearance besides "I feel awful and empty" for weeks now, but I don't know of any other way to communicate it. I wish I could give a more "justifiable" reason than that, but I know that's just a mean impulse from the particularly nasty corners of my brain. Hopefully writing this will be therapeutic in some way.

The truth is that I've been under immense pressure for a really long time and I am only recently starting to reduce some of that. In the past two months I've:

Lost my authorization for my ADHD meds, gotten them refilled wrong, lost them again, then gotten them back only to discover that my insurance now charges $100 a month for them with coverage,

Ended a friendship that lasted about nine years with someone I previously trusted like family but no longer do at all,

Discovered that I have severe unmedicated OCD,

Lost $1,300 a month of income because one of my roommates vacated our apartment before the lease was up, and

Helped one of my best friends through her losing her therapist, starting to overcome an addiction and undergoing multiple simultaneous medication changes

In my infinite wisdom I figured that would be the best time to dramatically increase my own workload and formalize my online presence on a platform I'd never used before.

I've been thinking a lot about how to continue with my art, and I want to make sure I create what I want in a way that's sustainable while I go about addressing real-life problems. My workflow has always been erratic and uncooperative. It drives me utterly insane.

I am a slave to what I call the "nested parentheses" problem: I have an internal queue of projects in my brain, each at varying stages of completion, that I intend to finish in a specific order. But whenever I lose momentum I jump to another project and extend the queue another step, producing an infinitely descending spiral of abandoned projects that must now be completed in reverse order to avoid . . . something bad. Probably nothing at all, but good luck convincing me otherwise. I could literally write any of them at any time.

Did you know I only got diagnosed with ADHD and OCD at 26? Wild stuff.

I should point out that I'm doing fine, all things considered. I have a support network and all that. It's just very frustrating to realize that I have been overworked and crushed so thoroughly, and it's been quite difficult to accept that things I previously accepted as normal were, in fact, bad for me. I think I need a period to acclimate to not running on fumes for, like, two consecutive years. Ugh.

Anyway, I'm hoping to be back soon, either with more flash fiction or more offsite work. I have multiple commissions in the pipeline for SCP stuff, independent projects and more, and I am very excited to share them with you.

From the river to the sea, solidarity forever, goodnight.

#connective tissue #I promise I didn't fall in a big hole

[sylvienerevarine]

premise for a fic: i channel my nostalgic emotions about the solstheim portion of skyrim into a fic about sophrine having those same emotions and also neloth is there

the fic: it's here now!

---

Sophrine had every intention, upon entering Tel Mithryn, of being very calm, respectful, and composed. No matter that half her ancestors had lived on Solstheim, nor that she’d dreamed of seeing a mushroom tower her whole life and that somewhere deep down this felt like coming home. All her friends were hardened warriors, and she would not be soppy in front of them.

This intention lasted approximately thirty seconds, after which she burst into joyful tears as soon as the levitation ray set her down. The whole place was just as she’d imagined from her grandmother’s stories: the towering ceilings, the strange insect shells and herbs scattered about, even the grim-faced old Dunmer fellow in front of her.

“You must be Master Neloth,” she managed. “I’m Sophrine Aulette, from Skyrim by way of High Rock. You have a lovely home.”

“Young woman,” said Master Neloth sternly. He hadn’t been in bed, thank goodness (wizards probably studied all hours of the night). “You burst into my home in the middle of the night, trailing a group of vagrants…” He shot a glare at Sophrine’s friends, all of whom looked slightly nauseated from the trip up. “And then start weeping all over my supplies. Pray tell, do you have a purpose here, or are you some sort of emotion-atronach conjured to annoy me?”

“Oh, goodness, I’m sorry,” said Sophrine, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I know I’m too sentimental, it’s one of my worst flaws. It’s just that I’ve spent so many years hearing stories about this island, and everything my family did here–and you! Not to mention a silt strider! I’ve always dreamed of meeting a silt strider. It’s all simply amazing.”

“Stories about me, is it?” Neloth replied. He looked rather flattered. “Has my fame spread far enough that Breton bumpkins are talking about me?”

Sophrine laughed. “As it happens, I’m only half Breton. I’ve also got a bit of Bosmer blood… from my great-great-grandmother, Sylvie.”

“Ah.” Neloth’s face softened. “You’re one of Sylvie’s brood, then. Always did wonder what became of her.”

“She died when I was a baby–though we’re not sure of the exact circumstances–so I never met her while she was alive,” said Sophrine. “But my relatives told me everything about her, and about Morrowind and Solstheim. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to finally be here.”

“Archmagister Sylvie,” said Neloth, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Always liked that woman. Complete lunatic, of course, but she had gumption the like of which you don’t see anymore. Have I ever told you about the day she resigned?”

“We’ve only just met.”

“I’ll never forget that meeting,” Neloth went on, as though he hadn’t heard her. “After five hours of debate Sylvie leapt up onto the conference table, kicked a glass of wine into Baladas’ lap, and gave us all what for. Told us she’d spent years trying to make us see sense on slavery and poverty and the Mages’ Guild, and if we weren’t going to listen to a living saint then we could listen to our own farts for the rest of eternity. Stormed out of the room and that was that.”

“No!” Sophrine exclaimed. “Did you ever see her after that?”

“Oh, I ran into her a time or two on Solstheim, and a bit during the whole resettlement movement after the Red Year. She seemed happy enough with that useless Nord she married and her wee girl. But, times change, we drifted apart…never knew where she wound up after that.”

“Mum says she and her family went off traveling quite a bit,” said Sophrine. “The strangest places, all over the world. The last time any of us heard from her was after her husband died, more than a hundred years ago. She said she was off to properly explore Akavir because she’d made some very good friends there, and not to worry about her one bit. Then my granny Svenja got a letter decades later saying that Sylvie had passed away and she sent all of us her love.”

Neloth lowered his eyes. “My condolences.”

“Thank you. It’s not so bad, though, I still get to see her from time to time.”

The wizard looked up, startled. “You see her?”

“Oh, yes, though not very often. She sometimes shows up as a ghost during my hours of great need–it’s a deal she worked out with Azura. Being a Dragonborn does have some privileges. In fact…hold on, I’ve got an idea.” Sophrine dropped to her knees and let out a piteous wail. “Please, Nana Sylvie, appear to me! I’ve been attacked by dragon cultists and am being threatened by a horrible ancient sorcerer! My need is very great!”

For a moment, nothing happened at all. Then, to nearly everyone’s astonishment, the air behind Sophrine’s head began to ripple.

“That’s cheating, you know,” drawled a woman’s disembodied voice. “Azura’s going to have my head for this. But I simply can’t resist visiting old friends. Hello, Neloth darling! Keeping well?”

“Oh, gods,” said Neloth, shrinking away from the light. “Hello, Sylvie.”

#skyrim #morrowind #neloth #tes #my writing #oc: sophrine #ah this was fun

[alistonjdrake]

🍬🍎👻

🍬 candy: share a sweet or fluffy scene from your wip!

This is a hard one given how angst-ridden so much of my recent stuff has been.

Shaking her head, Justyna crossed the room in a few quick steps. Only stopping to pick up the four toy soldiers he’d dropped in his haste to pretend to be sleeping. Mismatched figures they had collected for him throughout the years. The first two were Oskyan. That much was clear by the tall hats and thick mustaches.  One was a Knight. The other a Fate. She planted herself on the edge of Aleksy’s bed and swiped her nose with a finger from her free hand.  “Little boys smell sweeter when they’re sleeping. That’s why witches come to gobble them up.” Justyna dropped the soldiers into his lap. Aleksy grabbed them, holding them clumsily to his chest as his frown deepened. “Mama, stop.”  “Why aren’t you asleep? It’s so late.” The blanket had fallen to his waist and she reached for the edge, leaning close so he had no choice but to resettle against his pillows. Aleksy followed her lead, reluctantly. The bow of his mouth kept twisting into a frown.

A little scene of Mother!Justyna because the home scenes of ThoR are relatively happy ones.

🍎 apple: let’s talk about friendship in your wip. do you have any favorite friend/platonic dynamics? any friendships gone sour?

It's kinda a running joke with me that none of my characters have friends. The first half of ORG is really about Argus taking a torpedo to his friendship/relationship with Enyo that ends in them not talking face to face for like 4 years or how his friendship with Damaris was also something he discarded when it became easier to bully her than defend her from his peers. Most of the characters in TNC are friends with each other in a very lighthearted frenemy type of way and I really liked writing about the whole group of seven and their banter but I admit those were few and far between. Miko also has all his Ulra/childhood friends we met again towards the end of the book and given how their culture raises children they all have this very close/familial bond with one another. In A Woman of No Importance, you could probably say Cierra's only friend is her daughter and for Matilde she has no one who is genuinely her friend although she does have a lot of allies and opportunistic companions.

Now, why do so few of my characters have friends? Idk. Irl there's no one dearer to me than my friends I guess I just, love unlikable people.

👻 ghost: can you tease some wip ideas that have been haunting you/something you want to write in the future?

I already post every now and then about olive grove and no importance, someone will die, we heard the devil, sorcerei, all these back burner projects I really want to work on and don't currently have the time for but underneath all of them, there's Saint Saltykov. I made a cover for it when bored like two years ago and came up with this whole romantacy story about a biracial drag queen in a lavender marriage who meets a fugitive/magician in this really eclectic city. It would be so much fun if I had the time to flesh it out and actually plot for it but I just...have not

#writeblr asks #june trash

[goddessofroyalty]

In the ZaunFamily AU I had this random fluffy thought about Slico and Vander meeting their grandchild. (I’ve always had a headcannon thinking that those two have a soft spot for babies and little kids)

So... I wrote them meeting Naph (under the cut).

I think there is a difference between Vander and Silco when it comes to babies and kids. Vander loves babies and kids immediately if you put one near him he's immediately so fond of them. Silco is a bit cold a first but after a little becomes the Roza Diaz puppy meme. Of course when it's his own kids or grandkids the time required for the bond to happen is like... nanoseconds but with other kids it can take him a little.

But I agree them meeting their grandkids is just such a soft sweet image.

(Also please I didn't write it (might later) but imagine Vi going to Vander after she has her first and just being so excited to tell her dad that she's a parent now).

----------------

Viktor is sitting up in the hospital bed when they enter. He looks tired, but fine, and has a bundle in his arms that Vander is fairly certain is the baby that officially makes them grandparents. Jayce sitting in the chair beside the bed staying down at the bundle with such intensity he doesn’t even apparently notice their entry. Viktor having found himself a good partner.

Silco crosses the room first to their son and grandchild. Running a hand through Viktor’s dump hair to push it out of his face.

“How was it?” Silco asks as Vander makes his way over as well.

Viktor tists his head in false contemplation.

“Painful but Jayce is very sorry for getting me pregnant and I think I will forgive him,” he says, causing Jayce to rest his head on the hospital bed and groan. His hand reaching out towards Viktor’s as Viktor continues. “Do you want to hold him?”

“Only if you’re comfortable,” Vander says as Silco just reaches for his grandchild having apparently forgotten how possessive he had been about his own children the first few days after they were born.

Viktor does seem fine with it though.

“He looks like Viktor doesn’t he?” Jayce says as Silco runs his good eye over the babe.

Vander watches as Silco’s expression softens. Watches his own partner fall in love with their grandchild as quickly as he had all their own children.

“What’s his name?” Silco asks as he pulls the boy closer into the crook of his arm to hold. Looking as natural with him as he did their own.

“Naph,” Viktor says with a glance at Jayce who just smiles back reassuringly, “Talis.”

Silco slightly curls his lip at the second name but at least Naph had a Zaunite name as his first. Silco thankfully not making comment about it, instead sitting down next to the bed and settling Naph in his arms.

“Can I have him or are you planning on keeping him?” Vander asks because the new parents will probably want their kid back and he would like a chance to meet his grandchild as well.

 Silco hands the bundled babe over to him despite the clear reluctance to let go of him.

Vander holds Naph out to where his eyesight is best, keeping the newborn’s head supporting while he examines him.

“He does look like you Vik.” Not exactly the same as Vander remembers his son had looked when he had first been handed him all those years ago but the resemblance is still clear even if he can see Jayce in the boy’s face as well. “You made a good pup.”

“We are happy with him,” Viktor says reaching up for his son.

Vander hands Naph back down to him, letting Viktor resettle his son in his arms. Looking down at the baby with an already deeply fond expression.

It’s clear that the babe will grow up surrounded by love. Which is what a kid as cute as he is deserves.

#Zaun Family #Arcane mpreg #mpreg #Silco Arcane #Vander Arcane #Jayce Arcane #Viktor Arcane #Arcane #Ramblings of the Goddess #Q and A with the Goddess #I accidently a ficlet