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impala-dreamer · 8 months

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Cracks In The Plaster

A Supernatural Quickie

~After a long day in the car, Dean's got plans to relieve a little tension...~

Dean Winchester x Reader

763 Words

Warnings: NSFW. Rough and Yummy Motel Sex ;)

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God it hurts but it's also really fucking good the way he's ratcheting into you, every pull out lifting you off of the wall, every thrust slamming you back into it. The plaster is groaning nearly as loud as you are and the dusty wallpaper is threatening to curl around you. The motel room didn’t know what was in store when you checked in; truly, neither had you.

Dean had turned the key, stepped back to let you in, and then attacked out of nowhere. Hours on the road with your teasing smile and flirtatious side-glances had driven him wild and the beast inside took over as soon as the latch caught.

You were in his grasp before you knew what was happening, gasping as his plump, cracked lips locked onto your pulse and his strong arms twisting around you from behind. His right hand cupped your tits while the fingers of his left hand splayed across your soft belly, teasing at the hem of your jeans.

You could feel him growing hard against your ass, denim fighting denim, heat building, breaths matched in heaviness.

“Fuck, Dean,” you sighed, moaning as he gripped your right nipple hard and twisted it into a tight bud.

“Need you,” he growled, teeth leveled at your jaw. “Now.”

A thrust of his hips made your eyes roll and you shoved back against it, rubbing your ass over his caged erection.

“You got me, cowboy…” You pushed again and his hand slid up from your tits to your throat, fingers tigtening around the sides as he yanked your head back.

“You sure about that?” He squeezed and your eyes fluttered, breath stopped for a moment. “Because I’m not gonna let you go…” With a snap, he had your jeans open and his fingers crawled inside, pressing hard up against your throbbing cunt. “Ever.”

The next few minutes were a blur. Spinning in his arms, you let go, giving yourself over to his desires, his whim. Almost too quickly, he had your shirt off and your bottoms gone- fabric twisted and damp and tossed carelessly away. He left your bra on, enjoying the way your tits looked propped up when he turned the cotton cups down beneath. He dipped his head to taste your nipples, biting and suckling until your skin was on fire and each scrape of his teeth made you wince and moan in pleasure.

Pushing your fingers through his short hair, you tugged as best you could, egging him on, silently begging for more.

“Driving me nuts all day,” he slurred, tongue heavy with lust as he shoved you back against the ugly wall by the television. “Such a fuckin’ tease…” He whipped his belt away and tugged his jeans down, letting them fall around his bowed knees.

Breathless, you chewed on the corner of your mouth and batted your lashes up at him. “Who? Me?”

Giant hands grabbed at your face, fingers curling in your hair as he licked into your slick mouth. “You.” He grit, kissing his way across your face and back as he dropped his hands to your sides and lifted you up.

Feet off the ground, you wrapped your legs around his waist, gasping as the tip of his cock slammed against your clit. Dean groaned and rolled his hips, rubbing himself through your lips, coating his cock in your wetness.

“Please…”

He pressed his tongue between his front teeth, tipped his head down to look up at you through impossibly thick lashes. “Love it when you get all whiney and desperate for me.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, clinging to the canvas jacket and layers below. “Please, Dean… Please…”

“Yeah,” he grinned, “just like that…”

And now he’s really got you. The crack of his thighs against your ass makes your body ache, the racing, frantic thrust of his cock deep inside makes your mind melt. You struggle to hold on, hands clasped behind his neck, legs dandling, feet anchored on the plump globes of his ass.

The emerald of his eyes is nearly eclipsed by lustfilled pupils and he stares at you, panting, ruby lips parted and struggling, and fuck, it’s so good.

One, two, three, and you’re cumming hard on his cock; a pathetic cry muffled by his big palm. His eyes grind into yours and he pistons a little bit faster, a little bit harder, and you’re sure the wall is going to come down around you.

“Yes…” he groans, ready to plummet, holding back just long enough to really make himself insane. “Just. Like. That.”

2023 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

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#spn fanfic #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x you

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just-jordie-things · 1 year

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something missing - okkotsu yuuta

word count: 2.4k warnings: swearing summary: just two lovers missing one another more info: aged up characters! established relationship!

Trips were fun, seeing new places, trying new foods, meeting new people, there was always fun to be had going somewhere new.

Yuuta learned quickly that field missions were nothing like a vacation. Besides the fact that there was barely any extra time to explore new cities, with any downtime he had, he spent resting.

New York City was no different. It had been a few weeks, almost a full month. The sights from his hotel window were all the more exploring he got to enjoy. Tonight was the same old thing.

His toothbrush hung lazily between Yuuta’s teeth as he stood before the window. The whole city was lit up, and it was a beautiful sight, but tonight it just wasn’t doing it for him.

His phone beeped in his pocket, and it was in his hand in a second.

[(y/n)]: goodnight love. i’m off to training w Toge.

Not a second later a photo came through, a selfie of his two favorite people in the world, his girlfriend and his best friend, both with their tongues out and wide smiles.

Despite the overload of cuteness, he found himself frowning, his stomach tied up in knots.

He’d been gone for too long. He missed everyone, he missed his routines. He missed being in the same time zone.

[yuuta]: have a great day :) can’t wait till i’m home with you

With that he tossed his phone onto the bed- which was still covered in the mess from his open suitcase- and sighed into the empty room.

Three weeks of being alone in these four walls and trying to track down a curse that he was convinced was just some crazed New Yorker was starting to drain him of all energy. He hadn’t even felt bothered to organize his clothes.

If (y/n) were here, she would have established a whole system for unpacking and organizing everything in the hotel dresser. She’d scold him had she known he was living out of his suitcase and couldn’t even kick it off the bed at night.

As he wandered back over to the bathroom sink, spitting out his toothpaste and turning on the faucet so it’d wash down the drain, his mind ran wild with thoughts of another life. A normal life. As important as his work was…

“You’re a hero Yuu,” (y/n’s) words rang in his ear as if she’d been standing right beside him. “And people need you”

More than I need you? He’d never told her, but that thought had been on his mind ever since.

All he wanted was her. She had his heart, body, mind, soul- he was completely hers and she knew it too. She wasn’t the only one who knew it, anyone with eyes could see the pair’s infatuation with one another. And if they had been born non-curse users, he thinks he would have put a ring on her finger by now.

A smile graces his lips at the thought, his first smile all day.

The idea of settling down, moving their things into an apartment together, doing chores together, laughing over a juice stain on his shirt and not his own blood. Images of spending every free moment together, whether it be eating meals, watching tv, reading together in silence… every sweet thought that passed his mind made him wonder if all of this trouble was worth it.

There wasn’t time tonight to measure the weight of his work, but he would make time to re-evaluate this mission in particular. ___

(y/n) tossed and turned in bed, and then tossed some more.

To say she wasn’t tired enough to go to sleep was an understatement. She’d been awake for hours now, waiting for her phone to ring, or beep with a new text, but it remained blank.

She checked once more just to be sure, but just like the minute before, her lockscreen was clear. Leaving only a photo of Yuuta with a wide grin on his face and a messy, small bun on the top of his head. Usually this photo brought a smile to (y/n’s) face, hence why she chose it for her lockscreen wallpaper, but tonight she frowned as she turned the screen off and threw her phone into her pillow.

It was half past three in the morning, which was usually the perfect time to call Yuuta, since it would be five in the evening New York time. He usually tried to call a little earlier, but it was never this late.

(y/n) understood he was busy, and with important work, but she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. She had barely heard from him all day, and with him being gone weeks…

Was it so awful of her to miss her boyfriend?

She reached for her phone once more, seeing only a minute had passed, and she still hadn’t heard anything.

Reluctantly, she unlocked her screen and went into her chat with Yuta. She’d already sent him a few messages, but she figured one more couldn’t hurt.

[(y/n)]: hey, we still talking tonight? [(y/n)]: it’s ok if it’s a little later, i’ll wait up for you :) [(y/n)]: i can hear panda’s snoring from down the hall, should i see if toge is up? maybe he’ll put me to sleep. [(y/n)]: hey.. it’s late but i’m wide awake if you still have time for a call. can’t sleep :/ i miss you.

She left her phone on her chest as she stared up at the blank ceiling. Panda’s snores from a few rooms down still faintly made it’s way to her ears, but as she zoned out it sounded more and more distant.

Sometimes, she curses Gojo for seeing the potential in Yuuta. Sometimes, she wishes he were normal, they were both normal, and could do normal people things.

Sometimes she wonders if being a non-curse user is a better life, to be blinded by the evils in the world, to live freely day-to-day. Sometimes she wonders if she had a chance at that life now, would she choose it?

She doesn’t necessarily like these thoughts, but every once in a while she’ll indulge in a little daydreaming. Images of her and Yuuta spending each day without training or being scared for their lives flashing behind her eyes. She has to admit, it would be nice if he didn’t have to go away for such long missions.

But as sweet as the idea, she knows their way of life is the right path for them. She knows neither one of them would sleep at night knowing they could do something to help squash those evils. Besides, most of the time, she enjoyed herself when she exorcized curses.

Squeezing her eyes shut tight to rid her gaze of the white ceiling for just a moment, she tried to manifest a message from Yuuta for the umpteenth time tonight. But hell, at this point she’d try anything to hear from him.

Ding.

Holy shit, did that work?

With lightning speed she had her phone unlocked to read the text message she’d just received.

[yuuta] i’m sorry i haven’t been able to text you my love, been real busy. Maybe a midnight snack would help you rest?

As happy as she was to hear from him, her heart sunk as he hadn’t mentioned anything about calling her tonight.

[(y/n)]: think you’ll have any time for a phone call tonight ?

Every second that passes with the three dots of his anticipated response made her heart pound a little harder. Even if he could only talk for a minute, she’d be happy just to hear his voice, she’d take anything she could get, really.

Finally, his text was sent.

[yuuta]: i don’t think it’s going to happen tonight, my love, i’m so sorry. but it’s late, you should really get some sleep. perhaps tea?

(y/n) bites her lip, before sighing and admitting defeat.

[(y/n)] it’s okay, i know you’re overworked. i’ll make some tea and try to sleep, but if you find any spare time, call me, ok? i don’t mind how late it is. i miss you

When she turns her phone off and sits up in bed, she tries to ignore the familiar burn in her throat that means she’s going to cry soon. They say distance means the heart grows fonder, but she never realized just how much heartache came along with it.

She rubs her eyes almost violently to make sure they don’t stay watery, and slides her feet into the slippers next to her bed. Tea was probably the best idea at this point. Hopefully it would help her sleep and bring some comfort to her lonely heart.

She dragged her feet every step to her door, wiping her eyes once more for good measure before swinging it open.

To her surprise, she wasn’t met with the dark empty hallway she was used to seeing at this time of night.

Instead, one Okkotsu Yuuta stood there, at her door, with his suitcase at his side and his katana slung over his back.

Her eyes blew wide and for a second no words even came out to voice her surprise, but he could see in her dropped jaw and frozen stature that he had shocked her to her core.

“Surprise,” He says softly, before grinning ear to ear. “My trick to get you to the door worked, I see”

“You’re- you’re home?” She barely gets the words out before reality catches up with her and she’s throwing herself against him.

In one swift motion her arms around his neck and her lips are planted roughly against his, barely taking in a gasp of air before kissing him again. For such a sudden kiss, Yuuta’s quick to embrace her and keep her body held against his as he returns her kiss with even more fervor.

When they finally break the kiss, he doesn’t let her take a single step away as he speaks, keeping her in place right against him, right where he liked her to be.

“I told Gojo that I was getting nowhere, and I’m pretty sure the killings weren’t curse related. There weren’t any supernatural leads,”

His words were rushed, like he was dying to get through them so he could move on and spend every second focused on her and only her. She let out a small, breathless laugh, before shaking her head.

“He said I could come back and the elders would send some more people out to recon just to be sure, but I’m here, and I’m staying,” Yuuta brings a hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing over her soft skin as he gets lost in her (y/e/c) eyes for a moment too long. “And I’m staying for a while. No overseas missions for a long time for me”

“Really?” She whispers, her heart filling with hope and joy and all things good at the idea of having him to herself for a while.

“Really,” He confirms, and seals it with a quick kiss. “I just want to be here with you. I missed you so much, my love”

“I missed you too,” (y/n) sighs, resting her forehead against his and letting her eyes fall shut as a comforting feeling washes over her. The relief of having him home was just what she needed to feel whole again. “I’m so happy you’re home, Yuuta”

He squeezes her shoulders playfully, and gives her a smile that she knows means he’s up to something mischievous.

And before she can question what he’s thinking, his arms are wound around her middle, and she’s being hoisted into the air.

“Yuu-!” She squeals before slapping her hand over her own mouth, forgetting the time of night.

He’s laughing as he folds her over his shoulder and lets himself and his luggage into her room. He kicks the door shut behind him without a care for how loud it might be and who might be disturbed from their sleep. He couldn’t possibly care about anything other than having (y/n) all to himself, even just for tonight.

(y/n’s) giggling too, despite her protests for him to put her down and what the hell are you thinking? She can’t keep herself from giggling uncontrollably at the whole thing. Maybe his laughter was contagious, but maybe she was just in love with him and everything he does to make her feel loved too.

He finally lifts her off of him, and she has to set her palms on his shoulders to keep her steady in the air. It feels silly, but still, Yuuta’s smiling and so is she.

The sweet moment is quickly followed by him throwing her down onto the bed, and she might have scolded him on another night, but not tonight. Not the night she finally gets him back.

Besides, he quickly falls on top of her, barely catching himself before completely crashing into her. Her stomach is starting to hurt from all the laughing.

“So beautiful,” Yuuta murmurs as he pushes her hair away from her face. “So, so beautiful,” He repeats, before leaning down and leaving feathery kisses all over her face. “My beautiful girl,” He murmurs as his kisses trail down the bridge of her nose. “I love you, so much” He says, as his lips hover over hers.

She takes him by surprise as she leans up, taking his jaw in both her hands and pulls his lips against hers. He smiles into her kiss.

“I love you too, Yuuta” She murmurs into his mouth, before stealing another kiss.

He could melt away and die right here, in her arms, knowing that she loves him. He thinks he just might if she keeps kissing him this way.

They settle in for bed after a few minutes. They don’t speak about the repercussions of Yuuta getting caught in her room after hours, and truth be told, the rules weren’t on either one of their minds. They’d take the consequences later.

(y/n) snuggles into Yuuta’s chest with a bright smile, which he mirrors as he tucked the blanket around the both of them comfortably. Even as sleep starts to invade her senses, (y/n’s) still smiling.

Finally, they’re able to get a good night’s rest, wrapped in each other’s arms. ___

xoxo - jordie

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen reader insert #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen imagine #okkotsu yuta #okkotsu #yuta #okkotsu yuta x reader #okkotsu yuta reader insert #yuta okkotsu x reader #yuta okkotsu reader insert #okkotsu yuta imagine #yuta okkotsu imagine

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starleska · 4 months

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Have you ever read the Twelve and Toymaker comic? It gives a few more interesting looks into how the Toymaker thinks that aren’t touched on in the novelisation. Most interestingly (and the main focus of the comic) is that the Toymaker is terrified of the universe outside of the Toyroom — which seems to be defined by its walls, in the novelisation the Toymaker puts particular emphasis on the walls with the candy-striped wallpaper lined with dolls — because it has no walls and because he doesn’t (didn’t? He does in the Giggle) have much control of it.

(‘‘The Toyroom is growing old, Doctor. So ancient that it no longer functions, as either prison or playground. The barriers between the Toyroom and the wider universe are growing thin, and it is this that has allowed you to wrest control of the toys, as my power wanes. Soon, there will be no Toyroom and I shall be loose in a wild, unforgiving universe, a cosmos with no walls. I can hardly conceive of such infinite horror.’’)

(‘‘You’ve given a madman access to the entire universe! With that sort of power, think what he’ll do!’’ ‘‘That’s just it, Clara, he doesn’t want the universe. Didn’t you hear him? He’s terrified of it. He can’t bear the thought of losing his control. He needs his safety net.’’)

And that he doesn’t tend to accept help unless he thinks he’s won it.

(‘‘So you’re just giving him the TARDIS?’’ ‘‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m building a new Toyroom!’’ ‘‘Inside the TARDIS!’’ ‘‘Precisely! I had to let him think he’d won. He’d never accept my help otherwise.’’)

And THESE PANELS lives in my head

(‘‘I had to help him, Clara. Can you understand?’’ ‘‘Let me see... a lonely God, drifting through space and time in his magical toy box? Yeah, I think I understand, Doctor, all too well.’’)

The EU tends to give the Toymaker more than his actual TV appearances (mmmm his rambles about being alone in the void and the cold in the novelisation). I need to dissect him and study him in detail so bad

hello love!!! oh my goodness thank you for sending this my way, because i haven't read this comic yet but the sections you've sent me have absolutely broken my heart 💔 what an interesting look into the Toymaker's psyche…it makes perfect sense. when you're a trauma survivor of any kind, especially if you grew up in a traumatic environment, the control you're able to have over that environment (no matter how minimal) is often all that keeps you together…you have to find comfort in that there and whatever small safe space you can carve out for yourself to survive. this has given me a lot to think about, because i wrote the Toymaker with what i think was the canonisation given when he spoke to the Sixth Doctor; that the Toymaker created his Toyroom after a very long time of aimlessly using his powers, when he didn't have a concept of gameplay. there seems to be some contention about whether or not the Toymaker is the creator of the majority of older games in the universe/the concept of games (The Giggle seems to allude to that?), or if he was inspired by other beings who created the games first. i like to think it's a bit of both; that he is the originator of many early games and gameplay rules, but it was the barriers between the voidspace (and his Toyroom) which let in the ideas from other beings 👀 the idea that the Toyroom is the Toymaker's island of safety against a universe which fundamentally doesn't make sense to him is so distressing 😭💖 i think a lot of us who've gone through difficult things can relate to that experience…of having your safe place slowly eroded as circumstances change and you grow older. but it makes sense!!! if he had no one, and the only thing he could cling to were the rules of his games (seemingly the only thing which brings him joy), the inherent chaos of the universe would be terrifying to him. no matter how much he tries to make it so, the universe just isn't a game with rules that can allow him to win: it's random, and brutal. is it any wonder that he has such tantrums when he loses, or when he perceives someone to be cheating? it isn't just that he's upset about losing or bad sportsmanship...it's the literal fabric of his entire worldview being torn apart. oh lord the bit about him not accepting help unless he thinks he's won it…how familiar does that sound to those of us who were traumatised early on? needing to 'earn' things like affection, shelter, food, etc. by working twice as hard, because we feel we don't deserve it inherently...the fact that the Doctor shows the Toymaker such compassion even though the Toymaker is such a dangerous, destructive entity is a real credit to their character. i really appreciate The Giggle replicating that and showing how the Doctor empathises with the Toymaker's terror by offering to play with him...i wish we'd had more time to explore the 'vastness that will never cease'. i don't think that good or bad mean nothing to the Toymaker...i think he's petrified of it. suddenly we understand why he's so boastful about his abilities, like an arrogant child...he's asserting himself against the universe as the only safety he's ever known crumbles. god. my heart hurts - that image of him sitting with the dolls of himself and the Doctor is killing me. i am going to go and read this comic and cry now, thank you so much 😭💖 yes please do!!!! your insight into the Toymaker is fantastic and i'd love to see more character studies of him 😭💖

#*slaps the Toymaker's head* this interdimensional entity can fit so much trauma #the toymaker #doctor who #the doctor #twelfth doctor #clara oswald #the celestial toymaker #the giggle #dw #starleskasks #long post #tw: trauma

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saintarmand · 17 days

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a stray cat from a toy shop

while i'd noted it before, this post by @iwtvfanevents gave me a title for the cat painting in claudia's room: The Kitten's Art Lesson by Henriëtte Ronner-Knip. (if you enjoy being insane like me go read the artist's biography at the link, but keep in mind that just because you CAN draw parallels doesn't mean they were necessarily intentional. but they ARE delightful.)

let's take a look at the kitten's art lesson!

the kittens are studying under the watchful eye of the adult cat, who seems disappointed by the lack of decorum. the kittens are in a playful mood! one of them has torn through a painting. another is clinging to the art board with tooth and nail... just playing or trying to hold on after nearly falling? a couple are in a half closed drawer—almost like they could be trapped inside at any moment. one has actually found a paint brush but doesn't seem to know what to do with it. the teacher is not impressed.

i can't help but note the one staring towards us from the drawer looks awfully familiar:

the art teacher and students aren't the only cats in claudia's room; there's also a cat statuette on the mantle (click to see the closeups in full.)

above the cat painting, there's a blurry painting of what looks like some women sitting, and one of them looks she might have a cat in her lap, though that might be wishful thinking on my part. the bottom of the painting blends in so well with the wallpaper that at first glance i actually thought the painting had been cut into, which sent me on a wild train of thought but yeah that's not actually true lol. but the effect is interesting regardless. the cat on the mantle definitely evokes the idea that it escaped from the painting nearby, and could flee at any moment—and in episode 6, it's no longer on the mantle or anywhere else that i can see.

i wonder if it broke along with so much else in the house at the end of episode 5, or if claudia moved it somewhere. fellow insane people keep an eye out, a kitty's gone loose!

so... why cats?

there aren't many cat references in iwtv compared to other animals, but the ones that are there speak volumes. in episode 3, we see louis bite into a black cat as a substitute for the human blood he craves. later in the evening lestat says he "fears for the feline population of new orleans" (after comparing louis to fish and birds). when louis reaches a breaking point, "rats, cats, dogs, would no longer suffice." so what he really wants or needs is something else?

in the next episode, claudia delivers the punchline:

“I used to [live around here] too. I remember there used to be a toy shop a few doors down by there. They used to keep stray cats in boxes for people to take.”

claudia sees herself as a cat. louis took her in like a stray—a helpless little kitten in need of rescue—and he took her (took for free because no one else wanted her) from a box at a toy shop—a place where you find things to play with.

but cats love to play and they love sleeping in boxes so this is fine actually!

...right?

claudia knows herself much better than anyone else in this show. she is a cat in a kitten's body.

the thing you always have to keep in mind about cats is that they are not docile and subservient by nature. they don't do things because they are told but because they choose to. a cat's fur may be pretty and soft to touch, but don't forget those sharp teeth and claws! it's not that they don't like to be pet at all, you just have to get permission first. and even if you do, they might just change their mind, as is their right.

cats do like good company but they also like their independence. they prefer to come and go as they please; not to be locked up inside, and not to be kept on leashes. they like boxes because they feel safe in there, but they also like to jump out for play time: hunt! catch! kill!

they may be small and cute and soft but they're still predators, and brutal ones. if they don't get to hunt for their food in your care, you better find them another outlet or they'll go for your ankles. they developed that instinct to survive, but hunting also happens to be fun! cats love to play with their food.

if you manage to earn their trust, they'll make for wonderful companions—but do not make the mistake of assuming you can ever own them... or you'll have to sleep with one eye open like they do. they're quick and clever but also patient, and they know how to move without a sound. let them out of your sight for even a second, and you won't know what hit you until it's too late. and they'll relish the kill!

no matter how others may speak of her, claudia is not a lap dog, nor a bird in a feathered nest. lestat is not a beauceron herding sheep, and his last name does not make him a lion. the three of them are not fellow dogs either. from the very beginning, claudia knows she's a cat. and by the end, she realizes what lestat let slip in the pilot: he's just an overgrown fucking rat. and while “a cat and a rat” rhymes, that does not mean they're the same thing.

#vampterview #spark in the dark #interview with the vampire #hopefully this inspires me to finally make that pig reference compilation soon that's another great motif #also there's some fish stuff which i don't really have a great handle on yet. i should probably make the compilation just to figure it out #iwtv #claudia #s #iwtv animals

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corpsebasil · 4 months

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When are you continuing the modern prince nikolai girl I need to know what happens next 😫

I will not be continuing this series. The fact that you would even ask me to continue is honestly sort of insulting because as a creator I have to pull out my blood sweat and tears just to make stupid fanfictions for you desperate little raccoon looking leeches and—

SIKE

Modern Prince Nikolai PART TWOOOO ISHHHHHHH

Social media was going wild.

You spent your days holed up in your apartment binge-watching Netflix and avoiding your phone. You had dozens of missed calls from your family, your friends, Nikolai’s manager, as well as the prince himself.

His calls were what hurt you the most. You’d stopped listening to the voice messages—they were nothing but constant pleading for you to speak to him, for you to just let him explain, to let him console you.

No.

Regardless of the fact that he was a royal the security guard at your complex a seventy-five year old veteran named Ben proved his loyalty by refusing to even let Nikolai inside the building, let alone ring your doorbell.

That hurt the prince. It was Ben with whom he’d snuck flower deliveries to when Nikolai had started to pursue you. Ben who always winked at him when he left in a rush at an odd hour of the morning, cheeks flushed and dress-shirt wrinkled. Ben who always said, ‘in my day royals didn’t run around with their shoelaces undone’, earning a loud laugh from the prince.

It seemed the old man had chosen sides.

“Y/N, please.” Nikolai’s voice rings out from your phone, your finger hovering over the pause button of his latest desperate voicemail. “Please let me talk to you. I can explain everything okay? You have to—”

You delete the message.

Weeks pass in this way.

You’ve stopped checking Instagram all together; the posts of the two of you have gone completely viral, even more so than they did when you first began sharing the details of your budding relationship. Even your wallpaper, a photo of you the prince with his arms around your waist, chin propped on your shoulder from behind, had been changed.

You recall how you met with a twinge of overwhelming sadness.

You’d been working as a barista at a local, hipster-style coffee shop when you’d had your first interaction with the prince. The Beegies were playing at full volume as you danced around, bumping cabinets shut with your hip and humming to yourself. When a man had approached the counter you’d told him, in your most cheerful voice, ‘just a sec’, before popping a chocolate-dotted finger into your mouth.

“Croissants are messy.” You giggled, wiping your freshly cleaned hands on a towel before looking up. “How can I—oh.”

Nikolai had a small, amused grin on his face as he watched you, fascinated by the gorgeous barista that had been mumbling ‘Staying Alive’ to herself. You smiled back, bashfully, and when his order was complete you found his personal phone number written on a napkin.

The two of you had gone on your first date a week later.

QUICK UPDAAATE

#modern nikolai lantsov #modern nikolai #nikolai lantsov #shadow and bone #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai x reader #shadow and bone imagine #knight nikolai lantsov

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chadillacboseman · 2 months

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Sniper's Nest II

Pairing: Timur "Glaz" Glazkov x Enemy Combatant/Sniper F!Reader Warnings: Mentions of combat/violence, angst, enemies to lovers eventually, but no real pairing in this chapter. Explicit language. Summary: Glaz finally gets the upper hand on the sniper who's had him pinned down. Reader is GN at the moment, no descriptions of build, gender, or race (though reader is mentioned to have a 'pallor' about them from bloodloss.

Word Count: 2.5k

PART ONE

The shot hurtled through the hole in the brick and connected with your shoulder. You cried out and dropped to the floor, letting your rifle drop alongside you with a clatter.

"Son of a bitch-" the bullet had gone right through you; blood was blooming onto your fatigues as you scrambled for your med-kit and jammed a length of gauze into the hole with a hiss.

You sat up and edged your way backward, dragging your rifle along with you until you were hidden behind a cabinet.

The bastard had finally wised up. His muzzle flare had come from one floor below and far back into the room.

Fuck.

It just had to be your trigger arm.

You gritted your teeth as you shoved the gauze further into the bullet hole until the blood flow stopped. You needed to get out of there and fast before the other sniper figured out how badly he had injured you.

You reached for your discarded binoculars and peered around the filing cabinet carefully. You activated the night vision and scanned the room one floor below where the soldier had been before.

He was gone.

You let your head loll back against the cold metal and sighed before tossing your binoculars back into your bag. You'd have to wait through the day and into the next nightfall before moving out.

Timur peered through his scope and watched for any sign of movement across the street.

Nothing.

He had retreated to the kitchen area of his new post and bunkered down to try and sleep- he hadn't rested in what felt like days, waiting for the other sniper to make a move. The sun was beginning to paint the faded wallpaper in the apartment in a bloody orange glow and he knew dawn was rapidly approaching.

Timur clutched his mangled hand to his chest and winced as he examined the bloodied bandages. He couldn't even be sure he had hit the other sniper- he had taken a wild potshot on a gamble after seeing the scope flare.

His eyes were so heavy.

"Only for a minute-" he mumbled to himself. He set the timer on his watch and closed his eyes, "Only...a minute."

You changed out the bloodied gauze in your wound and swallowed a half tab of hydrocodone from your trauma pack. The wound ached, spreading a dull pain down your arm and into your chest.

It was now or never.

Your radio had been dead air since day two, and you were betting the other sniper's was as well. You paused to count the windows across the street once more and jotted the floor and number onto the back of your hand.

Across the street, Timur twitched in his sleep as the alarm on his watch beeped faintly, jammed under the rucksack in his lap.

For so long, he had been without sleep, that when it finally overtook him, it was deep and uninterrupted.

You sprinted across the street through the darkness, recounting the windows again and again.

If he saw you...

Outside the door to the apartment, you slunk, catlike, and tried the handle. It was unlocked. It seemed too easy- surely he wouldn't have let his guard down this thoroughly.

You turned the handle as quietly as you could and pressed the door open into the pitch black apartment. Your arm throbbed, the dull ache surging down into your fingers that were slowly becoming pins and needles as the hours ticked by.

You flipped your night-vision goggles down over your eyes and with a high-pitched whine they came to life, illuminating the room in green light. To your disbelief, the other sniper was fast asleep, his injured hand pulled close to his chest and his rifle at least three feet away.

You were his enemy, but you weren't a monster- killing him now would be like shooting a man dangling from a parachute. You unsheathed your knife and crept slowly toward him, silent as a predator on the hunt.

If you woke him up and he was quick on his feet, you'd be at a disadvantage- your dominant arm was beginning to feel like a leaden weight, and every movement was agony.

You hovered over him for a moment, still in awe of his ability to sleep so soundly. Cautiously, you tapped his thigh with your boot and he grunted, his face twitching. He muttered something in Russian and you rolled your eyes.

"Wake up," you said it loudly enough that he jolted awake and rolled away from you, scrambling for his sidearm. You were faster, more well-rested, and kicked it from his hand before he had a chance to train the sights on you.

He swore in Russian and reached for his knife, shuffling quickly to put some distance between the two of you. A bright glow stick flared to life in his hands and he tossed it to the floor to illuminate the space.

"Why did you wake me?" he spoke with a heavy Russian accent; his eyes wandered to your bloodied arm and you thought you saw the ghost of a satisfied smirk flit across his features.

"Should I have cut your throat while you slept?"

"Thought that was what your people did," he spat.

"I'm not a savage."

"The Masks aren't known for their mercy," the other soldier began to circle and you did the same, each of you poised to leap if the other made a move.

"Then be glad that rumor isn't true of me," your arm was now entirely numb from the elbow down, and it felt cold and limp as it dangled at your side.

Timur was smart, he knew you weren't in fighting condition- your arm hung like a leaden weight, and your face had a pallor that suggested significant blood loss.

Perhaps this was more like two men dangling from parachutes, knives brandished.

"You're in no shape to fight" Timur gestured at your wounded arm.

Your gaze narrowed, trying to read his expression through his dark eyes, all that peeked out from above his balaclava. The grease paint around them had been smudged in some places and completely wiped off in others.

He had a kind face.

"I'll make you a deal, Russkie," you lowered your blade and he followed suit hesitantly, "we go our separate ways right now. I don't shoot if you don't."

"Will you stab me instead?" Timur asked and you laughed bitterly, nodding to your bloodied fatigues.

"Wouldn't be very effective if I did."

You backed away slowly and he watched you with caution, eyes darting furtively between you and the door.

"Wait-" he cleared his throat awkwardly and you paused, cocking your head to hear what he had to say, "do you have any water?"

"What?"

"...water," he repeated rather stupidly, "mine is gone."

You contemplated for a moment. Your canteen was still half full, but your first aid kit was depleted.

"I do. What's left in your trauma pack?"

Timur turned to fish through his rucksack and pulled a hard metal case from inside. He hadn't even dressed his own wound properly.

But he was so fucking thirsty.

"Couple of rolls of gauze, antibiotics -"

"Antibiotics!" You cut him off a little too eagerly, but you didn't care. Shame wasn't going to kill you, but gangrene would.

Cautiously, he slid the case toward you across the wooden floor, and in exchange, you rolled the canteen in his direction. You knelt and rifled through the contents until you landed on the bottle labeled 'moxifloxacin, 400mg'.

You swallowed a tablet dry and rocked back on your heels as you watched him guzzle the water as if he'd been without for some time.

"What's your name?" He asked when he'd exhausted the water supply.

You told him and he repeated it back, once, twice, and then a third time, his thick accent sometimes stumbling over he consonants.

When he was satisfied with his own pronunciation, he offered you his own, "Timur. But they call me 'Glaz' at Rainbow."

The two of you sat in silence for a moment before you spoke again.

"Quite the move you pulled on me, moving units," you nodded to the gaping hole in the exterior wall, "I would have never guessed."

Timur chuckled and gestured to his shredded hand, "How did you do the curtain trick?"

"Some shitty old war movie I watched as a kid, never thought I'd get it to work. Guessing you saw my scope flare?"

He nodded and fell back into a seated position, letting his back rest against the dilapidated fridge, "You're a good shot. You could have had me plenty of times."

"I was having fun," you admitted, suddenly feeling a wave of white hot shame as it zippered down your torso.

"I could tell," Timur didn't sound judgemental, "had you been as reckless as I was, I might have done the same."

There was a pregnant pause as you contemplated whether to depart and return to your own post.

"Has your radio been dead air?" You weren't sure he'd answer truthfully- after all, you'd effectively just revealed that yours had been.

"Since day two."

"Maybe they think we're dead," you offered, and he shrugged.

"Maybe."

"We'll survive a lot longer if we pool our resources," you gestured through the hole in the exterior wall to your post across the street, "I've got more supplies."

"What you're suggesting would have me strung up at Rainbow," Glaz cocked an eyebrow, "and I don't think the White Masks would approve."

"I don't think they're coming for us, friend," you tapped your watch, "by my count, my people moved out over 32 hours ago."

"Quick to call me friend," Timur mused. His eyes were soft as he said it.

"As far as I'm concerned, we're two comrades in a foxhole right now, but it's your loss."

You rose to your feet and retrieved the antibiotics, from the floor, offering him one final glance. He watched you, his still-soft eyes following your every move as you made for the door.

"Have any vodka over there?" Timur asked before you hit the threshold, only half-joking. He could use a swig, or twenty, to ease the pain and take the edge off.

You paused in the doorway and offered him a Cheshire grin.

"No, but the previous tenants did."

The streets below were, indeed, deserted, as Timur prowled beside you, eyes flitting from window to window as if expecting an ambush.

"I was the only one posted, so you can relax," you offered.

He said nothing in return.

An uneasy alliance, tiptoeing on the high wire of a promise of cheap vodka in some long-abandoned liquor cabinet. Truly, even the old war movies couldn't dream up something like this.

Your post was in better shape than his had been; the lathe and plaster was mostly intact, but there was a gaping hole in the floor that you could view the apartment below from while in the kitchen.

It was how you'd tricked him with the moving curtain. You showed him the rope rigged up and he chuckled, amused at the simplicity that had almost cost him his life.

The liquor cabinet was in the dining room, a faded old wooden hutch covered in a thick layer of dust. Timur rummaged through it, clinking bottles aside until a small 'aha!' escaped him and he retrieved a bottle bearing an image of the Kremlin and Cyrillic text.

"Good stuff?" You asked and he scoffed.

"No, it's dogshit, but it tastes like home."

"Fair enough," you gestured at the cabinet, "Any tequila in there?"

He rummaged for a moment until he produced a bottle of Patrón; the cork was rotted and the bottle was covered in dust, but it was probably the most expensive thing in there.

Timur passed you the bottle and you uncorked it, cringing at the sharp smell that greeted your nostrils.

"Cheers, comrade," you imitated his Russian accent and he chuckled as he matched your swig with a grimace.

"There it is. Tastes like turnips filtered through misery," Timur set the bottle aside and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"How'd you end up stateside?" You asked before taking another swig.

"Rainbow," he answered simply, "recruited me from the Spetsnaz."

"Spetsnaz? Impressive."

"Not really," he sounded... remorseful? "I joined up after the Beslan Siege. Nothing motivates you like 200 dead kids."

The Beslan School Massacre. You knew of it- enough to know that it had been absolutely botched by the Russian government. It struck you that the people involved probably had similar morals to your own employers. The thought made your stomach churn.

"Your arm-" Timur gestured to your bloodied shoulder, interrupting your train of thought, "How bad is it?"

You shrugged your flak jacket off and revealed the wound. He made a face that was something between disgust and concern.

"It needs to be cleaned properly. Stitched."

You gestured rather awkwardly with your non-dominant hand and he rose to his feet. He rummaged first through his own trauma kit, then yours, until he had collected what he needed.

"Sit," he pointed to the dilapidated armchair on the far side of the room and you acquiesced, slumping into it and sending a small cloud of dust skyward.

Timur pulled his balaclava down under his chin to work and you took in his features in earnest for the first time. He had a sharp, angled nose that sat over stubble that had grown out over the days he'd been holed up in the apartment. His brows were full, set low over his eyes that shone against the dark grease paint smudged around them.

A sharp prick in your skin snatched you away from your analysis as the hooked suture needle pushed into the flesh around the bullet hole.

"Can't believe I hit you," Timur mused.

"I can't believe how heavily you sleep."

He shot you a look and you smirked until the next pass of the needle made you grimace.

You softened your approach.

"How long had it been? Since you slept?"

"Four days."

"I'm sorry," you offered. You weren't sure what else to say.

"Why didn't you kill me back at the apartment? Why wake me?" Timur's voice was level, but there was something hidden behind it, threatening to jump out if he spoke further.

"Why kill a sleeping man? You couldn't defend yourself."

He glanced up into your eyes and you were taken aback by how blue his were. When he spoke, genuine emotion was woven into his voice.

"Thank you."

Timur finished stitching your wound and hit it with a wash of iodine before placing a bandage over the sutures. His knots were irregular, but held firmly when you flexed the muscle.

"Sorry, they're not perfect," he gestured to the now bandaged site, "I only know how to sew."

You chuckled at the thought of him, clothed in his fatigues, hunched over a sewing machine with a rifle at his side.

Exhaustion began to seep in around the corners of your brain as you slumped back into the chair. Your eyelids felt as if they were weighted with lead, and even the gentle throb of your arm couldn't keep you from closing them.

"Sleep," Timur patted your knee gently as he sat back to observe you, "We will figure this out when the sun rises."

So you did.

#timur glazkov x reader #glaz x reader #tw injury #r6 siege

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shadesofdeviant · 4 months

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SO...I thought I'd actually do WIP Wednesday for the first time in a LONG time. And I thought I'd share a bit of my current WIP, my Good Omens x Doctor Who Crossover because I'm super excited about it. I was gonna post a bit smaller than this but I couldn't work out a good place to crop it. I'm enjoying this so much. And I hope everyone else does too. Most of it is beneath a cut cause I'm posting a fair chunk haha.

Tagging those who I know are interested in this: @lauranthalasah and @celestialcrowley I would tag my usual WIP Wednesday buddies but I don't think any of them are Good Omens or Doctor Who fans. 😂 😂 😂

"Doctor?!" Crowley yelled as he staggered down another endless corridor, cursing softly as the floorboards rippled and rolled beneath him like a shoreline lapping against the sand, the rising crests of the wood giggling like naughty children as they tried to trip him before they ran away up the hallway. As he raised his hands to catch himself against the walls with the heels of his palms, the gold embossed skulls in the centre of the damask pattern wallpaper started to scream in agony, the noise a cacophonous crescendo that built and built until he managed to find his footing and snatched his hands back. “Donna?!” He tried again as he idly tugged at a random door as he passed by. Yet just like the immeasurable number of doors that had gone before it, once again this door failed to bend to Crowley’s will and remained firmly locked in place.

The air inside the toy store was permeated with the sour decay of age, cloying, damp and irritating at the back of the throat. Whatever magic this strange toymaking entity wielded was wild and hostile as it pressed in around him, settling over his shoulders like a weighted blanket, growing heavier and heavier the longer he walked, stiffening his legs and arms until he was wading through the atmosphere, a band of pressure tight around his chest almost like a child was holding him like a doll as it walked him across their imagination, the threat of being crushed beneath their sticky fingers tingling at the back of his mind. From somewhere beyond the endless corridor, a sharp, terrified scream erupted into the air and Crowley lurched forward on instinct, racing down the corridor towards what he assumed was Donna being attacked. Or at least, he tried to. If he thought the weight of the magic around him was heavy before, now as he tried to come to the rescue of some poor soul, Crowley found himself being weighed down even more, his knees threatening to buckle beneath the strain, feet scraping across the floor as he tried to lift them for each step. Eyes blazing gold and fully snake-like as he pushed back against the magic surrounding him, Crowley snarled and thrashed as he moved, power crackling beneath his skin as the anger burned within him. “Fuck this.” Crowley hissed as he reached the next locked door, barely able to lift his arm to try the handle from the compression enveloping him right down to his true form. “I’ve had enough of this shit.” Gathering what strength, he could, Crowley snarled as he pulled up sharply on his demonic power and snapped his fingers, gritting his teeth as electricity coursed down his arm and sparked from his fingertips as it battled with the toymaker’s magic. His power coiled and weaved snake-like around that of this foreign entity, lashing out viper-quick and sinking its venomous fangs into the stream of power to try and force it into submission until the door in front of him started to creak open. “Nein nein nein!” The sudden voice at his ear was loud enough to rattle his eardrum and rather unceremoniously shattered Crowley’s concentration, his power falling away into glittering wisps and dissipating into the air uselessly and taking what was left of his strength with it. “Naughty demon, not playink by ze rulez.” The Toymaker snarled as he suddenly loomed up over Crowley’s head, the sharp contours of his face darkening as his entire frame seethed and pulsed enraged. “Crowley!” Hearing his name, Crowley turned his head and frowned as he spotted the Doctor and Donna running towards him, those once familiar chocolate brown eyes wide in fear as the Time Lord tried to reach them even as the corridor continued to expand beneath their feet. “Very vell. Haff it ge-your way.” The Toymaker sighed, before his hands suddenly slammed into Crowley’s chest, pushing him backwards with one sharp shove causing him to go crashing through the now cracked-open doorway. For one extended moment, Crowley seemed to hover in the air, the area where his stomach should be, dropping as he fell backwards in slow motion before time seemed to remember to move and Crowley slammed into the floor in the new room with a broken grunt of pain. The Doctor’s hand reaching out towards him uselessly from seemingly miles away was the last thing he saw before the door slammed shut and the room plunged him into darkness.

#Rinwrites #WIP Wednesday #Doctor Who #Dr Who #14th Doctor #Fourteenth Doctor #Good Omens #Crowley #Donna Noble #This will probably be edited more before its ready for posting....#and I also need to post a LOT of the earlier chapters before we reach this point haha

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infini-tree · 1 year

Photo

ok so... here’s krupp’s house interior recreated to the best of my ability! here’s some comments because i have Thoughts on it.

general

i don’t know what’s in the art book when it comes to krupp’s house. even if it was completely mapped out, it may not even be accurate to the final version seen in movie-- i know at the very least some older concepts where there was evidence of a pet bowl and a cat tower, but i’m not factoring that for obvious reasons.

this is not to scale, so some parts may be off.

fun fact after looking at these screencaps for ages: every part of krupp’s house has a different wallpaper pattern. i think that’s just fun. and it makes things/placement easier to identify! :)

to summarize my thoughts on this house: really, only the living/dining situation is the part i’m the most sure of, and that’s only because they’re confirmed to be next to each other. the placement of everything other room is more out of “common sense” that i’ll explain.

the parts of the house labelled with an asterisk ( * ) are those that are theorized to be there because of logistics. we don’t see a laundry, or hall closets in the boys’ montage, but its there to both fill out space and to be a bit “realistic” in terms of Where Does Krupp Keep His Stuff/Clean His Clothes.

The Closet At The End Of The Hallway is mostly for me as i put it there for sticky notes au reasons. you could easily swap it and where the laundry room is.

the exterior layout seen in the movie is completely disregarded. if it was, then the left half of his house would be gone. that being said, i tried to keep it as completely square as possible. there are a few particular discreprencies i had to contend with i’ll explain in later sections.

dining room / kitchen

i’m skipping the living room because there’s not much to say about it. like harold says, it looks nice! though, a bit empty.

his kitchen/dining situation is wild. typically one would just connect the two rooms directly like you would krupp’s living/dining, but this dining room shot implies that there’s a bit of hallway between the two spaces? it makes it feel a lot more congested than it needs to be. who ok’ed this? is it the same guy who put krupp’s office on the second floor as opposed to the front door? but i digress.

also its extremely extra of him to just have one chair when these sorts of things come in a set.

as for the kitchen itself... its honestly frustratingly vague considering how close the shots associated with it are.

the shot showing the drawer shows a light source implied to be a window with blinds, but the reverse shot shows that there’s no room on harold’s right to facilitate a window. this is one of those discrepancies i had to either do one or the other for and i just decided to add the window (albeit a small one).

i also added a door leading to the backyard, mostly as a logistics thing. the other neighboring houses have one on the side, so there’s a precedence for it.

bathroom

the shot is pretty self explanatory. i’m not sure if krupp has a shower or a bathtub considering that the frosted glass obscures the view. the height of the porcelain in relation to the toilet makes me think ‘bathtub’, though.

bedroom

also self-explanatory. had to do a bit of gymnastics when formatting the closets to make it not stick out on the floor plan. honestly the most contentious thing about where i placed it is because right outside the bedroom door, the hall might extend to the left. due to the fact hat the boys are right in front of the shot its hard to tell, but i decided on it not being it.

also its a little silly how krupp decorates his own room with what seems to be one of his degrees/principal’s license. even in his home life and doesn’t need to perform it, he’s leaning into the principal identity.

#mells thinking out loud on her blog again #ch: the lid's open and has been fermenting ever since #captain underpants

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la-femme-au-collier-vert · 1 year

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A List of Works Influencing and Referenced by IWTV Season 1

Works Directly Referenced

Marriage in a Free Society by Edward Carpenter

A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Cheri by Collete

A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams

La Nausee by Jean-Paul Sartre (credit to @demonicdomarmand )

Complete Poetry of Emily Dickinson edited by Thomas H. Johnson*

The Book of Abramelin the Mage

Don Pasquale by Gaetano Donizetti with libretto by Giovanni Ruffini

Iolanta by Pyotr Tchaikovsky with libretto by Modest Tchaikovsky

Pelleas et Melisande by Claude Debussy

Epigraphes Antiques by Claude Debussy

Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992)

Nosferatu (1922)

Kansas City Stomp by Jelly Roll Morton

Wolverine Blues by Jelly Roll Morton

Works Cited by the Writer’s Room as Influences

Bourbon Street: A History by Richard Campanella (as it hardly mentions Storyville I think interested parties would be better served by additional titles if they want a complete history of New Orleans)

Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino (This was also adapted into an award winning opera)

poetry by Charles Simic (possibly A Wedding in Hell?)

poetry by Mark Strand (possibly Dark Harbour?)

Works IWTV may be in conversation with (This is the most open to criticism and additions)

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, uncensored (There are two very different versions of this which exist today, as Harvard Press republished the unedited original with permission from the Wilde family.)

Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner

Warsan Shire for Beyoncé’s Lemonade

Faust: A Tragedy by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

La Morte Amoreuse by Theophile Gautier

Carmilla by Sheridan LeFanu

Maurice by E.M. Forster

Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin

Sailing to Byzantium by Yeats

The Circus Animal's Desertion by Yeats

The Second Coming by Yeats

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison (credit to @johnlockdynamic )

1984 by George Orwell (credit to @savage-garden-nights for picking this up)

The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

A Rose for Emily by William Faulkner

Gone With the Wind film (1939)

Hannibal (2013)

*if collected or in translation most of the best editions today would not have been available to the characters pre-1940. It’s possible Louis is meant to have read them in their original French in some cases, but it would provide for a different experience. Lydia Davis’ Madame Bovary, for example, attempts to replicate this.

** I've tagged and linked relevant excerpts under quote series as I've been working my way through the list.

part 2 here

#Iwtv #Its entirely possible these were not in mind at all but given their fame and influence in general its not impossible #there's also a LOT of gothic novels written before Interview with the Vampire (1976) that share many qualities such as unreliable narrators #but I wanted to make sure I was choosing direct inspiration rather than cousins #Interview with the vampire #iwtv season 1 #Quote series

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transsexualhamlet · 10 months

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Hi I made a little thing! For Tolkien gen week! It's writing! for an incredibly obscure character

Day 1- Family, Mentorships, Community / Day 5- Culture, Diversity, Traditions

Tar-Ancalimë- Daughter of Ill-Pairing

@tolkiengenweek :)

(story below cut)

Her father had gone off to sea again for the last time, and her mother thought now of drowning herself in it. Her father had gifted her the sceptre, and she would only say it was a long time coming, for it had been nothing to him but a heavy plaything. Her father gifted her with it the bulk of his life’s dissatisfaction, and now it was hers upon her strong and unhappy hand. She held it well, they said, she held it like a man. She dearly hoped they were wrong.

Tar-Ancalimë fingered again the crown of silver and gold, pondering the slight ache of its wearing, the unforgiving shape of it. She must always wear her hair in tight and thick braids if this was to fit on her, which she did not mind. It was much preferable to the life of decorum and dust that was to be a princess, and she would rather run away into the hills than have her hair arranged like a fruit bowl every day. She was much too old for that, and so long had she waited for it to finally sit on her head that much of the novelty had already worn off.

She took the crown at least in part just for the satisfaction of her ego, and the knowledge that she would be a far better ruler than anyone else in the line of long-lasting childhood. She took the crown for many reasons- and it was another reason perhaps never to return to hateful Emerië. She had tried all other professions, and none suited her. Númenor was just not exceedingly large, and she had remained a princess whether she abided as a shepherdess or a wild thing in the woods, whether she covered her face in dirt or cut her braids and wore men’s clothing. The men saw her, and knew her, and still called her beautiful. Ancalimë did not understand the meaning of the word, and never wished to. Suitors spoke of her long, thick braids and deep olive skin, her dark lips, her long and regal nose, how she glowed when wearing white and gold. In her face, she only saw her mother and father, as everywhere else.

So a queen she would be instead, and here she returned, and knelt like a soldier to receive the crown. As soon as it was upon her head, she told her father to go play off at sea. It was as if she had severed his chains, and he smiled, and was soon gone.

Her rooms were still here, in the palace, and she returned to them now, with a bitter and cloying feeling. When her father had returned the first time, he had been much surprised to realize his child continued to exist in his absence, and had bidden her to Armenelos, away from her home in the country. He had given her everything. The rooms were grand and decorated and filled for her with things she did not like, or at least had not liked since she had been very small. There were useless gifts made of the gold of Middle Earth, gifts of the grey-elven peoples, worthless souvenirs of places she had little interest in. Aldarion thought they would make her happy, in some convoluted way. Aldarion thought perhaps they would make her his daughter, and not the daughter of Erendis.

Perhaps if she had been raised the son of Aldarion, they might have. If she had grown up at sea in the company of merry and singing men, eating salted crap, waving to foreign forests and elves who had not left them since before the rising of the sun, running from all responsibility- Maybe then she would have been happy, taken up a sword and drawn blood of strangers, and grown to be a senseless king, quickly siring an heir and leaving all care of it and the woman to someone else.

But in this world, she was her terrible mother’s terrible daughter. In this one her father left again, and she was only glad for it. She had explored all other pathways, and all only led again here.

The room had been redecorated long ago, but now the wallpaper began to peel, and beneath it still lay a pattern of twin birds, stained and filled with dust.

Ancalimë turned to the maid beside her, looking upon the rooms. “Now that I am finally queen, I may leave this place for the royal chambers, correct? It is not as if my parents have ever used them.” She surveyed the chamber she had inhabited through her adolescence, and would be glad to leave it, having few happy memories or well-slept nights within. “I would like to enjoy a larger bed and higher view. Those rooms may grant me a far glimpse of my homeland, instead of the sea.”

It was a bittersweet thing, of course. Her father had ruined the sea, her mother had ruined the northwoods, her father had ruined the trees. Everyone upon Númenor had ruined the pastures, but the palace was little better. She could not answer if questioned how this made sense to her. The place where she had power remained the best option, as she had roamed the whole island and found only more of her parents and the endless politics of marriage. Never again to the pastures would she return, nor would she speak to her mother, and she would not learn of her death until far after it had occurred. Neither would she weep, until she had barricaded herself somewhere far away, for her mother would curse her name if she had bent to weeping.

(She would do it anyway, no matter how her mother had ruined her.)

They would return to the sea, and she would stay on land, stubborn and unforgiving.

The maid pursed her lips, and threaded her hands together. “Oh, well, your highness, not yet, see- the royal chambers are only for a wedded king and queen. Surely you may enjoy them as soon as you have found a suitable man, but until then you will not have need for more than a maiden’s chambers.”

Ancalimë narrowed her eyes. “It’s your majesty.”

The maid looked down. “I am sorry, I am just unused to it is all. We have never had a queen ruler, and I have known you so long.”

Ancalimë seethed and set off down the hall, and the maid followed. “I am not a maiden. I am two hundred years old, and I have waited long enough to have my way. I will not marry. There is no one whom I would marry, and I truly do not expect that to change.”

Her maid was now bent with age, and unmarried as well, for she dismissed any that chose to. But the little lady bowed her head and sighed. “Now surely that is unwise. No one would wish you rule without a king.”

“Well then the land shall be disappointed, for this is my rule, and no one else’s.”

“But do you not wish for love?” the maid asked, grieved. “You are lonely, I know this. You talk to yourself. You wander at night, and never speak to your family except to bid them leave.”

She made her way to the balcony, and wished to be left alone, if nothing else, if somehow the highest office in the land would still not let one live as they wished. When she had been young, Aldarion had once promised she would have everything she had ever wanted. Aldarion appeared to think she wanted different things, for now she was only less free than ever before.

“I am not lonely. You see me talking little because every man who has ever dared to speak with me wishes only to take me as his wife,” she shouted, and kicked open the balcony’s doors. “I do not wish for love, and I do not understand anyone who would. I ask you, for neither are you married. Would you truly wish to give up your autonomy? To share your secrets, your bed, your own body and heart? It seems to me that all lovers have caught a disease I want no part in. I see what it has done to my mother.”

The maid set a hand on her shoulder, and smiled sadly. “I am not married, yes, but I would be if I could. Not all love is as unhappy as that which you come from. I have lived long with my lover, and I would not give her up.”

The queen looked out upon her kingdom, and still did not understand. “I am glad you are happy where my parents were not. But I would not have a woman in my bed either. I enjoy sleeping, and I enjoy being alone. Two things I am already exceptionally deprived of.”

The wind was fair, the sky was clear and the city streets were still decorated for her coronation, though very few were happy to see her take her due, and a thousand relatives and suitors had not yet gotten the order to vacate the palace at once. Far away to the west, Gil-Estel glittered, and was a guide only for those that ventured at sea. It was ever silent to her.

In her hand was a piece of paper now older than half the men in the capitol, and on it was a list, written by her at the tender age of fifteen. She looked down to the maid, who had followed her anyway, and held it up, reading it aloud in a strong and bitter voice.

“Rules I am going to make when I am queen.” She looked down, reading the bulleted list. “Number one, divorce is legal. Number two, my father has to get one. Three, all my servants get free horses and we ride them every day.” Ancalimë turned red, moving on to the next one. “Four, I never have to get married and no one is ever allowed to bother me about it ever again.”

The list went on, for an embarrassingly long while.

“It appears that most of these things are beyond my reach even now. Already my cousins call me to surrender my crown.” She narrowed her eyes. “But it is mine, and as long as I can I will live how I wish. Tradition means nothing to me, and my father is not here. This is my palace, and I shall sleep in the royal chambers. Alone. You may inform the rest of the staff of this order. I am tired.”

The maid frowned, bowing and hurrying away. Ancalimë threw the list to the wind, and closed the door, walking with head held high, holding still to her dwindling ground, high above all others.

The weight of the family hung like cobwebs upon her crown. The decisions of Elros were not hers. No legends ever taught made space for such a queen. When she had as a child walked through these massive libraries, all stories of the ancients were love stories.

Her mother had told her when she was young that Númenor was no place for a sane woman, and all was but a collection of the power fantasies, the land of gift to happy men. Her mother told her she would never be happy. But her mother had told her many things, and most were nonsense.

Perhaps the land of gift was not made for her, nor would it remember her well. But she inherited it whether anyone wished her to or not, and Tar-Ancalimë would live as she willed.

Far away on the open sea, Aldarion spent his last days on stormy waters, free as a child, and knew he should never have married. Near enough, on the ports of Rómenna, Erendis stood again as a sailor’s wife, and did not speak nor weep, grey and spent on nothing she had been able to keep. Though free of the house of Elros she would never be, the daughter of the ill-pairing would never suffer from such an affliction, and did not grieve it one bit.

#rowan screams into the void #tolkiengenweek #tar-ancalime #the fall of Númenor #this is the first time ive ever actually finished something in time to post it for one of these challenges damn (wrote this all today)#i might post this on ao3 but idk its short #and this isnt really something many people care about

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madphantom · 2 months

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New snippet from my writing!

Diary of Paul Killarney, November 1st, 1994 (cont'd)

By the time I was ready to leave the village, blue twilight had crept in among the trees. White fog wandered up from the nearby valley and the trees rustled in the wind. I shivered on my way to the car. Susan, darling, why did you want to be laid to rest here?

It was strange, but I almost felt watched in the parking lot. When something cracked in the thickets surrounding it I jumped, but then I saw it was merely a hare and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Its blue eyes hypnotically stared at me before it jumped off into the night.

Since when do wild rabbits have blue eyes?, I wondered. Eh, probably a trick of the light.

The Dog calmly trotted after me, unfazed by our surroundings. When I opened the car door he jumped onto the passenger seat and remained sitting there, his head curiously tilted.

I put my backpack into the trunk, climbed into the car, fastened my seatbelt and turned the key. Nothing happened. I frowned. Turned the key again. The engine stuttered, groaned, then suddenly died. I blinked. Well. Susan had had the other car when she'd left that night. I had no idea where it was right now. Probably being investigated as a crime scene in some police station.

Sighing, I got out of the car. The Dog followed, wagging his tail. For a moment I just stood in the parking lot, the trees rustling above me, and felt profoundly unsure where to go from here.

The house there on the edge of the forest, I suddenly recalled a bone-chilling, absurdly timeless voice say. If you squint you can kind of see it.

I hesitated, glanced over at the house in the dark, the window emitting a warm orange glow.

I mean, what could go wrong?

Shivering, I wrapped myself in my coat, took my backpack out of the car, locked it and began to make my way towards the house on the edge of the woods. Strangely, the Dog followed me like he knew exactly where we were going.

“You've been here before, haven't you?”, I asked him. “Here with your old friend. I wonder what stories you could tell me if you were human. I bet you've seen a lot.”

The Dog tilted his head and his too-intelligent eyes glinted in the sparse light. At first I thought he was growling, but then I realized it was more of a low purr. Then he brushed past my leg, and ran towards the house. He stopped at the doorstep, wagging his tail, and I sighed. I just couldn't understand this thing.

I rang the doorbell, my fingers numb from the cold. After a minute or two, the door suddenly opened.

Rory glanced outside, seeming confused. He was wearing a hand-knitted green sweater with a bird pattern on it and looked like he had prepared for a cozy evening. “Oh.”

“Sorry to bother you.” I awkwardly scratched my neck. “Uh, my car broke down and the last train home is already gone and I don't really know anyone here except you.”

Rory smiled. “Oh, no problem, come in! You can stay for the night.” - I entered the house and he closed the door behind me.

“I don't want to bother you…”

“No, no, it's totally fine.” His constant grin unnerved me just a little bit. “Probably gonna be a more exciting evening if I don't spend it alone again. The coat rack is over there, and you can take your shoes off or leave them on, whatever you like. I made biscuits, would you like some?”

“No, thank you.” I awkwardly hung my coat up and followed Rory into the living room. He peeked outside the window while I sat down onto the green plush sofa.

“It's probably gonna rain soon,” Rory commented. “I had a pretty grisly injury back in 1973, I can feel the weather change ever since. Worst superpower of all time.” He laughed. “Would you like some tea?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure.”

“Excellent.” He hushed over to the kitchen. While he was busy heating the kettle, I got up and began pacing around the living room.

The wallpapers were floral and faded, 1950s style. The plentiful shelves were painted moss green and filled with memorabilia of all kinds.

Rory glanced over at me. “Interesting, isn't it? Some of it belonged to the previous owner of the house, I just thought it'd be a shame to get rid of it. The wallpapers too. She had good taste, I have to admit. Lived here from 1936 to 1967, until she suddenly passed away.” He walked over to the sofa and put two chipped cups onto the table. “Tea’s finished. Sugar?”

“No thanks.” I returned to my seat and I took a sip of the tea. It tasted surprisingly well. The Dog came over, his tail wagging, and put his head on Rory's knee. The man laughed. “Aww, you missed me?”

“I have to admit - I can't believe the Dog acts this way around you,” I began and Rory glanced up. “I mean, he never listened to anyone but Susan and with you he's a downright darling.”

“You just gotta treat him right.” Rory scratched the Dog's ear. “He likes his dignity.”

Soft rain began tapping against the window glass like fingers. Rory sat up and raised his head, in some odd way regal as a long-necked heron, but with his hair covering his eyes it was impossible to tell his expression. It unnerved me.

He smiled. “Ha, I was right.”

“Hm?”

“About the rain.” He limp-wristedly waved towards the window.

“Oh.” I leaned back into the sofa, trying to distract myself from how tense I was. “So, how long have you been living here?”

“Oh, since 1970.” He was smiling a little wider again and I shivered. “The house was left desolate for a while after the previous owner's death and, you know, it looked intriguing.”

“Intriguing? How so?”

“There’s a history in these walls, you know? Someone has lived and died here for over a hundred years, over and over and over. You can feel it, I think. You can feel that it's alive in some way. At some point the house becomes its own inhabitant, and the inhabitant their own house.”

“What, you think the house is haunted?” I laughed.

Rory tilted his head. “That's an interesting way to phrase it. Maybe. By memories.”

For a while we just sat in the living room, drinking tea. The rain drummed against the windows and the orange light flickered. The Dog had wandered off into the other rooms and Rory had let him. The familiarity between the two was odd, almost like old friends that had drifted apart over the years, but never quite let go of the bond between them.

“How did you and Susan meet, if I may ask?” Rory leaned forward, putting down his chipped teacup.

I chuckled melancholically. “Oh, that was a funny story.

It was raining the night we met. I was on the train, going home from some outing with friends I've long lost touch with, somewhat drunk, but sober enough to realize the extent. The train was completely empty, and all you could see outside was blackness, only occasionally interspersed by the lonesome lights of a train station, and all you could hear was the hypnotic clacks of the train, and the greenery scraping against the windows like hungry ghosts.

I was, as I mentioned, drunk, and in the dark all the stations looked the same, so when I got out and discovered to my dismay that my stop had been twenty minutes ago, I didn't quite know what to do with myself. For the moment, I just sat down on a bench at the train station, and stared at the rain falling from the black sky. The station was on a hilltop, and through the rain, you could see the sleeping villages, the trees, and way in the distance, a lake in a valley.

“Beautiful night, isn't it?”

I flinched and turned my head. A young woman was standing on the other side of the station, a huge, three-legged dog at her feet. I had no idea how long she'd been standing there, or how long I'd been sitting here.

“Huh?”, was all I could say.

She shrugged and walked over to the bench, hands in the pockets of her corduroy pants. The Dog followed like a watchful shadow, his white teeth glinting in the barely existent light. “I said it's a beautiful night.”

“Oh.” I didn't know what to say. “Yeah. Kind of.”

“Are you here for the view too?”, she asked.

“Uh, no.” I awkwardly ran a hand through my hair, unsure what to say. “I…may have gotten off at the wrong stop.”

She laughed and something about her laugh chased a shiver down my spine. I had never heard such a beautiful sound in my life. “Happens.”

“How about you?”

“I always come here when it rains.” She sat down next to me. I could smell the scent of her brown leather jacket and when I glanced at her I saw that despite her youth, her blonde hair was full of silver strands. “For the view. You see the lake over there?”

“In the valley?”

“Yes.” She smiled. She had a smile that showed her gums and it was oddly endearing in the moment. “There's a house by that lake. I used to live there.”

I squinted and barely saw the white outline of that house. It was a tiny dot in the distance, like a faraway star, and yet the sight of it made me shiver.

The girl turned her head and glanced at me. “I'm Susan, by the way. You?”

“Paul.”

“Nice to meet you, Paul.” She smiled. And that was that.”

Rory smiled. “Sounds like her. You know, it was raining when I met her, too. Funny, isn't it?”

I smiled.

“I suppose so,” I said.

What I didn't say was: On the 271st night we met (I counted every single one of them), when I finally got down on one knee, she finally turned to me, her eyes big and sad and shiny.

“You do realize you will never be the love of my life, don't you?”, she asked. “I just wanted to say it before I break your heart. Because mine is in that valley and that's where it stopped beating. You're standing before a dead girl, and dead girls cannot fall in love.”

“I don't care,” I whispered and shook my head. “As long as you stay in my life.”

She blinked slowly. Then she slowly ran her cold fingers across my cheek.

“Don't say I didn't warn you,” she whispered and kissed me.

#personal post #sarah the novel #susan's hell sprint

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chrisbitchtree · 1 year

Text

Feels Like Home

For Harringrove Flip It Reverse It - Day 2

Prompt - NSFW - Stripping

1k - G

***

Finally, after years of saving every penny they could, passing on nights out at the bar in favour of sharing a cheap sixpack of beer at home, only making the expensive trip back to Hawkins once a year, and working two jobs each, Steve as a receptionist at a dental office and a barista, and Billy a mechanic and bartender, they’d saved enough for their own little house near the ocean.

Saying house might be putting it too kindly, though. It was really more of a shack. Sturdy but tiny, one bedroom, a tiny kitchen and dining room combo, and a living room making up the whole place, sand dusted on every floor, the scent of sea salt filling the air. And horrific, 70s era wallpaper covering nearly every wall. It wasn’t ideal, but it was within their budget and allowed for easy access to surfing and swimming, so they gladly snatched it up.

***

They’d put in a lot of work over the past few months, refinishing the floors, replacing the rotting boards on the deck, and replacing the ancient, pea green toilet and tub, and now it was time for the final task: stripping the wallpaper so they could paint the walls in a rainbow of colours, from sky blue to sunshine yellow.

They’d rented a contraption that promised to steam the wallpaper off almost instantly, but neither had any clue how to use it, and it wasn’t going well. Billy’s curls were a wild mess because Steve kept accidentally aiming the steam at him, the few times they could magically get any steam to come out at all, and Steve’s face was bright red from a mixture of embarrassment and frustration from not being able to figure out this seemingly simple task, even after the clerk at the paint shop had given him a demo.

Billy had unfortunately had to miss out on the demo due to work. He was always the handier of the two, but he had to rely on Steve’s memory and an instruction manual that left a lot to be desired in terms of detailed descriptions of the steps to get him through. They had always made a concerted effort to not raise their voices at each other, but they were not successful that day.

“How can you not remember, Steve? You said the guy showed you how to do it, like three times! Is it not this button?”

“Which button?” Steve shouted.

This button! This button, Steve!” He jammed his thick finger into one of the three buttons on top. “The button I keep showing you! Is this the button?”

“That’s not the button you were pressing before!” Steve roared, dropping the nozzle and storming out of the room. He stepped into the bathroom, the only room with a lock, and sat on the lip of the tub, fuming.

It was just like Billy to pin this on Steve when he knew that Steve had a terrible memory. He should have gone to the paint shop instead of Steve, but he just had to work an extra couple hours of overtime, even though he’d promised Steve he’d slow down with it now that they’d bought the house.

They had both agreed that they’d cut back on their hours so they could enjoy being here together, but only Steve was keeping that promise so far, and it felt sometimes like he was doing all the heavy lifting on the new house himself.

Billy banged loudly on the door. “Steve, can you please come out here?” he called. “So we can talk about this like adults?”

“No,” Steve replied. “I need a minute to myself to calm down.”

“Ok,” Billy sighed. “Good. Take a minute to get your head out of your ass, then we can talk.”

Steve huffed an incredulous laugh. “Get my head out of my ass? How about you get your head out of your ass? If you hadn’t insisted on taking on that extra overtime, you could have been the one to go to the paint shop for the tutorial, and we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

“Well, I’m so sorry for trying to make some extra cash, Steve! Sue me for not wanting us to be poor!”

Steve stood, flicking the lock, and flinging the door open, standing face to face with Billy. “Money won’t buy us time together, Billy! It won’t buy us memories and happiness.”

It was Billy’s turn for his face to go red. “I know that asshole, but it can buy us a future. It can buy us safety. It can buy us financial security like I never had growing up. I want to take care of you, Steve. I love you so fucking much, and I want to give you the world. Is that so bad?” Tears were now leaking from the corners of his eyes, and Steve brought a hand up, trying to wipe them away.

Shit. He’d never thought of it like that before. He knew that he took for granted sometimes that he’d have his parents’ money to fall back on if things really got rough, so it had never truly occurred to him what money might mean to Billy.

He grabbed a tissue from the back of the toilet and handed it to Billy before pulling him to his chest and holding Billy tight in his arms. He rocked them softly, back and forth, shushing Billy as the tears continued to flow.

“Don’t cry, baby. I’m sorry. You’re just trying to take care of us. I know that now. I’m sorry that I didn’t see it before but thank you. You’re always looking out for me. For us. How about we just take another minute to calm down, then I’ll treat you to an ice cream cone, then we can go back to the paint shop to have them explain it again. Ok?”

Billy nodded, letting out a wet whimper.

Steve continued to hold him in his arms, running a soothing hand down his back. Fuck, he was lucky to have Billy, have him care so much. He made a silent promise to himself to let Billy know more often just how much he appreciated his love.

#harringrove #harringrove flip reverse it #flip reverse it 2023 #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #harringrove fic #chrisbitchtree writes

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seleneblue · 1 year

Text

Winter Fruit (Part 1)

x. Dracula 2020 x. Dracula x Reader x. Explicit x. Summary: A new life, a new chapter, and everything is getting so heated. x. Word count: 630

“What is it that you desire?”

So lush, lovely, and dark. The vampire’s voice is like a fine and deadly syrup. The vowels tickle in your ear like a beautiful, sinister little dance.

The sun slowly dips below the horizon. Plush curtains and lamps with soft amber glows blocked out most of the golden rays, except for one sliver peeking through a far off window. Close enough for you to see the waning sunlight, and far away to do any harm. Soon, the night would bloom with pinholes of stars like silent cosmic guardians flitting over your darkest desires.

The vampire is talking to you.

You reach for an onyx bowl and finger a fresh fig, delaying the inevitable answer Dracula already knew. Days passed—maybe even a week—since you eschewed your old life. Abandoned routines and livelihoods to run head first into his arms with no plan, present or future.

You make eye contact with him and bite into the petal-soft ripened fig instead of answering. You hope it burns him. Just a little bit, enough for some delicious trouble.

Dracula says your name one more time. The urge to say Yes, Daddy pulsates in your throat.

You eat the rest of the fig. “Mm, you.”

In Dracula’s chambers the fireplace is full of blue and orange tipped flames. Something else in you is already burning, it’s mossy and ancient. Carnality lives in your mouth.

If only he would fully taste it.

Everything around you both is an embrace and a spell. Wreaths of dried pomegranates and lamb’s ear (fairy treasures, Dracula tells you), candle sconces, and portraits of beautiful women and men long gone adorn the flocked velvet wallpaper. The room is warm and the heat pools inside your belly in wild anticipation of his mouth, his such sharp teeth.

In this arid, forest-tinged museum is where new art will be made—Dracula’s worship of you.

+++

Dracula is upon you before you take a new breath. The scent of you is intoxicating, like a lush forbidden fruit. The rising heat makes you both hunger.

“What is it that you desire?” he asks again.

At this moment, you study his hands. How close they are to your neck, how large they are against your skin. His fingers trace lines at your clavicles, the other hand reaching to your breast and teases your nipples.

You gasp. Dracula continues.

“Yesterday, you asked me to rip your dress off into shreds,” he says into your ear. “And you rode my thigh.”

Dracula nips at your neck. Teasing, so much teasing. You moan and his eyes turn red. “The day before that, I worshiped your slit again and again.” You grin, remembering the delicious forced orgasms, quivering in a pile of sticky sweat with pinpricks of blood glistening at your throat.

Dracula shivers with arousal. “You are beautiful, my dove,” he says.

He bites you hard, leaves a trickle of blood on your neck and chest in his destructive wake. Sighing, you try to muster the words of your desire. “Tell me,” he commands.

The small puncture marks on your neck ache with pleasure. Your lips feel warm, pulsating at the prospect of his kisses, and even more pleasure. Languid thoughts race through your head, if he could take you fully. If Dracula could make you truly his.

Dracula lazily pinches your nipples again, your body keeps heating up. The wet space between your thighs throbs. “I want you,” you say. “All of you—completely inside me.”

He straddles you and that sickly divine scent of mythology and dark pomegranates fills your nose. You’re ready to take him, to be filled up with his hard hot sex. You’re ready to be a bride.

“You wish is my command,” Dracula says. “My bride.”

Part 2 (Coming soon, hopefully by the end of this week.)

#dracula 2020 #fan fiction #fandom #vampire fanfic #vampire fanfiction #dark academia #dracula bbc #count dracula #dracula fanfiction #claes bang #dracula x reader #fanfic #brides of dracula

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artbyblastweave · 2 years

Text

So there’s this thing in superhero stories where (due to the anthropic principle) all the superheroes have useful and combat-viable powers. Otherwise the story would be boring. A lot of post-modern cape things try to justify this high level of uniform competence and power by advancing the practical (but really boring!) idea that there’s a wider bell-curve of superhuman power within the setting, where the principle cast is near the top, and that the vast majority of superpowered people just have incredibly weak, dumb or even self-destructive powers. BNHA, X-Men, Wild Cards, and The Boys all play with this to a degree. It is often framed as a “realistic” take on powers, although what’s actually happening is that it just maps to the familiar real-world idea of talent being on a curve. Superpowers work any goddamn way the writer wants them to.

Now, sometimes it works with the narrative. For X-Men, the idea that the vast majority of mutants are essentially people with weird skin conditions or chronic medical conditions or whatever, carries an enormous amount of water for the “oppressed minority” metaphor. And in The Boys, the fact that a ton of people who take watered-down compound V wind up with “powers” like an exploding head or eye beams that melt the users own eyes is thematically on point, because the whole goddamn series is about how corporations will throw countless people into a meat grinder in order to get a handful of shining idols they can market to hell and gone.

But a lot of the time, the “useless power” trope and the “lol so random” power tropes are just kind of annoying for me. Like, if you’re infected with an alien virus that gives people superpowers, and you get the superpower to change the color of wallpaper, fuck you! Whatever gave you powers has a coherent understanding of the concepts of “color” and “wallpaper” and “change,” a better power was absolutely conceptually possible here! It feels, I dunno, contrarian, almost!

And now, as with so many of these posts, we come to something I love about Worm. Worm doesn’t do this! There are no useless powers. Every single Power is in some way viable in a fight! If a power doesn’t seem particularly useful, one of four things is going on. Either the power is explicitly broken (Oliver) the cape hasn’t figured out the intended expression of their power (Parian, Jack, Kid Win, Bakuda via Word of God ), the cape is sitting on an utterly terrifying intended expression of their power (Regent, Parian, Panacea, Crucible, Egg) or the power itself is more of a resource thrown into the mix to start a fight (Dinah, many many Tinkers and Thinkers.)

A super common trope with “Useless Powers” is the use finding some off-the-wall niche application, which lets the character with the useless power “cheat” and hit above their station by being really clever, thus Showing Them All. Which feels a little contrived when the “random” power is so specifically useless only by authorial fiat. Not a problem with Worm! In the handful of situations where the characters do find that niche application, their ability to do so was baked into the setting’s cosmology, and their previous failure to do so reflects on their character and their mindset and is, like, actively additive (thinking of Kid Win here in particular.) Feels a lot less like the author is shadowboxing, I guess?

Edit: I miscited the Bakuda bit. Ignore that

#worm #wildbow #parahumans #the boys #X-men #wild cards #thoughts #meta #worm meta

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