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thatonegenshinsimp · 1 year

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Binding and Blinding (Alhaitham x fem!reader NSFW)

Notes: You guys thought you were getting some wholesome shit, but you were wrong, it’s all angst. I swear it’s like the first time I’ve ever written half of this stuff on this intense of a level and actually put any sort of effort into it so it’s probably not all that great, but I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

Warnings: NSFW, unprotected sex, fem!reader, sub!reader, riding, bondage (Shibari), doggy style, spanking, sensory deprivation (blindfold), overstimulation, edging, dacryphilia, use of safeword (kinda??? Reader can’t say it because of how overwhelmed she is), rough sex, sappy feelings n’ shit, Alhaitham being the mean dom we all know he is but then being a big softie toward the end

NSFW, minors DNI, by scrolling further past this point, you have chosen to read the content below of your own accord!

You were a very bubbly and chatty individual, always willing to talk with people whenever you had the chance, and a stark contrast to your boyfriend. However, what truly drew Alhaitham to you at first was the way you handled things. You always took great care to plan ahead when doing things, and rarely cowered away in fear from any sort of intimidating situation because of said planning. However, when he got into a relationship with you, and more specifically, started getting intimate with you, he found that the one thing that truly terrified you was not having any way of knowing how to plan for things ahead of time.

You had been talking to Kaveh almost the entire evening at the bar, not paying Alhaitham any attention whatsoever. Since his roommate was spending the night in Ghandarvaville, he had you all to himself, and there was something he’d been wanting to try for a while now. In your eyes, sex was the ultimate show of love that anyone could give their significant other. However, there were times when your dear lover saw it as a stress reliever. That was what scared you, him seeing something so important to you as another tool to use to make his life easier and less stressful. You’d never told him how much it meant to you, but he had a small inkling that you liked more vanilla things in the bedroom than him. However, you agreed to try everything he suggested at least once, and unfortunately, tonight was another experimental night in the sheets. It didn’t help that he was annoyed at his roommate for taking all of your attention tonight, which also made him annoyed with you, which in turn added to his foul mood and therefore his stress and anger. The walk home was silent, with him tightly holding your hand the entire way back to his place. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, trying to reassure him that you had eyes for him only, but instead of squeezing it back, he started walking faster.

You knew that tonight was going to be a long one when he told you to go up to his room. The moment you’d disappeared upstairs and closed the door, he grabbed the bag he’d gotten earlier that month when he’d traveled to Inazuma. He took out the teal silk rope and the matching silk blindfold from the bag, looking at the stairs. Shibari, which originated in Inazuma, was an activity that was a type of bondage, but could also serve as art, depending on the mood of the situation it was used in. Alhaitham had extensively researched it once the silk ropes had arrived from Liyue. As for the blindfold, he’d be using that on you as well tonight. He had memorized how to tie the knots using the rope, and he certainly knew how to tie a blindfold to where it wouldn’t fall off. He’d always wanted to try sensory deprivation on your sight, since he’d already done so with your hearing using his headphones. Since it had been so well received, and had left you panting and begging for more even when your legs were shaking, he wanted to try taking one of your other senses, which was, of course, sight.

He walked upstairs and opened the door to his bedroom, noticing how you turned shy under his gaze when you looked at him. “We’re trying something new tonight, two things, in fact. I’ve been researching the art of Shibari over the past few weeks, so I know how to tie the ropes, and I’ll be able to tie the blindfold easily. However, I’m still going to teach you a lesson tonight about paying too much attention to other men like you did at dinner. Get on the bed.” he said, watching as you nervously nodded and got on the bed. He focused on tying the ropes, making sure you couldn’t move when he tied your wrists together. He then gave you one last annoyed look before tying the blindfold over your eyes, knotting it at the back of your head. “Are you uncomfortable anywhere?” he asked, watching as you shook your head. You were much more flinchy now, but in all honesty, it gave him some sort of sick satisfaction that you were nervous. Whenever you were nervous, you didn’t like showing it, so to see you like this was truly a treat in his eyes. He needed to relieve himself of the stress from tonight, and this was the perfect way to do it. Alhaitham leaned in close to you and gently kissed your neck, watching as you shivered. You were speechless, almost as if he’d taken your ability to speak. He chuckled softly, the noise serving to make you shudder as a chill traveled up your spine. He didn’t waste any time on preparing you to take him, you didn’t deserve his touch, tonight. He slowly pulled back the covers and let you get under them, watching as you pressed your legs together and rubbed your thighs together to get some sort of friction. He slowly undressed and let his clothes drop to the floor, before getting in the bed under you. “Tonight, you’re going to be on top, and you’re going to ride me until I tell you that you can stop, understood?” he asked, watching as you nodded. “Lift your hips.” he demanded, watching as you did so. He grabbed his leaking cock and slowly lined it up with your slit, pushing himself inside. You couldn’t help but whine softly as he held you there, with only the tip inside. You were about to ask him to move, but cried out loudly when he fully sheathed himself inside of you with one harsh thrust, squirming on his lap. “I think I like you like this. You keep that mouth of yours mostly shut. It’s nice to get a break from your constant remarks every so often. We should do this more frequently.” he sneered, too busy mocking you to notice the fact that there were slightly damp spots where your eyes were on the blindfold. You couldn’t handle the intensity of it all very well, or the fact that you couldn’t move all that much. Sure, depriving you of the ability to hear like last time was a new and exhilarating experience, and left you both breathless by the time that evening was over, but being deprived of the ability to see wasn’t. It felt wrong, vicious, and much crueler than jealous sex with him usually felt. Your sense of touch was enhanced to an overwhelming degree, and you couldn’t help but occasionally shy away from his touch when he tried to give it.

He noticed that you didn’t want his hands on you, and smirked up at you. It was as if you felt his gaze on you, because when you tried to get him to hold your hips still, he didn’t, and put his hands behind his head. “You don’t want me to touch you? Fine, but I’m not helping you ride me if you’re gonna be a brat, sweetheart.” he said, watching as you kept pathetically trying to get him off. He thrust his hips up against yours every so often, watching you make those pretty little moans he loved hearing. Eventually, you mustered up enough courage to speak. “Haitham, m’close, m’so close. Please, m’gonna-” You didn’t have time to finish speaking as he grabbed your chin roughly and leaned in close to your ear. “You don’t cum until I say you can, this is what you get for talking so much all the time.” he hissed, roughly letting go of you. He kept thrusting, knowing that you wouldn’t last much longer. He wanted you to cum first, just so that he could punish you further. “Ngh~ Haitham, please, lemme cum! Please just lemme- AhHng~!” you didn’t even get to finish begging when your orgasm hit you full force, pleasure wracking your body as you squirted all over his lap. The moment you realized what you did, you were too late to apologize, as he pulled out and flipped you over, before sliding right back into you. You gasped softly, before yelping against the sheets as his palm made contact with your bare ass. You tried to ride out your high, but he pulled out completely, ruining your orgasm. It was getting to be too much, but you once again felt like you couldn’t speak, and could only lay there and take it until he was done.

When he came inside of you for the second time as he took you from behind, Alhaitham looked down at you and smirked, leaning in close to your ear as he spoke. “See? I told you not to cum without permission. Perhaps if you’d listened, I wouldn’t have had to punish you like this.” he hissed, before forcing you to ride him again. You were too sensitive, it was too much, but he didn’t see that. He didn’t see the trembling of your lip, or the way you flinched a little when his hands made contact with your hips. He also didn’t see what you were thinking as he kept bouncing you on his lap. You could only barely hold back your sobs as he continued fucking you roughly.

Does he really not like it when I talk?

Do I talk too much?

Should I just stop talking whenever he’s around?

It was those thoughts that kept you quiet, kept you from doing anything other than panting heavily. The moment you started holding back your moans, Alhaitham looked up at you. “What’s the matter, can’t speak? What happened to your bite, hmm?” he mocked. “Go ahead, make as much noise as you want.” he taunted. However, the moment you removed your hands from your mouth, a loud, desperate sob escaped your lips, causing you to cover your mouth again. That made him do a double take, and that was when he noticed all of those little things. You trembled as another orgasm hit, the damp spots on the blindfold being hit with fresh tears as you tried to keep quiet on his lap. You were about to try stuttering out an apology, but stopped midway through that attempt, and settled for collapsing against his chest in a whimpering, sobbing heap. You tried to get up, but he held you down against his chest as your orgasm washed over you in waves. You could only tremble against his chest as he quickly untied the ropes, getting them off of your body. He was hesitant to remove the blindfold, but when he did, you slowly opened your eyes and wrapped your arms tightly around him. He could tell that you were feeling overwhelmed, and slowly rocked his hips against yours to get you through your high. The sensations had been too much for you, and he could tell now. He mentally slapped himself for not being more attentive, and now focused on bringing you back down from the intense high you were going through.

His eyes were wide as panic rose in his chest, and he couldn’t help but try to whisper sweet nothings in your ears as he brought you back down. “Shh, relax, just relax, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” he whispered, his tone a much gentler contrast to the harsh one he used when he was speaking to you earlier. You slowly nodded along to what he was saying, not really catching any of the words coming out of his mouth. The slight rasp of his baritone voice soothed your mind, and calmed your racing thoughts. His soft, soothing voice made you feel every pleasant emotion you could feel in that moment, but above all else, it made you feel safe. Once you’d come down from your high, you looked up at him and focused as hard as you could on what he was saying. “Do you want me to pull out?” he asked, watching as you nodded slowly. He withdrew his hips slowly, letting you lay down against his chest. He didn’t care right now that you’d made a mess of the sheets, the only thing that he was paying attention to at the moment was how you were feeling. He gave you a few more minutes to make sure you were, at the very least, somewhat lucid, before he started speaking, cupping your face in his hands. He knew you were still feeling very overwhelmed, so he asked simple questions first.

“Are you ok?” he asked, watching as you shook your head. “Was it too much?” he asked, causing you to nod. You laid your head against his chest. “Do you want me to clean you up?” he asked softly, pressing his forehead against yours. “Mhmm~” you hummed, sighing when he picked you up and carried you to the bathroom. He handled you like glass, almost as if you’d shatter from being set down on the edge of the bath. He still set you down, and turned on the faucet to the bathtub. The sound of the water was enough to make you cover your ears, your senses still kicked into overdrive thanks to the blindfold. Alhaitham noticed this, and ran back into the bedroom, where he grabbed his soundproof ear pieces, letting you wear them when he came back. Your shoulders slouched and you relaxed, slowly calming down again. Once the bathtub was full, he slowly removed the ear pieces from your ears and put them back in the bedroom. He then slowly picked you up and set you down in the bath, looking at you from the rim of the bath. “Do you want some water? Something to eat, maybe?” he asked, keeping his voice low so as not to overload your senses again. You looked up at him and nodded. “Both?” he asked, watching as you nodded again. “Does Tachin sound good?” he asked. “Yeah.” you muttered, not quite meeting his gaze. The fact that you were still reeling from everything didn’t surprise him, which is why he was taking care of you. “Alright, I’ll let you have some space for now while I go make the food, alright? If you need anything else, shout for me, and I’ll be here, ok?” he asked, taking your hands into his as he spoke, kneeling beside the bathtub. You nodded, reluctantly letting go of his hands and leaning back in the bath. “Don’t fall asleep in here, ok? It’s bad for your back and you might slip under the water by accident.” he said, causing you to nod.

Alhaitham exited the bathroom and looked back at the door, before throwing on a shirt and his underwear and walking downstairs. He quickly grabbed the ingredients and made some Tachin for the two of you. He knew you liked it because of how sweet it tasted, and he’d been marinating the meat he was using for about a day, so he knew it was going to be good once he was done. He cooked it slowly, before walking back upstairs with the plates of Tachin. He saw that you were still awake, and gently tapped your shoulder. “Hmm?” you looked at him. “Do you want me to get in with you for a bit? The food’s still a bit too hot to eat.” he asked, watching as you nodded softly. He took the shirt and his underwear off, throwing them in a quickly forgotten corner of the bathroom. You moved over a bit so that he could get in the water with you, sighing softly as he pulled you backwards into his arms. You looked up at him and saw the worry in his gaze, before reaching up to gently cup his face in your hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t pay more attention to what was going on, it was my idea to use the blindfold and the ropes on you, and I wasn’t thinking things through when I did that. I should have introduced them in moderation.” he muttered, resting his head on your shoulder as he spoke. “I tried to say the safeword, but it was almost like I couldn’t… like I couldn’t…” You were trying to find the right words to describe how you felt. “Couldn’t breathe?” he finished, watching as you nodded. “Can I ask you something, if you don’t mind?” you questioned, looking back up at him. “Anything at all, I’ll try my best to answer,” he replied. “Do you… really not like it when I talk a lot?” you asked, looking to the side. He turned you around and cupped your face in his hands, pressing his forehead against yours. “I love hearing you talk, don’t ever forget that. I don’t know why I said that earlier, I shouldn’t have,” he said. “Can we not use the blindfold and the ropes at the same time again? I didn’t like that at all, and I hated how it made every noise around me sound so… loud. It felt like every noise I heard was inside of my ears when I had that blindfold on, and it stayed that way for several minutes after you took it off.” you said. Alhaitham nodded softly. “Was there anything else that bothered you about tonight?” he asked. “I- yeah, but can we get out of the bath and eat, first? I’d prefer to tell you when we get in the bed, and the water’s starting to get cold. Plus, I’m pretty sure that cold Tachin isn’t really all that tasty.” you said, giggling softly.

He nodded, grabbing the spare set of sheets in the towel closet and making sure that they were on the bed properly before getting some towels and lifting you out of the bath. Alhaitham dried you off and carried you to the bed, setting you down under the covers before drying himself off. He got in bed with you and set a plate of Tachin on your lap, making sure that you had some water first. The sweet taste of the meat and rice, combined with the Padisarah petals he had carefully added, tasted wonderful, and each bite practically melted in your mouth. You hummed softly, turning to your lover and giving him a thumbs up. Once you’d finished the plate of Tachin and downed the glass of water, you leaned back and sighed deeply, looking back over at him. “So, what was the other thing that you didn’t like?” he asked. You gave him a nervous look, and took a deep breath before you started to speak. “You know how I usually only initiate these things when we don’t have anything to do and when we both need to be closer to each other than usual, right?” you asked, causing him to nod. “You know how I told you that I don’t really like super intense sessions like these because of how long we go at it and how rough you get, right?” you asked. Again, he nodded. “That’s because of how much those nights mean to me, you know? I try not to go to you and ask for things like that too often because it feels like it loses meaning if I do go to you too often. I do these things with you because I want to remind you that I love you, and no one else. Whenever you tell me you want to do these things with me, it mostly has to do with relieving stress, and that kinda takes away from why we do it in the first place, in my eyes, you know? I know you get really stressed sometimes, but…” you trailed off, causing him to cup your face in his hands. When you looked up at him again, he saw that you were crying. “I thought you just liked taking things slow, I didn’t know that you felt that way about all of this.” he said, resting your head in the crook of his neck. He held you there for a while, letting you calm down a bit. “But I just… I don’t want to be seen as just a source of stress relief and nothing else, because it hurts, it really hurts.” you whispered, laying down against him. He wrapped his arms around you as the tears fell, thumbing them away gently as he held you there. “I know, sometimes being rough is just what I need, and I know I sound selfish as I’m saying these things, but-” “Don’t… don’t say that, you’re not being selfish by telling me how you feel. If you catch me doing that again, please tell me. There are so many options for alleviating stress, and it’s not like I never had to deal with stress before I started dating you.” he said, giving a small smile before he pressed his lips against yours. You nodded, giving him a smile of your own in return. You yawned as the exhaustion finally caught up with you, and you laid down against Alhaitham’s chest. “I’m exhausted, goodnight, ‘Haitham.” you sleepily mumbled, closing your eyes. Within minutes, you were fast asleep against his chest. He looked down at you for a minute, before pressing his lips against your temple. “Goodnight, (name).” he whispered, closing his eyes and holding you close as he fell asleep as well.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact alhaitham #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x fem!reader #alhaitham x reader smut #alhaitham smut #alhaitham x fem!reader smut

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the-golden-vanity · 19 days

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💚 for the Terror. 💖🧡 and 📖 (but chapter(s) instead of entire book(s)) for Moby Dick

💚: What does everyone else get wrong about your favorite character?

Ooh, it's time to make some enemies.

I really, really dislike the popular fanon characterizations of James Fitzjames. Depending on what particular flavor of queer a fanwork is depicting him as, the kind of... shallow femininity that gets forced on him makes me MASSIVELY uncomfortable. It often comes across as somewhere between homophobic and misogynistic caricature, personality stripped away and replaced with a pretty dress.

I can see where this started, though—the pre-Carnivale dress scene is something that's very important to a lot of Terror fans, and perhaps something that endeared them to a character whose Empire-loving, glory-hounding, "the atrocities I've committed are fun table conversation"-believing ways are (hopefully) unsympathetic to a modern audience. Still, I'd like to see more fanworks engage with that side of James Fitzjames—the tool of an empire that can never love him back.

This isn't to say I don't love queer or trans readings of Fitzjames! I just want to see the character still be a glory-hounding veteran of an imperialist war, and someone I can still believe would shoot rockets at bears.

💖: Already answered here!

🧡: What is a popular (serious) theory you disagree with?

I had to think about this one for a bit. I'd say it's the take that I see floating around on the Internet a lot that Moby-Dick is cosmic horror. If we're taking cosmic horror to mean the horror of the incomprehensible, the impossibly alien, the Things Man Was Not Meant To Know, then there is exactly one chapter that fits the bill—"The Castaway", which includes maybe my favorite passage of the whole book.

However, almost the entire rest of the book is our narrator-protagonist making sense of the whale, as if knowing everything he can about it is his way of coping with the devastating trauma of losing everyone he spent two years of his life living with.

It's almost reverse cosmic horror—rather than a sane man going mad from coming face to face with an incomprehensible monstrosity, our mentally ill (traumatized/depressed/bipolar/open to interpretation) protagonist makes meaning for himself by learning to comprehend the monstrosity.

📖: If you had to remove one chapter from the book, which would you choose?

Ooh, that's a good question. And a hard one.

Moby-Dick is, rather famously, full of chapters upon chapters of whale facts, some of which are even true. I will not be getting rid of any of those. Those are load-bearing whale facts. You pull them out, and the book collapses into a respectable revenge tragedy, rather than the earth-shattering psychological epic that it is. The whale facts represent both the fact that for long stretches of a sea voyage, nothing particularly exciting is going on, and you have time to contemplate things like the immense scarred brow of the whale, and also that this story is being told by a traumatized man who's going off on tangents because he really doesn't want to get around to the part of the story where he loses everything and all of his friends die.

If I had to get rid of one chapter, it would probably be "The Town Ho's Story". Of all the ill omens and tales of woe that the Pequod's crew encounter on their fateful final voyage, this one drags out longest and (to me) was one of the less memorable. However, I'm sure it's probably someone's favorite chapter. Many of them are.

Thank you so much, @georges-chambers/@alienmythologist! You gave me much to think about.

Ask me for my unpopular opinions about boat stories!

#ask game #ask #georges chambers #alienmythologist #moby dick #whale weekly #the terror #the terror amc #james fitzjames

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happyandticklish · 1 year

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Breathless

Notes: Commission for @ssnicker-doodless. Holy hell is this ever late, and I am super appreciative of your understanding while I was working on it through mountains of homework ;-; But I had to pull through for the sake of lee Brett, which is a worthy cause that I think we can all get behind😤 I loosely incorporated some of your headcannons as well, as those were incredible and I needed to put them into use somehow. I hope you enjoy!!

Summary: Brett and Reagan experiment with their first real session.

Brett Hand was used to feeling helpless.

It was a common occurrence in his life and as such, he had forced himself to become accustomed to it. There were some things in life that were out of his control, and while he hadn’t yet found a healthy way to cope with that information, he had turned to denial instead to try to block out the anxious storm brewing inside of him. When the whole team decided to secretly inject him with truth serum without telling him one day, he took a deep breath and powered through it after sharing many a detail of his first time that was quickly dragged out of him. When Reagan cancelled on their dinner plans he had spent hours arranging for them because there had been an accident in the lab, he had simply smiled and sent back a text telling her not to worry. When every exam left him gritting his teeth in frustration as he furiously rose his grade to an A for his family, he told himself that life wasn’t about just facts and memorization.

Brett Hand was a helpless individual so often that it had become comfortable at this point.

Yet, as Reagan tugged the last remaining strap around his wrists, he felt that same sense of telltale helplessness. Only this time, he couldn’t shove it down as usual. It wrapped around his insides, making him squirm uncomfortably in his seat as he tried to breathe normally.

Unfortunately, he was dating possibly one of the smartest people he had ever met, so it didn’t take her long to notice his nervousness. “Are you okay? You’re looking a little pale there.”

He nodded, the motion jerky and tense. “Of course! Definitely okay! I did ask for this after all, so it would be weird if I wasn’t okay, right?” He was more convincing himself than anyone else. “I mean, I like this kind of thing, so why would any of this be a problem for me?”

Her face had fallen in understanding and guilt twinged in his gut. “Brett, if you’re not okay with this—”

“I am,” Brett insisted. Not technically a lie. He was okay with this. He should be okay with this. He had hardly been able to contain his excitement when Reagan had readily agreed to his request, and had spent hours fantasizing about it in the weeks leading up to the event. Now it was finally happening and his incompetent lump of a brain was ruining everything for him. “I’m fine, Reagan, really. Just some first-time jitters, that’s all. I’m sure it will go away once you get started.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly still concerned, but consented, standing up to go back to her mysterious table of tools she hadn’t let him look at yet. They had decided to conduct the session in her lab, as that was one of the few places where a theoretical torture set-up wouldn’t look out of place. The bondage in place was rudimentary, more for Brett’s sake than anything. His hands were tied firmly behind the leather back chair, but other than that he was free to squirm as much as he wanted. The lighting in the room was dimmed to create atmosphere, and across from him was a table with a billowy sheet covering an array of different tools.

The setting all felt very dungeon-y, which had sent a thrill through Brett when he had first seen it. Now, it was making him realize how easy it would be to keep him down here forever if Reagan so pleased. He was pretty sure these walls were soundproof too. Again, a would-be benefit that, in the wrong hands, could end catastrophically for him.

Not that he was worried Reagan was going to kill him, per se. But there were other risks. A safeword is a difficult thing to comprehend in-between bouts of giggling laughter. And who knows what objects Reagan had picked out for him. He was fully clothed at the current moment but he knew that was bound to change later on. Being tied up, completely exposed, with no idea of how far things could go…

He squeezed his eyes shut as his thoughts spiraled. Calm down, Brett. It’s just tickling. You like tickling.

When he opened them, Reagan had turned back around with her hands held suspiciously behind her back.

“What’s that?” he asked, trying for casual as though he was not tied to a chair and was instead sitting comfortably on Reagan’s bed with zero stakes involved. He shifted in his bindings, trying to get a better look. “Nothing too intense, I hope?”

“Trust me, you’re gonna love it,” she said, kneeling beside him. She had that crazy scientist look on her face, the one that said she had just discovered a new idea she wanted to try out and someone was going to suffer for it. There was an uncertainty to it though, as though she were out of her element. “I have to admit, I did a bit of research to prep for this and found some common tools people use online. I just… we don’t normally do this in-depth of sessions and I wanted to make sure it was special.”

She was nervous. That made him feel a slight bit better about this whole thing. Her words and her demeanor conflicted though. He wanted to assure her that this was very sweet of her, but he couldn’t help the anxiety prickling inside of him at the thought of just what kind of ‘research’ she did. He had spent many nights delving into that side of the internet, and some of the devices they used looked intense. Really intense. Instinctively, he tugged on his bonds. They held. Obviously, as there was no way perfectionist Reagan was going to create shitty bondage. He tried again, just to make sure, his mind running rampant with scenarios. What if it really, really tickled, and he couldn’t get free, and he was forced to just sit there and take it? What if she didn’t understand how bad it was?

Brett yelped when she started to pull her hand out and she paused, face freezing in alarm.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There was no playing that off.

“Brett,” Reagan asked slowly, dropping something on the ground. A quick glance down revealed it to be a toothbrush. Disappointment and relief tangled up inside of him at the thought that it probably wouldn’t be used on him now. “Look, if something is bothering you, you need to tell me. Because I’m not going to consent to do something to you that is so obviously making you uncomfortable. You can’t even look me in the eyes right now!”

“I can too,” he muttered, staring determinedly at the floor. “Besides, this is supposed to happen! I’ve watched all the videos for it, and the, uh, ‘victim’ always feels nervous beforehand. That’s supposed to be the fun of it!”

“Is this fun?”

No. The answer came to him instinctively before he could think about it, and he shoved it down as he had been doing the entire ride over here up till now. Because he had watched the videos. He had watched people scream and beg for release and be given none, and though he knew it was all part of some elaborate act, he could never shake the thought that one day that would be him. It was what had prevented him from telling past lovers about this interest of his, and it was what was preventing him from letting Reagan go through with this now.

“Brett.”

“No! Yes! I don’t know!” Behind the chair, Brett fiddled with his fingers, keeping his panic at bay. He exhaled shakily, forcibly calming himself down. It’s just Reagan. “Look. I love you, Reagan. I know you would never do anything to hurt me or that I wouldn’t want. You made that very clear and I don’t want to make it seem like I’m doubting you, because I’m definitely, definitely not! I just… this is new to me, too. I think maybe it was too much too fast and I don’t think I can handle that right now. Not like this.”

He wiggled his shoulders to indicate the bondage. Embarrassed heat crawled up the back of his neck. Probably, he should have had this conversation earlier so he didn’t have to share such an intimate confession while tied up and vulnerable.

He felt a touch on his hand and flinched—regrettably as Reagan pulled back almost instantly. This is exactly what he had been trying to avoid. “I’m sorry, I—I rushed this,” she said, tone unbearably apologetic. “I only agreed to all of this because I thought you’d be into it, but you’re right, it’s too soon. We can try another time, or not at all, or… I don’t know, whatever you want. Here, let me untie that for you—”

“Wait!”

They both paused. Brett coughed, the blush crawling down his neck unhelpfully. “Well… that is… I didn’t mean I’m not ready for all of it.”

Reagan sat back on her heels, frowning. Confusion was an odd emotion to see displayed on the usual know-it-all. “Oh. Okay.” She paused. “I’m sorry, what are you saying? You do want to be tickled?”

Tickled. The way the word sent giddy butterflies swooping through his stomach made Brett more and more sure of his decision. He inhaled shakily, needing to phrase this correctly so as not to hurt anyone’s feelings involved. “Well, I don’t not want to be tickled. But I don’t think I can handle all of… well. That.”

He nodded down towards the discarded electric toothbrush which sat in abandoned offense at his words.

“Maybe we could… I don’t know. Try something softer. Gentler. Just for now, anyway. I do still want to do all of that.” He paused, daring a glance at her. Not angry, so that was a plus. “Just not for today. If that’s alright with you, of course.”

It was a relief to get the confession off his chest. Terrifying, but a relief. He waited for the inevitable rejection he was used to or at the very least the derisive snort of judgement that Reagan was never shy about withholding. Instead, Reagan merely grabbed the toothbrush off of the floor and stood up to place it back over on the metal table—harmless, now. Then, she walked back over behind him, calmly gripping the back of the chair. Her knuckles brushed against his shoulder blades and he shivered at the sudden touch.

“Uh, Reagan?” he asked, a nervous smile slipping onto his face once more. He didn’t appreciate the silent game they were playing here. “Did you hear what I said? Are we good?”

“You know, the very first time I met you, I didn’t think you were very bright.”

Okay. Not where he’d thought this was going. “Well I mean, that’s not entirely—”

“And then I got to know you and realized that hey, this guy has some brains after all,” Reagan went on, ignoring his protests. “In fact, he may be one of the only halfway competent members on this team.”

Brett furrowed his brow. “Thank you? I think?”

“And as we grew even closer, I realized you were actually pretty smart, in your own weird Brett way that I could never accomplish no matter how hard I tried. Which is why I cannot for the life of me understand why you’d ever think that I would be annoyed by something like this.”

Oh. Oh. Brett’s shoulders slackened as he realized he was not, in fact, being scolded, at least not in a way that mattered. “I—I mean, I didn’t think you would be annoyed per se—”

She interrupted him, glaring down at him over the chair. “If I ever do anything to make you uncomfortable, especially when it comes to stuff as serious as this, you’ll tell me?”

He paused. “Y-Yeah, I mean, of course.”

“Brett.”

“I promise, Reagan. Seriously.”

“Good.” Reagan exhaled in relief, stretching her hands in front of her as she cracked both her knuckles. “Now that that’s done with…”

Brett stiffened as he felt hands coming around to unbutton his jacket from behind, carefully undoing each button with an almost awkward precision. They had been together for several months now, but Reagan still approached him carefully at first like he was going to bite her if she made any sudden movements. Brett probably would have been hurt by it if he didn’t know by now that that was just how Reagan was. After a while, she would relax into the touch, into touching him, and everything would be fine.

Which reminded him that she was touching him which meant that most likely this was going to lead to…

Anticipation kicked into high gear once more, panic bubbling gently at the back of his brain. This time, however, it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt exciting. He squirmed in his seat, unable to help it.

“Is this okay?” Her voice was right by his ear and his breath hitched in his throat. This was really happening. Weakly, he nodded, and he could practically feel her smile. “Good. Because I’d hate to have put all my notes to waste.”

“N-Notes?” he managed to croak out in confusion, scrunching back in the chair when she undid the last button. He could feel the cool breeze of the fans in the corner blowing against his bare skin and he shivered.

“You didn’t think I came into this unprepared, did you?” She cocked a brow, bringing her hands up to rest against his ribs. Just sitting there, not moving. A simple reminder of what she could do to him. “This might be our first real session, but it’s certainly not the first time I’ve had the pleasure of making you helpless under my fingers, and I’ve been keeping a mental record of those experiences, as any good scientist does. I’ve memorized your spots, Brett. I know which methods have you screaming and which have you begging for more, and which do both. And, most importantly, I know exactly which you like.”

Brett’s heart had stopped beating in his chest some time ago. It must have, anyways, because he couldn’t seem to feel its presence there anymore. All he could focus on was her fingers, two of her fingers to be precise, which had set subtly into motion while she talked. They touched down gently on his ribs, sliding up into slow, methodical circles under his arms. It was unfair how much that simple gesture tickled and he felt the first beginning giggles start to rise in his chest. He refused to break this early, however, so he thinned his lips together in resistance, his cheeks puffing out from the exertion of it.

“This is how it starts. Just two fingers, ever-so-slowly tracing, reminding you of just how ticklish you can be and how you can’t do a damn thing about it.” The circles climbed higher and Brett followed their path, arching back in his chair as he tried to move out of their line of fire. “For all you know, I’ll just stay like this forever. Endless teasing. Sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

This was new. Not the teasing, per se. She had done that before many times, usually at Brett’s insistence that it was fine, he didn’t mind it. But she hadn’t teased him like this. Not with confidence. Not with that sadistic edge in her voice.

He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on his breathing so that it didn’t stutter when her fingertips finally landed under his arms. “R-Reagan…”

“Is teasing not okay?” She scratched under his arms lightly, one nail at each side that kept up a horrendously persistent pace. “Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what is or isn’t allowed here.”

“T-Teasing’s fine.” The words came out in a rush as Brett held back the grin that threatened to take over his face if he didn’t do something about it.

“Mm. And this?”

Brett jerked at the addition of two more fingers, the chair squeaking out in protest as his movement scooched it. Okay, all good, just a tad more ticklish than he was expecting things to be right off the bat. Giggles were slipping out now, choked and muffled as he tried to hold them back. There was no real point to the farce, but he couldn’t help the way his body instinctively held onto the laughter each time as though letting it out would reveal some failure on his part.

He nodded quickly, deciding that complete sentences weren’t smart under the circumstances. He kept shifting in his seat, his shoulders rolling back and then forwards as he tried to dissuade her fingers from their tasks.

When all five fingers descended under his arms, he squeaked, a stupid noise that he wished he could grab back and shove down his throat but it was too late. Reagan chuckled, amusement underlying her words. "Tickle?"

Red tinged the ends of Brett’s ears. Obviously, he wanted to say, but he had a feeling that would be unwise considering his position. He tried to open his mouth to respond, but each time she would spider over the skin by his topmost rib and his words crumpled into a fit of panicked giggles. He jerked against the chair in frustration, trying to ignore how much it tickled already.

This was how it always was. That endless conflict of desire vs need. He needed the tickling to end but everything in him wanted it to continue. He tried to force his body to understand that he liked this, but it refused to stay still under her gentle ministrations. His stomach was in knots as he tried to reconcile the nervous excitement that made him want to scream or break out of these bonds or something.

“This is one of your favorite spots,” Reagan noted, upkeeping her gentle pace. Her tone had that tinge of pride and excitement in it that she used when she was unveiling one of her latest discoveries. He wasn’t sure how to feel about being one. “At first I thought you hated it from how much you’d try to get away and insist that it was ‘too much’. However, after examining the data, I’ve realized that you expose this area both during tickling and outside of it far more than is necessary. So then, I tried shying away from the area when tickling you to see if you’d provoke me to move there. Do you want to know the results?”

Absolutely none of this was fair and he was loving it. Since when did she become so good at this? “Oh my god, Reagan, do we really have to go through thihihIHIS—shit!”

Reagan merely raised her voice to accommodate the shrieking laughter that accompanied the spidering fingers under what she could reach of his armpits. “Every time, without fail, you would direct my hands towards there, whether you realized it or not. I mean, really, Brett. Begging me not to tickle you there when I’m nowhere near it?”

Brett had not thought he could blush any harder than he was, but evidently, his body had other plans. He felt like his skin was on fire, the sensation blooming over the rest of his skin and creating an embarrassing vermillion tint. He felt like some kind of human tomato, which is a thought he would have found undignified if he wasn’t so focused on being embarrassed by other things.

I mean, what kind of person keeps notes on your tickling habits? He had always assumed he was being slick about this particular interest. To find out that Reagan had not only noticed his behavior but had been keeping tabs on it without his awareness was unbelievably mortifying—and a tad flattering, if he was being completely honest.

Due to this compromised state of mind, he was running short on comebacks so he merely shook his head, keeping his gaze directed firmly at the floor to hide even a modicum of the effect she was having on him.

“No?” The fake sympathy was practically palpable in the air between them, sending goosebumps up the back of Brett’s neck. “So you don’t want me to stay here for the next…. Hmm. Does ten minutes sound good to you?”

Ten minutes. Dread crept its icy fingers down his chest, kicking his heart rate into high gear. No way, absolutely not, not there.

And yet.

There was no way he’d be able to handle something like that, so why did he feel so damn giddy at the concept?

Reagan seemed to take his lack of response as agreement if the way her hands refused to leave their perch was any indication. The laughter that had started as mere giggles at first was growing more frantic as time went on, whines and shrieks entering into the mix as he struggled violently against his bonds. The safeword rested on the tip of his tongue, ready if he needed it, but they had barely been at this for more than five minutes. There was no way he was giving in now.

Even if Reagan was driving him insane. Even if this tickled more than anything should have a right to tickle. Even if he was spending every second tied up planning out revenge scenarios because this wasn’t fair.

Though he was pretty sure Reagan had been joking at first, the digital clock resting on the desk across from them displayed the passing of five, six, eight—twelve minutes. Brett, breathless from struggling and laughter, was on the verge of giving in when her hands finally stilled. He exhaled a sigh that was half-relief, half-disappointment at the break.

“How was that?”

He glared at her, though the gesture lacked any real venom. “Horrible.”

“Liar.” She poked him in the side and he yelped, twisting away from her finger. “How was that, really?”

“Ticklish,” Brett admitted after a minute, and then with a bit of hesitance, “and fun. Just a little. Possibly.”

Reagan came out from behind him with a self-satisfied hum, coming to kneel by his lap. He forced his legs not to curl up off instinct. “That’s what I thought. You’re unbelievably obvious—it’s endearing, I’ll admit. Like dating a puppy.”

He frowned. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to be nice or if you’re making fun of me.”

“Ah, c’mon, it can be both.” She placed her hands on either of his knees carefully and he barely restrained a flinch. Don’t give yourself away, Brett. “Now, that was a perfect example of a strategy that has you begging, even if you enjoyed it thoroughly—”

“Hey—!”

“But—” she continued, squeezing his knee lightly and choking off any further reply from him. “There is another spot that you love far more, even if it is not as ticklish as the other. Now, places like your sides or stomach work well for results, but nothing beats out this from what I’ve seen. This is the one area that, unbelievably, never makes you beg no matter how much it tickles.”

Anticipation was crowding out panic at this point in his mind, and Brett forced any show of enjoyment off of his face. Being tickled was one thing, but there was no need to let Reagan know how eager he was for this kind of treatment.

“You are being unnecessarily sadistic about this,” he huffed, averting his gaze when that prompted a snort from her.

“Yeah well, you did assign a mad scientist to tickle you.” Both hands were on his knees now. His heart leaped into his threat when she squeezed once more. “Not a very well-calculated decision on your part.”

“Well, that depends on your goal.”

“Mm. And just what is your goal here, Brett Hand?”

He couldn’t say it. Not now, not with her fingers crawling around the sides of his knees, nails slipping underneath. Not when she was looking at him like that. But he couldn’t explain any of that to her, so instead, he allowed himself to be swept up in sensation as her fingers slowly untangled his nervous system, and laughed.

Which is what he continued to do for the next hour that they spent down in her lab until the laughter slowly transformed into an exhausted wheeze of delight.

Maybe it wasn’t the “proper” session he had imagined for their first time, but in a way, it was so much better than his expectations could have ever hyped up.

They could always make use of the “dungeon’s” full potential later, after all.

#inside job #tickle fic #brett hand #reagan ridley #breagan #tickling #fanfiction #commission #commissions

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eemamminy-art · 4 months

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I tried out busuu today, I did the whole first chapter of polish.

I don't know if it changes depending on what you select, but it asked me the purpose of learning the language and I selected "friends & family", and the first chapter I got was on introductions using informal terms! How to say hello and goodbye the way you'd say it to your friends/family, (cześć and na razie, as opposed to the more polite terms of dzień dobry and do widzenia), and also how to introduce yourself and ask someone else's name (Mam na imię ___, a ty? / Jak masz na imię? -- again, the informal forms), and to say nice to meet you.

Which is stuff I already knew, but! It's really refreshing considering the first chapter on duolingo for polish is uh.... well you learn the words for man, woman, child, girl, and boy, and you learn how to say phrases like "he is eating bread" or "she is drinking water". Which I mean, I love that I have a huge vocabulary of food words and other random nouns from duolingo but 😂 generally the phrases are SO silly, like stuff you'd never ever use! And the translations when you click on a word are sometimes uh... not really accurate.

I did one last session on it this morning too in one of the intermediate chapters and the translations it offered were just straight up not correct. They were for words and phrases that are difficult to translate, but since there is no grammar explanation offered and duolingo will just list three possible translations of any given word, the explanations did not make ANY sense in the context of the sentences they were asking me to translate to english. If I didn't already speak the language at the level I do, there's no way I would have been able to complete the exercises with what information they provided.

So yeah! My mini review, as busuu compares to duolingo: it very much looks and feels like duolingo (the app is even just as bloated and laggy on my phone 😂 and every other ad is for their premium service which I will not buy ever) but my first impression of the lessons is that it is more accurate! I don't know if it will actually provide any grammar lessons or just continue to throw phrases at me to memorize, but they have at least been helpful phrases so I will take it as a supplementary learning tool on top of my classes.

Oh yeah, and it actually has SPEAKING lessons!!!!! I know most languages on duolingo do but polish does not, I was so excited when busuu asked me to say "miło mi" out loud!! 😭 it's the little things...

#personal #languages

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the---hermit · 1 month

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The Daughters Of Salem by Thomas Gilbert

I got this graphic novel without knowing nothing about it. It's something that happens more and more rarely to me as time passes to just go in a bookshop and pick something that caught my attention without knowing anything about it previously. This time I think I found a little gem. This graphic novel is inspired by the famous Salem witch trials, and if you have been following me for a while you might know I am an historian who has a particular interest in the persecution of witches. I must admit the Salem trials are not part of my expertese, I only know very basic informations about them because I have mainly researched European trials. This graphic novel has definitely made me curious enough to do further research on American trials like that of Salem tho. All this to say that there were a couple of historical things I noticed and appreciated but I do not have the tools to fully judge the historical part of this novel. Of course this story is fiction and is based on a lot of speculation, but to be honest I think it was very well done. What I particularly enjoyed, other than the very curated and stunning illustrations, is how the general feel of the story gets more and more claustrophobic. What this graphic novel does very well is to immediatly send you down a spiral of hate, suspect and increasing panic, and each page gets worse as the citized turn one agains the other. As the reader you feel on your skin this general climate getting worse and worse as each little thing that could make you stand out in a small community is turned against you in a spyral of violence. As the story unfolds you know things will just get worse and worse, and they do, and you experience this sense of absurdity and fear that a lot of the characters are feeling. I really really enjoyed it. And I also got to read this in one sitting which I think helped me with being fully immersed in the narrative. As I said I cannot judge how much historical facts the author put into his story but I saw a couple of details that show that he just didn't slap the word salem into the title, but other than that I cannot say much. What I can say is that I have a memorable reading experience and that I will in fact read more academic stuff on Salem in the future to patch up my lack of knowledge.

#bookblr #booklr #book cover #2024 book #book rec #book review #book recommendation #reading #mine #the---hermit

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sharlmbracta · 6 months

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watching atla in my "first" language really hit different to me.

fiction and storytelling, even for ones that were originally made here, especially for ones that weren't originally made here, all of them were always more natural for me in english.

for atla, when i watched and rewatched, read and reread the series, the comic, the fanfictions all in english, the characters felt like characters more than the representations that they hold. when i turned on the series in korean, out of curiosity, the entire dynamic felt shifted in this intricate way that are both personal yet distant yet i felt like i was yanked up by this unfamiliarity i was supposed to be familiar with. if that makes any sense.

like. the characters were more the representatives and statuses such as the wordings and cultural tones but the parts where the translators failed to catch the tone of the characters themselves but rather they have compartmentlized and integrated into the labels of the statuses, those that we were more familiar with what we were relayed on the history classes. especially the words that dealt with royals. the words that referred to "father", the words that referred to "king". the words that referred to "high priests", "physicians", and "my lord". when in english (at least to me) it felt like the statuses were first and foremost used as tools to add up flavor to the character, in korean (at least to me) it felt like the statuses were first and foremost used to establish the solid grounds and frames what they would play out into in terms of the fictional politicary, and the characters added second to just slightly differentiate the framework between the royals.

(high chance that i may be rather heavily biased in this since i did only watch (made to watch) most movies and animations in english since i was at a very young age, and that habit turned into a purposeful one as i grew older, so i have a very limited range of feel of how "scripts in korean" could vary in terms of The Feel. when i watch a fiction in korean that i have already digested through thoroughly in english, the foremost automatic reflex is "wait that's not right" and more than often my brain tunes the rest out as if it was a fight or flight situation. i always thought the translations were poor, a lot of them may actually are, but even when they might be decent.)

in korean i suddenly felt the weight shifting onto the race of the characters, as if they had suddenly turned "asian" in terms that i felt (or thought i felt) more "familiar" with, in a way that reasonated way too personally- not on the "me" level but on the "national" level. especially the ones- the titles of the statuses- around the imperialism words.

(to be blunt, it felt weird and uncanny in this very specific way that the real life history drilled into you(me) to memorize (and failed to) was suddenly yanking you by the collar and making itself known the fabricated imperialism and the actual imperialism that had happened in the personal-not personal-national way at the same time shoved in your face and the titles of not only said imperialism but also the status pyramid in general which you now barely acknowledged reeked out of the mere words that the characters used.

for example, resulting in the brain functioning from

"this person is azula"

"this person is an imperialist(political) princess(raw) loyal(in patriarchy) to the(her) fatherlord(as in the actual term used by the children of the high king, who was referred and (made) reverred as the "father" of the nation via confucianism (patriarchy + family, organizations == family at its core == therefore any organization especially enforced by the nation == loyalty to the king(lord) == loyalty to your father >>> individuality))"

and suddenly you(i) feel the characters like formatted boxes and yes the characters are still there but the tone is just not there anymore, and this may be just me after only watching the last 3 episodes in this language, but i felt like aang became(as in framed into a mere box of) a {kid}, sokka became a {kid}, toph became a {sister}, katara and suki became {companions}, zuko became a {guy}, azula became an {enemy the crazy}, and ozai became an {enemy the fatherlord}. and nothing else. no lingering spices of the characters. the weight of all the statuses and namesakes clouding over (all) the flavor.)

(though the added weight is kind of interesting when considering the characters derived from the feel of both languages i guess)

below is a rambling thought of how i think this would've turned out if atla was published in here, perhaps, in the form of kdrama which seems to be the most popular medium on broadcast tv lately, especially if it was pushed for nationwide publishment.

this may be biased since this post is coming from me only, so you may ignore the rest of this post if you don't want to read a wall of condemnation of what i personally (therefore not an exact official fact) think of kdramas (regarding sexism) + how the characters would've turned out if atla was one. i won't fight you if you decide to fight me or engage in Formatted Discourse because i'm a cowardly little shit who throws up a wall of rant when braindump is required and runs away irresponsibly

i'm not someone who had watched that many kdramas, but kdramas are the thing that turns up everywhere whenever the tv on the house is on (on the few times it is actually on) and this is from my viewpoint from all the glimpses i got from the kdramas. kdramas, which seem to love so much the gender roles and how the plot "tears them apart" when ironically, the established grounds themselves are made to very heavily, both blatantly and subtly rotate around the gender stereotypes and the set of the power positions- man on high position, woman on the hardworking helping side at best. and there's always some type of "romance" going on. the arrogant male tries to get the girl, but the girl eventually makes him learn his place.

oh and let's not forget the age gaps. i am not saying that age gap relationships are inherently bad but the notion of the "age gap where the man is much older than the woman" in itself seems to be a very popular trope in kdrama in the majority. especially especially those of which the background is set in the past like the chosun dynasty where the patriarchy was domineering its highest, when the man was always older and of higher-status than the "court receiving" woman with no exceptions, where the man always protect the woman in the end when it came down to drama-typically life-threatening on either side. i get that the "man status" is one of the things that the drama made as "that's just how history is" but (for me) it always felt like the setting deliberately focuses on the gender split and runs with it while having the effect of romanticizing and glossing over the entirety of it. man always "helping out" the woman via his status that the woman is inherently made impossible to reach, the label never quite really being approached in contrast to the advances that men always had.

so back to the subject. if atla was to be created first in here, similar to a kdrama, therefore having more parts to be glossed over by the media producer, the executives, the broadcast approvers, and their enforcements for "mass media taste" on top of the traces of patriarchy seeped everywhere that never really went away.

azula would have more limitations of what she could do, such as not really having full control of her ship or her army, somehow being distanced in some way she knows but cannot grasp, having a second in command that does all the actual command-in-power- even if the show lets her do all the fighting- due to the inhibitions as a female that she never had in the series. most importantly, scenes of her would no longer have that iconic "fear aura" she always had and controlled, entirely by herself, while still wearing the label of evil. her preciseness and manipulation closely nurtured and delicately yet forcefully groomed by her father, the entirety of her complex character, would be watered down to an overbearing snotty control freak who can't really do anything. and when she duels zuko, she would be fighting for the power she never was really given. zuko's win would be cloaked a heavy shade of patriarchal win.

katara would be framed as a righteous lecturing damsel in distress. she would show skill, she would be taking down dozens, but her selfless passion and enthusiasm would be made thwarted to "catch" the attention of stereotypical prying males. she would be pinned down by a manhandle and there would be a dramatic, perhaps romanticized, male rescue. she would be fighting more stereotypical men targetting her than doing her actual part of saving the goddamn world. in the series, the one "blatantly patriarchal" society she had to face in the northern water tribe overturned in quick succession due to a usage of a plot ticket of acknowledgement of personal loss of a high master due to the patriarchal norm as well as an acknowledgement of katara's skill and resilence. i can't even start to imagine how it would've turned out if atla were to be produced in here.

toph would be framed a "loudmouthed little brat", as a guy who captured her in a metal box had said it. she would be strong, she would be vigilant, but she would be ignored, she would be babied more, and she would be made to either simply shrug them off, or be condescended as if she was nothing but a child when she does show her anger. her rightful anger would be treated as nothing but a simple child's fit. either that or her gender would have been replaced entirely, as she was made in the ember island play scene, but with more region-typical stereotypes laced along the way.

all of them would be made to wear some lipstick and makeup.

all of them would be made to wear tightly fitted clothing on their higher torso, in some way.

all of them would be regularly commented of their appearances in some way.

all of them would abruptly find themselves in the face of blatant sexism as if it was an obvious topic in a conversation.

i would continue to scrutinize over how suki, aang, sokka, hakoda, and ozai would have been, but i'm not sure i honestly could, at least in terms of accuracy, with my current state of experience and knowledge on kdramas and korean media culture as well as the limited time i have. (and i really don't want to compartmentalize my time further watching tv dramas for "culture studying" sake)

so uh. thanks for reading? i guess. if you did. through the entire wall of ramble text. which i doubt. congratulations. i wouldn't read it too

#LONG POST #rant #atla #character #character study or something but not really i guess #language #status #mostly that i guess #kdramas?#i was infuriated with that one line that translated sokka's “have i ever mentioned how sweet it is that you invented metalbending”#to “i don't know how pretty you are for inventing metalbending”#and i was like. what the fucking hell. is that supposed to mean.#and so came the final push to rant down the lower half of this post #even if that was a mistranslation of “how sweet it is” i am still mad #every bit of the dialogue/transcription is at least slightly off which is why i don't use translated material if the source language is eng #the entire fucking tone and context is DEAD on translation #which i deem as the most important thing for solidifying the delivery of the expected character establishment for the audience.#i don't know about the rest of the folks here but. to hell with it. i would do a BETTER job thank you very much #ramble #brain dump #period typical misogyny #but is it only under “period typical” if it's regarding kdrama?

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scones-and-texting-and-murder · 1 year

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Get My Heart Under Contract

Written because I couldn't shake this post by @stonelionhearts. Thanks to @velvethopewrites for the little push i needed to write it!

ao3 1400 words, rated T (for now anyhow) 4926 word, Rated E

This is all Gabriel’s fault.

Cas’s business is doing just fine. He’s staying busy. He has a steady stream of customers. Home improvement never goes out of fashion. But his brother has insisted he join a--God, Cas can hardly even think it without rolling his eyes--networking group. Which is why Cas is dressed in a goddamn dress shirt, tie, and slacks on a Tuesday morning instead of finishing up the jetted tub install on his latest job.

Which reminds him. He needs to pick up a part. Glancing at the time, he sees he has a few minutes to kill before the meeting starts. He’s across town from his usual hardware store, but these chains are all the same so he can pop into the one over here and kill two birds with one stone.

He strides purposely into the store, confident he’ll know the layout, to grab the piece and be on his way again. Instead, he finds himself wandering from aisle to aisle, frustration building as he does. By the time he finds the plumbing section, he’s muttering to himself about inefficient store planners and glaring at the long rows of products as if they've personally offended him. Honestly, if he had the time he’d start re-organizing the entire layout in a way that actually makes sense. Sighing, he tries again to find what he’s looking for, a small headache beginning behind his eyes. Definitely Gabriel’s fault.

A friendly voice comes from his left. “Can I help you?”

Cas tugs at his own collar in an attempt not to snap at this salesperson who has no idea he’s just taken his life into his own hands. He turns to crisply dismiss the poor fellow and finds himself face to face with what can only be described as an incredibly beautiful man. He’s looking at Cas expectantly, green eyes wide. There’s a smattering of freckles on his face, and he wets his lips as he waits for Cas to answer. Which Cas should definitely do, but this is such an unexpected turn of events that Cas finds they’re standing and staring at each other for much longer than is socially appropriate.

The man--and now Cas sees he’s got a name tag pinned to his work apron--Dean nods at the display and tries again. “Looks like you’re working on a plumbing project. Those can be tricky. Do you know what piece you need?”

Of course Cas knows what he needs. He’s got all the dimensions memorized. He could do this job in his sleep. “Uh,” he begins, and has to clear his throat. He holds out his hands. “About this big?”

Dean studies the display, his tongue poking out at his concentrates. It’s all Cas can do not to reach out a hand to steady himself. He’s watching Dean’s face instead of finding the part he needs, and maybe he should feel bad about all this blatant staring, but he feels something akin to starstruck by this man.

“It’s probably this one.” Dean reaches for the exact part Cas was looking for, and Cas watches the muscles of his shoulder flex beneath his tight black t-shirt. “But just to be on the safe side, you might want to take this size as well.” He turns to face Cas, a part in each hand. “We make returns as easy as possible,” he says with a smile.

Cas definitely only needs the larger size. He takes both parts, happy to have something to do with his hands at least. “Thank you. That’s very helpful.”

“Anything else?”

If Cas leaves right now, he’ll only be about five minutes late for the networking meeting. He takes a step to his left, moving into Dean’s personal space, and pivots to the display behind them. “Can you tell me about these?”

They’re nothing complicated. Ball valve shut offs. Cas has an entire drawer of them in his tool box. Still, Dean answers his question respectfully, explaining various uses and pointing out the differences. “And these?” Cas realizes he's pointed to a display of brass nipple fittings and why do all these pieces sound so dirty? Cas works on not blushing as he lets Dean’s words wash over him, watching the way Dean’s face lights up as he talks, his strong hands picking things up to show Cas the minute differences. There’s nothing condescending in his speech, just the pure joy of sharing his knowledge with someone who wants to learn.

And does Cas ever want to learn. He wants to learn if Dean’s lips are as soft as they look. He wants to learn if those gold flecks in his green eyes look different under candlelight. He wants to learn how the calloused touch of those work-worn hands would feel on Cas’s shoulder and chest and hip…

“You know a lot about building things, it seems,” Cas manages. “Where did you learn it all?”

Dean glances away. “My dad was all about uh, DIY, I guess you could say. Left me with some skills.” There’s a story there, Cas is sure. He wants to learn that, too. Dean, however, seems eager to change the subject. “What about you? Are you working your way through your honey-do list?”

Cas watches as Dean’s mouth twists, like he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. It warms something inside him and he’s quick to respond. “Nothing like that. I live alone.”

Dean smiles at him. “You know, you’re going to need a piece of drywall to patch the hole after that installation.”

He’s not wrong. And Cas has many pieces available already. He feels his head tilt, eyes squinting in confusion. “Where would I find that?”

“Happy to show you!” Dean leads the way, and dear God now Cas can see that he’s got bowed legs, his hips swaying as he walks in a way that has Cas wanting to learn many, many more things.

Dean continues to guide him through the process, at some point grabbing a flat bed cart and loading it up with everything Cas might need. He opens up a register so that he can handle the payment himself. “Thank you, Mr. Novak,” he says, handing him the receipt. And then he offers to help Cas out to his car.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Cas says quickly, because this has gotten out of hand. “I can do it.”

“Nonsense,” Dean says. “No point in you getting dirty when you’re all dressed up nice for work.” He reaches a hand out and Cas freezes, breath caught in his throat, but all Dean does is flip his tie which has somehow turned backwards. While Cas will his pulse to slow, Dean grips the cart. “Now, where are you parked?”

Any other protests die on his lips. There’s nothing to be done and Cas leads him across the parking lot, doing a walk of shame to his very own contractor van parked at the end of a row.

Dean pulls up short with the cart, eyes blinking rapidly. “Novak,” he says. “That’s you?”

“I’m so sorry,” Cas says in a rush, knowing that he’s ruined this. “I didn’t mean to mislead you, it’s just that…”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Just that what?”

Cas can’t look at him. He stares miserably at his stupid dress shoes. “I was enjoying your company so much.”

There’s a long pause. “Hmm.” Chancing a look, Cas sees Dean is smiling at him. It’s a bit smug, but it looks good on him nonetheless. Dean pulls out his phone and takes a picture of the side of the van. “So, I could call you if I want to continue this conversation?”

Relief has Cas smiling back. “I wish you would.”

Together they unload the cart. “So, what’s with the monkey suit?” Dean asks.

“My brother convinced me to go to a business networking meeting.” Cas checks his watch. “Which I am now embarrassingly late for.”

Dean leans a hip against the side of the van. “That so? Guess you’ll never meet anybody new then.”

“Guess not.” They’re staring at each other again.

Finally, Dean breaks eye contact. “I gotta get back.” He reaches out a hand. “It was a pleasure helping you today, Mr. Novak.”

Cas clasps his hand longer than necessary. It’s warm and strong and Dean uses his thumb to rub a small, secret circle on Cas’s skin. “Call me,” Cas says and it only sounds a little desperate.

“Oh, I will,” Dean assures him with a wink. “You look like the answer to all my pipe-laying needs.”

#deancas #destiel #meet cute #my writing #inspired by a tumblr post

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sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee · 1 year

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Could I request the different riddlers with a s/o who collects just random ass trinkets? Pins, pendants, just little shiny trinkets and knick-knacks. Hopefully that makes sense

"Look at this stuff, isn't it neat?" Riddler party x reader

I have a collection of kokeshi dolls and other random things like bones so.... I felt this ask while reading it. I also included stuff they might collect!

TW: None

Gotham

If any of the riddlers is going to understand collecting and the hyperfixations that can come attached to that, it's Gotham. Please show him your entire collection and tell him all the information you want about it. He will be listening with hearts in his eyes memorizing the standards of which you use to pick new items.

He actually has his own collections! Articulated skeletons, wet specimens, old fashioned medical textbooks- He'd love to tell you all about them! oh and puzzle boxes! He's even made some, do you want to see?

He has a checklist in his mind of the traits things in your collection share so he can find the perfect thing. You won't get a ton of stuff from him, but the things you do get are a-mazing and exactly to your taste. It has to be perfect! He spends a lot of time overthinking this kind of thing.

60s

How darling! Just where did you find all this? Whatever pieces are your favorites, he'd like to hear the story behind them at some point. Sometimes you'll catch him looking at them from time to time, admiring them. Thinking about how they suit you. Shiny treasures. Just like you are to him.

He will find you the cheesy, weird stuff that fits in with your collection. ESPECIALLY knick-knacks and pins. He insists he travels often enough and has enough friends that he just knows how to get this kind of thing. If nothing else, the pieces are always very unique.

Riddler has a collection of old movies and theatrical costumes. It's not the same but if you want him to share that with you, he'd be happy to! Make some silly home movies where batman gets owned (again).

Zero Year

This man's special interest is in mythology and folk tales (which I will go deeper into in another post). If any of your knick knacks, pins or the like reflects on those subjects, expect to have his full attention. He's already rattling off statistics and info dumping on the type of/cut of the jewels in your trinkets and pendants. Ah, but you showed him this because it's your interest, so perhaps you should tell him about it (once he's done talking, of course).

If you promise to be cool about it, he will show you his dice and dnd figurines. He hand-painted this one, it's one of his characters for a game, a gnome... and he's gone he's going to be rambling for like an hour about the mythos he created for this guy. The dice are all custom made and he has a set that all the ones are a golden question mark on green. You aren't surprised.

Oh, you've done it. You've basically told him outright what to get you as presents. Suffer, by which I mean be ready for him to use that to his advantage. He knows good quality and fine work when he sees it. These things combined means you are getting some very kick ass gifts whenever he pleases. Especially if you just happen to be mad at him for being a shit.

BTAS

Instantly zoning in on things that attract his eye. Whether it's the beauty of your pendants or a quirky design on a pin, he's going to tell you his opinion on these pieces. Yet you notice he's too polite to say which ones he doesn't like (if any) and just glosses over them...

Perhaps it'll seem too on the nose, but he likes collecting old game systems, obscure limited edition video games and arcade cabinets. He's repaired them and reworked bad coding and hardware issues in his spare time. You know, for fun. He used to do this since he was a child which coincidentally is where he learned a lot of it. Now he can afford expensive equipment and tools. If he's anywhere past the year 2006, he has a physical copy of Rule of Rose. If you know, you know.

You like pretty, shiny things? He is more than willing to get you pretty, shiny things. Let's be honest, he already liked stealing jewels of high caliber and the like, this just gives him more incentive. Then he can tell you all about his dashing and clever plan he used to do it which gives him such a little ego boost.

Telltale

He doesn't mean to be rude, cherub, (he is anyways) but what is the point of this? Is it just because it's pretty? Is there something specific you like about all of it? In his opinion, it's just there to collect dust if it doesn't have a use.

While he of course pretends he's above all that, BACK IN THE DAY, he used to collect Lord of the Rings stuff. He has a copy of the 1978 version that he still holds in high regard. Semi-related, if you coaxed him into it, he will speak Elvish in bed.

He isn't necessarily going to seek out things for you to add to your collection, that's not his bag. But once in a blue moon, you'll get a small box with something special in it that he says "reminded me of you." Even if he doesn't get it, he knows it's something you care about and so he will attempt to make an effort.

Arkham

Oh. Hm. His very initial reaction might be that it's a little immature. He doesn't outright say it, but you can get that impression from small, harsh comments. Over time though, he'll come to appreciate the emotional value they have for you. Then he stops making those comments and will try to dish out compliments.

If you got this man intricate ship-in-a-bottle kits or those ridiculously intricate lego sets, he'd have his greasy gremlin hands all over those. Working with machinery the way he does, his happy space is putting it all together and seeing it complete. Then it goes on a shelf somewhere.

He's not probably going to give you much for your collecting unless you like things he can make for you- But, tell you what, he's more than willing to make a display for your things. He's good with his hands and it's a way to show that he cares about your interests. If you do like things he can make, like his trophies and whatnot though, you'll occasionally find something tucked away for you to find behind a riddle or two.

2022/Nashton

Edward is glad you feel comfortable enough to share this with him. He never got to collect things when he was younger because the other children would have just torn it to pieces just for fun. To him this is a sign of trust and vulnerability on your part. Now he can look through this collection to see parts of you that you might hide for other people. Little things you might not have even known about yourself.

He likes collecting/recreating memorabilia from movies (usually horror) as well as those insanely difficult puzzle boxes. The ones he can afford, anyways. He has a whole stack of completed brainteaser and puzzle books. A lot of them are math and some quite difficult to understand unless you're good at that sort of thing. However, he doesn't consider those collecting because he only had them for stress-coping. The cheaper ones he likes tearing out the pages to use as additional layering for his rats cages.

See, he doesn't have a lot and knows you don't expect these grand expensive gestures from him. That being said, I think he'd turn to the online sphere to try and find something really rare that you can't find anywhere else. He's very good at slinking around to find things and he has connections through his alternate persona. He wonders if stream might have any good ideas...

#riddler #btas riddler #gotham riddler #60s riddler #Zero year riddler #telltale riddler #arkham riddler #2022 riddler #foxwriting #sort of related did you know the actor for penguin in the 60s show had a vast collection of penguin figurines that people sent him?#it's very cute #riddler x reader

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skwpr · 5 months

Text

How To Take Great Study Notes

Take Great Study Notes That Make Exam Prep Easy-Peasy.

Why We Do NOT Take Notes

To start, let’s consider reasons not to take notes:

Not to document everything said during a class

Not to document everything you read.

Not to fill up a notebook.

Hopefully, you get the idea! Notes should NOT be a comprehensive document detailing all of the facts. This is what a textbook is for. You can always look up specific concepts in your book or online if you need a more thorough refresher.

Why We DO Take Notes

Now we know what not to do, so let’s talk about the real purpose. There are two goals for taking notes:

Document information pertinent to you. Your notes should not look like your friend’s notes. You both have different experiences and prior knowledge; your notes should differ to fit your own individual needs.

Collect your thoughts. When you are learning something new, the information is not stored in memory. Notes help you to initially get the information into short-term memory. Through continual practice and study, we can move it to long-term memory.

If you’re just starting a course, you may be thinking…I need to write it all down! When we begin to learn a new subject most of the information can feel new. It is likely true your notes will be longer as you begin, but follow these two tips for taking better notes and you will immediately see the power of notes to help you study.

Get Organized

To create notes that will be a useful tool for studying you need to create one central place to keep everything related to a specific course. There are a lot of options on how to do this:

Have a single notebook or binder for your course

Use a digital tool like OneNote or Evernote

Keep a folder of Word documents

By getting organized upfront you will be able to find what you need when it matters. If you sit down to study and only have 30 minutes, you need to make your time count! Knowing where your material is so you can get started will make you a more efficient student.

Most courses either follow a textbook in order or have a syllabus with a set of topics in order. Use this order to set up your system. If there are 12 chapters, go ahead and make space for each chapter. If there are 10 topics, make a space for each topic. By doing this ahead of time, you are ready to add notes at any point.

Take Great Notes: Keep It Short

You’ve got a system. Check!

You’re in the right spot to work on Chapter 1. Check!

Now it’s time to start taking notes that are going to be beneficial to study from down the line. You want to write short facts, not long paragraphs. When you are in class, or when you are working through the course material, try to take the shortest notes possible. As long as it will make sense to you tomorrow, it works.

Imagine going back over each of these notes in three weeks as you study for an exam. Which is going to be faster and easier to review? Just looking at the notes on the left makes my brain feel tired and overwhelmed. The notes on the right feel much more do-able. I can remember those three facts!

important dates

new terminology

important names

formulas

steps of an important process

references to charts, tables, graphs, or other visuals

questions

Questions? You Betcha.

Absolutely! You especially want to jot down questions as they come to you, and mark them so they are easy to identify. I like to draw a big question mark in the margin or use the question mark icon in OneNote. If you skip this step and don’t write down questions, you will forget them. And then you don’t know what you don’t know. This is an easy way to fall into the “I don’t know what to study” trap.

When you do write down questions, then you know what to study. I need to figure out the answer to these things. When I have answered all of the questions, then I can work on memorization to get prepped for the exam.

Do A Quick Review And Revise.

Notes taken on-the-fly are not going to be cohesive or coherent. This is normal! What we do need to focus on is spending 10-15 minutes reviewing and revising notes after they are taken. Can you rearrange information so related information is together? What information did you write down but doesn’t really seem important any longer? What already lodged itself in your short-term memory?

Bonus tip: Schedule a 10-minute comprehensive review session every day. Use your time to review your existing notes. Your comprehension will go through the roof with this strategy and final exam prep will be painless.

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apollos-boyfriend · 8 months

Note

One small issue I have with duo names is that a lot of them are because of extremely specific things that happened, not things that really reminds me of the characters together, and let's be honest here, crazy duo, insane duo... These duos could represent more than half of the people on the island!

But honestly I think my problem is that I have a bad memory and I memorize the name of the duos by association, like guapo duo where Cellbit called Roier guapito, that I can remember, but now the difference between crazy duo, insane duo and chaos duo?? My dumbass could never.

And another thing, not very relevant, it's sad to see that Mike + Slime is called green duo and not green grief, a missed opportunity 😔 (<-<-<-Not a good name, just likes it because the two words start with the same letter)

okay i’m gonna use this ask to clear something up rq! nothing against you anon, i’m honestly not even too sure what you were trying to convey here (in the sense that idk if you’re saying this to agree with me or because you think i’m a fan of them and disagreeing with me), but i’m not a huge fan of duo names!! i agree with all of this!! i think a lot of them are badly chosen and broad and, most importantly, impossible to keep track of.

which is WHY i created the duo names spreadsheet in the first place. i’m aware i can’t stop people from making new ones. so the best thing i can do is alleviate the issue of memorization by creating an easy to navigate tool to organize and chart them all. i don’t know if people are Aware of that or if i’ve been giving the vibes of someone who really fucking loves duo names. hence why i’m clearing it up now just in case ^_^

#muse talk #anon #i also just really fucking love organizing stuff #like yeah. i agree with all your points! you’re right!#which is why i’m confused/think you may not know #bc i don’t see the point of repeating something like that if you know they’re the exact viewpoints of the other person?#idk. either way. just in case ppl didn’t know ^_^#i’m just here bc i’m autistic and like Data

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mbti-notes · 3 months

Text

Anon wrote: Hi MBTI-notes, I am an American masculine-presenting (potentially) enby in their early 20s trying to figure out my type so I can work on finding the right path. I have anxiety, depression, ADHD, a lack of socialization, and lack of life experience. I am confident that I am ISFJ or INFJ, and would like your insight into which seems more likely.

For ISFJ, I think I have immature dominant function Si because:

-I feel that I could be happy living a quiet life with my best friend as long as all my material needs are met without any stress. In other words, appreciating stability and quietly appreciating life. Feeling secure in life would give me confidence (on the flip side, I don’t often push my comfort zone because new = scary, though I’m working on it).

-I can be very insistent on following instructions to the letter. For example, even if doing step 4 before step 3 makes more sense, I will do step 3 and then step 4 because if someone wrote the instructions, then it must have worked that way in the past so I should do what has been proven to work/what I was told to do.

-I require a sense of familiarity to feel secure, and rely on past experience to make sense of things. For example, when I got a new job, despite receiving written instructions, I felt uncertain that I was going to the right place at the right time and doing things correctly until I had done it the same way multiple days in a row.

-I need to know the “proper” conduct or procedures to follow before feeling comfortable. For example, whether I should address my supervisor by their first or last name. I proceed very cautiously in new and unfamiliar situations, and don’t try new things because I am afraid of either failing or of being reprimanded.

-I am known for my attention to detail despite having ADHD. I make sure my work is typo-free and conforms to any relevant formats, such as APA, MLA, etc.

-I really dislike people who seem irresponsible, either by flippant attitude or failing to complete their work in the past.

-I easily conform to set ways of doing things and rely on authority figures. I feel directionless without being given explicit instructions or known procedures to follow. For example, I would require someone to tell me how they wanted me to put together a shelf in small steps (first go grab my tools from X location, then come back to the garage, then grab this wooden plank, etc).

-I ask redundant questions; even if I think I may know something, I often have to ask someone in authority or who knows the subject better than me before I am confident in that knowledge. For example, whether humans can lose 1 liter of blood and live or not.

-I like collecting facts, and feel confident when I can share once I know I have memorized correctly.

-I tend to ask a lot of “what” questions in conversation; clarifying basic facts as I try to keep up and trying to figure out what I can say for general responses. When I do talk, I can only really recite facts or things that happened. I don’t really have anything deep to say, or interesting insights, which I feel very self-conscious of. I’m worried people find me very simple.

-When I don’t want to do something, my sense of duty and sticking to my routine is often what makes it possible for me to follow through anyways, such as getting up for work when I dread going. However, this also makes it difficult for me to improve my situation. I find it much easier to keep doing things the way I’ve always done it, or at least accept the situation as-is, than try something new that might not work, and might even make things worse (such as moving somewhere new).

-I work hard, but I feel bad because it takes me twice as much effort to get half the results that other people can. I overwork myself because I feel like my time and effort are the only things of worth that I can offer, but also resent that fact.

-I have been criticized for being too unadventurous, inflexible, and oversensitive about minor physical discomforts.

For ISFJ, I think I have immature inferior function Ne because:

-I’m scared of unpredictable change. If something bad were to happen, like losing my house or job, I would struggle to figure out what to do.

-I feel trapped in my life, just going through the motions and checking off boxes, going from task to task understanding only the bare minimum and being forever stuck as who I am now, without the ability to improve myself or my situation.

For INFJ, I think I have immature dominant function Ni because:

-I am obsessed (negatively) with finding purpose; I feel empty and mannequin-esque without proper drive and direction. I know it’s unrealistic, but it feels like many of my personal issues would be solved by finding something that lights a fire in my soul. Until then, I have no hope for my future and daily life has no meaning. All I have are pleasant distractions, which I will look back on with regret because I will have not anything.

-I feel very detached from the world around me. This might just be the depression, though, since sometimes the feeling of detachment is a crippling feeling that I lack connection to anyone or anything.

-Nothing is ever good enough, especially myself. I can only ever see how I fail to live up to the person I want to be and have a hard time acknowledging what I do have. The fact that I have a place to live and plenty to eat isn’t good enough; I need to be smart, and charming, and talented to even think that I MIGHT be worth anything. The main thing that helps this is positive comparison to other people who are doing worse, which is not the right way to find self-confidence.

-One other thing that can help is being able to imagine myself as a character, at least when I can see myself positively. Would this scene be interesting, would it be meaningful? How would the audience react to me as a character? Would they like me?

-I am always worried about what comes next, though it doesn’t help me at all. Not being able to fully engage when things are happen means I don’t get the benefits of the experience, nor any sense of accomplishment.

-I think it’s important to delay gratification for the sake of the future, and see it as a failure when I indulge in momentary pleasures at the expense of my future self. For example, paying for an expensive meal now, or having more money for retirement.

-I am interested in speculating about potential implications (often people-based; such as whether X reaction means the person has Y or Z intentions, which means I can expect certain reactions from them later; or whether X behavior or thought means I’m a bad person), but I’m no good at it.

-I dislike people who are self-limiting, narrow-minded, shallow, and fickle. However, I'm trying not to be so judgmental, and have even started seeing some people who display these characteristics as better than me because they can function better socially and materially.

-I am scared of being called pretentious, demanding, unrealistic, and unfun. As a result, I have slowly eroded the quality of my personality and squandered my potential over the years by trying to be peppy, forgiving, approachable, and fun to be around. I never let myself express my interests in public (so I lost out on the preteen and teen experience of expressing and finding myself) and I sound stupid when I speak because I jettisoned my pretentious vocabulary.

-I’ve been criticized for being distant, overserious, and for overthinking too much.

-I have to re-process everything every time I recall it, especially if I need to recall a specific detail.

For INFJ, I think I have immature inferior Se because:

-I can be oblivious to my surroundings, which leads to me missing obvious details.

-I have a hard time adjusting to things in-the-moment; I need time to prepare. For example, I would need to know how to handle a bear attack ahead of time.

-I use sensory pleasures, such as overindulging in food, as a way of coping with stress.

-I used to envision my happiness as something that existed in the future, but as I get older and it fails to materialize (mainly because I 1) used unrealistic prerequisites to construct my imagined happiness and 2) never developed the necessary competencies to reach that future) I have started slipping into the trap of instant gratification. I want to try everything, meet people, be reckless, let loose, and actually have fun. I want to stop feeling like I need absolute control for life to go well.

For either stack, I have immature auxiliary Fe because:

-I rely on others for cues on how I’m supposed to feel or react to things. I find myself either empty or easily confused when trying to assess my own thoughts, opinions, or feelings about something even as small as whether something tastes good or not.

-I am overly influenced by others’ mannerisms, speech patterns, and moods.

-I hate how desperate I feel for connection and a sense of camaraderie. I often compromise my (already flimsy) sense of right and wrong in order to go along with what others want.

-I am paranoid about people disliking me and often hide/avoid when I feel like others have negative opinions of me.

-I find it uncomfortable bearing responsibility for things if it means people will have a negative opinion of me, though I recognize that one’s reaction to being blamed (rightly or wrongly) will also impact what others think of someone.

-I want to feel confident in my abilities, but I worry that I care more about being competent because it affects how others see me, and that I don’t care enough about it for “pure” reasons (ie. for my own sake) The same goes for wanting to help other people.

-I am deathly afraid of confrontation because it generates an unpleasant emotional atmosphere and I buckle under pressure. I allow myself to be pushed around and bullied because I can’t stand up. I’m torn between wanting to strive for my own goals (once I figure them out) and quietly carrying out the wishes of others.

For either stack, I have immature tertiary Ti because:

-When searching for an answer, I tend to skim articles to the relevant section, get my answer, and leave without trying to fully comprehend the subject matter.

-I am very lazy intellectually; I passively ingest things I enjoy and give up easily when something requires additional thought.

-I have trouble assigning priorities to different considerations, and am easily overwhelmed or confused by conflicting interests when weighing appropriate courses of action (ex. one person has a time-sensitive task they want completed, but another relevant party would be inconvenienced. The time-sensitive task has the potential for flexibility, but it would be better to complete it on time. Unsure how to proceed.)

-My thinking is generally very disorganized, and people can have a hard time understanding what I mean. In truth, I often lose track of my point or why I mentioned something or started on a certain topic.

[Addendum] One thing that I forgot to mention that probably impacted my development: my mother was extremely controlling. She insisted that I consult her before doing anything (even moving a chair to another room), that I do everything the way she prescribed, threatened to remove the bathroom locks if I ever used them (they were really only there for guests), and kept tabs on me through HS. Whenever I got hurt physically or upset emotionally—cue her dropping everything and rushing onto the scene as if it were a crisis. She tried to keep me happy and prepare me for the future, but she also took every opportunity to remind me how ignorant I was and how much I needed her. Even though she would say I was doing a good job, her constantly correcting minor ‘errors’, such as putting shoes on the "wrong way" or failing to laugh when I was "supposed to", told another story.

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

I can see where the confusion comes from. If you're wondering why I highlighted some parts red, it's only to aid me when processing large amounts of text. I usually highlight any points that stick out to me as: weirdly off, out of place, illogical, contradictory, problematic, or requiring more attention. Afterwards, I can quickly review the points and put them together for analysis. The Fe and Ti sections are fine, so I'll focus mainly on the dominant and inferior.

One common obstacle I bump into during type analysis is "unreliable narration", when people make claims that don't quite add up. For example, you say: "I feel that I could be happy living a quiet life with my best friend as long as all my material needs are met without any stress." And then later on you also say: "The fact that I have a place to live and plenty to eat isn’t good enough; I need to be smart, and charming, and talented to even think that I MIGHT be worth anything." Which is it: Are you easily content or is it difficult for you to feel content? This is quite relevant to distinguishing Si and Ni. How can I get to the bottom of things when the truth remains unclear?

With regard to Si, you've done your best to make a case and it seems convincing, on the surface. However, one should always pause when the majority of examples add up to a very negative vibe that is more characteristic of a lower rather than higher function.

The evidence is trying to convince me that you are very "detail-oriented", yet I believe a more accurate description would be that you suffer from "detail anxiety". Generally speaking, a person who is naturally good with details not only has a deep appreciation of them but also doesn't tend to worry about them. Yet your relationship to details seems problematic rather than automatic, rooted in distrust/control rather than trust/mastery. Instead of using details in positive and life-affirming ways, you seem to merely use them as a means to some other end, such as avoiding mistakes that would garner you criticism. This defensiveness is atypical and reason to proceed more carefully in type assessment because it might be more indicative of Ti loop than healthy Si.

Would you agree that your approach to details is actually detail anxiety... and it perhaps stems from a deeper social anxiety… which perhaps stems from your mother constantly treating you as though you're not good enough? The part you added about your mother being very controlling is indeed crucial to the analysis. If you review everything you wrote through the lens of her parental influence, the bigger picture of your personality becomes more coherent.

You seem to have internalized her mindset to a troubling degree. The way she corrected and criticized you has led you to approach the world in an over-controlling way. The manner through which she exerts control seems to suggest some Si influence. Comparing hypotheticals, if you were both SJ, her way of educating you would resonate better than if you were high Ni bumping up against her high Si. Based on past cases I've seen, the relationship dynamic between you does seem to suggest some N versus S conflict, but more evidence is required to know for sure. Therefore, I think it is pertinent to know her type and flesh out exactly how her function expression influenced your function development.

As a reminder, people who haven't yet learned to use their dominant function appropriately tend to suffer from poor self-awareness (i.e. don't really know themselves and what they want) and low self-esteem (i.e. have difficulty believing in themselves). You exhibit both of these issues. One possibility is you've always wanted to use Ni but have been inhibited from doing so. The examples you gave for Ni don't exactly create a positive vibe either, but you seem to have a somewhat more innate understanding of how it operates than Si. Your mother's influence might have led you to believe that N is invalid or can't be trusted. Distrust of N among Ns is unfortunately quite a common affliction due to two facts: 1) Ns often suffer from minority status, and 2) intuition is much easier to cast doubt upon than sensing.

Let me pose this question: Which function, assuming you were to learn to use Si or Ni appropriately and optimally, would lead your personality development in the right direction and/or allow you to experience meaningful personal growth? I believe you have already answered: "I feel empty and mannequin-esque without proper drive and direction. I know it’s unrealistic, but it feels like many of my personal issues would be solved by finding something that lights a fire in my soul. Until then, I have no hope for my future and daily life has no meaning. All I have are pleasant distractions, which I will look back on with regret because I will have not anything."

Is there an unsilenceable force within you that wants more than what material life can offer? While this force is universal in humans and not exclusive to any one type, INFJ is the type that will experience the most pain and suffering from compromising it, whereas ISFJ is the type that most easily brushes it aside. This is one of the most glaring differences between the two types. However, the only way you can use this distinction to tell which type you are is to get in touch with who you really are, deep down. Perhaps you're not there yet.

ISFJs delight in what you somewhat derisively call "pleasant distractions". Pleasant experiences of concrete reality, especially when shared with loved ones and/or a larger community, lie at the heart of ISFJ fulfillment, which prompts them to build up elaborate routines and rituals to ensure their continuation. Hence, ISFJs are known to be "traditionalists" in the way they approach their routines and rituals as sacred. It seems you have very little understanding of this mindset given that there is no evidence of it provided.

The process of confirming the dominant function requires you to make an equally strong case for the corresponding inferior function. However, the case you've made for inferior Ne is particularly weak, with only two points, why is that? The first point you made is basically a non-point. Is it really unusual, abnormal, or unwarranted to fear big unexpected changes like losing a job or a house? I don't see how such a universal fear is indicative of inferior Ne. The second point, while arguably relevant to Ne, weirdly doesn't fit well with the inferior position. The evidence you gave for inferior Se, while also weak, is comparatively more convincing. Either you haven't understood the concept of inferior functions or you still haven't developed enough awareness of your inferior function to describe and explain its activities in detail.

For the sake of improving your self-awareness, I have to mention that an important stage in ego development is nurturing genuine adult independence. This often involves going through a difficult psychological process of differentiating oneself from parental, peer, and societal expectations. In other words, you need to learn what kind of person you really are apart from what your parents or society have inadvertently led you to believe you are. You don't seem to be there yet, though that's normal for your age bracket. It is my prediction that until you get there, you'll continue to suffer from the "detachment" you described.

You want to connect with the world better (i.e. use Fe appropriately), but how can that happen when it's unclear what it is inside you that the world should be connecting with? One vital aspect of personality development is learning about the gifts that come with your personality and not being afraid to express them. These gifts are what allow people to carve out a space in the world and find a sense of purpose that is well-matched to the core of their identity. Yet I struggle to get any sense of your gifts when reading your self-description. Your conscientiousness certainly shines through, but there should be more than that.

Generally, it seems you approach the world as though it is your mother, so you live in fear of its criticism - this is most likely the main reason you feel yourself and your life to be too small or too "simple". I suggest you take steps to overcome social anxiety in order to discover your true powers and express the more positive aspects of yourself, otherwise, you'll continue to feel uncertain about your type (regardless of how I or others type you) because you are not expressing the dominant function optimally. Maybe your mother simply doesn't recognize your gifts due to the blindspots of her personality type, or maybe the voice you've internalized from her has served to suppress the best parts of you, I don't know. In any case, it is never too late to try to get in touch with them.

At this point, I can't say for certain which type you are, though I lean more toward INFJ due to ISFJ having too many irregularities. I've highlighted some key points that need clarification or fleshing out, and I believe doing so should lead you toward the right conclusion in due time.

#typing #ask

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knownangels · 9 days

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maslow's hierarchy

wc: 6.8k

Benji drags himself out of bed a moment before the alarm kicks off.

By now, he’s developed somewhat of a sixth sense for certain happenings around base. It’s a sense that might, were the more superstitious recruits given a crack at describing it, be called preternatural.

Lately those murmurs have picked up both in popularity and frequency; Benji likes that. It could be any number of things to thank for the increasing number of terrified soldiers bumbling out of his path, avoiding trips to medical. It could be Benson has resumed his charming habit of fabricated ghost stories about the resident medic. It could be Benji’s own doing, really: his recent predilection for hanging around the terrifyingly unpredictable corporal hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Whatever it is, Benji’s thankful. Any time another set of eyes pops wide and snaps away from his face, it’s like a needle has split his vein and shot something straight to his heart. Something that makes his head swim, something that blows his pupils wide, something that makes his mouth twist with pleased adrenaline.

Something wicked nice, as the corporal might put it.

He takes his time meandering down to the clinic, where his on-call alarm had been directing him. Benji hadn’t been fortunate enough to be on the mission from which all the trembling, blood-soaked soldiers return. But his luck is good enough that there are a fat number of them, wet with fear’s sweat and stinking of that post-fight metallic tinge.

He likes being there when it happens. Not just because a body will open in any number of interesting and memorable ways. Not just because they cry and scream out of fear and pain alike. Nah. Benji likes being there when it happens because inevitably, once the fog of sleepy shock passes, once they realize the predicament they’ve gotten themselves into with whatever nasty, painful misfortunate —

They look at Benji. They know he’s there. Know why. Know that he holds, in eager glove-clad hands, the tools to fix them. To make it stop hurting.

(Whether he will or not is another story entirely.)

Benji likes watching the injured take that journey. It always plays out so obviously on their face as the path winds, tugs them along. This hurts, turns into someone help me, turns into oh fuck, not him, not him. Benji might not have their friendship. He might not have their trust. He certainly doesn’t have their loyalty.

But he does have their reliance. Their need. To stop the bleeding, to close the wound, to make the pain stop. They fear him, but they need him — and Benji likes looking at a face and seeing need swiped across it like splatter. He likes it almost more than the fear.

The first injured mercenary he attends to is green. New enough that he doesn’t know any better. As Benji approaches the door, light gleaming through the cracks of the frame, he hears the soldier’s dismay.

“Not him,” the mercenary is chanting, over and over. Pleading, really. He must have seen Benji’s name on his chart. New enough that he dodesn’t know better, but been here long enough to be warned. Maybe to hear a story or two.

“Please, please. Not him. You can do it— right, Dr. Toussa—doctor? You can, can’t you? Please, man.”

“Mais no,” Nick responds, his familiar and even tone carrying through the crack in the door. He sounds amused. It’s nearly a laugh. “What a preposterous assumption, private. I will be retiring for the evening. Perhaps — oui. A nice glass of chardonnay awaits, I think. Une récompense, you see, pour mon travail acharné.“

Benji waits beyond the door, listening to the near-tearful begging of the injured soldier. The quiet shuffle of fabric as Nick undoubtedly removes his stark white coat, lays it carefully on the coat rack he keeps by the door.

Which swings open. The arc throws just shy of the tip of Benji’s nose — only a few centimeters.

He doesn’t move.

“Ah.” Nick says, as congenially as he seems capable. “Bonsoir, Benji.”

“Evenin’, Nick.” Benji tilts an imaginary hat. He feels his mouth already pulling into a grin. “Leave some for me?”

“And otherwise?” Nick chuckles. “Do labor of myself when you are so happy to help? Non.”

Despite the congeniality, despite Nick’s seemingly high spirits, despite Benji’s grin — the hallway is tense. Benji stands in front of him, short but broad. Unmoving. Arms tucked behind his back.

Nick doesn’t move an inch, despite leaving medical with hastened steps. He doesn’t look to be in a hurry home any longer. He looks frozen. He looks careful.

Benji’s smile widens. After a beat, he moves to the left with a single sidestep. The hall now open to him, Nick moves as well. But like always, he rotates the parallel to Benji’s shoulders. Keeping them facing each other, eyes locked to his, grey-dotted jaw soft but shut.

“Well, y’know how it is.” Benji tilts his head, showing teeth now. “You have to be real passionate in the healthcare industry, yeah.”

“Thankless work.” Nick agrees. He has begun to walk backwards, towards the exit at its far end. The stark red letters of the sign blink in a halo around his pale hair.

Benji clicks his tongue sorrowfully. He folds both hands over his heart. “Well, gosh. Thanks an awful much, doctor.”

The moment hangs just one long, delightful silence longer. Then Nick tilts his chin (head tipping only enough to dip his nose, his eyes staying locked to Benji) and tips an invisible brim of his own.

“Certainement. And, merci à toi, of course.” Nick takes another step. “Goodnight.”

Benji smiles wider. For a split second, Nick begins to turn as if he intends on giving Benji his back. His steps stutter only that second, though. Benji has the pleasure of watching him twitch and still. Briefly. Almost impercitbly; Nick is more than that. Better than.

But Benji notices.

So Benji waits until Nick is halfway down the hall, halfway to putting Benji and the base in his rear view, to call out.

“Nicky.” He says, lifting his voice only slightly over the distance. “Is that what Margot used to call you?”

Nick stops walking abruptly.

He can’t tell if Nick swallows. If he has any sort of response to what is, as they both well understand, a cruel jeer despite Benji’s friendly tone. He doesn’t know if Nick fears him. He sort of doubts it. But what he does get, what he sees plain as day:

Need.

I need you to stop talking. Nick’s eyes say, boring into his like drills. I need to be away from you. I need a glass of wine.

Benji’s wide smile twitches, as if it wants to pull wider. He likes the need.

“Oui.” Nick admits evenly. Barely three breathes have passed between them. “Sometimes.”

“Well. Not anymore, anyway.”

Benji waits a few breaths, too. Then he nods, smile tilting into an intrigued upside-down frown, and happily ducks into medical for his emergency shift.

The blubbering private nearly pisses himself when Benji steps into his “room”. In reality, the curtain-separated cubbies are barely more than a gurney and what little equipment can be crammed into the space. For this unlucky bastard, it’s just Benji and his kit and his eager hands.

Benji snaps gloves onto them as the new merc watches. His tan hands are white-knuckled on the edge of the gurney, fingers tight between the rungs as if he’s holding on to avoid being washed out to sea.

“I heard you talking to Dr. Toussaint about me.” Benji says, retrieving his suture kit and gauze. He holds the paper wrapped square up to the light, pretending to assess it for unsterile tears or rips.

The soldier before him says nothing, but his breathing picks up. Any quicker, and the monitor’ll start going off. If he’s expecting Benji to lash out, or to hurt him, or do something worse like any number of the vile acts he’s committed in stories…he’s probably surprised by Benji’s careful, expert treatment.

The wound on his leg is thoroughly cleaned, sterilized, and adequately closed up. Benji isn’t cruel for a second of it, although the desire to touch two centimeters deep in the split of red-weeping tissue sits fresh at the front of his brain.

“I heard rumors.” The private brushes fingers against his thigh. He doesn’t sound terrified anymore. Maybe just a bit wary.

“Most of you have.” Benji says. He turns with a shrug to pluck the gloves off and wash his hands. He closes the lid on the empty numbing syringe, tucks it dutifully into the sharps container, and does everything quick, correct, and by the book.

If not…uncharacteristically kind.

“Guess they’re wrong?”

Benji turns and props himself against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. When the private’s eyes stray down, Benji corrects the expression on his face by making it softer.

“Are you asking, or telling.”

His nearly-silent words make the other soldier smile slightly. He leans forward, wound in his leg forgotten, fear put out back.

“I guess I’m telling.”

Benji ducks his head, as if shy. “I’m not like that.” He asserts. He sounds how he ought to — kindly assertive, but not defensive; humbled, but hurt. He sounds like it bothers him, what people think. That it wounds him.

“At least not that I’ve seen.”

Benji takes a step closer. The private doesn’t seem concerned by the fact that the door — his one escape — is now on the other side of the medic.

“I just,” Benji says, dragging from the end of the gurney to close his palm lightly around the soldier’s gauzed thigh. “Really am fulfilled making people feel better again. Like…making them feel good.”

The private smiles at him, eyelashes fluttering.

Benji smiles back. Then he squeezes.

Hard.

But he goes back to his quarters alone. Worse, he goes back to his quarters unsatisfied. There was no nice throb in his gut, no half-hard tightness to his trousers, no telling flush or sweaty neck or arousal of any fucking sort. Usually, he wouldn’t be alone. The private was exactly the sort who accompanied him — scared but intrigued, confused about the source of their need.

And yet Benji had sent him off practically with a lollipop. Sure, the reopening of the gash in his legs had hurt — if his soulful shriek of pain was anything to go by — but that’s where the evening had found its end. Not in more pain, or a kiss to along with it, or more on top.

He could have added threats. Another welt to go with the seatbelt criss-crossing his chest. The wounds: blade to the thigh, stripe of red along his sternum; Benji’s teeth printing his neck.

Except.

Benji goes back to his quarters alone. Nothing lingers with him about that night, about the treatments. Not even that sad little sound that he’d rung out as if from a rag. Benji’s usually all about those sounds. Pain or pleasure, they meant a job well done, that he’d accomplished either. It was do no harm, after all, not do no pain.

As for pleasure?

Midnight creeps by. Then one, then two. He lays still, for the most part, the length of those hours before his patience (thin, already, the mood he’s in) snaps entirely.

Benji sits up with a snarl, legs hanging over the side of the bed. He scrubs at his eyes. He’s getting —he’s remembering — and there aren’t any lovely sounds or flashy colors or sticky, wet insides to dance in front of those memories. He’s stuck with them for the moment, faint and blurry but there nonetheless, fuck.

And then—

He hears a laugh resound the length of the hall. It’s peppy but full, a winding sort of off-key at the end. For each second that it echoes on, that sort from the sort of humor that shocked, Benji’s foot taps quicker.

What’s so funny, corporal? He thinks. Benji is no stranger to venomous thoughts, but the bitterness layered in that surprises him. Who’s making you laugh? Tell them they’re late on their physical, hey? Send them down. I wanna hear the joke, too.

Benji tosses himself back on the bed. His thoughts bump around together: collide, bounce away, overlap, muddy up. One of the only consistents is a mess of red hair. That laugh lingering. He imagines it as a creature attached inside his ear.

Benji slips his hand down his chest. Rests it there, finger pressed into the divot of an old bullet graze across his pectoral. It presses slightly. On that particular spot of tough scar tissue, the touch causes a strange sensation he’s never found a similar feeling. It’s almost like an ache. Almost like a nerve was reattached wrong in the healing process. Pressing down there makes something tug slightly beneath the skin, an almost hurt.

Benji swallows and huffs out his air. Then he keeps the touch moving down. The slope of his stomach; hipbone; thigh.

He’s quick about it. Or…it’s quick. He has a laugh stuck to the interior of his skull. The more he loses himself in the easy rhythm of his hand, eyes pinched shut so he can better connect to memory, the fainter that laugh gets. It turns instead to certain noises he’s heard before. Recently, in fact. The yelp from the soldier, he imagines as Xavier’s own higher whine. A little cry of pain, a swear or snarl with that messy accent.

Benji imagines the heave of these noises in a warm chest. Skin under his palm. He imagines pressing down with his weight. Holding down. The stutter of the chest, a noise turned into a pitiful gasp for air.

In his mind, he lets up. The cruel — potentially lethal — fantasy lingers in the pricks of tears to green eyes, pinched-angry red nipples, a plummy bruise of incisors to his shoulder. But Benji feels the body beneath his pulls in a breath from that brief imagined mercy —

Then he imagines it laughing.

Holy shit, Xavier says in his head. That one kind of hurt.

Benji’s — well. It’s quick, after that.

The following week, Benji lingers after a briefing. The remainder of the company flow around him, trickling from the room like shadowy fish on a current. The number of soldiers at the base dwindles by day; they’re all aware of the ones who don’t come back from missions, who disappear after a meltdown by the commando, or leave in the middle of the night. Benji’d caught Tanaka at the far side just that Friday evening, shuffling some big-eyed redhead out a breach in the perimeter. He’d nudged her slightly behind him in some last-ditch show of heroics, but Benji had only shrugged and tapped his nose.

His silence was another favor to collect on. Tanaka was smart enough to know it.

Tanaka is also smart enough to pay little attention to Benji’s behavior. Their eyes briefly amongst the crowd, two pairs of dark pools magnetizing together before one bounces away. Always observing, that one. Benji was glad to have a pair of eyes when he’d need them, and even happier to know that Tanaka respected threats when they were given in earnest. Or implied.

Benji gives him a cheeky little nod anyway. The other man disappears around the corner, a tail-end of the crowd of black uniformed bodies. And once everyone has gone, Benji goes back into the room.

He knows Tanaka’s probably still waiting around that corner, protective but wary.

I’m not gonna kick your dog, mate. Benji thinks as he strides across the room. Don’t you worry.

His footfalls are quiet, but not silent. It doesn’t shock him to discover that the corporal is otherwise occupied, when he wrenches open the door to the meeting room’s supply attaché, as Nick calls them. Fucking supply closet, the rest.

In the blurry darkness, Benji can make out the corporal’s tall form tucked into a corner. His back is to the door (sloppy), shoulders curled and head hung between them. Benji opens the door further; light spills in near his boot. It does a wonderful job of illuminating, like a work of shadow art, the frantic movements of his wrist. But it also alerts Xavier to the fact that someone has discovered him in an incredibly compromising position.

Wouldn’t be the first time, Benji knows from rumor. It’ll have to be memorable.

“Oh God,” Xavier whimpers, dropping his chin. He sees the yellow sliver of outside light and lets out a shocked yelp. “Don’t—“

Benji shuts the door behind him, casting them in pitch-black. Xavier stumbles, whirls around, shoots an arm out that nearly catches Benji in the face. He dodges it and then makes a guess whereabouts —

“Jesus!” Xavier squeaks, making something fuzzy and predatory pound between Benji’s eyes. “I’m — I thought—“

“Relax.” Benji says, pulling himself towards Xavier with the grip he’s caught on his sleeve. His fingers trace up a slim wrist, find Xavier’s own palm. It’s slick and warm from arousal, the heat of his own body.

“Just me.”

Xavier goes quiet and then makes a similar sort of noise to just a moment prior. Except — hungrier. Weak. His big body sways towards Benji, an arm slinging around his shoulders. Xavier tucks his face almost immediately down, knocking their foreheads together.

“In that case, I think it’s please don’t charge me with public indecency and more w-ooow you have such good timing.”

Benji holds onto his forearm while Xavier leans back into the corner, his feet bracketing Benji’s boots and barely keeping himself upright. They knock together, one of the only indicators Benji has of their proximity.

“You know people keep talking about the closet masturbator?”

Xavier freezes. His arm halts the lazy tug he’d taken back up. “They have?”

“No.” Benji huffs after a beat. “But you fuckin’ believed me, huh. Nah, Xavier. Just saw you duck in here last week.” He leans in until he finds the coarse material of Xavier’s shirt. He tugs at the fabric with his teeth, then readjusts and catches skin with the next bite. Xavier squeaks again, then moans.

“Oh. I—“

“Was doing this, huh?” Benji reaches between them to cover Xavier’s hand with his own. He squeezes.

Hard.

“Fuck.”

“Not quite. That what this is about, huh? You thinkin’ about it?”

“Yes.” Xavier admits. “I mean, no — it’s not what—“

“The sitrep, then?” Benji’s laugh is incredulously mean. “You get off going to boring ass meetings, Xavier — that’s fuckin’ pitiful.”

He can’t see Xavier’s angry blush, his pinched expression of contrite, prissy annoyance. He wishes he could. But he can only feel the little throb in his hands, the way Xavier shuffles and tries to get closer even as he sounds angry.

“No, I am not fucking jacking it to the meeting, you asshole. God. You’ve done a lot of shit to me, but that insult might be..like, it.”

Benji squeezes him again, drags the touch along with Xavier’s hand upwards, trying to get his rhythm back. “You not feeling fulfilled, Xavier? Gotta come look for it among this lot? Two weeks in a row you come take care of it alone. That’s what you were doing last week, yeah? Not snortin’ blow or fucking around. You were alone.”

Xavier swallows audibly. His weak thrashes, his attempts at getting away — they halt. He makes a soft noise, and then those attempts redouble. Benji holds him still throughout the squirming. Benji allows it for a moment longer before switching both hands to Xavier’s biceps and firmly pinning him to the wall.

He steps close enough that he knows the front of his shirt brushes up against very vulnerable skin. On cue, Xavier gasps and throws his head back with a resounding clang to the metal shelf behind him.

“Ah, fuck. You’re — you are awful close.” Xavier says nervously. He tries to move again. “I’m freaking out a little, here. I don’t like — it’s dark, this is a small —“

“Are you alone right now?”

He imagines Xavier’s big, sweet eyes plink-plink together.

“No.” The corporal breathes. He arches closer to Benji; his eyes haven’t adjusted to the light fully, but now he can make out Xavier’s towering silhouette before him.With his free hand, he reaches up to touch where Xavier’s mouth ought to be. Instead, they brush against a chin.

Benji adjusts and slips them inside, pressing and pulling down on Xavier’s tongue.

“Were you last week?”

It sounds vitriolic. Angry. But Xavier doesn’t seem to mind the rough interrogation.

“Yeah,” he admits. His own voice is shot through and rough with arousal. He sounds as though he’d been breathing hard right before Benji discovered him. He wonders how close the poor bastard is. How close he can get him, before he starts making more noises.

“You gonna be alone tonight?”

Here, Xavier hesitates. Benji can tell there are eyes searching for his, even in the dark.

“I don’t need to be.” Xavier finally settles on, the words hot around Benji’s fingers. He pulls them from Xavier’s mouth and curls a fist in his shirt.

“Then you won’t.” He says. With a hard yank, Benji pulls their faces together. Expectedly, they collide off-course. He feels his gums split in his mouth, the taste of copper as his lip connects with Xavier’s jaw.

From there, though, it’s not a difficult adjustment. Their mouths fit together, Xavier’s breathy noises intoxicating him from the inside out as he swallows them down with each kiss.

When Benji thrusts a hand into his hair, Xavier’s chest heaves out of sync.

“I’m going to —“

“No.”

Xavier’s mouth drops open against his cheek. He wails a little, clearly trying to keep his voice down. Benji dares anyone to come investigate those noises; he assumes that is what Xavier’s scared of, but he’d sooner kill than share those noises with another soul.

“Not until you come see me tonight.” Benji purrs against his throat. He bites down, front teeth digging in to a sharp collarbone, and Xavier hiccups a telling sob. “No pun intended.”

He makes it quick for Xavier. Or — it’s quick.

He’s barely got his hand around that pale cock before Xavier’s breath hitches. The noises he lets loose are uncharacteristically quiet, few and far between. Benji gets a strange, crushing disappointment in his chest before he realizes why.

When the orgasm passes, Xavier’s eyes flutter back from his skull and settle wetly on Benji. His hand strokes up and down Benji’s forearm, where a tendon is still taut from the firm grip he maintains. His breathing returns to normal, the heave of his chest all that remains of the particularly strong orgasm.

“Your hand felt too good,” Xavier whines this explanation, his tone sweet and sleepy and shy. Benji thinks back to the prior month, where he’d watch Xavier pummel a man to death. Until his teeth were stuck with blood, until the creature that lived in him shone out through his eyes. His stomach flips, but it’s an alien sensation he can’t compare to anything else — like the press of his thumb into that divoted scar.

Xavier is eager. He likes to play games when they’re fun and when they’re dangerous. It’s barely any work at all to get him to agree to the little wager Benji sets out, once they’ve both cum another time and have melded together sticky. Xavier agrees to his dare with an adorable, competitive snicker.

“That’ll be easy,” he says, crossing an X over the left side of his chest with a finger. “With that reward? Pft. Not even a challenge.”

But he doesn’t sound sure; Benji has been a first-hand witness to the ways that the corporal approaches sex: ready, willing, happy to be there and find attention lavished upon him. Even if however brief. Even despite Benji’s teasing of his appetite, his proclivities, his lack of will power when it came to getting himself off…Xavier simply smiles at him, head cocked and eyes glinting.

Can touch yourself ‘til we see each other again, but not finish. I’ll handle it for you, if you can —but I bet not.

“How long will you be gone” is only a question Xavier thinks to ask after he’s agreed to the terms of the dare. And when he sees the smug, victorious look on Benji’s face — well. He seems a little fearful, a little needy.

It’s a week Benji’s away. A mission he gets assigned to, rather than waiting duty back on base. He knows it’s only because their numbers have dropped so low. He knows he’s a liability out here, as likely to hurt an ally as a foe if the mood struck. He knows that’s why every soul up to the commander avoid him, try to keep him off rosters.

“Spooky fucker,” one of the bomb-unit boys mutters as he passes by. Benji is in a good mood. Instead of whirling with the knife tucked in his belt, opening up the other soldier’s throat, Benji simply smiles.

“Boo,” he says, widening his eyes. He has, as Nick would say, une récompense waiting. All he’s gotta do is behave.

Lately, Benji’s been real good at behaving.

Except when he returns to base, he’s faced with a bit of a problem. Tanaka finds him in the equipment space, storing his dusty pack for the next time they need a butcher on-field.

He knows immediately something is wrong.

“While you were all gone, there was a breach — not my spot, don’t fucking look at me like that. Someone tried to get to the commander, and Xavier—he’s asking for you.”

“Aw.” Benji pouts. “He needs a little home visit?”

As he goes to leave, Tanaka’s hand closes around his wrist. Benji could turn that touch immediately, break his fingers, break his wrist — maybe keep going up the arm. He coldly turns back to the other soldier, instead.

“Whatever the fuck you’re doing to him, it’s gotta stop.” Tanaka hisses. “I had to convince him to let somebody look at him. Got fucked up in that fight, protecting everybody. And he just kept saying you’d take care of him. That you’d do it.”

Benji allows himself to be shaken. His face remains neutral.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Tanaka growls. “It’s gotta end soon. Do you hear me, man? I will kill you.”

Benji smiles at him instead of responding. The big ones are all bark. The little ones go for a bite — then return for seconds. He

Benji finds him exactly where Tanaka told him he could be found; sat atop one of the exam stations in medical, close to Benji’s usual haunt. Xavier has an arm in a wrapped bandage, tattoos peeking out from the top of the blood-pinked gauze. There’s a knot developing on his temple, his lip has managed to split again, and a bruise develops like a blossom on his jaw.

Benji whistles as he enters the clinic. The corporal’s smiling before his eyes even rise fully from the ground.

Then it drops into a glare.

“You fucker. You didn’t say a week.”

“Had it handed to you, huh Wolffe?” Benji sing-songs, ignoring him. “Look more roughed up than usual. Problems focusing will do that.”

“I’m not having trouble focusing—“

Benji fits his tongue to the side of his cheek, gesturing lewdly in the air between them. He tops it off by frowning and miming flaccidity with his finger.

“Fuck you.” Xavier grumbles, cheeks heating.

“Ooh,” Benji cooes. “Proper grumpy, huh?”

After a perfunctory wash of his hands, he turns to the supply cabinet and retrieves a new roll of gauze and some other tools. The box of gloves he debates on — then tucks surreptitiously under his arm. “You know, you didn’t have to wait.”

Xavier’s cool, intelligent eyes follow him as he moves; its not the same wariness as Nick, or the hateful fear-touched ice of Tanaka. Specific to Xavier, specific to Xavier’s eyes on him.

“You asked.”

Benji drops his armful of goodies on the rolling tray beside the gurney and pulls it closer. He steps between Xavier’s knees. They widen slightly to offer space — Benji feels saliva pool in his mouth at how quick and habitual it seems.

You asked. The implication: I obeyed.

“I said.” Benji corrects evenly. “Seems like you just interpreted it as a request, hey?” His head tilts coyly so he can peer up at Xavier while still unwrapping everything. Surprise, surprise: ruddy splotches of color have flooded the corporal’s cheeks. “Or— or a command? Xavier. Nasty. You wanted that?”

Xavier scoots forward. His long legs tuck around the back of Benji’s thighs, ankles locked. He glares at Benji, regardless of the warm contact of their bodies or sneaky climb of a broad hand up Benji’s side.

“I wanted you,” Xavier says. The clarification drops a hot weight of arousal into Benji’s stomach, even if he knows that snide half-grin and fluttering lashes are purposeful.

Benji takes his jaw roughly, without warning. His fingers dig in to softly stubbled skin. This touch earns a gasp — and then the other hand Benji fits over his thigh earns another.

“Bullshit,” Benji purrs, bringing their faces together as if he’s going to grant a benevolent kiss. “You just wanted to cum. Sick fuckin’ dog. Couldn’t even wait a week, huh?” He shakes Xavier’s head, squeezing those adorable freckled cheeks before letting go. “Oughta be ashamed.”

Xavier’s face floods with more color, but those big excited eyes don’t stray from Benji. He’s too earnest when he speaks: “I’m not.”

Another flip of his stomach, alien in sensation only because of the context — intimate, truthful, soft. Benji already lets Xavier hold him, when he’s given the opportunity to linger after one of the explosive times they slip away together. Benji already lets him do so many things he shouldn’t; make enough allowances and something will go soft. Spoil. Not in the good sort of rotting way.

Benji ignores that gentle admission, the hand tucked beseechingly into his waistband to touch skin. He wipes sterile his supplies and is meticulous about setting them out, ready and available for whatever wounds Xavier’s been hiding. Maimed creature under the porch sort.

“Fuckin’ stupid for not letting anybody look at you.” Benji notes, gesturing to the half-hearted gauze wrapped around his arm. “You do that?”

Xavier glances down at it. “Yeah. Learned watching you.”

Benji snorts. “That so? Well you’ll be ready for the big leagues soon, right?” He starts a slow unwind of the wrapping, fingers electrified whenever they brush skin. “Nick’s the surgery guy. Bet he’ll let you sit in, watch ‘em fish some shrapnel out of guts— if that’s so interesting.”

His wrist is suddenly enclosed in a tight grip. When he peeks up at Xavier’s face, its stony and disgusted. “Stop fucking with me.”

“Stop showin’ up and making yourself a target,” Benji sing-songs back. When he gets at the wound along Xavier’s forearm, he pouts; it’s nearly all healed. The edges of the laceration — from a serrated blade, just a light enough swipe not to tear — aren’t even pink with inflammation.

“Boring.”

Xavier laughs at his yawn. “Man, can you be normal even for a second? You can just get me some Tylenol, an ice pack for my head maybe. Call it a day.”

Benji leans forward and spreads his hands on either side of Xavier’s hips. The taller man sits upright a little more, eyes widening. Every possible point of contact between them drifts closer, but Benji is careful about keeping them separate. Just close enough. Just almost there. Hasn’t that been the whole point?

“Would that make you feel better, corporal? Gettin’ taken care of?” He asks, voice dropped low enough Xavier needs to sway forward to hear each word. “Wanna bandaid for your booboos? Want me to kiss it better?”

Xavier lets out a shaky breath. “I want—”

The snap of a glove fills the room. It’s loud and unexpected enough a noise that Xavier jumps. His whole form twitches between Benji’s arms, shoulders pulling up to his ears before relaxing.

“Jumpy bastard.” Benji notes, a fond note unfolding alongside the mean tease. “How’d you even manage it, a fight? All scared and…” he glances down to Xavier’s lap. “On edge.”

“I’m very good at what I do.” Xavier mumbles defensively.

“Hm.” Benji tsks. That hiss between his teeth nearly covering the soft snap! the button on Xavier’s black trousers offers. “Me too.”

Before he’s even snuck a hand down that split fabric, knuckles grazing the zipper, Xavier falls back on his elbows. He nearly careens over the opposite side of the gurney, and Benji has to swallow a laugh at the shocked yelp that escapes him. The legs stuck around his waist tighten as Xavier adjusts for balance, shuffling closer. Benji shoves his shirt up his stomach to watch how it ripples with breath, abdomen taut with the long stretch of his body.

“Oh. Thought I was gettin’ medical attention.” Xavier finds his voice to snark. “Guess this isn’t as professional an establishment as I thought.”

Benji leans forward to drag teeth over his hipbone, tugging the fabric down until it bunches at the thighs. He’s unwilling to move further away to take them off entirely, but Xavier doesn’t seem to mind either; he kicks his long legs, finds them mostly trapped, and then whimpers pathetically.

“How often?”

This doesn’t receive a response right away: Benji’s pulling on the nitrile exam gloves. Each careful movement as his hands are covered is carefully monitored by Xavier. Green eyes darkened, lids heavy, lips parted.

“Are you going to jack me off with those.” He says intelligently.

Benji can’t help the amused snort. “I’m unprofessional?”

“It’s been a week.”

Even without prior knowledge, even if that had been an admission — Benji can tell. He can tell because when he wraps his hand around the half-hard cock between Xavier’s legs, they kick.

“Oh fuck—“ Xavier goes, in that tell-tale way. Benji snorts again, mean and judgmental, and tightens his fist around the base.

“Naw, mate. Really. That’s just embarrassing, isn’t it?” Despite this, Benji strokes once. Just once. But firmly enough Xavier throws his head back.

“Seven days!” He squeaks. His hand shoots up to wrap around Benji’s wrist, tugging at him pathetically. Trying to get more — trying to get enough.

“Benji —come on, man.”

“Dunno,” Benji hesitates. His free hand lifts to Xavier’s thigh. He digs fingernails in to the muscle. Hard, hard — until Xavier whines and tries to twist away from that grip. “How’d I know you kept your word?”

“I did,” the corporal promises weakly. He’s already close to begging; his head’s tossed back again. Pretty auburn hair frames in a loose sweaty curl around the shell of his ear. Benji fixates there for a moment, at the bruise near his temple. His fingernails dig into Xavier’s thigh more, other fist squeezing around Xavier’s rapidly filling erection.

“I promise. Not a — I didn’t — the whole time—”

“Hm.” Benji murmurs. He goes for thoughtful. He goes for benevolent. “You sayin’ you deserve it, Wolffe? You deserve one real good one? You been good, s’what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” Xavier whines. He’s barely been touched, but when his chin drops to his chest Benji can see tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re not sayin’ it.”

The poor bastard’s face goes so red Benji imagines him exploding in a shower of viscera. He nods desperately, then swallows to find his voice.

“I’m —I’ve been good.”

“Again.” Benji starts a slow rhythm. “You’re what?”

“I’ve — I’m good.” Xavier whisper-whines, his eyes fluttering quickly as Benji’s wrist picks up speed. “Oh, fuck. M’good.”

One, two, three— at four pumps, Benji slows. At five, he stops entirely.

Xavier reacts. His whole body shudders, shoulderspulling back as he drops forward. He makes an angry, mournful sort of noise, heels tapping incessantly and mad behind Benji’s back.

The corporal is not know to be a patient man. Benji has heard stories — and witnessed, on more than one occasion — how he gets when that thread has gone thin. When it snaps. Properly frustrated, Xavier is lethal. Properly mad? Another story entirely. Lethal would be a blessing.

Benji nudges their foreheads together to find his eyes; they’re seething, burning. And yet he doesn’t move. He doesn’t shove Benji away. He takes a big breath, rubs his nose along Benji’s, lets out a hitching sound from his chest.

The tears start up properly.

“Please?” Xavier whines. When Benji doesn’t offer a response, simply observes, the meltdown begins. “Please — please. I was good. I did what you said. You can’t just — that’s cruel, you can’t. I waited. I didn’t — I just need—“

Need. Yeah. That’s what it is, the illumination behind the tears and bright green irises under the clinic’s harsh light. It’s need, behind the frustration and genuine anger and (humiliatingly, to Xavier) desperation.

Benji is, by some force too brutal and big and grotesque to name, dropped to his knees. He pulls Xavier to the end of the gurney, letting go of his thigh for only a moment to find the lever that lowers it. Xavier’s boots thump the ground. Now his lap is a decent height for Benji to press his cheek to skin he’d bruised with fingernails. He rubs his face there, breathing hard as he swipes his tongue over the purpling crescents. He keeps it out, saliva pooling once more, as he tugs Xavier with more purpose and finesse.

“I’ll blow you next time,” Benji says matter-of-factly. It’s not an offer. Not a promise. He’s going to. He will. No question, no command. “You can cum on me.”

Xavier’s mouth drops open. His eyes pop wide and then squeeze shut and then Benji can’t make out the rest of the expression that follows because his head goes slack on his neck, totally weightless. His bottom half lifts off the gurney entirely, hips punching up just a few times before he lets go — not just of the long-delayed uncoiling of an orgasm, but of a noise. Unlike the random private, it sinks into him; as if his chest is porous, permeable, waiting to be filled.

It’s not the only sound — Xavier’s slick in his hand, gets messier and downright filthy as he chases more of the touch. He’s not even fully hard when he comes. Benji wonders if it hurts like that. Hopes so. Xavier likes a little of the hurt.

Benji pulls away; he waits until Xavier glances back down at him to drag his tongue between his fingers, along the black material.

“Jesus?” Xavier pants. His hand lifts — but its the elbow keeping him propped and upright, so he starts to fall backwards. Benji gets an arm around his waist as he rises, stepping between Xavier’s knees again. He pulls the gloves off while Xavier recovers his breath. Those green eyes follow them in the arc towards the trash.

“All better?”

Xavier snaps to him. He looks — Benji doesn’t want to break him open, in that moment. He just wants to watch. His torso is slick with sweat, a decently messy splatter of cum across a pale stomach. Benji reaches out to touch it, spread his hand through it…and stops.

Always observant, the corporal notices this hesitation. His doped smile slips off to be replaced by a pinched brow.

“Was that too quick?” He asks, gathering himself up. He yanks his shirt down, shoulders rounding.

“Certainly wasn’t a long while, was it?” Benji teases. He jerks at the air again, wide motions of his elbow. “Weren’t long enough to gimme a cramp, so. Thanks for that, s’pose.”

Xavier’s expression doesn’t soften. Or change at all. Benji feels that thread thin; an awareness of the corporal’s mood has engrained in him, embedded like shrapnel beneath the skin. He might ask Nick to dig around, just in case it’s really there. Fuck.

“Do you even—“ Xavier croaks. He sounds pathetic. “I mean. I know…I know this isn’t normal. It’s…” he takes a shuddering breath. “It’s not good. I know that. I’m not fucking stupid. But do you even —”

Benji’s hands snap up to frame his face. The touch is anything but gentle; his palms fit there, anyway. They’re eye-level with the gurney lowered, with Xavier sat. He seems shy about the sudden intimacy. Or maybe the fact that his pants are still undone, that he’s still vulnerable and exposed in another fashion than this desperate request for clarity.

“I take care of you,” Benji asserts. “Me, alright.”

He drops one side of Xavier’s burning face to reach for the gauze, some antiseptic. One handed, wrapping a fresh protective layer around the healing gash on Xavier’s arm is a bit of a challenge, even for him. He’s not looking, either. He maintains that prickling eye contact, focus drooping to Xavier’s mouth for only a moment: when he draws in a sharp gasp as the gauze is pulled tight.

Benji is gentle about it otherwise, even if the fingers of the hand cupping Xavier’s cheek pinch in, dig crescents to match the ones on his thigh.

“You.” Xavier breathes when he’s done.

“Come see me tonight?”

The corporal nods dreamily. He looks fuzzier in the eyes than a moment before, when pleasure had spaced him out entirely. Because it’s a question, not a command. Come see me— do you even —

What, Benji wonders. Care? Dunno. But I’m satisfied.

#writing #bp #xw #bp x xw #evil au #ok. i have no explanation for this it has just been awhile since i touched this au and its disgusting im SORRY

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