#This needs to be read with a certain inflection

[warmspice]

i wish she would dump her info into me :/

[jeszrosse]

🧬 “Deviation”

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MANIPULATIVE!Albert Wesker x Reader | One-shot AU | Reader Unaware | Deep Psychological Control | Obsession-Slowburn

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⚠️ Possessive behavior • Surveillance • Delusional Justification • Isolation tactics • No reader realization • Smut • Stalking

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🧬 1. [Observation]

It begins, as most things do with Wesker, in silence.

Your first day on the team, you barely warranted a glance in the surveillance feed.

Another lab technician. Another replaceable assistant. Another insignificant moving part.

But then you lingered.

Stayed late. Came early.

Read the case files beyond your clearance level and didn’t flinch at the corpses.

You passed the first test.

Not that you knew there was one.

You thought it was coincidence that no one sat beside you in meetings.

That your access card opened doors you never requested.

That the intern who made a joke about your smile was transferred within the hour.

It wasn’t coincidence.

It was calibration.

He was isolating the variables.

And you, you became an anomaly worth noting.

He began compiling minor reports on your behavior, tucked into encrypted files labeled with meaningless acronyms—justifications for your existence in his system. He logged your arrival times, the hesitation in your speech, the way you handled scalpel trays with a certain… reverence. Clinical on the outside, but with the sharpness of someone who wanted to understand.

You weren’t like the others—those limp, nodding bureaucrats or ambition-hollowed researchers. You read between lines. You saw things. You didn’t ask for approval.

It should’ve been threatening.

But instead, it was fascinating.

---

🧬 2. [Containment]

Wesker doesn’t trust easily.

He trusts data.

Outcomes.

Silence.

But you unsettled the metrics.

You moved differently. You saw things. You questioned protocols he didn’t authorize you to read.

And he watched.

The way your fingers hovered over a scalpel you didn’t need to touch.

The way your reflection lingered in the biohazard glass.

The way your laugh, rare as it was, made low-ranking guards look up.

So he changed the guards.

Restricted hallway access.

Reassigned co-workers.

Built your world to orbit only him.

And still—still you never noticed.

Not when your new desk faced his office.

Not when your login synced with his terminal.

Not when your lunch orders began arriving, already paid.

You thought it was protocol. Efficiency. Company structure.

It wasn’t.

It was obsession.

Even your chair was adjusted—replaced with one designed to support your back based on posture data from security footage. Your lighting changed imperceptibly across weeks, tailored to prevent eye strain and keep you awake longer, sharper.

He scheduled briefings when you were most alert.

Redirected minor crises to ensure you'd report directly to him.

He watched the way you blinked when you were confused.

Memorized the twitch of your mouth when you were about to ask something risky.

Your coworkers left one by one. Transferred. Fired. Reassigned.

Those who got too familiar? Disciplined. Quietly.

You didn’t wonder why your inbox felt so clean.

Why no one interrupted your concentration anymore.

Why the company started feeling like a corridor, narrowing around you.

---

🧬 3. [Degradation]

It got worse.

Or—closer to the truth.

He found himself pausing the security feed just to watch the curve of your spine as you bent over notes.

He rewound your voice recordings, cataloguing the inflections in your “Good morning, sir.”

He deleted the word sir from your tongue in his mind.

He didn’t want your respect.

He wanted your obedience.

Your trust.

Your presence, constant and unrelenting.

You belonged in his space, like air belonged in lungs.

He just hadn't told you yet.

Sometimes, you left behind small things—sticky notes, paperclips, coffee cups. Harmless. Forgettable. But he kept them all.

The mug with a faint mark of your lip balm.

The pen you once clicked while reading virology samples.

A typed memo, crumpled, with a single word scratched out and replaced. "Necessary."

He examined them not with sentiment but calculation.

These were not keepsakes.

These were proofs of proximity.

You were slipping under his skin molecule by molecule, and he needed evidence of your presence in his domain.

But there were moments—dangerous ones—when calculation gave way to something darker.

Moments when you reached for a dropped stylus beneath the lab table and the hem of your coat pulled taut across your thighs.

Moments when you tilted your head to read something over a microscope and exposed the soft column of your neck.

Moments when the feed from the surveillance cameras caught just enough.

He knew every angle of your body from security footage.

The way your blouse sometimes gaped slightly when you leaned forward.

The way you stretched without thinking, unaware of how it framed you.

Unaware of the man watching—memorizing.

It was a weakness.

A flaw in his design.

But sometimes he would watch the footage at half-speed, eyes burning, jaw clenched, and tell himself it was for behavioral monitoring.

That the brief tightening in his chest wasn’t arousal, but concern.

And yet—when you bent to pick up a file one night, alone, late, and the back of your skirt lifted just slightly—

—his fingers had twitched.

Not from irritation.

From restraint.

From the raw, silent thought that he could take you. Right there.

Not in fantasy. Not in dream. But in brutal, clinical, breathtaking reality.

He could fuck you against the sterile counter and no one would stop him.

No one would even know.

But he didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

He was control. Discipline.

He filed the footage.

Encrypted it.

And watched it again the next night.

Hands behind his back.

Jaw locked.

Throat tight with the sick, hungry coil of desire he refused to name.

You didn’t know.

Didn’t see.

Didn’t feel the weight of a man who no longer saw you as a subordinate or asset—

—but as something already his, simply awaiting the correct time to be claimed.

---

🧬 4. [Denial]

You never caught it, but he looked away first.

Every time.

Every instance your gaze met his, however briefly.

You assumed it was deference. Coldness. That clinical thing he wore like a second skin.

But it wasn’t.

It was containment.

Because the sound of your voice—the precise cadence in which you said “Understood, Doctor Wesker”—lit up some dormant, vile thing in him.

Something untested.

Something monstrous.

He was not above temptation.

He was simply better at dissecting it.

The way you smiled at your coworkers, never at him?

He noticed.

The way you stood just a fraction closer when anxious, fingers tightening at your sides?

He filed it away.

He let others believe you were isolated by accident.

But he'd engineered that loneliness. Curated it.

Suffocated anything that threatened to pull your attention elsewhere.

You never got that offer for project co-lead.

Never received the anonymous gifts left at your desk by interns.

Because Albert intercepted them.

Silently. Strategically.

You didn’t know it was his hand pulling you toward him, only that every direction seemed to fold inward until he was the only constant.

The only man who saw you.

Who understood you.

He watched you trace your notes, watched your lips form silent syllables, and all the while he denied himself.

Denied the heat pooling in his abdomen.

Denied the cruel ache behind every “Goodnight, sir” you uttered.

Denied the nightly compulsion to run simulations of what you would sound like begging.

And when he couldn't sleep, he listened to your voice on the lab’s intercom archive.

Just to hear it.

To pretend.

To substitute control for contact.

And still—he told himself he had not crossed the line.

Not yet.

Because you were still untouched.

Still pure, in the way only someone unaware of their ownership could be.

---

🧬 5. [Possession]

He began to see it in everything.

The way others looked at you—a threat.

The way you spoke about your family—a liability.

The way you said “thank you” when he passed you reports—intolerable.

You didn’t thank him.

You didn’t understand him.

You couldn’t.

But that was fine.

Understanding would come later.

He started curating your tasks more delicately.

Steered you away from field ops, too dangerous.

Assigned you exclusively to him, citing “performance optimization.”

You didn’t protest.

You thought you were being promoted.

But in truth, you were being drawn in.

Woven tighter.

Placed carefully, perfectly, exactly where he wanted you.

In his office.

In his world.

In his reach.

Your name was embedded in his daily reports. Your security log-in pinged his terminal every time you swiped a door.

The other researchers stopped referencing your work without Wesker’s express permission. He had erased your reputation as independent—you were his now.

And no one questioned it.

Not when his gaze burned through the glass walls of the lab.

Not when he stood beside you in meetings like a shadow wearing a tailored suit.

Not when his hand briefly brushed yours while reviewing samples, and he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t need to pull away.

He had already claimed what he wanted.

---

Now, his fingerprints existed on more than your reports.

He’d rewritten your schedule to end near his. Aligned your meals. Synced your lab hours. Even your breaks were subtly shifted, your elevator stops timed perfectly with his descent.

You didn’t see it.

But he did.

Every day you returned to your workspace slightly adjusted—your chair moved back in, your pens restocked, your personal mug rotated exactly one degree counter-clockwise.

“We’re optimizing,” he’d say.

“For your convenience.”

He'd begun accompanying you to biometric checks. At first, a coincidence. The second time, an excuse. By the third, he was inputting your medical logs himself.

His voice was always calm. Always formal. Always patient.

But his gaze lingered.

His presence loomed.

And his hands—always gloved—brushed against the small of your back far too often for protocol.

---

And he watched.

From behind glass. From dark monitors. From still frames and slow replays. When your blouse sat a little too low. When your eyes wandered where they shouldn’t.

You were careless with your innocence.

But he would be careful for you.

He adjusted the brightness of the surveillance feed. Zoomed in. Studied the way you leaned too close to your keyboard.

Imagined your breath fogging the screen.

Imagined how easily that breath could hitch. Could falter. Could beg.

You have no idea, he thought.

But you will.

Not yet.

But soon.

Understanding would come later.

---

🧬 6. [Infection]

The final stage was the most dangerous.

You said his name once.

Not “sir.”

Not “Wesker.”

Just:

“Albert…?”

His gaze snaps up from the report.

You’re standing in the doorway of his office, the heel of one shoe slightly kicked back, as if you weren’t sure whether to enter. The folder in your hand trembles slightly—an involuntary twitch you don’t even notice. But he does.

He notices everything.

The breath that stutters in your throat after the name escapes.

The flicker of hesitation in your pupils when his expression doesn’t immediately soften.

The way you shift—defensive, unsure—before you correct yourself:

“I mean—sir. Sorry, I meant—sir.”

But it’s already too late.

The damage is done.

You spoke it aloud.

Not in passing.

Not as a slip of protocol.

Not with bitterness or irony.

But with concern.

Soft. Tentative. Almost gentle.

And that… that is what undoes him.

You don’t know he has a file buried six levels deep into a server no one else can access—labeled with your name, storing every image of you captured on internal footage.

You don’t know he’s wiped out four internal transfer requests that would have pulled you from his floor.

You don’t know he personally selects your meals for team events—ensuring your preferences are always met, even when no one else notices.

You don’t know he’s kept you here, orbiting him, perfectly placed, under the illusion of promotion.

And now you’ve said his name like it belongs to you.

Like he does.

“Sir,” you try again, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Apologies. I—I didn’t mean—”

He stands slowly, measured, the desk separating you like a fragile boundary he’s had to respect for far too long.

“No need to apologize,” he says coolly. “You simply… surprised me.”

But inside? His thoughts are nothing but static.

He replays the syllables.

Not just the sound, but the shape of your mouth when you said it.

He files it into memory. Deep. Permanent.

And he knows—sooner than even you do—that this is the beginning of the end for the illusion.

Because from this moment on, you’ve stopped being a project.

Stopped being a subject.

You’ve become a trigger.

A fixation.

An opening he hadn’t anticipated—but cannot ignore.

You said his name once.

You won’t realize until it’s far too late:

You’ll never say it the same way again.

Because you didn’t know what you’d done.

You didn’t hear it the way he did.

Like it was already yours to say.

Like he wasn’t a god.

Like he was a man.

A man who had already rewritten every security protocol to keep you near.

A man who eliminated colleagues who made you uncomfortable.

A man who—if you ever truly looked—might shatter the illusion of “normal” with one cold sentence:

“You’re not here by accident.”

“You’re here because I designed you to be.”

But you don’t know.

You smile politely.

You offer your reports.

You drink the coffee that arrives on your desk precisely how you like it.

You go home.

You live your life.

While he rewatches your day in full.

While he listens to your voicemails and deletes names from your inbox.

While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

While he reminds himself that love is irrelevant.

Control is what matters.

And he already has it.

---

He’d timed every entry and exit.

He knew how long you took in the restroom.

Which hallway you paused in to check your phone.

What time of day your voice grew tired.

He saw it as clearly as he saw cell degradation under a microscope.

That slow unraveling.

That quiet compliance.

You were adapting.

Your posture had shifted. Subtly. You walked faster when alone. Slower when near him. You dressed differently—more reserved, perhaps without realizing. You avoided eye contact with male superiors.

Wesker approved.

He didn’t speak of it.

Didn’t need to.

The conditioning was holding.

You had stopped asking questions.

Stopped challenging schedules.

Stopped requesting to work from other wings.

You had folded into the environment he designed—one where he was a constant hum beneath your daily routine. Where his name lingered at the back of your tongue. Where his voice set your pace and his silence set your nerves.

---

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he muttered to himself, watching the security footage replay. While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

There you were again. That exact moment. Your eyes soft, confused, lips parted: Albert…?

He paused the video.

Leaned back.

Let the sound echo in the sterile quiet of his office.

It was not an accident.

Not some sweet slip of tongue.

No.

It was the infection taking root.

Your body catching up to what your environment had long accepted.

Dependence.

Deference.

Attachment.

He could work with that.

Love was messy. Emotional.

But dependence—he could mold.

He could reinforce it, reward it, create just enough tension to keep you needing his approval.

To keep you needing him.

---

(A/N: should I make a part 2??? I mean- I already have it. I just wanna hear it from you dirty sluts;>)

[yelenas-eyeliner]

Perhaps I could request a john walker x reader making out session (established relationship) 🥹👉👈

yes. yes absolutely. yes. did i say yes? yes.

john walker/f!reader 1.1k wc

cw; making out, illusions to smut (no actual smut)

Perhaps just sitting on his lap wasn’t the most casual thing that you could be doing, when you decided to really think about it. It wasn’t as though you you were even doing anything, and you had been dating Walker for a few months. You just wanted to be close to him, to wrap your arms around his neck and cuddle into his shoulder while he read the briefing that you had just received about your next mission. Infiltrating some base, real hero work with civilians that needed to be saved. Something that neither of you were quite used to yet. 

“Are you still listening?” Walker asked, though his voice sounded amused. 

“Mhm.” 

“Really? What country is the base located in?” 

Pulling your head from his shoulder, you tried to sneak a glance at the paper, but only felt him pressing a hand over your eyes while he set the packet down beside him. 

“You weren’t listening.” He stated, no longer asking the question but deciding it was fact. If you were being honest, he was correct. You weren’t listening to a word that he was saying because you were too concerned with the warmth of his body against your own and how badly you wanted to make out with him. “What were you thinking about?” 

From his inflection, you were quite certain that he knew what you were thinking about. When it was like this, you either got really sleepy, or you started kissing his neck. You hadn’t gotten to either of those points yet, but he knew you. He knew that it was only a matter of time before you distracted him too, and he knew that there was no point in fighting it. He didn’t want to fight it, because if he was being honest with you, the feeling of having you so close to him was taking it’s toll on him as well. 

“I was thinking about you, what am I normally thinking about?” You responded, watching his lips form a smile. 

He wasn’t surprised when you leaned forward, your lips brushing against his. He welcomed the affection with open arms, sealing the kiss and letting you move so you were pressed against him a bit better. You knew that this was how this was going to end up, really. 

The kiss was soft at first, both of you just happy to be this close to each other. A while back, you had noticed a shift in him. It wasn’t that he didn’t still have pain and trauma from his past, but he just seemed happier. He seemed to have learned from it mistakes, he valued you and paid attention to you and let you kiss him whenever you really wanted. This was no exception, even as his soft kisses turned into something more. 

Your hips shifted so you were straddling his waist, his arms wrapping around you and pressing you against him. Walker sighed against your lips as one of your hands moved to press against his chest, though he seemed wholly amused by the fact that you seemed to be groping him through his t-shirt. 

“So you were thinking about coping a feel?” He teased, pulling back to look at you. 

“When am I not thinking about coping a feel? Not my fault you look so good all the time.” 

Walker hummed in response, leaning forward so he could press his lips against your chin. You sighed and tilted your head, allowing him to kiss down your neck. He always liked to bite you around your collarbone, where he knew you could cover it up if he accidentally left some type of mark on you. He just liked hearing your breath hitch when his teeth sunk into your skin, feeling the way that your hands seemed to always grip his bicep or whatever other part of his arm you could seem to get them on. 

“Walker-” Your word came out somewhere between a whimper and a gasp as you felt his teeth biting you just enough for it to almost hurt - almost. 

“Hmm?” You could feel his smirk against your skin as he pressed a delicate kiss to where he had bitten. He was cocky when he wanted to be, and especially cocky when it was so clear what kind of an effect he was having on you. 

After a moment, you moved one of your hands so you could place it underneath his chin. Walker didn’t fight it, letting you tilt his face up so you could look at him. As much as you liked the feeling of him biting and kissing your neck, you wanted to kiss his lips, you wanted to feel his mouth against yours and keep him as close to you as you could for as long as you could. He knew this, and he gave in to your desires relatively quickly. 

Pressing your lips back together, you could feel that his kisses were more heated. His tongue pressed against your mouth, and you didn’t bother teasing him as you parted your lips so he could push it in between your lips. It was wet and somewhat sloppy, but that was what you wanted. You liked his softness, hell, you loved his softness. But sometimes you just wanted to make out with him, to know that when you pulled away your lips would both be just a little bit kiss-swollen. 

Bringing a hand up, you let your fingers brush though his hair as he hummed against your lips. You liked that he enjoyed being touched, it was something that he didn’t seem to be overly fond of when you first met him. But now he leaned into it, now he liked the feeling of your fingers brushing through your hair and your body pressed against his. He was softer, even if he was still the very same John Walker that you had met one mile under-ground. 

It wasn’t until you felt a familiar pressure in between your thighs that he pulled away, his breath slightly labored just as yours was. 

“We- we really need to finish reading this briefing.” He took note of your pout, pressing a sympathetic kiss to the corner of your lips. “It’s just that it’s tomorrow.” 

Your eyes widened as you finally took a look at it, and sure enough, you were supposed to be leaving tomorrow afternoon. With a groan, you turned around and grabbed the packet, flipping to the last page you had been paying attention to. 

“Get through it fast, and maybe we’ll have time to finish.” His voice was teasing, his lips against your neck. He was just giving you a taste of your own medicine, you knew that. Even with your lack of focus, you had a fire lit under you to finish as quickly as humanly possible now.

[m-rshy]

the ways of love | azriel x reader

pairing: azriel x reader

summary: for an illyrian warrior with a knack for vengeance, there are a number of ways in which azriel loves.

word count: 912

a/n: short but sweet <3

warnings: a bit of smut

Azriel had always been full of love, but he simply had nowhere to put it. But when you finally waltzed into his life, with that hypnotic smile and contagious laugh, he finally knew what to do with it all.

—

He always woke up long before you did, and in those early hours of the morning, he would trace his fingers along the lines of your back. He'd lean forward and brush his lips against the shell of your ear, and whisper, "It's time to get up, sweetheart."

He'd laugh at your groans of protest, and he'd gently roll you over onto your back so he could dip down and capture your lips in a sweet kiss. As gorgeous as you were, and as much as he wanted to stay in with you for the remainder of the day, that wouldn't stop him from peeling the blankets off your body, and taking your hands in his to pull you up from the bed.

—

He sometimes left books in random areas of the house for you to find. Not because he was incapable of cleaning up after himself—of course not—but because he'd found a phrase in it that made him think of you, his mate.

Whether it was a line or passage that he thought you'd like, or something that reminded him of you, he'd dog-ear the page and leave it for you to read—something small he hoped would brighten your day, even just a little.

Occasionally, he'd find something a little spicier (courtesy of Nesta's recommendations), and he'd leave a note beside it saying, 'Something you and I could recreate tonight, perhaps,' and when he would see you that night, with a sultry look on your face, he'd know you received his message.

—

Azriel is typically rougher in the sheets, but whatever you ask of him, he'll give to you. If you wanted him to be gentle, he wouldn't be anything less. If you wanted him faster and harder, Mother above, he would hardly be able to contain himself.

He'd kiss his way down your body, making sure not to leave any part of you untouched—to him, you were a goddess who needed to be worshipped. He'd glance up from the space between your legs, giving you a smirk before teasingly licking up your slick folds. Your body would jolt from the sensation, and he'd push his tongue just a little deeper, savouring the way you felt on his mouth.

"You taste so good, sweetheart," he'd whisper, and he'd drink up the sound of your moans, your breathless gasps and the way you said his name.

It wouldn't take him long to make his way back up your body, where he would grasp your hips and push himself inside you, watching how your face contorted in pleasure. You'd meet him with each thrust of his hips, and he'd lean down to whisper in your ear.

"You're doing wonderful, baby," he'd murmur. "Always taking me so well..."

He'd ride you through each and every orgasm, and Gods, was it hard not to let himself come before you did. At the end of it all, he'd wrap you in his arms and kiss you deeply before muttering, "You're beautiful."

—

Azriel had memorised every little thing about you. The inflection of your laugh, the register of your voice, the way your smile reached your eyes, the curves of your body that fit perfectly against his, and so much more.

He'd memorised certain things you'd said in passing, so much so that perhaps he knew you more than you knew yourself. He often caught you off guard with some of the things he'd say, and when you'd ask him, "How on Prythian did you know that?", he'd only press a kiss to your hair and say, "It's my job to know things, sweetheart."

—

After a long day of work, when all he wanted was to be in your company, the spymaster would take you for a stroll along the Sidra—just the two of you. On the colder nights, he'd tuck his wing around your body to shield you away from the cold, and also as an excuse to have you just a little closer to him (but he wouldn't admit that).

Your existing beauty would be highlighted in the glow of the moonlight, and he would wonder to himself how he ever managed to make you fall for him—the most ethereal female he'd ever laid eyes on.

He'd wrap an arm around your shoulder and pull you even closer, because a part of him thinks that this all might be a dream. That if he doesn't hold onto you tight enough, you'll slip away from him as he slinks back into consciousness.

As if sensing his thoughts, you'd stop walking for a moment and place your hands on either side of his face, bringing him down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. He'd blink, and you'd smile and continue walking as if you'd done nothing, and he'd laugh and think to himself, She's going to be the death of me.

—

Azriel loved you in ways that no one else could. He loved in a way that was so tender and moving—it was hard to believe that a warrior like him could be capable of something like that. But Azriel had always had the capacity to love, and with you now in his life, that capacity would only grow.

[emmiesoverthemoon]

i never really did

pairing: junhan x reader wc: 1.9k. summary: you and junhan are longtime rivals, always clashing in the studio— until one late-night period to catch up on a partner task stretches too long and the tension finally snaps. tags: eventual smut. soft dom junhan. enemies to lovers. college au.

here damn @burlesquerade

the room smells like dust and varnish—strings, wood, that faint metallic hum of instruments not yet played. it’s too early for this. the campus’ studio is cold, sterile, with flickering fluorescent lights that buzz just slightly louder than junhan’s presence in the corner.

he’s already there when you walk in. headphones on. work book open. he does not look up when you enter.

you drop your bag with just enough force to make a point. “you could at least pretend you hate this as much as i do.”

his pencil halts mid-stroke.

“i do,” he replies quietly, without inflection. “i just don’t complain about everything, unlike you.”

you scowl. “that’s not noble. that’s boring.”

finally, he glances over. no smirk. no frown. just that unreadable calm that somehow manages to feel smug anyway.

your professor paired the two of you together for this semester’s songwriting project. you are chaos and impulse. he is vigilence and silence. oil and water, pretty much. and yet— every time he plays something, you find yourself listening too long. every time you add a line, he hums it under his breath like it got stuck in his head.

neither of you say it, but the tension between your styles makes something real.

you perch across from him, arms crossed. “so what, we’re just doing verse one today?”

he shrugs. “not sure, we can do as much as possible if you have a melody that actually works this time.”

you narrow your eyes, but pull out your notebook. “at least i bring ideas.”

he does not argue. he just plugs in his guitar to the nearby amp, testing the strings gently, the quiet riff curling between you like smoke. his fingers are elegant, precise, and you catch yourself staring.

you look away first.

and you feel it again—that strange heat in your chest, not quite anger. not quite admiration.

something dangerous. something inevitable.

you try not to look at his hands again.

it feels stupid, really, the way your chest tightens every time his fingers slide up the fretboard. there is nothing special about it. just movement. just sound. but the notes linger in the room longer than they should, and his gaze flicks toward you like he knows.

you clear your throat and drop your eyes back to the page. “we need to include a bridge, the brief says,” you say, more to the paper you’re reading than to him.

he replies with nothing at first. the silence stretches, frays, tugs at the edge of your nerves. then, quietly, he strums something softer. it is slower than the verse he was playing previously. hesitant, almost shy. and pretty in a way that makes your stomach flip.

you glance up. “is that new?”

he nods. his eyes train on his pick, he doesn’t look at you. “made it last night.”

you want to ask if he wrote it thinking of this song. of this project.

of you.

but that would mean admitting you care more than you pretend to.

and you would rather drop out entirely than do that.

instead, you hum along, trying to catch the rhythm. your voice wavers a little, but he doesn’t flinch. just adjusts the chord progression to match you.

for a moment, his presence feels easy.

strange, absolutely.

but easy.

and then he speaks.

“you always rush the high notes.”

you blink. “and you always write in a key that’s too low.”

“i like the way it sounds,” he murmurs.

“yeah?” you challenge, tilting your head. “or you just like making things harder for me.”

he looks at you then, properly. his gaze is steady, unreadable, but not cold. his voice is softer than you expect when he replies.

“you always handle it. i know you can.”

your breath catches. not because of what he says, but how he says it. low. certain. a quiet admission that slips under your skin before you can build your next defense.

and then, like nothing happened, he goes back to playing. like he did not just disarm you with such simple words.

you watch his profile in the studio light. something shifts in you.

and god, he is so beautiful when he thinks you’re not looking.

not everything that starts as rivalry necessarily has to stay that way…. right?

the hours slip by in fragments. verse, pause. pre-chorus, silence. bridge, stillness. your voices loop the same melody until it becomes muscle memory, until you forget whose line came first. the sky outside bruises purple, and still, neither of you have a desire to leave.

your phone buzzes. a text, to which you ignored. you glance at the time. too late to be just practice.

you both are sitting closer together on the studio’s couch now. not closer much by much, per-se, but just by a subtle shift. his knees angled toward yours, his arm brushing against the notebook you abandoned somewhere between lyric drafts. he does not touch you. not quite. but every time his fingers strum another chord, you feel the vibration in your bones.

you tilt your head, watch him. his hair falls into his eyes and he does not push it back. his mouth is set in concentration, lips parted slightly as he hums the bridge you wrote earlier. it sounds better in his voice.

“try it with the harmony,” you murmur.

he glances at you, then plays the first few notes again. this time, your voice joins his, softer than usual. for once, you are not trying to one-up him.

you are just… letting whatever happens happen.

and whatever does happen.

your eyes meet when the last note fades. you are both quiet, like if anyone speaks, the spell will snap.

his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second. you feel it like a lightning strike.

“what?” you whisper, breath catching.

he shakes his head. not a no. not quite. more like a silent war behind his eyes. his fingers flex around the neck of the guitar. “nothing.”

but it is something.

it’s the way the air tilts between you. the way your knees brush again, this time on purpose. the way he exhales, slow and shallow, and his eyes do not leave yours.

“you’re doing it again,” you murmur.

his voice is low. hoarse. “doing what?”

"looking at me like that."

he does not deny it. does not move away.

“like what?”

“you don’t look like someone who hates me,” you add, quieter now.

“maybe i never did,” he confesses. he said it so quiet, so gentle.

and that—that—is what breaks it.

you lean in before you mean to. he meets you halfway. his hand cups the back of your neck, tentative at first, like he is still unsure. but your lips find his like they have always known the way. soft, then harder. slow, then hungrier.

he quickly moves the guitar off his lap and lays it to the floor without breaking away. once it’s situated, he moves you to straddle him.

you kiss him like you’re falling apart.

he kisses back like he’s there to collect the pieces.

and for once, there’s no noise between you. just breath. just skin. just this.

his kiss deepens until it swallows you— slow and hot, all breath and tension and long-held want finally breaking loose. the guitar lies forgotten on the floor, notebooks scattered, and the only thing you can feel is him— his hands on your hips, his mouth trailing warmth down your throat.

you’re still straddling his lap, his back pressed against the creaking leather of the studio couch. it smells like dust and old songs. it smells like him.

“do you want to keep going?” he asks, low against your neck.

you nod your head instantly. “please don’t stop.”

his breath shudders. “okay. okay, come here.”

his hands slip under your shirt again, slow and sure this time, sliding it up and over your head. he takes a second to look at you— eyes heavy, reverent, like he is seeing you for the first time and memorising every detail.

“you’re so—” he swallows. “wow, you’re unreal.”

you kiss him before he can get shy with it. his fingers curl around your waist, thumbs brushing up your spine. when you shift against him, your hips press to his— friction blooming hard and dizzying.

he groans into your mouth, hands guiding you into a slow grind. “that’s it,” he murmurs. “keep moving like that.”

you roll against him again and he sucks in a breath— sharp, shaky. his self-control is unreal, and still he gives it all to you. still, he’s holding you like you’re something sacred.

“can i taste you?” he asks, barely a whisper. “here?”

you nod. breathless. dazed. and he lays you back across the couch.

he lowers himself slowly, kissing down your stomach, your thighs, until you are squirming under his mouth. the room is dead silent except for the subtle creak of vinyl and the soft, wet sound of his tongue lapping into you—slow, unhurried, like he is playing your body by ear.

you moan— quiet at first, then louder when his fingers slip in, curling in time with his tongue.

“jun—god—”

“i’ve got you,” he breathes against you. “let go for me.”

you do— shaking, thighs clenching around his shoulders, breath coming in gasps as your orgasm crashes over you, sharp and messy.

he groans softly, still licking you through it, still holding your hips down with gentle strength.

when he finally comes up, mouth glistening, eyes dark, you are barely holding yourself upright.

“still with me?” he asks, brushing his thumb over your lip.

“yes,” you pant. “need you inside me.”

his jaw tightens. he kisses you again— messy, deep— and you fumble for his jeans. he helps, tugging them down just enough, and pulls a condom from his wallet—hands trembling.

“you sure?” he asks one more time.

“yes. fuck. please.”

he lines himself up, slow and careful, easing in with a low groan that sounds like it’s been waiting in his chest for weeks.

you cry out— full, stretched, perfect. he stills, breath caught.

“you feel—” he chokes on the words. “so so good.”

he starts to move, slow and deep, one hand braced behind your head, the other wrapped around your thigh. the couch shifts beneath you with every thrust, the quiet rhythm echoing in the otherwise still room.

he leans close, panting against your neck. “wanted this for so long,” he murmurs. “wanted you.”

you cling to him, nails digging into his back. “jun, i’m—”

“yeah?” he whispers, you feel his lips curl to a smirk against your skim. “come for me again. let me feel it.”

you do— your whole body tightening, pulling him in deeper as you fall apart for him a second time.

his orgasm follows after you fast, hips stuttering, moaning your name into your mouth as he spills into the condom, fingers gripping you like he never wants to let go.

the silence afterward is soft. buzzing. sacred.

you lie tangled on the couch, half-naked and still catching your breath.

he brushes your hair back, presses a kiss to your temple.

“we’re still in the studio,” you mumble, dazed.

he huffs a quiet laugh, burying his face in your neck. “no one’s coming in. they know i book it late.”

“you planned this?”

“i hoped this would happen eventually,” he murmurs. “but no. not like this.”

you glance up. “regret it?”

his eyes meet yours, gentle and warm. “not for a second.”

outside, the sky is black and the building is quiet.

inside, you’re finally still.

and he is still holding you. like he means to keep doing it. always.

this is my first xdh work so if its bad don’t tell me im newgen to this fandom🫩😀

shout out to jay for helping me ily

[sugxto]

through the frays of a faulty wire - eddie x volt

part two - breaker: on. previous parts.

⋆syn: One month in, the rest of the house meets Volt. e/v masterlist.

⋆wc: 3.2k

⋆cw: m/m. non-explicit scenes and mentions of a first time featuring volt/ben-hwa.

⋆notes: This is a small, concentrated series of how Volt came to be, and how they navigate around and with each other over the first year of Volt's existence, taking place years prior to the start of the game. This can be read as a prequel to the Eddie and Volt that exist within the Power Dynamics series also by me, but is mainly just the two of them as we still know in canon. But a lot of how they interact, and their history, is also referenced in PD. One of PD's parts will also join this series once it's finished as a sort of epilogue.

⋆snippet:

So he tries, fucks sake does Eddie try, not to want to hold on to this. To this familiarity he feels around Volt, how Volt will find something that Eddie needs done, and just do it. How refreshing it is to be able to talk to someone who carries the power Eddie did for decades, how there’s finally one less thing to worry about in the day-to-day.

How nice it is to be asked how he is, every morning, when he descends the stairs.

breaker: on

They couldn’t hide Volt longer than a month.

Luke, of all people, was the first to notice something was off with Eddie - he was one of the few regulars left at the bar, anyways. When he asked Eddie why he wasn’t just turning the blender or lights on with a snap of his fingers like usual and was instead turning them on manually, Eddie was woefully unprepared for the barrage of questions that would follow when he tried to divert the subject.

He called Mayor Celia in the next day. She nearly fell out of her barstool when Volt appeared from the hallway behind the bar, in perhaps just as much shock as Eddie had been.

“I don’t understand,” she’d said, after Eddie had settled her back down, given her a tall glass of chardonnay. Her eyes never left Volt as he stood behind the bar, leaning against the wall of bottles with a small, charming smile on his lips. “I don’t understand how this is possible.”

“I don’t either,” Eddie said, taking a sip of his bourbon, standing across from her behind the bar. A literal middle man between her and Volt. “I swear, I would never knowingly hide how to - I don’t know, procreate?”

“But if what you’re saying is true,” she said, finally finding Eddie’s gaze, if only for the moment she asked the question, “he’s - he’s not your child, right? You’re saying you… somehow created a fully grown man?”

“I was rather quiet at first, but yes,” Volt offered, the grin on his face deepening. “But I’ve got all my… facilities.”

Oh, yeah. That was the other thing Eddie couldn’t hide anymore.

Once he’d found his voice, all Volt wanted to do was use it. On Eddie.

A week in, and his cautious, testing tone had graduated to full on confidence. Eddie still didn’t have an explanation for the accent - he’d asked Volt if he was putting it on, and he’d looked very confused in response. Some things just weren’t for us to understand, he supposed.

But he did understand that Volt was going to be a danger to the house. 

Not power wise - he was actually incredibly proficient at his current once he’d had some practice - but that voice. That voice was going to be a very big problem.

It was like, once Volt realized how he sounded when he made a certain inflection, or turned his lips up in just the right way, it became the only way to do it. Like he somehow knew exactly how Eddie’s temperature would raise a single degree when he was learning innuendos, or could pinpoint exactly the moment Eddie’s eyes would want to roll. It only made Volt’s grin widen, his eyes shine, his laugh deeper.

It was maddening. It was exhausting. He was always on, Eddie thought, and he wondered to himself if, had he not been with Volt every literal second of his existence, if he’d even be immune to the charm and aura that Volt exuded. 

He would never tell Volt that, though.

Not even when they were behind the bar together, Volt practicing some cocktail recipes, Eddie cleaning the glasses, and Volt would offer him a sip of the concoction. Only, he wouldn’t hand it to Eddie - he’d bring the glass to his lips himself, and gently tip the liquid into his mouth. Eddie told him repeatedly (and while praying to whatever god he could that his cheeks weren’t pink) that he couldn’t do that once they introduced him to the customers, but Volt would just wink.

“Maybe they’ll be more likely to buy a second one if I do, though,” he’d say.

Eddie had no doubt they would be.

Volt was calculating. Smart. With an innate grasp on almost anything he did, once he understood how it benefitted him, or Eddie. He had restained the bar just because Eddie had mentioned it, and he’d preened with pride when Eddie said the regulars would appreciate it. It had been his idea to learn bartending, in an effort to fill his time while Eddie fiddled with the circuits, but also to ensure that he had something to offer the bar once they introduced him to the house.

Nah. His voice, Eddie suspected, was going to be the main offering. Warm and rich and lush and honeyed - all the things that could charm a second, third, even fourth round out of a patron. 

Or. Could charm the Mayor into believing that no, it wasn’t so strange that he had sparked into existence without an explanation - look how well he fit in at the Breaker Box already! Look how nimbly he made a cosmopolitan, how slyly he could dim the lights above them. It will be like nothing has changed, yes? Only now, it’s Volt that appliances need to go to for their power needs, not Eddie, hardly a blip in the order of things in the home, really.

And she drank it all down like her chardonnay.

They agreed to host an event later in the week to introduce Volt to the home. “Why not have it here?” Volt had asked, and Eddie saw him accept the challenge in Celia’s eyes when she cast a quick glance around the run down bar, before doubling down. “I insist. This is my home, isn’t it?”

Which leads to Eddie, atop a ladder, attempting to hang new, red velvet curtains from the ceiling over the stage, as Volt lays tablecloths over the high boys. 

It’s like a paint job over mold, Eddie knows, but it’s something. Velvet and candles and a specialty drink do not a roaring speakeasy make, at least not overnight. But Volt has decided that revamping the bar, presenting both himself and a more swanky Breaker Box to the general public, is his passion project for the week. He says it’ll reflect well on both of them, help ensure that they’re seen as a unit. And if it doesn’t go well, Eddie has full permission to tell him I told you so.

“Volt,” he calls, props his hammer on his shoulder, “is this like what you’re thinking?”

“Ahh!” He hears Volt clap his hands once. “Exactly like that. Doesn’t it look so sophisticated with the color?”

Eddie has to admit, it really does.

“I haven’t used the stage in years,” he says, climbing back down. “Rainey, she - the record player - she used to host some music nights, but that was… ages ago now.” He turns to Volt, sees his white eyes studying, planning. “Do you have an idea of what you wanna do with it?”

Volt hums and puts his hands in his pockets. “Not yet. I think I’ll have a better idea once I meet the rest of the household.” He glances at Eddie with a smirk. “Do you think they’ll take to me easily?”

Maybe too easily, he thinks. “Sure. If they’re not freaked out by your glowing white eyes.” He tries to ignore the small feeling of satisfaction he gets when Volt laughs.

There is, though, one thing Eddie could hide.

How much he really, really likes not having to be alone anymore.

He’d spent so many years just trudging along, going through the motions of keeping the house charged and powered, that the pain that built inside him didn’t come in a crash - it was slow, unnoticed, until the toll it took on him to just get out of bed became too much to ignore. 

But no one had ever asked. Had ever really questioned why he got quieter and quieter, more curt, more gruff, when someone didn’t leave after last call. One by one, fewer objects just stopped coming in so often for a drink, but they never hesitated to come knocking when they needed him to route them an extra charge.

And he never complained. This was his purpose, wasn’t it? To give and provide and ensure the lives of so many in the house. It wasn’t his place to renounce it. He couldn’t even allow himself the possibility of wanting something different for himself, because what was the point? If he was bound, tied, to the circuits of the grid room?

So he tries, fucks sake does he try, not to want to hold on to this. To this familiarity he feels around Volt, how Volt will find something that Eddie needs done, and just do it. How refreshing it is to be able to talk to someone who carries the power Eddie did for decades, how there’s finally one less thing to worry about in the day-to-day.

How nice it is to be asked how he is, every morning, when he descends the stairs. 

But no. These things weren’t for him to want. How could he, even, want such things from a being he had somehow made? As if Volt didn’t already make it so apparent how indebted he was to Eddie, for giving him life - what position was Eddie in, to be so selfish just to crave a “good morning”?

Volt sighs and takes a survey of the club, and when he glances up at the ceiling, the lights start to dim. He stomps his foot on the ground, and music starts to flow from the new speakers he’d installed yesterday. He beams with excitement, with pride, at how well the candles contrast the lighting, how suave the stage now looks draped in velvet.

It does, Eddie thinks, look rather swanky indeed.

“You ready to mingle?” he asks Volt as he crosses his arms. 

Volt chuckles again, his smile nearly glowing. “As I’ll ever be.” He cocks a brow. “Are you?”

Eddie huffs. “I think you’ll find that big crowds aren’t really my thing.”

He nods. “Then we’ll do it together, then.” He extends his hand between them.

Eddie sighs again before taking it, and they shake it once - they’d practiced it a few times, so Volt wasn’t surprised when the house came in. His grip is solid, commanding, and Eddie swears he can actually feel Volt’s excitement like a current through his palm.

He can’t worry about that right now, though, because there’s a knock on the Breaker Box door.

_____

They all positively adore Volt, of course.

Volt wonders to himself what about this whole thing makes Eddie so uncomfortable, as he floats around the tables with a natural ease that, somehow, he’s not surprised he has. It’s just a bit of a smile here, a ghost of a touch on an arm there, a “you don’t have a drink yet? Let me remedy that,” where needed. He answers the questions that Celia’s introduction and Eddie’s explanation didn’t address, mostly about, when does he plan on exploring the rest of the house? Soon, he says, soon, he’ll stop by all the other nooks and crannies, make sure he’s aware of exactly where he needs to send his current throughout the day.

They all smile back at him, excitement in their eyes, and accept another drink from him. It’s quite fun, he decides, how something as small as a wink can turn their faces pink.

“You,” he hears a voice behind him croon, “are absolutely fascinating.”

He turns around, and has to shift his gaze down to find the source. He’s met with an explosion of colors - pink and blue and purple decorations on the newcomers shoulders, matching with their pink hair. There’s a look in their eyes that Volt doesn’t quite recognize, as they bite their lip and take a long, slow gaze over Volt’s body.

Volt cocks his head, spins the tumbler of whiskey around in his hand. “Well, I think I could say the same about you, darling.”

They giggle - it’s sultry, slow - and hold out a hand to him. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Ben-Hwa.”

Volt takes their hand, bends a bit so he’s eye-level, and says, “And I’m Volt. The pleasure is mine.” And he pecks a small kiss to their knuckles. 

“Oh yes, I am aware,” they say, resting their hands on their hips, a smirk on their pink lips. “I’ve been hoping to get you alone since I first saw you.”

“Mm, really?” He sips his drink, notices the gleam in their eye - it reminds him a bit of himself, how he’s been working through the crowd. “Why’s that, darling?”

“Because, I simply must know if this… relationship with Eddie extends to his bed.” Their brows raise, and they bite their lip again. “And if not, how’d you like to be in mine?”

Volt can’t help how his brows shoot up on his forehead, how his head cocks at the question. He likes their boldness, for certain - it just isn’t what he was expecting to have to address on his first outing to the household. He knows what they’re asking, of course - he’d found the word “sex” somewhere in his growing pool of vocabulary after a few days of existence, and Eddie had nearly coughed up a lung when he asked what exactly it was. 

(“Would I like it?” he’d asked after an explanation, and it was one of the only times so far he’d seen Eddie’s cheeks go red.

“Well, most of us do. So. Take that as you will,” he’d almost reluctantly replied.

Might as well find out, Volt thinks.)

He makes a small hum in the back of his throat, and returns Ben-Hwa’s leering gaze with one of his own. They really are fascinating - he had learned from Eddie’s repetition of all the objects’ names and purposes that they were practically pleasure incarnate, and not a small part of him is curious as to the purpose of some of their adornments. 

“Eddie and I,” he says, lowering his voice, “are not entwined in such a way, no.”

They smile, and take a step closer to him. “Then, what are you doing, say around, midnight?”

______

It lacks something he can’t exactly name, he thinks.

It’s exciting, don’t misunderstand, it’s pleasurable - amps sake is it pleasurable - and Ben-Hwa is truly a force to be reckoned with. They scramble his circuits, make his cheeks tinge blue, and make him see white when he cums - all of which he loves, and it wets his appetite for more. They tell him what a natural he already is, how good he feels, how hot he makes them, and he laps at the compliments like a whiskey sour.

And still, it lacks… sparks.

It’s less explosive, in a way he can’t quite understand, than he was expecting. With the way his current would react to the few times he and Eddie’s skin had touched, he thought something similar would flow through him when someone’s hands ran over every inch of his skin, wrapped their fingers around his cock. But maybe he’d been mistaken.

But no matter - it was fun, at least. He guesses it might just take a little practice, a little more experimenting, to find exactly what would make him see stars. Ben-Hwa assures him of it, as they chat in their velvet bed during the early morning hours. They answer all of the questions Volt doesn’t even know to ask, and describe the purposes of all their adornments to sate Volt’s curiosity. 

“I think most everyone else in the house would drop their pants at the chance with you,” they tell him, and they sigh when they lean back on the pillows. “You are going to have so much fun. What I’d give to be able to experience something new like that again.”

“Hm, well, I’m glad this could be mutually beneficial,” he hums back. “Anyone in particular you recommend?”

They chuckle. “I’m not picky like that.”

Maybe, Volt thinks, he shouldn’t be either. If he wants to search out those sparks.

He stumbles back into the Breaker Box in the morning, tiptoeing quietly with his coat thrown over his shoulders. He flicks a finger to turn on the kitchen light as he rounds the corner, but is surprised to hear a groan in response.

Eddie is blinking at the new light when Volt enters the kitchen, and he mutters an apology before dimming them again. Eddie looks exhausted, and he barely utters a greeting to Volt as he pulls eggs out of their fridge. 

“Are you alright?” Volt asks him, throwing his coat over the counter. Eddie’s shuffling, barely able to lift his head up, and he grunts again at the question.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice haggard. “This is the hangover thing we talked about.”

“Ah.”

They’re quiet as Eddie cooks the eggs, holding himself up against the counter. He throws them on to two plates and leads them back to the bar to eat. A few bites in, he feels Eddie’s grey eyes glance over him as he asks, “What’d you get up to last night?”

Volt swallows a bite, takes a deep breath. “I was with Ben-Hwa, actually.”

Eddie doesn’t look surprised really, but he breathes out the smallest chuckle. “Well they wasted no time.” He stands, reaches over the wood to grab a bottle and a glass. Hair of the dog, Volt remembers him calling it, much to his confusion. He pours a hefty amount of bourbon. “You have fun, though?”

The question leads to an odd taste in Volt’s mouth, so he takes another bite of the eggs to wash it down. “I did.”

Eddie only nods as he downs half the glass.

The sound of footsteps startle him, and he whips his head around to the other side of the bar, only to see a mess of flowing red hair and matching red cheeks, green eyes wide in surprise.

Eddie stands with a start. “Bev.”

“I, I was just heading out,” she says, holding her arms close to her chest. “I didn’t…” she trails off, and meets Volt’s gaze, her blush only deepening. “Hi, we, we met last night, I’m -”

“Beverly,” he says, making sure his tone is one of reassurance, and putting on a small smile. He recognized her, yes, but only knew that she was the house’s other bartender. Eddie didn’t give more information other than that. “Lovely to see you again.”

She makes a nervous sound and a nervous smile. “Sure.” She takes another step towards the door as she finds Eddie again. “I’ll, uh, see you around?”

Volt can only see how Eddie’s hands turn to fists on top of the bar out of the corner of his eye, and his voice is strained when he responds, “Yeah. Sure.”

And then she’s gone, though she glances back when she reaches the door, and something sad crosses her face when she sees that Volt is the only one watching her exit. The door slams shut behind her.

He can feel something harsh practically humming off Eddie’s skin as he pours another glass.

“Did you have fun?” he asks him. He tries to keep the tone light, but his brows still furrow slightly on his forehead.

Eddie scoffs into his glass, his steel gaze focused on the bottles across the bar. He takes a long sip, before answering in a tone Volt doesn't really recognize. “I wasn’t alone.”

[babiestbubbles]

I saw that requests were open sooo~

Tim's nervous (Read: really scared) around Jason. Jason does not like this and wants to fix it. Tim's prone to panic attacks. Tim hides in the vents. Somehow Jason finds out.

The first days of Tim's being Robin. Bruce and Dick are concerned, while, oblivious, Tim is doing things that only neglected kids do. He is surprised others care. Dick sets out to change this.

AU where Jack ends up being a crap dad. Bruce has had enough and steals legal custody. - Bruce: Well you had one chance at being a dad and you blew it. - Bruce: Tim's my kid now. - Jack can't do anything about this. To Tim, Jack is 'Father'. Bruce is 'Dad'. I have mor ideas on my blog @dc-gotham-instincts-wild.

Answering the one that caught my eye "The first days of Tim's being Robin. Bruce and Dick are concerned, while, oblivious, Tim is doing things that only neglected kids do. He is surprised others care. Dick sets out to change this.", here's a quick drabble for you! It's not that they were looking for signs of abuse, begging for a reason to adopt Tim. Hell, Bruce had more than his hands full with Dick and- …with Dick. It's just that, well, Tim is… strange. Now, Bruce is no stranger to weird kids, and Dick is in no place to judge, but this kid gives strange a whole new meaning.

He's driven to almost a concerning degree, it's like his entire life is his work. He never complains about the weird hours or grueling amount of work that comes with cases. He's never busy when they call him or has to run away from work because his parents need him. In fact, they hardly hear about his parents at all. Which, is fine, could be totally normal. The Drakes have always been a rather private family, but there's something more to it than that. Tim… Tim doesn't talk about his parents the way a kid should. Dick can't say he's all that much of an expert on parents himself, but even from his hazy memories, and his complicated relationship with Bruce, he's certain he can recognize that classic sparkle in a kid's eyes when they talk about their parents. The fondness in their smile, the warmth in their voice. There's depth and inflection and Love sewn into the words. That's what a kid should sound like when talking about their parents, not an empty hallow recount of events, no different from a case report.

Dick's pretty sure he's heard more emotion in Tim's voice during injury reports than he ever has when Tim talks about his parents.

But, that's circumstantial evidence at best. A hunch. Far from enough evidence for even the world's greatest detectives to draw a conclusion from.

Except, that the further they look into it, the more they truly pay attention, the worse it seems to look. Suddenly Tim's wiry frame isn't just the lanky side effect of a teenage boy's metabolism, it's the silhouette of a malnourished child. Suddenly Tim's awkward cadence in speech and inability to pick up on tone isn't a personality quirk, it's a sign of undersocialization. Tim's discomfort with crowds? A side effect of isolation. His reluctance towards hugs? A reflection of his lack of consistent physical contact. The way he cringes at praise? A painful marker of just how little positive attention he's gotten.

[earthsparked]

Correct me if I'm wrong, but from what I've heard Drift seems to be the type of person who would really appreciate the poem "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver

Oh, you are so not wrong. You are the most not wrong. I think he’d probably adore Ranier Marie Rilke, but I can so easily see him bonding with you over Mary Oliver’s work. Once you helped him understand the context, and feelings it’s meant to evoke.

- - -

A goose is one of those feathered creatures? Class Aves?

You shake off the soft ache in your heart that you always feel, that longing for the moonlight on your wings that comes when you read this poem. You look up to find Drift watching you with an intent curiosity.

Belatedly, you remember he can literally sense how you’re feeling. What must he think of you, what must he be feeling from you now? Can he relate to it? Or is it something that doesn’t translate? Knowing English from a download isn’t the same as being a native speaker, or at least a member of the species that cobbled it together. And there's so much about Earth that he's still learning. So much about him that you're still learning.

You let your fingers ghost over the words on the page. Yes. A goose is a bird. They migrate, the wild ones do. So you’ll see groups of them flying in vee-formation, and they honk to each other to communicate while they’re flying.

Drift is patient. Interested. Trying to understand.

What does that have to do with …goodness? Repentance? His voice is soft. You're still coming to terms with the idea that a creature made of metal can have such delicate inflection.

You’d only meant to share some human art with him, but there’s a certain subtle thrum to his engine that makes you think that this poem has caught his eye - optic - for a reason. Fortunately, you're as patient as he is in this joint venture of trying to bridge the distance between you.

Mary Oliver was known for drawing on themes of nature and the natural world, and tying that to our own lives. Our own natures. Showing that we are as much a part of the world we live in, as any other wild creature. That we inherently belong here. You know? "You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here." That's another work I'll have to share with you sometime.

He leans over your shoulder, tons upon tons of metal and moving parts. There's nothing soft or animal about his body, but you feel him like you might a California redwood, towering and living. You've never doubted for a second, since you met him, whether or not he was a person. You just knew it as truth.

He rests a finger on your shoulder, looking at the page. You hold the book up to him, and he reads aloud,

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.

What do those things mean to you? Sun and rain, prairies and deep trees, mountains and rivers?

They're parts of the world that exist for everyone. Sun and rain both come and go, like a dance. There's a saying, it rains on the just and the unjust. Prairies, trees, mountains, rivers. They don't have to be good to exist. They exist, and that's good. And we're a part of that, inherently. We belong. We don't have to fight to come home to a world that already knows us as part of itself.

You feel something shift inside yourself, and some human intuition makes you look up and up into his bright blue optics.

What does home mean to you, Drift? Why do you strive to be good?

His frame goes still and quiet. You've really hit a nerve, now. He closes his optics and bows his head, reflectively.

And what have I done to need to seek redemption.

No, you shake your head, and reach up to grasp his hand. What small part of it you can encompass. "Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine."

He opens his optics and smiles down at you. There is regret older than your entire species in it. You wonder for a moment if he really is about to open up to you about whatever's on his mind, but he seems to reconsider, and the moment passes.

He gives an exvent, and cups his hand protectively around you. So delicately, as if he doesn't trust himself the way you've come to trust him.

"Meanwhile the world goes on."

[parkjihoonswifey]

Tittle: Studying

Pairings: Yeon Si-eun x Fem!Reader

Warnings: sexual content, suggestive ending.

Other: this isn't my first rodeo but my first on tumblr so I really hope weak hero fans enjoy it.

also please don't hesitate to request anything I need stimulation from writing for hungry readers.

Rain tapped steadily against the windows of your boyfriend's apartment, a soothing rhythm that downplayed the tension lingering in the air.

You had come over with the lie of a study session, textbooks in your hands and intentions hidden behind your back.

Si-eun, with his usual focused and composed demeanor, sat at his desk next to you, pen in hand, painfully unaware of the situation you had put yourself in, or that's what you thought.

A study session—that’s what you told him. And technically, it was, at least that's what you kept reminding yourself. Your thighs clenched together every time his hands moved across his paper, ripping your focus straight away from your own.

Your eyes never left him. Everything about him was exactly how you liked it: calm, quiet, impossibly hard to read. It made the thrill of being this close to him more intoxicating.

"Hey, Si-eun. I can't exactly focus." You let your pen drop and roll onto the desk, the soft clatter of it breaking the silence between you both.

Si-eun doesn’t look up. His expression remains unchanged, his eyes fixed on the paper in front of him, but his voice comes out steady and even. "Mm. I can tell. You've been clenching your thighs together the whole time."

He doesn't continue right away, but his voice daggers your skin and his words seem to linger in the air between you.

"I wouldn't try anything," he continues, finally glancing up at you. "The guys are coming over any minute."

It’s hard not to react with his eyes suddenly so focused on you, so aware of the tension in the room. You bite your lip, trying to push past the rising heat in your chest.

"You invited them?"

"I did, we're only studying, right?" He spoke as though he was reassuring himself more than you. Your boyfriend always made it impossible to figure out what he was thinking.

He spoke almost emotionless, and if you didn't know him so well, you'd think he was, but from the deepest layer in his voice—the one you'd only hear in certain settings—you could tell he was getting worked up.

You pause for a moment, heart beating fast in your chest. It’s not like you’ve been subtle about it, but Si-eun never seemed to react the way you expected. He kept his distance, and maintained his unreadable demeanor when he needed to, yet something about the way he spoke now—like he was fully aware of every thought you had—stired something inside you.

You glance up at him, meeting his gorgeous eyes. “What's with the tone, ‘only studying’?” you ask, your voice suddenly coming out much sharper than you intended. "That's what we're doing, aren't we? I don't mind that the guys are coming"

Si-eun doesn't react, his expression still as unreadable as ever. He leans in slightly, just enough to have you nervous. “You really think I wouldn’t notice? I'm your boyfriend. You’ve been distracted all night. It's in your voice, in the way you glance at me when you think I’m not looking.” His lips move just the slightest bit, and you feel a small rush of heat travel down your spine.

He backs away, pen back in hand as he returns to the notebook. His voice is calm, barely inflected. “I’m not upset that you lied about wanting to study just to have sex with me. Just… aware.”

You blink, stunned. “Wait—what? actually I was really hoping to study with you, ya'know?”

Si-eun doesn’t look up immediately. He flips a page, scribbles something down. “Sure.”

The silence stretches too long, awkward and hot. You watch the way his fingers move across the paper, precise, carefully. Your heart beats faster than it should. “Si-eun…”

“I know,” he says without looking up. "And as much as I hate to admit it, I'm finding myself struggling not to give it to you right now."

There’s no shift in his face—no teasing curve of the mouth, no flicker of smugness. Just that same steady gaze, and you feel exposed under it.

Without a word, he leans in, his lips brushing yours with startling softness. The kiss is quiet, unhurried, like he’s taking his time committing it to memory. His hand that now dropped his pen next to yours slowly rests on your thigh , slipping just beneath the edge of your skirt, fingers cool against your skin. he tugs on the collar of your shirt with his other hand, stretching the fabric out. Your breath hitches, and he pauses.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, “You want me to stop.”

You shake your head, barely managing a whisper. “No. Keep going.”

He doesn't fully react, a monotone “Okay.”

Just as his mouth finds yours again, more fully this time, the doorbell snaps through the air like a slap.

Si-eun pulls away, lips parted and breathing slightly heavier. “Unfortunate timing.”

The bell rings once more, and the faint voice of your toughest friend, Baku, shouts out a "We brought snacks! Open up!”

Si-eun closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. "I'll get it." And he's out of the bedroom door in a flash. You take the opportunity to make yourself look presentable—not like you were just about to fuck someone.

"Heyo, little mama." Baku kills all your effort by ruffling your hair wild as soon as he walks in the room. He's followed by Gotak, and a nerdy as ever Jun-Tae. Si-eun is the last person to enter, closing the door behind him.

"That's... my girlfriend." He says quietly but full of confidence. Baku stands confused for a moment before an awkward laugh escapes him.

"I know, buddy. I was in the hotel room next to you guys last summer, trust me when I say I know." The three newly arrived boys howl with laughter.

Just then, Jun-Tae finally focuses on you. Your hair is a mess, your lip gloss smeared to the corners of your lips, your shirt stretched, and the way you sat small in your chair.

“Dude.” Jun-Tae adjusts his glasses, blinking owlishly. “Were you two just studying or, uh, studying?”

Gotak squints, then grins slow and wide. “Bro. No way. Is this why you didn't go to cram school today, you were tryna cram something else?

Jun-Tae tries to hide his laugh behind a cough, but Gotak’s already yanking the textbook from in front of you and flipping through it. “Wow, this is the most boring foreplay I’ve ever seen. Who makes out next to thermodynamics?”

Baku leans into Si-eun, whispering, “Kinda hot, actually.” to which Si-eun pushes him away.

He laughs it off, being his usual happy self. "So did you guys just tongue tie or actually study something, cause I really don't wanna study on a weekend," He pops open some snacks, offering some to Gotak.

Gotak grabs a handful, flopping onto the nearest beanbag like he owns the place. “Honestly, I vote we pretend we studied and call it a day. We’re all gonna fail anyway.”

“You’re going to fail,” Jun-Tae mutters, already pulling out his perfectly highlighted notes. “I actually like passing.”

Si-eun sits back down beside you, clearly trying to act normal, but the tension clings to him like static. You shoot him a look of pity and desperation.

Baku’s eyes flick between the two of you like he’s watching a live drama unfold. “Man, you guys really were about to go full notebook scene in here, huh?”

Jun-Tae sighs without looking up. “Please don’t compare them to The Notebook. That movie has emotional range. This looks more like—”

“—a deleted scene from a K-drama where the love interests forget the camera’s still rolling,” Gotak finishes, mouth full of chips.

You grab a throw pillow and chuck it at him. “You guys are the worst.”

“You’re the one making study sessions suspiciously intimate,” Baku points out, tossing a second pillow in Si-eun’s direction. “Next time light a candle—set a vibe,” Baku shrugs.

Jun-Tae gives up and closes his notebook with a groan. “Can we at least try to study?”

Everyone goes quiet for a second—long enough to almost trick you into thinking that might happen—before Gotak loudly announces, “Okay, but if we’re not allowed to talk about the almost-makeout, can we at least agree not to sit directly in the sex zone?”

Baku points at where you and Si-eun are seated. “Yeah, seriously, you two are radiating secondhand tension. I'm sweating and I wasn’t even involved.”

Si-eun stares at the three other boys while you just laugh, defeated. “Alright, fine. Let’s study," You turn around to the desk.

Gotak raises his hand. “Not each other, right?”

You throw another pillow at him.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

A few hours later, the room is quieter, lit only by the warm orange of the setting sun and the glow of half-dead laptop screens. The snacks are mostly crumbs, and everyone looks like they've just survived a minor war.

Jun-Tae stretches with a loud groan, “If I don’t pass this test, I’m blaming all of you. Especially Gotak.”

Gotak, currently using his hoodie as a pillow and half-asleep on the floor, raises a lazy hand. “That’s fair.”

Baku is lying on Si-eun's bed, flipping through flashcards with one eye open. “Hey, we learned stuff."

Jun-Tae flatly answers, “You think I’m proud of that, but I’m not.”

Si-eun finally closes the textbook with a satisfying thump, then looks at you. "I think we might’ve actually retained… ten percent?”

You lean back against your chair, and let your head fall onto his shoulder. “Ten percent more than I had when we started. I’ll take it.”

“Proud of you,” he says softly, just for you. It’s almost enough to make up for the earlier interruption.

Almost.

“Alright,” Jun-Tae announces, already packing up, “I’m going to go home, shower off the smell from this room, and sleep for twelve hours.”

“Same,” Gotak murmurs from the floor.

Baku sits up and gives you and Si-eun a pointed look. “You two staying here?”

Jun-Tae groans, interrupting before either of you can answer, "I don’t even want to know.”

The others shuffle out one by one, tossing waves and sarcastic goodbyes over their shoulders. The door clicks shut. The silence that follows is instant and heavy, like someone flipped a switch.

You and Si-eun sit there a moment, not speaking. He glanced over at you, eyes showing desire that he wouldn't dare speak out loud.

You reach over and gently close the last notebook still sitting between you, letting the silence speak for itself.

That’s all he needs.

In a single breath, the space between you disappears. Si-eun leans in, slow but certain, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw as his lips brush yours. They're warm, deliberate, nothing rushed. It starts soft, like a question he’s sure you’re going to answer with yes.

You shift closer, fingers hooking into the hem of his hoodie, pulling him in until your legs brush against each other's. The kiss deepens, and his hand slides to your lower back, firm but careful. He’s been holding back all day and now the brakes are off.

Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan into the kiss. He pulls back, surprised by his own noise, and his response? even better.

You feel yourself being carefully picked up. Si-eun was fairly strong for someone who didn't work out. He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, weight balanced on his elbows as he breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you.

“You sure?” he asks, voice flat, eyes searching.

You nod, lips parted. “Just don’t make me think about thermodynamics again.”

He let out a small chuckle—more than an occasional smile that you love every time you see—half of a laugh. He leans into you, grinding himself into your lap impatiently. He's usually not the type to be into foreplay, but he just wants you to be satisfied.

Si-eun's lips trail a slow path down the side of your neck, pausing just below your jaw where your pulse flutters. He lingers there, breathing you in like he’s grounding himself, like this moment is something he doesn’t want to rush.

His fingers slide beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing against bare skin, and you inhale sharply at the contact. His touch is warm, steady, and maddeningly slow. He takes his time, making sure every move is for your pleasure.

Your real place of pleasure, however, is the one place he has yet to touch, and you can't help but to remind him that as you buck up into his lap.

"Is this the foreplay you wanted?" He questions. He's blunt about everything, he trusts you enough to show you himself, and give you all of him.

"It's amazing, Si-eun. But I do have one request," He pulls away from the space in your neck that he rests, staring at your face from above, looking as heavenly as ever. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling yourself up to sloppily make out with his neck, "Give it to me like you mean it." You breathe out.

And give it to you he does.

A/N: I really loved this, especially for my first work on Tumblr. Ngl it took a while to get used to the format since coming from wattpad but definitely worth it to help this little community with weak hero fanfics.

[somedayillbepeterpan]

on today's rewatch: S3E5 [Tick Tock]

i'm seeing a lot of chatter about the awards season and how both my faves are submitted for it. to be honest, i'm making this post because i love Luke newton and i want him recognised. i'm not sure if this adds to anything for it but i want to do my bit anyway.

today, i offer the way Luke has distinguished the way he has Colin call out Pen's name.

Prime example:

through Polin, i discovered that i have a kink and it's an aural one 😏 i like listening and understanding the way people talk and the certain inflections they have a strong preferences to. it's why i admire actors who can do great accent work-- one that doesn't just reflect the place they're supposed to be from but giving a personality to their way of speaking.

if you have time to rewatch, try to catch the way Luke portrays Colin calling Pen's name. There is always a catch-- a beat before he says her name as if it's caught up in his train of thoughts. As if saying her name always has this weight that he needs to carefully carry. i don't know when i started to notice these pauses/beats but i think Luke evolved this way of calling Pen's name from S2. it's the groundwork for Colin's growing feelings. i mean, it's so subtle, so nuanced that it's easy to miss. quite frankly, a lot of people probably missed it.

i read the pauses/beats as a way of reverence. as if, if i say your name, may it always come out of my mouth with the utmost care and love. i should probably also explain that i am particular when i say someone's name. i can't just say it because i am a complete introvert and if i address someone by their name, then it means i mean to grab their attention and the subsequent conversation i'll have with them bears significant meaning to me.

that just sounded as if i'm projecting my personality to Colin but i do identify to him the most and i just love that even these small things were considered by Luke.

don't sleep on him guys-- HE'S ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE

[joannasteez]

almost blue (1)

pairing: cody rhodes x black reader warning: explicit descriptions of violence and sexual activity. minors please do not interact. readers eighteen and older interact only please. descriptions of alcohol consumption and the use of deadly weapons. authors note: JOHN WICK AU!!! so excited to share this! i had this sorta kinda in my back pocket for a while, while trying to build up tanks of blood, which you can find to read here. not everything in this is super true to the world of john wick but the most im using as inspo is the aesthetic anyways. also a one off mention of john wick lol. that and some of the names for certain things. italics in the beginning represent flashback perspective music inspo: almost blue by chet baker word count: 4800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae

new york. the continental hotel and it's flatiron shape. september 2019. the rain, this soft unsteady pitter patter. a gentle gray coloring the sky. the air cold and biting. the city filling its brim with a sleepless droning. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—gold trim and blood red carpet floors—bath water disturbs till its sloshing to overtake the tub. a messy spill against the floor. his lips working over yours. fingers kneading deep enough into skin that it stains with the print of his touch. nails tender in his hair and your body melting in till the heat of him breaks over your skin. his everything settled into the wisp and charm of your voice as his pleasure becomes whole. too great.

—but his memory tires from old moments like these, a shell of itself as it attempts in vain to restore to it's former glory. has been in a perpetual state of exhaustion for sometime. but this straining is singular. a throbbing at the forefront of his skull. a tight pulling pain at the nape of his neck till it's creeping wild at the tip of his spine. forcing him to grow ill as he works to reminisce. body wistfully undone. and what words do the men of our time say about insanity? to be in a perpetual state of trying, doing, in hopes of something new. and so on he went, flirting with this disaster, this run of nostalgia, so much so that memory has forsaken him, taking these little complexities —the new york rain and the taste of your lips— along with it. 

but cody can handle the load and reload of a glock 26 as fast as he does it well. a deft maneuvering before the barrel raises and he pulls the trigger, the recoil driving sharp. a bullet through the skull and the splattering of blood. whoever meant to kill him, now dead in his wake. 

but what cruelty this is. a traitor to his own body. living with nothing but the means to kill and tattered memory. with him still, only, all of the things left unsaid—

you'd smelt of vanilla. the yearning about his tongue deep and yet to be settled. his lips a shadow as they feathered against yours. his questions overdone with a frightening passion. "where are you ten years from now?" 

your fingers slipped over his skin, as easy as they would over porcelain. a delicate taking over wet soapy muscle till it clawed over his shoulders and against the heat of his cheeks. "somewhere warm and comfortable. retired".

where ever you were, is where he wanted to be. "am i with you?"

a reversion, just barely perceptible, but there all the same. something like fear, like hesitation, pushing against a situational sort of tenderness in your eyes. the warmth slowly but forcibly outdone by the cold. lukewarm. just like the fate of too old bath water. not enough of either extreme. lukewarm. 

"seems more like a question for you to answer".

"answer it anyways".

and he couldn't feel your lips anymore. too much air, too much distance. caution thick. woven about your words. the tones. the inflections. "ten years from now, you'll be somewhere as warm, as comfortable and retired too".

"am i with you?" 

to draw such a long length of need into the air. passions and hopes and dreams. cody knew. it would've been easier to take the sear of a bullet, the ripping tear in of a knife or the crack of something blunt and unforgiving to his skull. those things easier than the down trod of such a silence. your eyes having gained more and more distance. fear peaking soft and brown before the quick slip over of indifference. like you didn't care for his whispered words sounding too much like forever. and recovery from bullets and knives and blunt force was tedious. sewn up skin and the reformation of fine motor skill. but this. the way you suffered him to feel the drift away of your body and the simple, delicate, eager push in of your touch. something in his heart—amongst the lukewarm water—failed. this low dropping into a less lively place. 

new york. the continental hotel and its flatiron shape. june 2024. a peak of the sun amidst more grayish than white clouds against an icy pale blue sky. the air breezy with a teasing smell of rain. like a stray tendril before some great unraveling. the city as sleepless as it's ever been. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—scarlet sage in bloom and the ever present air of readymade violence—cody sips at a short glass of brandy. an edgy spike to his tongue as it settles. everything of the continental he possessed now lost to time and the overwork of his sore tired memory. lost to a bout of corrosion done by words left unsaid. because he did not remember your answer after the persistence of his "am i with you?” all thats left, this great blurring. of words and the finer littler complexities. your lips and your eyes and the soft ways of your touch. and maybe it came to be this way for good reason. using such a burn to his ego to fuel the fire of his rage. revenge for memories unforgettable. around the glass of brandy, his hands feel stronger. less careful in how they hold. caution be damned. he sips again to finish. his finger buttoning his suit jacket, making way from the bar and across the communal space of the hotel. 

warmth at his ear and a twitch in his trigger finger. something like eyes resting over him. watching him.

he continues to a connecting hallway. elevators and mosaic floors. maybe the brandy wasn't the best idea, but neither was coming to such sacredly awful ground. lovers trauma and all that bullshit jazz. 

the fourteenth floor is quiet. his steps carpeted by soft wool. a second twitch in his trigger finger that leads into the sharp driving heat reminiscent of staggering gun recoil. a sweet burning in his arm, the muscles knowing, remembering. but he has nothing of use on him. nothing to snuff out and quiet that vicious call of death. his hotel room styled with a modernistic flare to it's luxury. clean and unadorned. a simple reflection of his own style thankfully, but nothing extravagant to weaponize. he would have to, if needed, to make due. a slim ball point pen, sleek and multifunctional, rests next to a complimentary bottle of wine. "enjoy your stay", in cursive. cody feels the warmth at the tip of his ear again, something greater than a simple bout of paranoia. his fingers slip the pen into his pocket, a reversing in his steps to triple check the locking function of the room doors.

and he shouldn't be so wound up should he? conducting business was, is, has always been forbidden on hotel grounds. 

his fight or flight saying otherwise. breathing over his skin overwhelmingly warm. lingering wearily. intuition always a nagging son of a bitch but never wrong. it's never failed him. 

cody showers, stands amidst the icy rain of too cold water. cody showers, because warm baths terrify something in his body. the possibility of turning stale and lukewarm. too distant and uninviting to be either extreme. like eyes and soft lips he can barely form well enough to reimagine. 

and the bed sheets are welcoming. slipping along his skin with a delicate relief. but still, something feels wrong. a heaviness to the air that precedes this faithful old tryst with life. with death. the ring of his phone working to unburden him suddenly, but for only some seconds. the number blocked. he answers, rushing to fish that ball point pen from his dress pants. sleek and multifunctional in his grip. but the urgency in his maneuvering cuts short with the slip in of something dangerously angelic. memory sore and exhausted no more, but now rushing back to him fervid and unrelenting. a tender charming tone in his ear that disrupts the stalwart build of his resolve. september 2019. june 2024. five years of an almost complete pain. icy feeling wind with the teasing of a torrential down pour. almost there but not quite. the anger and the pain never red enough. the sadness almost blue. 

"the loft in tribeca" you start. cody commits it all to memory. the words, the tones, the inflections. shuffling to rough his pants on. pen in his pocket. phone wedged to his ear as his fingers rip off the casing of a pillow. body easy as it maneuvers to protect his six o'clock, leaning against the wall. his eyes scope along the room. an over examination. waiting. "if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there". 

the call drops. 

the slow unlocking click of his hotel room door. his muscles burn with remembrance. eyes sharp. his ears attune. the shells of them warm. cautioned steps approach the entry way of the bedroom but they fail to go unnoticed. thudding against the soft carpet. and if not for the possibility of his demise, cody would laugh. surely this was amateur hour. boots and inconspicuous were no more suited together than suede in the rain. and he'd made that rookie mistake before. back when he was a rookie. but the high table were no idiots, sending rookies to bring his head in, unless they hated him that much and felt he should feel the brunt of that hatred with some disrespect. and disrespect it was. 

cody's breath holds. his head thumping against the wall before he makes a swift crouch to his knees. a gun rounding the corner, and a bullet flying aimed for where his head had knocked in. a simple quick diversion. nothing special or particularly extravagant, but enough to give him seconds to maneuver. and oh this is disrespect in deed. dominik mysterio the source of his current heavy breathed, adrenaline rushing circumstance. cody knuckling the hold of the still upward pointed gun with a punch before another sinks into domink's abdomen. a short grunt breaking from the scrappy, ill-sophisticated, mullet wearing piece of shit. and surely dominik is more of a piece of shit when his heavy boot toughs into cody's jaw. racing for the gun. 

but cody is quick. has felt and faced harsher things. if anything, its more of an irritation he feels than a full measure of pain. it was hard maintaining good skin considering the life he led. he spits against the carpet. iron on his tongue. red staining the clean line designs. he reaches for dominik's leg just before he's in reach of the gun. pulling him near and flipping him over quickly. a rough hand in the silk of domink's mullet as he rains down punches with the other.  cody ill satisfied as he hears the sloppy singing of grunts from the younger mysterio. and as his frustration mounts, swindled by the audacity of the high table, dominik gains an advantage. his hips shifting up to propel cody, his arms lean and tight and trapping over cody's and rolling. 

"you three piece suit, hugo boss wannabe wearing motherfucker", dominik's face bloody and angry. his fists balled and quick as he comes down against cody's face. 

the impression of the pen presses into cody's thigh. memory and dexterity working like a trained muscle. amidst the  barrage of fists, cody reaches for the sleek ball point pen. clicking the tip and rushing it into dominik's side. harsh vicious stabs till the pain takes hold enough for him to hesitate. plunging the inky tip into his neck, where blood flows to gush. breaking up out of his skin. choking on air and the pain of a slow to come death. 

"bulletproof three piece suits asshole", cody roughs out. kicking dominik for satisfaction. 

if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there

the loft is the same. unadorned by that uncanny but natural weathering of time and neglect. warm homely autumn inspired tones with splashes of green and hand carved wooden furniture. cody ever the horrendous sucker for hand carved shit. an intimate union of labor and passion. ever the reflection of a once lively relationship. carefully cultivated, ending poorer than a bastard dying with his eyes wide open. because when you go that way, you deserve it. but cody? his passions didn't deserve that violent abrupt end. and yet here he is, creeping past the entrance. a painful stuttering of footfalls as he goes. muscles sore and his skin on fire. 

dominik mysterio was a warm up. a warning even. the call must've went out. a bounty worth enough for people to try him. the train ride to tribeca interestingly violent. a woman with a knife, a man with a gun and another thinking his bare hands were some great unstoppable force. and no, cody did not make quick work of them. not as quickly as he would've liked. but he managed. and at the very least, he'd suffered a slitting cut to his cheek and a laceration to his chest. that piece of shit running the blade right through his tattoo. some maybe secondary bruising and a bad headache. but he's not dead. not like the idiots that tried and failed to kill him. 

the loft, much like the continental hotel, is agreed upon neutral ground. a place for trysts and the sharing of information. or rather, thats what it used to be. now, cody isn't so sure. 

and his limping is pathetically loud. shoes a heavy clack against the floor. makes him bristle annoyed. you stand just behind the kitchen island. wine bottle opened. a glass in hand as you sip. more beautiful than he remembers. soft looking still, your eyes casting over the rim as you sip, undeniably deceptive. 

a gun lays easy on the coffee table sat between two couches. too easy. but his displeasure gets the best of him. he shifts for it quickly. a swift up of his hands positioned about the gun, aiming for your face. 

you knew his whereabouts. so much so that you knew the whereabouts of the people trying to kill him. taking the chance to trust could cost him his life. and cody quite likes his life. 

"you had me scared a little bit". a gentle float of words. a finger dancing along the rim of the wine glass. a daring stare down the barrel of the gun. "i thought you got bested by a second rate mysterio". and when cody doesn't move, captured by pain, caution and the mystique of your presence, your eyes roll. his form fixed and perfected. trigger finger cool, but his heart unsure. "cut the melodrama. put the gun down cody". 

"you knew i was being followed", he clips. jaw tight. 

"i mean...duh...", you give. dry and teasing. finishing your wine. "half of that was me, and lets not be silly", covering the length of distance between your bodies slowly. a stalking patience. a fierce feline approach. "you shot a bullet through the skull of one of thee most important men. finding out don't come cheap when you fuck with the high table". 

"everybody seems to forget I had to bury my father", the barrel of the gun kept high with perfect aim as you near closer. "killing that sack of shit was just me evening the score". 

"i didn't kill your father cody". 

was that sincerity? empathy? a sudden waft in of warmth after years in the cold. it felt unreal. true but unreal. and he was sure it wouldn't last. 

"obviously", cody bites out. 

your forehead nestles against the barrel of the gun. his memory overwrought. his senses in a frenzy. a horrible mixture in his skin of pain and elation. steeped with the fear of having to endure another sudden vanishing. angry that such an endurance was his portion in the first place. 

"so then why is the gun still pointed at me?"

his fixed form eases. your hand slipping the gun from his hold gently. fire over his skin as you touch him for the first time in five years. a deft maneuvering about the cold heavy metal to expose the contents of the magazine. amusement coloring your eyes and spreading over your mouth for a teasing little smile. 

"they're blanks anyways", emptying the magazine as the faux bullets fall to the floor. your hand settling down the gun and its magazine on the coffee table. leaving him in an exasperated awe as you head toward the kitchen. "just wanted to see how thin your patience has worn". 

your chin jutting over to the couch. hands full of medical supplies as you pad over to him softly. his body aching and slow as it rests into the tender leather seating, but moving without delay still. always under the gentle charm of your voice, his being falling under this servile sort of subjection. making him bristle silently within himself. all that time and distance amounting to nothing for his resolve. 

cody surrenders. mind over matter no longer needed. succumbing to the full weight of his pain. hair messy with red droppings of other peoples blood. his muscles sore and the hammering about his skull diligent and taunting. 

"my pain has always been a funny little joke to you". 

you pull the coffee table closer to the wide spread of cody's legs. your own slipping over to straddle the strength of one of his thighs. your body warm and comforting against his skin. an old feeling blooming in his chest. you were doing this on purpose. he's sure of it. to see him waver and yield to the charm of your presence. gentle touch dabbing to rid his cheek of dried blood before you went about cleaning the wound. his fingers itching to form to your body, desperate to push dull nails into your skin again. to form in and caress with the intent to renew his memory. 

your eyes flit to his crotch. "its a lot more than little. give yourself some credit", you muse. applying butterfly stitches. 

the air is thick. forces him to maintain a steady breath. memory overwrought once more. a mighty rushing in that heats him whole. your hands working his button up open. the lax take of your palm to his belly forcing a throb to the crux of his thighs. the closing in of the distance makes for easy intimacy. a registration of the lesser noticeable, more complex things. the prick of your nails telling familiar stories, as they work to rid him of the shirt all together. tender and caring, similar to how they used to be. your eyes roaming and thinly glazed over. he spares a glance at the wine bottle. halfway done. your ministrations functional but indulgent of the moment. of his skin.

a quicksand sort of state of affairs. if he doesn't pull himself together now, he would fall into you. full consumption. and he can't possibly risk his life because he's half hard and overdone with sentiment. 

"how long have you been following me?"

you apply something like a salve after cleaning the nasty chest wound. an anesthetic. how sweet of you. to suddenly take his pain into consideration.

"a few months". 

"why am i not dead?"

your body adjusts a top of him. somehow closer. your knee nearly running into his crotch. "yet", you give. beginning the process of suturing. "the question everyone wants to know is why is cody rhodes not dead yet". breaking shortly to peer over him. a full examination it seems. heat rising in his cheeks. "cause he's no john fuckin wick. so why is he still here". pressure of the needle feeding into his skin. your lip tucking under your teeth in full concentration. "people don't know resilience is the bane of even your own existence. a little meat puppet made to take push pins". 

he scoffs. "this doesn't feel like a compliment if it is". 

you finish off the suture. a hesitant but delicate maneuvering off his thigh to rid of the medical supplies. the heat of you gone in an instant. "its an observation". the uncorking pop of that half drunken wine bottle. a generous crimson pour that you sip at. 

"on what basis exactly?" 

a whipping swing of kitchen cabinet doors. a bottle of brandy and a short glass. for him it seems. and the pained parts of him grow excited at the possibility of a simple taste. anything for a temporary fix. something to numb the burn in his bones. 

"very close encounters".

and no you don't dip into the leather to sit beside him when you return. you assume a much more compromising position. a full straddle of his legs as you gift him his little amber colored remedy. and if at any moment he ever thought he needed it and actually didn't, let this be the moment where that edgy spike to his tongue becomes essential. something to help him as he searches for a secure hold at control. and of course he drinks it all. an easy burning slip against the back of his throat as he feels the heat of you settling back into him. once dormant urges awakening in his fingers. supple thighs lined up over his kevlar woven dress pants. the baggy button up you'd decided was good enough for his visit thin and something like revealing. the other details left to his imagination. and God was that prone to running at any moment. tripping and falling away from him well enough till his crotch became to uncomfortable to bare the perfect fit of his pants. your empty hand returning to where it'd been. roaming tenderly against slow but steady bruising skin. his nose picking up the sweet wine on your breath. the glaze about your eyes. thighs over him, clenching slightly. 

"you were always a little too indulgent with the wine", cody gives. 

your eyes flitting to his crotch again. bulge more prominent. the teasing of your nails inching over past his navel. your throat humming. "and you with me". 

"don't think much of it". an attempt made in vain he thinks. feeling the hard throb of himself as soon as the words leave him. "it tends to happen. adrenaline from almost dying multiple times", his thigh knocking up into yours to grab at your attention. tipsy eyes drifting to the cold blue of his. "now spill. why am i still breathing?"

"because the number isn't high enough yet". another sip of wine before turning to rest it at the table. your hands free to run over the muscle of him. about his shoulders till your thumbs are caressing at his nape and the hard cut of his jaw. and that nearly drives him to insanity. the weight of you resting right where he pulses with life. "i take your head now, i'd be settling. and the game of it all ain't that fun right now anyways. its too amateur hour-ish for me. i wanna battle it out with the adults". 

"im flattered", cody deadpans. 

you smile. thumb soothing over his lip. "as you should be". 

"why else", the pulse about his blood wild. an unadulterated beating that coaxes to life the run off of his imagination. his touch a staggering grip at your jaw. pulling your eyes to him. lowly sat pretty brown eyes with a penchant for doing him inexplicably dirty. but they draw him in all the same. his stomach empty. filled with nothing but the slosh of brandy. cody feeds into the daze of it. the possibility of a buzz. your lips a breath from his. desire on your tongue by way of the sweet smell of wine. "talk".

your hips shift over him. a rut into the fabric. friction to appease the ache, he's sure of it. thin panties and the desperate curl in of your nails. running into his scalp. trying to persuade him with tender touches and the charm of such wanton need. and its working. fuck, itsworking well. had worked some time ago and doing well now just the same. because cody, despite such deadly skill, was not immune to this type of torture. could not battle it with stalwart patience or dapper precision. and as you rut against him again, mind clouded by wine and your own intent, his fingers burn to touch you more. not so simple and plain but disgustingly greedy. his lips smooth against the seam of yours. amber brandy and red wine a near perfect melding together. 

"fuck", you relent. your nose knocking soft into his. laughing with a wry sort of amusement. "it would stroke your ego to a nice little finish if i did say it wouldn't it?"

cody hums. slips his hold till its anchored about your neck. measured in its pressure. his tongue licking to wet his lips. the slight of it forcing a tremble into your body. 

maybe his suffering isn't a lonely one after all. 

you whimper. taking a hard swallow. 

"vindicate me", cody rasps. 

your struggle is apparent. surfaces with a tear that stains your cheek. body undone by the defeat of such an intimate admission. 

"i miss you", fragile and nearly unclear. 

he smiles mirthless against the soft ways of your skin. his nose buried into the dip of your neck. "i don't trust your sentiment".

"it's true cody". 

"she says, after admitting she wants to kill me".

"better me than someone else". your fingers abandoning him to grip into the leather of the couch. a tight take to it that fastens your body into him. your mouth lax as your lips slip over his. the tease of a kiss filled with too much tension to bare. "touch me", you give. a plea and a command all the same. 

his fingers working in swiftly, a firm obedience, cupping your cheeks to steady the wild go of your tongue as it snakes to slip at his. a frail whimper singing from your chest and the return of your sharp nails. digging against his scalp to bring him impossibly closer. nearly suckling his tongue whole as your hips rut at him again. a less cautious shifting as you look for harsher friction. the pain of a murderous sort of labor and the pleasure of touching you again warring over the tenderness of his skin. coaxing him to groan and wince. strong, tired fingers forcing your hips to rock over him. an easy, stable grind along the hard bulge of his cock that leaves you living without the proper brilliance of words. reduced to the struggle of too pleasured moans. 

your teeth prickling and sharp as they snag against his lip. fingers deft, undoing his zipper. the heat of him hard and throbbing dangerous. his headache out done by more pressing matters, hazy and his senses going numb with lust. palms persistent, sinking into supple flesh. and fuck does it feel good. even better when his patience thins. fingers stretching the fabric of your panties till they tear. the slick way of your arousal making for an easier pace. a sweet teasing slip through your slit. his imagination wild and unfettered. even the thought of slipping in to have his full way with you enough to twist the base of his belly. groaning into your mouth.  

fire in his fingers as they pull against the fat of your ass. sweltered skin sweet in his palms. forming with every push and spread and pry that he gives. 

your mouths depart. a hesitant slipping away. breaths heavy. your face hiding in the dip of his neck. your pussy messy. bewitching even as you grind mindless into him. an undulating heat over his skin. "cody", a mantra as it travels to slight the beating of his pulse. 

the tell tale trembling in your body. a breath away from bliss. and he can feel the build in his bones. the return of an ache thats been transformed. throbbing and restless. an urgency he works to relieve. and with it so does your mouth. less desperate to consume him. melting to linger at his lips. breathy and stuttered. 

"right there angel", he gives. a whisper against your lips. corralling the last bits of resolve to break. your hips stuttering but caressing faithful still. coming undone. rutting greedily to grasp at the last bits of pleasure.

and here he finds that charming sort of relief. an unfurling warmth about his skin. snatching your body into him as he strokes against you and throbs, coming undone. release pooling and spurting against the baggy button up you'd worn to tease him with. 

your lips finding his again. needy still. and he accepts without wait. ready and willing. your moaning along his tongue delicate and wispy. reminiscent of a memory once forgotten. new york. september 2019. cody cups your face again. thumbs dusting over the apple of your cheeks. on a mission to stain himself with this moment. sweet red wine mixed with aged brandy. 

she was getting to be a lil too long so i had to break her up! but how do we feel about our little hitman?

[fagbearentertainment]

My random thoughts on the welcome home update. Major spoilers for pretty much everything below

Gonna start off my saying Julie’s voice actor during the secret videos did a PHENOMENAL job. The panic in her voice during the last one is so visceral, it gave me chills

While we got a taste of it during the Homewarming update this one is really showing the big theme of mental health issues Clown listed as a trigger warning on the old site. Julie clearly has severe anxiety and self doubt, and I believe trauma related to her siblings given her reaction to the thought of going back to live with them

Speaking of the siblings why do they look like a cult on that album cover?? I saw someone else point that out on Reddit and I was like “yeah they DO look culty.” Are they a cult/in cult and is that why Julie doesn’t wanna go back to live with them?

The removal of and changes to Wally on several parts of the site he’s been in since day one both intrigues and worries me. That combined with how he sounds in the ringring audio makes me think something has happened to him, I wonder if he’s trying to change his speaking patterns

He also sounds different in the Darling Brodcast audio. I don’t know how to word it but it’s like his voice is way more lively? Like he was less monotone and his inflection changed in an off putting way to me. His voice was like that in the ringring audio too but in a way that sounded more Wally-esc I guess, like how I would imagine Wally trying to talk that way would sound. I wonder if this is supposed to be like him masking, he’s canonically autistic right? That’s what it made me think anyway

I need to listen to the ringring audio a few more times bc there’s so much to unpack in it. I’m still hung up on the “I read words but I didn’t understand them” bit and what that could mean. At first I thought he was referring to the scripts of the show and while that could still be possible I’m not certain. I gotta listen again and rly take it all in, dissect it frame by frame

Wally sounds so angry and upset but I don’t think it’s directed at us, the view of the site. He’s definitely angry at the runners of the site for stopping him from being able to easily see and communicate with us. I wonder if that’s why he’s missing from a lot of places and his main art isn’t looking straight ahead anymore, if they’re catching on and stopping him directly now since iirc he could see us thru the eyes of the drawings on the site

Both characters that have gotten the spotlight recently, Eddie and Julie, are close to Frank and that’s gotta be intentional. I wonder if all this is connected to Frank in some way, he’s the only character other than Wally to not have a backstory for how he got to home iirc. Not that I think franks some secret evil mastermind or anything but it’s gotta have something to do with him in some way.

This update is feeding my theory of the characters, while knowing they’re on a tv show, NOT knowing they’re just puppets. Julie started questioning her memories related to how she met Frank, the missing page in the new storybook being her page talking about Frank, things like that are adding to it on top of evidence from the other updates.

I find it notable that some characters bios say they’re controlled by puppeteers while others say handlers but I’m not sure what to make of that yet, I think Julie and Wally are the only ones that say handler right now so are they more aware than the others? Is there something about them in particular that makes them different or more dangerous than the others in the eyes of Playfellow Workshop?

There’s gotta be something off with the welcome home restoration team, I do not fully trust them. I’m not sure why but I have this feeling, could just be bc I sympathize with Wally and them taking away his additions to the site makes me sad lol

Lots of mentions of the clock and how the characters aren’t supposed to be out after dark this update, I’m very curious what happens at night here. Wally canonically doesn’t sleep so I wonder if that’s why he’s seemingly more aware and distressed than the others and desperate for us to see and hear him, maybe he’s the only one that knows what’s happening

That’s all I have to say for now. I’ll probably make another post like this at some point, I’m too eepy to keep going it’s midnight now and I’ve been writing for a while lol

[seriouslycalamitous]

Hi! It's the writing advice anon again :D

Firstly, I loved the ending of the pirate fic, absolutely incredible!!! Really enjoyed reading it!

How do you usually approach writing dialogue? I've been having a hard time trying to figure out how to stop it from dragging out too much, and especially with finding words to fit between sentences, so I was wondering how you did it? (Sorry if this isn't exactly a coherent question...)

-✨

HELLO! Good to see you again!!! i’m glad you like the finale of CWTT i worked so hard on that!

As for advice about dialogue:

Usually, with dialogue, I try to imagine it as a kind of ebb and flow conversation that might be had in real life. Conversations and interactions can stretch out for far longer without growing old if they’re broken up naturally by things like actions, thoughts, and observations! Adding more natural inflections can help regulate what you do and don’t write as well!

My favorite thing to do, and also something that every creative writing professor adores is something called ‘split dialogue.’ It’s where you start a piece of dialogue, interrupt it with a dialogue tag, and maybe some other extra bits, and then continue it at the end.

For example: “I don’t know what to say,” he replied, picking at a loose thread on his shirt and looking around. “I guess… this could’ve gone worse.”

In that example, I included a set of actions, slightly alluding to this characters nervous or unconscious tendencies while also breaking up dialogue to make it easier to read. It flows so much better and appears much more aesthetically pleasing than if I were to just write:

“I don’t know what to say. I guess… this could’ve gone worse,” he replied.

Split dialogue encourages the audience to take a breath and makes the reading experience more enjoyable!

With dialogue, it’s important you communicate in detail only what the reader does not already know and desperately needs to know. The rest can be summarized in thought or in text like “he told her about his day as they walked.”

If you have to have one character explain something for a while, my favorite tactic is to break it up with reactions or little mini replies from the character not speaking. For example, pausing a long conversation about the way a magic system works to note how the other person looks intrigued or how they’re raising their eyebrows or thinking about how it applies to their life.

Dialogue doesn’t have to be exactly like real life, with endless stuttering and sidetracking being something I’d encourage you to avoid, but those are some littler ways to make it seem more engaging!

As for fanfiction specifically, I would warn you against worrying to death about being in character. Obviously there are ways in which you should keep an eye out or choose to lean into certain characters’ personal speech patterns, but keep in mind that your writing comes first.

You can backtrack if something feels too disingenuous, but it’s hard to recover if you write a scene about, let’s say, horror and Mumbo Jumbo is in the corner saying “it’s quite simple really” on response to being hunted with a chainsaw. It’ll yank your reader out of the story and force them to remember that these characters in your plot are based on actual existing things. That’s uncomfortable, and it makes the writing clunky. No one’s gonna call you a bad fanfic writer if you conveniently leave out a character’s signature catchphrase in favor of producing a genuinely gripping scene!

I hope this helped at all! I can go more in depth if you have any other questions, but dialogue very much so requires a level of practice and observation of the real world. As always, I recommend reading some well-written some to get a feel for what that looks like!

[atsadi-shenanigans]

FBSE 6 - A Gith and a Sharran

You dispense advice.

On AO3.

You wake up alone. This surprises you, for some reason. Sweetums is still curled next to you, watching like a cat that ain’t ready to get up. And your other side is…empty.

Astarion was here. Crawled in here, and your pulse spiked all hot and bothered, but the feather baby was right there, and you always hid under the blanket whenever you was messing with yourself and Nugget used to wander into the bedroom.

And you’d been mentally chewing over Shadowheart.

Astarion had sat beside you like girls do on them sleepovers on TV. Told you all about Shar. Who sounds like the loveliest fucking peach you ever heard of. Not that you got a whole lotta room to judge? Sometimes, the only thing keeping you going when you was young was the certainty that everyone in the world who wasn’t on the farmstead would burn in hell once the lord returned with the sword, the lion to the lamb, and scoured the filth from the earth. Leaving only his true chosen. Which was you. You’d finally be vindicated. Finally be borne on high to your reward while everyone else suffered for eternity. You’d longed for it.

You rub your face.

What a fuck shit mess.

You heard it in her voice, yesterday. “She loves me still.” The tremulous shiver. She wasn’t certain, was she. Had been doubting. That is the most dangerous thing for someone stuck in her mentality. All the Aunts and the Pastor and even Mother was right when they said doubt was the doorway to temptation. The crack in the holy armor to let the devil whisper his poison through.

Shadowheart is all swept up in what you used to be. Some version of it, anyway.

“Is there anybody in this camp not fucked over by a god or a monster?” you say.

Sweetums blinks back at you.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Astarion was there, though. Not touching or nothing, just nearby, like a cat. You hope you didn’t slump over onto him; you don’t even remember conking out.

Ain’t no trace of him now. He must’a skedaddled after you crashed out. What an impression you must be making, all official like.

You pick yourself up, start to roll up your things to shove into your magic bag (thank you, Gale). Have to nudge Sweetums to get off the corner of the bedroll.

“Poor baby,” you say. “Still scared?”

You seen what his mama could do. What he’ll grow into. But right now, he’s just a little guy, sensibly spooked by a creepy ass landscape.

“You wanna go find Scratch?” You bury your fingers into the soft feathers between his ear tufts and give him a scritch. He makes a soft, reluctant trill. Almost a purr. It stops the second you pull away. “Lets get you some food and a potty.”

The dog lingers outside the tent, waiting for his friend. Perks up the second you lift that tent flap and gallops over when Sweetums shuffles out. They two of them lick and nibble at each other, and you smile as they trot off to do what they do.

Astarion’s tent is dark and still, the flap tied shut. He don’t need to sleep as much as you—reverie, he calls it. Must just want alone time. Read a book. Do his hair. Probably mutter to himself about picking the loser who turns down a necking session to talk about a god.

Your first relationship is going well.

You’re so lost in your head you don’t even notice Lae’zel until you turn and she’s just standing there.

“Jesus!” you say.

“You have not taken your communication potion?” she says. Like you’d be able to answer if she was right.

“I did. It’s a saying. Good morning?”

“It is neither good nor a morning.”

No inflection, no expression. She just…stares at you.

“Did…you want something?” you say.

“You and the bloodsucker have mated,” she says. So now you’re contemplating throwing yourself into the shadows and joining the ranks of the cursed. “You are both pathetic. How did you manage this?”

For a very long moment, all you can do is blink at her while the gears of your brain flash-rust together. Your mouth opens. You close it. Stare some more.

Lae’zel scowls. “If you do not wish to answer, say so.”

Does she sound…well. Not hurt. You’re pretty sure she’d rather smash out her own teeth than show any kind of vulnerability. But there’s something to her tone. Something that kicks you into talking.

“Mating?” you say, instead of anything useful.

And the woman gives you the most withering glare you ever saw. And you grew up with super fundy cultist Aunts. “You reek of each other. He goes to your tent. One of you is always staring at the other.”

Hey now, that was one time—what does she mean stare? You look at Astarion when he ain’t looking at you. You can’t help it. His face is just…fascinating. Yes, alright, he’s handsome. But then he’s got lines, and he almost looks like a different person at certain angles, or when he’s in a mood. It’s just interesting. You’re kind of…cataloging it. His face.

But Lae’zel’s statement implies you ain’t the only one?

And reeking. Y’all haven’t had any kind of, like, “traditional” sex (part of you says fingerbanging counts, even the once, but penis-in-vagina is so ingrained into you by the farmstead and everything after as the only “real” sex that you just feel weird thinking about it at all). But you doubt Lae’zel cares to argue that point. She’s getting to something. You just ain’t catching it in all the internal screaming.

“I…sure,” you say. “What is it you’re asking?”

Her lips thin in a way that all but shouts “this fucking idiot.” But she squares her shoulders, folds her arms, and says, “Your kind has courtship rituals. What are they.”

Oh. That…huh.

Behind her, a purple tent flap lifts and Shadowheart climbs into what can only charitably be called daylight. Lae’zel doesn’t so much as glance her way. Barely moves at all. But there’s a shift in her, something in her stance, that reminds you of a cat hearing their owner stir, or a sunflower lifting at dawn.

Oh.

“Well. Usually, uh,” you start. What do people do for a date? They don’t got movies or shows out here. Can’t go to a zoo or a museum or the beach. “Usually, I guess, y’all find out what each other likes? An activity to do?”

“Mating?” Lae’zel says.

“I mean…some people…maybe? It. It really depends on the person? Why don’t you ask her what she likes?”

Is…is Lae’zel…?

Holy fuck she is. Gaze flickers. She readjusts her stance. Her cheeks change color, just a bit. The woman fucking blushes.

“I did,” she says.

“And?”

Her gaze meets your like she’s trying to stab you with it. “She said she likes a decorative plant species and cannot swim.”

“Wait, she can’t swim?”

Lae’zel is now trying to murder you with her mind.

Fair point. It ain’t like they got city pools where you can take swimming lessons (at twenty years old with a bunch of kindergartners and an instructor younger than you). A lotta people in medieval Europe didn’t swim, either. Unless that’s another historical misconception.

Anyway.

“Okay,” you drawl. “So you could always give her one of them plants? If we have one?”

You think she might be talking about a flower? That’s traditionally romantic, according to media. Though with Shadowheart (and what Astarion told you about her goddess), you ain’t gonna be surprised if it’s actually some kinda poisonous cactus or something.

“I do not know the vegetation of this plane,” Lae’zel says. Glances over to Gale trying his damnedest to light the campfire (and swearing) (quietly). “How did the bloodsucker convince you to mate with him?”

Well. That is a question, huh. One you also don’t wanna think about. A lotta saving each other’s asses. Riding around on a lizard. Killing people. When he—

“Food,” you say. You’re such a fucking genius. Probably should’a thought of that one earlier, but hey, ain’t nobody’s perfect. “People eat together. Go somewhere to buy a meal, or make them together. And then eat together.”

Lae’zel studies you. Gives the world’s most reluctant nod. Then she turns and just…stalks off. No thank you. No follow up. Not even a “good morning.”

“Isn’t she such a delight?”

“Jesus!” You damn near leap outta your skin.

Fucking Astarion stands right behind you. Which means he snuck up there. Lae’zel fucking saw him do it, and not a one of them gave you a fucking warning.

Fucking goblin ass people.

Of course now everybody looks at you. You give a wave and a fake smile. Turn to Astarion, who outright grins.

“And she isn't’ the only one,” he says. The jackass.

“Morning Astarion, how’re you, how long you been standing there?” you say.

He has the audacity to focus on digging a single granule of dirt out beneath one fingernail. “Good morning to you, darling. Nearly the entire time. Playing matchmaker, now that you’re so experienced?”

Is that…is he jabbing at you? He seems at ease, posture loose and light. But after last night and the days before it, you ain’t exactly sure. Until he lifts his gaze and gives you a saucy little wink,.

He’s teasing.

Y’all both watch Lae’zel stalk right past Shadowheart and disappear into her own tent.

“I got no idea. You really did call it, though.” At his blank look, “Them. I know I said that before, but like, you really called it.”

Oh, he absolutely preens at that (it’s a good look on him) (you should compliment him more).

“I know,” he says. Sidles in close and props one elbow up on your shoulder to lean in conspiratorially. You are not completely distracted by the way his herby perfume fills your senses. “Do you think she’ll actually pull it off? A gith and a Sharran? Either they’ll flop about on top of each other like a dying fish, or else I expect the screaming will keep us all awake.”

You ain’t blushing. It’s just suddenly real warm out. In a sunless, shadow-cursed graveyard of a place with perpetual twilight and shadow monsters.

And then Astarion’s breath tickles the shell of your ear as he says, “Speaking of.”

You don’t flinch away, but it’s close. Y’all have kissed. He’s been basically necking you since halfway through the Underdark, and he’s had his fingers up your cooch. And still, the inner propriety Aunts rage through you that he’s too close, too suggestive, you’re a filthy slut letting him do that.

Even as a warm shiver runs down your spine.

“Let’s see how today goes,” you say. “If we run into another pack of monsters and I get my nose bit off, I don’t think either of us will be in the mood.”

“Oh, perish the thought.”

Dating. You told Lae’zel dating was food.

Astarion’s face is so close. You…don’t actually know that much about him, aside from he’s horny, fussy, and sometimes a huge asshole. You really ought to take your own advice. Learn more about him. And one of the most reliable ways to soften people up is to make them cookies. Or in Astarion’s case, give the man some blood.

“You can feed on my tonight, too, if you want,” you say. “Even if I do get my nose bit off.”

His eyes light up. His hand comes up and he brushes the ends of your shaggy hair (probably developing split ends, goddamnit). “Mmm. You’re such a sweetheart.”

Then he steps away. Bumps the side of your hips with his. His smile makes your heart go all…wibbly (you’re in so fucking deep, jesus fuck).

“Bollocks!” Gale says. Looks up sheepishly from his sad pile of smoldering twigs. “I’m afraid you’ll all have to settle for bread, cheese, and, ugh, cold tea this morning.”

Poor man looks seconds away from kicking the failure pile.

“I ever tell y’all about iced tea?” you say. Maybe something good can come outta this.

[helen-cooper-fan-account]

Kenneth Branagh’s 1996 Hamlet is terrible (I want to apologize for this post as it is a bit all over the place)

1. While Branagh might be a fine stage actor (I have never seen him perform live so this is based on what I’ve heard), he doesn’t understand how to translate a performance from stage to screen. One of the fundamental differences between performing live vs on film is that theatre needs to be over the top and larger than life so that people in the very back of the audience can see. This style of performing doesn’t look good on screen because film allows the audience to appreciate the subtleties of a more natural performance. Branagh’s performance as Hamlet is far too over the top for film. Everything from his facial expressions to his vocal inflections are too grand for the films close up’s.

2. This may be more of a criticism of Kenneth Branagh as a person but I cannot get over the fact that Kate Winslet was cast as Ophelia at about 17 and played the role when she was 20. If you have seen the film you might know about a certain scene a 36 year old Kenneth Branagh decided to add. In general I find that scene unnecessary and I can’t help but feel weird about it knowing that it isn’t in the original text and how young Kate Winslet was. I know this is common in the film industry, unfortunately, but Branagh has a bit of a bad history with women. I do want to add that Kate Winslet as Ophelia was honestly the best part of this movie, she is incredibly talented.

3. Hamlet’s death in this film is painfully awkward. When reading the play everyone in my class imagined Hamlet dying in Horatio’s arms, when you look up “Hamlet’s death” on google every image is of him dying in Horatio’s arms. From what is in the text, it seems like Hamlet physically takes the cup of poison from Horatio and almost every production I’ve watched of Hamlet has had similar blocking. However, Kenneth Branagh decided to go in a completely different direction. Instead of Horatio holding Hamlet, he has Horatio stand awkwardly at a distance. Instead of Horatio quickly trying to drink the poison and Hamlet throwing it away, Branagh has Horatio awkwardly shake while holding the cup as Hamlet screams at him. There is no tenderness, no camaraderie between two close friends, Horatio doesn’t comfort his best friend in his final moments. Horatio’s actor, Nicholas Farrel, does the best he can with the direction he was given. He looks heartbroken, but the blocking really doesn’t work. I’m not sure why Branagh decided to do this especially because if you look at photos from when he played Hamlet on stage, Hamlet died in Horatio’s arms. I feel like this decision reduces Horatio’s character to simply a loyal servant. In my opinion it gets rid of a very beautiful moment. No matter how you read Hamlet and Horatio’s relationship, it’s undeniable that they are an important part in one another’s lives and deciding that that isn’t the case shows a clear misunderstanding of the text.

4. Once again, while I don’t know why Branagh decided to block Hamlet’s death like that, I can’t help but feel it’s because he wanted Hamlet to seem more masculine. Branagh has a tendency to overdo the masculinity in his films. His Agatha Christie films, for example, all have added unnecessary action scenes, action as a genre is typically very masculine. Hamlet doesn’t have too much added action aside from the absolutely ridiculous blocking in the final act, but I feel like Hamlet is masculinized in other areas, his death possibly being one of them. Another is his more aggressive nature than that of other Hamlet portrayals. A core part of Hamlet’s character is his “femininity.” While one could argue that Branagh’s Hamlet’s over the top display of masculinity could how he decided to show Hamlet’s struggle, but considering Branagh’s choices in other films he has directed I don’t think I can give him that much credit.

5. The cinematography and editing in the film is terrible. This is apparent in every Kenneth Branagh film, it’s especially painful in Hamlet and Murder on the Orient Express. In Hamlet the shots are awkwardly set up and the editing doesn’t help. I will never get over the nauseating shot where the camera circles the characters.

6. A lot of Branagh’s direction is incredibly showy. If you need to rely on cheap stunts to draw in an audience, you shouldn’t be directing Shakespeare. It’s a hard sell for sure, but people who like Shakespeare know how exciting his works are. Hamlet is a masterpiece, if Branagh seriously thought the work alone wasn’t enough why on earth would anyone let him make his own adaptations. He doesn’t even trust the source material!

7. In an interview Kenneth Branagh said something about how you need to be older to understand how to play Hamlet and I already made multiple posts about how stupid that idea is so I won’t go over that again, yall should check out my other posts though.

8. Back on Hamlet’s death: the Jesus motif is so… so Kenneth Branagh. I think in general Branagh believes he has a deeper understanding of Hamlet than he actually does. Hamlet is not a god, he’s a scared and stupid kid (A 30 year old can still be a stupid kid shush). He sees Hamlet as a far more grand story than it really is. It’s similar to how people don’t understand Romeo and Juliet. Romeo and Juliet is not a love story, it’s a tragedy. Hamlet is not your traditional hero’s journey, it’s a tragedy. Tragic hero’s are not the same as hero’s you would find in something like an epic or an action film, they aren’t larger than life hero’s they’re just people. Shakespeare’s tragedies are meant to explore human emotions by exaggerating them and creating extreme scenarios that would lead the characters to act in the way that they do. Hamlet is about grief and what it can do to a person. A tragic hero is helpless, what makes it a tragedy is not punishment for a characters actions but something that is completely undeserved being thrown upon the character. This concept is something I just don’t think Branagh understands.

I have more to say about this film but I think that would require a rewatch for me to get everything down. I also apologize if I didn’t get my points across very well, and feel free to disagree with me on any of these. I will say I am very biased. As a long time Agatha Christie fan I have absolutely hated his takes on her books for a while now. I went into this film with an opinion on him but this film did not help.

Anyway, I think any and every interpretation of Hamlet is valid but Kenneth Branagh’s is the incorrect one.

[zabala0z]

TMA S3 FINALE (and me screaming)

I don’t know where to start. Maybe the fact that everyone I like in this podcast always dies? Yeah I’ll start there. What the fuck guys. What. Like. What?????

I’m not going into my usual format but holy shit. MAG 119 was like motion sickness but for my ears. The music. I hated it so much. That organ. Tim. Tim. I knew he raised too many death flags, Jesus. Like I’m happy and all for him but GOD NO. AND DAISY??? Though when she started attacking the shit out of Breekon and Hope, I did internally cheer her on. The fact they tried to act as Basira made me wanna scream. Now that I think about it, was Daisy being influenced by one of the entities?? Like The Slaughter?

Basira is so much stronger than me. Like genuinely, I think she got bumped up a couple places just by her sheer logic during 119 and I am so impressed 💀 so much so, I’m wondering if she had like any internal help, y’know??

Orsinov is like one of the most horrifying sounding characters here. The moment she put on Gertrude’s and Leitners voice, I shrieked. Something about the sing-song voice, the way she inflects certain words makes my head spin. Like Michael.

Little backtracking, Martins situation with his mom is like devastating. And the moment Elias started speaking, I knew he was gonna pull out some traumatizing shitty news to give Martin, I hate him.

Fast forwarding: Jon’s dreams

Okay. So. Jon I guess is in some sort of coma and man are his dreams fucked up.

All the people that appeared in there were the people who gave physical statements. Not super hard to figure out but we had Dr Lionel Elliott, Tessa Winters, then Daisy but obviously she’s not there (DAISY 😭), Karolina Górka, Jordan Kennedy, I think the melted woman refers to Jude Perry, the hunters (Julia and Trevor), Naomi Herne and then the pitying figure. The only woman I would think would fit this vague description is Sasha because of course it’s vague, he doesn’t remember her and I’m going to sob.

Bit scared on what Jon is turning into. Whatever it is, it’s not anything good. He’s watching a lot and I guess he’s watching other people’s dreams- or nightmares- and just….watching??? I’d be terrified.

Elias got arrested. Love it. Though, “Be seeing you” I HATE YOU. 🫵🏻

Would be happy but god damn PETER LUKAS has replaced him and I don’t know if that’s worse or better because we at least know Elias’s actions and his limits. We don’t know much on Peter and I don’t like him at all. At least he’s giving them paid leave. And a counselor. I personally need a counselor for this WHOLE SEASON.

When people told me “good luck” when I started getting into TMA, I laughed it off. I should’ve taken it more seriously because I have never felt more distinct and unpredictable emotions than listening to this podcast. I think that’s all my thoughts. Mostly I’m just uhh dying here. I hate everyone and this podcast and I’ll be listening to the beginning of Season 4 tomorrow!

Again, thank you to everyone who has been following my mini rants and crappy theories. Remember when I thought Gertrude was living in the tunnels??? But seriously, thanks to anyone who has been like fully reading through my posts. School has been wack and the people, and just the podcast as a whole has been making my time less stressful 💀 anyways that’s too emotionally vulnerable so thank you!!!