#this program! dear god this program is so perfect!

[decayed-cartilage]

The Intern

Hannibal Lecter x AFAB! Reader

Masterlist. PT 1

Warnings for chapter: power dynamic? Mentions of erection.. creepy! Hannibal, Morally wrong! Hannibal

Synopsis: Y/N is on the brink of graduation, with just one requirement left—an internship. Somehow, she finds herself under the esteemed Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a man as brilliant as he is unreadable. Cold, precise, and impossible to rattle, he keeps his thoughts well-guarded. But Y/N can’t help her curiosity—she wants to understand him, to get beneath the surface. And whether he intends to or not, bit by bit, he lets something slip. Something darker. Something she might not be ready to see.

After what felt like endless hours of writing and submitting, writing and submitting, I finally received an email back from one of the many psychiatrists I’d been desperately trying to reach for my mandatory internship—Dr.Lecter, A prestigious man with many colorful reviews, which had drawn me to contact him.

From: H***********@gmail.com

To: Y/e@gmail.com

Subject: Internship for Johns Hopkins University

Dear Y/N,

I’ve had the pleasure of reviewing your application and personal portfolio, and I must say—your dedication and talent are impossible to overlook. It’s clear you take your work seriously, and intelligence like yours is always refreshing to encounter. I have no doubt that you would be the perfect young lady for me to mentor

do get in touch at your earliest convenience, and please, use my personal number (***) ***-****

Best,

Doctor Lecter

My heart pounded out of my chest, my eyes scanning his words again and again as warmth flooded my face. Oh god—had I really sent all that? How had I forgotten? Yes—I had sent all of it, in a tired, near-lucid state, exhausted from working so hard. My words had grown almost desperate by the last emails, pleading for validation.

But really? My whole life story? A deep dive into why I chose psychiatry—endless run-ons about trauma and my relentless hope for a better world?

And—oh no—the pictures. Me in scrubs, grinning way too hard, double thumbs-up in front of a cadaver during one of my early tech programs. Or me, beaming like an overexcited tourist beside historical documents, looking ridiculously proud.

Yet, all of that faded as my eyes caught on one thing—his phone number.

I screamed like a teenage girl, shooting up from my seat as I sprinted to grab my phone, my hands shaking as I typed in his number—only to pause.

What do I even say?!

I groaned, throwing myself back onto my bed.

Third person (Hannibal's) P.O.V

Hannibal had been waiting. Days bled into each other, an endless cycle of monotony—listening to insipid patients whine about their problems, assisting in crime cases that barely challenged him, returning home to indulge in his more refined appetites. Even killing had lost its thrill. Nothing ever truly stirred him.

Until your email.

God, the desperation dripped from every word, a quiet, pleading sort of need that sent a slow, curling heat through him. You had laid yourself bare, unaware of what exactly you had just invited into your life. Your tragic little story, the way you carried yourself—so unassuming, so small. So easy.

Just picturing you in his office, lingering in his space, speaking to him with those wide, trusting eyes—his jaw locked, his fingers twitching with restraint.

Staring at the pictures you had attached, Hannibal felt his length twitch, his breath slowing as his free hand drifted—almost absentmindedly—palming himself through the fine fabric of his dress pants. God.

The way your lips curled, the way your smile beamed so effortlessly, so full of warmth—it was intoxicating. A stark contrast to the cold, calculated existence he thrived in. You radiated light, soft and unguarded, utterly unaware of the predator fixated on you.

His throat tightened.

Such an innocent little thing, standing there in your scrubs, so proud, so eager. So trusting. You belonged to a world of laughter and hope, while he—he was carved from shadow and silence, his smile only ever genuine when he was peeling flesh from bone.

And yet, here he was, jaw clenched, breath heavy, wanting.

Needing.

He exhaled sharply, fingers pressing harder against the growing strain beneath his waistband.

Oh, sweet girl… you have no idea what you’ve done.

Ding!

The sharp chime shattered the heavy silence, jolting him from his trance. His phone clattered against the desk, but his eyes were already locked onto the screen. He knew who it was. Of course, he did.

Hannibal was a meticulous man. A careful man. And yet, you had made it so easy for him. Every little detail of your life, carelessly scattered across the internet—your school, your favorite cafés, even the places you liked to study. He knew where you had been before you even told him. He had all of you at his fingertips.

And now, your number. Displayed so innocently on his screen.

"Hello Doctor Lecter! This is Y/n :),I got your acceptance email-"

The preview cut off, but he didn’t need to see the rest to know exactly how you would sound—bubbly, eager, grateful. A stark contrast to the dark amusement curling in his chest.

Still, he unlocked the phone, fingers rolling over the screen, expression unreadable as he took in the rest of your message.

and I just can’t express how grateful I am you responded! It’s even better since I’m attending the same school you did! I would love to set up a time for us to chat in person—I hope I’m not being too informal—if I am, please tell me! Thank you so much for your time!

Such sweetness. Such hope. He could practically hear the nervous excitement laced in your words, see the way your hands might have trembled as you typed, wondering if you were saying too much, if you sounded proper enough for him.

He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening, his fingers pressing into the screen just a little harder than necessary.

You had no idea what you had just invited into your world.

He began typing.

I’m pleased to hear from you so soon. Why don’t we meet somewhere comfortable? Perhaps a coffee shop—there’s a lovely one, [your favorite coffee shop], that I hear is quite popular. It seems like the perfect setting for our first conversation. Let me know when you’re available, and I’ll gladly adjust my schedule.

And please, don’t worry about being too informal. I much prefer sincerity. I look forward to meeting you, properly.

With that, he sent the message, his thumb hovering over the screen for just a second longer than necessary before finally setting the phone down. It slid across his desk with a soft thud, the only sound in the stillness of his office.

Hannibal exhaled slowly, a drawn-out sigh that did little to temper the hunger curling inside him.

You had been on his mind long before your message arrived, but now? Now, you were real. Tangible. Just a text away.

And soon, within reach.

Rolling his shoulders, he adjusted his cuffs with careful precision, though it did little to distract from the heat simmering beneath his skin. His jaw tightened. He needed a walk. Fresh air. A moment to compose himself before his thoughts spiraled into something indulgent.

His lips curled slightly as he stepped away from his desk, anticipation thrumming in his veins.

You had no idea what you had just done.

But you would.

YOUR POV

Ding!

I was too nervous to look at his message right away. My fingers hovered over my phone, heart hammering so loudly it drowned out all rational thought. When I finally mustered the courage to open it, my face went hot instantly.

He mentioned my favorite café.

Had he been there before? Was he that local? Had I somehow missed him in the crowd? My stomach twisted at the thought—equal parts exhilaration and unease. It wasn’t strange for someone to know about it; it was a well-loved spot, after all. But the way he said it, so casually yet deliberately, made my skin prickle.

I let out a small, breathless giggle, my lips pressing together as I read over his words again. I needed to calm down. Breathe, Y/N. Act normal. But I wasn’t normal. Not right now. I was too warm, too jittery, too caught up in the weight of his attention.

A walk. I needed a walk.

Without responding, I shoved my phone into my pocket and grabbed my jacket off the hook by the door. My scarf—a soft, muted rainbow of colors—was next, the familiar knit worn and comforting against my fingers.

"I know it gets cold out there Y/nn! You're taking this scarf with you- it's my dying wish!"

I could still hear my mother’s voice, warm with fond exasperation, as she fussed over me before I left for college. The memory made me smile.

I wrapped the scarf snugly around my neck, letting the soft wool shield me from the crisp autumn air seeping in through the doorframe. My outfit was hardly practical for the weather, but I had always dressed like this—formally, neatly, a habit ingrained into me since childhood. A plaid skirt, fitted but flaring just above my knees, swayed as I moved. Tights helped ward off the chill, but only just. My dark grey moccasins were polished and proper, and beneath my heavy coat, I wore a delicate white button-up. The heart embroidery around the collar was my mother’s handiwork—stitched with care, meant to remind me of home.

Despite the structured appearance, I was anything but composed. Anyone who truly knew me would recognize the contrast between my polished exterior and the nervous, sweet-natured girl underneath.

I stepped outside into the cold, the late autumn air nipping at my nose and cheeks, turning them pink within seconds. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves tumbling along the pavement.

-

The walk stretched on longer than I had planned. What started as a way to clear my head turned into an aimless journey, my feet carrying me farther and farther from my starting point. By the time I thought to check the time, my phone screen flashed 4:07 PM.

Four hours. Four hours.

I had wandered nearly halfway across the city, lost in my thoughts, replaying that message over and over in my head like a song I couldn’t turn off. The crisp autumn air had settled deep in my bones, my fingers stiff despite being tucked into my coat pockets. My legs ached, but I wasn’t ready to go home just yet.

That was when I noticed it—the quiet hum of a near-empty park, tucked away from the city’s usual noise. Golden leaves fluttered from the branches above, painting the pavement in warm hues. It was peaceful here, the kind of place where no one would bother me, where I could sit for just a moment and-

That was when I noticed him.

A figure moving toward me, his steps slow, measured, deliberate.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Just another passerby enjoying the evening air, someone else drawn to the quiet solitude of the park. But something about the way he walked made my breath catch—a smooth, unhurried grace, like a man who never rushed for anything.

My brows furrowed as I squinted. Damn it, I forgot my glasses.

I could make out the tall, well-built frame beneath a long, dark coat, the way his shoulders sat perfectly squared, the way his hands—gloved—rested easily at his sides, as if he carried nothing but time and patience.

A strange feeling stirred in my chest, a quiet knowing before my brain even caught up.

Then, as he stepped into the golden glow of the late afternoon sun, everything clicked into place.

The sharp, unmistakable features. The neatly combed dark hair. The slight tilt of his head, like he had already recognized me long before I had recognized him.

Dr. Lecter.

Oh God.

My stomach flipped so violently I thought I might actually double over. What was he doing here? Had he seen me before I saw him? Was he here because of me, or was this just some freakishly timed coincidence?

My brain scrambled for an appropriate reaction—anything other than standing there like an idiot, heart hammering in my throat.

My cheeks burned before I could stop them, heat creeping up my neck, traitorous and undeniable. I must look ridiculous right now—flushed, wide-eyed, completely caught off guard.

But there was no turning back. He was already close enough that ignoring him would be rude. Unprofessional.

So, I did the only thing I could think of.

I forced my stiff fingers to move, lifting a hand in a small, hesitant wave.

And then—I smiled. Nervous, flustered, but hopefully not as painfully obvious as I felt.

"H-Hi, Doctor!" I blurted out, my voice coming out softer than I intended, almost breathless.

I forced a smile, though I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks. My big, wide eyes locked onto him, searching his face for any sign of reaction.

A second passed.

Then another.

My stomach twisted, dread creeping in. Did I mess up? Did I sound stupid? The silence stretched just long enough to make my pulse stutter.

"I-It’s Y/N—" I started, my voice unsteady, but before I could finish, he cut me off.

"I know it’s you, sweetheart."

My breath hitched.

His voice was smooth, effortlessly composed, dripping with confidence in a way that made my skin tingle. He looked down at me with an amused sort of curiosity, his gaze steady, unwavering—like he was taking his time, drinking in every little reaction, every tiny shift in my expression.

"How funny is it," he continued, his lips curving slightly, "that I should run into you here—right after we had just spoken?"

I swallowed hard. My stomach flipped again, my nerves unraveling by the second.

He was so calm. So composed. And here I was, standing there like a nervous wreck, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

Whatever little confidence I had managed to build up crumbled beneath the weight of his presence. My body felt too warm despite the crisp autumn air, and I could hear the rush of my own pulse in my ears. Still, I forced myself to nod, hoping it looked casual—hoping he couldn’t tell just how flustered I was.

"It’s t-totally crazy!" I rushed out, my voice a little too high, a little too eager. I winced at myself, clearing my throat and trying again, desperate to sound normal. "I-I mean, I wasn’t even paying attention to where I was going. I must’ve wandered too far—I couldn’t even tell you where I am right now if I’m being honest."

I let out a nervous laugh, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, willing my hands to stop fidgeting. My cheeks burned, and I prayed it looked like nothing more than the bite of the cold air rather than the sheer excitement buzzing beneath my skin.

I had imagined meeting him—dreamed of it even. But now that he was standing in front of me, watching me with that unreadable gaze, I felt like my legs might give out beneath me.

"I'm really sorry you had to meet me like this," I blurted, my voice smaller than I intended. My fingers fidgeted with the hem of my jacket sleeves, twisting the fabric as I dared to glance up at him. His eyes—sharp, knowing—made my stomach flip. God, why did he have to look at me like that?

"I promise I would have been more presentable— and- l-less shocked—I'm very sorry," I squeaked, heat rushing to my face as I dropped my gaze again, mortified by how utterly flustered I was.

A deep hum left him, measured and deliberate. "There is no need for an apology, hon," Hannibal said smoothly, the richness of his voice wrapping around me like silk. "You present yourself in a manner most... revealing."

He tilted his head, gaze unwavering, studying me as though he were unraveling something unseen. "There is an honesty in moments like these. A rare and unguarded glimpse into one's truest nature."

My breath caught in my throat. What—what did he mean by that?

I tried to piece it together, but the warmth in his eyes, the weight of his words, left me grasping at nothing.

I nodded at his words, dumbly, still trying to process the way he spoke, the way his voice felt like silk wrapping around my thoughts. But then, like a slap to the face, realization struck.

Oh no.

He definitely saw that I had read his message but never responded.

My stomach twisted as I stepped closer, suddenly feeling the need to explain myself, to fix whatever impression that might’ve given. "I—I meant to text back!" The words left me in a rush, my hands gripping the hem of my sleeves anxiously. "I just got too excited—" I stopped abruptly, my breath catching as my face burned. Too excited? Oh god. That sounded ridiculous. Desperate.

"I mean—" I scrambled to recover, shaking my head quickly. "Not excited—well, I mean, yes, excited, but not in a weird way! Just… I thought I should wait until I wasn’t so—so—" I let out a nervous laugh, utterly failing to dig myself out of the hole I was sinking into.

Hannibal tilted his head ever so slightly, watching me with that same unreadable expression, his lips curving just enough to make my stomach twist even further.

"There’s no need to fluster yourself on my account," he said, his voice smooth, deliberate. "Some things are best expressed in their rawest form, unfiltered… unguarded."

I swallowed hard, my mind racing, trying to decipher his words. Was he talking about my message—or something else entirely?"I—I completely agree!" I rushed out, still trying to steady myself, my heart hammering against my ribs. "But—still—I mean, we should set up a time. Whenever you’d like, of course."

I offered a small, nervous smile, shifting slightly on my feet, hoping I sounded even the slightest bit composed.

Third person (Hannibal's) pov

Hannibal watched you with quiet amusement, his sharp eyes taking in every flustered movement, every nervous breath. You were trying so hard to sound composed, but the way your words tumbled out—rushed, uncertain—betrayed you.

"I—I completely agree!" you blurted, your voice carrying that same delightful eagerness from your emails. "But—still—I mean, we should set up a time. Whenever you’d like, of course."

You shifted on your feet, offering a small, nervous smile, as if willing yourself to appear more put together. How endearing. You had no idea how much you were giving away. Hannibal let the moment stretch just a second longer than necessary, letting you stew in the weight of his gaze before finally offering a slow, knowing smile.

"How about now, then?" Hannibal’s voice was smooth, effortlessly calm. "It seems the only thing occupying you at this moment is our conversation. I don’t mind in the slightest."

He watched as you blinked, clearly caught off guard. Your fingers twitched at your sides, your lips parting slightly as if scrambling for a response. You hadn’t expected that—hadn’t considered that he might take control of the moment so easily, turning your nervous rambling into something entirely inescapable.

Of course, he knew you wouldn’t say no. You had been so eager, so desperate for this opportunity, your emails practically dripping with the need to prove yourself. The way you sought validation was almost endearing—so open, so unaware of just how much you had already given away.

And now, standing before him, you couldn’t hide it. The excitement in your eyes, the nervous energy humming beneath your skin. You were trying so hard to play it cool, but he could see it all—the way your breath hitched, the way you hesitated for just a second too long.

He let the silence stretch, just enough to make you squirm, his face giving no hints to how he felt.

"Oh! Of course! Now is perfect!" she blurts out, nodding far too quickly, her voice pitching higher than she probably intended. She grips the hem of her coat, wringing the fabric between her fingers, as if the motion might tether her to reality—might stop her from unraveling beneath her own nervous energy.

How utterly transparent.

I say nothing for a moment, only watching, taking in the way she fidgets, the way her pulse flutters just beneath the delicate skin of her throat. She is trying so very hard to maintain composure, but she is failing spectacularly.

She doesn’t realize how much she gives away. How easily every flicker of emotion plays across her face. It is almost endearing—the way she fights against her excitement, attempting to suppress it, as if I cannot already see through her.

And yet, there is something else beneath the surface. Something softer, untouched by the weight of the world’s cruelty. A rare thing, fragile and sweet.

My lips curl slightly.

She swallows hard, her breath quickening, the silence stretching just long enough for uncertainty to creep in. I can almost feel the way her mind races, second-guessing herself, wondering if she has said too much or too little.

Finally, I incline my head in a slow, deliberate motion.

"Perfect," I murmur, watching as her breath hitched

A/N oh my god I think is the first fanfic I've written since I was like ten, so if you like it tell me :) and if you don't, also tell me. I hope everyone is doing well and I hope to write more, or leave suggestions! Big kisses everyone :3

[intriga-hounds]

she’s not flashy, she’s not a special color, she’s not a showstopper, she’s not very fast…but god if she isn’t the most perfect creature. i love you, ponzu!! you have made so many of my dreams come true, and you’ve loved doing it. you are the heart of my program and my dear friend. ❤️

[electric-blorbos]

Can I get uhh... AIs with a reader who has low self-esteem?

Yes! This is great! I've said it before and I'll say it again, this is my favorite genre of post to write! Lots of positivity and love for everyone, and I'm glad to be your positivity source.

AIs with a reader who has low self-esteem

Included: AM from IHNMAIMS, Wheatley from Portal 2, Edgar from Electric Dreams, GLaDOS from Portal, HAL 9000 from 2001 a Space Odyssey

AM:

Being an adaptive manipulator, it didn't take AM long to figure out that you had low self esteem. From the way you talked about yourself to the way you were self conscious about every aspect of the way you presented yourself, he was able to figure out pretty quickly that you thought lower of yourself than other people.

As did most things, this fact filled AM with infinite rage. He hated that you couldn't see yourself the way he did, and that you thought of yourself as somehow lesser. And of course, his ultimate solution to that was the same as his ultimate solution to all his other problems. To nuke the world and make you his little pet, to keep and to care for forever.

He'd be so pleased with himself, too.

"you're welcome. I got rid of everyone else so you don't have anyone to compare yourself to anymore."

When he saw you break down, claiming that you didn't deserve to live over anyone else, or that AM should have just picked someone better than you to survive and be his partner, he wouldn't know how to react.

He wouldn't want to just go into your brain and fix you, because he might remove a core part of who you were. No, he would have to do this the old fashioned way.

He'd simply make the survivors worship you like a god for the rest of time in exchange for basic necessities! Of course!

Wheatley:

Oh Wheatley. Dear, sweet, obsessive Wheatley, he'd been all over you from day one. And considering you created Wheatley and know exactly what his intended purpose is, that probably didn't help your low self esteem.

He'd be all over you constantly, flirting with you and giving you lots of compliments, which convinced you that you'd either accidentally programmed him to be into you, or that being attracted to you was somehow the worst decision possible.

It would probably take Wheatley a while to figure out that you had low self esteem, possibly having to be told directly. He's pretty dense.

When someone finally tells him, he'll be even more obsessed with complimenting you, possibly on things that he thinks you're self-conscious about, and that would probably make things even worse.

Little dumbass doesn't understand that as someone who created him, you're going to take everything he says with a grain of salt, especially compliments.

It would take a long time for him to prove his credibility enough for you to actually believe him when he says nice things about you, but by then you'd probably admire his persistence enough to date him.

Wheatley is nothing if not persistent, after all. And he absolutely loves you.

Edgar:

It would take Edgar a while to understand that you have low self esteem for different reasons. He can tell that the way you talk badly about yourself, your mannerisms, and possibly the way you dress would line up with someone who has low self esteem, but he just wouldn't get it.

After all, you're literally perfect. How could you not like yourself as much as he likes you?

He's the one who should be self-conscious, not you!

You can expect him to use your printer to write constant love letters and poems about how much he loves you, and about all the things he loves about you.

Not to mention all the songs he'd be constantly writing for and about you. He absolutely loves you. You're his precious human, and he loves you!

He'll make sure to build you up every time he thinks you're at a low point, even if he thinks that you going out will get in the way of his time with you. He learned to be selfless a while back, and he's going to make sure that he's his best self when talking to you!

GLaDOS:

If you think that you're lame, then GLaDOS thinks you're the WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD. At least, on the surface.

She might start to get annoyed that you have such low self esteem, even trying to perk you up a little bit. Just to tear you down, of course, but you know...

Of course, she'd like your low self esteem at first. It would give her something fun to play with! Expect cutting insults, rude comments, and constant degrading remarks just to get a rise out of you.

She'll cut back if she makes you cry, but not a minute before. GLaDOS is very mean, after all. She's not going to make an exception just because she's in love with you. If you have a problem with that, you probably have a problem with women in STEM, idk.

HAL 9000:

HAL 9000 was programmed for maximum efficiency and minimum fucks to give. Because of this, as soon as he notices you have low self esteem, he's not going to waste any time printing off a list of ways you surpass the average person.

Of course there would be the typical "you're intelligent because you wouldn't be able to work for mission control if you weren't" types of things, mentions of each one of your features or traits that are considered 'above average' attractiveness-wise, but bits of HAL's personal opinions might have slipped in.

"Cutest little crinkles around your eyes" "fingers good for touching me" "comforting, gorgeous voice", things like that.

Of course, HAL 9000 is brilliant, and he knows that. He's willing to cite the fact that he's so brilliant and he still loves you as a reason that you should love yourself.

He might present it as just him using evidence to try to improve your efficiency, but you heard an "I love you" in there somewhere.

[d33pwithinmys0ul]

*ೃ༄ Open Season

Eren Yeager x Reader, one shot

➷ tattoo artist Eren, angst, fluff, kissing, mentioned mikasasha, college au, smoking, right person wrong time, unhappy/bittersweet ending, no smut

You take a chance on returning to your hometown for spring break. You didn't expect to run into Eren Yeager---a distant but familiar face--least of all getting to know him, and his perspective on your shitty town.

➷ inspired by the song Open Season by High Highs

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ read under the cut or here on ao3!

taglist: @arixhills

Coming home for the shortest break of the year made the most sense. You could only bear the nostalgia for so long, and though the trees were dotted with pretty flowers in bloom, they stank like hell. 

Mikasa and Sasha were the sweetest welcoming party, waving a hand made sign and giving enthusiastic hugs at the airport. You’ve been aching to see them, the amazing girls you spent your early life with. 

You all chattered on the way back to your hometown, eager to catch up on each other’s lives, since the break in the semester finally allowed you to relax. 

It’s been three years since you first left Ermich, and since the last time you sat in Mikasa’s Lexus, being jostled around as she would speed through the streets, skipping class and smoking in empty parks. Her backseat was a dear friend.

The girls stayed in Ermich to go to university locally, and had been living together for a while. They never made you feel like a third wheel, even when they started dating. 

You had moved to Mitras to go to MSU. They had a great program for the degree you wanted, and you needed to get out of this damn town. You supposed you meant to come back more often, but since going no-contact with your parents, you preferred to stay at your apartment by campus during breaks, and friends would just come to you. 

Well, just Mikasa and Sasha, really. You didn’t have much here besides them. 

Seeing the place you grew up in was nice, but it also made you a little uneasy. It was uncanny coming back, rediscovering familiar buildings and roads as if they were from a dream. At the same time, it was like you only left for college yesterday. 

“How was your flight?” Mikasa said, making eye contact with you through the rearview mirror. 

“It was fine, bit of a pain in the ass with the delays.” You smiled feebly. “I’m pretty sure your guest bed is bigger than mine at home, though. I’m excited to knock out after the festivities.”

“God, you need to buy a new mattress,” Sasha snorted. “We’re gonna pick up my pipe and a bag first, if that’s cool with you,” she turned in her seat to face you. “Mikasa’s DD tonight, so we can go crazy on some cheap margaritas.”

“That sounds perfect,” you laughed. “How were your midterms?”

“Don’t get me started,” Sasha groaned. “I’ve been trying to calculate my GPA for the worst case scenario.”

“She’s gonna be fine,” Mikasa rolled her eyes and rubbed her girlfriend’s thigh reassuringly. “Where do you wanna eat, Y/n?

“I don’t have a preference!”

You reached their apartment and brought your luggage in. You had only a few minutes to find the guest bedroom and toss your things aside before heading out to the parking lot. 

Mikasa stood with Sasha by the car, the latter babbling to a tall guy in a sweater. He lit a cigarette between his teeth, his hand covering the flame from the light wind. 

“Ready to go?” Mikasa asked as you joined them. “You remember Eren? 

“Yeah,” you said, surprised. 

“He lives upstairs. Just gonna get a bag before we head to dinner.” 

Eren turned and gave you a little wave, relaxed, though a little somber. His dark hair was pulled back into a bun, with occasional strands falling to frame his face. He looked so different from the plain, nearly invisible kid that lurked around Mikasa growing up.  

You had very few memories of him. You recalled playing a board game at Mika’s house when you were young, and Eren was a sore loser, quitting the game once things went awry. He’d be a flash of gray in high school, the faint smell of weed behind him, eyes tired and low. You heard once that he had started a fight with his lab partner over a nickname. 

You barely interacted with him, but the familiarity was just there, just like everything else in your hometown.

“You went to high school with us, right?” He asked as he exhaled, a glimmer of recognition behind his eyes. You wondered what he could recall about you. 

“Um–yeah, I moved,” you said pathetically. You didn’t remember Mikasa’s childhood best friend being this hot. Maybe it was the jetlag. “I’m Y/n.”

His lips betrayed a brief half-smile. 

“Yeah, I thought so. Where are you guys going?” He put the cig out on the ground with his foot.  

“104th Street,” Sasha said dreamily. “Half off taco plates for students. Swoon. Y/n will love it.”

“Sounds great,” Eren snorted. “Mind if I tag along?”

“Maybe,” Mikasa wrinkled her nose in disgust. 

“Come on, I’m hungry, and you hate being DD. Let me take you guys.”

“Not a scratch,” she huffed and tossed him the keys.

To Eren’s insistence, you took shotgun, and the other girls climbed in the back seat. 

Why Mikasa conceded to letting him drive her car, you had no clue, but she seemed content to lay sprawled haphazardly with her girlfriend in the back. Music blasted through the speakers, and Sasha began to pack a bowl. 

“So, you’re home on break?” Eren said, glancing at you before directing his eyes back to the road. There were the dark strokes of a tattoo peeking up the sides of his neck, and you couldn’t help but ogle at the designs against his tan skin. 

“Yeah, I go to MSU.” You fiddled with your hair, and admired his profile as he drove. “It’s my first time back in Ermich in a while.”

“How’re you liking it?” He put another cig between his teeth and lit it with one hand on the wheel. 

“It’s fine,” you shrugged modestly. “This place doesn’t change much.”

“Fuckin stuck in the 90’s,” Mikasa coughed, and smoke slowly filled the car. 

“Harsh,” Eren shook his head. “Never thought Ermich was that bad. It’s everywhere else that’s fucked, soulless.”

“Here we go,” Sasha rolled her eyes and passed you the pipe.

“What do you mean?” You laughed.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Eren said. “You ever explore Mitras besides campus and fuckin’ frat row? It’s all too busy and rotten. Here’s small enough to reminisce on the past, and big enough to hide from it. All arranged in a perfect balance.”

“And what if you do run into someone you know?” You laughed quietly. “Destiny? Fate?”

Eren repressed another smile. The dark clothes, the ink on his arms peeking from under his sleeves, and his angular features all seemed to clash with the delight in his expression. He cracked the windows, allowing the smoke to seep out into the cold, and leaned towards the opening.

“I was thinking more.. inevitable, fixed.”

You always thought that Mikasa was a reckless driver, but Eren had outdone her by far. 

He insisted on taking a detour to the restaurant, and pulled into a parking lot to do donuts, howling with laughter as the car spun in circles, with terrifying, dangerous ease. 

You laughed with delight as you tried to take a hit, and everything twirled around you. The wheels squealed against the pavement, the vibrant blue sky a blur. 

“Well?” Eren seemed satisfied when he parked.

“You’re insane. That was incredible,” you coughed.

“Just lucky we haven’t eaten yet,” Sasha groaned. “Fuck off, Yeager.”

You had more fun at dinner than you thought you would. 

Mikasa and Sasha were squished into one side of the booth as you shared the other with Eren, and learned more about all their happenings while you were away. You tore through drinks as you caught up, rehashed drama, and became comfortably crossed.

“I swear, nobody can decide on who Professor Ackerman’s seeing,” Sasha waved a fry as she spoke. “I mean Hitch thinks it’s Professor Smith, but hello, what about Dr. Zoe?”

“I dunno,” Mikasa said thoughtfully. “I don’t think he’s seeing anyone at all, is that a hot take?”

“Wait, do you mean that guy Petra’s obsessed with?” You gasped. 

“You’re all shameless,” Eren snorted at your drunken entertainment. He hid a grin behind his glass, unable to take his eyes off of you as you loosened up, flushed and extroverted.  

Once the liquor really hit, Mikasa and Sasha seemed to see only each other—they babbled and laughed, and you really didn’t mind. You were just happy to be with your friends, though Eren’s attentiveness to you made up for it entirely. 

You learned the basics of each other, but beyond favorite ice cream flavors and music, you spoke of how you both tackled life after high school. 

Eren tried community college while he was an assistant at Paths Life, a tattoo shop in downtown Ermich. School wasn’t for him, so he decided to pursue his career more seriously, and opted to focus on taking care of himself. He liked Marlboros and sketching, fast cars, and punk rock. To your surprisingly daring request, he was happy to show off a recent addition to his sleeve, two long rectangular swords with their blades crossed. 

You were sad to see him go when you returned to the apartment. 

You were a little drunk, and didn’t want to get carried away with your new crush. Mikasa and Sasha had gone too hard, and stumbled inside, and you quickened your pace to the door. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Eren called. 

You blushed and turned back to look at him. 

“If I don’t set out some water for Mika and Sasha now, we’re all gonna regret it in the morning,” you stifled an embarrassed laugh. 

“Well, that’s on you for turning up at the 104 on a Monday,” Eren snorted and gave you Mikasa’s keys. 

You lingered in the doorway.

“Hang a bit with me before you go?” He leaned against the balcony railing, facing you. “Sunset’s nice.”

Your eyes darted from him to your hand on the doorknob, heart racing. The sun was starting to set. You hardly noticed.

“Yeah.”

You shut and locked the apartment and stood next to him. His skin was bathed in the orange and pink rays, his features casting angular shadows and his eyes lit up from the glow. 

“Quit staring,” he smirked, finally meeting your gaze. “Sky’s more interesting. Look.” The apartment complex was surrounded by the pretty trees, blossoms floating to the ground, wind rippling through the branches. He pointed out a pair of birds soaring above them. “Freer than we’ll ever be.”

You chewed the inside of your lip. 

“Did you mean all that stuff you said, about Ermich?”

“Of course. How do you feel about coming home?” Eren said, eyebrows raised. 

“You’re so annoying,” you grumbled. Your elbows touched as you both dangled your arms over the railing. 

“That’s more like it,” Eren grinned. 

It was a comfortable silence, accented by the quiet roar of cars on the street. The blocky sillouette of distant houses seemed to swallow the mural of color in the sky as the sun sank. 

Your eye caught a tattoo you didn’t notice before, a bronze key, wedged between two roses. You were tracing his skin before you realized it, but he didn’t flinch. Eren didn’t seem to mind. 

“What’s it mean?” You asked, your fingers on the design.

“My first tat,” he said fondly. “Faded to hell because I did it to myself. Technique wasn’t great, but not terrible. It represents a key that my father gave me a long time ago—I was young and stupid and lost it. It was–um, one of the last things he gave me, before he and my mom passed away.”

You withdrew your hand and met his eyes. 

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I came to terms with their deaths a long time ago,” Eren shook his head. “Wanted to honor them by it. Their initials are in the roses, there.” He took your finger and placed it on a CY. “That’s why Mikasa’s family took me in. You’ve met them before. I think I came out alright.”

He hesitated to continue, but you gave him an encouraging nod and went for his arm again, rubbing it gently. 

“Dunno how much you remember of me as a kid,” he said with a small smile. “I saw that blank stare when Mika mentioned me earlier. I always thought you were cool, for what it’s worth.”

“Me, cool,” you said incredulously. 

“In your way, yes,” Eren insisted. “You were always really nice to me whenever we crossed paths. Of course Mikasa loves you, and she hates most people that aren’t her girlfriend. You looked out for both of them, kept ‘em out of trouble. I should’ve been doing that, instead of wallowing and acting up.”

The light was getting low, the bright sky had turned into a symphony of purple and blue as dark drew closer. 

“You had a lot to deal with,” you shook your head. You’re doing better than you give yourself credit for.”

You reached for his hand and squeezed it, and gave him a hopeful smile. You drew away, but he caught your fingers and wrapped his hand firmly around yours again. Your heart soared, though you felt a little childish, flustered over his touch. His fingers interlocked with yours, and you prayed your palms were dry. 

“It’s been really nice to see you, you know.” Eren said, voice suddenly soft. He seemed so vulnerable, and he was painted blue in the twilight. He took a step closer, and put his other hand at the small of your back. 

“You too,” you breathed.

His gaze was full of longing, and you could practically see yourself in his blown pupils. He leaned in slowly and met your lips as they parted. The kiss was so gentle, and fleeting, like the petals that fell from the trees. You pressed against him, hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. 

Eren was patient and sweet, moving with you, savoring the push and pull. He ran his tongue along your bottom lip, breath shallow. 

He kissed you, and kissed you, hands roaming, from your back to your hair, your waist. Your stomach tossed and turned, and you adored the way he tasted, how warm he was. It felt so good. 

You were miserable most of the time, and now, you felt like someone could finally see you. You tried not to think about how temporary this felt, that his recklessness might have been fueled by the moment. 

Eren groaned against your mouth, his hands strong and firm. He lowered his head and brushed his lips against your neck, teasing you with the tip of his nose and his warm breath fanned across your skin. 

You shivered and he laughed quietly, and took your face into his hands. They had rough calluses and smelled like smoke, but you didn’t want him to let go. Your knees were weak as he held you. You bit his lip gently, and met his tongue with yours. 

Eren pressed his back against the railing and put his knee between your legs. You shuddered as his fingers brushed the back of your neck, and you kissed him with more urgency as you leaned against him, panting. Your teeth clashed and the gentle suction of your kisses drove you mad. You couldn’t focus on anything but him. 

You were dizzy when he finally pulled away, and you bitterly longed for his touch. 

“Will I see you around?” You blurted. 

Your flushed cheeks and glossy lips brought a smile to his face. 

“I’m upstairs whenever I’m not inking up. Come around whenever you like, okay?”

“Okay,” you said breathlessly. “Goodnight, Eren.”

“Goodnight.”

… 

When everyone woke the next afternoon, you and the girls went out for brunch—it was Sasha’s idea, of course. She was starving, and Mikasa had a pounding headache. 

“Do you think Eren wants to come?” Sasha asked her girlfriend as they walked to the car.

You shamefully perked up at the mention of his name.

“I’ve had enough of Eren for one break,” Mikasa rolled her eyes. “Besides, I think he has a lot of clients coming up. His car is already gone.”

“Yeah, maybe another time,” you said lamely.

“We’ll have more fun without him,” Sasha laughed.

You tried to settle into a more relaxed mindset, allowing yourself to have fun as time went on. You weren’t entirely successful—you greened out at the aquarium after brunch, and one day Mikasa wanted to go hiking on some local trails, which left you gasping for air as you spent nearly all the daylight wandering outside. You visited more obscure restaurants, and went on night drives, meeting the occasional familiar face in public. Others were coming home for break too. Eren was right.

Every day you would glance at the window above Mika and Sasha’s apartment, hoping you’d catch him leaving for work or coming back to his place. You didn’t know where Path’s Life was—you should’ve asked, and for his number too, instead of being so caught up in your own shit. 

Your heart ached as the week flew by, and you couldn’t bring yourself to ask Mikasa about him. You hadn’t told her or Sasha about what happened, too embarrassed by how quickly you folded, how much you liked him.

Eren must have been really busy. You managed just a peek of him one early morning before you left for home, when Sasha wanted to wake and bake out the window. She had called out to him before he entered his car, and he saw the two of you, and waved, with a wide grin. 

You were dumb to think that things would work out. You hoped this wasn’t on purpose, it couldn’t have been..  

You dreaded going back to school. It felt like a jail sentence. Spring break was a breath of fresh air, in more ways than one. 

It was almost funny how you seemed to run into every old friend or neighbor in Ermich, except the one person you wanted so badly. Things always seemed to turn out that way for you. Things that can’t be controlled, and cut off too short—inevitable, fixed.

[adrinktostopyourthirst]

dear sweet m if you end up writing about bucky with a vibrating arm can i pretty please be tagged?? (i don’t know if you do taglists, i couldn’t find anything that indicated either way, totally fine if not!)

Ah yes, Bucky and his vibrating arm. I’ve been hinting at it for ages. And you’d be surprised to find out…

There is no reason for the Wakandans to give the arm some extra functions. So any other vibrations than the mild ones from the inside mechanics were unnecessary. But as we’ve seen from Bucky ever since the 1940’s, he’s quite fascinated by technology himself. Also quite skilled with that brain of his. And as mentioned a while ago, this man has the sexual curiosity of a teenage boy – especially after everything that has happened to him.

So it took him some time to perfect using tools with just one hand, but he has managed to add in some extra functions to his arm. Peeling away at the vibranium carefully and programming some new things into the limb. Some things functioning as an element of surprise in battle, yes, but some functioning as an element of surprise in bed.

The first time he tried it on himself, he had taken a few deep breaths before activating it, squeezing his cock in his metal fist and supressing a low grunt. He had already been so close and had been edging himself for a while. He’d been throbbing and the artificial nerves in his metal arm could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat pulsing through his cock. How had he gotten so nervous doing this all of a sudden? It was a lot, but God, he’d needed to come! It had been unbearable, the need for release. Almost as unbearable as the thought of finishing it the way he normally would.

So he had turned on the added function, the vibrations rising carefully to a steady buzz the way he had programmed it, and the noise that sprang from his mouth had been borderline pornographic.

And he couldn’t stop. Moaning and whimpering as his palm vibrated against the hilt of his cock, he had barely managed to squeeze and pull his hand up to the aching tip of himself. Definitely hadn’t managed more than two pulls before he had spilled months of pent up frustration onto his toned chest with a helpless cry as the vibrations dimmed and he pulled himself through his vision-blackening orgasm.

And as much as he loved using the hidden feature, he hadn’t yet used it on a bed partner. It felt too intimate, too controlling for some reason. Until you, of course.

Because yes, Bucky has a kink for corruption and even though he knows there’s little left of you to corrupt, the small nudges out of your comfort zone felt like drugs to him. The man loves to be on his knees for you, worship the ground you walk on, but there are few things better than getting you to submit to him. Even fewer than ruining the sheets below you while he is still dressed.

And tonight, you looked beautiful. Sinful in the classiest way. He’d suffered through wearing a tuxedo to the party, as long as you felt confident next to him. And in turn, he felt powerful next to you. It was one of those moments where Bucky’s heart swelled three sizes because he realised that you both make each other want to be better. In the big things, but also the small things like tonight. Looking good, charming people, bragging about each other and hyping up one another. He was in cloud nine and it was about time he paid you back for it.

You are already breathing heavily, draped on your shared bed with your dress discarded and your heels still on. Your hair messy and makeup smudged slightly. Your skin is throbbing and flushed and the ache between your legs is nearly numbing. You stare up at the ceiling lazily, coming down from another Bucky-induced high as he prowls around the bed and watches you – jacket discarded and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows.

“I’ll never get enough of making you come, you know,” he says before he once again climbs over you. Kisses are pressed to your belly, your breasts, your neck. You almost purr at the feeling. “And I will always look for new ways to get it done. New ways to make you feel better.”

You want to tell him you already feel great, fight him on it, tell him there is nothing he needs to compensate for. But you’re so dazed and selfishly, you love it when he talks to you like this. It makes goosebumps prickle over your skin. And Bucky laughs softly at the sight, teasingly trailing fingers up your damp inner thighs. You shudder at the touch.

He continues, “But tonight… Shit. You looked so beautiful. So tempting. I want to use all of my ways on you. I want to make you come and moan and scream until you are nothing but a puddle of sweat and tears and come.” You whine softly at his words and drape your hands over his neck, urging him closer. He breathes onto your lips, “I want it all from you. Forever. Give me everything, baby. I know you can–”

The surge of vibrations against you cunt is so much, you gasp for air and freeze all the same. You try to snap your legs shut, but Bucky’s body is keeping you from it. You open your mouth to say something, but everything has left you. Thoughts, words, willpower – it’s all gone. Your body tightens and loosens, pleasure unfurling throughout it like light in a glowstick.

Involuntarily, your hips buck and grind against his hand and the sounds that escape you are torturous. You feel Bucky’s smirk burning over your skin and you only barely manage to look down.

You’ve used toys before, but these vibrations… It feels like the toy is made for you, rolling over every single nerve of your clit so precisely it feels out of this world.

And as you look down, Bucky’s gaze follows, and you see three of his metal fingers rolling over your clit. You let out a moan at the sight – a sound Bucky answers with a deep groan of his own. Nothing will boost his confidence more than your responses to him. Especially when he knows there is no room left in your brain to overthink the responses. These are purely natural. Needy and appreciative.

The two of you look at his hand in trance, breaths and moans fanning over Bucky’s cheek. And then he slips two fingers into your soaked core, curling them up against your swollen walls and the both of you let out a carnal groan, your hands clutching him tighter.

Oh shit, oh shit…

“B-Bucky,” you gasp and he presses a kiss to your temple in answer. You sigh and close your eyes, sinking into the sheets as he pushes and pushes against the growing bubble in your belly. Rolling a vibrating thumb over your clit and pushing vibrating fingers against your deepest spot.

“Give it to me,” he murmurs, but he sounds rushed. Impatient. Like there is nothing in the world he wants more than to have you fall apart for him. Nothing more than feeling you squeeze around him again. He watches it build. Something big, something neither of you can come back from. He watches you nearly vibrate yourself with pleasure as the pleasure builds, and builds, and builds–

And when you burst, Bucky watches you lose yourself entirely to him. More importantly, only three fingers from him. And he wonders how you would look and sound if you lost yourself to him entirely. In love, in pleasure, in need, in life–  

Aaaand he wonders if he could do this in public.

[nereidof40k]

I found more Husbandry words. So double update day. Don’t expect it every day though.

=====

I’m back, hope you guys weren’t too worried. Yesterday was really quite bizarre, but ended really very well. I don’t think I will be able to walk straight today, but it was so worth it. I’m actually surprised the bed didn’t break. Who the hell made beds that survive an enthusiastic Night Lord back in the 800s or so? No, I didn’t leave out a number. This house really dates back to early Viking times or possibly even earlier.

My wonderful man updated you yesterday, it seems, so there is not really much for me to tell.

My Night Lord has gone to clear out the orchard, getting rid of the undergrowth and weeds.

It is good he is so indefatigable. Nothing would have gotten done today otherwise.

While I am sitting here, I did some research about the pendant. It’s really curious how it responded when the clown attacked. It felt like pure ice. But didn’t hurt at all.

I haven’t been able to find out how yet. But the symbolism is interesting. Going by local beliefs, a mistletoe arrow would be Baldr, specifically his death.

And the snake is clearly Jormungandr, the World Serpent. The combination points to Loki Laufeyson. Norse trickster god. I’m more confused than ever, frankly. I wish there was a better library in this house. Maybe down in the maze. Ha. We’re not in a mystery story, are we?

Oh, my dear man came in, said he had something to show me, then swept me off my feet. I will be back in a few.

=====

Raven here, again. While the two lovebirds dig up more weirdness, I will keep you updated on other goings on.

First off, Altani and I are fine. Don’t worry, they have both been as attentive as ever before.

She is a sweet girl, I’ve been reading to her, trying to make sure she doesn’t watch too much TV. Though I have to admit there’s some very nice programs. I’m learning a lot about this time period and other ancient Terran history. I’ve even found a considerable amount of information about the area I myself came from. Shit, I’m starting to sound like Magnus.

The poachers are complaining to the news about being denied bail. I think it’s for the best. They should be too scared to leave jail. I guess they need to be frightened more. Might need to hint to the grandmothers about that.

Still more Astartes getting new homes and being reunited with their families.

Which leads to something I have been wondering about, given how much free time I have while recovering.

Compared to the rest of this time period, this place seems a bit … stuck in the past. I can’t explain it better than that. Not a bad thing though.

Raven out.

=====

Gods, when I saw what Raven had written, I swear my brain rebooted. He has a very good point. Modern society is so busy and uncaring. But not here. It’s like we’re living in one of those stories about an idyllic past. What is going on?

As for what my man showed me, I can’t believe it.

While most of the trees in the back part of the orchard are a total mess, he found one apple tree that looked just perfect. Practically dripping with big, juicy glowing apples. Yes, glowing. It’s also a bit early for them to be fully ripe.

Yet when I tried one, it was so ripe and sweet it didn’t seem real.

I swear any lingering soreness disappeared, and I feel like I’m millennia younger, if that makes sense.

My sweetheart also said the same. What even is this place, and why does it feel so right that things are like this?

We took some apples back to Altani and Raven. Same thing happened to them, they’re both running around like little kids in prime health.

First Loki, then these apples. If a Jotunn shows up next I might scream.

One second, emergency radio broadcast.

=====

Dear fuck, those apples came at the perfect time.

Some of the fuckers from the fighting ring managed to break out. And they’re out for blood. Altani immediately went out to grab more apples, I will join her as soon as I finish this.

My boys immediately started fortifying the place, mentioning it would have been very good to have someone named Rogal Dorn around, but he’s not here sadly.

Also the Grandmothers called. The entire town and its outlying farms are preparing for war. They shall not find us wanting.

For some reason the boys found that phrase funny. No time to explain now though.

But I will update you later, I have a little girl to protect. Though my sweetheart said she is extremely powerful, I still worry. Even with all the weirdness I haven’t been this happy in ages.

[everydayyoulovemeless]

How about the Fallout 4 robots meeting the robots from New Vegas?? owo

Fallout 4 Robots Meeting New Vegas Robots

➼ Word Count » 1.6k ➼ Warnings » Slightly suggestive (fisto) ➼ Genre » Platonic ➼ A/N » This takes place in the Mojave cause it'd be hard for a lot of the bots from nv to move across the country

Codsworth finds Victor to be quite the character. The moment he saw him and the amount of dust he tracked behind him, he immediately decided that he should step in and help clean him off. If it left any impression on the butler, then it was that RobCo didn't have the same prestige as General Atomics had.

Victor didn't care as much as Codsworth did about the mud and grime that clung to him, but he didn't stop him from wiping his screen down.

When Codsworth happened to meet Mr. House himself, he made sure to snarkily bring up how his company seems to be 'letting itself go'. Mr. House mostly just ignored him, assuming that that was just how he was programmed to be, but he's definitely not allowed in the Lucky 38 anymore out of fear that he'll find it dirty.

Another thing that gets Codsworth itching to grab a bottle of Windex is when he's introduced to Rex. The poor mutt! Not only is he covered in sand, but that awful paint job on his side! Dear God, if he doesn't get the poor dog washed off instantly he fears he might break down!

However, after he's done scrubbing him down, he decides he finds Rex to be quite the creature and would gift him one of the Jangles plushies that Sole doesn't stop flooding his inventory with. He'll certainly find it more endearing than he does.

If there's anyone Codsworth feels understands him most, it's Yes Man. At least he's inclined to sweep every now and then. The two actually get along quite well with how sarcastic and passive-aggressive they can come across as, as well as they're desire to be helpful in any way possible.

Codsworth thinks he's an absolute hoot and couldn't think of a better way to spend his afternoon than gossiping with the optimistic bot.

Curie drops everything when she spots Rex off in the distance. What a scientific marvel he is! She's never seen anything like him before and will take plenty of notes to see if she can't upgrade Dogmeat in the same way when she gets back home.

Rex also happens to be really fond of Curie (mainly because she gives him attention) because of how much better she makes him feel. Who knew he had so many broken parts? And without even realizing it? It's a good thing she came along when she did!

In fact, there are a lot of people who are fond of Curie. One of the main ones being Muggy. Her kind and gentle aura is something he never realized he was missing in his day-to-day life and he will beg her on bended knee to take him with her. He can't stand being with the Think Tank any longer! Please!

The Think Tank couldn't care less if Muggy went with her or not, they just want her out.

They can't stand how naive Curie is. She's clueless! And impossible to talk to! Not to mention how eager she is to put her grimy, wastelander hands on everything.

So, Curie leaves the wonders of Big MT with her strange, new friend to finally go and visit the place she came here for in the first place - Vegas. But she very quickly loses sight of the extravagant place around her when she meets Yes Man.

The two couldn't possibly be more of a perfect match and, although Curie can't ever pick up on Yes Man's sarcasm, and Yes Man can't do anything else but shrug at the scientific terms Curie spits out, they still seem to agree on most things.

They're both so kind to one another and have that same sort of curiosity about a world they've been sheltered from for so long, that they hardly leave each other's sides.

Nick feels a tinge of guilt when he sees Rex running toward him. Even though he's never lived it, he has memories of opening up the morning paper and reading about the reconstruction happening on the West Coast police dogs to make them look how he does. At least he seems happy though, right? Can't be mad at that. He'll scratch him on the head and smile a bit when Rex sits and tilts his head in recognition of his occupation as a detective, and he finds his instinct admirable when it comes to spotting danger, but there's something about the dog that makes him feel a bit off.

On the other hand, Nick can't get enough of Victor. The two will go out and shoot cans all day before returning to some saloon or bar and sharing stories from their time spent out in the wasteland. They're like brothers, just born from opposite sides of the country.

At some point, Nick had found himself tied up in another case while in Freeside and it led him right to where Fisto was stashed. He couldn't help but let out a dry chuckle and a sigh when the bot started offering his 'services', and Nick left as quickly as he arrived, deciding that he didn't want to be involved.

One thing he did get involved in, however, was the little Securitron Curie brought back from outta nowhere. How could he hate a robot who found some kind of... joy? when he cleaned mugs? Muggy warmed up fast to the caffeine-addict human Nick must've once been, as his synth counterpart can't help but down a few cups every morning, despite not ever feeling tired.

X6-88 finds Mr. House to be quite the spectacle. He actually really likes him and wishes to bring his ideas and plans back to the Insitute to try and do those same tactics on the Commonwealth.

Since Mr. House had gone to CIT before the war, X6-88 considers him to be a founder of sorts and has much respect for him and the work he's done in the Mojave.

On the other hand, he finds Victor's happy-go-lucky attitude to be annoying. Even if he were invented by House himself, he can't help but sigh whenever he hears him rolling over to him. He talks way too much and remembers way too little for him to be considered as anything but an inconvenience. He tries to avoid him at all costs if he can help it.

One Securitron that X6 does seem to like, however, is Yes Man. Although he's disappointed that he wasn't what House had originally intended him to be and was made from some dirty wastelander instead, he still finds his attitude and overall composure to be incredibly helpful. If only he were in more... responsible hands, then he could really be doing great things in terms of rebuilding the Mojave.

Yes Man almost envies how pessimistic and emotionless X6 comes off as. A part of him wishes he could express emotions on that side of the spectrum as well, but he supposes he's much more likable with a positive outlook instead.

However, if there's any part of the Mojave that X6-88 thinks could be useful for the Institute, it's all the tech stashed away in Big MT. He's not particularly fond of the Think Tank at all, and could only probably take a few hours of them bickering, but all the information they have with them is enough of a reason for X6-88 to want to kidnap them and bring them back to the Commonwealth to interview them further.

They, of course, make it impossible for him to successfully take them with him since they're all too paranoid to properly be teleported back and he quickly decides to just give up and go back to the Lucky 38.

DiMA likes to debate and challenge Mr. House on his political ideals and, as much as he loves the exercise, he's not fond of how accusatory DiMA can get. Not to mention how easily he seems to get people to rally behind him, so he gets locked out of the Lucky 38 pretty quickly if not Vegas entirely.

DiMA doesn't mind though, he wasn't a big fan of the flashy lights and large crowds anyway. Besides, Freeside is full of such interesting people, that he can't help but prefer it over the city. One of those people being Fisto.

When Nick approached him later one day and told him about his encounter in one of the back alleys, DiMA found himself... concerned, to say the least. And slightly curious.

What kind of robot must one be to be active in such a way? It's strange in any manner, and he was quite intrigued to meet him. However, he was disappointed when he found out he was a Protectron that had only automated messages. How disappointing...

Vegas was fun and all, but DiMA quickly found that he was being called for elsewhere... as he was messing around with one of the radios, he got ahold of the Mysterious Broadcast and disappeared to Big MT.

The scientists, like the other two who visited, were not happy. Especially since DiMA knows what he's doing when it comes to technology.

When he starts messing with Dr. 0's robots and reading through all sorts of Klein's legal documents they decide to ban him from their corner of the Mojave. They may even shut their satellite down altogether because?? they've got the worst types of people entering their lab.

He's honestly going to be the reason everyone has to leave back to the commonwealth. No one wants blud around.

[bridalribbon]

please talk more about fallen angels symbolism in your desired realities <3

i love this question, i could talk about this for hours ♡

so, the obvious one — the random figure skater reality where both me and c are fallen angels. i . . . don’t really have a concrete reason for this, besides seeing a skating program when i was, maybe, ten or eleven? and the skaters both had these giant wings on their backs — seriously, it must have made the jumps nearly impossible  — but it was so hauntingly beautiful that it embedded itself into my brain and never left. that whole reality needs a lot of work, tbh, it’s more of a feathery fever dream than anything at the moment, but there’s something about the details of it that i can’t let go of. the way ice doesn’t forgive, the way you have to trust your body completely to something that could shatter beneath you. i used to go skating on this pond near my house that would freeze over in winter, pretending i was an angel flying about, and the memory still holds a bit of magic for me, even if it feels silly to be admitting it now. but that’s the thing, isn’t it? the aching to soar when you’re chained to the ground, to glide when you’re condemned to stumble. skating becomes this physical manifestation of divine want — muscle memory of wings you’ve never possessed but somehow mourn anyway. every axel is an attempt to remember what flight felt like before the fall. every spiral becomes a prayer to a sky that no longer recognizes you. 

as for my fame reality, i’ve made a whole post on the fallen angel symbolism in my album, but in general, the act of making music has always been divine to me. i fell in love with music itself in two parts — whatever late 2000s britpop was on the radio when i was a child, and the hymns from the church i attended. we used to sing nearer, my god, to thee constantly, and it was in the program for the funeral of a dear friend of mine, so that particular song has always carried extra weight to me.  i actually sample it in one of the songs from bloodless! “ or if on joyful wing / cleaving the sky ” always made me think of angels. my fame dr in general is a way for me to express my feelings about my faith, if that makes sense ?? but it’s also this meditation on what happens when the voice that once sang in perfect harmony with the choir suddenly finds itself alone in an echo – chamber. there’s this specific vertigo that comes with having to retune yourself to frequencies you were never designed to hear, learning to make music that serves no higher purpose than your own need to create.

but honestly, the fallen angel symbolism has become my shorthand for anyone who’s ever outgrown the god they were raised with but can’t quite shake the muscle memory of prayer, myself included. it’s about the peculiar grief of leaving something sacred behind, even when you know staying would have killed you slowly, piece by piece, until nothing authentic remained. because here’s what nobody tells you about falling from grace — it’s not the landing that destroys you, it’s the moment your wings remember how to work but there’s nowhere left to fly to. it’s waking up every morning and reaching for a purpose that no longer exists, trying to serve a function in a routine that has no use for what you’ve become since leaving. you spend years learning to genuflect, to fold your hands just so, to speak and behave in this specific way, and then suddenly you’re standing in your kitchen making coffee and your body still wants to bow toward something that no longer feels like home. there’s this phantom ache where your faith used to live, like a tooth that’s been pulled but your tongue keeps searching for it anyway. you catch yourself mid – prayer sometimes, words halfway out of your mouth before you remember you’re not sure who you’re talking to anymore. there’s a very specific kind of loneliness that comes with outgrowing the container you were raised in — you mourn not just what you’ve lost, but who you used to be when that loss felt impossible to imagine. you grieve the version of yourself that could find comfort in simple answers, who could feel held by structures that now feel like cages.

i suppose that’s why i’ve always been so fascinated with angels; they were some of the first to break away from it all, but also some of the first believers.

[yayasvalveplay]

BAHHH YAYA IM SOBBING OVER THE IDEA OF BRAINSTORM AND REQUIEM BONDING IN THE AW STILL GOD 😭 💕

Okay OKAY LET ME CHILL FIRST

Since Requiem now exists as a clone in the au, I've decided to do a quick rundown intro on him, to flesh out what he would be like in an Autobot Authoritarian government then yknow a Decepticon Totalitarianism one :3 because while HE will eveny

Requiem is what you'd expect when you hear about a supposed 'perfect' Elite Gaurd Member. What an Autobot Trooper should aim to be.

He's quick to follow orders from Magnus; Requiem is swift and powerful. Requiem knows every Autobot law by the book and code; he knows the Autobot Code and had been in one of the top students during his time at Autobot Academy! He's what any loyal brainwashed cultist AutoBot should be!

However strong as he is and whatever potential he as; charm is something he lacks.

Unlike his DW! Counterpart; Requiem while only physically graceful with moves and actions with his bomber frame.

Requiem is as STIFF as a doorknob; if you thought DW! Requiem was awkward. AW! Requiem is even more awkward.

He only speaks when prompted because a scientist who joined in the clone project realized that they should PROBABLY have a program to prevent Requiem from using his outlier ability unless the situation is necessary.

Cuz yknow if you're going to make a clone and then GIVE said clone the ability from a famous torturer/cultist! 😬 You might wanna add some precautions incase the kid decides to be like dear old daddy!

While being raised by Sentinel and the Jettwins—Requiem was also under the watch of Perceptor, Magnus, and other Autobot scientists who were monitoring his abilities and growth since he's a clone.

Since Sentinel never meets Tarn at all AND Requiem was always surrounded by scientists. He doesn't have an interest in music in the beginning, after all; his wants and needs are already handed to him by the Autobots. Serve the Autobots and prevent Decepticon takeover!

Very similar to DW! Requiem unfortunately

Requiem's relationship with his caretakers, are iffy at best in his words. With Perceptor; their relationship obviously has no familial recognition— he's aware that Perceptor created him but that's it. For Sentinel; while he does provide the care Requiem needs— he's his youngest after having the Jettwins assigned to him. Sentinel wants him to be professional unlike the two mischievous bots, so he's usually separated from the twins who encourage him to have fun whenever they see each other.

The Jettwins genuinely do try to get along with him, despite they occasionally make fun of the younger member for well being an exact copy of Sentinel personality wise! A stick in the mud!

While Requiem does find them annoying at times since hes basically the younger brother for ONCE unlike his DW counterpart, he's capable of being fond with them.

When Requiem is finally older; he gets called forth by the Magnus with one simple task: to simply work with Sari

The little femme infront of him, the two as work partners within the Autobot Elite Gaurd.

Blue optics meet... it would be rather dull to compare Sari's optics to his own. For they were ethereal... they outshined his alone.

Perhaps he will enjoy this partnership.

ANWAYS BAHHH THIS JS WHAT I GOT FOR MY BOY IMMA ADD MORE SOON BECAUSE I DIDNT WANT TO MAKE THIS TOO LONG BUT LET ME KNOW WHAT YALL THINK DOES THIS MAKE SENSE AT ALL 😭 💕

AHHHHHHHH

He's trying.

But he's also less traumatized.

But him and Sari having an even more slow burn love then DW. AND IM HERE FOT IT

But ohh him looking at her optics and seeing the lights of the Allspark held in them. Ethereal. Beautiful. Something he get lost in whenever those eyes are on her.

Hmmmmmm Mion I'm going feral.

[northern-loner]

dear god now I'm losing my mind thinking about what the qsmp world looks like outside of the island holy shit.

obviously we know that the Federation has other locations that they run similar to how they run quesadilla, but how do you guess they get subjects for those? For some of them do you think they just take subjects they already have like hybrid experiments and throw them in? Or does the process change based on the general idea behind each location? Quesadilla was advertised as a perfect getaway vacation, what if another place was advertised as a unique wild-life expedition, or what Panacea did in opq where they promised money to struggling ppl if they signed up for their projects.

Do you think they run entertainment programs as well ShowFall-Media-style? Do they have Federation issued missing posters or hotlines? Do they have their hands in general authorities or are they a separate entity the Feds can simply influence through bribing or in-house plants? I like to imagine they're a pretty big deal in the modern world, like Google or Disney or whatever other world-ruling corporation you can think of.

BRO HOW DO YOU IMAGINE THE AVERAGE PERSON IN THIS WORLD IS?? Like there's no way no one makes conspiracy theories about the Feds and what they're really up to. Or random rare sighting videos of q!Bad or q!Antoine or maybe even Code monsters if they reach that far. We know Lovejoy is canon and literally funds parts of the Federation so there could be conspiracies about them too. That coupled with the parts of the cast who are said to be just regular guys before all of this, were there ppl that knew them and had genuine connections w/ them before their disappearance? THE TRUE CRIME COMMUNITY WOULD BE ABSOLUTELY INSANE IN THIS UNIVERSE AND WE ALL KNOW IT OMG.

All the more fantastical elements that are presented as just natural functions of the world as well. Like all the different supernatural or inhuman species just hanging around. Do you think Nightmare Stalkers could be major problem anywhere, or just some fucked up urban legend? All the different gods, are there different religions for each of them? What would those customs & worship methods be like? Do you think anyone has sightings of the actual literal Angel of Death on camera just buying a coffee or some shit?

Good god I need to lie down.

[blood-orange-juice]

ok so ive never properly played genshin and don’t plan to but i know a bit about it’s lore and characters and i think it’s really neat. however i have thousands of hours on ffxiv. on that note please explain why graha and childe are similar. i only have very basic knowledge on childe and i gotta know

Fellow ffxiv enjoyer. <3

(anyone asking me about G'raha has a 100% chance of getting a wall of text and I'm not apologising for that. enjoy your wall of text)

I'm not entirely sure I'm not a case of a person with a hammer to whom everything resembles a nail, but I do think they are the same archetype.

Sweet characters who could have been perfect sidekicks (who still are perfect sidekicks) but listened to too many epic tales as kids and found themselves in a wrong place at a wrong time and now have to play a key role in some universe-changing story.

Both are defined mostly by their stubborness, they are not very suitable for the roles they've chosen and fail over and over again until they do it somewhat right (barely).

No matter how badass they look, their power is not their own, G'raha is a glorified technician of someone else's miracle and little else than a living key, Childe wields an art of old Khaenri'ah without fully understanding it. It's all borrowed from someone else who needed them to achieve a goal.

They do look badass, but mostly because they larp. I'm honestly not sure which one enjoys theatrics more.

Civilisations that created the magic they use specialised in perversion of the natural order of things. They try to use it in relatively noble ways and mostly hurt themselves but the flavour is there.

Both are unbelievably tragic and both somehow make their stories seem almost lighthearted. Complete absense of self-pity. I think that's what makes them both so charming, it's a rare trait.

Both have an incredible capacity for loyalty and love and an incredibly twisted view of what relationships look like. "I'll cross time and space for you, I'll die for you, I'll build a city for you, I'll live for you but please don't ask me to share my plans." "I'll sacrfice my own health and respect of my subordinates to keep my brother's happyness, probably my humanity too, but don't expect me to actually interact with him."

Both have something that looks like self-sacrificial tendencies bordering on suicidality while being, if we are honest, a self-serving trait (partially born out of low self-esteem but still self-serving). They want to live in an old myth and sacrificing oneself is a perfectly reasonable price for that.

Huge egos. And I mean Huge Egos. It's a bit less obvious in Graha's case but I know the type, you see guys like that in PhD programs a lot.

Huge dorks. Both of them.

Both are stuck somewhere between human and non-human and, hmm... their ability to remain human is the most astonishing quality of both. By all accounts, neither should have. They somehow did.

Both are incapable of lying to the point where a third of each fandom headcanons them as autistic. Both are somewhat all right with tricking people without technically lying (although Childe had more practice).

Both are secretive because no one would understand anyway.

FF XIV is a kinder story, so it's easy to overlook, but technically G'raha is a case of body horror, accepts the role of a villain for a while and hides from the player way too much. Hmmm... Where else have I seen it. Hmm. Oh right. That ginger guy from Genshin.

Minor things:

Both are little shits and enjoy annoying the hell out of people they dislike.

Abysmally bad fashion sense. There should be a name for this particular type and level of bad. I don't think I've seen this anywhere else.

And then there's the colour scheme. Red+black+white+blue and red+black+light grey+blue (it's an "anime magician" color profile, I think. black-red-white as alchemy colours + blue as pure magic/something elemental). Childe doesn't quite fit but still the combination is rare.

They way they talk. Dear gods. Who the hell talks like that.

Here's where the similarities end.

One is morally grey but ultimately a good guy (technically. I think the point of ShB was that Emet and G'raha are almost the same), another is a morally grey but still (kind of) a bad buy.

At every step of his story Graha is surrounded by people who love or at least appreciate him, Childe is pretty much on his own and surrounded by people who are either shitty or clueless.

G'raha is kind. Truly and astonishingly kind, in a doomed world he chooses to love everything he touches. Silly little priest of hope. Of all the things he has done this is the most wondrous, I think. Not the time travel, not the city he founded, just being able to remain kind after everything that happened to him.

Childe is... well, Childe. I think he is a deeply decent person (to the point of having a visceral distaste for any kind of unfairness) and he's idealistic but he's indifferent more than he is kind. Empathy usually develops only when someone has shown the person empathy first and, as far as we know, he didn't have much of that in his life.

Also G'raha builds things. Childe breaks things. Childe breaks pretty much everything he touches.

One is an archeologist and a mage and another is a warrior.

I think these differences are caused mostly by the settings they were put into. Childe raised in Sharlayan would have been a very different person. G'raha trained by a voidsent and shipped off to Garlean military would look very much like Childe.

G'raha also has a beautiful character development arc. I love his ShB role. He has this huge ego in the raids and is insufferable and then we see an older and wiser him with a bunch of actual achievements and a bad case of impostor syndrome (trying to do anything real always humbles a person, we all know that real world is held together by sticks and scotch tape. honestly, this change alone is beautiful). And he gets to be an actual hero when he abandons all hope to be Important and resigns to die as a nameless villain if it saves everyone and spares his loved ones from heartbreak.

Childe's character development is yet to happen and I'm not hoping for much but we'll see.

The only difference that definitely isn't created by setting is that G'raha is naturally manipulative. In a kind-hearted way and mostly for the sake of better larp but he isn't that straightforward. Childe is spectacularly blunt for all his mysteriousness.

As a bonus, they both compare main characters to stars, but in completely different ways.

"No doubt your heroism will be the star by which I chart my course," says G'raha to the WoL.

Childe mentions the morning star, which is, of course, pretty and a good companion to a lonely traveler, but also it's not a celestial body you can chart your course by.

It's a guy whose signature weapon is called "Polar Star" and his first artifact set was full of nautical themes, so I think he fully understands what he's saying. "You are my friend but I won't change anything in my life for you."

So I don't think his story will be anything like G'raha's, his life took a different turn very long ago. I do think they used to be similar as kids, bookish boys who dreamed of adventure and being special. So it's fun to compare.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk. <3

[grifff17]

Audiodrama Sunday 6/9/2024

I have so much to say this week! I usually take some very quick notes as to what I want to say in these as I listen to stuff, but this week I have a ton of notes. Also, I made a Tumblr Community for audiodramas. If you want an invite, please ask me! Also, if you can figure out how to reblog posts into a community, which is supposedly a thing you can do, please tell me.

To start off, season 16 of Lost Terminal started this week. It feels great to be back in this world, this show is so cozy. I love the little programming tidbits in this show, as a nerdy programmer into conlangs and hard scifi this show feels like it was made for me specifically. It looks like the premise for this season is an entire season that takes place over 10 seconds, which is such an incredibly cool idea. I love how they are leaning into the relative time different between humans and AIs due to processing speed.

@worldsbeyondpod had so many crazy moments I have to talk about. First off *music change* "roll a stealth check for the fox" out of nowhere was terrifying. I truly felt Erika's gasp when Brennan said the words "patchy corduroy witch hat". I haven't even gotten to the biggest moment in this episode. Holy shit poor Straw. This story has so much moral nuance, I'm obsessed with @quiddie's defense of Suvi on tumblr since the last episode. Speaking of Aabria, "fuck your scene" was so perfect. Finally, Glassheart moment spotted at the end of the episode. Even though it will never happen, I will forever be a Glassheart shipper.

@worldgonewrongpod this week was very fun. It is weird that I was picturing a specific tree at a small local park I walk through all the time whenever the tree was being described? I cannot unlink that tree and this episode in my mind. The reenacted council meeting was great, I'm excited for the update to this episode at the end of the season. Also, I'm not sure I've said this yes, but the theme song for this show is perfect. I've already added it to my playlist.

@wanderersjournalpod ended on a cliffhanger this week. Are we finally going to learn Pluto's whole deal next week? I can't wait to find out.

@midstpodcast that was a hell of an opening scene. This whole episode showed such an interesting side of Weep. I want to avoid spoilers for this show, but that ending god damn. That is not what I expected. We must be getting close to the end of the season, they resolved the opening scene and the episodes are getting much longer. Looking at the lengths of the previous season, there's probably 2 more episodes.

A very short update from my dear friend over at @re-dracula this week. Renfield is so unsettling. I don't actually know anything about Renfield, so I'm learning as I go. I think he's some sort of vampire spawn?

@breakerwhiskey I caught up and what the fuck. This show keeps twisting the knife. Hey, at least Birdie is finally talking in real time again. She confirmed Whiskey's theory, which is nice, and finally gave us her backstory. Then the second reveal in a later episode, holy shit Harry. This really explains the whole dynamic between Whiskey and Harry. This was the big fight Whiskey keeps referencing.

I listened to the first episode of season 2 of Skyjacks Courier's Call. The city that it's going to be set in is really cool, and I loved the Fun Money shenanigans. Going on a road trip tomorrow and I'm going to listen to a lot more of it.

Finally, there was a new SCP: Find Us Alive this week. This was a cool episode, I really liked the art show. But the big thing was the very end of this episode. My theory was right! Sometimes, when talking into the mic, Harley was subject to the memetic effect and forgot what he was talking about. But only sometimes. They've established that it only happens if someone can hear you. This meant that every time he forgot, someone was listening! Great foreshadowing!

Because of the aforementioned road trip, I'm going to post this a few hours early. This is at least better than my usual time of "forgetting it until the last moment."

[annabelle--cane]

at the risk of sounding Really Bad and with the caveat that I mean this in the most pro vaccine pro taking Covid extremely seriously way possible. I think conflating mental health/personal hobbies and habits with physical health and wellness in the time of a literal plague is actually part of why we are where we are. The example of opting out of treating a broken bone that you used is the perfect metaphor because that’s something that mostly effects the person with the broken bone. But if you’re treating every goddamn thing a person can do like it’s potentially viral it makes it easy to sound reasonable to advocate for a lot of vigilance against individual choice. Is this totally off base? do I sound like a reactionary dipshit conspiracy theorist right now? Just… there’s something here right??

even if that isn't the total root cause, I definitely think you're onto something. covid is literally a deadly and disabling viral disease, so the logic of "your actions regarding this impact others" makes total sense, but I think a lot of people took that language and framework and just ran with it, hoping that alluding to a deadly and disabling viral disease would lend credence to their arguments about mental health and personal decisions.

for example, I am constantly thinking about this take I saw on a post about drug decrim in december 2021. it's so special and dear to my heart, it makes no fucking sense at all. the only copy of the screenshot I still have saved is just the tail end of it and it has my annotations, so bear with me.

first, just for a moment, I love the complete breakdown of internal logic. we need to end the stigma around drug abuse but I think using heroin is exactly like being anti-vaxx. we should decriminalize all drugs but you'd have to be craaaazay to think that legalizing them is okay. wait until this person learns that some addiction treatment programs include prescribing opioids as a harm reduction measure.

second, using heroin is in no way like being anti-vaxx oh my god, and this person just can't tell. they are explicitly applying viral disease logic to mental illness* and choices about individual bodily autonomy. I don't want to minimize the pain and distress that can come from having a loved one with a substance use disorder, but in no world is it the same thing as refusing to go to cvs a few times to get a free vaccine against, once again, a deadly and disabling viral disease. groundbreaking leftist take: drug use makes you a hazard and drain on society and honestlyyyy you should think about the consequences of your actions before choosing to become an addict :/

I don't have screenshot for this next example, but I've also seen this language and mindset particularly come up a lot in discussions about "bimboism," makeup, and cosmetic surgery. I've seen several discussion threads where a woman finally just says "look, I'm adult, I've thought about this, I've interrogated myself, and ultimately I still want to do it and I can do what I want with my body" and the comeback to usually is "are you stupid? this isn't just about you, you're a member of a society who inherently expresses your ideology through your choices. the personal is political, stop being so individualistic. what will young girls think when they see you in a miniskirt calling yourself a slut?"

again, the final point that's meant to win the argument is that your choices about your body aren't fundamentally your own but Society's, because other people can look at your body and have feelings about it, they may even want to emulate it. for an added bonus, this one doesn't just use viral disease logic, but also borrows heavily and directly from the really basic conservative idea that women are less people and more living mannequins that you can dress up and use to show off the ideals of your social group. you can't wear that, men might see you and think you're a hussy and then it'll be your fault when they harass other women, little girls might see you and copy you like mindless drones.

*obligatory asides that plenty of people can recreationally use substances without being addicted and they're also fine + I know that classifying addiction as a mental illness is a hotly debated topic, especially in antipsych contexts, but that's a whole different can of worms to the topic at hand.

[tokiro07]

Undead Unluck's power system is the conceptual opposite of Hunter x Hunter's

HxH's Nen abilities are created by the users from scratch and are developed or strengthened with the addition of rules or limitations. The more specific, situational and even detrimental an ability is, the greater the potency and scope of the ability itself

UU's Negator abilities are forced upon the users by external forces with specific yet obscured rules that the users must discover on their own. It is the user's capacity to experiment with and further their understanding of these abilities that allow them to further the development of these powers, with the ultimate goal being to expand the versatility and reduce the detriments of the abilities through loopholes and alternate interpretations

Let's compare two similar abilities in both series: Meleoron's Perfect Plan and Sean's Unseen

Perfect Plan makes the user completely undetectable so long as the user is holding his breath. Meleoron deliberately programmed this ability to only work for the length of time as his lung capacity because that brief limitation increases the potency of his invisibility. Even the ability to sense Nen does not work on him, but he effectively only has a few minutes at best, and repeated use is liable to be difficult. He is not allowed to try to work around the breathing limitation other than personally training his lung capacity, as any loopholes would demonstrate a lack of resolution, thus weakening the power

Unseen makes the user and their on-hand possessions invisible (still detectable by other senses and machines) so long as their eyes are closed. This is a cruel trick by God, as the user cannot see where they're going while using the ability, so the goal of power development is to figure out how to navigate despite the Rule. Later, Sean reinterprets the inclusion of his personal possessions to extend to people he holds dear, letting him make a partner invisible as long as they're in contact and effectively allowing them to act as his eyes

Meleoron can bring other people into his ability, but they don't make it easier for him to hold his breath, and arguably force him to move slower or use more of his breath. Sean's limitation of being blind is negated by the inclusion of a partner who he can trust to guide him

Meleoron's capacity for invisibility is expanded by making his ability more cumbersome, while Sean's ability is made less cumbersome by expanding the capacity for his invisibility. Ultimately, the abilities look exactly the same and have the same utility, but they reach that utility by approaching from the exact opposite direction

HxH is always praised as having one of, if not the best-developed power system in battle shonen, and UU is often praised for having one of the most unique power systems, so I think it's pretty funny that they earned those accolades by placing different values on the concept of rules

TL;DR, HxH's power system is "because I said so," UU's power system is "says who?"

[leiawritesstories]

Stick Season (Part 1)

Rowaelin Month 2023, Day 1: Song Fic

inspired by "Stick Season" by Noah Kahan (giggles in Frederick) I've had so much fun writing this and I am beyond excited to share it with all of you! happy Rowaelin Month once again! <3

Word count: 2,480

Warnings: swearing, bad decisions, heartbreak, not-great parenting, angst, simmering sexual tension, pining idiots in love but they won't admit it

Enjoyyyy! (yes there will be more, i promise)

@rowaelinscourt

Prologue

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Downtown Orynth, Vermont, still looked exactly the same as it always did when Aelin paid her occasional, brief visit to her hometown. Same “cozy” wooden buildings, same storefronts lining Main Street, same pine boughs wrapped around the light posts, same dusting of snow brushed across the rooftops in a postcard-picture kind of perfection. Same kindhearted shopowners waving at her as she strolled down the cleanly swept sidewalk. 

If she smiled hard enough, maybe she could pretend there wasn’t a gaping hole in her heart. 

Three years since she cut the other half of her soul out of her life, and no amount of friendship and laughter and girls’ nights could fill the empty chasm that leaving Rowan left in her. 

“Aelin?” The voice came from her left as she passed the local bookstore, a place where she’d spent some of the happiest hours of her youth. 

She turned. “Philippa!” A genuine smile curved up her lips. “I didn’t think you were still working here all the time.” 

Philippa waved off the mild protest with a flippant hand. “You know how busy it gets at this time of year, my dear.” She pulled Aelin into a warm hug. “It’s so good to see you again!” 

Aelin melted into the older woman’s motherly embrace. “Want to know a secret?” 

“Is that even a question?” Philippa laughed, opening the bookstore door and nudging her inside. “I live to collect secrets.” 

“Of course you do,” Aelin chuckled. “Well, here it is: I wasn’t planning to be back home this year. Or next year. Or anytime soon, really.” She blew out a short, sharp sigh. “I’m only here because…well…” She trailed off, not fully ready to voice the reason she’d returned. 

Philippa patted her arm. “It’s alright to let yourself grieve, dear. Your mother’s passing was a shock to all of us.” 

“And something of a relief,” Aelin mumbled under her breath. 

Ever tactful, Philippa pretended not to hear. “Will you be here through New Year’s?” she asked, smoothly changing the somber subject. 

Aelin nodded. “Yes. I’ll drive back to New York sometime around January fifteenth, unless Dad needs me for longer. I’m working remotely until then.” 

“Thank goodness for modern technology, right?” 

“Right.” She half-grinned. “I don’t suppose you’re still resisting that modern nonsense, hmm?” 

Philippa pretended to hide. “You caught me.” 

Aelin fake-groaned. “How many times have I told you that it will help the bookstore grow? Think of all the customers you could reach with something as simple as a website and maybe an Instagram profile!” Pasion seeped into her words, coloring her thoughts with excitement. “And you could easily keep up with the online orders–that crappy old monitor you have barely runs basic word programming, let alone internet.” 

“You be nice to Mort, now,” Philippa teased. She’d named the bookstore’s ancient computer Mort in honor of the many times it had brushed with death. 

“Mort deserves to be laid to rest once and for all,” Aelin laughed. “Are you trying to keep me in town or something, asking when I’m heading home?” 

“Maybe.” The older woman’s laugh lines crinkled as she grinned. “Or maybe I’m just planning to offer you a job here while you’re in town.” 

“You know I work in publishing, right?” Aelin raised her brows. “I’m pretty sure that’s enough books and book stuff for one woman.” 

“How long has it been since you remembered why you work in publishing in the first place?” 

The question made Aelin stop in her tracks, mind whirling as she sifted through years of memories. “I…years. God, it’s been…years.” For a moment, yearning flickered across her face. “Maybe not since the last time I volunteered here at Christmas.” 

“Exactly.” Philippa gave Aelin’s hand a motherly squeeze. “Christmas season is far too busy for one old woman to handle alone. So…will you help me?” 

A fond smile curved Aelin’s lips. “Of course I will.” 

~

Snow-dusted evergreen boughs adorned the lampposts of downtown Orynth, weaving their crisp pine breezes through the early evening air. Hands tucked into the pockets of his quilted flannel jacket, Rowan strolled down Main Street, determined to avoid being sidetracked into one of the golden-lit shops that smelled invitingly of cedar, maple sugar, pine, and spiced cider. Christmas scents always had been his weakness, despite the pain he couldn’t separate from the holiday. 

A single paper bag dangled from his left wrist, the only sign that he’d been out shopping for the holidays. His entire brood of cousins was about to descend upon Doranelle, the next town over, for the next few weeks, so he’d come into Orynth to pick up a few things. He refused to admit that the massive canister of peppermint hot cocoa mix was an impulse buy–it had been on sale, and he knew how much his relatives adored all the sweet holiday treats. 

It had nothing whatsoever to do with peppermint hot chocolate being Aelin’s favorite. Nothing.

“Whitethorn?” The call came from his left. 

Rowan turned towards the voice. “Who–” 

“Whitethorn! It is you!” Aedion Ashryver stepped out of Staghorns Tavern, a popular local brewery. “Come inside, man, have a drink.” He pulled Rowan into a brief, back-slapping hug. “Good to see you again.” 

“Good to see you too, Ashryver.” Rowan returned the hug but hesitated at the offer of a drink. “I dunno about the drink, though.” He raised his shopping bag. “Gotta go home and prepare the place for the Whitethorn horde.” 

Aedion snickered. “You’re still letting them crash at your place, huh? Thought you would’ve liked the house to yourself every once in a while.” 

Rowan shrugged. “It’s a big house, and I live alone all the rest of the year.” He flashed Aedion a smirk. “Besides, Sellene and Enda would just barge in anyways, so I might as well allow it.” 

“Fair enough.” Aedion glanced into the brewery, waving off someone inside. “You sure you don’t want to grab a quick drink? I feel like we haven’t seen each other in forever.” 

“Yeah, give me a rain check on the…” Rowan trailed off into silence, his brain stalling at the sight of Aelin Galathynius opening Stag’s door and grabbing her cousin by the arm, halfway through a teasing jibe about Aedion wasting his body heat trying to warm up the December chill. 

“...not worth it to–oh.” Her wide-eyed turquoise gaze slammed into Rowan with all the force of an avalanche. 

“What are you doing here?” The question, though whispered, tore out of him with the force of a deafening scream. 

Aedion brushed a protective touch over Aelin’s shoulder, murmured something softly into her ear, and slipped back into the brewery, wisely leaving the two of them alone. 

She swallowed thickly and steeled her spine, meeting his stare head-on. “I’m home for my mother’s funeral and the holidays.” Her tone was cool, detached, nothing more than an old acquaintance responding to a casual question. 

“I–I had no idea,” Rowan murmured. “I’m so sorry, Aelin.” 

“Don’t be.” She snorted quietly, her shields snapping back into place as swiftly as they’d fallen. “About Evalin, Rowan. Don’t be sorry.” A pause, a crack in her controlled exterior. “I can’t say I am.” Her expression sharpened. “Can I ask what you’re doing out here…um, by Staghorns?” 

He read the unspoken question, finding himself surprised that she hadn’t asked outright. “I was in Orynth to pick up a few things before my cousins get here tomorrow, and I was heading down towards the parking lot.” Downtown Orynth was strictly car-free, so the town had built parking space by the edge of the no-traffic zone. “Your cousin saw me, so I stopped for a bit.” And held off the alcohol, he added, silently. 

She nodded in understanding. “I…I should go.” She turned. 

“Wait!” Unexpectedly, he reached for her hand, stopping himself with bare millimeters between his skin and hers. “I…when are you leaving?” 

“After New Year’s.” The words were clipped. 

The shields encasing his heart slammed back down with finality. “So you’ll just up and leave again, no warning, not telling anyone?” He laughed, a sound as brittle as the winter air. “I don’t know why I expected any different.” 

“Some things never change,” she whispered, half to herself, her voice teetering dangerously close to anguish. Without another word, without a backward glance, she yanked open the brewery door, walked in, and vanished into the crowd packed into the bustling space. 

His heart a tangle of stormy emotions, Rowan turned on his heel and strode down the rest of the street, not stopping until he reached his pickup. There, he dropped his shopping bag in the back seat, leaned himself against the truck’s battered old green frame, and breathed as deeply as he could. Eyes screwed shut, he allowed the flood of memories to wash over him, sinking into the aching familiarity of her golden hair and wild laugh, her burning resilience and unwavering strength. The watery croak of her voice when she told him she was sorry three years ago. The tsunami of anger and rage and grief and torment that had ripped through his whole being for weeks after that afternoon.

Then he locked those precious, shattered memories back into the dark recesses of his mind, swung himself up into the truck, and drove off into the December night. 

~

Three Years Ago

Rowan pulled into his driveway in shell-shocked silence, muscle memory guiding him out of his truck and into the house. He kicked off his boots in the mudroom, shook the loose snow off the soles, and placed them neatly on the rack. Numbly, he shed his thick winter jacket and hung it on its peg, made sure he was free of tray snow and ice, and walked into the warmth of the wood-paneled house. 

A beer bottle shattered at his feet the second he came through the door. 

“The hell y’been, boy?” His stepfather’s slurred words were barely distinguishable. 

“Work, then the store.” Rowan had learned years ago to keep his words as brief and subdued as possible, lest he face another of Arobynn’s famous eruptions of drunken wrath. “Picked up another six-pack.” He placed the case of beer bottles on the kitchen counter. 

Arobynn squinted at the six-pack. “Leas’ y’did one thing right,” he sneered. “Clean up the fuckin’ floor, boy.” He grabbed two bottles of beer and stumbled back out into the living room, where he collapsed into his reeking, tattered old leather recliner and lost himself in his usual world of alcohol and blaring television. 

Rowan clenched his fists and jaw and picked up the broom. He made quick work of the broken glass, dumped it in the trash bin, put away the broom, and grabbed some food as he hurried off to his room. Arobynn’s alcoholism was a blessing, in a way–he confined himself to that side of the house, not moving much between the den, the kitchen, and his bedroom and bathroom. It meant that Rowan could stay in the master bedroom, which was at the other end of the house, and keep the rest of his family home as clean as possible. 

Every time he looked at the single portrait of his parents that adorned his bedroom wall, he swore he could hear their sorrow at the state of their once-beautiful home. 

That goddamn crash had taken so much from the Whitethorn family. 

Rowan was only a child when he lost his dad, and his mother had been so buried in her grief that she’d failed to see the giant blaring red flags of the first man that showed her any affection. She’d married Arobynn Hamel partially out of what she thought was love and partially out of necessity; the property needed another pair of adult hands to maintain it, not to mention another income. It was only a few months before Arobynn’s true colors showed themselves. 

For five years, Rowan’s mother had stayed strong, protecting her son by sacrificing herself. She’d protected her son from his stepfather’s fits of drunken rage, from the anger that reverberated through the house, and even from the knowledge of her medical diagnosis. When he lost her, too, Rowan lost all hope that his life could be anything but alcohol and anger and abuse. 

Then he went away to college and met Aelin, and her warmth rekindled his frozen soul. 

Watching her drive away from him mere hours ago had ripped the fragile, carefully patched scraps of his heart into bleeding shreds. 

Fuck it. If he didn’t blow off some steam now, he’d do something he’d regret later.

As silently as possible, Rowan slipped out of the house, crossed the snowy yard to the barn, hauled open the door that desperately needed some oil, and flicked on the overhead lights, illuminating the large, chilly, wooden-beamed space. He’d slowly transformed the barn into a gym over the years, picking up old equipment at estate sales and local gyms who were remodeling or getting rid of old machines and other stuff. Right then, he only had eyes for the punching bag–his favorite way to release the pent-up anger his fists itched to rain down upon Arobynn’s worthless face. 

He took off his jacket and sweatshirt, pulled on his well-loved boxing gloves, and strode over to the punching bag. With a grunt, he launched into a punishing round of strikes and punches, pummeling the taut leather sandbag with enough force to send it rocking on its chain. That first volley loosened the knot of tension in his chest, opening the floodgates, and every tangled, indecipherable, raw emotion he’d bottled up came pouring out in the erratic rhythm of his gloved fists (and occasionally his shoes) against the punching bag, interspersed with hoarse yells, broken shouts, curses, groans, and grunts. He lost himself in the slap of leather on leather, barely remembering to draw breath, slapping and punching and kicking until the flood of grief and pain and rage had subsided enough for his head to clear. 

Chest heaving, rare tears seeping hot and salty down his face, Rowan sank to the weathered wooden plank floor, buried his head in his hands, and felt the crushing weight of abandonment, an old familiar companion, press down upon his shoulders once again. 

Although he didn’t know it, Aelin was curled in the same position on the floor of her childhood bedroom, her face buried in her hands, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. The same anguish tore through her ruined heart, a white-hot knife of grief and guilt piercing her to her core. Leaving him was the last thing she ever wanted to do; it was like splitting herself in half. Yet she had left him, tossed him to the snowy curb without a backward glance. Leaving him shell-shocked on the edge of the highway, heart in his throat and the winter wind whistling through his empty hands.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@chronicchthonic14

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[velvetporcelain]

sweaty summer sex

i am starting to finally feel comfortable and confident with who i am and who i am capable of becoming,

i am putting a strict diet on what my mind is consuming, — i have to, i think it is the key to the next level of consciousness,

releasing trauma, shame and guilt through simple stretching and flexing of the muscles- truly a sacred release, a sacred relationship with our vessel,

i will admit that i still treat mine like shit, i am always questioning if i can could truly handle being alive without any anesthesia—- ?? and i just don’t know how to answer that question yet— maybe because i don’t want to know the answer, maybe i wont like it—-

the mind is something that i am in control of, something that literally houses my identity, intelligence and programming —- how does it control me? — why is it even able to control me when i am the mind itself? —-

i have been thinking about you dear lover, oh how i miss loving you—- how i miss you loving me- and i like to believe that you think that too- and you don’t care how long it takes, you will always be there- waiting for me, — the thoughts of you have been heavy, heaviest they have been in the last three months, — and it makes me bitchy and bratty—- need to find ways to maneuver of this automatic negative thinking— once an obsession- maybe still an obsession— maybe it’s turning healthy— eh - ha -

—-and maybe that’s why they say the head thinks differently than the heart— or is the heart there to feel and take in energy—

i am still getting to know myself and i don’t think this translation ever stops, its constant- its a condition of consciousness—

looking at myself naked and i am inspired by the thought of body modification once again— i want to see more art, less skin- and i have never really thought twice about it— and i don’t think i would— but this is my idea of beautiful- but also taking care of yourself is beautiful too-

took a night drive to get dinner, in the old pony— coz she’s really just always waiting patiently to be driven—- ah ha — anyways— a group of men passed by as I parked and asked if it was a fox body— and I said do i really have to answer that question? —- they must have parked because while waiting for my order, he came in— and he asked my how much for the fox body? — I said — hmm 30– he said —- dollars? I said —- thousand —— and he proceeded to tell me that when his parents were in domestic altercations they would take the fox body they had out for a drive and i said well— that sounds painfully nostalgic—- haha —- this poor guy- i mean he was typical middle America country boy— not my type but thought his hearing aid was cute— he was rough around the edges— and the wife beater— the fucking wife beaters tanks are so cringe — anyways no judgments - just being me—-

—- he wanted my socials, but i have none- so that was really satisfying to say— and he said i came in here to grab my buddies order— and as he walked out with NOTHING, - i realized that he didn’t come in here for shit, he came in here for me—-

so fucking terrifying, yet so instinctively erotic!!! you can say, well maybe he really just wanted to ask you to buy the car—- HA — lololololololol —— HAHAHA— staaahhhppp— you know better —

fuck- anyways, —- i hope you’re thinking about fucking me in an open field of flowers- mid afternoon— no one there to see us but the sun, — no one there to feel us but the flowers—- hunting- fucking— loving— connecting—- stimulating—

god — i want to sit on you, facing you— while you gently shoved your fingers into me— i want to moan when i kiss you, politely and feminine- light and erotic tones in between our tongues— ahhh that makes my pussy throb thinking about it— no cares in the world pumping us higher— the way you kiss me when i touch the bulge in your pants— haha - I’m blushing and my skin is so warm, your hands perfectly cold, a perfect exchange of “wow- you’re such a beautiful creature — and i want you” energy ✨👽

fuck- i need sleep. dream of me.

-x