#I just be writing and dumping anything on this blog

[laserbobcat]

as someone who's 33 and writing Narilamb and reading your comics, and also kinda interested in different kinds of art myself, it is so so nice seeing someone around my age who's into this fandom and making art. I feel so stupid sometimes that it's hard to even pick up a pencil or stylus - and I'm new new new to art like that so I need that practice time. seeing people like you making what you love and not giving a good goddamn is really inspiring. I'm sure you get lots of love for your comics but idk I just wanted to say thank you 💗 your cat and Leshy make so many people smile for so many different reasons :)

AW I do get a lot of kind feedback, but it's rare that I don't have the time/energy to answer. I really appreciate messages. I do read and see all of it, and every little tag matters. It's why I try my best to leave at least a little tag when I reblog art, and I'm not shy about sending messages to creators when I have, again, time/energy. People are shy, but we are all dorks, you realize it pretty quick when you start interacting more with the artists you follow. Warning surprise super LONG life dump bellow. I was like "Inspiring, are you sure? I'm also wreck, let me tell you just so there's no misunderstandings" and bam, novel.

About being 35 and making whatever I want: I do in fact feel self conscious about a lot of things, it's just that people on the internet don't really matter. That sounds harsh, but it's true. It's like people you meet on the street, or at bars, or at work: mostly polite positive interactions, some nice memories, a few of them will form solid bonds with you, the vast majority of them will be lost as soon as they're not in the same vicinity as you anymore. And it's normal, and it's ok. Humans aren't made to nurture too many relationships, even the social ones. So I personally enjoy fandoms in a detached sort of way that might feel like I don't give a damn. I think it's healthy tbh. But it's easy to appear calm and detached when you don't really have skin in the game. I really care about this blog it's my fun place, but it's completely detached from my actual life. I'm being an anonymous dork among dorks, it's nice. Some people are dumb sometimes and I don't care. What are they gonna do, sue me, lol. BUT LIKE. I almost deleted that blog once because and IRL person I know found it? I panicked SO HARD. Y'all nerds can look at my silly comics with cute cats kissing: not people in my real life. I'd rather be found drawing hardcore tentacle porn or sniffing paint. I'm not like, brave or anything, I'm hiding online XD

And honestly life is haaaaaaaard right now. For everyone lately. but for me personally: fanart is a nice hyperfocus to forget that life is a bitch. A distraction. I've always been "too sensitive" never could hold a job for too long, because people are awful in low level entry jobs, I never got one that I really like. I've been studying art and digital art, it's been hard, and it didn't lead me anywhere professionally for various reasons. I paid a private school and I am just finishing paying a big loan, just for the (average) skills I got being used to draw a cartoon bush with legs, kissing a cat, on a dusty website. It's so incredibly easy to feel like a failure. And being an artist SUCKS in this world. I'm not an artist by choice, god I would love to be smart enough to have done different studies, and have some kind of job that actually pays. But no, just did a professional profile, and all my affinities lead to creative work, I'm doomed to be good at things that are hell to make money off of when you don't have twice or thrice the energy a regular job needs. I just can't stop. Even when I take breaks, I always come back to creating things. A life's curse, truly.

I feel depressed now, so let's filter this shit through my "15 years of therapy" voice translator: -I'm not too sensitive, people telling me this in my life have all been notorious assholes. If we had more raw hearted people, daily life would be softer, and we wouldn't have wars. Us kind softies are vastly underappreciated. -I haven't been paying a school for nothing, I met my best friends there, learned a lot of skills and methodology that serve me today, and will serve me later in ways I can't just pinpoint yet without hindsight. I also have a lot of experience and help I can share with younger people and beginners. I'm a great art teacher. -I'm happy that I can't help being creative. So much people trail off into things they don't like, and realize later that they're utterly miserable. It's harsh, but not having the strength to pursue something you don't like is kind of a blessing. You avoid so much shit on your life path. it's not a life worth living. I've seen people with good paying careers give them up to get fully into a passion. -It's okay to draw a bush kissing a cat, who fucking cares what you do on your free time, the cops? It's ok to enjoy cute and silly things even when everything gets serious- especially when everything get serious. So much of us get our inner child crushed it's terribly sad. -The silliness is serious actually. You can get a powerful life lesson from deep books about philosophy and self-care and shit, but they're not rare everywhere else. The silliest movie, comic or fanfic can have a line or a character that will resonate enough with you to change your life. Like a tiny little piece that was missing in your personnal puzzle. I felt deeply moved by some comics online, so my own comics online 100% have the same value. What are "serious" media but hobbyists getting their art to a bigger professional scale. We're all telling stories around campfires and there's nothing stupid, shameful or weak about that. Egyptian gods were dramatic furries ffs.

I'm eternally stuck between "Yeah follow your heart and do art" and "It will lead you to hell though" because I feel like both are true. But do you really have a choice? What are the other options? I personally don't, so I just pick up the pen for a hobby, and started applying to ceramic courses for a career change. We'll see where it goes.

Well that was a lot, but I have some serious anxiety issues that make me over-explain stuff, and I'm talkative, and I'm on my period. Enjoy.

[kwamiwayzz]

AU where Jecka is a counselor/therapist at a well-known university.

She didn't think she would go for a career like this, seeing as how she used to be in high school. A preppy, blonde, bitchy white girl from the suburbs who often took to telling the nerds at her school to off themselves now being the person who would listen to these same nerds from taking their own lives? High school Jecka would tell her she's kidding herself. Why go through all that effort when she could marry a rich guy and live off that?

(More under the cut)

But surprisingly, people can change. Even Nicole.

It's been a few years since she's reunited with Nicole again after being thrown in jail for selling crack for community service hours. Jecka didn't exactly abandon Nicole during that time, but she sure wasn't going to pretend she endorsed whatever bullshit she was up to. She could've continued visiting her, even if it was just once a month or two, but she had other things to worry about. School, trying to get into a good college, etc. By the time she graduated high school, she admittedly did forget about visiting or checking up on her so-called best friend. If she were to try and reach out to her now, it would probably be more of an insult than anything else.

She continued her life in college, first starting with "Undeclared". Jecka has no idea what to do with her life yet, so she's just going through the motions. While in the middle of studying, she ends up finding Nicole by her dorm, just smoking. Long story short, after Nicole finished her two years of prison time, all her shit was thrown out by her mom and was forced to live elsewhere. Wow, guess her mom gave up on her a long time ago. Jecka wasn't going to readily accept Nicole back in her life, but Nicole was still tagging along like some homeless beggar asking for money.

But it's not like Nicole had any other options, or even people to go to.

And Jecka hasn't exactly made many friends she'd consider "close" at college, so she thought, why the fuck not let your (technically) ex-best friend, who also may be a sociopath, tag along with you? It was just meant to be friendship of convenience. Just like in high school.

But she saw how Nicole was trying to change a bit every time Jecka called her out on her bullshit. It's not like back in high school where Jecka's words would just go in one ear, then out the other. After dealing with more bullshit from Nicole, whether it's suggesting taking crack to stay up for exams or slamming doors after a petty argument, things were finally starting to settle down. Nicole wasn't always causing as much trouble anymore, whether it's towards Jecka or other people, but she was still the same person she always thought was pretty cool back in high school (just a bit more well-adjusted).

So, after all that mess, Jecka ends up deciding to go into Psychology. In a way, Nicole "inspired" her to go for a career like that. If she can deal with people like Nicole, then everyone else should be a walk in the park.

Years pass, graduation comes around the corner, and Jecka has her Bachelor's in Psychology. Nicole, on the other hand...is Nicole. Admittedly, she tried to aim for "higher education" at the nearby community college, once she started becoming more well-adjusted. But just like high school, she just couldn't sit still or deal with being stuck in a classroom for too long. At the end of the day, Nicole figured college wasn't for her and ended up taking a few odd jobs here and there to help with rent while living with Jecka.

It took a bit of time, but after shitty job to shitty job, Jecka got an offer to work as a counselor/school therapist at a university. Surprisingly, it was from one of the Ivy Leagues. And Jecka figured it would probably be a bit easier (and more tolerable for her) to listen to problems from college kids rather than relive the bullshit she experienced back in high school.

The first few months are pretty good, actually. Pay is decent. Nicole is off working at a restaurant as a bartender/waitress without getting written up or fired for telling someone to off themselves. Though, if she were saying it to sleazy men who think they'd have a chance with her, Jecka would 100% side with Nicole's typical habits in that instance.

Things seem alright, pretty stable. The students that come and see her have some relatively easy issues to listen to aside from the occasional family trauma they would spill out. But she's heard worse. She's heard almost everything from Nicole by this point in their lives.

She ends up getting a new client during the months she's there. The student has blonde hair, but brown roots growing out at the top of her head. The dye-job reminds Jecka a bit of Kelly back from high school. The person across is acting a bit timid, hands clasped, and legs closed together as she's sitting on the couch. Jecka figures this is probably this student's first time in a setting like this.

Then Jecka hears her talk, and there's a bit of an accent. Broken English, but still understandable. Jecka figures that this person is an international student. There's a lot of them at the Ivy she's working at.

Jecka is out here doing her job, being encouraging and patient with every student that comes by her door. If high school Jecka saw her now, she would probably ask what kind of lobotomy she went through to get to this point. She's getting the hang of this job. And if she had to choose, maybe working here permanently wouldn't be a bad idea.

The same blonde student comes in, and becoming more open to talking out all the issues she's dealing with. It's mostly all relationship issues, anyway. Jecka's heard the same stuff from other students, so this is all the same to her.

Partner is emotionally repressed? Family trauma? Sexually abused by her teacher? Mother nowhere to be found while her dad abandoned her for five years? And all of these issues are starting to bleed into their relationship? The student tells her she's been feeling extremely bad for feeling like she's slowly losing her patience with her partner.

Jecka feels like the person in front of her has unintentionally answered why she and Nicole haven't really made their "relationship" official. It's mostly just all been sex the past year. A romantic relationship with Nicole would sound like a headache, despite finding her attractive. But if they cross that line, then what happens next? Would Jecka start to lose her patience like the anxious girl sitting across from her? Would she still continue to be friends with Nicole if they were to date then break up?

But Jecka knows this isn't about herself, this is about the student in front of her. Plus, whatever their partner has gone through probably isn't even half the bullshit Nicole has dealt with.

Giving advice will be easy. A walk in the park.

Then that same student accidently blurts out she's dating her step-sister.

Oh.

Well...

That's awkward.

[grimesucker]

.

[grantgustinin]

In season 1 episode 2 of house, Greg mentions a stat that “30% of all men are raising kids that aren’t theirs” and when questioned about this stat, he makes a throwaway line about “that’s what our mothers want us to think”. The use of OUR and US is sooooo interesting because in season 5 when Greg’s dad passes we find out that he deduced that his dad (the man who raised him) wasn’t his real father at the age of 12. AND HE ENDED UP BEING RIGHT. so idk if they decided from day one that Greg’s dad wasn’t his real dad or if this is a crazy coincidence but wow. I wanna believe it wasn’t coincidence.

The real coincidence tho is me watching that random episode in season 5 where we find this out before immediately restarting the show and noticing this line in season 1.

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

Little drabble for today, since technically today(or perhaps yesterday?) Was the day I had my little...moment of. Wow it would be so funny if I got engaged with Finn and of course it happens to be cliche a few days before Valentine's Day. Anniversary. I know I don't really post my writing a lot and keep it more private but that's mostly just cause it's harder for me to write things that aren't very emotionally incorporated, if that makes any sense? With drawing I can do a little cute doodle, draw some hearts around it, and that's it, a nice simple little thingy. But with my writing it is normally a lot more extensive, even if whatever I'm writing is just fluffy stuff. And. Not to mention. A lot of people normally brush over drawings after like five reasonable seconds, but with writing it isn't entirely something that can be consumed so quickly. But! I yap a lot on here anyway.

I don't thinkkkkkk this needs any content warnings? I tried to not go into detail about the actual extent of the woes I experienced and just said enough to get it out of my system, but everything else is true and accurate😉 it gets super sappy fluffy at the end because it is me we are talking about here, so of course it does. I did a shorter Speedrun version of my proofreading, so hopefully it has a nice flow to it!

--------

"Yes, but I want to actually do SOMETHING for today, I mean, something nice at least. It is a special day, we should do something.. special for it!" Kane reasoned, still in bed and curled up to a pillow. He cautiously rolled over onto his back, and his expression twitched like he had winced. He kept the pillow in his arms and loosely hugged it against himself.

"Kane, I'm pretty sure I just watched you die, I'm not going to let you expend what little energy you have left that needs to go to resting." Finn sighed, upset, sitting carefully at the edge of the bed. He certainly wasn't upset at Kane, more so the situation; and perhaps what little he could do- or have done- to remedy it, to no fault of his own, of course. Or anyone's, really.

Considering that Kane wasn't always that keen on bigger events anyway, his prying for one was a bit ironic. But just because he didn't like going out to restaurants or typical romantic events that involved eating out in public or resulted in lots of noises going on like at restaurants, it didn't mean that Finn didn't like those things. And, perhaps, Kane felt a little guilty inside, because he had been out of commission for most of the day, so anything that they could've done couldn't happen.

"It's not like I didn't know this might happen." Finn said gently, turning a little so he could look at Kane when he said it.

Kane sighed a little, almost in a pouting manner, and glanced at Finn to meet his gaze for a moment, "I mean, I know that we both knew it was going to happen, cause the prediction and all- and I could feel it- but..."

"But I'm feeling better now and-"

"Rest." Finn interrupted firmly.

Kane groaned in response, why must he need rest and recovery. Why must he be aware of how truthfully exhausted and sore he felt. "Okay, well I wasn't dying, I was just-"

"You were withering in pain, and trying to tug out your own hair so you could feel something else, you-"

"Okay, okay, but worse case scenario you could've just- I mean we live in England, all the houses and buildings are brick- you could've just bonked me out on the head and then drivin me off to the ER or like, urgent care or something."

Ah, and Kane was met with the look of a man who sometimes forgot what country people grow up to be. A look laced with concern because it was his partner he was looking at, but there was still a slight hint of "Fuck? No!" Whether Kane's country roots lying in America added to this was a different story.

"Er- euhm- Whatever the uh. Thing is called the-..." Kane looks around the room as he racks his brain for it, "The NHS! Yes! Whatever those.. they have like those walk-in urgent rooms, right? Like buildings?"

Finn looked like he wanted to respond with several things like "The NHS wait time isn't worth it" and "The day I put you out of your misery like some animal even if it is to temporarily knock you unconscious is the day I [redacted]" but with as ruffled and exhausted as Kane still appeared, he wasn't going to have the man waste his breath on discussing the complexities of the NHS and every other healthcare system, or whatever else was going through his mind. Instead, he ever so gently nudged Kane over closer to the middle of the bed so he could lay down next to him. He understood that going from forever sleeping on a bed that was hardly bigger than him to the luxuries of a bed that was probably a bit bigger than your dining table was something for Kane to adjust to, but it still drove him mad that Kane, for some reason, slept right at the edge of the bed. Even if he has yet to actually fall off of it.

And Kane couldn't help but crack out a grin over it, he spent a lot of time in bed so there was hardly a moment where Finn wasn't wordlessly gently shuffling him closer to the center of the bed.

"But we aught to do at least something, right? Today isn't just any other day today- not to me at least- I want to at least mark it like that by doing something special. Even if it is something small."

As Finn stretched out and laid down net to Kane, he let out a long exhale, "And you call me foolish?" Finn mused, and with as much little movement as possible he rolled over so he could face Kane and gingerly wrap an arm around the other man, tucking it under the pillow that Kane was still holding closely to himself. He was sure Kane was still feeling sore, so he treated every movement and touch he did like he was trying to do a waltz in a minefield.

Kane cocked an eyebrow, "I do call you foolish. Not that I'm any less foolish- if not more." "You certainly are," Finn's voice turned to a mumble as he tried to nuzzle himself infinitely and impossibly closer to Kane.

"And would you like to elaborate on that?" Kane asked, with a faint grin. He was feeling far more amused that he was able to express himself at the moment.

"The whole point of the day is just to spend it however we'd like, and I don't care how we spend it, I just want to spend it with you."

This was one of the moments were Kane was glad that Finn had his face buried up against him, because even if Finn could feel Kane hold his breath, it at least still spared Kane a little dignity because Finn would miss seeing his eyebrows furrow and the corners of his mouth twist and maybe his eyes watered up just a little as well. "Yeah, but you spent the day like a medieval doctor watching a patient and not being able to do anything about it but sedate them."

Finn frowned a little, but he would've frowned regardless of what day it happened on because it was still something that happened in the first place.

Kane let go of the pillow with one of his arms, and then decided to forfeit the pillow entirely altogether and shift his position so he was laying more towards Finn now. He didn't really have much left to say.

"I just want to enjoy the day with you, Kane." Finn murmured, the weight of affection in his voice was undoubtable.

Kane was quiet for a moment, his eyebrows were still furrowed, "I just want you to know that you are special," he responded, and if his sentence had been any longer his voice might've croaked.

Finn smiled, and tried to be as gentle as he could as he softly tugged Kane ever so slightly more closer to him, "I know that you think I'm special." Again, Kane took a moment before he responded. His mind was having trouble arguing with someone who seemed to radiate their love out of their body.

"You do?" Kane asked. Of course he would want Finn to feel special.

"This is where I get to use one of your own sayings against you," Finn said, starting to grin, "You always say that actions speak louder than words, don't you?"

As much as Kane loved that saying and thought it to be true, it bugged him a little that it sounded like something you would find spelled out as the lesson in the back of a book or TV show for children. Which perhaps was exactly where he had gotten it from.

"I do say that. And at least in my experience I've found it to be relatively true, give or take some case scenario exceptions; as with anything there's exceptions."

"Well I think it is plenty special that I get to do this with you," Finn gave Kane the lightest squeeze possible in his arms, "And you tell me in plenty of different ways all of the time how you feel about me." Kane knew that he did that, but part of him almost wanted to respond with "I do?" because it wasn't the usual for someone to be able to understand the funny language that he seemed to speak.

Kane looked at the ceiling for a little while, soaking in the words and the moment. Finn seemed quite content and peaceful with things right now- which is what Kane wanted. Truthfully, in an ideal scenario Kane would've spent the day treating Finn like he was some royalty- not that he didn't have tomorrow to do that, anyway.

"I like you, Finn," Kane said.

"I like you too, Kane." Just for a few moments Finn had closed his eyes. Then again, no one ever goes to close their eyes for just a few moments and it turns out that way.

No, maybe today wasn't and couldn't be spent as a day for a big grand gesture and display of love and affection, perhaps that was something that was going to be saved for another time, but there was still just as much love to be felt in getting consumed by the peaceful tranquility that came with not having anything but a nice warm and safe home, and being willingly boxed up in a room with someone literally, and figuratively, wrapped up around you.

[ratscrap]

oh brother who invited this guy

[emstargazer]

No amount of words that I can currently muster up could express what I so desperately want to put into this post, but I'll try to start with:

I fucking hate it here.

[castleinthemist]

honestly i could self-impose a stronger rule that anything i put into attract mode HAS to be under 100 reviews but that's fairly easy to gauge in steam and less so in itch., where a game can be fairly well known or at least something i see circulate often but only has like 50 reviews max

[spock-adoodledoo]

every day i feel like i'm one step away from purging all followers of this blog and then im like ah i forgot that you all can unfollow at any time

[sheeezu]

Master Directionary

Short introduction - who?

H e l l o. Very warm welcome to my very messy blog. I used to get upset at the jumbled presentation but I think it represents what I want to feel like - a warm nostalgic home, with old dusty curtains and trinkets scattered around, blankets on the ground.

My name is Umme Hani, (just Hani is perfect). My username is a nickname for my home self- you can refer to me as both.

I've shifted! That's my most remarkable achievement in life. Feel free to bombard me with asks that make me think, even ones that directly challenge me (be respectful, yknow, according to societal norms) I love a good debate.

Shifting wise I shift in and out of reality frequently. I am a very private person in terms of my main reality- home reality, but that is limited to my relationship there, you can at any time ask me how I've world built and other aspects there!

I have been really transparent regarding my shifting experience on here, you can look through my account and hopefully you can relate to my experiences.

I am bipolar. Mine's an unmedicated case. So if I have misbehaved with you in the past, I wish you can forgive me!! That is usually an episode which ranges from depressive to angry maniac. (I'm not apologising to some aholes, so don't get your hopes high, especially terfs.)

Okay? Okay :) +++ I don't ignore asks, dms on purpose, I'll try my best to answer!! Fair warning sometimes I dissappear for weeks on end in pursuit of some spiritual awakening- yes.... that's what it is.

(Btw I love golden, sunsets, homey aesthetics)

READ.

Read before sending an ask

A conclusive list of my asks

If you don't like me, don't agree with my beliefs, just block me, there isn't a single thing you could do to change them.

(Btw, if you're rude, I will send soul sucking demons your way)

I'm not grammatically deaf or weak in English, but I sometimes write in words which make no sense, which happens to ruin the entire meaning of a sentence. Idk why this happens, but please correct me if anything seems off, I really don't mind.

⋆✴︎˚Directionary:⋆✴︎˚｡

Shifting Portal:

1. Shifting methods

✴︎My main shifting method + my shifting journey

✴︎Emergency shifting routine (1 day deadline)

✴︎Shift by channeling

✴︎Energy conversion method

2. Shifting/consciousness theory proofs

✴︎ Shifting proof

✴︎Consciousness theory proof (ask)

✴︎Shifting motivation via proof of consciousness theory (ask)

✴︎Nature of reality/how to prove it to yourself (ask)

3. Shifting tips

✴︎Commonly asked shifting questions

✴︎Embodying one's true nature/self (ask)

✴︎Scripting a DR from scratch (ask)

✴︎Getting rid of intrusive thoughts (ask)

✴︎Letting go of your previous reality and circumstances to shift

4. Shifting storytimes

✴︎Four part short stories (Socialite, hogwarts, dead poets society, home DR)

✴︎Random story 1 (home DR)

✴︎Random story 2 (home DR) (ask)

✴︎Random story 3 (home DR) (ask)

✴︎Random story 4 (home DR) (ask game)

6. Shifting misc.

✴︎Things to expect when you've mastered shifting

✴︎My DR s/o (ask)

✴︎Shifting quote

✴︎My DR list

✴︎Chaotic minishift experience

✴︎Shifting tips from other realites

✴︎Shifting blackboard

✴︎ Non-dualism and shifting

✴︎ What to do if you haven't shifted for years

✴︎ How to shift

✴︎ Shifting posts dump

7. Post which further uncovers my unhinged personality

✴︎An example of an "update" on this blog

✴︎DR self akin to a literal cat

8. Self made subliminals

Shifting:

✴︎Subliminal + google drive link

✴︎Subliminal affirmation list

✴︎The godzilla of (shifting) subliminals

Creator mentality:

Creator mentality + shift subliminal

Void state:

✴︎Void state + creator mentality

This post will be maintained frequently. (hopefully)

because I realized it doesn't matter where I am, I can still maintain my tumblr blog, I suppose I fell in love with this little space I've made for myself.

[celuere]

MWAHAHA IM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH >:)

Recs are finally open and I've had this one for about a month.

Can I get a very smutty oneshot of Arlecchino giving backshots while running her nails down (gn?) reader's spine. Either hole will do (idk if ur comfy writing anal 👀) but please include some moderate degredation, pillow gripping, and Arle going feral about dat back arch 😼

I totally understand if ur not okay with the content of my ask. I checked your rules and couldn't find anything against it, but I wouldn't put it past me to overlook it (sorry in advance if that's the case)

I'm so glad recs are open again, I fucking love ur blog.

pairing: dom!arlecchino x gn!reader

cw: strap-on, degradation, dumbification, overstimulation, teasing, pet names, forced quiet sex (the quiet is forced!!!! NOT the sesbian lex)

of course you can my fellow boxing champion!

will refer to readers hole as pussy, cunt etc as usual, what you view it as is completely up to you!

divider by @/jiyascepter

the hotel was quiet.

it always was at one in the morning.

if it weren‘t for the sloppy and absolutely filthy sounds echoing through the hallway. a bedframe slamming against the wall in a steady, almost diabolical rhythm.

room 456.

that room was assigned to none other than the knave herself.

„shut it. or do you want the whole hotel to know how much of a pathetic mess you are?“, a strong hand grabbed a good chunk of your hair before your head was forced down into the pillow, muffling your sounds of exhilarating ecstasy as if the bed wasn‘t already creaking loud enough to wake the whole city.

„tch. i can‘t even fuck my spouse in peace in my own hotel room.“, yes, your husband was indeed pissed at the lack of privacy, but she just couldn‘t wait until you were finally back at your estate. a negotiation required her to leave the comfort of her office at zapolyarny palace, something arlecchino always perceived as irritating and unpleasant. but this time it was a lot more endurable since you decided to accompany her. and she wanted to pay you back for it. she never forced you to sit through hours of nerv-ending conversations, yet you still sat besides her like the perfect partner that you are.

you mewled at the tip pressing against your g-spot, your back bending into a beautiful arch as you pressed your ass further into her, hands grabbing into your pillow as if it was the first time for your husband to take you to bed.

„look at you. shivering and crying over my cock like the whore that you are…“, a single red-painted nail traced the trail of your spine down to your hips, the sharp tip could count as a weapon itself. yet it left you all the more breathless, shivering as if she just dumped an entire bucket of ice-water over your bare body.

„i want to see more of that.“

in one smooth motion her hips pulled back until only the tip was left inside your cunt, the sudden backtracking causing you to reach your hand back in attempt to keep her from pulling out any further.

„w-wait- no-“, your action was only met by her slapping your hand away.

„what do i always tell you about keeping your hands to yourself, doll?“, the petname was accompanied by her filling up your greedy hole to the brim in one motion. stretching your further open on her cock while your arms immediately wrapped back around the pillow. 

but that wasn‘t enough to handle the pace she was about to set.

you‘d almost think she is fucking you out of spite rather than love with how deeply she was plowing her cock into you, bottoming out with each thrust and making sure the tip was brushing against that certain spot inside of you that forced the stars into your vision with each time.

„such a dirty, little thing for me…“

as if she didn‘t bring the strap on purpose.

you could only hope she‘d leave your abdomen intact… and the bed…

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Shelter - 4

Summary: You saved Soap's life. And you might need more than some ice. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No Y/N) Warnings For This Chapter: Continued military inaccuracies, my attempt at writing accents, slow burn romance, canon typical violence, Soft!Simon, and descriptions of injuries A/N: Thank you for all the comments on the last chapter! As an aside, while there is no smut in this story yet, my blog is strictly MDNI. And do not feed my fic into c.AI. Thanks!

Previous Chapter

The gas station (you were ignoring how Soap said it was a petrol station) was a dump but you weren’t about to complain because the grimy bathroom was the first place you could be by yourself. It wasn’t as if you could ask the men for some space in the cramped SUV. Saying you needed to use the restroom was a good enough excuse, you supposed, even if Ghost said he’d be standing right outside the door.

It was weirdly comforting.

For a moment, at least.

The bathroom’s mirror was cracked and had a film on it that clouded your reflection. It was probably for the best because the skin of your neck was so discolored it had angry, stupid tears burning your eyes. Every breath hurt. In or out, it didn’t matter. It ached. And you could see where the dead man’s fingers had wrapped around your throat. The whites of your eyes had been almost completely overridden by red. Your right was worse than your left, but that wasn’t saying much. You weren’t sure how long you’d been in the car but it must have been hours before Price deemed it safe “enough” for the pit stop in the middle of nowhere.

You’d been squished into the SUV’s floorboards for an indeterminate amount of time before Simon hauled you up into the seat beside him, and Price and Gaz asked you question after question about what had happened in your bedroom. You answered honestly, your voice scratchy and hoarse. It was when you mentioned that the man who had attacked you wanted to know what you had learned about the men you lived with that they went quiet.

“Which is kind of ridiculous, you know,” you’d said, your mind spinning from the earlier lack of oxygen and the absolute chaos of what had followed. “I don’t even know your real names.”

The men didn’t ask anything else after that but Ghost did place a familiar blanket over your lap and told you to go to sleep. And now you were in your pajamas—the loose joggers and oversized shirt the only clothes you had left now that the safehouse was burnt down—and shoes that Gaz had found god knows where that were two sizes too big.

How had your life gone to shit so quickly and spectacularly? All you had wanted to do was take a damn vacation and be there for your sister. And now people wanted you dead, thought you knew something about the men you were unwittingly living with, and knew you had probably heard something in the tunnels.

Great. Just…great.

A few of the tears escaped and you sniffled with a grimace as you wiped at your cheeks. You hated crying and you had cried more in the weeks since the tunnel than you had in the last five years combined. Not a milestone you’d been hoping to achieve, honestly.

And you weren’t about to splash whatever water came out of that dirty tap on your face to feel better. Clamping your eyes shut, you willed the tears to stop and nearly screamed when you saw Ghost lurking behind you when you opened them again. “What is wrong with you?”

“Got you something.”

And instead of just handing whatever he had to you—like a normal person—his giant hands clapped over your hips and he picked you up, sitting you down on the edge of the disgusting sink. The noise that punched out of you, an embarrassing mix between a squeak and a hiss, was almost immediately snuffed out by a whimper when the entirety of your throat protested, heat snapping at every single nerve ending like the crack of a whip.

Ghost stared at you for a moment but he didn’t even blink as he reached into one of his (many) pockets and pulled out a tube of…something. You couldn’t read the label with the bulk of his hand covering it.

“What is that?”

“Tip your head up.”

“No.”

He paused again before pressing a knuckle to the point of your chin. “Did a number on you.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response but you did glance down when you heard the tube’s lid snap open. And then to your surprise, he peeled a glove from one of his hands.

He had thick fingers. Scarred and bruised but dexterous, you surmised. A hint of a tattoo poked out from beneath the edge of his sleeve. He squeezed the tube and a white cream spilled out, curling around itself before he capped it again. And you weren’t entirely sure why but you didn’t pull away when he raised it to your neck. The shiver it pulled out of you couldn’t be helped. His fingers swirled around your throat, rubbing the lotion into your tender skin without a word. The cream was cold but you could feel the heat of him and his movements were gentle. Soft.

Like you were something delicate.

And maybe in comparison to his usual crowd, you were. But no one had treated you like this in a long time. And this close you could see the black smudge around his eyes had started to fade, flecking away from the long hours. And he had long, pale lashes around his dark brown eyes. There was a scar bisecting one of his brows, disappearing beneath the edges of his mask. His nose had probably been broken a time or two, resulting in the strangely cute way it flattened and curved to the side beneath his mask. (What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you?)

The scent of the cream was comforting, scratching at some long forgotten scene from your past. It took you a moment to realize it was arnica cream. It would help with the bruising—and if you remembered correctly, probably help with the smallest bit of the pain, too. He had been strangely gentle with you last night, too, even with the threat of violence that had preceded it. His hand on the back of your neck had been grounding and calming. And that’s definitely all it was. Not the most erotic thing that’s happened to you in years.

“Thank you, by the way.” Your voice was scratchy and every word hurt but you did need to say it. He had come for you. “For saving me last night.”

“Seemed like you had it ‘andled. Never seen a lamp used like that.” He smeared a little more lotion into your skin and you heard his laugh again. You were both quiet as he continued, slowly rubbing the lotion into your neck until the entirety of it was covered.

“Would now be a bad time to ask if I can see my sister?” You asked as he handed you the tube, finished.

Ghost just looked at you, not even blinking.

“Please? Soap said he’d talk to someone about it for me and I just…” Despite the ache in your throat and the embarrassed shame that grew with each word, you kept on. “I just want to see her. Even if it’s just for five minutes. But I promised her. I promised.” The tang of copper filled your mouth as you licked at your lips. “Don’t you have someone that you want to get back to after all this?”

But he was still quiet.

Another knock came, three sharp taps followed by two slower ones, and Gaz stuck his head in. “Cap wants us on the road.”

Ghost still didn’t say anything but capped the cream and handed it to you before helping you off the sink’s edge. He led you out back into the dulled sunlight and Gaz was quick to step to your side, skirting around the large man with another one of his magazine-worthy smiles. “I got you a bit of ice for your throat. Figured it might help.” He handed you an ice pack wrapped in a small bit of cloth, long enough for you to tie loosely around your throat so you wouldn’t have to constantly hold it.

You smiled and thanked him as you shuffled back to the SUV. He was quick to open the door for you, too. But it was Ghost who helped you into the SUV, his (large) hand catching yours when you’d reached for the side of the door to heft yourself up. You might have stared at his hand for a moment before ungracefully plopping into your seat at the back again with a quick, muttered “thanks.”

Wonderful. You’re so good at being a normal person.

Thankfully, you seemed to disappear after Soap offered you a protein bar (which you declined) and Price told you, kindly if not to the point, to buckle up. So, you sat in the back of the SUV with the ice pack across your throat and your eyes trained on the road passing you by.

She looked like she’d been put through the ringer. And, for a civilian, she had, he supposed. When he’d gone into that shitty little washroom, he half-expected to find her sobbing. Plenty of civilians sobbed and howled for less. But not her. She’d been crying, no denying that. But she looked more annoyed to see him than anything else. It twisted at something behind his ribs that he could almost name. Her skin had been soft. And Simon knew—he knew—that he should’ve let her apply the lotion on her own. But he couldn’t help himself.

Just like he couldn’t help himself last night by being the first to go upstairs when they realized the safehouse’s perimeter had been breached. And she’d been fighting for her life—the lamp had been a good weapon all things considered. It was impressive. But he still hated that he’d been so late to get to her; the dead man must’ve slipped through during shift change. Johnny was beating himself up about it but Simon knew she wouldn’t hold it against him. She might spit nails and know how to throw a punch, but she had a soft spot for the Scot.

And maybe him, too. Maybe. He didn’t want to let himself hope for it like a kid. He would, however, remember how she shivered beneath him.

And right now, it didn’t matter as Laswell was waiting for them at a small airstrip an hour away. She said she had answers about the men (other than the obvious fact that they were part of the Konni group) but wanted to talk to them in person. That was a fact that didn’t sit well with him. Not with shit hitting the fan so spectacularly last night.

Simon looked back to see her asleep again, Kyle’s ice pack drooping but still tied loosely across her throat. When he reached out, he felt that it had melted and slowly undid the loose knot at the back, trying to ignore how she let out a sigh when his finger brushed against the edge of her jaw. That was good. She needed the rest. He wanted her comfortable, safe. And he, selfishly, liked to be the one to make sure that she was comfortable and safe.

The SUV rumbled on and Price eventually pulled onto a dirt pathway, his white knuckle grip on the wheel receding a fraction when they weren’t on the motorway anymore. Gaz had also let his sidearm rest against his leg for a moment instead of having it raised beneath the edge of the window. Johnny, however, hadn’t stopped tapping his finger against his firearm’s trigger.

The dirt road continued on for a little longer before ending at a large patch of more dirt that had possibly once been a parking spot. It had probably been one of those parachuting traps for thrill seekers who had more adrenaline than sense. It looked abandoned, if Simon was guessing, aside from Laswell who was standing near the rusted gate and a waiting helo behind her. The steady thump-thump-thump of its rotating wings had Simon’s shoulders falling from around his ears the smallest bit. And to his surprise, when he looked at the woman beside him, she was still asleep as they rolled to a quick stop and the doors opened.

“Good to see you all in one piece. I got here as soon as I could,” Laswell said in greeting. Her sharp eyes moved to the SUV where she could no doubt see the other woman asleep in the back. “She give you trouble?”

“Not a lick of it,” Johnny said, casting a glance back at her, too.

“Let ‘er be,” Price said, stepping to Simon’s side. “The bird’s had a long night.”

“She can sleep through anything,” Kyle said, a small smile on his face.

Laswell glanced over at her and then nodded, seemingly satisfied with seeing her out of the way or, at least, in a place that didn’t seem like she was trying to escape. She waved them forward, ushering the group into the vacant building a few steps away. It was as rusted and abandoned as the rest of the place. The chair Simon lowered himself into groaned beneath his weight.

“We have a problem,” Laswell said. She never did have a problem cutting to the chase. “No one should have known where you were.”

“Or where our families live,” Johnny said. He curled his hands into fists at his sides. His family had been the first to be targeted, if Laswell’s intel was to be trusted. Then Kyle’s family’s house. And then Price’s mum’s house.

She nodded and then looked to Price. “I think we have a mole.”

“Someone sold us out?” Simon asked, the words like ash on his tongue. It wouldn't be the first time that someone had betrayed them but this time it felt… It was closer to home. Both figuratively and literally. Their families were supposed to be safe. Protected. They didn’t tell them about their jobs and what they did in the shadows. They were supposed to be safe.

Simon wanted his teammates’ families to be safe. He knew what it was like to lose that anchor and he didn’t want them to know what it felt like.

“I’m working on finding out who could have done it. But, for now, I’m moving you again. Only I’ll know where you are. But before that, I want to know everything about last night. How many there were. What weapons. What they wanted. Anything you have, I need.”

Kyle went first, listed five men he’d picked off. Then Soap with four more. They had high powered munitions and tactical gear. They’d been ready. It hadn’t been apparent how they arrived at the property and Price offered up the possibility of a transport several clicks out on the other side of the woods, followed by his own count of four men.

“And you, Ghost?” Laswell asked, her arms folded.

“Six. Needed to get upstairs.”

Johnny and Kyle nodded. “Ye said something about that man who tried to kill our girl.”

“She was a target?”

“Caught one of ‘em with their hands around her throat.”

One of Laswell’s fingers tapped against her arm. Just twice. “Interesting.”

Simon could remember the way she fought. The way her fingers slid between his and then through his belt loop as he led her downstairs. She had shivered under his hand and he couldn’t help but pull another out of her when the safehouse burned behind them. Simon was a selfish bastard. He knew that. And she made him even more selfish. And curious. A dangerous combination for anyone in his line of work.

“He was asking her what she knew about us.”

“And did she say?”

“She said she knew nothing and then hit ‘im in the face with a lamp.”

Johnny laughed and Simon didn’t miss the approving nods from Kyle and Price. Yeah. She’d done well. And he’d killed the man who’d put his hands on her. He’d do it again.

“Are you still thinking she has something to do with this? A plant from Makarov?”

“She isn’t.” Simon didn’t care that the question was probably for Price to answer.

There was no way she would look like she was beat to shit if she was working for Konni. Simon knew what fear looked like. She had been scared but fought the entire time. Just like down in the tunnels when Johnny almost got a bullet to the brain. She was scrappy. A fighter. Not necessarily a good one, but a fighter.

“She’s jumpy,” Kyle said. “But I think any civilian would be. She’s a good one. Kind.”

“She saved my life. Got shot doing it.” Johnny thumped the side of his fist of his shoulder and then pointed at the still-too-pink scar on the side of his head. “There was no guarantee she’d survive that. No plant would do that.”

“Agreed,” Price said after a moment. “But now she’s an asset twice over. If Makarov thinks she knows something about us and thought they could get her to give up intel, that is something we could use.” The captain leaned forward, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Bait?” Laswell followed where Price led. “Draw him out into the open.”

“Make him think we let her out of our sights and-”

“Then we cut the head off the snake.” Simon could feel Johnny’s anger. They’d hurt his family and he knew he had a soft spot for the girl caught up in this mess. She did save his life. That wasn’t something any of them took lightly.

Laswell nodded, probably already forming plans in her head. “I could let anyone we suspect of being our mole know different locations of where she’d be. Wherever Makarov’s men show up-”

“Then you’ll know who your rat is.” The smile Price gave was the one he usually reserved for a mission nearing its end. A job well done with more bullshit to follow.

The thought of her as bait didn’t sit right in the hollow Simon’s chest. But it was the fastest way of dealing with Makarov. They needed to end this. “When will you have your list of suspects?”

“We’re working on it now.”

“Until then? What’s the plan?” Kyle’s eyes darted to the dirty window behind Laswell. There was just another stretch of barren field on the other side but there were supposed to only be some trees outside the safehouse and they all knew how that panned out last night. They could be sitting ducks out here. They needed to move, quickly, before they were caught off their guard (or as much as they could be) again.

Simon watched Laswell tap her arm again. “She said she wanted to see her sister, right?”

Both Johnny and Simon nodded.

“That could be arranged. I have a contact in Chicago. She and her brother-”

“I thought she got out after her old man died?” Price asked.

Simon almost arched a brow at the tone. Too sharp for a simple question and it seemed everyone in the room caught it, no matter how subtle it would have been to anyone else.

Laswell almost smiled, pulling her lips into her mouth for a moment. “She didn’t. She still runs the hotel. I’ll tell her you’re coming. All of you, plus a guest. I have a jet an hour out—they can be here in no time and I’ll get the pilot the proper clearances.”

“Off the books?” Kyle asked.

Laswell nodded, already pulling out her phone. “You can have a few days to regroup there before I move you again. Enjoy your vacation.”

Waking up on a private plane wasn’t exactly pleasant like your romance novels made it seem. It wasn’t the worst way you’ve woken up, but not something you’d recommend. And as to how you wound up in the plane, you could only guess but with the way you’d drooled on Ghost’s shoulder and Soap was smirking at you, you could probably put the hints together.

Wonderful.

Great.

Not at all embarrassing.

The plane wasn’t as luxurious as you’d read about in your books or seen in random magazines detailing this or that celebrity’s “beautiful life.” It was a bit utilitarian, which you supposed made sense. Just enough seats for everyone to mostly stretch out and a door to what you hoped was a washroom. Honestly, being shuttled out of a safehouse where you’d been strangled, to being in the back of the SUV for an indeterminate amount of time, to waking up in a private plane wasn’t exactly doing wonders for your anxiety.

But a quick glance around let you know that the others were doing fine. Dare you say it, almost relaxed. Price and Gaz were soon playing cards at the small table near the cockpit and Soap was sketching something in a tiny notepad on the couch a few steps away.

But it was Ghost’s thigh pressing into yours that grounded you a little more as he sat beside you in one of the two seats left. And no, you weren’t going to think about why that was. Mostly because he nudged his leg against yours one more time and caught your attention.

“Go wash up.” He tilted his chin toward the door.

Well, you weren’t about to tell him no and left your seat without much preamble, sliding into the small washroom with a sigh. You almost smiled when you spotted the bag on top of the sink. A small post-it with your name on it was slapped on top. When you opened it and saw a change of clothes and a few different things to wash your face and generally feel cleaner, you couldn’t stop the smile now. You wiped yourself down as best you could and washed your face, whacking your elbow into the door twice. Your throat protested most of it and the skin around your eyes was tender, too, but you still couldn’t help but feel better. The clothes were comfortable and almost your size. You stepped out into the cabin a little while later and you were almost immediately startled by a growling snore. Soap was asleep, mouth wide open, sprawled out on the couch. Price had pulled his ridiculous hat down over his eyes and was sleeping like an old man in his seat. Gaz had reclined his seat back and was asleep, too. You must’ve been in there for a while.

But Ghost was awake when you retook your seat.

He dropped something onto the padded armrest beside you as you buckled back in. It took you a moment to realize what you were looking at. It was your passport. You snatched it up, the small, blue booklet warm in your hands. You thought it was lost in the shuffle after the tunnels. You slapped it against your palm as thoughts whorled. “Are we leaving the country?” you asked, dropping your voice to not wake the others. “And why did you have my passport?”

He didn’t answer but he dropped his shoulder enough to lean a little closer. “Tell me something,” he volleyed in return.

And you were going to ignore how his whisper, low and rough, sent a shiver down your spine. He seemed to have a bad habit of doing that to you. “What? Like a random fact or-”

“About you. I want to know about you.”

Your heart hiccuped behind the cage of your ribs and you could feel the heat inching its way up your throat. God, you must really need to get some sleep. Real sleep. There was no way he was interested in you. You were a mess the entire time you’ve known him and now you look like a reanimated corpse. “Why?”

“Why not?” He didn’t even blink. His dark eyes were anchored on you.

“I…” Your heart continued its battering of your ribs. Wetting your lips, you tried to pull in a steady breath. Like you weren’t affected by the simple fact that someone wanted to know you. “Fine. But you have to tell me something about you, too. Quid pro quo or however the saying goes.”

The behemoth of a man just nodded.

You thought for a moment, trying to find something about yourself that 1) he wouldn’t already know from that file he must’ve read and 2) wasn’t completely ridiculous. All you could come up with was a tame: “my favorite color is yellow.”

“What kind?”

The smile twitched on your lips. No one ever asked you that follow up question. “Soft yellow. Like a pale pastel. Or a daffodil petal.”

He nodded, like he was expecting that answer.

“Your turn.”

“M’name’s Simon.”

Oh.

You hadn’t been hoping to know where you were going but this…this was nice, too. “That’s…that’s a nice name. I won’t ask for your last name. I won’t push it.”

“It’s Riley.”

Your heart was trying to leap out of your chest and all he’d done was tell you his name. Jesus Christ. “Yeah, um, that’s nice, too.”

He just blinked and then waved a hand at you. Just once.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You mimicked the movement.

“I gave you two. That’s the deal. Now you give me two.”

The heat you’d felt came roaring back with a vengeance. As did your inability to be graceful with your embarrassment. “You know, we didn’t negotiate more than a fact each. Not my fault.”

“What kind of game only stopped at one each? Give me another. ‘S only fair.”

The smile that started to crawl up your face almost hurt the more you fought against it. “Just one?”

“You owe me two.”

“What do you want to know? You’ve gotta give me some sort of parameters here. I’m sure I can’t just list off my favorite television shows or movies and leave you satisfied.”

The giant man didn’t move but you could have sworn the fabric obscuring his mouth moved like he was smirking. “You worried about satisfying me?”

This man! “That–that is not what I was-”

And he laughed at you. It was a short sound, but you knew it now. You might know it forever, seared into your memory.

But you still hurried to find two more facts about yourself. Why did your mind always draw blanks when it came to stuff like this? You were terrible at icebreaker games while still in school, too. “I guess I spend more money on perfume and books than I do on clothes. And I think my favorite animal is the fennec fox.” You tapped your passport against your hand again. Ghost…Simon looked like he might like wolves. Or dogs. Maybe bears. And he obviously spent money on his wide array of masks.

He cocked his head to the side and you wondered what he was thinking of telling you, mulling over what he could share without it being a security issue, maybe.

“We’re going to see your sister. Keep your passport with you.”

The next breath stalled in your lungs and only served to make your throat ache when you tried to breathe again. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter when more tears blurred your vision. You were going home.

Next Chapter

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate all the comments. They really keep me motivated to keep writing this story. They mean more to me than I can say. Please let me know what you think!

[raevpng]

‎⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ rae’s blog ౨ৎ⋆ ｡⋆𐙚⋆.˚₊⊹♡

hey, my name’s rae :) 19. 🏳️‍🌈 uconn/wbb/nba lover.

writer (sometimes). i heart azzi & paige. brain dump!

⤷ feel free to send in prompts, requests, or just talk to me in general — i love making new friends <3

masterlist

we’ll be alright

in between (pt.1)

in between (pt. 2)

in between (pt.3)

mine, always

bags

all these rumours

only you (pt.1)

only you (pt. 2)

more coming soon …

disclaimer: everything i write is purely fictional ! at the end of the day, i just like writing and am just a fan of uconn/azzi and paige and do not wish to force or push anything on anyone! please let me know if i say or post anything offensive or wrong, it will be taken down immediately!

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐄

[ 𝐚𝐤𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐥𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 ]

Hi besties!

Since I'm currently procrastinating on my thesis in the most academically valid way (read: blogging about it instead of writing it), I thought now's the perfect time for a little get-to-know-me post!

Pull up a chair. Bring snacks. Let's trauma bond.

𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 : Elisabeth Eve (yes, it sounds like a tragic heroine, I'm doing my best to live up to it).

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬 : She/Her

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 : Pisces ♓—aka: intuitive, emotionally wrecked by fictional characters, would 100% fall in love with a brooding ghost in a crumbling manor. I cry about my own WIPs. No regrets.

𝐯𝐢𝐛𝐞 : Haunted victorian literature student, but she owns lip gloss and maybe a sword.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈'𝐦 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 : Currently writing my english lit thesis on female sexuality in popular BookTok books—which is important, necessary work... that unfortunately requires me to say things like "breeding kink as empowerment" in front of my very, VERY male, very buttoned-up advisor who has definitely never read a romance novel in his life.

Every meeting is a delicate dance where I try to explain why it matters that women are allowed to be horny in fiction—without actually saying the word "horny." Spoiler: I fail every time.

He once asked, with the most innocent confusion, "And... these books... are popular?" and I had to sit there, maintaining eye contact, while explaining the plot of a 500-paged romantasy (with a shadow daddy) that sold out in Target.

The thesis itself? Genuienly about how female readers are carving out space to explore desire without shame. The process of writing it? 60% passion, 40% praying my advisor doesn't ask me to define "breeding kink" again.

𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞 : Emotinally constipated men. Unresolved tension. Slow burns that drag everyone to hell and back—me included.

My stories are 50% poetic thirst, 30% internal monologue spirals, 20% lace, and 100% repressed longing.

If no one is whispering something devastating in the dark and then losing their entire will to live over a single wrist touch, did I even write it?

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐢'𝐦 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 :

a 6k Sylus fanfic that was supposed to be "just a drabble" and is now emotionally unwell.

a vampire x reincarnated soulmate novel where no one is okay, least of all me

hydrating like an adult.

𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐞 :

Enemies to lovers but they cry about it later.

"Touch her and die" but he's the one begging for scraps of affection

Lovers seperated by time/war/miscommunication/his repressed trauma

One bed, hand brush, forbidden glance, painful silence that says everything.

𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 :

I get emotionally attatched to one line of dialogue and it ruins my week.

I cannot write a single kiss without someone suffering first.

I will romanticize anything if you give me long enough and a vaguely dramatic soundtrack.

I hoard beautiful words like a magpie hoards shiny trash.

Okay but now I wanna know about you.

Who are you? What are you writing? What fictional character is currently living in your head rent-free and eating all your snacks?

Tell me:

Your name (or just your vibe)

Your favorite trope you’d die for

The unhinged fic idea you haven’t written yet but think about daily

Or honestly? Just how you’re doing. Be feral. Be soft. Trauma dump in the tags. I’ll probably relate.

Reblog with your answers, yell in the replies, or just send me asks like we’re already mutuals. Let’s emotionally spiral together 💌

@someprettyname @blessdunrest @wolfofcelestia @lovenstan @tsukiimonster OR anyone else who wants to hop on this little “get to know me” train—please. I’m begging. Distract me before I start monologuing to my thesis again. — Sylus Little Crow (aka Elisabeth Eve)

[revelboo]

Found your blog by chance last night and I gotta say I love the way you write, especially for Starscream. You’ve found yourself another eager follower ❤️

Thanks! I mostly started this as a place to dump the silly, little scenes that pop into my head. I was honestly a bit surprised that people seemed to actually like my nonsense ramblings.

Everything is Alright pt 7

Starscream x reader- fear

• As the silence sinks in, you realize it’s over and the other two are gone. The servos carefully pinning you to his chassis are trembling as badly as you are. An uncontrollable, teeth chattering shaking. Because this Starscream is a stranger. You’d thought you’d figured him out. That you knew him, but how can you? You don’t know him and you have no idea what to expect. And you’re scared.

• The red haze of rage slowly ebbs, leaving him only exhausted. He’d always prided himself on thinking things through. Having a plan. Seeing your tiny form helpless in Skywarp’s hand had shattered his careful indifference. It shouldn’t have. Skywarp was right, he shouldn’t care because you are just a human.

• How long has it been since he’s had anything that was truly his? Moving from battlefront to battlefront, the only permanent thing was how impermanent everything was. The harder he’d tried to hold onto anything, the faster it had slipped through his servos. But he still hadn’t been able to let Skywarp destroy the one good thing he has.

• Shifting you in his hold, he carefully uses the tip of a servo to tilt your chin up. Trying to tell if you’re hurt or not just reinforces how little he knows about humans. About you. All the things he’d never asked or cared about. One of your little hands lifts to touch his servo and he can see the fear in your eyes. Fear of him?

• It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Guilt is right on its heels as he runs a servo over you wondering if any of your tiny bones are broken and if he’d be able to tell if they were. Yes, he’d stopped Skywarp this time, but he can’t watch you all the time. Can’t keep you safe all the time.

• But he can’t let you go, either, because then he’s alone again. And he can’t stand the thought of going back to that lonely isolation. Sinking to sit on his berth, his wings droop slightly as you offer him an uncertain smile as if to comfort him. “Scrap,” he growls, head falling back to stare at the ceiling because he knows he won’t do the right thing and let you go to protect you. He’s far too greedy for that.

• Holding your fragile body, he thinks of the tiny, little birds of this world. Delicate, impossibly beautiful things that seem like they shouldn’t exist as they fly. He’d tried to catch one once. Tried to cage that beauty in his servos and its little heart had gave out as it battered itself against his hands. He’d only wanted to better see it, not kill it. But the outcome was the same. Are you doomed to that same fate, to struggle to be freed until you can’t?

• “Do you despise me?” He doesn’t mean to ask and he can’t look at you while he waits on your answer, because even if you do, he won’t let you go.

• You’re silent staring up at his face turned away from you. Sometimes you do despise him, but others you pity him. Ache for that loneliness you hear layered in his words, badly buried in sneering condescension. “No,” you say finally, not really the truth or a lie. Both. Neither.

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[yourlittlegoblin]

{Strokes of Genius} Albedo x Reader

OMG guys I am so sorry for not like making any proper posts on her for like such a long while Ive been like going through the blues for a bit and now I'm like dumping my writing here during the 2 weeks that I have left for total freedom so guys yea-

Also guys if you go to my blog you can send me commissions where I can write you some headcanons or drabbles about certain characters! I'm also more than happy to write little fanfics about you or your ocs in romantic or platonic situations with these characters! Or if you want just comment your requests under my posts :)

Hope you enjoy!!

The sun had just started its lazy descent behind the peaks of Dragonspine, casting long amber streaks over the wooden table where Albedo sat, brush in hand, carefully working on his latest painting.

You sat across from him, legs tucked up on the bench, hands wrapped around a chipped mug of still-warm tea. It was quiet save for the occasional chirp of a bird or the gentle scratch of bristles on canvas.

“And then he had the audacity to say he could outdrink Kaeya,” you said, eyes widening for emphasis. “I mean, sure, he was new in town, but seriously. Kaeya.”

Albedo’s lips curved upward, just a little. “I suppose optimism is a form of bravery.”

You grinned. “Yeah, well, the guy passed out before the bard even started his second song. Rosaria had to carry him out by the collar like a wet cat.”

“That sounds... memorable.” His tone was dry, but fond.

“It was hilarious,” you said, laughing lightly. “Sometimes I think working in the tavern is just free front-row tickets to a circus. Anyway, Klee came in the next morning asking if she could buy ‘two bottles of boom juice,’ which I’m pretty sure is illegal, and I told her no, and she pouted the entire time until Kaeya distracted her with a shiny spoon.”

Albedo hummed thoughtfully, his eyes still fixed on the canvas. “She mentioned wanting to upgrade her bombs last week. I suppose that’s what the boom juice was for.”

“Probably,” you said, chuckling. “Though I kind of don’t want to know what she was planning to do with it. The last time she upgraded something, we almost lost an entire section of the wine cellar.”

Silence settled between you again—comfortable, not awkward. You glanced over the table, curiosity prickling at the edges of your mind.

“So... what are you painting, anyway?” you asked, craning your neck to see. From your angle, all you could catch were soft strokes of cool colors, the familiar swirl of blues and whites, golds and greens blending together.

Albedo didn’t even look up. “Just the environment.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned forward. “Boring.”

He finally glanced up at you, one brow raised, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. “Is that your professional critique?”

“Absolutely,” you said, sipping your tea with faux seriousness. “From the esteemed Y/n of the Mondstadt Gossiper’s Guild.”

“That explains the tavern stories,” he said, setting down his brush.

“I’m building an empire, Albedo.”

“I’m sure you are.”

You shared a look—something lingering and soft, a thread of something unspoken in the way his eyes held yours for a moment longer than necessary, the way his fingers brushed a bit of stray paint from his knuckles.

But neither of you said anything more.

Until you stood up.

“Well,” you stretched your arms overhead with a yawn, “I should probably get go—whoa—!”

Your foot caught on a small stone jutting out from the path, and everything lurched forward. You barely had time to gasp before Albedo dropped his brush and reached out instinctively. His arms caught you around the waist—but gravity had other plans. You tumbled forward, landing right in his lap with a surprised “oof,” your hands braced against his chest, his eyes wide and startled beneath you.

For a moment, everything was still. His hands were still at your sides, your face inches from his, and both your hearts were very, very loud.

You blinked. “Hi.”

“…Hello,” he replied quietly, voice slightly breathless.

Your cheeks were burning, and you could feel the heat radiating off his face too. Then, as if fate itself wanted to make things worse—or better—the edge of the easel tilted from the sudden movement. The painting slipped, landing with a soft thud beside you.

Your eyes drifted to the canvas.

“Oh,” you said, blinking.

It wasn’t the environment.

It was you.

Mid-laugh, mug in hand, completely caught up in your own story. Your eyes were bright, hair a little messy from the wind, your expression alive and utterly unaware of being watched—captured with such careful, delicate strokes, as if the person painting you saw something worth preserving.

“…Albedo,” you whispered, looking back at him, your voice barely audible.

He looked away, flustered. “I thought… you wouldn’t sit still if I told you.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “You were painting me this whole time?”

“I always paint what I find… interesting,” he said softly, eyes meeting yours again—and this time, he didn’t look away.

You swallowed, suddenly shy.

He was still holding you. You were still in his lap.

And somehow… neither of you moved.

Albedo finally let out a breath, his hands still lightly resting at your waist as if afraid you’d vanish.

“I… think I’ve been showing symptoms,” he said suddenly, eyes flickering to yours with all the seriousness of a man presenting a lab result.

You blinked. “Symptoms?”

He nodded, almost nervously. “A fluttering sensation in my stomach whenever our hands brush. A desire to hold them longer. An increasing preference for your presence. I’ve caught myself prioritizing your laughter over the ambient sounds of my surroundings. I… want to be near you. I want to see you smile. I want to do the things people in relationships do—hand-holding, shared meals, forehead kisses, apparently spontaneous dancing in moonlight is a thing—”

You leaned in and kissed him.

Just like that.

A soft, sudden press of lips that made him freeze—and then melt. His eyes fluttered shut as his hands curled around your waist like he didn’t dare let go, as if he wanted to memorize the feeling of you there, so close and so real.

And then it deepened—tentative touches turning into something hungrier, more sure, like both of you were making up for every unspoken word and stolen glance. One of his hands slid up your back, and yours tangled in his hair—

“KLEE’S HERE!!”

You practically launched off him, your cheeks on fire as you scrambled to your feet. Albedo sat there, stunned and blinking like someone had just yanked him from a dream.

Klee came skipping down the path, her little arms flailing with excitement. “Albedo! Albedo! Guess what I found—oh, hi Y/N!”

You turned to her with a grin, tucking your hair back like you weren’t seconds away from a lap-induced near make-out. “Hi, sunshine! What did you find?”

Klee giggled, launching into a ramble about fish and bombs and something she wasn’t technically allowed to do, while you crouched to listen, casting Albedo a sneaky side glance.

He was still sitting there, a little dazed.

You turned back to him mid-Klee monologue and whispered behind your hand, “What you’re feeling, by the way? Romantic attraction.”

He blinked slowly. “Oh.”

“You wanna go on a date?”

A pause. Then a soft, breathless nod.

“Good,” you said, straightening up and ruffling Klee’s hair. “Now. Tell me everything.”

And just like that, you slipped right back into the rhythm—effortlessly cool, cheerful, like your heart hadn’t just been laid bare under Mondstadt’s sky.

Albedo just watched you with that soft, slow-burning smile of his.

Maybe “symptoms” wasn’t the right word after all.

Maybe he’d just caught feelings. And maybe—just maybe—you had too.