#So I am still gonna have optimism with you | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tkingfisher · 2 years

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So I write all sorts of things (fiction, fanfic, screenplays) and my mind is cluttered garden of flowers and weeds and shiny ideas, and I'm wondering how to form a writing practice to clear it into tidy rows? Is it possible to shepherd untamed ideas into order?

How do you manage all your wonderful worlds, characters and inspiration and not feel haunted by the story bits and pieces in your head? Any practical tips beyond dark magic?

Thank you, you are such a constant inspiration for me, both prose and just your presence. <3

*laugh* Oh god, Nonny, if I ever find out, I’ll tell you! When you read books, you’re getting the Instagram-filtered view of a writer’s brain, all the flowers that grew out of the compost heap, carefully composed and shot in optimal lighting. The real inside of my skull is a magpie nest of Neat Shit I Read/Saw/Thought Up While Lying Awake At 2 AM. There are characters and ideas in there that I’ve been trying to get into a manuscript since I was twelve and typing on an Amiga 500.

But, that said…really, I think it’s okay. Creativity is inherently untidy. The compost heap can be corralled into a very pretty box made of sustainably harvested materials, hand-stained by traditional artisans being paid a living wage by an employee-owned company, but as soon as you lift the lid, it’s all worms and coffee grounds and old potting soil and cow shit and the vegetables you swore you were gonna eat this time before they went bad. That’s what compost is.

Nevertheless, having been in the business for…uh…fifteen years now? (@dduane is snickering at me, I can feel it) and having written nearly forty books, I can offer three bits of something less than advice. It’s what I do. It may not work for anyone else, but it’s what I do.

Un-Advice The First: If you get a shiny idea and you are super excited by it? Go ahead and chase it. Pull up a new page in Word or whatever and slap down a couple thousand words while it’s exciting. I know that this absolutely flies in the face of common wisdom, but quite frankly, my enthusiasm is a much rarer commodity than my time, so if I’m excited about something, I write it down until I’ve taken the edge off.

Then I usually save it into a big folder called “Fragments” and go back to work on whatever I’ve got a deadline on. (Usually. Sometimes the edge doesn’t wear off, and I wind up with another book. Which, y’know, darn.)

There are vast numbers of people who will tell you that a shiny idea is a sign that something is wrong with your current project and the solution is to knuckle down and work! through! it! And those people are probably right for them, and I trust they know how their own brains work. Me, though, I got ADHD like a bat has wings. My hard drive is a vast swamp of story beginnings, neat ideas, random scenes. And that’s okay because I still get books finished.

In fact, it’s better than okay. Not that long ago, my agent sent a novella to a publisher and they said “We’ll take that novella and three more novels. What’ve you got?” And I ended up plundering my hard drive and sending the editor a good dozen random beginnings until we found one that we both liked, and then I wrote the rest of that book. And then another one. If I hadn’t had all those fragments lying around, though, it would have been a miserable experience of writing book pitches and trying to think of stuff I could get excited about. (This may not be how some editors work, but it’s how my editor and I work, anyhow.)

Un-Advice The Second: Trust that everything will find a home eventually.

This one is easy to say and hard to do because sometimes you get that overload that if you’re writing the book about, say, werebear nuns, you aren’t writing the one about the alien crustaceans. Or worse, you feel guilty. If you don’t use that one cool thing, was all that time you spent on it wasted?

Breathe. Be easy. Every single cool thing does not need to go into a single book. There is no sell-by date on the neat character. You will probably write many books in your life and all those random characters will find a home. (Seriously, the werebear nuns were lurking for like a decade.)

For me, at least, when I find the spot where something fits, it often snaps into place like a Lego. Easton’s backstory as a soldier from a society where soldiers were a third sex had been kicking around in my head for a few years, derived from about three different sources, and then I wrote the opening to What Moves The Dead and all of a sudden Easton was there and alive and they had strong opinions about everything and I had ten thousand words practically before I turned around.

You can also stave off guilt by writing some of your ideas in as highly personal Easter Eggs. A couple of my books have references to a white deer woman, a heroic deed done by a saint and the ghost of a bird, and a woman with dozens of hummingbirds on tiny jeweled leashes. Those are all characters and stories I’ve had vague notions about, but haven’t managed to work in anywhere or learn much more about. Still, the passing reference is enough to make me feel like I haven’t abandoned them.

(The advantage to this is that once you DO write those in, the readers are all “oh my god, she foreshadowed this a decade ago, she must have planned this all out in advance!” Then you look really clever and well-organized and no one has to know that you have no idea what you’re doing.)

Un-Advice The Third: Write the kitchen sink book.

At one point, I had so many stray ideas that hadn’t gotten into a book yet—the tree of frogs, the dog-soldiers, the stained glass saint, the albatross and the shadow of the sun, and also I wanted to write something with Baba Yaga—that I hauled off and wrote a book where I just put in everything and the kitchen sink. It’s called Summer in Orcus. There are bits in there that I had been cooking in the mental compost heap for decades, but that weren’t enough on their own to sustain a whole book. The phrase “antelope women are not to be trusted” showed up in my head some time in college. It’s a fun little book and I’m proud of it, but it’s very much a patchwork quilt of weirdness. But it’s also written so that if later on, an antelope woman shows up in another book in another context, that just adds to their mythology, it doesn’t break canon or whatever.

(Pretty sure I’m not the only one who has done this, either. China Mieville has said that he wrote Perdido Street Station because what he really enjoyed was writing all the weird monsters.)

So yeah, that’s my advice, for what it’s worth. Some days I just tell all the fragments and ideas that I promise that I’ll get them a home eventually but I need to write this thing here now. Sometimes I throw down enough words to get the story stabilized and then I’m okay to move on. Sometimes I write multiple books simultaneously.

Any method you use to write the book, so long as it doesn’t hurt you or anyone else, is a perfectly valid method. If anyone tells you different, you send them to me.

(…god, I hope that was the question you were actually asking, Nonny, and that I didn’t go off on a completely different tangent when you just wanted to know how I keep track of a plot or something.)

#long #rambling #writing

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rebelliousstories · 29 days

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Desperate Times and Desperate Measures

Relationship: Remy LeBeau/Gambit x Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Request: Yes by @infinityfandoms

Warnings: Fluff, Mentions of Fighting

Word Count: 1,505

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Summary: She always said she would be about as useful as a wet paper bag in a fight. Good thing she never skips leg day.

Consider Donating: Here

“And who is this? I don’t think audiences have had the pleasure of meeting you yet.” The man in the red mask asked, looking at the woman behind Gambit. She looked up, startled at the sudden attention being brought to her.

“Um, hi.” She offered her name, but was still confused as to what was going on with these new people.

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re ‘The Druid’ aren’t you,” Deadpool gasped, “sparkle hands.”

“Sure, I guess if that’s how you want to know me. Haven’t heard anyone call me that in years.” She turned back to her bandages that she was wrapping back up. There were footsteps coming closer to her, but someone stopped them.

“Until I know whatcha gonna be doin’, ya ain’t gettin’ no closer.” Gambit snaps, charging a card near the red masked man.

“Oh, I’m not going to do anything to her. I’m a fan really. From one person with a regenerative healing factor to another, I applaud you, my dear.” Wade clapped his hands together and bowed dramatically. She giggled and set down the bandages, before walking over to Gambit.

“We’re alright, hun. He’s just being friendly.” With a hand on his chest, the man turned and caught her eyes. Letting the energy fizzle out and back into his body, Gambit wrapped an arm around her waist to tug her close.

Later that evening, as they prepared to go to bed in preparation of the big battle the next day, she was checking and double checking her stash. Different salves, elixirs, and dressings were being packed away in her satchel to take with her. As she was placing the last bottles and jars in, hands creeped across her waist and pulled her back into a firm chest.

“Neva’ gonna get tired of seein’ you work like dis, chere. Amazes me each and every time.” Remy drawled, pressing kisses to her neck while she leaned back.

“All to make you guys better, hun.” She replied, loving the feeling of his affections.

“Listen, when we in da lair tomorrow,” he began, “you gonna stay back righ’? Stay in da car?”

“Of course, I am. You know I can’t fight.” Her snort made the man smile as he pressed a kiss to her head.

“Good. Don’t want you gettin’ mixed up in all dat.”

Her hands came in front of them, and both of their attentions were on it. In a matter of a few seconds, a magnolia blossom was blooming from her palm. Taking it from one hand to the next, she passed it back to her lover. He held it to his nose, and breathed in deeply. The sweetest scent flooded his senses. Gambit tucked the flower into the top of his chest plate, right near his heart.

“Everything is gonna be alright, Remy. We’ll be fine.”

Those seem like famous last words now.

She was staying in the background. Behind the car because she was just not going to stay in an on fire car for anything. So far, no one had noticed her and that was just how she liked it. Keeping an eye on her boyfriend and friends, the chaos around them almost made her lose the line of sight.

An explosion next to her gained her attention, and made her squeak in surprise. Thankfully, she was still virtually hidden from the rest of the fighting going on. Locking eyes on Gambit’s coat once more, she was shocked to see someone sneaking up on his. Of course, all the fighting and shouting made the odds more optimal, but it was still an incredible task to do that to him. When he did not seem to be turning and looking at the attacker behind him anytime soon, she knew she had to do something. Looking around her, she tried to find something that would draw both Gambit’s attention to the attacker, and the attacker’s attention away from Gambit.

So she threw a shoe. Some random shoe that had gotten blown off of someone was what she picked up to throw. And somehow, it worked.

“Uh oh. We done messed up now.” She muttered, seeing the new set of eyes on hers. Taking off, she began weaving through the structure. But that man was close behind.

Gambit only noticed when he heard the sound of footsteps running behind him. A card blew up the spot that those feet had stood in the second prior. Taking a look around, he noticed that there was someone now chasing his girl all through the maze of bars that was Cassandra’s lair. Remy took off after the person, while trying to look ahead to see where she was going. Somehow, he remained just out of range for his cards to reach.

Ducking into a corner, she breathed heavily as she tried to catch her breath. A stitch was deep in her side, and her claves were beginning to cramp, but she couldn’t not stop now. Her life, Remy’s life, depended on it. All the noise around them meant that she would not be able to focus on the bad guy’s movements even if she wanted to. Poking her head out of her hole, she breathed a sigh of relief as she did not see him immediately. But that changed when, from the other end of the apparent hallway, he dropped down. She was trapped.

There was nothing that she could use as a weapon nearby, and her powers were defensive; not offensive. Breathing hard, she tried to steel herself against the awful smile that the man was now sporting. A cool metal bar was digging into her back. Her heart was speeding up. If she fell from this height, she would survive, but her bag would not and that was a greater travesty in her opinion. However, she did not have these thoughts long as a flash of magenta flew in front of her and sparked in front of the man.

“Ain’t ya momma eva’ teach ya how t’ treat a lady?” Remy was here. He shot a wink over his shoulder to her, before going after the man. His bo staff was out and charged, but for some reason it did not seem to be slowing this man down. Finally, he got close enough to stick a card to him, that promptly exploded. But as he walked away, this man just got back up and began to heal again.

Gambit groaned, and struck three cards to the ground, before running and grabbing his girlfriend from the railing. As they fell, an aftershock of the explosion knocked them in the air. He tucked her head into his chest, and cushioned their way down. Landing on the hard ground, both of them groaned as pain shot through their bodies.

“You good, chere?” Remy asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He was inspecting her face as his hands ran over the rest of her body.

“Yeah. You?” She replied, doing the exact same thing to him.

“Don’ worry about ol’ Gambit now. Gambit’s fine. I want you to go dat little hole in the side over der and stay der till I come get you.” The man pressed a kiss to her head, a brief one to her lips before rolling them over so he was on top. Slipping a card out from his pocket, he flicked it towards someone coming near, before getting up and joining the fray once more.

Once she had caught her breath, she did exactly what Remy had instructed of her. The little cave that she had found herself in allowed her to keep an eye on everybody, but stayed out of the fighting. She knew where her strengths lie, and she was definitely going to be most useful after the fight. As she watched, her mind kept forming different recipes and mixtures that she could use to help.

The fighting slowed until there was just a few people left. As the group finished them off, she stepped out briefly to watch their two friends jump into the glowing circle and away from the Void. As they disappeared, she ran over to her boyfriend and their friends. He welcomed her with open arms, and breathed a sigh of relief as they stood there.

Taking an assessment on her friends, she immediately set to work dressing some of the injuries that they had but could not heal properly. She felt Remy pat her shoulder lovingly as she was wrapping a spot on Elektra’s back. Turning to him, he just drew her in closer before allowing her to tend to wounds he may have gotten. This was a well oiled machine that had been established over the years.

As they piled into the Honda Odyssey after, their journey home was quiet. They did not know if they were going to be able to go home, or if they were stuck there forever. But one thing was for certain; that shoe was going to live in her head for a while.

#rebelliousstories #writing #remy lebeau imagine #remy lebeau #remy lebeau x reader #gambit x reader #gambit #gambit imagine #xmen imagine #x men 97 #x men comics #x men movies #x men imagine #x men #deadpool and wolverine

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mokulule · 8 months

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A Pinch of Salt - Part 4

First | Masterpost

The final part of the first installment of the Salt in the Bones series which is a project co-created with @clockwayswrites, you can see the other stuff written for it in the masterpost link above or go to the first part.

John looked at the kid, who just stepped inside the fucking binding circle. His mouth fell open in shock.

“What is wrong with you!?” It wasn’t so much a question as it was an exclamation, and John didn’t wait for any answer. “Of all the sodding, daft, goddamn tossers - what were you bloody thinking? No, you weren’t thinking. Otherwise you wouldn’t have fucking done that. You DO NOT go into the blasted circle!”

“Are you done?”

“Am I-“ John spluttered.

Are you done? He asked, as if John was the unreasonable one here! “Oh you’re right chuffed, aren’t you mate? Well, you cocked up, you’re about to be banished right alongside the storm, you little git!”

“Then stop the banishing or banish us both. It’s your choice.” Kid stood, back straight, jaw clenched stubbornly and a frown over those wide blue eyes. His hair and clothes whipped violently from the storm, but he didn’t care, just kept his eyes on John.

John raised his hands in frustration, words dying on his tongue. It would serve him right!

It would serve him right; he stepped into the bloody circle. It wasn’t John’s fault. Everything was going fine for once and maybe that should have been John’s warning. Whatever was up with the kid he apparently had a soft spot for ghosts - even after John had told him several times that the spirit was gone. It’d gone nova. No coming back. The end. It would continue it’s rampage until it burned out. It would hurt and destroy indiscriminately.

And yet he still-

It would serve him right to get sent to Hell alongside it. It wouldn’t even be the first time someone John worked with got sent to Hell for their trouble. John Constantine was bad luck for everyone around him. It happened.

But it was different when John held the reins of the spell that did it, when he had the choice to stop it.

Still John was at his wits end. If he stopped the banishing, the kid was still trapped in the circle with the spectral storm. If he broke the circle they were back at square one except they were in the center of the storm’s power and it was even angrier.

It was easier, safer, to just continue the banishing. Kid had made his stupid arse decision. John wasn’t a good person. He did what was necessary. Ends and means and all that.

But he was a bloody kid - a teenager - they were basically obligated to do stupid shit. Didn’t mean he deserved to get sent to Hell for it. John had seen and done a lot of shit, but when it came right down to it he didn’t want to add sending a kid to Hell.

John had seen enough dead kids to last him a lifetime.

“Oh bollocks.” John let his arms fall and cut the feed to the banishing spell, wincing slightly at the backlash. “You better have a plan kid.”

The kid had to have some sort of abilities with that aura, maybe all hope was not lost? The kid grimaced and John’s forced optimism crumbled like so much sand.

“I-“ the kid winced as something in the storm hit the back of his head. He rubbed the spot, and looked almost apologetic, “I figured I’d try talking to them.”

John stared.

And stared.

“Or-“ the kid backtracked, “just calm them down somehow?”

“You cannot ‘calm down’ a spectral storm!” John felt like a broken record on repeat. “It’s impossible.”

He threw up his hands and walked exactly three steps away counting his breaths all the while wracking his brain for a different solution. There weren’t any good ones. Heck it was a miracle the kid hadn’t already been torn to pieces being inside the circle.

“We’re dead,” he lamented dramatically.

“Half-dead.”

John’s head snapped around at the weird response.

“I mean,” the kid tried for a smile, “I’m the only one in the circle.”  John stared in despair. The kid’s sense of humor needed serious work.

“I’m not gonna leave you in the bloody circle, kid.”

Danny stood struck wide eyed at the admission. That was- He didn’t know how to deal with that. There was a pang in his chest. He felt too open, too vulnerable. He swallowed before finding his voice.

“Just let me try something, okay?”

Danny turned around to face the center of the storm, he instantly had to squeeze his eyes near shut, from all the dust. Instinctively he took a breath and coughed. Okay breathing not good. Too bad he was human right now.

He had to get closer, closer to that screaming grief. He might be human right now, but he was also a ghost and the anger from earlier was just a thin veneer on top of grief on top of a cry for help. He felt it in his core like scrabbling hands desperately looking for purchase.

He took a step forward, hands up to shield his face, pushing against the wind. Another step. Then another.

How was he gonna calm them down?

Danny didn’t know. He knew fighting. He’d even sometimes recently had luck with talking. But this? It was way beyond talking, until they were calm there would be no such thing. Danny didn’t know what to do. He could only press on and hope an idea came to him.

The grief was stronger the closer he got to the center, it tore into him. Tears trickled down his cheeks and turned into gunk from the dust. Something sharp cut into his bare arms. Danny frowned, kept his head down and pushed forward.

Another step and the grief sunk sharp claws into his core. He screamed clutching his chest and gasping for breath that would do nothing. But the claws were gone as soon as they’d come, retreated as if they’d touched fire.

“Are you alright kid?!”

Danny spared a quick glance back to Trenchcoat who stood all the way up to the edge of the circle, face white as if he’d seen a ghost. Danny couldn’t help smiling at that. Something that alarmed Trenchcoat even further.

“I’m breaking the circle.”

“Don’t,” Danny coughed clearing his throat.

Danny looked back up, squinting through the swirling dust. It may not be visible, but something had changed. There was still the anger and grief, but something else too. A sense of waiting. Waiting to see what Danny would do. They had tried tearing him, the trespasser, apart down to his core, but in doing so they had felt him. They had felt his intention to help and retreated.

Trenchcoat was wrong, there was still a sentience there. Danny found himself grinning in triumph.

But even better Danny had an idea. His core vibrated giddily in his chest. He was a bit sore, but otherwise none the worse for wear. He just needed to reach out and connect with the ghost, he felt sure he could calm them. He just he needed a distraction, he didn’t need Trenchcoat to realize he was the one doing anything ghostly. He wracked his brain, something that made noise, drew attention, was maybe a bit ridiculous, but didn’t take much of his attention from the real work-

That was it!

“Twinkle-“ his voice broke on the first word but gained strength as he continued- “twinkle little star,” Danny sang. He didn’t need to look back to see the incredulous look on Trenchcoat’s face.

He kept singing, he knew that song by heart. His mom used to sing it to him, back when she actually put him to bed. There was a stab of melancholy, but Danny clutched on to the positive aspect of the memory and reached out with his core, its hum getting stronger.

It’s okay, he told the ghost, help. Safe. Peace. Calm.

He took step by step further into the calming storm. And all the while he sung them a lullaby.

John stared.

Then he stared some more. He was doing a lot of staring today.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, what he was hearing.

The kid was was singing a lullaby to the spectral storm. And that wasn’t even the most baffling thing. No, the kid was singing a lullaby to the spectral storm and it was bloody working.

The storm gradually calmed until suddenly it was gone. The silence was loud in the sudden emotional void. John staggered from the sudden lack of pressure. All that malice gone in an instant. All that was left was a gently cupped ball of light in the kids hands.

“There you are,” the kid said softly in a slightly scratchy voice.

John couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. It was impossible and yet here they were.

There was a flash of light and suddenly they stood in a house. Built brick by brick by two pairs of hands. Children ran through the rooms. They grew up. They had kids of their own, who had kids of their own. They lived and they loved and they were protected.

Then they were gone.

The door shut for the last time. The house was empty.

A large metal ball slammed through the walls, spreading dust and splintering the doorframe that had measured the growth of generations. It was torn down.

It had stood here, right in what would be the plaza.

The translucent shade of an old women, bent and bony from a life of hard work, hovered in front of the kid. She warbled sadly at him. John couldn’t understand anything but the deep sadness, but it seemed the kid did.

“It’s okay,” he said embracing the spirit, somehow managing to do so despite her definitely not being solid. “You’ve done your best, nobody could ask more of you.”

He paused and his voice softened further, “it’s time to let go.”

The old lady looked over at John and gave him a stern look that had him frozen in place. She was the type of grandma that would wack his fingers if she caught him going for the cookie jar. He wasn’t entirely sure what the look he got meant. Only that it felt like an admonishment.

She looked back on the kid and her features softened, smoothed and in the next moment she turned to mist in his arms, dispersing in the waning light coming from the overhead windows.

John couldn’t entirely believe what he’d just witnessed. Calling a spirit back once they’d gone nova, it was impossible. Unheard of. Banishment was how you dealt with spirits like that. It was a tried and tested method. Yet-

John shivered.

Death magic. It was the only explanation.

The kid reeked of it, to the point John had thought he was the ghost he was here to deal with. He’d thought he was some kind of creature, but he was just a kid. A kid with a very specific magical affinity who’d just done the impossible. He was filled with a sense of awe and dread he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He felt shaken. Like he’d stood right next to a bell who’d been rung to herald change.

John was no prophet, at most he’d get vague premonitions and he far preferred to be in the moment rather then dwell on the future or the past. He most definitely did not want to even contemplate this kid’s future. He swallowed.

Magic, in John’s experience, always came with a cost.

The kid promptly sat down on his butt. John had broken the circle and was running over before he even realized.

“You okay, kid?” He asked breathlessly.

The kid looked up, eyes a bit dazed as he blinked at John. John couldn’t really tell if his complexion was grey or it was just the dust covering every inch of him. Several places, particularly his hands, the dust was dark from blood where he’d been cut in the storm. He looked unfocused.

“How many occult detectives are you seeing?” He asked unable to hide the note of worry.

“Too many,” Kid said tiredly with a shake of his head that had cement dust falling all over. Then he looked back up and elaborated with a smirk, “one.”

John huffed a laugh. If he could joke he couldn’t be that bad off.

“How does burgers and fries sound?”

The kid now dusted off to the point where you could almost tell his hair was black rather than grey sunk his teeth into the burger with a pleased hum. He chewed and swallowed.

“This is almost as good as Nasty Burger.”

John paused fry halfway to his mouth. “That sounds disgusting.”

Kid laughed. “I forget how it sounds to outsiders. It used to be Tasty Burger way back when they first opened, but someone vandalized the sign and it kinda stuck.”

John hummed thoughtfully, he could appreciate the joke. Kid’s use of the phrase outsiders made it sound like he came from an insular town. Probably best for him if he stayed there.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Instantly the blue eyes narrowed on him in suspicion.

“What’s yours, Trenchcoat?” He challenged.

John huffed at the nickname and reached a hand across the table. “John Constantine.”

The kid looked suspiciously at the offered hand, then reached out and took it. “Nightingale.”

John nodded and shook his hand before letting go. Smart of him to give him a codename, he wasn’t apparently completely without sense. “Because of the singing.”

For a moment the kid looked confused to the point where John actually thought maybe he’d given him his real name.

“Singing? Ah-“ He blushed looking down and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “No, that just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

John shook his head, fuck it if he didn’t like the kid. He picked up his milkshake and raised it. He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

“If it works…”

The kid, Nightingale, grinned ferally and raised his own shake to clink it against John’s.  “If it works.”

After filling up the near bottomless stomach of the teenager, they parted ways in an alley. John’s mind was already on his next case - people going missing in a forest in Germany that had a distinct this-is-not-just-a-GPS-dead-zone flavor to it - so he only absently noted the strange look on the kid’s face when he opened the portal. It was morning in Germany, he could start looking into things before calling the House for a proper sleep.

“Take care, kid.”

With those words he stepped into the portal and let it close behind him.

Danny was left looking at the portal. He shook his head, jaw tight. With real magic apparently portals were just easy. It didn’t do him any good to think about. He glanced around and when he found the alley just as empty as before he jumped into the air transforming as he went.

There were better things to think about, like the concept of an occult detective, he thought as he flew in the direction of Amity. It sounded like it could almost be an acceptable profession in his parents’ eyes.

And it probably didn’t require good high school grades either, he thought with a grimace as he remembered he had an essay due tomorrow.

Hope you enjoyed this story which explored how Danny and Constantine first met in this AU. Next step is letting it sit for a while, then do a thorough editing and putting it up on ao3 as a oneshot. (And then maybe talk to Clock about starting writing on the main story proper? We'll see). Comments are greatly appreciated :D

Another link to the masterpost if you wanna see the other bits of writing and/or subscribe to the series

#a pinch of salt #salt in the bones #danny and constantine #dysfunctional found family FTW #dp x dc

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zzencat · 29 days

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Why Am I So Hard On Myself? - Timeless ⏳

Breathe and choose. Left to right.

Kinda doing this one on a whim but figured it could help anyone who needs to be heard and have their doubts or feelings validated. You’re not alone. Does it say anything else about you?

TO ENHANCE ACCURACY BEFORE CHOOSING: Clear your mind. Time is now patient and still. Close your eyes, inhale deeply, fill your chest up to the fullest, feel the soft air brush up against the ridges of your nose. Breathe out.

———————————————-

Pile 1 | “no matter how hard i try…”

somehow, something always goes wrong. you always try to salvage what you can, picking up the pieces and trying to make the most of the situation, but maybe the timing is shit, or it isn’t met up to standard. plans ruined, connections gone, opportunities lost. even when all you do is try and try. you might even think “why is this even happening? im only breathing”

small note: while shuffling, it was going pretty nicely then cards started flying out of my hands like fliers on a windy day. it’s a small thing, but to me, it has to do with having constant roadblocks and inconveniences, and that maybe you feel like you’re at your last straw sometimes

you want to be seen for your efforts. at least some acknowledgment that someone knows, sees, and understands that you’re trying. someone to hear you out for once and take you seriously, even if none of what you’d done or contributed has worked before. just acknowledgment would be enough. maybe you’re the only one who recognizes your efforts.

i think you struggle with maintaining career, friendships, or really anything, in general. the foundations laid out might’ve been risky or unstable to begin with so you could question why things don’t last for you. a part of you expects the heartbreak to happen.

it’s crazy bc in this pile, there’s so much…optimism and hope (that might be dying out or feels like it has already) that one day something will work out

your heart isn’t completely closed and you’ll still have it open to accept things, even when you think it shouldn’t. this is what makes you a stronger person. it opens a wide range of doors for you, whether you know it or not. don’t give up.

———————————————————————————————————————

Pile 2 | “look out!”

you’re so used to prioritizing others and putting yourself last. bc of this, you could’ve missed out on many things and lost opportunities

you have a big heart and hella good energy — an abundance of it — but for some reason, it’s rarely spent on yourself

you feel like it’s your responsibility, all of it — to run or lead things, as if it’s all in your hands. to take over when things are about to fall apart. who made it your responsibility to carry the burdens of others? what happens then if they don’t reciprocate or return the same generosity?

all of this energy is being redirected to the wrong places when you should be thinking about yourself too. how can you help others when you can’t even help yourself? how about your own dreams and goals? you’re human too, so you need the care and support as well. your energy doesn’t just grow on trees. put yourself high on your own list. make yourself a priority for once. book a spa day and have someone else take over for the day.

——————————————————————————————————-

Pile 3 | *whistling*

for this pile, it seems to be more family related, where your pursuits, outlooks, or the way you treat yourself is how you were treated growing up. there’s some connection to pile 2 as well, so there could be some messages in pile 2 for you if it caught your eye

parent(s)/caretakers put a lot of pressure on you with crazy expectations or nitpicking, sometimes maybe even emotional manipulation like guilt tripping

there’s a need to take more charge in your life, especially in the creative and emotional corners of it, and also to create more meaningful and deep connections

some people in this pile might be easily defensive as well too. in this lifetime, you’re gonna learn to put your guard down, bc perhaps you’d grown up feeling trapped and forced into a mold you didn’t belong in

you could struggle with emotional commitment or generally sticking to one thing. there are probably too many things you wanna do or end up trying at least once. relationships might not last too long. there could even be a subconscious fear that you won’t be able to meet someone else’s emotional needs or standards.

you’re very spontaneous and prob get bored easily. also prob struggled academically (ex: having a hard time understand in subjects, sticking to one thing/constantly changing interests or majors, feeling trapped, giving up)

you’re lowkey a perfectionist. perhaps you’re never satisfied bc you grew up with that kind of dissatisfaction on yourself, likely by adults or maybe just things you’d picked up from adolescence

at some point, you might reflect back and feel disappointed in yourself, even if you’d just had the time of your life. it seems like this pile indulges in more superficial activities/substances to fill in the void in that chest

—————————————————————————

ending teddy note: hey guys! been a while but here’s a pac for ya!! i think this is a great pac if you don’t have someone to acknowledge the potential issues going on in your life. thank you for taking the time to read this and i really hope you enjoy it! rmr to take what resonates and leave what doesn’t. ciao!! :P

i would appreciate the feedback! lemme know what you got or think in the comments or reblogs 🦾

- The Tedster

#daily tarot #tarot advice #tarot blog #tarotblr #tarot reading #free tarot #divination #witchblr #pac tarot #pick a pile #pick a card reading #pick a photo #pick a picture #pick a card #tarot community #tarot #tarot witch #spirituality #spiritual growth

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frannyzooey · 1 year

Text

Short Days, Long Nights: 13

Joel Miller x f!reader

Series Masterlist

Rating: E (pregnancy sex, lactation, grief)

A/N: Thank you endlessly for being so patient with me while I've been on hiatus ❤ I'm gonna stay off for another couple weeks, but I didn't want to leave you hanging for too long. I appreciate every single person that has stuck with me on this! Thank you to @the-ginger-hedge-witch and @the-scandalorian for helping me with this one - you both are the biggest brains and the most wonderful writers and I am insanely lucky to have you on my team. Enjoy! ❤

Jackson.

The image of the map is burned into Joel’s mind, always present.

More concerned with your safety than anything, he knows you should leave, but as the weeks slip by, what picks at him more is that he didn’t have an answer to your question that day.

“Where are we gonna go?”

He should be one step ahead. He should be on top of the potential outcomes. He should have a plan, since that’s always been his role. Stepped up with one when he had Sarah, took care of Tommy before the Outbreak, and after, led their way in the QZ. After Tommy left, he still did it, even if he was going through the motions more than anything. Doing it has always been second nature, a means to survive.

You’d let his lack of answer drop because he knew you didn’t want to leave, and of course, he knew you shouldn’t. Not right now. But still - still - he should have had a plan for something he knew was bound to happen sometime. Blinded by the light of your fierce optimism and wanting so badly to believe in it, he simply…didn’t think about it. The first time that’s happened in decades.

You’re depending on him, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t have an answer ready.

“Where are we gonna go?”

He doesn’t fucking know.

Wood dust floats to settle on the floorboards around his boots, and he runs a piece of sandpaper over the beam of rough lumber that rests across his lap. The rhythmic sweeps soothe his nerves, and he tries to focus on how good it feels to do something useful with wood again. Something familiar, the dry grain sliding against his palms. A task done because he wants to, instead of as a means to get by like so much else in his life.

This…this was for him, and for you.

The late afternoon sun streams through the window in the shed, not quite enough to dissipate the chill. Crisp air breezes in through the open door, the sweet smell of damp leaves blending with the wood and the tips of his fingers are cold enough to stop, but he doesn’t. He has to make the most of your nap times if he wants to get this done before next week.

Before Christmas - or the closest approximation to the date anyway, using your rudimentary calendar. Celebrating the holiday had been your idea, and like every other time when it came to something you asked for, he couldn’t say no. He said yes when you asked him to cut you a tree, nodded when you pointed to the one you wanted after a trek through the woods, helped you rip strips of red, moth bitten flannel that was worthless for clothing just to watch you tie bows to the end of the branches, as a means to decorate it.

He was impressed by your constant resourcefulness and ingenuity when it came to the things you’d been given, and at night, when the lantern shone on it and bathed the living room in a cozy glow, it almost did feel like Christmas time. The closest thing to it that he’s felt in years, anyway.

Placing the sandpaper on the floor and picking up a knife, his mind follows the trail marked on the map. Winding through woods and across open swathes of land, it passes right through your area and he knows it’s only a matter of time before someone else follows the first. He knows that man can’t have been the only one with a map.

He frowns, gouging the wood a little more forcibly as he works through a knot, and he pictures the curve of your cheek, the delicate line of your neck, the bright happiness in your eyes here. That Christmas tree, in the front room. Torn between the idea of the unknown being just as unsafe as being a sitting duck at the cabin, he is restless with the need to move. The urge to keep you tucked away and protected from the world spreads beneath his skin and grows stronger every day, along with your stomach.

It’s large enough that it strains against the shirts you’ve borrowed from him, and though you’ve started choosing large sweatshirts instead, it’s begun to push against those too. You’ve begun to sway when you stand in place, an unconscious rock as a means to relieve pressure on your lower back, and he pictures you doing the same with a baby in your arms as you stand next to the cradle that he’s been building.

When he thinks about leaving it behind only to gather dust as he drags you somewhere else, the image eats at him, reminding him too much of another room, left behind to rot.

Another life, upended by abrupt violence.

Guilt has always gnawed at him for so many things, and following the mental image of you holding a baby, he adds to the growing list: the idea of another child replacing the one he had.

He fixates on all the things he couldn’t do for her on that last day but also the things time has robbed from him: the image of her face, the sound of her laugh. The books she liked, the order in which she lost her teeth, the weight of her infant body in his arms. How much of that time he spent without her while trying to provide for her, and how here, he’s got all the time in the world for this new child. His new child.

More feelings; the knife gouging deeper. Looking forward to a holiday that can’t include her, nervously anticipating holding a baby that belongs to him, looking at you and what you’ve built together and being so fucking happy he missed his mark on that bleak day ten years ago.

Is it betrayal to feel joy?

He’s not replacing her. He knows that. He knows, and yet the guilt never stops and so neither do his hands nor his mind, both working on fixing other problems that can be fixed.

Jackson.

A bed for the baby.

–

“I know it would be cold, but I think I’d rather have snow.”

You look out at the sodden garden, the neat, large borders that surround it blending in with the damp landscape. The fence that Joel built the only visual marker of where it’s at, it’s prepped for winter, buried in a dense layer of leaves and compost. You absentmindedly finger the leaf of a plant you brought inside with you, sheets of rain sliding down the window.

“Not me,” he says. “Might look pretty, but it would be a whole lot more dangerous.”

The blurred, muted mash of colors outside all blend together, the world a canvas of dingy brown and bleak gray. Everything soggy and limp, everything saturated with wetness: at this very moment, you’d take danger over another day of this.

Turning away from the depressing sight, you watch him sort through a pile of loose screws and nails on the coffee table. His head bent in his task, his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders as he hunches over and nudges each piece of metal with the tip of his finger, sorting them. Listening to the pleasant clink of them being dropped into glass jars, you go back to watering the plants.

After a process that had you pouring over the gardening book for days, you left what you could in the garden in order to have a good base for the spring, but took the rest inside, to see if you could keep growing anything through the winter.

Mismatched buckets and pots, an amalgamation of anything that would hold enough soil to plant a seed in, it was an experiment for sure. Enough was stored in the pantry to get you through the winter if you stayed lean enough about rations, and Joel had been pushing his portions upon you like there was no tomorrow, constantly assuring you that he had plenty.

“What is this?”

Stopping to stretch his back with a groan, he’s picked up a loose, shapeless scrap of fabric off the couch.

“Wait –” you protest, setting the watering can down.

He frowns at it, turning it in his hands, and when you make a hasty grab for it, he keeps it out of your reach with a chuckle.

“This my present, honey?” His facial expression still puzzled, he tries to work out what it is.

“It’s for the baby,” you explain. Coming to stand next to him, you turn it upright. “See? This is the neckhole, and the arms go here.”

“.......And the legs?”

“I’m not that good at sewing, okay?” you defend yourself with a laugh. “I thought maybe their legs could just hang out in this little…sack area.”

You make a self deprecating face, looking to him for a reaction, and he fingers the bottom of it.

“That ain’t bad. You should see if you can tie up the bottom, you know, for a draft or somethin’.”

“I used all the spare laces on the pants. I tried to make some, but of course I don’t have elastic and I don’t know how big to make them around the waist for a button, so I thought I could just cut two holes and make like, a little belt so that it would grow with the baby and...”

Your words taper off when you realize he’s staring up at you with an amused expression and you let your shoulders drop in defeat. “This kid is gonna look like they’re from the eighteen hundreds, aren’t they.”

“I guess you would know, with the books you’re always readin’,” he says with a grin, and the stack of historical fiction next to your side of the bed comes to mind.

“Oh God,” you moan quietly to yourself.

Standing with a soft grunt, he bends to press a kiss to the crown of your hair.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” he murmurs. “You about ready for bed? I’m gonna go do a final lap.”

Checking the perimeter of the cabin while you bank the wood stove for the night, he eventually joins you in the bedroom, bringing in the smell of cool night air with him. Already in bed, you’re propped against the headboard with your book in hand, and you admire him as he gets ready for bed himself: the edges of his curling locks catching the light in a glowing chestnut, the warmth held in his tanned skin as he peels off his shirt, the soft give of his still trim stomach as he pads over to bed. He climbs in, adjusting the covers around the two of you.

“What about Mae?” you ask absentmindedly, skimming the book in front of you.

He shrugs. “Not bad.”

You make a face at the reception. “What about….Lauren?”

Stretching out on his side to face you, he rests his hand on your bump, smoothing the fabric of your sleep shirt down. A small movement nudges underneath his palm, and the corner of his mouth lifts. An intimate, quiet moment, you keep reading while he chases the constant movements with his touch, his fingers splayed wide, searching.

“Always so squirrely at night,” he says, the words rounded with softness.

“Tell me about it,” you sigh.

You set your book to the side and slide down next to him as he reaches to turn off the lantern, and the two of you lay facing each other, your belly between the length of your bodies. His hand finds your stomach again, and you let yours rest over it, guiding his touch lower. Lower, until the tips of his fingers brush against the band of your underwear and also right where a set of feet (or hands) slide underneath your skin. The taut skin shifts with rapid movement, a sensation that never fails to mesmerize you, but it’s something else when he’s the one who gets to see it. Watching him experiencing it is your favorite.

“What about Margaret? I’ve always liked that name.”

He makes a face, telling you all you need to know. “What makes you so sure it’s gonna be a girl?”

You shrug, lifting the hem of your shirt so you can feel his skin on yours, and his hand slides right back into place.

“Have you thought of any names?” you ask quietly.

“I, uh…I was sorta thinkin’ about June.” His dark eyes flit up to yours. “After June Carter Cash. Or Pearl, after –”

“You wanna name my baby after Pearl Jam?” your eyebrows raise. You’ve heard him humming “Future Days” while working outside, you know the band is a favorite of his.

He grins at your reaction. “That a no?”

“I should have guessed it would be music related,” you tease with a smile, scooting closer. “I like June. It’s pretty.”

The gentle exploration of his touch soothes you, and you close your eyes to savor it.

“What about boy names?” you ask. “I can’t really think of any. It’s actually what makes me think it’s a girl, like she’s trying to tell me something.”

“I haven’t thought of too many either. Thomas, for my brother, maybe?”

“That’s a good one.” You yawn, and sleep softly rounds the edges of your words. “Are you ready for next week?”

The preparation of his gift has your hands aching and grasping one with the other, you rub the tender knuckles, working some of the soreness out. Wordlessly, he reaches for your hand and takes it into his own, kneading the joints.

“I think so. S’kinda nice, havin’ a Christmas.” His touch lingers on the tips of your fingers, warming them. “Too cold in here? I can put another log on if you want.”

“No, it’s just…they ache. They're so swollen they get stiff sometimes. I don’t think the damp is helping.”

You hear it now, peppering the window in the dark. The steady drum of rain on the window, the sound makes the room all the more inviting: warm and safe, his body heat radiating underneath the quilt. He keeps rubbing your fingers, his own larger hands cradling your smaller one, and akin to someone rubbing your back to sleep, the touch lulls you, your eyes fluttering shut.

“This good?” His mouth brushes lightly against your knuckles, his lips pressing against your fingers before he breathes warm air on them.

“Mmmm, yea.” Silent for a moment, you speak. “Joel?”

He hums in acknowledgement of his name, and you voice the nightly request you started asking him weeks ago.

“Tell me what you know.”

A prompt he’s seemingly ready for, he shifts to get comfortable, letting out a sigh. The motion similar to someone getting ready to tell a bedtime story, your reaction to curl tight next to him is the same.

The first time you asked him this, he barely remembered anything. Other memories taking their place, the finer details of pregnancy and birth were buried deep, most of them forgotten. He remembered the doctor's visits but not the frequency. The general concept of birth but not the stages. The pain, but as someone who didn’t go through it, he couldn’t tell you what labor actually felt like.

All guesses and long ago recollections, you took them because they were better than nothing. Tonight, he tells you about the night feedings.

“Babies, they uh…” he begins in his gravely, lowered voice, trying to speak softly in the darkness. “You know they eat every couple of hours or so for a while after they’re born. Weeks of it.”

You nod against his shoulder, listening to his deep drawl.

“I don’t remember much because when you don’t get a lot of sleep it all tends to blur together, y’know? But I do remember some of them. Peaceful, sometimes. Everything is so quiet and still, and there ain’t nothin’ but you and them, sittin’ together.”

He stops, and you reach up to brush your fingers along the edge of his jaw, just enough to let him know you’re listening. He sighs, a heavy, contemplative thing.

“They are so small in your hands. So small it’s scary. I remember bein’ so careful, always feelin’ like I was gonna accidentally hurt her, or –” his breath hitches, and he swallows hard. He’s silent for a moment, and your breath slows and evens out. “Anyway, they don’t let you get any sleep, not for a few months, but sometimes….sometimes, you don’t mind.”

Your body loose and relaxed next to his, you’re on the edge of sleep when the words tumble softly out of your mouth.

“Joel?”

“Yea?”

“I’m scared.” The confession is whispered into his bare skin, and you breathe in his comforting, familiar smell, the steady drum of his heart beating underneath your cheek. His hand is a weighty drag down the line of your spine, the feeling of it steadying you.

The wind blows outside, rain pelting the glass.

“I know, honey,” he answers. “Me too.”

–

Long after you’ve fallen asleep, he stays awake, his mind lost in a memory.

Her tiny body rigid with deceiving strength, he struggles to force her arm into a small sleeve. His hand is huge compared to her fragile arm, her skin downy soft under his palm, and moonlight shines through the window in her bedroom just enough to light the features of her scrunched, upset face. A small wail pierces the darkness, and succeeding in dressing her, he lifts her up.

One hand cupping her entire bottom with the other covering her back, he makes low shushing sounds with his mouth to soothe her, inhaling the milky sweet smell that clings to her skin.

“Hey baby girl, shhh. I got you. I got you.”

Her tiny face burrows into his chest, her body squirming until she gets comfortable, and he keeps soothing with low hums, his hand rubbing a slow circle over her purple pajamas as she settles.

Moving slowly so as not to disturb her, he sits down in the rocking chair and continues to hold her; the carpet plush under his bare foot that gently pushes off the floor. His sleep blurred eyes focus on the small turn of a glass butterfly that hangs from her window, the rounded curves catching the moonlight as she sleeps on his chest.

He lets the unearthed, vivid memory wash over him as his chest constricts, the pain suffocating. Finding himself in this position more and more since you started asking him about what he remembers, he closes his eyes and succumbs to the pain: worth it, to see her face again. To remember things he’d thought he’d forgotten.

The edges of the memory blur and crumble, his mind losing its focus on that purple room and on the cusp of sleep, he tries to grasp and hold on tight to the details until they fade away.

–

“Keep your eyes closed, okay? Wasn’t much to wrap with.”

Anticipation thrums through you, your features lax with fondness as you wait patiently on the living room floor with your eyes closed. A fire crackles in the wood stove next to you, shadows pooled in the corners of the living room where the light doesn’t reach, and you scoot a little closer to absorb more heat.

Never one to linger in bed, he’s been up since dawn, and when you awoke alone, there was a weighted, peaceful stillness in the air—a significance to the day that was at best, a guess. Still, you felt it all the same: through drinking tea with him on the back porch this morning, through reading on the couch this afternoon, through helping him prep the small feast you allowed yourselves for dinner.

You hear and feel a shift in the air when he comes to sit in front of you, setting your present at your feet.

“Okay, you can open ‘em.”

Laughter bubbles bright and loud when you see what it is.

“Joel Miller, you shouldn’t have.” Picking up the bottle of vinegar, you tilt it in the light to see how much is left: about half, which is a find indeed. “How long have you been hiding this?”

He shrugs, looking pleased with your reaction. “Not too long. I found it when I went to check out that last cabin. I know it’s not a lot, but I thought it would be useful.”

Vinegar means pickling, means cleaning, means acid for the soil of your plants that you moved inside for the winter, and even though the label is half peeled off and the contents might not be as potent as they once were, you have never been so happy to see a bottle of the stuff in your life.

“Thank you,” you say softly, leaning forward as much as you can, presenting your lips for a kiss. He gives you one, and you pull back, your mouth twisted in an apologetic pout. “This is a way better gift than what I got you.”

“That’s not true,” he argues. “You fixed my favorite jacket. Feels brand new.”

After snagging it on a tree branch while hunting, he had been so disappointed when he inspected the size of the rip when he came home. Handing it to you, he had declared it no good anymore and told you to use it for something else, but knowing it was his favorite, you’d been mending it in secret while he went out for the day. Textiles being a scarcity aside, that jacket was also your favorite: it’s the one he’s been wearing since you first started out; the sight of it comforting to you.

“I actually got you somethin’ else, but you’ll have to close your eyes again.”

You automatically squeeze your eyes shut, your hands playfully grabbing the air as you squirm on the floor, and the sound of his low chuckle makes you smile wider. Hearing the front door open and then close, you frown when the object he places at your feet sounds heavy.

“Okay, open em’ up.”

It’s immediate, the way your expression drops from delight into something more reverential. Your breath frozen in your lungs, you reach out and touch the smooth edges of the cradle. Tracing the perfectly fit together corners, you take in how small it is – so small - but perfect.

Your eyes lift to meet his, tears blurring your vision. “Did you make this?”

“Yea,” he replies softly. “I kept in the shed, workin’ on it when you were napping. I knew we needed somewhere to put her, so I thought –”

“Her?” Your fingers brushing along the neat edges, you look up at him with a small, watery smile, and he matches it with a soft one of his own.

“Sure, why not. You’ve convinced me.” Affection is open and obvious on his face, the lines that normally crease his forehead softened as he watches you look it over.

“This is…so much, Joel. It’s beautiful. I don’t even know how…I was thinking we’d have to put her in a dresser drawer or something, and I –” Overwhelmed with his thoughtfulness, you’re at a loss for words. “Thank you,” you eventually settle on, hoping the sincereness in your words expresses everything you feel.

“You look so surprised,” he says, teasing laced in his tone. “Did you really think I would get you just a half bottle of vinegar for Christmas?”

“I don’t know!” you laugh, a hitch in your breathing as you settle your emotions. “We can’t exactly go Christmas shopping, so I figured you did the best you could.”

He reaches to swipe a tear from the round of your cheek, and you chase the heat of his palm, leaning into it. “It’s been so long since I gave anyone a Christmas present. Glad I’m not totally out of practice.”

Gently sliding the cradle out of the way, you rise to your knees to give him a kiss.

“I love it.”

You kiss him again, his lips tinted red from the wine at dinner, and the bitterness sweeps through your mouth when he gifts you a slow slide of his tongue. The tentative heat held in his response passes to you, and swallowing his hunger, it spreads through your limbs to pool between your legs. Pressing forward, your hand reaches out for his shirt, and you deepen the kiss.

You hope it conveys everything you want to put into words but can’t: appreciation, love, gratitude. Keeping your mouth on his, you slip your hand around the back of his neck and threading your fingers up through his locks, you hold him in place, his hand grasping your elbow to steady you as a soft sound rumbles from his throat.

“I guess you really liked it.”

You just nod, pulling him in for another kiss, his familiar taste and scent filling your senses as he presses himself closer, and when you let out the catch of a moan in your throat, he pulls back just far enough for you to see hooded want in his eyes.

“We done with the gift exchange?” He presses a kiss to your your throat, his lips warm and delicate over the skin he finds and you nod, letting him taste.

“Here,” he asks, his mouth moving just below your ear, “or in the bedroom?”

“Here,” you breathe, cupping his whiskered cheeks to pull his mouth back to yours. Your hand slips between his thighs, finding him half hard under his jeans, and groaning into your mouth, he shifts on the floor to kneel in front of you. Your fingers work the buttons of his flannel open, pushing it from his shoulders at the same time he grabs the hem of your shirt to work it over your head and off. Undoing your bra, you fling it onto the floor as his hand reaches back to tug his t-shirt off in a smooth, overhand motion, and your hands drop to his belt buckle, tugging it open.

The back of your knuckles swipe through the line of coarse hair that leads under the waistband of his jeans, a slight shakiness to your movements betraying the need you feel, and it’s something he sees and rewards with another consuming kiss.

The rest of your clothes tugged off in a rush, he rests his back against the couch and guides you onto his lap, the soft inside of your thighs straddling the outside of his firmer ones. One of the only comfortable positions you’ve got left, it’s been your favorite because it gives him unfettered access to your breasts and when he palms them in appreciation, anticipation sends a warm thrill up your spine.

Using both his hands, he cups the sides of your jaw to draw you in, holding you in place while he opens your mouth with his, his tongue sliding smoothly against yours. His fingertips dig into the nape of your neck, one hand dropping to palm the plush weight of your breast, and you kiss him back even harder while he delicately teases your nipple with his thumb.

The calloused pad skims over the top of it, the contrast between the tender touch and the fierceness of his kisses making your head swim with arousal, and pulling back, he takes in your kiss-swollen mouth only for a moment before bending his attention to your breast.

Using the cradle of his hold, he pushes it up to draw the peak of it into his mouth, and your head tips back, a broken cry coming from your throat.

“Please. Please.”

He would give you anything – anything – you ask for, and this is no different. He laves his tongue over the peaked bud, dragging firm pressure over it as he draws it into his mouth, and when you dig your fingers into his hair and pull with a moan of pleasure, his hand cups the underside of your breast to push more in. Frenzied, rough, desperate for more, a deep groan slides out of his throat at the same moment you feel a strange, tingling sensation on your nipple.

Surprise shows in his brown eyes when they flick up to yours, and pulling back, you both stop.

“Was that –” you ask, and he looks down at your breast, his thumb dragging delicately along the peak.

“Yea, I think it was,” he answers, slightly mesmerized.

A drop of milky liquid hangs from the tip of your breast, and he wipes it away, smearing it on your soft skin. Another one takes its place, and his eyes flicker with interest.

“Holy shit.”

The words slip out faster than you can stop them, and the corresponding lift of his eyebrows makes you laugh, his own deeper chuckle joining your lighter one. He pulls you in for a kiss right as you’re leaning down for one, and you find there was no hunger lost while the moment was broken; instead it comes back even stronger as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and he holds onto your back with a splayed grip so fierce it makes you squirm.

Unsure of when you started grinding your hips against his, you work them slightly faster. Spread and wet on his lap, you’re so achingly empty right over where you can feel the heft of him pressing between your bodies, and fire lights under your skin with how much you want him to just take.

He’s been so careful with you, so considerate in his handling of your body these last few weeks. Always taking care of every need that you have, he’s done so with no less attentiveness, but you can tell that he’s been holding back—a telling rigidness to his muscles when he moves above you, a tightness to his strokes every time he fucks you as if he’s keeping his body in check to make sure he doesn’t lose himself. Missing the sharp edges to his love, you kiss him harder, and he groans as if in pain, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth. His beard rubs your chin raw, the pressure of his response forcing your body to tip back slightly in his hold.

“Fuck me,” you whine, the words breathless against his lips, and he groans again, breaking your kiss.

“Christ, honey, turn around.”

Desperate to follow anything he tells you to do, you grip his shoulder to steady yourself as you turn yourself around, your back to his front. His mouth is an immediate brush against the nape of your neck, a heady sensation that has you melting back into him, and his hands travel up your sides to cup your breasts, pulling at the peaks.

Your ass grinds in his lap, the thick, stiff line of his cock trapped between your bodies, and when you arch your back and lean forward in a silent invitation, he reaches down to line himself up. Easing yourself back down, the stretch is delicious but so tight it’s almost unbearable.

“Goddamn,” he groans over your breathless whine.

Wrapping your smaller hands around his thick wrists for purchase, you pull at your bottom lip with your teeth as you sink all the way down to the base, and when he’s fully seated inside you, he bands his arms just under your breasts in a tight hold, keeping you in place. You can feel how hard he’s breathing between your shoulder blades, his beard rubbing against your skin, and squirming in his lap with a soft sound, you start to roll your hips.

He’s so deep this way, so much deeper than he’s been in weeks, and taking a moment to get used to it with a couple of slick strokes down, you chase the thick, filling stretch of his cock. Leaning forward, you brace your hands on his knees, and the deep groan you hear from behind you makes you wetter; your body physically reacting to his wordless praise.

“You feel so fucking good, honey. So good.”

His hands traverse your back—one splayed wide to drag heavily down your spine, the other curled around your hip to guide your movements–and when you bend forward as much as your stomach allows, his hand drops to your ass, spreading you from behind.

“I wish you could see how wet my cock is. I want you to see how you’re soakin’ it.”

“I can feel it,” you moan, your hips working faster.

You can: every down stroke is smooth and audible, the tight walls of your cunt stretching around him to take him perfect and fluid every single time, and when you start to pull him deeper, he sits forward with a cinch, pulling you back towards his body. The solid, warm wall of his chest cages you in, his arm looping around your hip so his hand can reach your clit, and when he finds it, everything spreads warm and thick from your center outwards, your head tipping back to rest against his shoulder.

“There’s my girl,” he smiles when your body drapes pliant and loose against his, your hips chasing the pressure of his fingers. Forward into his touch and backwards onto his cock, you can hear him breathing heavy and low into your ear and your hands find his forearms to hold on tight, your nails digging into the thick muscles as you work yourself faster.

He rubs your clit in quicker, more precise circles, just right with the firm slip of two calloused fingers, and your thighs tighten in their tremble, your release a bright, shining edge that beckons.

When it happens, it breaks you – clamping tight around him as you’re suspended in a state of strained rapture, his hand comes up to cradle the base of your throat in a possessive hold while his other hand keeps working, and a second wave takes you by surprise, washing over your skin as you cry out. You can feel the wetness that soaks his fingers when he reaches down to feel where you’re stretched around him, letting out a groan against your skin.

His hand smears damply across your hip as he lifts you from his lap, slipping out as he guides you on to your hands and knees, and loose and pliant, you let him position you anyway he wants.

“Just a little more, honey. Just a little longer,” he coaxes.

Resting your cheek on the floor, you arch your back to put yourself on display for him as you catch your breath, but it’s stolen just as quickly when he gives you a rough, open mouthed kiss to your cunt. He eats you like a man starved, the wet muscle of his tongue flattening against you as he keeps you open with his hands splayed on your ass, and a deep rumbled groan is felt against the inside of your thighs when you reach back to tug on his hair.

His tongue dips deep inside you for a taste, and just when he pulls back, he goes in for more, like he’s changed his mind because he can’t get enough. Harder this time, more forceful, the action pushing your hips forward, and when you cry out, he’s dragging himself back, pulling away to position himself.

The heat of his body radiates along the back of your thighs, the thick tip of his cock notched against the slick dip of your entrance only for the barest of moments before he pushes himself in with a stroke of his hips, and you hear a hiss behind you, one you almost don’t catch over the low moan that spills out of your mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, his hips fitting neatly along your ass. He slides out and then back in, giving you time to adjust to his size. “I want – Christ – I want…can you take it harder for me?”

“Yes. God yes. Please.”

He answers with a rougher slide in, an audible muted pound of his hips against your skin. “You tell me if it’s too much, honey, okay?”

After turning your head and nodding so he can see you, he gives you another rough, smooth stroke in and then another one, each one filling you until the air feels like it’s being pushed from your lungs, and then he picks up his pace, letting out a low, heavy breath for every thrust. It sounds obscene: his rumbled, low groans and grunts, but you can barely focus on it for how sensitive you are to his thickness. Everything tighter, the fit is a snug, slick slide in every time, and you squeeze around him, earning you another hiss of appreciation.

“This pussy is gonna kill me,” he groans and then holds nothing back: his hips snapping against you with his hand resting flat on your tailbone, every jolt rocking your body forward.

Exactly what you asked for and what you’ve been missing, you let him know.

“It feels…it feels so good. God I’ve missed this.”

“Yea?” The word is a breathless growl, and you clench down on him again. “What about this? Did you miss this too?”

His hands wrapping around the inside of your elbows, he tugs you back and up until your back is arched with your ass in his lap and then he’s pounding into you.

“Joel!”

Faster and harder, his hips work ceaselessly behind you for a dozen strokes and when he comes, his fingers dig tight into your skin, your arms aching as he holds you in place to take every last drop. Panting behind you, his strokes slow into a rhythmic grind and sliding out, he eases you gently down onto the floor where you slump, your cheek resting on the fold of your arms.

Dazed and loose, with a content smile on your lips, you lay down on your side and he joins you, dropping to the floor. His arm slung over his eyes, you watch his pulse pound in his neck as he tries to catch his breath.

“So…was that also a Christmas present, or….?” you tease, the question coming out slow and saturated with contentment, and he laughs, a breathless thing that’s carefree and deep.

“Sure,” he answers, rolling onto his side. “Merry Christmas.”

The light of the flames dancing across your bare body, shadows slide over his tanned skin and the bluntness of his reply makes you laugh.

The two of you look at each other for a moment, his hand coming up to brush away an errant lock of hair from your temple. His hand glides down the length of your torso, coming to rest on the swell of your stomach and leaning in, his mouth meets yours.

Still smiling, you cup his cheek and with a slick slide leaking between your thighs, pull him closer to deepen the kiss.

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller/you #joel miller/reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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ihaveverything · 5 months

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Limitless manifesting for beginners

part I - basic concepts

part II - states, techniques, change

ʚ part III - mental diet, sats

part IV - daily life, time

part V - resistance, faith, the ''real'' world

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

On your journey to success, you may find that manifesting does inevitably come with an art of discipline and persistence. However, this is not to say it’s tiring, draining, difficult, or effort based at all. The discipline comes naturally, and persistence is without resistance. As the creator of your reality, you are met with infinite probable selections. Infinite states you may occupy, therefore leading to infinite possible realities you could experience. Taking responsibility for this and making the decisions that align with the life you wish to live is being, not doing or trying

Mental diet

The process of mental dieting can be quite confusing at first because there is a constant nagging reminder that you are supposed to return to fulfillment as frequently as you can. However, this is not about setting a schedule or reminders throughout the day to try to slip into the state a certain number of times an hour. Even though returning to states should be easy and the goal is to truly embody that new identity as much as you can, it is common for people to get distracted from being, and focus too much on trying.

It’s understandable to experience some good days and some bad days. There will be days when it’s easier to feel optimistic about the Law in general, and days where all you want to do is give up and spiral. The key point here is that positive thinking and optimism isn’t the reason why you can maintain a more stable mental diet. Mental dieting is to help change your beliefs. Each moment you return to the state of the wish fulfilled is to identify with a different probable reality where you are experiencing your desire. It is a choice you are making to feel what it would be like to have your desire. It is not thinking about your desire with little conviction. There is a difference between “okay I have my SP back. did I feel it right?” vs “I accepted the feeling of being back together, therefore I am experiencing aligned thoughts and emotions due to my conviction in knowing this will reflect into my 3D.” Acceptance is always the first step in this equation. Trying to do anything, whether it be forcing the state of the wish fulfilled, forcing the 3D, or using effort based techniques such as robotic affirming are all less efficient than accepting what you want to be true for a moment.

“Stop trying to change the world since it is only the mirror. Man’s attempt to change the world by force is as fruitless as breaking a mirror in the hope of changing his face. Leave the mirror and change your face. Leave the world alone and change your conceptions of yourself. The reflection then will be satisfactory.” ― Neville Goddard, Your Faith is Your Fortune

Additionally, there is no such thing as waiting to feel fulfillment. It’s understandable to have fear or doubt around feeling like you are unable to fulfill yourself whenever you want, but the truth is everyone needs to stop waiting. Make the decision now. Don’t tell yourself you’re gonna go all in tomorrow or next week or after the next motivational video. You occupy a state of awareness every single moment of the day. There is no excuse not to give yourself your desire now, because of the following quote:

“I will be” is a confession that “I am not “ The Father's will is always “I AM.” Until you realize that YOU are the Father (there is only one I AM and your infinite self is that I AM), you will is always “I will be.” ― Neville Goddard, The Power of Awareness

When you are feeling down on days where you’re not so confident about your manifestation skills, it’s at core a reminder that you are still viewing life as someone who is “trying” to obtain a desire that seems separate from you. We have been manifesting and creating our whole lives. Even your personality is based on the beliefs that created your environment starting from when you were born. We often let our mind run on autopilot and allow it to entertain negative possibilities that we expect to unfold even when nothing has been seen in the 3D yet. We place such faith in expecting the worst when it is unseen, but we rarely do the same for the positive best outcome, because society has taught us all about probability, things going wrong, luck, and every other reason which implies there is something or someone outside of ourselves that can control an individual’s reality. Expectation of the negative, whether it be you’ll never get that SP back, they are in love with someone else, you will lose that job, or overall the Law just doesn’t work will often lead to feelings and emotions of fear, lack, anxiety, etc.

“Sensation precedes manifestation and is the foundation upon which all manifestation rests. Be careful of your moods and feelings, for there is an unbroken connection between your feelings and your visible world. Your body is an emotional filter and bears the unmistakable marks of your prevalent emotions. Emotional disturbances, especially suppressed emotions, are the causes of all disease. To feel intensely about a wrong without voicing or expressing that feeling is the beginning of disease – disease – in both body and environment. Do not entertain the feeling of regret or failure for frustration or detachment from your objective results in disease.” ― Neville Goddard, Feeling is the Secret

When manifesting anything, the key to being is knowing how you and your desire are one. Everything already exists within you, and that combined with how creation is finished should be a powerful understanding that brings you to realize there is no such thing as “doing” this or that to make your 3d change. Your awareness of being is enough. By conditioning yourself into an identity / state you become one with it and manifest that state into reality. You, while far more than the state you are one with, have to become it by placing your awareness on it. Doing this is as simple as the decision to be something, you choose to become aware of being that state, and it manifests when it is natural. It should be noted that the time it takes to make something natural is dependent on the frequency, not the length of time, so do not expect months or years to yield results. In fact, such a long time with no success is a blatant mistake that you are either lacking discipline in your mental diet, or a failed approach due to more effort than being.

“The future must become the present in the imagination of the one who would wisely and consciously create circumstances. We must translate vision into Being, thinking of into thinking from. Imagination must center itself in some state and view the world from that state.” ― Neville Goddard, Awakened Imagination

“To move into another state or mansion necessitates a change of beliefs. All that you could ever desire is already present and only waits to be matched by your beliefs. But it must be matched, for that is the necessary condition by which alone it can be activated and objectified. Matching the beliefs of a state is the seeking that finds, the knocking to which it is opened, the asking that receives. Go in and possess the land.” ― Neville Goddard, Awakened Imagination

Everyone has their own choice for what method they prefer to use for manifesting. Some people like affirmations because it feels like a solid statement that helps them feel into the state. Others may choose visualizing since scenes may help them get their imagination running. Ultimately it does not matter what you do as long as you are focusing on the end result while patiently knowing that it will become your reality. We all gained interest in the Law because of what it promises us, but if you aren’t being the promise first, then results won’t come to you no matter how much “effort” you put in. As Yoda once said in Star Wars:

“Do or do not, there’s no try.”

SATS

Your sleeping hours are just as important as your waking hours of life. Your sleep plays a major role in your manifestation, so the last waking state you occupy is crucial. “You must be in the consciousness of being or having that which you want to be or to have before you drop off to sleep. Once asleep, man has no freedom of choice. His entire slumber is dominated by his last waking concept of self.”― Neville Goddard, Feeling is the Secret

A method of aligning your state with the wish fulfilled while you are drowsy is commonly known as SATS. Although SATS is often done right before falling asleep, there is nothing special about the time of day you do this. It is equally effective to do SATS as soon as you wake up or during the day. It is an extremely helpful way to manifest, but it differs from techniques such as affirmations, visualizations, scripting, etc because it’s a state. Affirmations themselves hold no meaning, and the scenes you visualize aren’t what manifests either. State Akin to Sleep refers to the deep state of consciousness during meditation or just before falling asleep. The reason why Neville recommended this method is because your last waking state is what dominates your entire sleep, and it sets the ground for your next day. You will often find that falling asleep in the state of the wish fulfilled vs in a state of lack can be very different for how easy your mental diet is the next day.

There are 2 different ways to go about SATS, but ultimately they both aim to achieve the same goal: making sure your last waking state is aligned with having your desires.

The traditional way is what many people know. Finding a comfy position, visualizing a short 10-15 second scene that implies your manifestation is fulfilled, looping that scene until you fall asleep.

The second way is simpler because some people feel like looping a scene puts too much emphasis on trying to “make it work” or “do it right” instead of focusing on the feeling and being part. There will always be people who don’t enjoy doing that, but because the goal is to fall asleep in the state of the wish fulfilled and not necessarily how perfect your scene is, so an alternate way is to enter that state right before you knock out, and it will be just as effective.

Your SATS scene does not have to be perfect at all. It doesn't matter if you visualize in first person or third person or how you go about this, because your only goal is to focus on the intention you set for your scene. Just like your daily mental diet, knowing and conviction is what brings about your desire. This is also why it's not absolutely necessary to loop the scene and even beat yourself over it not being a perfect cycle.

source tba

#law of assumption #manifesting #loa #loa blog #loassumption #neville goddard #3d #4d #manifestation #edward art

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gooperts-gunk · 7 months

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i saw someone on twitter writing qsmp names in korean and im trying so hard not to be bothered i know they have good intentions but it was just so wrong in parts so instead here's how qsmp names would be written in korean BY THE SOUND not how they're written. note that i am not korean nor on the korean side of qsmptwt but as a casual kpoppie it's a rite of passage to learn hangul and try to learn korean at one point therefore though i am not a trusted source i do know the basics of the phonetics LUL

alphabetical order & categorized!

get ready for me to infodump on mouth sounds

update from the morning after this post: fixed/optimized some!!!

english speaking creators:

badboyhalo: 밷보이헤이로 (baed-bo-i-he-i-ro/lo) i infer it'd be easier to just call him 헤이로 out of every part of him name please let's halo-truth bbh. the 헤이 slurs into the "hey/hei" sound, very little accentuation on the just one part, it works as one!!

dantdm: 단티디엠 or 댄티디엠 (dan-ti-di-em, daen-ti-di-em) i've heard both pronunciations for the name dan, it's a matter of preference here! EDIT: also possibly 댼 instead which is also daen but like, not really? but also they're really similar? and i don't know how to hear the difference but there is one and nevermind don't worry about it man

fit: 피트 (pi-teu) directly would be 핕 but that's just a tricky one it's bound to have a soft ㅡ sound following

foolish: 푸리쓰 or 푸리쌰? (pu-ri/li-sseu, pu-ri/li-ssya) THIS ONE IS TRICKY if it does go 쌰 it's be a soft one, but more likely 쓰 EDIT: IS IT 풀리쎠 (peul-ri-ssyeo) ?!?!?!? IM STILL ON THIS FOOLISH IS SO TOUGH TO PUT INTO HANGUL IM NOT GONNA BE OVER IT

ironmouse: 아이욘마우스 or 아이룐마우스 (a-i-yon-ma-u-seu, a-i-ryon/lyon-ma-u-seu) this one feels tit for tat, same same, just a minor difference in accentuating the r in iron or not! EDIT: could also be 아이런 (a-i-reon) or 아이론 (a-i-ron) !!!

jaiden: 제이든 (je-i-deun) no notes very easy and straightforward one

lenay: 르네이 (reu/leu-ne-i) same with jaiden's!

nihachu / niki: 니하추 or 니아추, 니키 (ni-ha-chu, ni-a-chu, ni-ki) another same same thing with ni-HA or ni-A, just depends on accentuation or not! the 추 may possibly be said as 츄 instead, but im unsure of which

philza: 피르쟈, 피르 (pi-reu/leu-jya, pi-reu/leu) no notes, straightforward! as you will come to notice, f's usually translate to ㅍ's, and z's usually translate to ㅈ's!

quackity: 콰키티 (kua/kwa-ki-ti) no notes! i heard like months back that quackity's korean fandom endearingly calls him 키티 i think?? fun fact i remembered :)

slimecicle / charlie: 스라임씨컬, 챨이 (seu-ra/la-im-ssi-keol/keor, chyal/chyar-i) wow okay so how do you write charlie in korean because i KNOW there's no way it's 챠르리 (chya-reu-ri) my tongue is tripping over the 르리, it has to be 챨이, or 챠리, or 챨리 right??? okay the more i think the more 챨리 (chyal-li) sounds right ok everyone go home i think it's 챨리 LUL

tinakitten / tina: 티나키던, 티나 (ti-na-ki-deon, ti-na) no notes! straightforward!

tubbo: 터뽀 (teo-bbo) no notes! but also i feel like there's other ways to write it that im just not convinced are correct LUL

wilbur soot: 윌버 쑽 (wil/wir-beo ssut) no notes!

spanish speaking creators:

carre: 카레 (ka-re) no notes!

elmariana: 에르마리아나 or 엘마리아나 (e-reu/leu-ma-ri/li-a-na, el-ma-ri-a-na) the reason why i included 에르 alongside 엘 is because it ends up sounding like "ed", the L/R sound in korean is in that same range and when said fast or cut abruptly like 엘, it sounds like a D, if not for context :) so 엘 COULD work! but it'd be hard to recognize it as an L/R sound without some extra space made for the sound. this is also relevant for elquackity!

german: 헤르만 or 헬만 (he-reu/leu-man, her/hel-man) same thing as last note applies here! it'd sound like HED-man more than HER-man but, still, could work!

luzu, arin: 루쥬 or 루주, 아린 (ru/lu-jyu, ru/lu-ju, a-rin/lin) no notes! i see luzu more said with the 쥬 sound instinctively but it's one of those either or i think EDIT: if it were the spain pronunciation i think it'd be 루튜 (lu-tyu) or 루뜌 (lu-ddyu) ??? the thhh sound doesn't exist in korean but this is the closest it gets i think

maximus, maxo: 맠수머스, 맠서 (mak-su-meo-seu, mak-seo) okay at this point my brain is mush and im sure there's a better way to write this but it's a tricky one. the 맠 could also be 막 (mag) but im unsure where in the mouth the difference is between 맠 and 막, because hangul is very mouth oriented, it's allll about tongue placement, and i am SO not on that X_X EDIT: i change my mind it's 막 for maximus but 맠서 is fine i think idk how to explain is just is. also alternate pronunciationfor maximus: 막씨머스 (mag-ssi-meo-seu)

missa sinfonia: 미싸 씬퍼냐 (mi-ssa ssin-peo-nya) yeah that seems about right (my brain is melting everything is hangul) no notes! EDIT: ok but IS it possibly 미사 (mi-sa)??? im doubting myself here

polispol, pol: 폴에쓰폴, 폴 (pol-e-sseu-pol, pol) no notes!

rivers: 리버스 (ri/li-beo-seu) no notes!

roier: 로이예 or 로이옐 (ro/lo-i-ye, ro/lo-i-yer/yel) this is one of those scenarios where an abrupt L/R sound works just fine! don't know how to explain it! but it just works!

rubius: 루비어스 (ru-bi-eo-seu) no notes!

spreen: 스프린 (seu-peu-rin) no notes!

vegetta: 베헷따 (be-het-dda) okay i don't know how to explain but tonalities of how you say vegetta in spanish make me think 베 and that the tta would be equal to the sharpness of 따 stick with me here i've been doing hangul names for so long now i can't see the end of the horizon EDIT: for some reason im changing my mind it might be 페헷따 (pe-het-dda)

willyrex, willy: 위리렉스, 위리 (wi-ri-reg-seu, wi-ri) okay again idk how to explain but the reason why ㄱ and not ㅋ is because it just feels like it instinctively, like that's a deep ㄱ abrubt stop, not a high ㅋ abrupt stop. im losing my marbles

portuguese speaking creators:

bagi: 바지 (ba-ji) no notes!

cellbit: 셀비트 (sel-bi-teu) guys this is getting hard. yes it's somehow sel and not se-leu. yes it's bi-teu and somehow not bit. if it were bit it'd be missing the aftermath TCH sound and i think it sounds good with it. the sel has space to breathe and isn't abrupt. stay with me. we're almost done EDIT: fellow hangul enjoyer anon in ask box said 셀빛 (sel-bich/bit) or 셀비츠 (sel-bi-cheu) if with the accent, i like these, ur getting put on the fridge with the best magnets. 빛 is a fun one because it sounds pretty much the same to 빝 or 빗, all end in the same stop of the tongue going to the roof of the mouth, but 빛 in particular means "light" and i think that's nice :)

felps: 펠릅스 (pel-reub-seu) holy moly i didn't expect this to be a tongue twister but i think i nailed it

mike: 마이크 or 마이키 (ma-i-keu, ma-i-ki) i've heard mike being called mikey so i included it for fun because there's been so much hardship. so so much. we're in this together.

pac: 팩 or 패크 (paeg, pae-keu) paeg and not paek because it's just a more throat based sound to say pac idk man. pae-keu is a hypothetical im losing it man i don't know anything anymore EDIT: okay i change my mind it's definitely 패크 over 팩 im so loopy from hyperfocus overload man EDIT EDIT: i can also see 팍 (pak) being used though that isn't how it sounds for us, i can see someone saying it that way in korean if they were to read it before hearing it and then go from there

french speaking creators:

antoine daniel: 안투완 단옐 (an-tu-wan dan-yel) in french the a's are long so 단 over 댄 is a guaranteed. the yel could be accentuated more but you get the point by now

aypierre: when french accent, 아이피에히, when english accent, 에이피에어 (a-i-pi-e-hi, e-i-pi-e-eo) (thank u anon for contributing 피에어 that makes much more sense)

baghera jones: one way is 바게라 전스 the other is 바길라 전스 (ba-ge-ra jeon-seu, ba-gil/gir-ra jeon-seu) a baGERa or bagEARa dilemma.....

etoiles: 에투왈 (e-tu-wal/war) no notes!

kameto: 카메토 (ka-me-to) no notes!

THERE!!!! IT'S DONE!!!! this was hard but i feel like i got most right. and when im wrong let's just say this was just hangul practice and not serious right guys, just practice round, right??? we don't take me so serious, right??? just stick fight with totem??? if you know korean especially the phonetics better than me which is NOT a high bar at all, you can step over that bar EASY, tell me a better way to write these thank u! smile :)

bonus round coming at you live from the morning after!!! some others that i thought "yeah let's include you"

im gonna be working on this on and off all day i think so don't be scared if someone isn't here chances are brain is doing something else but will add it later :)

cucurucho: 쿠쿠루쵸 (ku-ku-ru/lu-chyo) no notes!

walter bob: 월터 법 (weol/weor-teo beob) could also be 봅 (bob)

chayanne: 챠얀 (chya-yan) or 차얀 (cha-yan) no notes!

tallulah: 타룰라 (ta-lul-la) no notes!

ramon: 라몬 (ra-mon) or if you're pac you say 하몬 (ha-mon) heehee :)

dapper: 답퍼 (dab-peo) or possibly 답뻐 (dab-bbeo) but im not so sure about that one

leo / leonardo / leonarda: if you speak english it's 리오 (li-o) if you speak spanish it's 레오 (le-o), then add on 날도 (nar/nal-do) or 날다 (nar/nal-da) :)

richarlyson / richas: 리찰리손, 리차스 (ri-chal/char-li-son, ri-cha-seu) no notes!

pomme: 펌 (peom) or 폼 (pom) both work here!

trump: 트람프 or 트럼프, to make it trumpet change the 프 to 펫 (pet/ped)

tilin: 티린 (ti-lin/rin) no notes!

juanaflippa: 환나프리파 (hwan/huan-na-peu-li-pa)

bobby: 법비 (beob-bi) or 봅비 (bob-bi) both work here!

empanada: 엠파나다 (em-pa-na-da) no notes!

pepito: 페피토 (pe-pi-to) no notes!

sunny(sideup): 선니사읻엎 (seon-ni-sa-id-eop) this one works nicely because the 읻 bleeds into the 엎 and sounds like it's one full iddeop :) this one is an ending in ㅍ not ㅂ moment but i don't know how to explain why

#goopert talks qsmp #qsmp #i've been here 30 years. some of these were fun to do though i liked EXCEPT THE DIFFICULT ONES but fun NOT YOU MAX & FOOSH THAT WAS TOUGH #okay fine i'll main tag but im SHY. be NICE. please. thank you.#long post

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foreingersgod · 5 months

Text

Is it Casual now? . CC

pairing: caitlin clark x reader

synopsis: you thought you and caitlin were endgame, but now things are starting to feel a bit different

A/N: will be shifting the “ending” of the song so that we can all enjoy a happy ending lol

My friends call me a loser

'Cause I'm still hanging around

“YN come on we’ve had these plans set for weeks now” your roommate complained from her spot on your couch.

life had been so hectic recently and you barely had anytime to hang out with your girls. so when you heard caitlin was going to be out of town for the week and you had work off, you thought to set plans with your roommates to have a movie night and dinner at your place.

“seriously, you’re just gonna ditch us off?” another one of your roommates chimed, slightly irritated. you were scrambling around your apartment, throwing things into your overnight bag for when you arrived at caitlin’s place. “caitlin shoots you one quick text that she’s back in town earlier than expected and you’re immediately at her beck and call?”

you rolled your eyes. you knew what they thought of caitlin, that she was a player and only wanted you for one thing. but to you, it felt different, like she genuinely wanted you there at her side

I've heard so many rumors

That I'm just a girl that you bang on your couch

“she just wants you for a quick fuck, YN”

you’ve heard it all before. and you were very aware of how bad it looked from the outside. caitlin would only reach out late at night, never took you out, never bought you gifts, or offered to come over to your place. no wonder everyone thought you were just a booty call, every possible flag was blazing red.

and you often had your fair share of skepticism when caitlin called you up at 2 am with a “sorry i hadn’t called all week, you down to come over?”. but you always felt so worshipped when you were with her, completely blinded by the attention and false promises.

I thought you thought of me better

Someone you couldn't lose

she fucking stood you up. again.

you were sat at a bar, swirling the contents of your lip stick stained class. the classy black dress you wore suddenly felt suffocating and your eyes welled with tears. you couldn’t stop staring at the blaring 9:30 on your phone, thinking back to your conversation with cait the night before.

cait <3 : yea baby i can do 8:30, how does that bar down town sound?

you : that sounds really nice, see you then :)

it was your fault really, you kept hoping she would change. that maybe one of these dates would actually mean something to her, but after sitting in a bar alone waiting for an hour for her arrival, you were starting to lose your optimism.

sick of waiting, you paid your tab and left, not even thinking of texting caitlin back.

You said, "We're not together"

So now when we kiss, I have anger issues

“i missed you last weekend, cait” you muttered, pushing her face away from the crook of your neck, letting your head fall back against the pillow.

she had sent yet another text to you a few hours ago, asking if she could makeup for standing you up. of course, you gave in immediately.

she had sweet talked you so nicely when you arrived at her apartment. whispering in your ear, leaving trails of kisses down you neck and abdomen, taking your clothes off so gently. but the thought of her possibly abandoning you again lingered in the back of your mind.

“i know, i already said im sorry,” she attempted to seduce you with a kiss to the cheek “am i not showing it well enough?” now a kiss to the jawline.

she knew what she was doing, trying to act all innocent with flattery and kisses. if you weren’t so sick of the back and forth between the two of you, you would have let it convince you.

“cait, please. i want to talk about this”

“what is there to talk about?” her voice, once inviting was now laced with anger and irritation.

“don’t get defensive with me” you sat up, pushing her off your vulnerable body “i’m just trying to tell you that what you’re doing is hurting my feelings”

she looked at you expressionless, fingers rubbing at her temples.

“i want to spend time with you and it hurts when you ignore me and stand me up and-”

“yea, well we’re not together so…” she cut you off sharply.

it felt like a punch to the gut, hearing her say that. yea it was true, you weren’t together, but you don’t just act like the person you’re fucking isn’t worth anything to you.

“wow” you didn’t even know what to say. your eyes stung and you chest heaved with humiliation. did she truly think this wasn’t “together”?

You said, "Baby, no attachment"

“YN i really don’t know what you want me to say…i thought we both agreed that this was a casual thing?” she tried to tell you as you angrily picked up your discarded clothes from her bedroom floor.

“i don’t care what we SAID, caitlin” you stopped, buttoning up your shirt, looking her in the eyes “it’s what we keep DOING.”

“what are you talking about?”

“i know we said this was just a casual thing, but- but things started to change. we…ugh i don’t even know how to say it, but it just feels so different when we’re together. more than a casual hookup.”

she’s looking at you confused, pleading for an explanation.

“like when we hooked up that time after Iowa’s big game, you were knee deep in the passenger seat and eating me out? is that casual?”

she scoffed and rolled her eyes, but you egged on.

“or when your mom invited me to her house on Long Beach last summer? what about that, is that causal now?” your face felt hot as you raised your voice to her. you had surprised your self with these accusations.

“I hate that I let this drag on so long, caitlin, and now I hate myself”

all she did was stare, studying the features of your face. every crinkle in your nose, the way your lips quivered with anger, and every twitch of your right eyebrow was now forever embedded in her mind. she knew you were right, deep down, knew that she had fucked up so bad and that you only hated yourself because of her. she knew that her inability to commit had caused you pain and her avoidance issues had gotten out of hand.

“i’m sorry” she admitted, “i’m so fucking sorry that it hurts”

“caitlin, why? am i truly just a quick fuck to you?”

your question nearly knocked the wind out of her. she stood off the bed and meandered over to where you stood at the door, your pants still undone and your items thrown haphazardly into your overnight bag.

“no,” she breathed “you’re so much more than that”

it’s like you couldn’t speak, unable to do much else other than stare at her quizzically.

“i know i’ve treated you like shit. that i’ve fucked up far beyond fixing”

“so why don’t you show it? why sit here and tell me that it’s ok to ignore me and stand me up because we’re just ‘not together’? i don’t get it cait”

her hands ran over her face in frustration, she hated the confrontation. having to tell you all of this was sending her into a spiral. things were fine before tonight, she was able to do want she wanted and ignore all her feelings. and it all came crashing down the second she had gotten you into her bed, instantly faced with reality. tonight was it. she needed to be honest with you.

“i didn’t think i could love someone as much as i love you” she blurted out, which was followed by a deafening scoff from you.

“i’m serious,” she retorted “obviously i haven’t shown that, i’ve done nothing but be cruel to you. but the moment i met you, i knew you would have some sort of hold on me. and it scared me, YN”

you tried to interrupt, to take another stab at her childish behavior, but she kept going.

“i was so scared that i’d lose you, that you’d see through me and all my issues and eventually realize that i’m not worth having a real relationship with. so i tried to keep my distance from you, tried not to see you so it didn’t absolutely tear my heart apart, but i couldn’t help myself. i needed to have you, just a little bit, so i what it felt like to be loved by you. i just couldn’t risk ruining you, taking away a genuine life that you truly deserve all because i’m fucked up and avoid everything. and hooking up with you, to be completely transparent, has only made it worse because…because now i’ve seen what i actually lost”

“you,” there weren’t any words to express how you felt right now “you don’t need to avoid me, cait, you won’t ruin me. i know what i want in a relationship. it’s you, i want you”

“i’m just scared you’ll finally see past this whole thing and see that you don’t actually want me like that”

“i know you. i know that past this,” you waved your hands, gesturing between the two of you “there’s a different caitlin clark. one who doesn’t undermine herself and recognizes that she’s deserves real love just like how i deserve it. one that can address her commitment issues before they get out of hand like this did. one that won’t stand me up, that won’t shoot me down because she has ‘practice’. i know that the real you is perfectly capable of change.”

“i’m scared.” was all she managed “but i want to do better for you, i don’t think i can be without you, please let me fix this”

it came out as a desperate whisper, almost incomprehensible, but you heard her loud and clear.

“it’s going to take some time…but i’m willing to work on this.”

“i swear to god, YN, i’m going to be so much better. i’m done with the hookups and the late night texts. i just want you. all of you”

your hand found her cheek, pulling her towards you gently to place an intimate kiss on her lips.

“i believe you”

#Spotify #caitlin clark x reader #caitlin clark #wcbb #wcbb x reader #casual #chappell roan

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soap-ify · 9 months

Text

cw — angst, hurt / no comfort, major character death. italic paragraphs are flashbacks!

moon, tell me if i could / send up my heart to you ?

It wasn’t that the love between Johnny and you ever died.

It was still there. Pure, unadulterated, always burning just like a fire. And Johnny, too, was like a fire — boisterous and powerful, smart and fiery.

He kept you warm, but he stung too.

Marrying him was the best decision of your life. But everyone gets selfish sometimes, and the selfish part of you started craving his presence more in your home, rightfully so. You knew that there would be instances like this, where he’d be gone for too long and with no contact, sometimes making it feel as if he was just a hallucination you had fallen in love with all along. Given the radio silence, of course.

Him coming back had started becoming less joyful. You no longer ran up to hug him, and he no longer smothered you up with kisses. You were exhausted, and he was too. A brief eye contact and a soft smile was enough to show that you were grateful he came back alive. A mutual understanding between you two.

You knew he never stopped loving you, and it somehow hurt you even more. Love wasn’t always going to fix a marriage, it seemed. No matter how much you cry and swatted at his chest, distressed whenever he’d come back with a new injury.

You were the one who watched him change after all. More distant, more tired, too focused and tense. He was scared just like you. Yet never short in giving you his love.

“M’gonna get us a wee kitty.” He said one random morning, hair all messy after just having woken up, a sleepy grin adorning his lips, arms lazily wrapped around your waist. “We’ll raise it together.”

You sometimes wished you had his optimism.

“I love ye, I do!” He raised his voice in agitation, blue eyes wide in desperation while you were on the verge of tears, anger simmering beneath you. “But I can’t just quit my work like tha’...”

“I miss you, Johnny… I-I am tired of being scared all the time when you’re gone!” You choked back on a sob, shifting on your feet, careful to not step on the shattered pieces of the vase you had bumped against earlier.

“I know…” His voice cracked too, and something in your heart broke, knowing that he wasn’t going to back down from this mission. “I’ll come back, I promise. I promise m’never gonna leave ye alone like this.” He tentatively stepped forward before wrapping his arms around you, letting you cry on his chest.

Johnny never stopped loving you, and sometimes a weird part of you wished he did, because it wouldn’t hurt this much when he’d break his promises.

It wouldn’t hurt this much when the knock on your door turned out to be Johnny’s Captain and not him. It probably would have stung less if you both had stopped loving each other.

“John was the best of us. He’d’ve fought the world bare handed.”

Price’s words were forever ingrained into your brain, bitterly so, and it made you want to jump on that Captain and wrap your hands around his neck tight. You couldn’t even protect my Johnny.

You didn’t touch Johnny’s dog tags for a good two weeks, not even looking at it, simply pretending that he was still on his mission

“I won’t let you step into this house when you get back.” You said in a broken, frustrated voice while he stepped out of the house with that damn duffel bag, not giving you a single response.

You don’t recall what the argument was. Just a silly thing that got you both frustrated. All you remember was that those were your last words to him, and it hurt. You never meant it, and you knew he didn’t mean all the stuff he said to you too. That’s just how marriages were, right?

But if you knew that was going to be the last time you’d see him, you’d cry and hold him tight, ramble about every single thing you loved and hated about him, tell him about everything.

You wished you were more selfish, somehow able to convince him to not leave the house. Just for once.

Your hands mindlessly reached out for the dog tags after what felt like an eternity, wincing at the cold material. The warmth was no longer there, replaced with this icy air that was rotting you slowly.

Your fingers slowly wrapped around the dog tags, bringing it towards your face, your lips gently pressing a kiss against his name while beads of tears begin rolling down your cheeks for the nth time since the last two weeks, a broken hic leaving your mouth as your breaths gently fanned the steel in attempt to warm it up, your wedding ring gently grazing against the chain.

Your legs finally led you out of your bed, taking you towards his office that was just a few steps away from the bedroom. You never really stepped in there — especially not since he died, and you didn’t want to, knowing that his scent had probably vanished away.

Your trembling hand gently turned the knob down, opening the door with a click while your other hand tightly clutched onto his dog tags, too terrified to let him go.

His office was neat, just a few papers tucked out of a slightly open drawer. The place was sickeningly cold, making you feel nauseous while your eyes stung with the incoming tears, your throat burning up.

Your eyes landed on a canvas at the edge of the room, right beside the window, a stool placed in front of it while a white cloth was neatly draped over the canvas, some paint smudges adorning the visible wood of the canvas’s stand. He never told you he was working on something.

Your body worked faster than your brain and before you knew it, you were in front of the canvas, hand hastily reaching out to remove the piece of cloth and—

You.

It was you on the canvas, a big goofy smile adorning your lips while you held someone’s hand, probably his. You looked so happy, warm colours adorning the painting, only half done. It was unfinished.

Your legs gave out and you fell onto your knees, your hands covering your mouth in shock, the dog tags slipping from your fingers and hitting the ground loudly. Tears blurred your vision and a loud, distressed wail finally left your lips while you crumbled, hands desperately clutching onto your hair, chest heaving.

He was drawing you. He was drawing you before going on that mission. He was always drawing you, every inch of your face forever memorised in his brain, never letting you go. He couldn’t even finish the painting, he hadn’t even started coloring his hand — the only visible part of him in the painting.

A distant meow halted your sobs as you looked around, the cute little ginger kitten he had gotten you two walking over to you, another soft meow leaving it.

“It’s just you and me now…” You sniffled and gently pulled the kitten on your lap, fingers running through its fur in a desperate attempt to ground yourself, your eyes moving back onto the painting, every fiber of your body feeling as if it was punched and squeezed tightly.

“When I die, m’gonna send ye little angels from above.” His drunk words caused you to giggle softly, nuzzling into him while his hands held you by your waist, both of you lazily swaying in the living room to some sappy old song.

“Don’t say that, Johnny.” You huffed playfully, though still meaning your words.

He chuckled and pressed an affectionate kiss on your nose, smiling cheekily. “Ye are bloody right. We’re gonna die old and happy together, yeah?”

Johnny really never stopped loving you. Though just like a fire, he too, vanished into thin air and left behind this undying cold.

#this was torturing my brain for like 2 hours i had to write it #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mw2 #john mactavish #john soap mactavish #cod x reader #cod angst #call of duty #rurufic

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moonshynecybin · 2 months

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do you have any motogp fic recs?

yeah sure man. im gonna keep it simple (ao3 only) because i am a capricious bookmarker and refuse to wade through the weeds of tumblr fic as im not a natural tagger. no order just vibes. all of these i love and reread !

cant change that, cant change you by kingsquarding

Marc at the ranch for the (second) first time.

this fic is the platonic ideal of marc and vale post reconciliation being TOGETHER and at the RANCH and trying to make it WORK but they are also. still being a little messed up. themes include: guilt. injury. marc trying to get vale to stop treating him like glass and FUCK HIM already because he doesnt want to admit that their relationship/his body has changed since he was twenty. delicious.

Che Spettacolo! by serve_cunt

“What do you think,” Vale says, and leans against the doorframe. “Will he come?” Uccio stays silent. Of course he will come, he wants to say. In what world does he stay away? In what world can he resist?

sending uccio to the cuck chair. outside POV rosquez always hits for me becuase they match each other's freak in so many ways its fun to see what antics they engage in as obsevered by someone more normal. in this case. uccio. also helps get around vale's shit ass communication because its him through the eyes of someone who KNOWS that vale is being WEIRD. even if marc doesnt. fun and SEXY. academic au by the same author ALSO slays

of crashing and burning (and falling for you) by Anonymous

It has always been Marc and Valentino, Valentino and Marc. Two rivals inseparable on- and off-track throughout their careers, their story so closely intertwined they might as well have been the same person, dominating their beloved sport between the two of them. Then Marc breaks his arm, Vale loses their championship, and they are left trying to pick up the pieces. AKA a rosquez same age AU.

someone wrote out. elle and i's same age au. and it was so perfect i legit struggle to answer asks about this au now because im just like. its in the AU !!! its all here !!! really nails vale in this specific scenario imo... all the love and resentment and self-imposed walls and. my favorite of all. the exact way these guys talk in press conferences. like their exact diction. hits the spot beautifulperfect

arms out like an angel by yekoc

“Does Marc still work here?” he asks. He can’t think of the word for performing. “I dunno, man,” the guy says. “Sorry, I’m new.” Vale blinks at him. “Find out,” he says, and then, annoyed at himself for the impatience, “if you can. I came a long way.”

the efficiency of word choice in terms of characterization in this one really moves me... every line has implications !!! sexy ones even !!! and theres so much baseline CHEMISTRY and inability to really STAY AWAY from each other but also. a tense little undercurrent of slight misunderstanding and hurt that makes it stand out... i also just love fics where marc pushes back just a lil and vale has to like. figure out what to do with that. in a horny way. yekoc's bezzcele also goes crazy if you wanna think about nipple piercings as much as i do

All I Wanted by agnst-crrnt

The first time it happens is just after Marc’s 10th birthday. He’s about to complain to his parents about how Álex always finishes the milk and then puts it back into the fridge, when the faces of his parents’ blur in front of him. Marc closes his eyes, trying to make it better and grabs onto the edge of the table. He can hear his mama ask him if he’s okay, before everything stops. or Rosquez Time Travel Au, where Marc randomly gets teleported through time, always ending up somewhere around Vale

hey thats my friend. rosquez time travel au as ive said my favorite thing to think about maybe EVER !!! really love the strict marc POV on this one and how you REALLY see the. youre in love so you go. and his just. his ceaseless romanticism and optimism wrt to vale and their relationship that fits this fic concept SO well. guest appearances from pedrenzo as well yayyyyy

i give into the fall series by lestelledreams

Her and Pol were good; they did win a gold at Junior Worlds after all, and that’s not something anyone can just go out there and do. But her and Valentino – they could become great. Mar’s never been more sure of anything in her life. or, The first year of Mar's and Vale's partnership.

genderbend figure skating au where marc gets to have all his weird injury complexes explored AND it gets slutty AND we get to see his freak ass ambition. imagine if motogp was a pairs sport (like actually not just in a fake way) and marc had the option of pairing up with vale. imagine how crazy he would go trying to make that happen adfhdflk

a hundred ninety-nine degrees by hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)

“You should fuck me again,” Bez says. It trips out, all his defenses worn down by the long, annoying day of meetings, by the feeling of Cele above him, pressing him down into the couch, by Cele’s bright clear gaze. Above him, Cele doesn’t smile with his whole face, scrunching up his eyes, like he did the first time Bez asked. He doesn’t smile at all, just keeps looking at Bez. “Really?” he asks. “I didn’t know – did you like it, last time?”

cele tops lets GOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. some fics just. have an ability to pierce directly towards what actually and precisely makes a pairing or a situation or a dynamic SEXY, while also revealing a new facet of said dynamic that i've never thought about in depth before. this is one of those. fuck him!!! make him cry !!!! perfect !!!

i was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy (whose reality i knew was hopeless to be had) by babynflames

In Motegi 2005, Hiroshi Aoyama wins his first race during his home GP, Dani Pedrosa gets second while hiding a fractured humerus and Jorge Lorenzo is handed a one race ban for riding in a irresponsible manner after nearly colliding with Dani and causing de Angelis to abandon the race, leaving the third position to Casey Stoner. The haircutting is incidental.

dyke PEDRENZO. fic that is fun and funny and filled to the BRIM with the kind of homoerotic tension you can only have between two teenage dykes in direct competition who dont even know theyre horny about each other except they REALLY kind of do. also. the best sports rpf to me always engages with a sport on a sociological level... also just love the writing style on this. direct and avoidant at the same time. very dani in sexuality crisis to me aljfdhl

#anyways this got LONG. but these are most of my faves...#also mine. i reread those thats why i wrote them. appalachianpie dot ao3 thank u #motogp #callie speaks #asks #rosquez #pedrenzo #bezcele #forgot to add the TWO (2) crazyinsane rosquez roman aus that exist but you can go find em... i gotta make breakfast

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linddzz · 8 months

Text

Here an assortment of Facts About Morpheus in the Red Flags AU. Where I'm starting to lean more towards the version where they meet and are already into each other before the ""Fake Date"" Incident:

-Jessamy is the raven he took care of when he found her injured outside of his townhome. He now has a room with a window he often keeps open for her to fly into whenever she feels like it. I don't know how legal any of this is in London but tbh it doesn't matter because he also does not know what the laws are and doesn't care.

- His townhome is very dark maximalist in decor, which tends to surprise people at first. There are houseplants and little statues all over, and the walls are hidden behind millions of bookshelves. There is an art studio room and books scattered everywhere. Very recently, hypothetical visitors would notice a lot of child locks and child proofed areas that have a bit of a panicked "I bought every safety thing in the store bc I have no idea wtf I'm doing" energy to them.

- He has a therapist. Yes, the Morpheus that Hob meets is the upgraded version who is actually working on himself already. This is what the improved personal growth version of Morpheus is like.

Anyway, said therapist is Gilbert F. Greene. Because Morpheus going head to head with an unstoppable force of old timey adorable optimism who will also not take his shit is delightful. Dr. Greene insists on going by first names and Morpheus always makes "Gilbert" sound like a slur in retaliation. Some conversations I imagine include:

"Good morning Gilbert, you will never guess who had what you might call a """relapse into self destructive behaviors"""" last night."

"I am very sorry to hear that my dear boy. Let me say though, that I am so very proud of you for calling me! That is a phenomenal step for you and it's wonderful that you are being proactive in your recovery."

"Don't patronize me Gilbert. I will hang up."

(this ended up being super long so I'm just gonna spare y'all's dash. Warning for some lightly touched on mentions of drug use and self destructive behavior.)

- Him getting a therapist was part of the requirements for gaining visitation rights and then weekend custody once a month with Orpheus. The therapy is actually helping, and he's bitter about that.

- His given name is actually Dream, he goes by his middle name. All the Endless siblings have awful names. Desire goes by Adonai because who calls a fucking child Desire???

When Hob meets the rest of the family, Destiny goes "it's good to see you again, Dream" and Hob begins turning to Morpheus like "lmao who tf is named Dream" only to find Morpheus glaring daggers at his brother.

- The Endless parents are rarely around. Some of the siblings still live in the manor and they all use it for family dinners, but it's common for their parents to be off travelling for years at a time.

- Morpheus is an author and a painter who has a bajillion pen names to go with each genre he writes in, so it's hard to figure out exactly how much he's written. Even before becoming a father though, his face and full name is mostly associated with children's fantasy stories that he illustrates himself, and his Art vs Artist vibe is very Miyazaki.

Him and Calliope collaborated on a series of illustrated poetic translations of ancient epics. Their divorce was exactly as messy as one might imagine the divorce between two passionate artist types might be.

- His downward spiral of self destruction started before the divorce but oh boy did it nosedive during and after.

- When she got pregnant after divorce proceedings had started, there was a moment where they were both meeting with lawyers and one asked something along the lines of if this meant they would try for reconciliation and staying together. Calliope said "no" immediately.

It's not like Morpheus exactly thought they would get back together, but the speed and firmness of that hard "no" had his head screaming with white noise and some badly thought out self medication for months, which ended up being why Calliope got full custody and he is just now able to get more involved with the now two year old Orpheus.

- His rebound with Thessaly was also messy. She was just in it for a fun fling and he was... Morpheus. He found out he got dumped when she informed him she was already in the process of moving back to Greece, and Johanna said he needed to be banned from any more beautiful Greek expats from that day forth.

- No one can figure out what the deal is with him and Lucienne. The simple explanation is they're queerplatonic soul mates. Lucienne's wife Gault thinks they're a bit codependent (not an inaccurate assessment), but is more civil with him since the day she yelled at him to go get an actual therapist instead of constantly putting his shit on Lucienne, and he actually did. (It is unclear if this or Calliope demanding therapy for him to get visitation with Orpheus was his wake up call catalyst, but probably a bit of both.)

- Lucienne was originally a personal assistant. She now works as his editor since she seems to be the only person who can keep track of all the shit he's written. She is also the only person who can get away with critiquing his works in progress without sending him into a fit where he might burn all his manuscripts.

- When Morpheus started mentioning this Gadling guy a lot, Lucienne paid a visit to the pub. Not to do anything so crude as to threaten a man's life if he breaks her sensitive friend's heart. What could she do anyway? No no. She's just here to smile with zero trace of humor and ask some questions while looking him up and down through her spectacles. Hob will later describe this as one of the most pants shitting moments of his life, and he felt like he got transformed back into a primary school kid who talked slightly too loudly in the library.

- Morpheus went through a slutty phase during and shortly after University that was less of a healthy and fun exploration of his sexuality and libido, and a bit more "I will take anyone who will have me in any way they will want me and I know that if nothing else, I'm pretty."

- Him and Johanna used to have a game seeing who could get more free drinks in one night. This had to be put to an end when it turned into the catalyst for at least three screaming fights between them.

Fight subjects were

Quality vs Quantity. Morpheus insists his ability to get people to buy him a single glass of wine that costs £50 beats Johanna's cheap beers. Johanna disagreed. loudly.

Is it cheating when Morpheus ran to the bathroom to smudge on some eyeliner and then stole Johanna's lip gloss? Is it further cheating when Johanna realized that his main method of getting drinks was "act like Adonai"? Accusations that he would ever act like his horrid annoying younger sibling sent Morpheus into an absolute tantrum.

Competitiveness DID overcome sibling rivalry enough for Morpheus to go to Adonai for makeover assistance. This backfired because it made Morpheus hot to the point of intimidating, and Johanna won that night.

- After Hob starts flirting with him, Morpheus goes suspiciously into a Romantic, Pre-Raphaelite inspired art era featuring lots of noble knights with dark sunlit hair. A lot of them seem to be lured in by dark haired fae entities all La Belle Sans Merci style. It's disgustingly obvious.

-Therapy has made him juuuuust self aware enough to know that he MAYBE tends to go a bit hard and fast with romance. This makes him a little more cautious with Hob than he usually would be, and he's doing a bit of "Hob is so nice and sweet and interested but I'm gonna mess it up :(((" pining. Everyone around him is fucking sick of it. He is not self aware enough to realize he's still going super hard and fast, but this time he's doing it while sighing sadly and drawing Hob in his sketchbook all the fucking time.

#red flags au #human au #Dreamling #gonna make my pinned masterpost to organize shit later today djdjdksk

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