#cynical writes

[grimalkenkid]

“The Kind of Person I Wanted Back Then”

(Had a burst of inspiration thanks to @havanillas art of Aventurine with a baby, so have this angsty-yet-hopeful Drabble! Enjoy?)

Aventurine knew his place; he was a tool for the Strategic Investment Department to deploy in situations deemed too risky or underhanded for any of the other Stonehearts. He was basically disposable, a pawn who was nevertheless useful if he could turn the tides at a pivotal moment. So it came as little surprise when Diamond sent him to once again “offer” the IPC’s aid to a particularly stubborn border planet that refused to ally with the Amber Lord against the Antimatter Legion.

Even from orbit, Aventurine saw the scorched craters where once-thriving cities stood, though the sight couldn’t hold a candle to the devastation he witnessed firsthand in his opinion. Of course, he would offer his sympathies or condolences when he met with their leader, but he wouldn’t sugarcoat anything. If Diamond thought a gentle touch would get through their thick skulls, then he would’ve sent Topaz.

The negotiation went about as well as expected. Their leader was a tough, old soldier, determined to maintain his people’s independence. However, Aventurine had seen enough of the crumbling masonry and hastily-set tents along the outskirts to sense the cracks in the man’s resolve.

“Give the IPC a controlling share in the planet’s geothermal energy market, and you’ll have the Preservation’s protection.” The words burned his tongue, bitter and acrid.

Like they should have protected the Avgin…

Aventurine left the meeting having given the leader a few offers to ponder and many possibilities to chew on. He was certain they’d come around and agree to the IPC’s terms. Eventually, everyone did.

There were few casinos still operating within the city, having lost most of their clientele to leisure activities less reliant on luck. A shame, Aventurine thought, and so he returned to the small space-port, texting Stelle to pester her into playing online poker. They were two hands deep when a laser-scorched shuttle made an abrupt landing nearby.

Dozens of injured civilians and soldiers rushed out. Aventurine hung back, keeping out of their way as they undoubtedly hurried to the nearest hospital or, more likely, a first aid kit. He tried not to think of how powerless he was right then. For all his wealth, he couldn’t actually protect anyone. Only the IPC could wield that kind of power, and he was little more than their puppet.

With a heavy-hearted sigh, Aventurine tried to turn his attention back to his game, but a lone figure lagging behind the rest of the refugees caught his gaze first. It was a small child, his awkward gait a sign that he had just barely learned to walk. He stumbled about aimlessly, his wide eyes watery and darting everywhere. Before a single thought formed in his head, Aventurine had already pocketed his phone and strode over to the confused child.

The instant the child saw Aventurine approaching him, he abandoned his wandering and stumbled as fast as his little legs could carry him towards the only adult who even seemed to notice him. Aventurine knelt down in front of the kid, his heart nearly stopping as he saw his eyes clearly, with the distinctly two-colored irises of a Sigonian.

“Where are your—?” Aventurine started, but his question would have to wait as the kid slammed into his chest, clawing at his waistcoat and sobbing as only a frightened child could.

Whatever questions Aventurine had could wait. He slowly brought his hands up and wrapped the poor kid in an awkward hug. He wasn’t supposed to be the one who offered comfort, shouldn’t be the one people trusted. Wasn’t supposed to be a person, just a tool, a pawn. And yet this kid was clinging to him like a lifeline. The least Aventurine could do was give him reassurance in return.

He patted the kid’s head, speaking softly until his tears dried and his breathing grew steady. Only then did Aventurine lift him into his arms, whispering a comforting lie as he returned to the city,

“Now, let’s go find your parents.”

Hours later, and Aventurine had the answer he’d known all along. The kid’s parents were dead, and no one would take him in. Of course they wouldn’t; why would anyone take in a Sigonian? To do so would be asking to invite a future thief and liar into one’s house.

But Aventurine was already a liar. A murder. A loser.

As the kid fell asleep in his arms, Aventurine returned to his ship, shutting himself away from the prying eyes of his subordinates. He sat down in the first chair he saw and finally let his own tears fall.

“I’ll take care of you,” he swore with all the kindness and tenderness that remained in his scarred heart. “I won’t leave you to fend for yourself. I’ll protect you… I promise.”

And he meant it.

[turbo-tsundere]

Let’s disturb da balance of the universe

[harlowes-home]

Honestly the sheer hatred for the Minecraft movie trailer and simultaneous mini resurgence of people talking about mcsm has me going back to that game.

Replaying it now and. I’m gonna sob I didn’t realize how much I missed it

[the-awful-falafel]

I really hope Rick and Morty as a series will finally move on from portraying Rick's love for Morty / his family as this special, redemptive trait that Morty just needs to open his eyes to. Or portraying it as something Rick just needs to be emotionally honest about, finally admit in a grand gesture, and then everything will be healthy and resolved.

Two things can be equally true: Rick can sincerely care about Morty, deeply enough to be tender with him, showing gestures of affection, being protective of him, being truly proud of him... and can also constantly let Morty down, put him in mortal danger, make Morty feel responsible for his emotional health, treat him awfully and in manipulative controlling ways, and not be there for him when it matters most. His love is real, but is also a fickle thing that Morty cannot always rely on. That uneven dolling out of affection is exactly what entrenches the abuse and damages Morty further. Even now that Rick is slowly improving as a person, his simultaneous love and unreliability persists in milder ways, and the long pattern of abuse leaves deep scars on his grandson.

In my opinion, it makes perfect sense for Morty to see Rick's care for him as this unreliable, dangerous, and potentially non-existent thing, but also to paradoxically crave it nonetheless. Every time he lets his guard down and starts to trust Rick too much, he's been kicked in the nuts for it to varying extents-- even recently. I don't think he actually believes Rick cares nothing for him, but he's been trapped in this cycle of good and bad for so long that his self-worth is eroded and wholly defined by his grandpa's conditional affection, and he's scared of and dependent on it simultaneously. Even if Rick became truly healthy and openly caring from now on, that won't change how he's screwed up Morty with his behavior.

The series isn't going to make any meaningful progress if the writers keeps cycling around the superficial "does Rick care? does Morty know how deeply Rick cares?" question that they've asked since Season 1, instead of progressing to more meaningful, realistic questions about what Rick's love even means after all the past seasons of codependent abuse, and how much it should be worth to Morty in the end. (Ideally, much, much less than it's worth now.)

Yes, Rick cares. Yes, he loves his family deeply. But as with many forms of abuse, that's part of the problem.

[spookygibberish]

Dogstock are typical of what are often deemed the ‘evil’ races in many other fantasy works. They were created by some higher force to be slaves, they are carnivorous by nature, they resemble animals other than human in dentition and build. They growl and bite and walk behind.

The Uhasr (a dogstock culture) are descendants of such slave-infantry that was abandoned when the empire that used them to capture the steppes decided the land wasn’t so profitable after all, and more pressing matters drew their attention elsewhere. Like tools left spent on the ground, the unneeded, excess dogstock were left to survive on their own in Hochkiskuph. The native peoples, of course, did not welcome them any more, or see them any less as oppressors when the hand released the lead. To the Hochkiskuph peoples, the Uhasr are a predatory ghost, an echo that consumes them even in absentia. To the Uhasr, one human is much like another, differing in number and equipment, but never in essence. Uhasr are a species of wild animal with a human face. Humans are prey on two legs. Humans smoke and poison uncovered dens on principle, Uhasr abduct and consume men and women and children all the same.

A common trend I have noticed in media which aims to humanize monsters, is that it often relies on passivity. Humanity is contingent upon kindness. The monster that is A Person only so long as they are a harmless thing at heart, something which can be understood and befriended. Their violence is reluctant, their hearts noble. Grace is a concession to the dominated. Only the toothless beast, declawed and pinioned and caged, is one which has earned its personhood. The ontological enemy supersedes the ontological man.

[artyandink]

amoralism | three

Summary: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Organised crime, hostage situation, crime syndicate, sexual tension, fantasising, blood, firearms, references to sex, masturbation (use of vibrator and fingers) Agent Dean Winchester (yes, he’s a warning), hostage situation, crazy aunt and uncle

SERIES MASTERLIST

Song Inspo: Under the Influence - Chris Brown

cynicism

After you and Dean were out of the auction house safely, you found yourself getting a call from Sam, which had you wondering if the FBI kept cameras on you two to see if you’d finally given into the copious amounts of sexual tension.

“Agent Winchester.” You cleared your throat, wiping your smeared lipstick off with a makeup wipe. “Talk to me.”

‘We have a situation down on 7th.’ You heard him sigh out, and you could feel the forehead rub through the phone like it was your own. ‘Hostage situation. Our syndicate’s mark is on the front of the bank. You and Dean are the only two units in the area.’

“We’ll see what we can do.” You nodded, saying a quick goodbye before cutting the call and turning to Dean. “We have a situation.”

Dean perked up, stopping his boots from scuffing against the floor in wait. “Did Sammy pee himself? If so, we’re no longer brothers, he hadn’t done that since ninth grade.”

“What?! No!” You scoffed, pinching the bridge between your eyebrows. “Bank on 7th, it’s a hostage situation. Your brother needs us on the scene.”

“Oh, right.” He cleared his throat. “But we’re in, y’know, party clothes.”

“Oh, we’ll get a bulletproof vest, let’s just go.” You groaned, getting in the Impala, while he ran to the driver’s seat, getting in and the purr of Baby’s engine filling the empty street, tires screeching as you both drove off.

You and Dean walked up to the scene of the hostage situation, dressed in your party attire like a couple of melons, but you didn’t exactly bring a change of clothes in the Impala.

That’s why the cops looked sceptical until the badges came out from your thigh holster (Dean didn’t miss the way the guy at the caution tape looked at your bare thigh peeking out from the slit as you got your badge) and the inside pocket of Dean’s suit jacket.

“Well, I’ll tell you somethin’, agents, we’d need special forces in there.” Detective Quixley sighed, shaking his head. “Our criminals are in with the hostages. Refuse to come out, wanna keep an eye on ‘em. They threatened to empty their clips if SWAT stormed the building, and they have men on every exit.”

“They’re meticulous. Know what they’re doin’.” Dean sighed, fixing his cuffs. “We just came from an undercover gig. The lady and I can handle it, but we need bulletproof vests, refill clips and guns with attack damage and horsepower.”

“The recoil is gonna be pretty strong on those ones.”

“We don’t give a damn about recoil.” You cut in, strictly business now that you were on the scene. It was remarkable, how quickly you and Dean could switch. “The guns. And the vests. Quick.”

The tone you were using put some R-rated thoughts in his head, but he shook it off and plastered a smile just as Detective Quixley went away to arrange the guns and vests for the both of you.

“So authoritative.” Dean murmured to you in a lilting tone, a crap-eating grin on his face. “If you weren’t FBI, you’d make a good chef. Barking out orders-”

“Shut up or I’ll kick you where the sun don’t shine.”

“See? God, such a tightly-wound coil. You should release some of that tension. I’ve got a Thai place.” He chuckled under his breath, smirking. “Got a hand of glory there.”

“Workplace boundaries.” You groaned, holding a hand up to his face with disgust. “Really, TMI.”

“We broke workplace boundaries five years ago, sweetheart.” He quipped as you two received NYPD vests, strapping them on. “Well, sort of. We didn’t even breach first base.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “My job depended on first base. I’m not throwing that away for your dumb ass.”

“You wound me.”

“Good.”

You and Dean made your way to the bank’s easiest to access exit that wasn’t the front door, the sound of pacing footsteps telling you there was only one guy.

Your guns held ready, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you both made hand gestures to each other that made absolutely no sense.

You had to abandon all sense of hand signatures altogether.

You’d been much more in sync with the older Winchester five years ago. Before both of you had risen up the ranks. Where you were a growing Major Crimes agent and he worked Narcotics, and the two jurisdictions had to cross.

You two had definitely gotten along better then.

With the whiskey, the laughs, bonding over little siblings, the wet dreams, the near-kisses, the hot sexual tension that threatened to burst.

It’s like meeting after those years had cut the first part and left the second. Only the second.

The second part left you at odds, desperately trying to resist each other and overall frustrated from lack of contact. The contact you almost had five years ago.

God, there’s a hostage situation. Keep it together.

After a fairly obvious mouthing of the word ‘GO’ (Dean’s aggressive mouthing made it seem to be in capitals), you rushed in, grabbing the guard from behind with your arm around his neck so Dean could move in to knock him out.

The guard went limp, eyes rolling back and half lidded as you lowered him with a soft huff of breath as to not alert anyone else. Taking his walkie and his gun.

Dean Winchester laying someone out really did look sexy.

You continued on to the next room, this time Dean holding the guy to allow you to give him an early bedtime. Dean squatted, taking the walkie and gun, storing it in a thigh holster he’d procured.

Is it wrong to feel envious of a thigh holster?

Probably. But you couldn’t ignore the way that thing practically hugged the powerful muscle.

Your eyes even landed on the pout of his lips, the undeniably hot glint in his eyes as he looked down on the unconscious gang member.

“You ok?” You asked while Dean regained a steady breathing pattern, recovering from the onslaught of adrenaline while you did the same.

“Yeah. You?” You didn’t get the chance to answer that, feeling a bat-shaped impact on your back shoulder, sending you crashing to the floor. By the sounds of it, the SWAT team had taken advantage of the brief moment of weakness to storm the room containing the hostages and getting them out.

While you held your shoulder with a low groan, then attempting to push yourself back up, you saw a red headed woman swinging said bat for kicks while approaching Dean. Leather jacket, red-painted lips, leather pants and heeled boots.

She either completely disregarded necessary fighting clothes or she didn’t need them to beat your asses.

“Cheap shot.” You murmured, wincing at feeling tender skin under your vest. That would probably bruise bad, cold compress be damned.

Dean went down easily after a few parried shots from the lady, one leg swept from under him so he stumbled to his knees, her smoothing back his hair and grabbing the short strands in her fist, dropping the bat and grabbing his collar with the other. His hand flew to cover hers, a weak attempt to stop her from doing anything more.

“Dean Winchester.” She practically purred, her thumb rubbing circles into her scalp while she grinned, tongue tracing her teeth. “Famed daddy’s boy. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Dean smiled as cocky as he could while being womanhandled, chuckling. “Oh, I’m famous.”

“I had fun messing with John’s head.” She smirked, tilting her head. “He caved. I wonder if you will. It’s so… satisfying… when they do.” She added that in a murmur, trailing a painted finger down his jaw, having released his collar. “Be a good boy and let this one go for me. Or I could grab my knife, carve out a chunk of that pretty neck and see where it gets you.”

Dean’s eyes flickered to you, struggling to get up behind this random chick, wincing at the pain in your shoulder that you had a hand trying to stabilise, and realised he needed to stall. “Are you gonna kill me or are we gonna make out? Cause I’m gettin’ very mixed signals here.”

“Always such a flirt, aren’t you?” Whoever-This-Lady-Is chuckled, then smirked. “Who would I be if I didn’t introduce myself? Abaddon, handsome. The Knights of Hell say hi-” She was whipped around by you, the fist on your injured shoulder’s side connecting with her jaw. Abaddon’s head snapped to the side for a moment, but then you received the same treatment, your hand reaching to gingerly touch the corner of your mouth and wiping blood from the offending area.

Ah, Jesus.

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow, scoffing lightly. “Thought that’d do something?”

“Made you look.” You grinned, and Dean sprang into action, clamping metal handcuffs around her wrists after drawing them together. Abaddon looked up at you in shock and horror, which prompted you to use your good arm to help Dean push her down to the floor and keep her still.

“FBI.” Dean growled lowly, the timbre of voice sending a jolt through you (not the time, get your act together-) as you forced Abaddon to stop struggling and just lay still. “You’re under arrest.”

“I had that under control.”

That was all Dean could say as you held the cold compress to the back of your shoulder, wincing every time it shifted and put more strain on the bruised skin as you sat at the end of an ambulance. It made your blood boil.

“Gee, no problem for saving your ass.” You drawled back, rolling your eyes, which had Dean shifting uncomfortably before scoffing.

“I could take her.”

Your eyebrow raised to your hairline at that. “You mean the woman who- let’s see - had you by your hair and giving you some weirdly sexual innuendos? Yeah, you had it under control. And you can clearly take her one on one.”

Dean couldn’t help but note the sarcasm dripping off your words, and folded his arms with yet another light scoff. He deserved more respect in that regard. He was one of the best of Major Crimes.

He’d cuffed this supposed Knight of Hell.

“Shut up. What are you even doing, huh? First day working this organised crime thing and you’re already busted in the shoulder.”

“I’m doing my job!” You scoffed, holding the compress over your shoulder. It hurt to move it, honestly, but you’d rather take a banged up shoulder rather than Dean Winchester scolding you.

“And I’m not?” He retorted, hands on his hips. “We’re working this case together.”

“The only reason you’re even in Major Crimes is because daddy dearest pulled some strings.” You seethed, which had Dean bristling.

“That’s not how it went.”

“Then how?”

“What happened, princess, is that yes, my dad was your old CO.” Dean folded his arms, bulging biceps straining against the fabric of his suit sleeve as he did. Your eyes flicked to them, that spark of anger quenching for a moment before forcefully reigniting. “But I worked to get to the Major Crimes unit on my own. Just like Sammy did. Believe it or not, I ain’t just a pretty face.”

“And a hot ass.” A female police officer around your age purred in Dean’s ear as she went by, slapping said ‘hot ass’ firmly.

Dean’s eyes followed her own for a moment before he smacked down his tendencies for the sake of winning an argument.

“Emma. Old hookup.” He cleared his throat, then huffed out a breath. “There’s a point to where I’m goin’ with this. For us to work this case, sweetheart?” He gestured between you and him. “We need to sort whatever this is… out.”

“Last time I checked, we didn’t reach that point five years ago. Working this same case.” You deadpanned, your hand tightening on the compress. “I’d argue there’s nothing to sort out.”

“And if I say there is?”

“You know I never answered to you.”

His hands went on his hips. “Yeah, cause you’re Agent Know-It-All.”

“Finally, you’re catching on.” You quipped back, earning an eye roll from his part.

Like you mentioned earlier, the lack of whiskey fuelled bonding and laughing about sibling dynamics really takes a toll on a relationship built solely on how bad you wanna bang each other.

By God, Dean was hot when he was angry.

He was about to retort to your retaliation with equal snark when you heard your name being called from a distance. Your eyes locked on the guy, and a wide grin spread on your face. “Nicky?”

“Querida!” Sergeant Nick Santiago - and your cousin - approached you and gave you a tender hug (he was mindful of the bruise), laughing. “Oh, long time no see. And I love seeing that adorable face.” He pinched your chin affectionately. Nick was five years older than you, hence the smothering affection.

“Shuddup, you’re adorable.” You swatted his shoulder with a snort.

“No, me? I’m… ruggedly handsome.” Then he took your good shoulder. “Hey, I’m gonna need you to check on Aunt Lucy and Uncle Ernie. You know how it is, they’re insane if not handled and I think Aunt Lucy is getting into the tarot cards again.”

You huffed out a disgruntled breath, your nose scrunching up briefly in disgruntlement. Dean noticed, and stopped giving Nick a green-eyed-monster fuelled look to shoot you a genuine smile. “And last time those cards were used, Ernie was suspicious of everything.” You sighed, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll see if I can talk sense into them.”

“They always listen to you. Even if I’m the older one.”

“That’s cause I’m the favourite. But, seriously, I’ll have a look into it.”

Would you go to hell for this? Even worse, get fired?

Yeah, most likely.

Unprofessionalism only could reach an all time high when you found yourself alone in your bedroom, scissoring yourself open, one hand above your head and gripping the headboard, the other very obviously between your legs.

One foot flat on the mattress. The other leg stretched out on the bed, your sweats abandoned somewhere you didn’t bother to note.

Jaw slack, brow furrowed and eyes closed, vivid tapes of Dean’s mouth and fingers working you over playing on your closed eyelids. The tantalising, fabricated images having his name rolling off your tongue.

“I think you’re lookin’ gorgeous, princess.” He murmured, nose nuzzling your cheek as his finger trailed up your neck to gently cup your jaw, your back pressed firmly against his taut chest. Cupping your chin possessively while you didn’t lift your own finger to stop him, instead watched in the mirror while he drew you further into his dizzying arms. Interrupted only by the ring of Dean’s phone.

“Right there, Dean-” You cut yourself off with a moan, hips bucking against nothing, but letting your fingers brush your g-spot as they spread you open, “just like that.” Your hand released the headboard, your back arching and your planted foot allowing you to grind desperately against your own hand, catching your clit on the heel of your palm. While that newly released hand fumbled for your bedside drawer.

Said drawer was clumsily opened, your hand delving in and closing around something that had you screaming ‘bingo’ in your head and pulling your fingers out, leaving you empty and whining for more despite you being in control.

You could practically hear Dean telling you to take those fingers into your mouth and suck ‘em clean, but you decided to wait for that effortlessly sexy moment.

Wait for the real thing.

Dean thought he had you pinned on the mat, your hands trapped above your head in one of his, both your chests heaving after a long sparring session. His eyes flickering down to yours. “How’s that for a newbie, hm, sweetheart?” You smirked, and decided to answer by quickly using your legs to flip the position. You ended up on top, straddling his hips, and his hands held yours with a breathless chuckle and a possessive grip.

You flicked a switch on your vibrating dildo, your thighs twitching at the sound of the humming until you held them apart with your hand that was occupied prior to that moment, starting to push the toy in inch by inch.

“Dean,” You moaned, then cursed some very Jesus-disapproved words as the vibrations straight invaded your every sense, sending you straight to cloud nine.

Unprofessional, sure, but you didn’t regret a damn thing.

Once the dildo was all the way in- damn, you’d never been that full. And you welcomed the familiar buzz that took control of your ever action and had you grinding forward, pushing the toy in and out and meeting the self-orchestrated thrusts, knowing internally Dean would do it ten times better.

If not an FBI agent, he’d be a musician. Because he’d play you like a fine-tuned virtuoso violin.

“We… can’t.” You could feel his breath against yours. Your hand in his hair while the pads of his fingers put pressure on your waist through your blouse. Soft growls at the end of his every retrained pant as he resisted throwing you down onto that table and giving in to his primal urges. Damn, you brought the caveman out in him. One hand reached up to cup your cheek firmly, biting his plump bottom lip that you wanted to bite and suck on until it was swollen. “But… if we take five minutes. Just to take the edge off.”

Your free hand found your clit, rubbing in calculated, well-learned circles, paired with pleas of ‘Dean, right there’ and ‘don’t stop’ leaving your mouth, wishing it was his cock in you and not a piece of silicone.

Even if it did the job for now.

You worked yourself over and over, making yourself come over and over, climax after climax crashing down on your stressed, sexually pent up body until you were lying limp on the mattress, having lost count of how many times you’d said his name.

Dean.

Ah, home sweet home.

“Niñita!” Uncle Ernie cackled in happiness upon seeing you at the door, Dean with you since he had been working the case with you and had agreed to accompany you to see your mom’s Uncle Ernie. He gave a hearty pat on the back, ushering you in. “Adelante, adelante.” His eyes locked on Dean. “Who’s this?”

“Dean Winchester, sir.” Dean introduced with a swallow, which had Ernie’s mouth grimacing slightly.

“You could do better, mi diamante.” He complained in his Spanish accent and gravelly, grating tones.

“¡Ernesto, detente!” Aunt Lucy chastised, sashaying into the hallway with her bright, tortoise coloured shawl over her shoulders. “Es un chico muy guapo. Podría comérmelo.” That last part had your eyebrow raising to your hairline, while Dean got the message from the way Lucy practically purred at him and looked over his physique.

Ernie and Lucy themselves were quite the match.

Lucy, or Lucía in Spain or Spanish/Latino/anything native to the language’s company was tall- not as tall as Dean - with grey hair obviously styled by a hairdryer and rollers. She had blue eyes that matched her peacock personality, flaunting everything and her eyes looking everywhere on the nearest attractive single man’s body. Sometimes she didn’t know if a man was single and didn’t care otherwise. Dean was her unfortunate target today.

Ernie, otherwise called Ernesto, was a short man (Think Danny DeVito short), with thinning white hairs that was more bare skin than white fluff. He had a black, faux-fur robe with hot dogs on and mid-thigh length neon yellow shorts that would probably send a breeze up there if the wind blew around his ankles. Which were bare and clad in flip flops. Under the robe, he wore a ribbed white tank top. A chocolate granola bar stain on his cheek, and a disgruntled grimace stretching his white goatee-surrounded mouth as he looked up at Dean.

You knew they were an odd combination, especially with Ernie’s scepticism with everything they wasn’t his family.

“Ay, dios mío.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, clearing your throat. “Tía abuela-”

“Ay, no, es solo la tía.” Lucía waved you off, then smirked something sultry at Dean. “I’m the ripe old age of fifty, you know.”

You scoffed, hands on your hips. “Tienes setenta y seis años!”

“Arruinas mi diversión. Estuve a punto de pasar una noche en la cama con él.” She gave Dean a very obvious once over. And it put unholy images in your head. God bless innocence.

“Uf, no.” You groaned, trying to rub the images out of your head with two fingers at your temple as you all made your way into the kitchen. “Just… that’s not why I’m here. Las cartas del tarot, tía abuela.”

Lucía bristled, Spanish tones clipped and borderline anything but dulcet. “What about them?”

“You’re going to pull another ‘neighbour will kill me with their lawnmower’.” You huffed, remembering the incident all too well.

Ernie had waddled in at his top speed (which was slower than your normal walking pace) with wide eyes, claiming that the neighbour with murder him with their mower since Lucía ‘predicted’ he’d die by a spinning blade.

“¡Silencio!” She hushed with a flap of her hands, neon-green nails obvious in the lighting of the kitchen. “There is nothing wrong with my readings. They saved Ernesto’s life, no?”

“Eres imposible.” You groaned, rubbing your nose. Dean’s eyes landing on the scar across the bridge of it and swallowing, folding his arms. He’d rather not involve himself in the family drama.

“Lo sé.” She retorted, raising a threaded eyebrow.

Ernie sighed, taking Lucía by the arm with a patronising expression. “Creo que deberíamos dejar en paz a la pobre niña, Lucía. It’s almost time for that face thing you do.”

“It’s a skincare routine, Ernesto.” Still, she allowed herself to be whisked away.

“Yes, yes, that. My point remains, querida.”

Once you and Dean were alone, you cleared your throat. “Sorry about that.” You sighed, running a hand through your hair with a hand on your hip. “Aunt Lucy’s a handful. She gets her hand on anyone she can.”

Dean was part speechless. On one hand, he got flirted with by a seventy-six year old woman (at least, that’s what the body language told him), and on another, he got to hear you speaking Spanish.

He wondered if you could talk dirty to him one day in Spanish. Wishful thinking.

“Nick’s your… cousin, then, right?” He clarified, trying to stop the stirring in his gut. Down, boy.

“Yep.” You nodded, sighing. “He’s my cousin. My mom’s sister, whose real name is Elánora in Spain talk. She just changed it to a more American name and gave me and Cassie the same. Rick - Dad - he’s Ricardo.”

“Rick?” Dean grinned. “I’d have thought his nickname would be Di-”

“You absolute child.” You groaned, walking off.

“What? You gotta admit, it’s not the most unlikely thing in the world.”

You couldn’t help but moan and let your head fall forward, pressing your forehead against the cold desk to counteract the heat building up inside you until it clouded your mind and no desk would help you anymore.

Your hips rolling back desperately, seeking the friction - the feeling - only he could give you.

“So needy.” Dean chuckled from behind you, your skirt hiked up to your waist and his fingers buried to the knuckle in your soaked pussy, scissoring and curling when he felt like it. “Had a stressful day at work, hm?”

“Mmh,” Was all you could hum out at a response, meeting his thrusts and feeling the tension and/or stress in your body release with every brush against your g-spot but the very core of your body like a nuclear reactor, warming up and building up until your eyes were rolling back.

“Yeah.” Yet another low rumble of a laugh, but a kiss against your clothed shoulder, hot breath fanning over your skin. “Let me take care o’ that, baby. Of you. M’gonna make you feel so good you can’t walk straight. Want that, sweetheart?”

You whined out a response, which earned you a hum and the clinking of a belt buckle clinking, which had you bracing yourself on the edge of the desk. Dean’s calloused hands reaching to take a firm hold of your hips, lining the tip of his cock against your soaked entrance-

“Hey. Wake up.” What felt so much like a warm breath on your shoulder turned out to be the concerned hand of Sam Winchester, which had you groaning and reaching to rub your face with your own. Your eyes heavy and clearly riddled from sleep that you sorely needed to catch up on, but looks like it caught up with you. “You ok?”

You tried to snap yourself out of it, inwardly cursing at the fact that it was a damn dream.

What you wouldn’t give to have the stress and the overall lack of satisfaction that your pussy was giving you hell about the much needed relief by Dean goddamn Winchester.

Wishful thinking.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You sighed, then checked the time on your desk clock with weary eyes.

11:38 PM.

“We just finished cracking the tapes in the IT department.” Sam said softly, looking down on you with worry as well as the majestic mane of hair he possessed. Wishful thinking again, wondering if your hair could fall that perfectly into place. “We could have a look at it, but you’re nowhere in the right mind to try and make heads or tails of them. I think you should go home, Special Agent.”

“That’s bullcrap.” You scoffed, but then your eyes dropped again, sleep trying to lure you but failing as you snapped yourself back awake. “Yeah, I could use a bed.”

“I’ll drive you.” Sam took out his keys, helping you out of your chair (paired with some frantic yet muffled conversation), strong arms then moving you out of the building, into the parking lot and into his car.

It even smelled like Dean. Mm, old leather. Cologne, and whiskey. Beer.

A hand buckled you in, a calloused palm smoothing back the strands that dared be unruly and fall in front of your face. You lost track of time, but beefy arms lifted you up and away, into the safety of a familiar-smelling living room and then into an unfamiliar bedroom.

It wasn’t yours, but your tired mind remembered chucking a glass of water at someone in this very house.

The warmth of a blanket cocooned your body, tucked to your chin as your head nestled in some pillows. Succour of sweet sleep calling your name as you caught a ‘Sleep well, sweetheart’ from somewhere that could be the door before all light was shut out entirely.

You woke up in an unfamiliar bed, in unfamiliar sheets that smelled like… old leather. Cologne. Whiskey, both cheap and expensive with notes of beer. On your stomach, one leg bent and you were still in your office attire.

Note that you usually wear trousers and a blazer to the office in DC. Yesterday was one of those days.

“Sammy told me you’d knocked out at the office.” A low chuckle - one that always made your pussy throb and ache - had you more awake than you would openly admit. Dean was leaning on the door, no shirt, just grey sweatpants.

Every contour of his post-workout toned chest showing to you and making your mouth go dry. You wanted to stain that chest with your lipstick.

Maybe you’d wear your most bold red for the occasion.

“Did you kidnap me?” You scoffed, sitting up fully clothed in the bed, the only article of clothing off being your shoes. Touché.

Dean snorted, shaking his head. “‘Course I kidnapped you. I’ve got nothin’ better to do, sweetheart. Nothing other than kidnap my colleague.” He stepped further into the room, his attire reminding you of your almost-kiss five years ago.

His lips inches from yours. Your hand in his hair. His beginning to massage the flesh of your waist. Hot breath fanning over each other’s lips, eyes locked on them too through fluttering eyelashes.

“Just five minutes, sweetheart. To take the edge off.”

You should’ve taken that five before Sam rang his damn phone.

Oh, God, get it goddamn together.

“Ha, ha, very funny.” You rolled your eyes, which had him chuckling and shaking his head. Still shirtless. Which still made him the most irresistible man on the planet. He always was; who were you kidding?

Even through your irritation, you couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“Sammy didn’t think it’d be safe to be home alone, not after Abaddon could have somehow given our IDs to her buddies, the Knights of Hell.” He shrugged. “So I volunteered to bring you back here.”

“Have you slept?”

“A couple hours.”

“And here I am, knocking out until…” You checked the time, “9 the next morning. Ain’t fair, Winchester.”

“I took a knockout nap right after that whole Abaddon fight, hostage situation ordeal.” He laughed, grinning widely. “I’m good on that part. About a ten hour nap; it messed up my sleep schedule. At least, Sammy calls it a sleep schedule.” Then he closed the door and beckoned you over. “Show me your shoulder, c’mon.”

“Is this necessary?” You huffed, but you were unbuttoning your blouse anyway, shrugging off your suit jacket.

Just Dean’s luck that there was only a simple black sports bra there. If it was lace, he’d have you on that bed in milliseconds. “‘Course it is, don’t be a baby.”

“You’re a baby.” You scoffed as you turned around, letting him inspect the blue, part swollen skin. He drew air in his teeth as he looked at it, then hummed.

“I’ll ice that later.” He murmured, trailing his fingers delicately over the skin before pulling his hand back. But instead of letting you put your blouse back on, he stopped you and helped you put it on, but his fingers paused at the buttoning phase, not starting it. His fingers didn’t have it in him. Every brush of his fingers on your heated skin sent jolts through both of you every time he tried to grow a pair and do it for the sake of professionalism.

His lips were right there. You could feel them against yours if you wanted to. Or you could guide them to your neck.

You were pretty sure Dean had that idea when his arm hooked around your waist and tugged your body flush against his, your nose slotting perfectly against his. Your hands instinctively flying to his chest.

Dean’s breath hitched as he felt the contact on his bare skin, licking his lips and biting the bottom as he traced every detail of your face. Your stunning eyes, staring up at him through thick eyelashes, halfway on the journey to closing. The curve of your nose and the scar across the bridge that came with it. The shadow of your cheekbone, line of your jaw and your lips.

God, your lips.

Dean could see every dip and curve of your top and bottom lip from that angle, the slight pout before they parted, showing him a sliver of tongue that made him wish it would lave at his chest. Your lips were a temptation that had his arm wrapping tighter around your waist and his hand resting over your exposed navel.

So close to the waistband of your trousers.

He couldn’t stop focusing on your lips, however boring it may seem to recite it over and over. They were full, but not too plump- in a way that had him wanting to kiss them until they were swollen and his. Wanted them to look pretty and bear his mark. He’d do that to your neck too… if he could. Cover every freckle he could see.

You weren’t faring much better. You could see every freckle lining his face and the pout of his pink lips as he contemplated what to do next. Whether to ravish you - finish what you both started - or to leave you hanging for the sake of professionalism. You saw the sharp contour of his cheekbone and jawline, and the smooth skin of his chest under your hands pressed further into the touch with a barely held sigh, heartbeat pounding against your fingertips.

Fast. Desperate. Wanting.

Your attention diverted from him to glance down at his abs - damn, those abs - and his v-line disappearing into the low-hanging fabric of his grey sweatpants that he wore in this exact same situation five years ago.

You couldn’t think of anything more cliche but there was nothing more hot.

You felt his fingers wrap around and grasp your chin, moving your gaze back up to lock with his and god, were you transfixed. Your breath caught before it left your mouth. Breaking the pattern you’d worked so hard to maintain. It’d break you and then you’d let him lay you down and wreck you.

“Keep those eyes on me, princess.” He murmured, still gently holding your chin and thumbing your bottom lip. Keeping his eyes on you as well. “Don’t take ‘em off.” You wanted to protest. You’d be putting your job in jeopardy if you carried on like this any longer.

But it felt so damn good.

The push, the pull, the heat, the want, wanting what you could so obviously have because he wanted you too. It was all so intoxicating you got lost in it. In him.

Dean Winchester would send you to hell. Even worse, get you fired. But you’d thank him for it.

NEXT UP:

“Being a Knight of Hell makes you bitter.” He swept a thumb over his bottom lip, scoffing and shaking his head slowly. “You do horrible things. To innocent people, too. Most of us enjoyed it. I didn’t. That’s why I ran.”

You rubbed your cheek, sharing a look with Sam, who looked both incredibly concerned and curious. Not only was this syndicate dangerous, they took inspiration off Bible lore, which was how they contracted their code names.

“And your code name was Cain?” You asked, gesturing to him with a raise of your eyebrow. “As in… Cain and Abel? And your real name is William Abernathy?”

“Abel was my brother’s supposed ‘codename’.” William, previously ‘Cain’, deadpanned, sipping some bourbon with a blank expression. “Gave it after his death. Thought it was funny. They thought the same for my beautiful Collette too.”

Like, comment or reblog! I’d love to hear your feedback. Comment if you want to be added to the taglist.

TAGLIST:

@goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

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To be added to any character’s taglist of mine, find my form on my master list.

Like what I’ve written? Let me know!

Why do we reblog/send in asks with feedback?

This tends to make the author more invested in writing their own series.

If they think ‘hey, people actually like what I’ve written and are writing small paragraphs/quoting my story and writing lengthy paragraphs on how they feel’ then they’re more likely to put more fics and chapters out for you.

I’d really appreciate it if y’all do that and the same goes for any other writer on here. Reblogs are worth a lot more than likes on here!

[kagooleo]

I did this one to celebrate Silver's bday back in 2021, a sonboy to me who deserves the world ;-;

[starryalpacasstuff]

Knock Knock Boys: A Queer Asian Lens

I didn't watch Knock Knock Boys as it was airing, because it didn't really seem like the kind of show I'd be into. However, this post by @lurkingshan and @waitmyturtles' enthusiastic recommendation convinced me to give it a shot. Having binged the entirety of the series in a day, I can say that the show was an absolute delight to watch.

I've seen plenty of people talking about how wonderfully sex positive the show was, so I'm not going to bother with going too much into it, but I will say that the drama clearly showed the kind of sex education and awareness that is desperately needed around the world. I also really liked how Lukpeach and Latte were the ones responsible for pretty much all of the sex education in the show. It was very realistic in that, in my experience, it's extremely common for teenagers and young adults to get a majority of their knowledge about sex from their friends and the internet. The show had a very clear message about the importance of talking freely about sex with younger generations, because the taboo on the topic only harms teenagers in the long run.

Now, besides that, there was one more issue that I thought the show did wonderfully: it showed how asian kids are often hesitant to discuss things with their parents because they assume the worst in the beginning. I'm having some trouble articulating this, because it's such an abstract, ingrained concept to me, so forgive me if this is incoherent. I'm also generalizing my experience as an Indian, so please do correct me if I'm wrong here. That being said, having been raised in a society that values respect and listening to elders without question, discussing alternate ideas with parents can be a very difficult thing for most of us. It's easy to assume what parents would say to an idea and decide that trying to convince them otherwise is a task that is either futile or requires too much energy.

The best way I can describe is that the mindset becomes "It's better to ask for forgiveness if you get caught instead of asking for permission straight away". For example, had Almond asked his mother if he could stay with three other guys, she would've most definitely flat out refused, since she would've had a lot of preconceived notions about the idea. But, because Almond is able to show her that he's happy as he was, she was perfectly fine with him continuing to stay with the others. I think that's the hallmark of most asian parents, they want us to be happy but they're convinced that they know what kind of life will make us happy. They did something similar with Peak and his father, but my feelings on that are a little more complex, so we'll come back to this.

Peak and Thanwa, man. I loved Latte and Almond but these two just stole the show for me. I know some people felt frustrated with Peak's dallying and hesitance, but I just felt so sad for him, and something about his situation just hit very close to home. And Seng, the actor that he is. One particular moment that stuck with me was the scene when he leaned against the door while Jumper attacked Max. I must've rewatched that moment half a dozen times, because his acting was impeccable. I will say, I wish that they'd given us a better resolution on the arc after Max, but those are mostly minor quibbles. What I really wanted to talk about was the arc with Peak's father. Peak gathering the courage to tell his father with the support from his found family was beautiful. The scene at Knock Knock House the day before Peak left was one of the most magnificent, emotionally charged scenes I've seen in asian ql in a while. Coming from a societ wherein arranged marriage is the norm, the storyline hit hard in all the right places.

But. I did not love the resolution of the arc. I think we've had some conversation about how some shows try to be both in the bubble and out of the bubble simultaneously, and the last two episodes of the show felt a little like that. From what we knew about the father, it felt almost too easy for him to simply accept everything right away. There should have been some struggle for reconciliation. I know that the show has a theme of assumptions and lack of communication disrupting parent-child relationships, but in this case how fast they move on just seems unrealistic. My cynicism aside, even if we assume that the father wasn't homophobic, there should've been more of a conversation on the breaking of the engagement! The social implications, the father asking him why he didn't say anything for so long, Jane's involvement (how did the father know that she knew about this?). The only argument I can see against this is that the father, while initially put off by the revelation, chose to act otherwise to support his son. But then, he most likely wouldn't have insisted they take his car. And there still should've been some sort of a conversation about the engagement. Arranged marriages have a purpose; it's to provide financial and social security. I find it extremely hard to believe that a father who arranged a marriage for his son wouldn't have so much as discuss the implications of being gay with him. They tried to have the engagement have consequences with the wedding banquet, but the resolution for that really only made it worse. This is cynical of me, but I simply cannot suspend my disbelief enough to believe that the entire wedding party was perfectly happy with the turn of events. This whole resolution just seemed out of place in a show that was otherwise so wonderfully grounded in reality while still being absolutely hilarious. I think, if the show had done something a little more similar to GAP, it would've felt more realistic.

All of that aside, I really did enjoy watching the show. It was hilarious and heartwarming, and the characters were absolutely wonderful. The resolution of the final arc did drag it down a little, but I would be lying if I said that watching two queer couples get to celebrate their relationships with their community didn't warm my heart at all (Also, side note- Jane having a girlfriend was a brilliant subversion). All in all, it's a great series. It definitely felt like something new and fresh compared to the kind of qls that I've been watching lately.

[lullaebies]

Not sure if you still want Jaehaegon prompts BUT a fic/drabble of the way Aegon III and Jaehaera both grieve specifically their mothers would go insane especially with your writing. Them being both extremely codependent yet unable to talk to the other about this one thing, the suppressed guilt, the waking nightmares Aegon would surely have of Jaehaera’s beloved father having his mother eaten alive right in front of him…plus the books say Rhaenyra was so dependent on having Aegon around 24/7 after she lost all her other children, how would that manifest in him now?

Have a really nice day!!!

a/n: ahhhhh i loved writing this prompt. it had been on my mind since i got it and i finally got time to tap into it (as well as other reqs that i'm slowly chipping into!). i hope you will enjoy this dear, and thank you so much for the compliments too <3 it ended up more about Aegon's experiences but there are touches on Jaehaera's side of things. I do write TG side of things more often though so he def deserves the focus I feel!

“Even while we are in the castle, you are not to leave me. Not for a moment, Aegon,” she says, tugging roughly on his hand. 

“Mother, I—” he replies, frightened at the clutch of her grip. He first tries to escape, pull his arm away, but she holds him tighter while his legs try to match her pace. “Mother, it hurts!”

And her grip suddenly loosens. He nearly trips, on the sands of Dragonstone, the dunes he had once built castles with on this shore, with his brothers. Rhaenyra falls to her knees upon it, clutching him against her in an apologetic embrace. “I am sorry. I am sorry…” she swallows

He feels the very air of the island is awry, not the same, as her feet and dress bury into the sand. He holds her back, trying to keep her afloat, though his own throat is dry at what to say. Ser Alfred Broome and his men watching him made him both shy and chilled.

She runs a hand through his hair. “We shall see to that our home is safe, and stay safe, the two of us, yes?” 

Aegon is scared, feeling dwarved by the world, but his mother’s voice is begging, and his only offer to console her, as always, is to agree.

“...Yes—”

The earth beneath becomes hot, as the sun rises above Dragonstone, turning from yellow to gold. Its rays turn into flare, and the sand turns into glass. He screams for his mother to flee — but glass shatters, puncturing his throat as he screams.

He wakes up in cold sweat, his whole body trembling. He is alone on his side of the bed, and the wind blows harshly from the open window, but not enough to dispel the heat from his bones. As if possessed, he lifts himself up from the bed, eyes taking in the dark room.

“Aegon?” Jaehaera stands up. She had sat by a roaring fireplace, making the woods within it crack as they blacken. And for a moment, it is equal parts anxiety and betrayal, tears against the dam that are his silver lash line. His feet thunder before him, grabbing the golden pitcher of wine on their table, tossing it whole at the fireplace. Droplets from it scatter like tricklets of blood on the carpet. The fire sizzles as Jaehaera gasps, but it is not fully put out.

“It won’t disappear, it won’t disappear!” his low voice trembles. His breaths feel like fire courses up his throat, and he feels sick. On the brink of vomiting from disgust — his own home is not safe, his own body betraying him to become flame — he thinks Jaehaera too is running away from him, but soon enough, she finds a glass of water within their room to douse the remaining flame.

The room then darkens significantly. The moonlight remains, refusing to let him become blind for the end, but he closes his eyes, wanting to refuse to its will too. He is not burnt, but he feels fragile ash, left behind in the wind, falling to the floor.

In the complete silence that dominates the room, in the black escape of his closed eyes, he sees his mother, as though she has never left. He hadn’t been allowed to move an inch from her, until the very moment the beast had devoured her. The one moment he wanted to run to her, make her move. The fire devoured her, as did the dragon, but he remained behind, her shadow.

A shadow of a man remains today, too.

The utter quiet that he regains his mind in remains unbroken until he opens his eyes, doing his best to keep any tears unshed. Jaehaera doesn’t dare to move a step, her fingers curling around the empty glass of water as she watches him. His heart weakens again — he should’ve known not to be so helpless in the presence of women just as helpless as he.

Mother, I’m sorry, he wants to return to the dream, to say that to her instead. He cannot, but his wife is here.

“I…” it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t know how to begin. He doesn’t want to apologize, when he still feels his mother’s hold on him. But I shouldn’t have scared her, still, and yet again, if he does apologize, he’d have to explain why, to begin with. 

He and Jaehaera don’t speak of these things. For the better of them both, for the sake of their lost loved kin, for the sake of love not being lost again. She knows what had occurred on Dragonstone, as he knows what has occurred in King’s Landing. The histories will not forget, but they ever attempt to do so, regardless.

‘Tis be duty, for the very realm. He would say that to himself, again and again, until his own guilt creeps up on him. Reminding him so — that this is his sin, the need to cling to the daughter of the scorching sun, the last light.

Jaehaera puts away the cup, and approaches him with ghostly steps. If she had liked, she could thunder through the room. She could give him her known scowl and turn away. She could even leave with less than a whisper. Everything is imaginable, when they have went through all imaginable. As a little girl, he heard her weep more than he can count, even from the other side of Maegor’s Holdfast, but she’s no longer that little girl.

She lowers herself to her knees too, and reaches over to embrace him, guiding his head to occupy the crook of her neck. The stone floor is firm, but he feels himself sinking into her. His breaths grow wavering again.

“I’m sorry,” it finally comes out, those words and the tears, and the honest, brutal truth. “It won’t leave me,” he says. “That memory, my mother—” he stops himself, shutting his eyes hard.

It aches so deeply, and it tears him apart, him of the past and him of the future. In this present, this very moment, he doesn’t even know who he is at all. Doesn’t know how to talk, or explain, or do a thing but freeze in time, so afraid of fire.

Jaehaera holds him tighter. Her fingers move soothingly through the nearby white of his hair, when she finally allows herself to speak. “Do you remember the first time you held me?” she asks him. 

He swallows. He remembers, yes. One would expect it to be their first night, but it wasn’t. His first hold of her had been a full year prior, when she had been reduced to tears at a feast. Nothing of his machinations, but of his regents. Their planning, however, had not taken into account that that day had been the anniversary of his aunt Helaena’s death. Or perhaps they had, and only wished to overwrite the day’s meaning. 

Aegon hadn’t realized. Jaehaera had barely spoken a pip to him back then. But then she broke down in tears in the middle of the feast, and although he had been apt to ignore her from their distant rooms, he couldn’t quite ignore it then when The Queen fled the room, and everyone simply stood and watched.

None of his regents could hold him in his place, for the very principle he refuses to ever be reduced to a spectator by ‘loyal’ men. 

And so he went after her — and they were ever so clear with how she looked down the moat, and mumbled about ‘mum’. He had been there when her mother died; it connected quickly. There were no words he could dare speak. No matter how averse to touch he had been, his only way to answer her had been his arms coming around her, and letting her sob within them.

He assumed it would be a futile effort, as holding the hands of those who slowly passed from Winter Fever had been… but she cried until she fell asleep, until he had already been lulled by the night himself, and they both woke up the morning after to the sun’ touching them with only soft rays.

“I know what plagues you, as you know what plagues me,” Jaehaera tells him. “You held me when I cried for my kin and the past. You needed no explanation or clause to console me. I won’t ask it of you either,” she says. “‘It is enough reason to hold you, knowing you need to be held.”

Aegon gathers her in his arms, some will of strength returning to them. 

He can ask her to never leave his side. He can plead with her, that they have to make this home safe, to remain safe, the two of them. He can leave her with no choice but to agree, even if she is doubtful. He can — but he doesn’t think he has to. She knows, and he has reached a place where his belief in it, his own yes, is not laced with doubt.

Aegon closes his eyes, and lets himself weep until sleep overtakes him. Within his drowsiness, as his last tear falls, he can see his mother at the back of his mind, offering him a soft smile. The morning sun will wake him again, but there will be no scorching no more. His last light’s tight embrace assures it too.

[pyrepostings]

Conditioned whumpee, whose caretaker is trying to convince xem it's ok to take off the collar now that whumper's gone.

Whumpee decides, in xeir head, that xey could explain to whumper if xey are recaptured that xey downgraded xeir collar because whumper wasn't there to give orders. See, xey still wore a collar, it's just made out of leather instead of gold. See, xey didn't think for a moment xey could be free.

And this way, Caretaker can be satisfied about aer "progress" in the meantime.

[tearsonmarz]

Not going to lie, whenever I watched Smalletho in their double life series, it very much was just a "this is the circumstance" for Etho. And Joel would play into the joke of I love my soulmate, so much that I made a t-shirt with his face on it. But to me it was never a great life series ship, especially in comparison to Ethubs angst and Bdubs pining. (when it first came out ofc)

But through Limited life and Secret Life, and now Hermitcraft s10, the ship has thrived. What once was a pairing through circumstance, turned into a true ship, and now a mockery of what once was as seen through rose coloured glasses. Where Joel who once was "obsessed with Etho", turned into Etho "obsessed with Joel."

Honestly, this post has no other purpose than to put these thoughts into words. Especially since Etho is being such a silly lil guy these days, and only he truly knows what goes on in his brain. The stark contrast just keeps me thinking about them.

[quaranmine]

i think the whole cringe is dead, radical sincerity, depth of genuine emotion, earnest effort, and unironic love thing that tumblr has going on the past few years has transformed my outlook on things and changed me for the better. but it does mean that now the people i know irl will give me strange looks for being too sappy or too poetic or too dedicated or too excited about about something because they're still stuck in their "well i only like this ironically" phase. guess that's their problem tho not mine <3

[tanoraqui]

the real problem with The Silmarillion is that the creative sandbox is SO big, from the literal world map to the many-millennia timeline to the characters who are half historical figure constructed from 6 different half-contradictory drafts, half mythical archetype, and don’t even get me STARTED on the theological philosophy… that there is NO chance anyone else will remotely properly write the fic in your head. In other fandoms, I can be pretty sure that at least the people in the carefully chosen 12-person discord server I belong to all have the same fic in their heads that we jammed together at 2am, with the same interpretations of character and theme which we’ve debated and discussed at length. But The Silmarillion? You can spend 3 hours discussing a single character in like a 5-year period and walk away completely happy with shared headcanons BUT SIMULTANEOUSLY certain that their interpretation of the character is fundamentally different than yours, such that any fic they write would suffer from notable if not severe “he would not fucking say that” disorder…and that both your and their interpretations are completely reasonable reads of the text, so you can’t even be mad.

So you HAVE to write ALL your own fic or it’s AGONIZING.

[darcyolsson]

panic at the discos three viciously different songwriting formations have accidentally created this really interesting thing in their discography where if youre familiar enough w the band you can easily tell who wrote which songs within the first 30 seconds

[bonefall]

do you ever worry your own writing might come off as misogynistic though? it seems deceptively easy

When you have anxiety, PTSD, OCD, or multiple of these things, every move you make is something you will self-doubt. It can become endless if you let it, and you can be frozen by absolute indescision.

Embrace the void and reach enlightenment with me; There are many ways to read a story, and no writer can pre-empt every possible interpretation. Not even myself.

If they think my work comes across as misogynistic? Let them. Salty amoebas are often wrong on the internet, but the block button and xkit are beautiful transwomen who are also my friends.

[skk-forever]

kouyou is tired and grieving and always, always beautiful.

she remembers a time when she wasn't, even when she tries not to. she remembers warm words from an optimistic man, remembers his warm hands as they took hers,

his warm blood, soaking into her cheap yukata

warm tears, slipping down her makeup-less face

even as she was dragged back into the abyss, she remembers that brief flash of sunlight on her face

warm

and it burns now, knowing that it was never going to happen for someone like her. she was foolish to hope. better to have never loved at all rather than loving and knowing that you were once young and dumb enough to believe.

(she sees chuuya beginning to fall into that trap. his eyes follow dazai's figure. she trails her manicured nails against the table, a discordant screech ringing out. chuuya turns back to her.

"he's just a boy, lad," she says, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "he can't change the world to make someone like you fit into it.")