#frustrating 1800s stuff

[secondjulia]

Lord Morpheus' Curls: A short film

Happy holiday, friends! Have you had the opportunity to appreciate Tom Sturridge with curls yet?

From Effie Gray (2014).

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 10)

first chapter >> last chapter

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In the wee hours of the morning, you wake up to a man’s hands tilting your pelvis back. There’s a pillow propping your hips up, your cheek pressed to the mattress and rump high in the air. You must have been sleeping when he turned you over onto your stomach. Maybe you turned over in your sleep and he took advantage of the fact, hooking an arm under you to lift your hips up and stuff the pillow under there.

Either way, he has you right where he wants you. Rough hands spread the cheeks of your backside apart to give him space to lap at your sex from behind. The moment you feel his tongue part your folds and lick a line up the center of you, you panic. Sleep sloughs off you in a single rogue wave that submerges you before you swim your way to the surface, skin tingling and heart frantically beating in your chest.

Your memory of the night before comes back piecemeal, only the soreness between your legs registering at first. You kick back weakly, trying to rip yourself away from the stranger behind you. A desperate, panicked noise tumbles out of you when he doesn’t so much as budge. 

The man pulls away from you just long enough to growl, “Quit fussin’—’s just me,” before giving you a tight smack across your rear. 

You’re awake and present now, jolted forcibly into consciousness. When the sound of John’s voice washes over you, your panic abates. Not a stranger, not a stranger, just your husband. It quells the fear in your belly that threatens to spark off a wave of hysteria. 

Then he runs his tongue up your slit again, his beard chafing the delicate skin of your sex, and you howl into the pillow.

Thick fingers stretch you open until you’re loose enough to take him again. He says as much in your ear before climbing over you and feeding his dick into your cunt. When his hips surge forward, hands braced on your shoulders to hold you in place, you choke on a gasp. He gives you no time to recover. The slow adoration of the evening’s love making is long forgotten, replaced by the mindless rutting of a ravenous man. He woke up with an empty belly.

You can feel his hunger when he bears down over you, holding you in place. The frantic pace of his hips. Hairy chest and belly to the tacky skin of your back. The lurid, wet sound of his flesh smacking against yours, thick cock spearing you open again and again. He bottoms out with every thrust, reaching a depth that feels impossible. All you can do is take it.

“John—” you start, but he reaches around to wrap a hand around your mouth, trapping the rest of your sentence behind his palm. Your cry comes out muffled, incomprehensible. 

“Shh—just let me—” John grunts, trailing off into a groan when your walls squeeze around him. You can’t help it. 

A disgusting thing in you is thrilled that he wants you this badly, that he loses control of his faculties this way. Trades in that veneer of a righteous man for animal lust. A sick deviance that you didn’t know you possessed raises its head and relishes in his need. It makes you cant your hips back to take him better, the new angle making you see stars. 

You find yourself infuriated at being denied the chance to look at him, sweating and panting like a bull, muscled chest rising and falling with his breaths. 

He’s too deep in the fog of exhaustion to say more than a few words. He’s mostly rough grunts behind you, breathing heavy into your neck, his sweaty palm still clamped over your mouth. He keeps it there even when your tongue lolls out and presses against his palm. 

Everything is hot and dark under the cover of night. Frustration builds and builds beneath your skin as you can hear his breath grow labored, your husband on the verge of coming. Unlike a few hours ago when he had you on your back, the root of his cock doesn’t grind against your clit in this position, pulling you back from the edge every time you think you’ll tip over.

He sucks and licks at the skin of your neck, his big palm swallowing up your pathetic mewls. When he fits his teeth into the crook of your neck, pressing down lightly, you give a whole body flinch. Any shame still lingering in you melts right out. 

When he comes, you feel the flood of warmth inside of you. The breath whooshes out of you when John puts his whole weight on top of you, forcing your body down into the mattress. He fucks you through his orgasm, the last few thrusts jostling you in his arms and making you cry out. Like he wants to make sure you take every single drop. 

You lie there panting until he pries his hand off your mouth, stroking up and down your side. For a moment, you almost think he’s going to leave you like that, right on the verge of reaching your peak, unsatisfied. Then, your eyes go wide when he shoves a hand under you and gropes around until his fingers find your pearl, rubbing it until your breathing goes high and hitched, coaxing your orgasm out of you. 

Your orgasm leaves you limp and sated. A mess in your bed. Too exhausted to even think about cleaning up. 

“Thank you, honey,” John mumbles, turning your head with the same hand that just made you come to draw you into a kiss. “Needed that.”

You don’t have the energy to respond, so you just hum instead. You don’t know how long it takes you to fall back asleep, but you lie there panting and twitching until it takes.

The morning has you fluttering around the house all nervously, somehow unsure of yourself. It feels like there’s been a fundamental shift in your marriage, like the house has finally settled in place. The next couple days are much the same. 

John just seems as self-assured as usual, almost smug about it. That drives you a bit wild.

He’s never been shy about touching you, but you hadn’t realized how much he’d been holding back before. It’s like he can hardly bear to take his hands off you now, tugging you into his lap at night during his Bible study, something you follow along half-heartedly, your faith being more of a consequence of birth than anything. His faith is built on stronger foundations. You imagine he could quote verses from memory if pressed. 

In truth, nothing changes in any significant way. All that worrying for naught. John still takes you on trail rides to show you the lay of the land, taking you out so far as to see the herds of bison and wild horses down in the valley. You watch them silently from a distance as they graze, sustaining themselves on wild grasses and forbs. Cloves, daylilies, and milkweed. 

“Where are the bears?” you ask curiously. John snorts.

“I ain’t taking you out to see them, darlin’.”

In the evening after supper, John takes the horses into the stables and you offer to groom them while he sets up targets for shooting practice. He’s been insistent on teaching you how to shoot. It’s another skill that you otherwise might have gone your whole life without learning, but John makes it clear in no uncertain terms that you’ll learn.

Most of your shots are wildly off target, the birds in a nearby tree bursting into flight and taking to the skies when you accidentally shoot into the lower branches. You wince. John just laughs, showing you how to reload your gun.

Just like with learning how to ride a horse, you wake up in pain the following morning, moaning when your husband nudges you awake. He’s familiar enough with the sound of your pleasure to know that this is anything but that.

“Think you’ve earned a week off, bug,” he says, turning you over onto your tummy and massaging your shoulders.

You sigh. “Thank goodness.”

John laughs.

You squirm on the ride into town, muffling a yip when John pinches your thigh. It’s not your fault that the brute has been working you like a draft horse. When you tell him as much, he rolls his eyes.

“Think you can handle being on your own today?” John asks, his eyes locked on yours.

You’d roll your eyes if you didn’t think that would land you with a raw backside by nightfall. Over the last few weeks, he’s indulged your attitude more than a handful of times, relegating his discipline to a few curt words or a quick smack across your rump, but even you aren’t willing to test the limits of his leniency.

“Yes, daddy,” you quip instead. A little lip hasn’t hurt you yet.

You recognize the grave mistake you just made when you see the glint in his eye. “Daddy, huh? That right?”

You stare up at him blankly, struck dumb. “Uh. I didn’t…” The way he says the word makes your mouth go dry, mind empty. A desiccated tumbleweed rolls by in the distance. 

John’s lip curls up into a smile. Your stomach flips at the sight of the hunger receding in his gaze, descending back down into the abyss. “We’ll talk about that when we get home.”

“You’re not leaving me with Kate?” you ask, clearing your throat. A desperate attempt to steer the conversation away from your unfortunate slip up. It’ll be a cold day in hell before John Price lets go of an opportunity to use your own words against you though. 

He must be feeling rather magnanimous though because he holds your gaze for a moment longer before saying, “Not today, m’afraid. She has business out of town for the next few days, so she has someone minding the shop while she’s gone.”

You frown. “She went on her own?”

“‘Course not—Kyle went along with her. Sure she’ll be pleased that you asked though.”

“She’s been nice to me,” you mumble, mollified. A bit embarrassed to be caught worrying about anyone other than yourself.

It’s not entirely unreasonable. You have a hair trigger worry cultivated from the life you’ve lived. The events of the last month have only worsened your disposition to fret. Though Kate carries herself with the quiet confidence of a woman fully capable of taking care of herself, you can’t help the way your stomach aches at the thought of her traveling between towns on her own. That lonely, deserted stretch of road.

“I’m not planning on leaving town today—got no reason to. Figured you might enjoy having a day to look around town on your own, but you just give me a holler if you need me and I’ll come running the second I hear you.”

You understand the bigger picture here. He’s not quite letting go of the reins, but he is loosening his hold on them, giving you some slack. A few weeks ago, you would’ve waited until he rounded the corner and then bolted for the train station, luggage be damned. Even a stage coach would have sufficed. 

You can’t seem to locate that same impulse now. Instead, you find yourself nodding and then leaning up for a parting kiss. You almost feel a bit bereft as you watch John walk off. Almost lonely.

Without someone watching over you, you feel adrift. Lost at sea. It’s concerning to learn how dependent you’ve become on the company of others. Back home, there were stretches of days where your voice would go rusty from lack of use. 

Now you feel strangely unmoored without someone within earshot. 

You’d bet your bottom dollar that John really would come running if you were to shout though. The thought makes your heart flutter. You’re a far cry from the girl that came into town not that long ago. You can’t imagine how she’d feel about the notion—that all you need do is raise your voice above a whisper for the county sheriff to come running.

When you think of the lawmen you used to fear though, John’s face seems incongruous with the image in your head of a grim-faced sheriff chasing after you, rifle and handcuffs in hand. Not that he couldn’t be that man, of course, but it feels like a version of him far removed from the man whose bed you share. 

The John you know stands behind you when he teaches you how to hold a gun and pull it tight into your shoulder. The man you know helps you up onto Buttercup’s saddle and guides you with a hand on your back and stomach to help you find your rhythm. 

You shake the thought from your mind. You spend enough time around the man—you don’t need him occupying your every thought as well.

You take your midmorning coffee at the inn, catching up with the woman you met on your first day in town. The innkeeper gives you a perfunctory greeting upon your arrival before settling behind the front desk to tally up the week’s earnings and review the ledger. His wire-rim glasses slip down his nose whenever he has to bend down to better read his own notes. His wife notices as well, tisking at the tenth offense in as many minutes. 

The coffee grounds are visible at the bottom of your cup when you see yourself out. 

It occurs to you as you make your way around town that you know practically every person you pass by. Perhaps not intimately, but enough that you can hardly pass one of the buildings without someone stopping you to say hello. You bounce a baby in your lap at the bank, eat a slice of cake at the restaurant with the owner, and even stop in for a spot of tea at the courthouse when the circuit judge sees you pass by on your way to the library.

The camaraderie is disconcerting. You’ve gone the bulk of your life invisible, for all intents and purposes, and the attention you garner through your affiliation with John has you on edge. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but it gets under your skin after a while. Perhaps it is unpleasant. 

Your feelings are, as always, complicated. Knotted.

A former scullery maid could not hope for a better improvement to her life, but isn’t it unfortunate that it took someone else for the world to see your worth? You could resent them for it, all of them. But it’s pleasant to be sought after, lovely to share a conversation that doesn’t end in a command. How could you begrudge John for giving you that?

The library is quiet when you arrive. A simple two-room building situated close to the town church. An older woman fusses over you when you walk in, fetching you a cup of tea before showing you to a comfortable place to sit. 

“Were you looking for anything in particular, dear?” she asks after handing you a floral print cup with a dainty little handle meant for no more than two fingers. 

“Well actually,” you start, worrying at your lip with your teeth. “I was wondering if you might have anything…instructive.”

She blinks. “Instructive?”

“Yes, um…” You abruptly recall the story that John had concocted about your former life as a school teacher. The desire to reveal to this woman that you cannot, in fact, read suddenly stills on your tongue. “Poetry maybe?” The request comes out feebly. 

She brightens, however. “Of course. I should have some Dickinson, if you’ll give me a moment.”

You thank her when she returns with a book that has clearly just been dusted off, streaks of grime still present on the cover, but when you crack it open, all you can do is stare at the words on the page hopelessly. While a few you recognize as words you’ve heard read aloud or seen on signs or on the front page of the newspaper, you can’t make heads or tails of the rest. All you can do is pretend to read, flipping the page every couple of minutes when the librarian happens to glance over at you.

Now is the moment of your discontent. It’s not long before you get up and tell her that you have to be on your way, thanking her profusely for her hospitality. You leave disgruntled though, upset that you hadn’t considered the implications of John’s story. Another fabrication catching up to you. It leaves you feeling restless, no choice but to wander aimlessly through town.

Despite knowing most of their faces and names, you feel indescribably lonely. 

Your wandering leads you to the general store, where inside Kate’s replacement stands behind the counter and smiles politely when you come in. You contemplate turning right back around at first, but there are still plenty of hours left in the day and your plan to spend the afternoon in the library practicing your words is now in shambles, completely upending your schedule. You could return to the inn to practice your needlework with the innkeeper’s wife, but you don’t want to overstay your welcome. 

You sigh. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll be able to convince John to let you stay home alone. There’s plenty you can do around the house. 

If Kate were minding the store, you would’ve pulled up a chair, but instead you duck towards the back of the store to peruse the aisles in peace. The majority of the shopwares line the walls around the store—buggy whips, horse tack, lanterns, pails, and various farm tools—but the few standing shelves at the back of the store hold a variety of foodstuff that you’ve never seen before. Canned goods and spices, dried food and tins of ground coffee. 

Had you thought to check the pantry earlier, you might’ve been tempted to purchase something. You still have a half-full coinpurse in the pocket of your dress. It’s not as though you’re penniless.

You chew on your lip. You will, at some point, need to broach the topic with John if you don’t anticipate leaving for a while. You might as well have some spare change on hand.

The bell above the door chimes when someone else walks in, cutting off your train of thought.

At first, you pay them no mind. Tucked away behind the aisle as you are, there’s no chance of them seeing you. No reason for you to peek your head around and say hello. The floorboards creak under the weight of their boots with every step as they approach the counter. The sound of their footsteps has an interesting cadence, almost an arrogant swagger; you can tell that it’s a man. You can hear Kate’s replacement greet them. 

The spurs on his boots jingle with each step.

Curiosity nips at you, but you stay rooted in place, fighting the urge to get up on your tiptoes to look over the top of the shelf. Your stomach churns though. Despite not a single word spoken, the atmosphere in the store feels tense.

“Pardon me,” the newcomer finally says, his voice a molasses-thick drawl, almost sticking to the roof of his mouth. It’s not a voice you’ve ever heard before. “I’m wonderin’ if you might be able to help me with somethin’, seein’ as how I just got into town.”

“However I can, sir. What do you need help with?” the shopkeep asks.

You hear the man take something out of his pocket and then unfold it, the paper crinkling when he spreads it out across the counter. “Name’s Graves. I’m lookin’ for a girl and wonderin’ if she mighta passed through town. I’ve got a warrant to bring her back east on account of a murder charge.”

Every inch of your body goes cold.

[throwing-roses-into-the-abyss]

me last week: ooohhh pattern making is soooooo easy

me now: FUCK EVERYTHING I DON'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING

[kittyadore]

can't sleep?

megumi & fem!reader SMUT wc:1800 nsfw

You were sleeping soundly in your dorm room when the creaking sound of the door slowly opening pierced your ears, wrenching you from a peaceful dream. The noise echoed in the quiet room, sending a chill down your spine. Your eyes snapped open, but the room was shrouded in darkness, and you couldn’t see a thing. The unsettling sound, paired with the unsettling blackness, heightened your senses. Every nerve in your body went on high alert.

Instinctively, without a moment to think, you grabbed the nearest object – your pillow – and hurled it towards the direction of the door. The pillow flew through the air and landed with a soft thud against the wooden surface, then dropped to the floor, muffling the silence that followed.

"What the—hey, it's just me!" you heard Megumi whisper-yell in an annoyed tone from the other side of the room, clearly irritated after being struck by the pillow.

"...I couldn't sleep," he added, his voice softer now, as if the initial annoyance had faded. You heard his footsteps shuffle slowly across the room, the sound of each step growing louder as he approached your bed.

"Hey... is something wrong?" you asked, your voice thick with grogginess as you struggled to fully wake up. You blinked a few times, trying to clear the haze from your eyes and focus on Megumi's approaching figure. The dim light in the room cast long shadows, making it difficult to see clearly, but you could make out the worry etched on his face

Megumi stopped by your bedside and shook his head slowly.

"No, I'm just... I can't sleep," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

He sat down on the edge of your bed, causing the mattress to dip slightly under his weight. Megumi's eyes drifted to the wall, staring blankly as if lost in thought. His expression was unreadable, a mix of fatigue and something deeper that you couldn't quite decipher.

"I thought maybe talking to someone else would help for a change," he finally said, his voice tinged with a vulnerability you hadn't heard before. His gaze shifted from the wall to meet yours, his eyes searching for reassurance. "Do you mind?" he asked, the worry still evident in his tone

"Oh, you want to talk?" you said, a hint of amusement coloring your voice. It was unusual for Megumi to seek out a conversation, especially this late at night. You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in surprise. "Since when are you so open to talking?" you added with a light chuckle.

Megumi scoffed softly, a hint of bitterness creeping into his expression as he crossed his arms in front of him. "I'm not that open, I'm just desperate," he responded, his voice carrying a tinge of frustration.

He shifted his position on the bed, moving to lean against the headboard now. The mattress creaked under his weight as he settled in, his movements reflecting the weight of whatever was troubling him. The darkness in the room seemed to deepen around him, mirroring the heaviness in his posture.

"So, what do you usually do when you can't sleep?" He inquired, his attention turning back to the wall.

"Oh, I just think, you know?... Think about different stuff," you replied, a flirtatious lilt in your voice. With a playful smile, you reached out and placed your hand gently on his shoulder, a subtle gesture of comfort and connection.

Megumi glanced at your hand resting on his shoulder, his eyes lingering on the gentle touch for a moment before turning his gaze back to the wall.

"And what kind of thoughts help you fall asleep?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. His muscles were tense, his jaw clenched, and there was a guardedness in his expression that belied the curiosity in his voice. The air between the two of you seemed to crackle with unspoken emotions, thick with the weight of the unaddressed tension.

"Sometimes I think of things that make me happy or memories of joyful moments." You responded, your voice softening.

You leaned in closer to him, feeling the intimacy of your proximity growing with each inch. As you closed the distance between you, you whispered softly into his ear, your breath warm against his skin.

"Or I think about what would happen if someone else joined me in bed." You said teasingly, letting your fingers trace the edge of his shirt. Megumi's breath hitched at your touch, and you could feel his heartbeat quicken.

Megumi stiffened at your touch, his body tensing at the suggestive words whispered into his ear. His heart raced, a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he tried to suppress a shudder.

"I-I thought you'd be more interested in getting some sleep," he stammered, his voice husky and thick with arousal. Despite his attempt to maintain composure, the desire in his voice betrayed him.

He hesitated for a moment, uncertain of how to proceed, before giving in to the overwhelming urge. Leaning in, he gently pressed his lips against yours, the kiss hesitant yet filled with a raw passion that simmered beneath the surface.

Your name escaped his lips in a soft whisper as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The room was enveloped in the sound of heavy breathing, the air thick with the intoxicating scent of arousal that lingered between you, heightening the electric atmosphere.

Megumi's eyes met yours, his gaze intense and filled with desire. He shifted his body, straddling you, pinning you to the bed.

"I want to make sure you don't think about anything else but me tonight." He whispered, his voice a seductive growl.

He trailed his lips down your neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses and nips that made you writhe beneath him. His hands roamed your body, his touch gentle yet possessive.

"Do you want this?" He asked, his voice low and husky as he returned to your lips for another deep, passionate kiss. You felt the heat between your legs grow as Megumi's arousal pressed against your thighs, and your heart raced in anticipation of what would come next. 

Megumi's hand slipped beneath your shirt, his touch sending a shiver down your spine as his fingers traced the curve of your breast before gently cupping it. You couldn't suppress the soft moan that escaped your lips, your body responding instinctively to his touch, arching into him.

With a tender touch, he trailed kisses along your collarbone, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The fabric of your shirt slid over your head at his gentle tug, revealing your skin to his eager gaze. His fingers deftly unhooked your bra, the tension releasing with a soft click, and he pulled it away, exposing your breasts to the dim light of the room.

"Tell me. Tell me if you want this." Megumi whispered between kisses, his voice desperate and needy. You reached up, pulling him closer for another searing kiss, your fingers threading through his hair. The heat between your legs intensified, the need for release growing more insistent.

"Yes, Megumi. I want this." You breathed against his lips, your body trembling with desire. His own pants strained against his arousal, and you could feel the heat radiating from his erection as he continued to grind against you, the anticipation making you both crave release.

Megumi couldn't deny the need and desire etched on your face, and his own arousal surged as he felt your wetness against his throbbing erection. The room seemed to pulse with the sound of heavy breathing, the air thick with the heady scent of desire.

He slid his hand down your body, his fingers teasingly dipping between your folds, eliciting gasps and involuntary movements from you. Your hips bucked against his touch, desperate for more.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked, his voice thick with lust, his own need evident in the way his voice quivered with anticipation.

You nodded eagerly, your head thrown back in ecstasy as his fingers continued to explore you, your body trembling with anticipation. "Please, Megumi," you whispered, your voice thick with need and desire, your plea hanging in the air between you like a promise of ecstasy yet to come.

He removed his hand from your pussy, letting his fingers trail up your body until they reached your lips. The taste of you on his fingers only fueled his arousal further, igniting a fire within him that threatened to consume you both.

Megumi positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. With agonizing slowness, he began to push into you, each movement met with a soft moan escaping your parted lips.

As he went in deeper, his movements measured and deliberate, he paused, holding you close as if savoring the moment. His body trembled with the effort of restraint, the desire to lose himself in the heat of passion warring with the need to savor every sensation.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice a strained whisper, concern etched in every line of his face as he searched your eyes for any sign of discomfort or hesitation.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your body urging him to move, to give you the release that you both craved. 

He leaned down, his lips finding yours again in a searing, desperate kiss that spoke of longing and urgency. As he pounded into you with fervor, his own moans mingled with yours, the sounds of pleasure and need echoing in the confined space.

"I can't hold back," he panted, his voice gravelly with desire, the intensity of his need felt in every word.

"Megumi..." you gasped, your voice a breathless whisper as your body arched to meet his thrusts, the pleasure overwhelming as you both approached the brink of ecstasy.

His name was a plea on your lips, a feeling of desire and yearning as he quickened his pace, driving you both closer to the edge. Your bodies moved together in a frantic rhythm, slick with sweat, the room filled with the intoxicating scent of your shared passion.

As the climax approached, the pleasure intensified, building to a crescendo until finally, you both reached that peak of ecstasy. Your bodies trembled in unison, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you fell over the edge together, lost in the bliss of the moment.

Megumi's breath hitched as he found release, his hips stilling as he held you close, his face buried in the crook of your neck. In that moment of intimacy, you felt a connection that transcended words, a bond forged in the heat of passion.

Both of you lay there, spent and breathless, the heat of the afterglow enveloping your bodies as you finally drifted off to sleep, tangled in each other's arms.

"Hopefully nobody heard us," you chuckled softly, a warm, contented feeling washing over you as you nestled closer to the man lying next to you. Your laughter was light and tinged with a hint of mischief, the thrill of the shared intimacy lingering in the air between you.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Blanche (Yandere Oc)

tw: depiction of abuse, stalking, heavy gore, violence, captivity, torture, human excrement, like really gross stuff, lots of words 4.5k

"Oh, why, hello my darling dove." You approached the man with the kindest, deep blue eyes you have ever seen. He sets his notebook and pen down on the table nearby. He stood up from his garden chair and opened his arms wide as he smiled, his sweet, downturned eyes closing into crescents. The corner of his eyes and mouth wrinkled in genuine happiness upon seeing you.

You hugged him, allowing his gorgeous, tight curls to brush against your arms. You wonder how he could maintain such Rapunzel-esque hair that reaches the back of his knees, especially when it's deceptively short. You remember unraveling one of his curls, to find out that it's twice as long than it originally presented itself as. If it was straightened, it would be pooling around his feet like a massive flood.

"How are you, my sweet? Did you have a wonderful day?" He asked, his voice honeyed and at a higher pitch than how he usually talks to others. His long, natural nails gently raked through your hair, while you played with his pitch-black but streaked with the lightest of grey strands.

You told him that you were thirsty, and you asked if he had anything for you to drink.

"Of course, my beloved flower. Come, let me lead you to my kitchen." You removed yourself from him as he wrapped his fingers around your hand. The man picked his cane up that was resting on the side of his chair. He then hummed a happy tune to himself as he leisurely walked away from his resting spot in the garden, bringing you along with him.

You peered up at the tall, loving man. You always thought that he had a peculiar sense of fashion, especially in this modern day. He looks like someone straight out of the romantic era, around the 1800s. The man, who you know as Blanche, would never be seen without his dark brown waistcoat, a tailcoat of a similar color, white frilly cravat, and long beige trousers. Likewise, he brings his antique, wooden cane wherever he goes.

You don't think you have ever seen him wear anything else other than his polished leather shoes and black garden boots. You certainly never seen slippers around his cottage home.

"Here you go, my darling." He handed you a cup of fresh juice. "I just squeezed them this morning. I can only hope to have my oranges as sweet as you, but I believe it should at least taste decent." Blanche caressed the side of your face as you drank, kissing the top of your head.

Once you're done, you grin and thank him earnestly. He simply nuzzled his charming Greek nose against yours. "You're very welcome, my dear dove."

You like how calm he is, it's evident in the way he speaks; he speaks slowly and softly as if there wasn't a single rush in the world, perhaps sometimes it's frustrating that it takes him an eternity to finish a sentence, but living in a reality where the fast and the furious is greatly rewarded, Blanche is a nice escape for you. Especially when you're exhausted and anxious.

His movements too, remind you of a carefree snail. He takes his time doing anything ever. You watched him pour himself some juice for himself in the same cup, you would have done it in half the time he took to do so.

"My light, are you hungry?" He asked before taking a sip of juice. You said yes, you're a bit famished after making that long trek into the forest to find his home, you just came right after your classes too. "That's wonderful. I just made a blueberry pie today." He walked to the kitchen window, where you saw a delicious, golden brown pie slowly cooling. Blanche picked it up and set it down on the chipped, dining table.

"How was school, my dear?" Asked Blanche as he opened his drawers and cupboards agonizingly slowly to find the appropriate cutlery for you and him.

You reminded him that you're studying in university, He seemed to ignore that. So you continued, telling him that it was exhausting and boring, you wished that your lecturers would be a bit more entertaining in teaching the materials.

"That's quite a shame." He cut a slice and placed it on a ceramic saucer with painted floral patterns on it. Blanche gently sets it in front of you, putting a small dessert fork on the same plate.

You then went on to tell him the good news: the creep who has been trying to get into your pants for the past few days must have given up because you didn't see him around anymore.

"That's nice, dear." He smiled, gathering a couple of serviettes from a drawer nearby and setting it on the table.

You dug in as always, the man smiled at you, feeling his heart swell in glee as you enjoyed his baking.

He gave himself a slice too and sat in front of you. Then, you asked him about his day.

"Oh, the usual. Deary and dull before you come along and fill it with such vibrant colors. I'm so happy that you're visiting me today, I was lonely." He replied, cutting the slice into small pieces first.

The way you met Blanche was somewhat bizarre, but you're glad that you met him. he's the comfort that you need in this world. You would always go to him when things get tough, he will tell you that everything is going to be okay; and you would only believe him, no one else.

You met him online, there was this website where people from all walks of life visit to make friends. You initially used it to date or do one-night stands to try and fill the void in your life, but you end up finding sweet, old Blanche. You find it humorous and sad that his own profile described him as a very lonely and eccentric middle-aged man, who is looking for someone to love. He didn't specify what type of love he is seeking, but he expressed his displeasure and sadness towards previous online 'friends' of his taking advantage of his kindness and desperation to have a companion- stealing his money, robbing his house and even beating him up numerous times because he was perceived as this weak, old man.

You felt your heartstrings being tugged at as you read the words, he was really begging whoever was making those numerous fake accounts to stop harassing him. Apparently, some younger folks thought it was funny to cyber bully him, reveal private information online, send him death threats, and send him disgusting, gut-wrenching hate messages just because he wasn't as well versed in the internet as the others.

Luckily, one day, they just stopped. Ceasing all torment towards the kind man. No one knew what happened, but from that day on, no one tried to talk to him anymore. It's all radio silence.

Until you came along and decided to give it a try. It takes him a good amount of time to type a string of text, but it's always meaningful, poetic, and beautiful. He sends paragraphs as if he's writing a letter to be sent through a carrier pigeon.

The first time you met Blanche, you were filled to the brim with anxiety. Shaking and gnawing on your fingers as you take the bus to the cafe you and him were supposed to meet. This isn't someone who's the same age as you, he is much older and you feel... Weird. There isn't anything wrong with seeking friendships with him because you're an adult, you know what you're doing.

But it's so... Different. You don't know what to expect.

You definitely didn't expect the instant warmth that brought your panic and anxiousness to an all time low. Something about his vibes, his looks and the way he carried himself was so soothing. He didn't have to say anything, all he did was look your way and gave you such a genial wave along with a toothy smile.

The afternoon went swimmingly, it wasn't awkward at all; it was as if you were talking with a close, guardian-like family member. You were comfortable, maybe a bit too comfortable because you realized you overshared after you went back home. You really didn't have to tell him about your stomach problems you're suffering at the moment in such detail.

The next time you met up with Blanche, he gave you a wooden box filled with teabags of his homegrown herbs. He claimed it will help cure your condition as long as you drink it.

You didn't really believe him, thinking he's just some old fart who practices pseudoscience and most likely doesn't agree with the use of vaccines. But you decided to brew some of his tea anyways, since he seems so excited to share you a part of his world.

To your surprise and embarrassment, it got rid of the symptoms. You're no longer bloated on most days and you feel great.

Now, you would just describe to him whatever is plaguing you; it could be insomnia, a common cold, or even your crippling mental health crises. Blanche would always have something growing on his land that would cure it.

That is where you learned that he lives in a cottage, in the middle of a forest. His garden is extensive, planting all sorts of trees, shrubs, shoots and flowers. He has the greenest thumb you have ever seen. You once gave him a pot of succulents which you thought were dead, due to your failure to water it at all. Blanche looked positively horrified at the condition of the poor plant in the beginning, but he assured you that it's okay, he can help it.

You were confused, you gave it to him because you thought he would use the clay pot. But instead, he returned it to you with its planty resident healthy and plump. You knew it was the same one because it looked exactly like how you first bought it.

Blanche gave you a handwritten card of instructions on how to take care of your new, leafy friend. You tried your best to follow it, but ultimately, you gave it back to him. It now rests on the windowsill beside his bed.

Your friendship with him grew as months went by. He would have you in his cottage, you would have him in your shared dorm. To which, he prefers not to step foot into the biohazardous student kitchen. That's why, you're usually visiting him, instead the other way round.

Blanche is lovely to have in your life. Whenever you visit him, you will always leave with a week's worth of groceries; mostly vegetables and fruits that happily grew on his plot of soil. But also, there would be containers upon containers of ready-to-eat meals he cooked prior to your visit.

You became healthier and your grades went up, thanks to the convenience of his delicious cooking. Although they're mostly vegetarian since he's almost solely using produce from his back yard, it's still so tasty even the average carnivore would scarf it down without hesitance.

You're also convinced whatever he adds into his meals are making you smarter. You get to focus on your classes better and you could retain much more information than before. He would excitedly tell you all about the strange and whimsical spices he added into your dish, describing what chemical compounds might be the culprit in helping you form more brain cells.

Aside from planting, he would crochet, knit or sew. And he would churn out items fast. It was so jarring to see his hands move like the insides of a racecar motor when you could fit five eye blinks in one of his own. He was the person who crocheted your laptop bag, your favourite winter and summer top, knitted your beanie, your comfiest pair of socks and your snow gloves.

Whenever there is a rip or tear in your clothes, even if the shoulder straps of your bag fell off, you could simply bring it over to his cottage and he would return it good as new. Being friends with Blanche allowed you to save up a substantial amount of money, you would then use it to buy him a new smartphone. It may not be the most luxurious, but it's definitely worlds away from the yellowed brick phone with a numerical pad he owns.

You think it is time for him to transition into the modern world, and you care for him enough to bust a hole in your already very empty university student wallet to help him. The next thing on your agenda was to buy him a new computer or laptop because he is using one that is ridiculously thick and cuboid; with a terrible screen resolution. It took him half an hour just to access the internet.

He was over the moon upon gifting it to him. To the point of tears, he was indescribably happy. You were worried as to why he was on his knees, hugging you close to him as he sobbed loudly on your shoulder. Initially, you thought you triggered something traumatic or did something to offend him, but Blanche assured you that wasn't the case.

Only after he calmed himself down, prepared a teapot of his homemade tea blend for the two of you, did he explain:

You are his one true friend, who consistently showed up for Blanche, cared for him, showed interest in his character, never hit him, and did not try to swindle money off him. It was surprising and melancholic, to say the least, that this was the only gift he ever received out of love and kindness; without the other party wanting anything in return. It was so nice for once to have someone around who isn't only after his wealth or free labor.

You didn't get how the world could be so cruel to such a kind spirit. It made you angry how he was badly mistreated in the past, but he simply smiled and told you that everyone must move on. Blanche has you, and that is all that matters to him.

You still weren't satisfied. You asked if he had gone to the police, told their parents, told their workplace- anything! They can't just get away without any repercussions, it makes your blood boil and heartache for your friend.

Blanche merely smiled, albeit ominously. He told you not to fret over them, as they eventually "Got what they deserved." He didn't elaborate on that further, you simply assumed that he said what he said due to his overly forgiving nature and not wanting you to worry about his torment.

It wasn't easy teaching him how to use the smartphone, though. Every little thing, he would call you using his rotary phone on how to use it; "Hello, darling. This is Blanche speaking, Could you please come over sometime this afternoon to guide me through the steps on how to surf the interweb on this lovely gadget you gifted me? I seem to have forgotten how to do so."

You think he's just using that as an excuse to hang out with you. Because there is no way he would forget how to tap on a couple of things after the 16th time.

You did ask him about his family. Blanche would tilt his head to the side and give you a saddened smile. Before telling you about how his parents weren't good people, he ran away from home and didn't know the fate of his other siblings. Because of his background and peculiar personality, he found it hard to create lasting bonds as they would always wound up abandoning him or abusing him. He said that he must be excreting some sort of pheromone that attracts people like these.

But he held no ill will towards them, as they "got what they deserved". You brushed that off again as Blanche being too nice to the cruel world.

You're concerned, though. It really seems like you're his only ally. He is definitely clingier now that the friendship has deepened. You're worried that you're going to have to say "no" to some of his requests to have your presence here as he grows more and more unbearable, it's definitely going to break his heart.

"My rose?"

You were snapped out of your thoughts upon feeling Blanche's fingers gently pushing your hair back. You're now back to the present, where you and he are comfortable with light skin-ship, you also liked how he would call you all these pet names. It made you feel so fluttery inside.

"Are you alright, dear? You seem to be distracted with something." He cupped your cheeks and inspected your face further. His eyebrows were knitted in concern.

You said that you were fine, just thinking about your daily obligations and how you should get going soon.

He frowned. "Must you go?" He whispered. "I'm so lonely out here. Please stay for a while longer."

You can't because you have a work shift starting soon. Plus, you have to complete that assignment that you're putting off because you were too busy accompanying Blanche in his isolated Cottage with the world's worst internet connection.

He sighed, looking miserable. "Please wait for a few minutes, I have something for you." Blanche stood up and made his way upstairs.

You watch him ascend the stairs with one hand on the handrails, and the other on his cane. You think that this might be an extremely dangerous lifestyle for a man like him to live, what if he trips and falls? He wouldn't be able to call for help, especially when phone reception out here is atrocious.

You continued eating your slice of blueberry pie, even taking another slice from the dish for yourself. You knew Blanche wouldn't mind, and you knew that he was going to make you bring the entire thing home anyway.

He came back down a few minutes later, holding a brown envelope. Immediately, you went on to reject it. You already knew what was in there and you didn't feel comfortable accepting it.

"Please, I insist, my love." He tried slipping it into your bag, but you wrestled it away from your belongings. You said that you have no use for it, you can make your own money.

For the past few weeks, he has been giving you regular allowances. It isn't anything to scoff at either, it's always one grand per envelope. Now you can see why there were so many people who tried to siphon as much funds out of Blanche as possible.

"I have no doubt in my heart that you are capable, but I... I'd like to buy your time, please." He clasped his hands around yours, bringing your fingers to his soft lips. "I want to spend more time with you, I want you to stay longer. Will you do that for me, my love?"

You paused, it was hard to say no to those big, pleading eyes of his. But you have to, even if you don't necessarily have to work with Blanche's financial help, you still need to put in effort in your studies to not fail.

So with a heavy chest, you said no. You promised that you would visit him again very soon, you just need to get your assignments out of the way and you will be golden.

His shoulders sagged in defeat as he softly whimpered under his breath.

"Alright." He muttered, before reviving the loving smile on his lips.

He opened his arms, to which you gladly threw yourself in. He laughed, picking you up and pressing kisses against your cheek. Blanche tenderly twirled you around, letting your legs dangle in the air as you too giggled. You rubbed your face against his frilly cravat, also enjoying the feeling of his lips on the crown of your head.

__

Blanche is now alone in his garden. His lips were pressed in a thin straight line. You left a few minutes ago with his personal cart filled with his fresh produce for the week. And also the remaining blueberry pie that is stashed away in a container for convenience. He hopes that the eggs he gave you are enough to last until your next visit, his chickens are producing a bit less than usual.

He picked up his pen and notebook he left on the garden table earlier. Blanche then tucked the cane under his arm before marching away without wasting any time. Without you witnessing, Blanche actually moves scarily quick, his graceful agility allows him to traverse the span of his garden speedily without damaging any of his crops.

Blanche walked deeper and deeper into the foilage until the sunlight could barely be seen through the dense vegetation.

Eventually, he reached a dilapidated wooden shed. Blanche stood right in front of the door with a heavy lock and took out his golden stopwatch from his breast pocket. The male noted the time before writing it down in his notebook.

He kept them away, Blanche then fished out a key, along with a hairband from another pocket in his trousers. His lower eyelid twitched as he tied his voluptuous hair into a large, very messy bun. But at least it's not going to interfere too much with what he's about to do.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open using his shoulder, it was hard to move it as the hinges had rusted to a considerable degree. Blanche dusted his sleeve off before taking out his notebook again, noting that he had to replace its parts soon.

Finally, he kept everything back in his pockets. Blanche tightened his fists in anger as pathetic muffled screaming and wailing reached his ears.

"Oh, be quiet, will you?" He snarked, a complete 180° from the Blanche that you're used to. Luckily, you're not here to see it.

He turned around to see your harasser. Completely naked and covered in bloody, infected lacerations. His face and body were blue from bruises and other injuries. He was gagged using his own clothes that were cut up by Blanche. His victim couldn't escape if he wanted to, as he was tightly bound by metal chains that were cutting circulation around his wrists and ankles.

There was rot, maggots, blood, and excretory products all around him as the bodies of Blanche's ex-friends decomposed around the creep. He was squirming in his own puddle of urine and vomit, as Blanche has kept him there since yesterday, right after you went home from your last class.

He is used to the smell of death. He worked with natural fertilizers, after all.

Blanche took long strides towards his trembling form, which only shook even more the closer he got.

He lets out a shout when Blanche strikes him using the end of his cane, the force is so strong that it instantly breaks the skin on his head, making him bleed profusely.

Blanche's eyelids twitched even more, he suddenly discarded his cane before pulling out two brass knuckles from his left pant pocket. He hastily puts them on before throwing powerful punches against his current, human punching bag.

Cracks, screams, and crunches resonated throughout the small space as Blanche let out all his frustrations on him. All his hatred towards the world, his anguish, and misery of not being around you, all of it- your harasser has to bear. Just because he chose the wrong person to mess with.

Blood, spit, and other fluids splattered on his once pristine clothing, dying his cravat red.

"Fucking disgrace." He mumbled as he managed to beat the man to a pulp, striking him hard and long enough to expose the broken bones to the stagnant air. Blanche continued scraping the flesh off his bone using the brass, there is an easier way to extract his bones, but he would very much rather use this method to relieve him of his rage. And, this delivers the maximum amount of pain and fear into your offender, a justified punishment for him, for disturbing Blanche's precious flower's peace.

Sweat beads down Blanche's forehead as he went on whaling on the unconscious, deformed mass that was starting to lose heat. Ichor pooled around his shoes, mixing with the other foul fluids around him.

Once he has managed to liquefy his flesh from his repeated, rapid pummeling, Blanche dug his bare fingers into the gory heap to extract the bones, gathering them in his arms and not caring that he has dirtied himself greatly.

He grunted as he ripped the bones from its weakened ligaments, spraying scarlet all over the already viscera-covered walls.

Blanche panted as he stood up straight, one arm holding his yield, the other hand taking out his once clean pocketwatch, now he's soiling it with bloodied fingerprints.

Five hours. Five whole hours of brutalization to pacify Blanche from his sorrow of watching you cut your visit short, due to some silly little assignments. He shook his head, he could have used all that time doing something else, but he needed to take care of this bastard anyway.

Now that he's not as upset, he took his time documenting whatever he did in his notebook which is equally covered in biohazardous grime.

He then turned around, and picked up his cane, not bothering to face the mutilated, unrecognizable mass of meat behind him one last time. Blanche was already thinking about what to do next as he locked the shed up, the previous bloodied fingerprints on the pad were washed away by the rain a few days prior.

He lets his mind wander to you, thinking about what you're doing right now. Blanche knows there is zero chance of you calling or contacting him through the phone because he knows that you're now at this stupid house party instead of working on your assignment like you told him.

Blanche isn't as tech-illiterate as you think. He is also not that gullible, he knows more than you believe or could ever imagine.

He wishes that you would be a bit more truthful towards him. But as of now, he's content with the amount and quality of bones he managed to harvest.

He made the long walk back to his cottage in the dark, his eyes already adapted to the darkness from decades of 'gardening' at night.

Blanche was mentally calculating the amount of time and heat needed to dehydrate the bones, to make them into bonemeal for his chickens. He suspected that they weren't producing as many eggs as usual because their calcium count was low, so the shell wouldn't be developing properly.

But thoughts of you kept interrupting his head. Blanche would smile, looking forward to your next visit. He would definitely have enough eggs for you by then.

[notyouraryang0dd3ss]

One lowkey thing that kinda drives me insane about Taylor Swift is discussion about her music. I don't know how to explain this properly but... (sorry for the long ask)

She's not an excellent singer. She's fine, but as a good example from her own discography: look at Florida feat. Florence. Florence singing her verse made me wake up in that album and made me realize how the song could've been delivered! She sings it in a much more interesting way than Taylor did. This isn't even to speak towards other popular artists like Beyonce, Ariana, Lana, Olivia, Billie, etc. who all have their own signature vocal styles and delivery that are impressive and make their songs.

I don't know. It feels bizarre to have one of the biggest pop artists in the world to have such mediocre vocals. TTPD as an album I feel partly got killed because of the way she's so samey about her vocal delivery.

But her fans would say no it's not about the vocals, it's the songwriting. But then TTPD songwriting was meh and just awful at some parts (the 1800s racist line is weird. period. I don't care whatever essay defense they give it). What now? What's the appeal? Why does she get to release something mediocre and get all the attention and praise when some artists have released great albums this year?

Then there's also when she gets the weirdest praise for the mildest things that other musicians have done. Album eras? "Oh, she's so cool and different for that!" No, she didn't invent them, shut up. An album of fictional songs with a story? They act as if concept albums don't exist! The most minor of genre shifts (she's primarily exploring different types of pop) are treated as experimental and groundbreaking. The most milquetoast and shallow political music she ever wrote (YNTCD and The Man) are seen as iconic moments of speaking out. Like what?

It's just frustrating me. I remember when someone told me she screamed in some songs in TTPD (Who's Afraid of Little Old Me and The Black Dog iirc) and I listened to that album and I thought they were joking with me because what do you mean scream??? Why does she get praised for so much mediocrity holy shit!

I think this is why when I hear people say that there's swifties that only mainly listen to Taylor and Taylor-adjacent artists, I believe them. I feel like they're making so many impressed remarks about her work because that's all they know. That's how we get genre takes like someone saying Rep is punk or how they want her to make a rock album. I feel like that's how we get stupid stuff like Gaylors too. Because why listen to actually out queer artists if you can just reimagine your fave artist as queer?

Honestly, I just don't understand the attachment to her music? Every time someone tells me it's because she's relatable, I just shake my head because she's never been relatable to me, even back when I enjoyed her songs. Maybe I'm too un-USAmerican for this, but she was never very universal for me. I enjoyed her because she did fun pop songs. But now I've realized she's so frustratingly shitty as a person, I can't listen to her.

Sorry for the rant, but it's been hard to find a space for this without getting attacked by swifties (especially as a poc).

(1/2)

[diaboliklove]

modern day au where yui cannot catch a break, and things only get worse when her house gets broken into by an angry red headed robber — but instead of taking her things, he takes her heart

yui was having the worst year of her life.

even worse than in 2013 when her father wouldn’t let her go to that taylor swift concert since it was deemed ‘unholy.’

she really thought only taylor could understand her.

but now its 2024, and she’s begun to have adult problems. she’s broke, her heater is broken, her apartment has started to fall apart, she stained her favorite pink skirt with coffee, her phone screen shattered when she dropped it on the train, she ran out of her favorite lip gloss, college bills keep stacking up, her upstairs neighbors never stop engaging in fornication, strawberries are out of season so she can no longer afford them and most importantly —

her father just passed away.

and all she wanted now was to rot in her apartment and ask god for mercy on her poor heart.

“it’ll be okay,” she sniffled back a tear. “father used to say the lord puts us through trials to test our faith.”

yeah, used to.

it was now late night, coming back from her fathers funeral she felt more empty than when she first got the news. her feet hurt from the black heels she now had to walk home in, the black dress did little to give her warmth, her cheeks were numb from the cold weather and having to comfort people with a smile that she’ll be okay, that there was nothing to worry about.

… but yui was already worrying about dinner. also how she’d have to shiver herself to sleep again. she couldn’t allow herself to cry herself to sleep again, her face would be frozen when she woke up, and what if she finds another hole in the walls? tape didn’t work last time, and she’s running out of rags to stuff in between them. and what about her job? she can’t buy more rags without it. they granted her a leave of absence due to her fathers passing, but what if they replaced her? if she lost her job she couldn’t pay rent — and she couldn’t ask for another extension on rent, her landlord was fed up enough with her pleading, she wouldn’t get lucky again. and also —

“no, lets just take it one day at a time. thats right,” she neared the steps to her apartment. “deep breath in, and then out. lets have some canned soup for dinner, and then pair it with rewatching the kardashians. yeah. thats a great plan.”

she turned the corner to her door.

“everything will get better,”

she put the key in the lock.

“as long as i stay positive.”

and she swung her door open —

“shit!”

“AH!”

— right into a mans back.

at first she thought she opened the wrong door. but the faint smell of her candles hit her nose, and her eyes fell on the very TV she watched shitty TV on in the mans arms — and then her eyes landed on a fucking sword on his waist.

her eyes followed it as he dropped her TV from his arms, and unsheathed it from his waist —

— and directed it right in between her eyes.

“empty your fucking purse! ill fucking kill you!”

Oh wow. wooooow.

now you would think the right action would be to do as he said. anyone would listen to a manic man with hair as red as blood, especially when they pointed a sword at you that looked like it came from the 1800’s. its not like yui wanted to die, so maybe she should save her life and sacrifice her beloved tv and the few pennies she had in her wallet.

but instead. her face twisted, and yui broke out in the most ugly open mouthed sob she’s ever done.

it wasn’t out of fear. it didn’t even register how this man genuinely had bloodlust leaking out of him. it was out of absolute frustration and sadness that this was becoming her life — and that she couldn’t even have her dream of watching the kardashians.

she fell to her knees. because, seriously, what the hell did she do to deserve all of this? she was a good kid. never acted out to her father and attended mass even when she had the flu. she never wished bad on anyone. but why does everything always have to end bad? on her 11th birthday her goldfish frank died, when she wanted a coffee last week, her card declined and now she couldn’t even sob into her blankets while she heard kim talking about how rich she was. can’t she have one good day? can’t she —

“holy shit, are you crying?” the red haired man didn’t even move.

yui looked up to him, and just stared at the man’s flabbergasted expression. through her tears, she tried to inhale through her nose, but it came out in little stutters. she extended her purse towards him.

“take it. take everything if you want.” yui spoke through her sobs. its not like anything she really wanted was here anymore.

yui curled up into her knees and rocked herself, continuing to cry hysterically at the thought of just her life. she wouldn’t mind if that man stole everything in her house — material objects could be replaced… eventually. when her eyes started to burn by the amount of tears flooding out, she noticed she couldn’t hear the familiar floorboards creak from movement and her purse was still in her hands. lifting her head to see what was going on, she noticed that the man hadn’t moved from his spot, and just was gawking at her sitting on the floor. they held eye contact for a while, like they were both afraid to move.

sure, yui thought he was a manic. but he probably thought yui was a suicidal manic.

while she held eye contact, she finally really looked at him.

he was fit. wearing a black shirt and a ripped jean jacket, yui could tell he wasn’t bulky, but instead quite lean. his pecs were defined and his muscular abdomen and biceps were flexed against the fabric from welding the heavy sword. his joggers looked worn down, and black nikes seemed like they seen better days. his face was … nice. well sculpted and he had a well defined jaw. his lips were plump and chapped from the chill outside.

what threw yui off was the cacophony that was his hair and eye color. bright firetruck red for hair that looked like he hadn’t brushed it in days, and green eyes fit for only a predator. regardless of the situation, yui could tell he honestly was… beautiful. dangerous. probably looked more attractive if he didn’t have his mouth wide open in awe.

his eyebrows furrowed, and he closed his mouth. he placed his sword back in his sheath, and leaned down to grab the tv from the floor. he looked towards yui again, with a face she could only describe as disappointment. clicking his tongue, he began to drag the tv … not towards the door but towards the tv cabinet.

“this isn’t fun anymore. you can have your shitty shit back.”

placing the tv back in its rightful throne, he squatted down and went through a worn down black backpack — that had some random pins of a band she never heard of — that was on the floor. within it, he took out her favorite necklace, her jewelry box, a couple of her wool sweaters and her damn smart toaster she picked up extra shifts for.

“this is yours. ill be back when you’re mentally stable, you deranged bitch.” he motioned to the items on the floor.

“really?”

the robber rolled his eyes. “of course I will be! do you know how much your toaster —“

“— no i mean. you’ll give it back?”

“you want me to take it?”

“well… i’d like it if you didn’t.”

“then! shut the fuck up.”

he grabbed his backpack and swung it around his shoulder. he started making his way towards the door right beside yui. as he took two steps past her, he paused.

“you’re really broke, you know.”

yui sniffled. “i know.”

“like, broke broke. i don’t think ive ever broke into a house that had so much of nothing. what are you, a level one sim? do you have no hobbies? do you even eat? i see nothing to even munch on here.”

“… i have soup.”

“you literally have two cans of spaghetti-os and tomato soup.”

yui sniffled louder. “i know.”

things were silent for a while. yui was sure the robber was still there, probably reconsidering his decision. she expected him to march back in to take her things again while flipping her off. this entire situation seemed too good to be true… but maybe this could end with her losing nothing... no. she wouldn’t let herself hope for something that was next to impossible in a situation like this.

but something even more unlikely happened.

the robber spoke again.

“do you like dennys?”

“w…what?” yui turned her head towards him.

“dennys. the best restaurant in the world. do you like it?” his face stayed neutral, but somehow the question felt like a threat.

yui feared the honest answer, ‘ive never been’ would end in her getting decapitated. so, she said, “i do.”

“do you want to go get some pancakes?”

it was yuis turn to gawk at him. he looked bored, and slid his hands in his pockets. now, maybe a normal person would say ‘fuck no, its 10pm and you just broke into my home somehow and then tried to steal my beloved tv and lovely toaster then pointed a fucking sword at me… also, i don’t even know your name you creep.’

but yui wasn’t a normal person experiencing normal things right now.

“pancakes sound nice.”

aka, the alternative universe in which two cold hearts find warmth within each other.

[goldenempyrean]

Caring for a Kryptonian

〚 Prompt - "You need to rest so you can get better and be your cute self again." 〛

〚 Pairing - Kara x Reader 〛

〚 Wordcount - 1800 〛

〘 Check Out My Masterlist! 〙

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“Oh god, seriously Kara, again?” You found yourself sighing deeply into the phone as your blonde-haired girlfriend admitted the news that yet again, she had lost her powers, “How’d it happen this time then?” 

Kara groaned and you were pretty confident that she was pouting too, “Stupid alien that I was fighting, it was resistant to everything!” 

You shook your head, “And let me guess, you pushed yourself way too far?” 

“Maybe…” She sighed a little this time and it was obvious she was beyond disappointed, “The whole point of flying out here was to get stronger and now I’m being sent home only 2 days in.” 

“Wait, they’re sending you home?” Kara had originally been sent out with the DEO for what Alex had called ‘a week of intensive hell’, they’d planned to had Kara train somewhere in the remote outback of Australia to test her endurance in different climates despite her insistence that it really wouldn’t make a difference. But the sudden appearance of other worldly life had put the week to a sudden halt. 

“They’re putting me on a plane later tonight,” Kara whined a little louder this time, “It’s so not fair, I hate flying inside metal boxes when I could literally just do it myself.” 

You couldn't help but chuckle at her complaint about flying in a metal box. It was a typical Kara response, always longing for the freedom her powers provided. However, you couldn't deny that her situation was less than ideal. 

"Well, at least you'll be back home soon," you replied sympathetically. "You push yourself way too hard, we both know it. So maybe some time off will do you good, just come home, we’ll grab some junk food and relax. Then maybe we’ll throw James down an elevator shaft again and get those powers of yours back.” 

Your girlfriend gave a small chuckle, “Maybe,” There was another voice coming from the other side of the phone, “Baby, I need to go, they want to do some tests then I have to go pack my stuff up. They can’t spare anything private so I’m gonna have to take a commercial flight so It’ll be like 9 hours or so. I’ll be home around 10pm.” 

You felt a pang of sympathy at the news of Kara's long journey home. Nine hours on a commercial flight sounded tiresome, especially for someone used to soaring through the skies effortlessly. But it was part of the reality she had to face, balancing her superhuman abilities with the mundane aspects of life. 

"Alright, Kara," you replied, trying to sound supportive despite your own frustration. "I'll be waiting for you when you get home and don't worry, I'll have all your favourite snacks ready for you." 

"I love you," she said softly, her voice filled with warmth and longing. 

"I love you too," you replied, your voice matching hers in tenderness. "Stay safe, and remember, you're amazing with or without your powers." 

With that said, you finished your phone call and began tidying your apartment up - after all you didn’t need your girlfriend coming back to a messy home. Truthfully as day grew into night you couldn’t help but get excited, tomorrow would mean Kara and that was all you could think about. 

It was all you could think about the following day as well, you’d slept in a little, hoping to pass the hours somehow. The day was seemed to slowly creep day, each hour feeling longer than the last. 

Dinner consisted of some frozen microwaved meal, a little bland but the hoard of snacks and drinks that you’d secured was sure to tide you over, all you needed now was SuperGirl herself. To be honest though, you were kinda surprised she hadn’t texted by now, Kara definitely wasn’t one to go radio silent. 

But after what felt like a lifetime you finally heard the latch to your apartment door click open and the distinct sound of your girlfriend’s boots hit the wooden floor. 

“Hi sweetheart!” You called out excitedly, rushing out of the kitchen into the entrance way, opening your arms to give your girlfriend a huge bear hug, “How was the flight, how come you didn’t text, I-“ 

Kara stopped you suddenly when you went to reach out for her, keeping you an arm's length away, “Don’t- hih!- come too close, I thinHh’iishoo! ..Heh-Hh’iitshiew!” 

You blinked in surprise as Kara sneezed not once, but twice, in quick succession but before you could even begin to wonder what was wrong, your girlfriend answered your question. 

“It happened again!” She whined hoarsely, sending herself into a small flurry of coughing but she didn’t stop you from coming closer this time and you gently ran your hand down her bag as she regained her breath. 

“You’re sick?” You filled in the obvious gap, hand leaving her back and instead coming to meet her own instead. She felt hot. I mean, Kara ran hot usually but this was different. Her usually peachy and bright complexion was pasty and white, she definitely wasn’t feeling well. 

She huffed a little, sniffling at her runny nose as you guided her to sit down on the couch, “The lady next to me in the lobby was sniffling the whole time and I thought I could just avoid her but guess who I was sat next to on the plane?” You already knew the answer before she continued, “Nobody else but miss contagious hhH- lady- Hi’tshiew!” 

You made a sympathetic noise whilst reaching over to take a couple of tissues from the box sitting neatly on the coffee table, “Oh darling, I’m sorry. You’re non-super immune system really sucks, doesn’t it?” 

Kara sniffled and nodded, blowing her nose into the tissue. "Tell me about it," she replied, her voice still hoarse. "I wish I had my Kryptonian immune system right now.” 

"Well, lucky for you, I'm here to take care of you," You said with a smile before giving her a playful nudge, “Just try to keep those super-germs to yourself this time, alright? We don’t want a repeat of the Alex situation.”  

The last time Kara had gotten sick she’d managed to not only break her arm but as a consequence of that, her tissue covering skills were severely impacted and unfortunately for her sister, Alex just so happened to be in her line of fire resulting in a very sick, very sulky agent a few days later. 

Kara chuckled weakly, remembering the incident with her sister. "Yeah, I'll try my best to contain my super-germs this time," she replied, giving you a sheepish smile. "I really appreciate you taking care of me, though. You're the best." 

You returned the gesture before pressing a small kiss to her warm cheek, “Don’t mention it. I have snacks, movies and blankets. We even have potstickers. I wasn’t originally planning for a sick-day evening but I’m sure we can improvise. Oh! You do know this means I’m gonna make you take the green goo right?” 

The ‘green goo’ is what Kara had originally called NyQuil when she first saw it out of the bottle and the name stuck ever since. Oh, how you wished you could’ve captured the way her face dropped at the mere mention of medicine. 

But before she could complain, her face shifted from an expression of disbelief to waiting anticipation as she scrunched up her nose preemptively. 

“Bless-“ You cut in a second too early, causing her to lose the tickle and the blonde rubbed at her nose as she gave you an adorably pouty frown. For added measure you made sure to boop the tip of her red nose as you stood up from the couch before heading into the kitchen as you called out, “Stay put, I’ll return with your green goo that you’re definitely going to be taking.” 

As stepped into the kitchen you heard Kara sneeze once, twice… trice? Before whining loudly afterwards as her raspy voice carried her displeasure, “Those were your fault!” 

“I know.” You laughed back before hurrying to locate the medicine and another box of tissues, both of which were under the sink in the small white basket you’d dedicated to sick-day supplies. “Bless you, by the way.” You smiled, coming back to Kara to hand her the medicine and extra tissue box before disappearing and quickly reappearing with a glass of water and a can of Dr Pepper. 

“Alrighty, water for you miss sickie.” You offered the drink of water when you sat back down beside her, to which she crossed her arms as she looked longingly at the cool can in your other hand and you easily knew what she was hinting at,  “No way missy, this is mine. Property of me.” 

“I like Dr Pepper too y’know.” She murmured, trying to sound alluring but the facade was quickly broken when it sent her into a flutter of coughing. 

“Really? Who would’ve known.” You smiled playfully as you teased her a little, 

“If you take your medicine and drink the whole glass of water then maybe you can have one, okay?” 

She seemed to mull over your deal before agreeing, wordlessly handing you back the NyQuil to pour out a dose for her, “You sure you couldn’t have done that yourself SuperGirl?” 

“Well if I’m too sick to have Dr Pepper I wouldn’t want to strain myself opening a lid, would I?” Kara sighed dramatically, taking the green goo from you and giving you a mock glare. "You're too good to me," she added lovingly before downing the medicine with a sip of water. 

"I know," you replied, smirking. "It's just one of the many perks of being your amazing girlfriend." 

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "You're such a dork," she said, leaning back against the couch cushions. "But I love you." 

“I love you too pumpkin, now try and relax a little.” You whispered back, kissing her forehead as you took the blanket draped along the back of the sofa and pulled it around yourselves, allowing your girlfriend to sink beside you whilst she cuddled into your side. 

You didn’t really pay too much mind on what movie to put on, you knew she’d fall asleep soon anyway and your point was so perfectly proved because you were still browsing the seemingly endless rows of Netflix when small, congested but oddly cute snores began rising from the sniffling superhero at your side. You smiled, not bothering to pick a movie anymore. 

Instead, you wrapped your arm around her shoulder and pulled her in close, sure you both might’ve been comfier more in bed but for now, you were content just to hold her like this.  

Afterall, nothing in the world mattered more than when Kara was in your arms. 

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[ivereadthemanual]

So thanks to this amazing fanart by shynrinn(🙏) my brain is stuck with this 1800 AU idea where Michael replaces Aziraphale as representative on earth. Like the seed was planted and I'm going to water it.

So I like to think that Michael somehow gets Crowley out of the picture and Dagon is put up as replacement. It's Archangel Michael after all. So Duke of Hell seems like an appropriate choice. (I'm sure Aziracrow find a way to do their stuff, anyway. Because let's be real, nothing can keep them apart.).

We know how Aziraphale loves to play damsel in distress for Crowley to save him. But that does not fit either Michael nor Dagon.

So I like to think that Dagon keeps doing actual evil deeds and keeps corrupting humans. Trying to provoke Michael to come and smite them. And it's working. In the beginning Michael does it because it's their duty. But oh do they like it. The rush. Finally back on the battle field. Even if it's just a small one. A very personal one.

And sure, Dagon is frustrated in the beginning. Maybe even gets discorporated once or twice. But they keep going. Fueled by their desire to be a match for Michael. To be seen as worthy by Michael.

So this is becoming their dance. This will become their reason to regularly meet each other. Fight each other. Touch each other.

[multiverse-imagines]

Vashtember (A Writer's Hijacking) Day 2: Knives

Okay, so I cheated a tiny bit. Its technically about @aidakhar 's dad!Knives au. But how can I resist Knives being a doting father?

"Azrael, that's the third Toothbrush this month." Knives frowned as he looked at the small disgruntled boy who presented him with yet another mangled toothbrush.

"My teeth are just too sharp, Papa." Azrael moped.

"I see that. I'll have to talk to Dr. Conrad about this…" Knives mused to himself, as he comforted his son, "For now, why don't we just keep doing our best until we can figure something out, okay? It's not very efficient as far as the lifespans of toothbrushes go, but it'll keep your teeth clean in the meantime."

"Fine." Azrael huffed as he stalked off, going to his room. Knives was frustrated as well. It was important to maintain oral cleanliness. How was his child supposed to do so when his teeth were ripping through each toothbrush at such a rapid pace? He pondered these things as he too stalked down the hall towards Dr. Conrad's lab.

"Ah, Master Knives. What brings you around this time?" Conrad asked, sitting at his desk, a beaker of coffee still steaming close by.

"Azrael just gave me his third decimated toothbrush this month. I need something different than this archaic stick." Knives complained to Conrad.

"Well, the evolution of the toothbrush hasn't really changed since the Earth's 1800's… they even used them in the ancient Egyptian era. It's one of those "If it's not broke, don't fix it" kinds of things." Conrad explained.

"Then we have to make something those stupid humans couldn't." Knives snidely replied.

"Of course, Sir. When I was a child back on Earth, they did have these chewable toothbrushes, but I fear the boy will just chew through them."

"What were they made of? Could we improve upon whatever material they used? Make them reusable, or recyclable?"

"They were just silicone, but, again, I fear he would just rip through Silicone like a shark eating a seal." Conrad lamented, taking a sip from his beaker of coffee, "I could improve it to withstand the psi of his bite strength strength. I can probably project 170 psi at the most, so I can make a silicone that withstands up to 200… Can you bring The Boy in to run some tests? He might enjoy it, since he'll get to bite stuff." Conrad began to write calculations and equations down on a piece of paper before asking the question.

"Yeah, I can bring him around, but… in the morning. He needs his sleep." Knives said, noting the time. Conrad chuckled, realizing what a doting father his fearsome boss had become. It made Conrad miss the daughter he'd wronged so long ago as he sipped his coffee once more.

"Of course, Sir. That will give me time to experiment with the silicone before I can run my tests for the prototype. This is a welcome distraction. I was beginning to feel burnt out on my previous experiments." Conrad shrugged.

"Wonderful. I know you won't disappoint us, Doctor. I shall return with Azrael in the morning." Knives nodded before leaving Conrad to his work.

***

When Knives and Azrael returned the next morning, Conrad was still hard at work.

"What is your progress, Doctor?" Knives asked as He reminded Azrael to be mindful of his surroundings, as not to collide with anything within the lab.

"Ah, Master Knives. You're just in time. I just finished with the silicone that can withstand 200 psi. I still want an average bite test from him. I may be able to adjust the longevity of the silicone, and we'll be able to recycle them, combine them together to make new ones. Silicone is surprisingly easy to make on this planet, since silicone is made from sillica particles in sand. We live on a planet covered in the stuff!" Conrad said triumphantly, pulling a lever for dramatic affect as a compression machine squished a rubbery piece of silicone. A little machine attached to it beeped, calculating the integrity of the small marble, and the he lifted the lever, to show the marble still intact. Conrad took the marble to a nearby sink, washing it thoroughly, before handing it to Azrael.

"Here, chew on this for me. Please do not swallow it." Conrad instructed. Azrael paused before taking the little marble from Conrad's hand, and popping it into his mouth. He munched on it, his eyes brightening a little at the bouncy resistance the marble gave.

"Should I try to rip it apart with my teeth?" Azrael asked as he chewed.

"Give it your best shot, kid." Conrad nodded, giving Azrael permission to destroy his prototype in the name of science. After a minute or two, Azrael spit the ball back into Conrad's gloved hand. Conrad gave the silicone ball study under the microscope, investigating the small tears made by Azrael's teeth.

"Was it hard to chew on, Azrael?" Conrad asked as he gazed into the microscope.

"Not really. It was like… chewing gum." Azrael explained. Conrad nodded, standing from the microscope.

"Okay. I figured Independants had a harder bite force than humans, but I didn't expect harder than 200 psi, damn. Good thing Silicone can go up to 1,500 psi when using the right formula." Conrad sighed. "My goal is to create a silicone that won't tear under his bite force, but is still easy to chew on." Conrad explained. He picked up a small device that had a rubber mouthpiece attached. After sterilizing the piece, he asked Azrael to place it in his mouth, and bite down as hard as he could. Conrad frowned at the results.

"Hm, 220. Yep, gotta make a stronger silicone. Alright, I should have the prototype ready by tomorrow morning." Conrad concluded, writing some notes. Knives and Azrael went about their day as normal.

***

"Okay, I think I've got it this time. Try this one." Conrad handed Azrael a small ball with little silicone bristles, sterilized of course. The middle was hollow for toothpaste to fit inside. Azrael chewed on the ball, purposefully trying to mangle it with his teeth. After a few minutes, he spit the ball out as before, and after a study by Conrad, the item was complete.

"Yeah, this new chewable toothbrush should last you two months, or about sixty teeth cleanings. I'll have more made, and ready to go within the week. They're easy to recycle, so I'll be able to make a sustainable stock of them." Conrad was nearly giddy at his success, "I recommend using this with supervision due to the potential choking hazard, but that's just a precaution." He noted to Knives, from one father to another.

"I'll be sure to do so. We can brush our teeth together, then." Knives nodded, internally excited to have a new style of cleaning for his son.

[deadendtracks]

with the exception of weird medieval christian stuff, I used to be uninterested in 'old master' art (or anything prior to the 1800s/Manet/Cezanne) but I realized the other day it was because I really hadn't seen much of it in person, unlike more contemporary art. I still am not super into some genres of it but man, there really is something about standing in front of a Rembrandt! They're much more interesting in person than they are in reproduction, which is generally true of most art. Still!

i'm not really a fan of 'art has degenerated in the modern era' but there is something to be said for lost techniques. when I was doing my BFA all of my professors were of the abstract expressionism generation (or slightly later) and idk, they just weren't into teaching *any* technique at all. or really teaching anything, tbh. And i don't think i'd want to paint like an old master necessarily but there's something to be said for learning *something* about how paint works and how painting works so you don't flail around getting really frustrated that everything turns to mud if you don't handle things right.

The point is to learn the technique/rules and then do what you want after that. Maybe it was just my school but I do feel like I would have had a better experience if any of my professors outside of printmaking, where they *have* to teach you some technique, would have taught literally anything about how to paint.

[otherworldlygate]

Tales of Symphonia is a really great game. I feel like in terms of general themes and character arcs, ToS gives us a cohesive and frankly timeless story. This obviously isn't unique to ToS, but it's nice that it has staying power.

Just don't look too closely at anything or a lot of the worldbuilding and character arcs start to fall apart!

Obviously I don't mean this in a terrible, bitter sort of way. I've been in this fandom for 20ish years and ToS is at the tippy-top of my list of favorite games; it really feels tailored to me in these small and oddly specific ways.

But good grief it can be frustrating, sometimes. You're telling me that 4,000 whole years have passed and this is the world the characters live in? Four thousand years? Four? Thousand? 4k? That's a lot of years. I'm not saying Aselia, let alone Tethe'alla and Sylvarant, would advance the way our modern society has, especially with the little mana tug-of-war they've got going on, but it's very hard to believe that there isn't a very deep and rich history in both worlds. (I do understand that the game isn't really able to go into detail on all of that, but you'd think it might have influenced the storylines a bit more, especially for Kratos and Yuan.)

The one thing 4,000 years has going for it is the fact that Mithos managed to make Martel into a believed-in goddess. That probably did not happen quickly. But in terms of language? Turns of phrase? Clothing?

The divide between Tethe'alla and Sylvarant almost feels like a mere 100 years instead of 800 years of Tethe'alla being able to flourish. Sheena gawks a bit at steam power but Tethe'alla doesn't really have anything truly mind-blowing, either. No automobiles, no airplanes or airships. Sylvarant feels like the year 1800 and Tethe'alla like 1900. I'd find that perfectly believable in some regards, but the fact that all of these characters speak without accents and such is just...

Well, I just feel like there's SO MUCH room and potential within the world to really highlight big differences between Tethe'alla and Sylvarant, to truly set all of the characters apart from one another. Raine's abandonment was traumatizing, but you're telling me that she never noticed anything weird about it? Sure, she might have focused hard on those ruins she remembers being abandoned at, but what about when she landed in Sylvarant? She didn't have an accent? She wasn't speaking a different language or dialect entirely?

I really feel like there should have been some major culture shock between the two worlds, especially with Tethe'alla flourishing for so long. 800 years is a long time, after all.

And don't even get me started on the dumb lore for elves and half-elf lifespans, especially when, according to that logic, there should be an absolute assload of half-elves still alive who have been alive since well before Tethe'alla started its long flourishing period. Where's the tea from them? Where's the history and lore about them?

When viewed from a more general angle, I think ToS holds up pretty well. It has a lot of good stuff in it. But sometimes I'm just chomping at the bit to see the complexities that could be a part of it realized.

A lot of the character arcs were good...but they could have been great.

And yes...I am aware that the solution to this is, as always, to simply novelize the entire game as I imagine it to be, complete with the complexities that should be present in the worldbuilding and character journeys.

But that does not sound like a very good use of my time, so I will write blorbo nonsense and complain on Tumblr, instead.

[kmlaney]

WIP questionnaire

tagged by @coffeewritesfiction and I am so sorry to take this long on a reply. Thanks for the tag!

Tagging @fallenscintilla (if you want! No pressure!) and @waywardwizzard and anyone who wants to!

1. What is the first part of your WIP that you created?

The very first line was: “D’ya think I care how it tastes?” I posted an edited version here. There's a snip of the original here.

For the record, it started as a character background for a TTRPG. In fact, it wasn’t even going to be the character I was going to play. Harrowed (undead/revenant) gunfighter? *eyeroll* Too cliché. I even made a homebrew archetype to play: a “spiritualist” in the late 1800’s sense. But that first line kept bugging me so I figured, okay. Fine. I’ll write this one scene and then work on my spiritualist. 

Yeah. No. I never played the spiritualist.

2. If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?

I did all the fan stuff for Phil and Skyfallen, like playlists, faceclaims, all of that. I never did that before. I selected music for the theoretical TV show: main theme, a rotating list of outro/credits roll music, pieces for certain kinds of scenes. So if Skyfallen were a TV series, this would be the theme:

3. What are your favorite characters that you made? Why?

That’s like asking which of my pets was my favorite. I love them all. I guess I loved Phil enough to make them the viewpoint character. They’re a more-mature version of the kind of character I wrote when I was a kid, now with serious problems I can explore as an adult. I like Phil’s father, whom I was determined to fridge in the beginning because fridging is usually a female character. Ha Ha! Then I went and gave him a character arc that could only end in his death so he’s not fridged after all. 

I like Travelling Sam for being a conniving, money-grubbing jerk, but he’s fun to write. I like Eva as Carnival Mom; Maury for being a flamboyant, fun-to-be-around person hiding a serious drinking problem that everyone knows about. I like Doc Butcher for his name, for actually being trained as a vet but caring about everyone, and trying to do his best when he’s in over his head because he can’t do nothing. 

I like Maker Lewis for his change of heart, though he was already on the fence and just needed a shove. And I like Miss Warren for being a nosy reporter whom Phil doesn’t want to like but ends up liking anyway. She also lets me play at muckraking reporter. Choosing words to specifically slant a piece is a load of fun.

4. What other pieces of media do you think your fan base would share?

Skyfallen has its roots in Westerns, so people who like cinematic westerns are a potential fanbase. I include horror, steampunk, and gothic elements, so if your venn diagram of interests includes those things then it might be for you. 

Things I like that influenced or feel like this story: Silverado, The Magnificent Seven, RIPD 2 Rise of the Damned (movies. I hate to admit that last one but it was fun). Deadlands (TTRPG game. I created Phil for this setting). The Dark Tower novels--primarily Wizard and Glass but any of the parts dealing with Roland’s world. 

There is zero romance. Phil’s ace, there is no main love interest, and anyone who gets together does so very off-screen. 

5. What has been your biggest struggle with your WIP?

When writing the draft, the individual scenes flew out of my brain. I could hardly write them fast enough. In deep editing, though, it’s the big-picture stuff I find challenging. Which themes do I want to emphasize and which are less important? Do I really need all this buildup or should I start later? I need to show certain things so the later ones make sense, but that makes it even longer. It’s already very long; shouldn’t I be cutting things down? Argh. It's frustrating.

6. Are there any animals in your story? Talk about them!

There are animals. Most are utilitarian: Horses, dogs, cats, chickens, cows. There are monsters also (for certain values of “monster”) all along the continuum from “non-sapient animal” through to “self-aware human intelligence.” 

The way they figure into the story is more interesting. In life, Phil liked animals in general and had a special fondness for horses and mules. After dying and coming back reanimated, animals can’t stand to be around them. Phil doesn’t figure it out right away, and it hurts when they do.

7. How do your characters get around? (Ex. Trains, horses, cars, dragons, etc.)

For the area the characters are in for the bulk of the story, most people walk, ride horses, or ride in wagons, carts, or coaches pulled by horses or teams of horses. There are a couple of trains but they are rare. In other areas, trains are common, as are ferries and lake boats. Airships exist; they are novelties and considered simultaneously luxurious and dangerous. In larger cities, along with the horse-drawn vehicles, people have bicycles, rickshaws, pedal-powered rickshaws, and palanquins. Automatons in a variety of configurations may be subbed in for horses or people in any of those conveyances. 

8. What part of your WIP are you working on right now?

I’ve identified some specific foreshadowing that needs to happen. So I need to add that in. There are a few names that aren’t consistent; they’re flagged so I can fix them. I need to put in a few encounters so later ones make sense. It’s not exactly foreshadowing so much as worldbuilding. So editing stuff.

9. What aspects (tropes, maybe) of your WIP do you think will draw people in?

I have a hard time identifying tropes in my work, probably because I’m in the trees, so to speak, and can’t see the forest. Or groves, to push the metaphor. Having said that, here’s an attempt:

Portal/isekai

Found family

Unlikely group of heroes

Humans can be evil; monsters can be sympathetic

Religion, Magic, and cults 

Monsters dwelling among humans

Enemies to not-friends (don’t push your luck)

Things get worse

Everyone has secrets

Lost memories, memory tampering

Weird West

Steampunk and Gothic Horror

Gunslinger/trick shot

Noble Demon/antihero

Good is not nice

I did come up with one of those taglines that you might see on the bottom of the cover of a book: 

“Every Skyfallen has something they want to forget. And everyone in the Mistlands is Skyfallen.”

10. What are your hopes for your WIP?

Originally I was hoping for traditional publishing. I might still try to go that way. I’m also looking into self-pub, and websites that host serial stories. I think this story fits better into a serial format than a traditional book format. I need to make it more coherent (hence editing phase)

[majorbaby]

I have lots to say about S07E23 Preventative Medicine but my document was swelling with analysis of this one line from Hawkeye, and I want to write a whole post about it for a very particular reason.

I've often expressed my frustration at the show being wishy-washy with its anti-army messaging in the later years or not doing right by the Hawkeye character by either softening his opposition to the army or making him say straight up OOC shit. And I've talked broadly about the show doing the same thing in general, saying stuff that I think is OOC for MASH - it's hard to give specific examples because they're so numerous and dispersed.

So when I stumbled upon this one example of I think, very good characterization of Hawkeye that is particularly rich yet distilled nicely in a single line of his dialogue and then masterfully camouflaged by the show's tone and Alan Alda's comedic acting chops, I wanted to point it out. I realized, this- this is why I get so cagey about the poor, inconsistent writing on the show in the later years, because when it is good, it is so fucking good. And Hawkeye is so, so, so fucking good:

Hawkeye: Colonel, you left out a lot of good stuff. What about "Into the Valley of Death" or "Remember the Alamo" or the ever-popular "Damn the Torpedos!" Lacey: Doctor, why do you just take care of these brave men? Hawkeye: "I have not yet begun to fight!"

Just before this, BJ does call Lacey's speech "disgusting" which is gutsy, for BJ. I have to say "for BJ" because to be fair to him, anyone will have a hard time looking gutsy next to Hawkeye (with the exception of Klinger, more on that someday)

Anyway, Hawkeye elevates it from the obvious and situates Lacey’s actions within a broader system of military incompetence leading to senseless death. He makes no less than four historical references:

“Into the Valley of death” From Alfred Tennyson’s poem about the Crimean War, which similarly glorifies the high death toll rather than condemns it. Important to note that Tennyson’s poem is in the same spirit as Lacey’s speech and both Hawkeye and the writers of this episode know that. An aside regarding the poem: Because I am so continually gutted and angered by any positive framing and re-framing of Rudyard Kipling, in the world, but particularly in this fandom, I will be the first to point out that Kipling later wrote “The Last of the Light Brigade” in conversation with Tennyson’s poem. It's not that difficult to find out. Yes, Kipling's "transformative" poem is about the hardships faced by veterans (a departure from Tennyson's poem) and no I don’t think that’s enough to see past Kipling’s extraordinary racism and white-supremacist artistic accompaniment to the brutality of British Colonialism waged upon my ancestors and millions of other people's ancestors - the effects of which are still felt deeply to this day by us as individuals, our communities and are imbued in the systems that oppress us. That should always be at the forefront of Rudyard Kipling's legacy, regardless of context.

“Remember the Alamo” - a similar “last stand” often framed and re-framed as being a brave sacrifice. A favourite war story of the American canon.

“Damn the Torpedos!” you don’t have to live like a refugehhh both Hawkeye and Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers are referencing a quote attributed to US Navy commander, Admiral David Farragut, although it’s doubtful he actually said it, the meaning of the quote remains: charge forward even if you’re likely to die in your attempt. Farragut was a decorated career army man who fought in multiple wars and after his death in the late 1800s became a mascot for the US Navy and his likeness was used on WWI and WWII propaganda posters, urging citizens to sign up. I think Hawkeye and the writers are aware of this too.

After Lacey tries to remind Dr. Pierce MD that he is in fact a doctor not a soldier (cries in the Hawkeye Pierce complex) Hawkeye exclaims “I’ve not yet begun to fight!" – that’s John Paul Jones during the American Revolution while appearing to have lost a battle at sea with the British. He succeeded, but it's worth noting that the ship he was in command of, the Bonhomme Richard, sustained such damage, it sunk.

That is a lot for barely 20 seconds of dialogue.

Hawkeye being anti-army isn’t just broadly true of him. It’s packed very densely into these kinds of lines (of which I'm sure there are many) and then dressed up in theatrics. Alan Alda hams it up here and I love it, because it highlights how vapid and fake military propaganda and nationalist refrains are.

If you’re not familiar with the references he’s making and the analysis of them that I've laid out here/other facts associated with them, then they might just land as a “haha, Hawkeye is such a funny guy” perhaps with some vague awareness that he doesn’t like Lacey.

It's very hard for me to accept anything less from this show, and from Hawkeye in particular, when you have examples of how concentrated and deep his rage and passion runs.

[collectionoftulips]

So thoughts on the latest episode of The Way Home (2x09)

I enjoyed the episode and I guess one thing it sort of unintentionally reinforced for me is how lonely Kat is, because even though there is definitely shipping potential with her and Susanna (I could see it, for sure), I think fundamentally, she doesn't actually have that many friends. She had Elliot as a childhood friend but he's spent his whole life being in love with her, and the other close friend she had turned out to be her daughter, so she's never really had friends and especially not that many close women friends.

That said, I keep being a bit frustrated by how they write the contemporary timeline of Elliot and Kat, mainly because the pacing of how things happen between them still has a twinge of 'because the plot needed this to happen now' rather than it feeling organic to them as characters.

It was lovely seeing the moment Kat and Brady found out about Alice and that scene was really sweet. I do maintain though that Alice forgave Elliot far too quickly and her realising 'how much [he] lost that night' really felt out of nowhere and not really true to how I think that she would read that scene (again, scents of 'because the plot needed this to happen now').

I also maintain that the build up around the party was way overblown in relation to what really happened.

I think in terms of what finally drove Del and Kat apart, I love that it was something 'small' (comparatively) and that it just became the final pebble that crumbled the already precarious foundation they had together. In some ways, though, I really appreciate the way the show Del keeping a firm boundary between her and Kat in the sense that she's not trying to make her grief or problems Kat's issue, which (for someone who has grown up seeing too many fictional parental figures parentifying their children erhmRoryandLorelai) I appreciate it, even if it's a huge part as to why they have so much miscommunication.

Was glad we finally got some Jacob scenes and particularly actual conversations with him and Kat. Given how central he is to the show, but in particular this season, it's been really strange how the show really sidelined him for so much of how it structured its story (yes, the 2007 party was important, but I still think the build up was a bit too much since actually the important stuff happened after).

On a shallow, non-important note, I felt shortchanged with the limited Thomas/Kat interactions. I will confess I might have shipper goggles on but it really feels like the show can't have them interact too much because if they do, Elliot/Kat just doesn't seem as appealing by contrast, given in what an awkward position the writers put them in the start of the season for the sake of trying to extend the tension of Elliot and Kat's relationship.

I feel like this next episode will have so much 1800s (or it better) because there's so much around it that there are massive question marks. We still don't know (technically) how Kat's portrait was painted (which would have taken months - I think, I'm not a painter) or who did it or how it ended up at the Goodwins or why it was kept by the Goodwins. I imagine it might come back as a plot point in the next episode, but really I'm sort of hoping that season three will keep a lot of the 1800s stuff.

If I was a betting person, I think we also might have Elliot maybe doing some pond jumping or something, given how suddenly interested and/or surprised he seemed when Kat said she tried to take Susanna with her back to the present time. The way I will accept that is if we can have Thomas travel to the present to compensate

I don't have much to say about the whole Nick thing, but that's because I wasn't that invested in his stuff, but yeah.

Overall, I think this episode was fine. The previous episode was so jarring in terms of its pacing and the scent of 'because the plot needed this to happen now' that I felt like this episode struggled in some sense to find its footing, even if I think on the whole it pulled it off. I don't know if anyone cares about these thoughts but there you are!

[thelomlisfictional]

A Peculiar Woman

(Sherlock Holmes/Female Reader)

POV Sherlock (probably OOC)

"What a peculiar woman, at least more puzzling than any open cases."

NOTE: Decided to post my AO3 stuff (account has the same username as my tumblr), I have a second part to this but I honestly like how vague this is. However, I also totally get the frustration when you love the concept of a oneshot that isn’t continued so I’m not opposed to writing more of this, lmk what y’all think :D

FUN FACTS (about me and this fic): Henry Cavill is like my original celebrity crush so even before he was in Enola Holmes I was picturing him as Sherlock, but this fic is set in modern times cause I overthink stuff. It was going to be in the Enola Holmes universe cause I just love the romance/courting aspect (diehard Jane Austen fan), but I realized that to do this fic justice I would need to study the 1800s and I simply don’t have that much time. Anyways… I hope you enjoy!!!

A woman dressed in business attire strode into the room, quite boldly stating, “My client didn’t do it.”

Interesting, I did not think this man, more adolescent, could afford a lawyer. Alas, she was right; her client hadn’t committed the robbery.

“Are you Mister Stonnes’s lawyer?” Lestrade did always have a knack for questioning the obvious.

If not purely by her announcement of him being her client, she was also clad in a seemingly unworn business skirt and matching blazer, typical of a lawyer. Her eyes were piercing, even with cheeks flushed from exertion, her skin appeared soft. Oddly enough, the only makeup she wore was lipstick. While nice looking in a sense, one would not expect her to be a lawyer. Yet, something in her eyes was akin to a predator circling its prey.

Regardless, how would she possibly know Stonnes was not the perpetrator? Scotland Yard had yet to unravel the not-so-intriguing mystery. By the coffee stain on his shirt and the ill-set photo of him and his girlfriend on his lock screen, Robert Stonnes was on a late-night coffee run with his mistress when the robbery occurred. It always is quite funny watching others try to catch on.

Instead of wasting her breath on his foolish question, she remarked, “Even a blind idiot would be able to see that Mister Stonnes was in Addington during the robbery.”

Sure enough, she presented a receipt from Cranesbury Cafe at the time of the robbery and a USB. Her pitiful client looked comically hopeful; how could Lestrade think Robert Stonnes, so daft he would be unable to think his way out of a paper bag, had committed the robbery? The lawyer ignored the distasteful glare from Donovan as she told Lestrade the contents of the USB, security footage from the very same cafe. I must admit I like her technique of insulting the police while also doing their job for them. A clever one she was, or perhaps comparatively less idiotic. Even so, how did she get the footage? Lestrade at least had enough of a brain to look embarrassed as she dropped the exonerating evidence on the table and directed her client to stand. The almost giddy look she sent Stonnes was strange, very unlike one an experienced lawyer would make. What a peculiar woman, at least more puzzling than any open cases.

“What did you say your name was again?” Perhaps John had heard of her; he was more genial than I. He would know of this exchange immediately; I am sure this is far more interesting than his lunch date anyways.

“I didn’t. Good day, Mr. Holmes.” What an outlandish answer! She is indeed strange. She quickly began walking away as her client signed the necessary paperwork. While my intrigue was increasing, my chance of solving her was decreasing.

Following her, I prodded, "Your lack of answer shows one of two things: you are either rude, which I do not take you to be; or, you have no interest in networking. In which case you are a successful lawyer, your mannerisms and unworn clothes disprove that theory, stupid and inexperienced, possible yet improbable, or, not who you say you are, evidenced by the haste at which you are leaving. So what are you hiding, Madam?"

Now outside the building, she stopped midstep and turned with a sickly-sweet smile plastered on her face, "The name is Y/N, it has been lovely meeting you. If you would like to contact me with any legal questions, here is my card." Her words were laced with venom as she handed the card over. With that, she began walking again.

The grey card was blank except for her name and number, written in small golden font.