#half agony half queue

[prismaticxchromatics]

Marie Antoinette (2006) Director: Sofia Coppola

"Letting everyone down would be my greatest unhappiness."

[oblitum]

BRONWYN MIKAELSON RELATIONSHIP HEADCANON; HOPE MIKAELSON.

                         As a baby, Hope used to scream bloody murder every time that Bryn held her and she would jest to her siblings that the child clearly held her fathers distaste for her but none the less Bryn has always doted on her and done her best to be there for her. Even during the years when she couldn’t physically be there for her because of the Hollow, she would phone and send cards and presents for Hope, much like her other siblings.

             Once she is able, Bryn makes a point of physically checking in on Hope upon occasion to remind the girl she’s not alone, these visits are more frequent once Nik and Elijah die, making sure the girl knows how proud her parents would be of her and how none of it is her fault.

            Regarding Hope becoming the tribrid, Freya calls her en-route to Hope updating her on the situation and Bryn drops everything the second she hears to be there. She doesn’t arrive until much after Freya and Hope has already been kidnapped.

[mossgirrrl]

"Stop being so spiky": Childhood, rejection dysphoria, and people pleasing

There are many things that led me to seek an ADHD diagnosis but rejection dysphoria wasn't one of them. It just wasn't something I related to. That was until I heard a girl on TikTok relating her own experience of rejection dysphoria back to the names her family called her when she was being 'difficult' or emotional in childhood. Then it hit me. Mine was "spiky." Fired at me almost daily as a young teenager, you know, when your self-esteem is probably already at an all-time-low; "spiky" was the most common adjective used to describe my general being. When it's occasionally uttered these days, with the same venom as always, it transports me right back into the tight-chested confusion of that lonely child. The loneliness of a child who was unknowingly trapped in a world that routinely misunderstood her facial expressions or tone of voice, and refused to offer kinder social queues. I saw "spiky" flash across my brother's face today when I requested half the slice of cake that he'd cut for me. Something in my tone or on my face must have been 'off' because he silently took offence and, assuming that he hadn't heard me, I requested it again. Unreasonable, of course, to mistake silence for mishearing. Despite these occasions I realise now that, for the most part, I learned to mask. As many girls do; slipping through their safety net only to realise what's happened once they've already dragged themselves a decade or two through adulthood. It wasn't raging hormones or teenage angst that eventually passed, it was the agony of speaking a language no-one else around me did. So I learnt to speak theirs... Kind of. It might be a stretch to say that this masking has led me to putting up with an embarrassing amount of bullshit from romantic interests, but maybe it's not. When faced with apologies or excuses that my gut knows are lies, my brain jumps aboard the gaslighting train and asks, "are you sure you're not spiky for feeling this way?" Sure, it's not normal to lose your grip on reality the second someone changes their tone or rain-checks some plans. But the oxymoron is that, deep down, you know this. And so you bottle it up, time and time again, until you explode into a fit of rage, paranoia, tears, and accusations- seemingly out of the blue. And just for a dollop of extra irony; even if it was originally all in your head, this merry-go-round-from-hell has a way of manifesting your worst fears. My 28th birthday present was an intensified age crisis, and much of that came from mourning 10 years of time wasted, bullets undodged, feelings unexpressed, and marks clawed into closed fists instead of keyed into the paintwork of a certain BMW... All caused by the inability to trust my own emotions. To decipher whether my reactions (or at least the ways that I want to react) are fair or "spiky". So instead; you people please, you say "ok", you walk away quietly rather than advocating for yourself. Or you just don't let yourself get into those situations at all. It's easier to avoid the head-spinning experience of rejection dysphoria by doing just that... Avoiding. The less people you're attached to, the less there are to reject you. Stay busy, keep moving, never let anyone close enough that you'd care if they left or disliked you anyway. It's genius really. Until it happens by accident. And then you push away a chance to shake the loneliness because you never learnt to identify your own emotions- let alone communicate them. Suddenly it all makes sense; the panic attacks because someone hasn't texted you for a while or nights spent sobbing into your pillow because you felt their energy change. Of course, there are other events that probably contributed to the excruciating catch-22 that is a disorganised attachment style. But uncovering the source of my own rejection dysphoria was the last spiky puzzle piece to understanding why even an iota of feeling misunderstood, ignored, or rejected becomes so utterly devastating and isolating. Who knows if I'll ever stop feeling spiky, but I'm one step closer to trying.

[serenescribe]

POLL RESULTS! (+ updates)

After a week of intense campaigning, along with a whopping 340 votes (!!!), I am pleased to announce the results of the longfic poll, along with what the plan is from now on!

With a whopping 42.1% of the votes, "PMMM AU: Lilia Longfic" is the winner! It started in the lead, and despite having fierce competition from "Starchild," it maintained its first place position till the very end \o/

I must shoutout @hanafubukki in particular for making the poll competition as intense as it was! Without all the "Starchild" campaigning she did, it would have been a walk in the park for the PMMM AU.

So what's next?

Well... I'm still drowning in a sea of uni responsibilities, going into the second half of the semester. (Essays, projects, and exams galore!) With that in mind, I don't have much energy to work on longfics at the moment. Nevertheless, I hope I can get the PMMM AU longfic to you all by the end of the year; I will be considerably freer by December! (In the meantime, I'm gonna try to plot things out with Mica...)

As for "Starchild," given the number of votes it received, I'll be sure to make it my secondary focus and work on it after the PMMM AU fic is done. Like I said previously, it's already 1/3 done, so it should not take too much time to finish the rest. Hopefully I can get the both of these done before my next semester of uni commences in January!

With regards to fic and ficlet requests... I'm still not going to open up longer fic requests since I feel bad that there's still about six of them left in my inbox. However, I've done a lot of catch up on the ficlets, so once I find the time to finish the remaining two ficlet requests, I'll open them up again! They're relatively less strenuous since they're below 1000 words, and I'd still like to write a bit if I can.

Okay, that's about all I can think of. I'll probably be queueing my small stockpile of pre-written ficlets sometime soon, once I get around to editing them. Proper blog management (creating a masterlist for Tumblr fics, possibly crossposting them to AO3, finally doing a fucking write-up on that Dæmon AU I've had for months...) will likely only come after I escape the sea of agony that is uni.

(Thanks for being so patient with me, everyone! c:)

[that-weird-breton-girl]

Irideis, Part 11

Parts 1-10 here

In front of the temple doors was a goblin who, to keep things brief, nabbed the temple map Aradin’s mate Brian possessed. It took little convincing for the goblin to hand it over to me, but where I expected an illustration, I only saw the contents of a poem. It mentioned a “son of Selûne”, his grave, the moon, and the stars.

Inside, a squad kept watch in the entry hall.

“Oi!” A goblin wielding a battle axe confronted me. “State yer business. Now.”

I put one hand on my hip. “I have an audience with the one in charge.”

She squinted at me. “You one of those Moonrise types, then? Your kind don’t usually deal with Boss Ragzlin and Priestess Gut. Guess you’re after Minthara.” She gave me a once-over. “Could be ‘er blood by the looks of you.”

Is she like my father, or like those who stole him from me? “That’s who I’m looking for.”

The goblin assessed me. “She’s in tellin’ the warchiefs wot’s wot. Next raid’s gonna be a big’un, I hear.”

As we entered the inner sanctum, the hairs on my skin pricked. The fumes of melting flesh. 

In the centre, a small queue of goblins lined up in front of the one I inferred was Priestess Gut. Behind her was an altar of skulls and tusks, to her side a large flaming brazier with long branding irons, glowing orange-red where they and the embers made contact.  

“Let the faithful come to receive Her blessing!” Priestess Gut proclaimed.

The goblin next in line stepped up and extended his arm. Priestess Gut snatched it and lifted a branding rod from the brazier. I quickly averted my gaze and hurried up the stairs to our right as the recipient cried out in agony.

In one of the rooms on the second floor, a human was strung to a torture rack as part of an interrogation. I convinced the torturers to leave under the guise of being the human’s new tormentor. Once out of earshot, we asked the human, named Liam, about Halsin and set him free. He desperately warned us that Emerald Grove was the goblins’ next target. 

We continued our investigation. More broken statues of Selûne, graffitied with bloody symbols of a handprint with a skull as the palm. Deeper in the temple, major sections of the second floor had been destroyed, revealing murky depths. Beneath the makeshift wooden floor boards that spanned the gaps, the rattles of spiders echoed below.

In a large room, a hulking hobgoblin performed a necromantic ritual with surrounding onlookers. By the process of elimination, this was Dror Ragzlin. His subject was a mind flayer corpse. As we passed by, Dror used a scroll to beckon the corpse to rise, demanding the identity of its killer.

Further in, a dark violet scrying eye hovered between empty bookshelves that lined the walls, its gaze unchanging. Around the corner, a rash voice.

“Your scouting part has not returned, and half the intruders escaped your guards.”

“Sorry, mistress. We mucked up.”

A goblin cowered before a drow, whose ghost-white hair was tucked into a thick bun. She adorned sleek armour. Minthara.

“Until their sanctuary is found, I will take something precious from you every hour that passes.” She rasped. “A trinket… a tongue… a limb…”

“I-I ain’t got no use without me limbs!” The goblin stuttered. “The lads’ll make the prisoner squeal soon enough, I swear!”

The drow raised her hand in authority. “Silence now, creature. Or I will silence you forever.”

As she turned to address us, maroon eyes locked onto mine.

I caught my breath and a cold hand caressed my thoughts. The chamber around me melted away, revealing a dark, endless nowhere. A glassy-eyed woman with long, braided hair leaned over Minthara, whispering into her ear. 

That figure… that’s one of the Chosen…

The vision faded away. 

Minthara opened her eyes and smiled amicably at me. A webbed tattoo graced her pale lavender neck. “A True Soul? Praise be, sister. Are you here to join my hunt?”

A lump grew in my throat. Don’t you dare call me that. I memorised her visage, imagining it at that fateful scene, long ago. People like her tortured Mother.

Noticing my hesitation, Shadowheart spoke up. “We’re on a hunt of our own, looking-”

“Was I speaking to you, faerie?” Minthara spat. “Keep still, or else I’ll cut out your tongue.” She turned to me. “You should manage your darthiir better.”

I swallowed. “Will keep that in mind. I’m looking for a druid named Halsin.”

An intent gaze. “Interesting. What do you know of this druid?”

Erm… “I have orders to capture him.”

Minthara’s eyes narrowed. “Orders from whom? This is my command, and if you were sent here, I would have been told to expect you.” She straightened her back. “It appears that you are new to your rank. Henceforth, you shall report to me. Your name?”

Shit. Shit. “I-Irideis.” I couldn’t think of a fake name in time.

To my relief, Minthara looked unfazed, unconcerned about my name. “Here are your orders, Irideis.” She leaned over a map of the Sword Coast sprawled out on a table. “The druid makes his home in a nearby sanctuary where his followers worship a false god. I intend to find it and destroy it. There is a weapon the Absolute seeks; I’m sure those wretches have it hidden away there.” Her low voice rumbled with excitement. “We will find it, amongst the dead and the ashes.”

The artefact. “You want me to locate this sanctuary.”

“Correct. Do so, then report back to me.”

I carefully nodded and turned around to leave.

“My patience wears thin, True Soul. The hunt must begin.”

There was a largely uninhabited area of the temple where we set up camp that evening. It was partially exposed; the sky peeked through gaps in the ceiling. In the distance, the drumming continued. We supped.

“I suppose that could’ve gone worse.” Shadowheart said. “I was half-expecting Minthara to attack when you opened your mouth, Irideis. You acted as though a Beholder had gotten you.”

“You must control your fear before it leads to your demise.” Lae’zel advised with concern.

“Mm.” I tersely answered. My mind wandered aimlessly in the air, flickering between memories.

Astarion put his hands behind his head and leaned back against a slab of stone. “It doesn’t seem like a coincidence that you happened to have an item that can protect us from the Absolute’s influence, Shadowheart. How did you come by it?”

She replied quietly, still adjusting to the fact that her guarded secret was now known. “I was part of a group sent by my cloister.” She glanced at Lae’zel. “We were to take the artefact from the githyanki and bring it to Baldur’s Gate, no matter the cost. Though… it turned out the cost was very steep. I was the only one to survive. I took the artefact and fled, only to be ensnared by mind flayers before I could finish the mission.” She sighed. “That’s all I know. That’s all I need to know.”

“How can you go through all this trouble and not understand why?” I asked. The change in conversation grounded me.

“I told you already - I surrendered my memories, for the sake of the mission. Shar’s secrets must be protected. Duty demands it. Once I fulfil my mission, my memories will be restored.”

“How do you know that’ll happen? What’s stopping your contact from holding on to your memories?”

“Lady Shar rewards her faithful. You just don’t understand. There is no more to question about it.”

Astarion pondered. “I can’t help but wonder if that wound on your hand has something to do with your devotion.”

Shadowheart inspected her right hand. “It’s my burden, from Lady Shar. It never quite heals, and sometimes it causes terrible pain to rip through me. But somehow, I can feel her influence.”

“What makes it hurt?” I asked.

“It’s difficult to say… sometimes I wonder if it’s supposed to be guiding me, punishing me, testing me… but perhaps it’s none of those. Perhaps it’s completely random. Granted, I’d like to hope there’s more to it than that, some meaning that Lady Shar will reveal to me in due time. Until then, all I can do is endure.”

Lae’zel rolled her eyes.

I haven’t encountered anything in the wilds that could relieve divine punishment. There must be something… “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“I don’t think so, but you’re sweet to ask. Maybe just be patient the next time you see it happen. It’ll pass soon enough. It always does.” She stared at the campfire. “Pain is sacred to followers of Lady Shar. Pain will give way to loss, and then to the peace of her eternal darkness. You can tolerate a great deal of suffering, so long as it has meaning.”

It was now an established routine; Astarion would show up in my tent, always a couple of hours after everyone retired for the night. We’d both sit down, I’d summon my familiar, he’d get his blood, and then he’d leave.

As I held the spider in my palms, I glanced at the marks on the vampire spawn’s pallid neck. The terrifying eyes I saw in his memories flashed by. “How does someone become a vampire? I mean, an actual vampire.”

“It’s simple, really. Just find a vampire that will drink your blood and turn you into a vampire spawn: their obedient puppet. In theory, the next step is to drink their blood. Once you’ve done that, you’re a free and true vampire.”

Vampires are never free. “So… they bite you, you bite them?”

Astarion gave it some thought. “Mm...yes and no. The problem is, once you’re a vampire’s spawn, they completely control you. They have to allow you to bite them.” His brow furrowed. “And why would they do that? Vampires are power-hungry creatures. They won’t lose a servant just to create a competitor. Trust me. It doesn’t happen.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t tell me you want to be a vampire.”

“Oh no!” I blurted. I could never enslave myself to sanguine hunger, to never eat food or see the sun again. Seeing that my answer slightly offended him, I clarified. “No, I was just wondering. That’s all.”

“Alright then.”

It was that night I began to become accustomed to the icy pain that shot through me when he bit me. Instead of jolting violently, my body recognized it as a new, but nonetheless unpleasant, routine.

Afterwards, Astarion sat back in satisfaction. But then he nervously looked at me. “You know, I’ve had this condition for two centuries, but truth be told?” He cleared his throat and darted his eyes away. “You were my first.”

A strange warm feeling bloomed inside me. It felt nice, weirdly enough. “I figured.”

“In all these years, I’ve only fed on beasts. Drinking the blood of thinking creatures is a different thing entirely. You’re delectable. And now I can’t help but wonder how the others taste.”

“They seemed against the idea, remember?”

He sighed. “Alas. It doesn’t hurt to ponder the question, though. Take Shadowheart, for example.” He waved his hand in the air to emphasise his description. “She strikes me as having a heavy, enigmatic flavour. Vintage port on two legs.” His eyes widened in wonder. “But Lae’zel? What in the hells would she taste like?

Lae’zel. She’s unlike anyone I’ve met. I thought of her golden eyes, olive green skin, and pursed lips, then considered all the drinks I encountered in my life. “Something exotic. Maybe an Amnan liqueur?”

“Ooh, that sounds appealing.” He grinned. “I’m almost convinced.”

“Tried it once. Never again.” I licked my gums in remembrance. “This is still theoretical, right?”

“Absolutely. A mere… thought experiment.” Astarion tilted his head. “So… in the spirit of theoretical questions… if you had to take a bite from one of them, who would it be?”

I was dumbstruck. “Erm…” I thought about that first night, when first he snuck in my tent and I retaliated. When I bit into his arm to free myself, a small bit of his blood had reached my tongue. It tasted of cold metal. “To be completely honest? You.”

“Oh… I’m flattered. Who knew you had such taste?” He rubbed his neck. “I suppose you did technically bite me back there.”

There was a lull in our conversation. My wound stopped bleeding. 

“So…”

“What?” I asked.

“What do I taste like?”

My cheeks grew hot. “I don’t remember. It wasn’t much, anyway. Tasted like copper, I guess.”

He huffed in disappointment. “You really aren’t one for words.” He rose. “Unfortunately, all this talk is making me hungry. I’d better find something I can actually sink my teeth into. Something that’s not a drunken goblin, anyway.”

“Good hunting out there.”

“Eh, there’s nothing that tasty lurking out in the woods, but I’ll make do. Sweet dreams.”

[loganchatsshit]

So I'm from the UK, and yesterday myself and my friends went to Alton Towers. For those who don't know, Alton Towers is a theme park, one of the largest and most popular we have

I have never been so incredibly aware of how inaccessible a place is in my life. I'm aware that this makes me very privileged, but I think it also makes it quite clear just how dreadful the accessibility was

I'm becoming more disabled as I age, and I struggled so much yesterday, of my friend group, at least half of us are disabled in some way.

1. We arrived and two friends had pre-booked the disabled access cards. We couldn't collect them because they were "at capacity" for them and we'd have to wait until someone left to get ours

2. There are refill stations around the park, but you can only use their cups (which cost £9) to refill. There were water fountains, but they were not in the refill stations they were elsewhere, and not indicated on the map like the refill stations

3. While there were signs on rides explaining what they would be like, indicating whether there was flashing lights, how fast they were, if they went upside down, how bad the g-force was with colours indicating the level of each - they were specific to the ride itself. My friend struggles with strobes and the sign for smiler doesn't indicate that there is any and on the ride there isn't - but there is in the queue and so she really struggled

4. The signage in the park is dreadful. Without the app we could not have navigated the park pretty much at all. This is less a disabled accessibility issue and more for older people or those who aren't very good technology. Also, I didn't know they had an app - how can I download an app I don't know exists?

5. The park is a horseshoe shape and in the middle is "the gardens". The path through that is a quite difficult hike. The sign indicating this path does not explain that this is a difficult hike or that it is completely inaccessible. We were in agony after using it thinking it was a shortcut (there was also no other signs indicating a different path to where we were headed) and it did not explain how difficult the walk was. A friend has asthma, another has POTS. This was dangerous

6. You still have to queue when using the disabled access pass for rides. If you're unfortunate enough to be queueing behind five other groups or more with the same passes, you have to stand for extended times. Yes it shortens the time compared to the usual queue, but you're still standing. I struggle with chronic pain - this was incredibly hard and painful

7. The disabled access pass (from what we could see) only gave faster queueing times for rides. Not access to sensory safe places, not faster access to food/drinks, not access to private places to sit, not quicker access to bathrooms - all things disabled people may need depending on their personal needs

8. We saw ONE disabled bathroom all day, and it was combined with a baby change. There were disabled stalls in bathrooms, but anyone who uses a public bathroom knows there's only one of those, and a single disabled bathroom is more practical for some disabled folk

9. There was so little seating. Considering just how large the park is, and how often you have a few guests waiting beside a ride for other guests to return from said ride (and wait times are commonly 40 - 60 minutes) you would expect there to be seating? No. Seating was often only near particularly "pretty" green areas of the park or beside food places, and only few when there was seating

10. We noticed this at least once, but it may have been true of other rides also - by taking the disabled access route we missed out on decor that explained the "plot" behind a ride. We missed story information behind a ride because the access route went a different way around the ride (toward the exit). This is the most minor issue of the day, but still it's unfair for us to have to miss out

11. The rides are built for skinny people. One of my friends (who isn't obese by any measure, she's just curvy) had to wear spanks to ensure she'd fit in the rides properly and even then sometimes struggled still. This isn't to say she deserves it more than obese people because she's closer to skinny, just to emphasise just how small the seating is, and how inaccessible it has the capacity to be

12. The walk from the car park is incredibly long. There is a monorail - but it doesn't stop at the car park, it goes further to elsewhere (I'm unsure where). We had to walk twenty minutes just to get to the front gate with no more disabled-friendly option

13. The disabled access pass had a cool down. You'd use it on a ride and they'd mark down the next time you were allowed to use it, so between uses you would have to wait twenty minutes or more to be able to use it again on another ride, reducing the amount of rides you could ride or forcing you to wait in a regular queue in the meantime which defeats the purpose of the access pass

We had a good day regardless and made the most of the experience, but we came away in agony and upset about the experience outside of the rides themselves. It was ridiculous.

I don't know if things like this are industry standard across theme parks but if it is, that is not a defence of Alton Towers, it is a criticism of the industry.

This post will likely do nothing to change the park, though at least one of our group will be sending a formal complaint email with all these issues (and potentially more I've forgotten) but hopefully it may help disabled people who see this post and are planning/would like to visit the park

[thessalian]

Thess vs the Curse of Arthur Dent

It’s always Thursdays. The absolute worst things that ever happen to me are always, I swear to the gods, on fucking Thursdays. I am the living embodiment of Arthur Dent.

...Hang on. I gotta check something.

[Googles]

.........I WAS BORN ON A FUCKING THURSDAY. IS THE UNIVERSE TRYING TO SAY SOMETHING?!?

Anyway.

I may have mentioned a time or two that deal that Temp made with Violet about Violet doing all the long typing and leaving all the short typing for Temp, a deal in which I have no apparent say because out of sight, out of mind or some shit. This is already a mess because Violet only takes one bit of typing out of the queue at a time, while the rest of us take chunks, so when Temp takes out her carefully selected minute-long bits of typing, she leaves a big chunk of long dictations. Who gets those? Me.

Thing is, the other thing this deal doesn’t consider is ... who types the long ones when Violet’s not around? Apparently the answer is the same as above: me. And today, that went from unfortunate to stupid on a number of levels.

The queue this morning was short but full of long dictations. Partly because, again, Temp pulled all the short ones out of the queue. And Violet didn’t seem to be in at all today, because the long ones weren’t getting touched. And by ‘long ones’, I mean long ones. I mean a bunch of eight- and nine-minute ones and a thirteen-minute monstrosity by a woman who has no the fuck idea what she’s doing half the time and backtracks more than is reasonable. That was literally all there was to do - long frustrating bits of dictation.

I’ve explained to Scruffman before how pressing on a footpedal for that kind of extended period, especially when the people doing the dictation are forcing me to backtrack and rewind often, is painful for me with my chronic pain condition. Apparently we forget about that really damn quick. Currently it feels like my right knee is fucking dislocated, and my left, to which I eventually had to switch despite it being awkward as fuck, isn’t much better. I got some shit done, but I paid for it. I thought about flagging something up to Scruffman - something to the order of, “Okay, I get that Temp and Violet have a deal going, but I did not agree to do the long typing so that Temp doesn’t have to, and I refuse to do that on health grounds, so she’s going to have to step up when Violet’s away”. But I didn’t, because I was too busy and too sore and too fed up to phrase it properly.

And I’m honestly glad I didn’t, because later on in the day, I noticed something - Violet was in the office after all, because there she was, actually typing something.

EXCEPT SHE WAS TYPING ONE OF THE SHORTER ITEMS IN THE QUEUE.

So apparently the deal now is that Temp and Violet type whatever the hell they want and leave the long and complicated ones to me, the one person in the office who struggles with them for fucking health reasons. Honestly, I never saw this deal working particularly well to begin with, since Violet does have other duties ... and she’s also the one most easily distracted when someone wants to gossip. I could take it up with Scruffman again, but it’s not going to change a fucking thing, so I’m not sure I could deal with the frustration of being ignored again.

So I spent most of the afternoon half in tears, and now I am in absolute agony and am trying to decide what to do about things like dinner (I could afford to do takeout but I have executive dysfunction about it and there are so few things I can actually eat from takeout anyway), and needing to go to the shops. Being disabled fucking sucks and I hate it.

Also Thursdays. It’s always Thursdays.

[freakshowtwopointoh]

Agony - Cross The Line Part 6

Agony, all the torture they teach

What's as intriguing or half so fatiguing as what's out of reach

< prev | next >

Both Ella and Jordan were steeling themselves for practice the following day. They had spent over a week avoiding practicing the duet in full - not that either would ever admit to it. Jordan had been more than willing to focus on Ella’s form - and Ella wasn’t complaining. But as soon as Ella walked into the studio after her shift ended, there would be no more stalling. Jordan had set up a miniature tripod to record them during the duet, and then they could review it later on. They were stretching on the floor, already popping a piece of cinnamon gum, which wouldn’t bother her so much if it didn’t make them smell even more intoxicating.

She settles into place and begins her warm ups, enjoying the slight burn as she stretched. She could feel her heart race as she heard Jordan stand up behind her. She stood up as well, moving slowly to the center of the room.

The bevy of emotions that rushed through her as she looked down into Jordan’s eyes, as they knelt before her was so intense she almost missed the queue. But she fell into place, leaning against them and intertwining their fingers. Jordan’s hand grasped her ankle and then, she was in the air. 

Lifts are fairly common in this level of dance, but it’s still a bit of a rush to be off the ground. Ella was draped over Jordan’s back, extending her leg into a perfect arabesque, keeping her hands pretty and her toes pointed as Jordan stepped through the blocking. As they made their way through the eight bar lift, it was impossible for her to ignore the electricity running through her veins at their touch. Which was crazy by the way - this lift was the most tame in the entire dance. But here she was, heat pooling in her core like she was 13 again, on her first date and holding hands excited her endlessly.

But somehow, she was able to put that aside and continue with the steps, aligning her body with their arm as they let her down slightly, and then she was back in the air completely, balanced on their neck and extending her leg to the ceiling. The fifteen seconds felt like eternity and also like it was over too quickly.

Ella stood there for a moment too long, trying to catch her breath. Her skin felt warm where Jordan’s hands had been. She’d never been so flustered in her life. She gathered her wits enough to go to review the footage, wondering if her arousal was as clear on her face as it was to her. Thankfully, she looked fine, but Jordan was quick to point out where she had faltered in her form, seemingly irritated that she wasn’t perfect on the first try. 

They rehearsed for a while longer, and the way that Jordan set her entire body aglow did not falter. Every time their hands were on her, it was as though they seared through her leotard or tights straight to her skin, leaving fingerprints on her soul. She knew this dance was intense, but she wasn’t ready for how it would feel to pirouette into Jordan’s arms, feeling their lips centimeters from her collarbone. Or the fire in her chest when their hands held her waist, holding her in place as if they were immovable. 

When she went to change back into her street clothes, she cursed at the wet patch on her panties, a sign of the effect they had on her.

“Jesus, Ella, get yourself together.” She muttered to herself, packing her bag quickly and hurrying from the studio. As she made her way down the hallway, she heard Jordan emerge from the other changing room. She kept walking, hoping to hide the embarrassed flush still present on her face.

“Keep practicing, freshie, and we just might have a shot at this.” They called at her retreating back.

Why, oh, why, did she have to catch feelings for Jordan ? Ella was thinking to herself as she walked to the bus stop by the studio. The whole way home, she couldn’t get Jordan off of her mind. It didn’t matter that they definitely hated her, and it didn’t matter that she had more important things to do than crush on the hot and brooding upperclassman. She couldn’t help it - just like she couldn’t help but fantasize about what else those hands could do when she was in bed that night.

< prev | next >

au by @poppy-metal

edits by @barbieprincesshilton

[suriel]

The Story of Loki and Suriel

A long time ago, in a galaxy known as Southern California, a girl met a boy. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did, and it led to thousands of days of love and tears and adventure and music and laughter and sadness and dogs and cats and pain and Buggs and more love.

This is our story.

Look, I’d love to start with the good stuff, the festivals, the European jaunt, the outrageous parties and club nights and some mind-blowingly amazing things, but you need to know how it started.

For reasons too boring to go into, I didn’t go to college right out of high school, but instead, enrolled as a freshman at the ripe old age of 23. I felt ancient, ridiculous, out of place. Excruciatingly awkward. But I needed to do something with my life, and public colleges were unbelievably cheap in the long-ago time of 1990. And so there I was. I had only vague degree ideas, and so chose classes I’d like: photography, music appreciation, and a couple more classes to round things out. I wanted to take French, which I’d taken in high school & enjoyed, but the class was full SADFACE.

Happily, there existed the petition system, and it worked like this: If you didn’t show up to the first day of class, you were automatically dropped, and your place given to petitioners, in the order they signed the petition sheet. So I rocked up to French first thing, put my name down, and sure enough, by the end of class, there were several no-shows & I got in.

The class was full of teenagers, one much older woman, and some older students more my-age-ish. And in that group, a boy. Shock of California-white hair, nice arms, blue-blue-blue eyes, full lower lip. Definitely on the punk/goth/alternative spectrum, not quite polar opposite to my suburban-late-80s-tinged-with-metal look. Anyway. He looked interesting. And cute.

Our French class followed one that always ran over, so every day we queued in the hall. And one day, I found myself in the queue next to the boy, and as the result of a pep talk from my stepmonster of all people, I talked to the boy. Opened my mouth and said words, but because Awkward AF, what I said was, “I’m mugging you and taking your jacket.” (It was a fantastic grey blazer, of a type I’d been on the lookout for. How convenient that the boy had arrived with one!)

He blinked. “OK.” He probably shrugged, too, but class went in and that was the end of that. I basically writhed in an agony of embarrassment the entire class. 

It was a long class, 3 hours, broken into 2 bits with a break in between, during which a loose group of us would get snacks in the quad. As we exited the room that day, I felt something on my shoulders. The boy had draped his jacket there. Confused and awkward, I took it off. “I can’t take this, you’d never see it again.”

Curse you, memory, that I can’t remember what he said or how he looked. Ageing fucking sucks, and chronic conditions that rob one of memories suck even worse. 

I gave back the jacket, but we bantered the entire break, finally landing on natural disasters. I’m from Chicago, so I favor tornadoes, that you generally see coming. The boy preferred earthquakes - pure chaos, happening anywhen, anywhere, who knows! I’d lived in SoCal for 7 years and not felt a single one. Like I’d been in my car for the Northridge quake, and had to hear about it on the news. 

So French was my last class of the day, and I rolled home with a neighbor friend who’d gone back to college with me. We stopped at 7-11 for cigarettes, probably, and while I was browsing the aisles for a snack, I started feeling really weird, dizzy and strange. Looking up, I watched the owner of the 7-11 leap his counter and run into the parking lot, along with half the store.

It was a fucking earthquake. 

Well, at least this gave me something to talk to the boy about. Berate the boy about. Perhaps punch lightly in the upper arms about. 

So I did. 

And slowly, over the course of a Southern California spring, the boy and I became friends. 

His name was Loki. He had been a jock whilst also being a punk. Was a musician. Loved physics. Had turned down the Navy’s nuclear program. He told me about Douglas Adams, Monty Python, entropy. 

I can’t remember if I had anything good to share about anything other than books at that point. Personal anecdotes maybe. We’d traveled a good deal when I was growing up so maybe that? I can’t imagine it was earth-shattering, I was 23. And sheltered, and awkward af, and such a nerd. 

Even with all that, we started hanging out outside of school. Met at the mall once, because SoCal in the 90s. Lunches, walks, browsing the little shops around the college. And then he asked me to go clubbing with him.

My friends, I have explained that I was into metal, but also listened to KROQ on the sly and was already slightly familiar with alternative in general and Lullaby in particular, but my first goth club was the very underground Helter Skelter. 

Y’all. Y’ALL. I was entranced. 

My goth cherry was well and truly popped and the flowering had begun. The first song I danced to was Big Hollow Man. I felt ridiculous dancing alone, but no one else was dancing with anyone else -- nor dancing like anyone else -- and I started to relax. A bit. About the club, not about anything else, like I was in some skeevy corner of Hollywood at a club that didn’t even open until 11, but I was there with Loki and that was ok. Squirmy but ok. 

So I’d been living, since finishing high school, with my boyfriend/fiance and his mom, but things were meh, and that’s all you need to know about that relationship. I was honestly better friends with his mom -- like, to this very day -- but because I was living with them on the cheap, and didn’t have a lot of dollars because I wasn’t working, I felt a little stuck. Also this was my first long relationship & breakups are hard. So I sort of cheated. Emotionally I cheated like whoa. Physically less so but yeah. Oh, and his mom knew, had met Loki & liked him, so there I was.

And every time I went somewhere with Loki, I was an anxious mess. Worried about being seen with him, being caught, being found out. Stomach churning, hands shaking, sweaty palms levels of anxiety. His band played a show on Earth Day, and I went to see them, but a friend of my BF’s mom was there and I panicked and fled. 

Despite that, there were some good moments. He took me on a picnic to Corona Del Mar, and we had our first kiss on the old lifeguard station that faces the harbor. (Fun fact: I’d taken a pic of that very stand on a whale watch cruise we did in high school just a few years before.) 

I can’t remember any details, but as the end of term neared, things were coming to a head, and my dad provided my escape route: He offered to pay for me to attend university -- yay! But -- in the swamp -- boo! Except-- what better way to end my relationship with HS BF than to move a thousand miles away? Perfection! Except-- I’d have to leave Loki, too.

I told him the deal. We’d met at a mall near his house, and by the end, we were driving across the street to a travel agency, where he booked a flight to the swamp for August.

So my mom & brother rocked up with a U-Haul and a trailer for my CRX, and we drove through the desert southwest and into the swampy south in June in cars with no air conditioning. How did I survive? Bauhaus.

A few days before I was set to leave, I had one last lunch with Loki, a picnic (what else?) on his lunch break. He gave me his precious copy of 1979-1983 Side 2 on cassette, kissed me when I drove him back to work after. 

So I rolled across the country learning the words to Kick in the Eye, appreciating the Hollow Hills of east Texas, singing along to She’s in Parties, Spirit, Crowds. It was my first goth tape and I fucking loved it. Soaked it in for a thousand miles.

(When we arrived in the swamp, my stepbrother and his girlfriend were there to welcome me and take me for food. I offered to drive, but said, “Hope you won’t mind my music.” “What is it?” Donna asked. “Bauhaus?” “LOVE ‘EM!” And so I met my Swamp Bestie.)

School was school. I was again alone and awkward as fuck and did not make friends at school, but that was ok because after dinner that first night, Donna had taken me to the bar where the cool kids hung out. I had gotten well hammered on one Flaming Dr Pepper and had had to be driven home by Peter, destined to be Loki’s best man at our wedding. Funny how things work out. Anyway, I met many of my future gang in that first 24 hours.

But this is about Loki and I, so let’s fast-forward to August. He flew into Baton Rouge, an hour away, and he spent the entire drive back touching my arm, nuzzling on my neck, staring at my profile lit by headlights on the highway. We got back to the house, up to my room, and suddenly Things Were Happening and I was Not Ready but we pressed on. This I remember. The dark room, inhaling the scent of him, the satin feel of his skin, the muscles in his back, that ass so help me gods. It did not go well. It was -- I was so awkward. I misunderstood a suggestion, blurted out a boundary in the most awkward possible phrasing -- like, it became a catchphrase -- and he laughed, but in a sweet way, and held me until I fell asleep. The first time I’d relaxed with his arms around me. It felt so fucking good.

One day during his visit, we went to Avery Island, the Jungle Gardens. We got out of the car at the only place you’re allowed to (because alligators), at the Buddha, and sat on his hill, leaning against his glass case, watching a storm roll in. We kissed in the rain, and he told me he loved me. I said it right back.

At the airport. Can’t see for tears. “Ask me to stay,” he said in a low voice. I was shocked, taken aback. “I can’t do that -- this is the swamp.” I couldn’t subject anyone to this. Heat. Humidity. Racism. Terrible roads. My stepmonster. 

And so he left. Got in a plane and flew away, whilst I drove home sobbing.

After I moved away in June, he wrote to me literally every day. A physical letter. With a stamp and everything. Usually a dinosaur stamp, too, because dinosaur stamps are cooler than boring regular stamps. Every day. Sometimes there were packages full of little trinkets. Pretty stones. Small gadgets. Mysterious machines.

After his visit, the letters missed a day or two here or there. Maybe three. The packages stopped coming. We didn’t talk on the phone a lot because long distance charges (kids, ask your parents), but when we did talk, I asked him to come for winter break. He finally agreed. I bought his ticket with money I didn't really have. 

This time he flew into New Orleans, two hours away. We drove home straight away again, but it wasn’t the same as August, not the same at all. We spent the first night in a sweaty tangle, but turns out that was because he had food poisoning from airplane food. He spent the first day hugging the toilet.

We ended his trip with a day in New Orleans before his flight. I showed him all my favorite places in the French Quarter. We ate bread pudding with bourbon sauce, and found a bar with Bauhaus on the jukebox, and had amazing shower sex, and did not talk at all about anything important. At the airport, he told me he’d met a girl, and I can’t remember anything after that, except that now I had twice the drive home & I still couldn’t see for tears. 

Of course I was heartbroken, but I was also young and hot with a circle of young and hot friends and in a place where a party or a club or a festival is happening all the time. It’s like alcohol was the religion & I was running for High Priestess. I had no end of fun, while also pining heartbrokenly for Loki. Much terrible poetry was written. 

I’ll have words about my sojourn in the swamp later, perhaps, because it was crammed full of adventures, but let’s fast forward two years.

It is the summer of 1992. Loki and his hag have moved to the desert, because that’s where she grew up & she wanted to go back. Also it’s cheaper than SoCal. 

Meanwhile, I have dropped out of university and am now living with Peter (more stories!), and Hurricane Andrew is bearing down upon us. It is my first hurricane & it sounds like it’s gonna be bad. We gather supplies, tape the windows, fill the bathtubs and get hammered. I call Loki.

“Hurricane Andrew is coming. I’m probably going to die. I still love you.”

I pass out. I awaken in the morning to horrific destruction -- everywhere but Peter’s neighborhood. I lived!

Nothing more is said. 

Until …

October.

Loki calls me. He is hammered.

“The Hag’s been fucking all her exes. I’ve kicked her out. Come live with me?”

Two weeks later I was in the desert.

[prismaticxchromatics]

Marie Antoinette (2006) Director: Sofia Coppola

“The problem of leisure, What to do for pleasure.”

[monimolimnion]

I posted 11,344 times in 2022

That's 4,097 more posts than 2021!

35 posts created (0%)

11,309 posts reblogged (100%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@jollyfanasties

@itsrapsodia

@charmps-you-grickly

@freakinflipflop

@4ragon

I tagged 4,014 of my posts in 2022

#ofmd - 1,064 posts

#wwdits - 917 posts

#queue - 109 posts

#goncharov - 92 posts

#unreality - 74 posts

#seascape tag - 68 posts

#help - 48 posts

#lauren - 46 posts

#drawtectives - 35 posts

#oh my god - 28 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#the day after i saw this post for the first time i hung out with my friends and we had the most cursed conversations in ubers both there and

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Kindred [Chapter 12 + Epilogue]

name: Kindred fandom: Ace Attorney | Gyakuten Saiban pairing: Mitsurugi Reiji | Miles Edgeworth/Naruhodou Ryuuichi | Phoenix Wright wordcount/chapters: 13/13, 96k additional tags: miles adopting pess: the fic!, it'll take a while but we'll get to narumitsu eventually i promise, set during disbarment but no AJ spoilers bc i haven't played it yet, Plot Lite(TM), very mild disbarment-typical angst, Slow(ish) Burn, References to / characters from AAI 1&2 but no major spoilers, COMPLETE!

summary:

Her ears prick up at the sound of his voice, but she doesn’t move. "You'll have to forgive me, I'm afraid. I suspect that I am not very good at this." Miles would feel silly to an extreme for speaking to her like this, except for the way that Pess thaws, ever so slightly - her tail twitches, her head dips a little from its stiff posture, and she huffs out a long breath, heavier than her shallow meter from before. "I'm aware you don't understand me, but I am quite certain that I understand you, Pess, at least a little. And I want you to know you are safe with me in this house, and that this will be your home so long as you are happy here.”

Against his better judgement, Miles Edgeworth adopts a dog.

Read it on AO3!

74 notes - Posted August 8, 2022

#4

not to bang on about it, but i think the Goncharov Phenomenon and the new Defunctland video being released at the same time is kind of. apt?

in the documentary Kevin spends an hour and a half in agony about his existence as a youtuber/artist/documentarian, agony i recognise and deeply resonate with, and comes to the conclusion that work doesnt have to be "great" to be worth it. that seriousness and importance is not something worth trading off joy for. that it's not actually a bad thing necessarily that sketches and memes take off and stuff you worked hard on doesn't, even if it feels bad in the moment

his point being that creativity is worth it even in isolation, that even the "real" virtuosos have no regrets about producing work that is less important, and that it's about whoever you touch with the work, no matter how shallow or simple the work may seem, and no matter how shallow or simple the impact might be on whoever you touched.

you still touched them, didn't you?

i think it's obvious why this resonates with me quite so much - in a fandom context, as well as where that intersects with my work in games, my ideas for novels that might not get anywhere, and what i "should" be doing to be considered a proper writer

and that's why goncharov is such a fantastic fucking example.

the entire POINT of goncharov is that it doesn't mean anything. and because of that, it can mean everything at once. the outpouring of creativity in unison from seemingly all corners of tumblr is no less beautiful because it is couched in memery and an inside joke. the analysis speaks just as much about the context of our zeitgeist as it does the film that doesn't exist. the art, the writing, the music. everyone taking whatever craft they've built for themselves and using it to reach out to each other for no reason other than it's fun.

it is worthy of doing, in and of itself.

my god. humans just need an excuse to create beauty sometimes because we'll do it about fucking anything. and i think that's wonderful

90 notes - Posted November 23, 2022

#3

ok. hear me out. i have thoughts about nandor’s list of ideal wife traits.

ive seen posts that are like 'it's a list of traits guillermo has!' reading it as a nandermo hint, as well as posts that say 'guillermo has the exact opposite of those traits to show that nandor is in denial' and i really don’t think it’s a direct 1:1 of either of those at all

it's pretty clear to me that the list is first of all much more literal than that - the show isn't always trying to indicate something aside from literally what it's talking about (the traits of the wives he re-deaded during the montage) and while i love reading into things as much as the next guy i think this list really was just written to serve the joke more than anything

BUT. but. it's also something that is much more indicative of nandor's inner workings than it is a straight up list of things he likes about guillermo but won’t admit to because, well, let's list the traits -humble, an excellent listener, not petty or slovenly or vain or manipulative, never asked him to shave off his beard, not smarter than him, warm and wanted to be with him (🥺), kind, a good haggler, merciful, horny, and has a sense of spontaneity and fun

to me this reads almost as if it's a classic comphet 'oh i just have high standards' kind of bent thinking. half of the traits seem to actively contradict another item in the list! this is the exact kind of thought pattern that happens when you are so divorced from your actual Self that you don't actually even know what you want - if i just have a reason that every relationship isn't perfect, an excuse for it to never be right, then i don't have to face what is genuinely happening inside me. if i have a formula, then i am safe. 

i would argue that the list is actually three separate things: 1: things nandor genuinely does want in a relationship (which do tend to line up with guillermo's own traits, or the ones he has made most visible during his servitude) 2: things that would be good for nandor’s personal development and therefore he does not want to be challenged on them (especially by a near-stranger as his wives have become to him - the fight scene is the big example here, since his reaction to guillermo in the same context was so different, but also i’m including things like not being smarter than him, etc. these are largely Also traits guillermo has, and are the ones pointed out by the posts arguing that the whole list is about guillermo in negative).  3: the other things are just quibbles because he is a petty little bitch but we been knew that already

to me his total misread of marwa's personality at the end of the episode is so starkly obvious for those exact reasons - he doesn't know what he wants at all, and it's not as simple as his subconscious having all the answers in a direct negative for us to superimpose guillermo on, either. because divorcing yourself from your emotions and anything remotely difficult to process for 400 years is bound to have some sort of impact.

also i am deeply certain that nandor was largely the same (read: an asshole) even while he was still human, too, but that’s a topic for another time

118 notes - Posted July 16, 2022

#2

287 notes - Posted February 3, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

thinking about how nandor calling all his partners wives is a clever way to have him very explicitly handwave heteronormativity and establishes him as someone who doesn't even register the modern sexuality zeitgeist BUT still places him as the sole husband: still centers him as the man of the house, the one waited on hand and foot, the one in charge, and the one ultimately aloof from a relationship that is supposed to be a partnership (there being many wives notwithstanding).

and how if, in the end, guillermo refuses to be nandor's wife and insists on being his husband that it sings in total synergy with the entire storyline thus far - it would be guillermo learning to own himself, his sexuality, his self worth, and refusing to be a doormat, and nandor accepting that change is part of life even when you are undying, and that he cannot always be dominant in order to avoid being vulnerable, and in fact needs a partner that will challenge him

in this essay i won't

1,634 notes - Posted July 17, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[missblissy]

6 for the hurt with Alastor pls and ty :)

((There is no comfort. Only hurt. Only Angst. Read at your own risk. >:3 Normally I post through the queue but this one was so much fun I wanted to post it right away!! Also Human!Reader and Alastor for this one!!))

Hurt/Comfort Prompts || CLOSED!!

6: "I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt for a second.”

The air was cold as it filled your lungs, but each breath was dampened by the snowfall. Shaken and uneasy, you struggled to stand on your feet. Each breath filled your chest all the way up only to leave in a little cloud of cold steam. The silence was beyond enough to deafen you. If this was under any other circumstances.... this could have been romantic. But the blood-stained snow and the rough scent of iron made that completely impossible.

He laid there in the snow, half propping himself up with one arm, and struggling to get up with the other. He had fallen flat on his back and now he did his best to sit up. Even with a bullet in his arm, Alastor still smiled up to you. Sure, he winced, and sure... he was dripping blood onto every inch of his clothes. But he smiled at you like he always did for all those years you were married.

Your fingers trembled around the trigger of the pistol that still smoked in your hands. You shot him. Let me say that one more time. You shot your husband. And he was still smiling at you like that didn't just happen. But he wasn't your husband to you anymore... was he?

"Dear, now why would you do such a thing like that?" His sing-song voice never changed.

You lifted the gun again and pointed it straight at him. Alastor was only laying a few feet away, covered in snow and on the verge of shivering, "Don't! Move!" A bead of sweat rolled down the said of your face, "I know now! You can't fool me anymore!"

"Fool you?" Alastor sat up a little more while slapping a hand over the bullet hole in his shoulder. His fingers started to twist and bend and dig deep into his flesh, "Dear, I've fooled no one. It's me," He didn't seem normal to you anymore. You could finally see the darkness in his eye, the crooked cracks of his grin, and the evil that laid behind his face, "You know me," He tried to coerce you, "We've been married for four years!" He yelled while letting out a laugh, "You're going to trade all that in now?"

You wouldn't let him weasel his way into your mind again. His laugh echoed into your ears as you shut your eyes and tried to block him out, "NO!" You stood your ground, "No more games! No more Radio Demon! No more deaths! I'm going to end this stupid game and fix everything you've messed up! This time, you lose!" Tears welled in your eyes as you took a terrified step closer to Alastor.

But you knew it wasn't him anymore. His broken glasses only reminded you of that even more. He laughed loudly and threw his head back with each deep laugh. He mocked you, "No more games!" He repeated, "It's always been a game, dear! It will never not be a game!"

"Enough!" You pulled the hammer of the pistol back, lining another bullet in the chamber. Your yell was enough to plaster a look of shock on him. Tears rolled down your face in waves as you managed to laugh through them, "You aren't my husband," You let out a manic laugh, "You- will never be him! I don't give a fuck what you did to him! But I'll stop you here and now so that it can go back to being just me and Alastor. Before you ever showed up and took him from me! And you won't exist!"

"You're not listening my dear-!"

"You're not listening you sick twisted fuck of a monster!" You stomped a foot towards him and pointed the gun between his eyes, "My perfect, wonderful Alastor would never become this sad, pathetic, garbage waste of a space creature laying before me! He'd never do the things you've made him do! You've stolen his mind and now his body! It ends here!"

You knew he wasn't Alastor, but the demon that stole him away from you. And now he was playing games with your mind. Because the face of your husband went from that of amusement... to pain and agony. As if the demon knew that shooting your husband would already be hard enough.

"You can't kill me!" He cried out, "You love me!"

That didn't matter. You had to stop him before he hurt anyone else. You took one last step and held the barrel of the gun only inches from his head. The wind blew up a rough breeze that cast snow all around you. The weight in your heart was enough to fuel more tears streaming down your face. You cocked the gun, lips trembling with pain and sorrow, "I'm sorry," You could almost see what little of Alastor's humanity was left in his dark eyes, as if it was crying out to be released from this world, "But this is going to hurt for a second."

[silky-stories]

Whitty having a nightmare about accidentally killing his s/o and reader comforting him with cuddles? 👀

Sure thing! Sorry for the wait by the way, the ask ended up glitching and disappeared for the longest time ^^;;

Hope this turned out alright!

———————————————————————

Too Dangerous {Whitty/Reader}

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Words: 1788

Related Song: sagun - I’ll Keep You Safe (feat. Shiloh) https://youtu.be/7ly7Mhle-4M

Summary: Whitty is scared of losing control and hurting his partner, thankfully his partner is a magician and knows how to make all of his worries disappear.

Disclaimer/s: Death, blood, small description of dead body, a bit of swearing, crying and panic attacks

Notes: (Please read) The start is pretty graphic and may be hard to read for some people, so there’s a double line down further that you can scroll to if you want to skip that part. It gets happy though, don’t worry :)! Also Whitty’s dialogue is in orange, Y/n’s is in blue!

———————————————————————

Numb.

That’s how he always felt after this happened.

After he lost his cool.

After he lost himself.

After his body gave in and combusted into the hot red plumes of rage, engulfing and ripping his body apart in one swift action.

...

After he exploded.

It never took long for his body to piece itself back together, for his pieces to come back and connect and rejoin one another, allowing his mind and consciousness to slowly but surely become clearer.

It was like puzzle pieces, all eventually finding their place as the picture that was his senses to come together, becoming complete once more.

None of this was new to him, he had experienced it many times before.

Only... something was wrong this time.

His vision was still very blurry, but he could make out a few colours, red being the most prominent.

He had never felt especially impatient to regain his senses, but the further along his accelerated recovery was, the more his half healed subconscious screamed that something bad had happened.

It wasn’t until he regained his sense of smell back that he started panicking.

The thick smell of copper and rust that cut through the air quickly invaded his lungs, violating his airways with the essence of metal and death.

Maybe it was the familiarity that scared him the most but...

He knew the smell of blood all too well.

The red he saw was immediately more violent and harsh than it seemed to be before, he stumbled closer to the scene with eyes only partially focused.

His legs still lacked most of the feeling in them, but he managed.

He needed to see what it was, he needed to know who it was. The speed that his blood rushed through his body only sped up his recovery as the picture finally came together.

...

He couldn’t keep his footing as he finally made out what laid before him.

You.

Your bleeding, broken form laid still on the concrete.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

...

He was trying to breathe.

Why couldn’t he breathe?

...

Suddenly everything hurt. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. His hands hurt. His body screamed in agony and grief at the loss of one of the few people that cared. One of the few that loved him.

What could he do now though?

You were dead.

He had killed you.

It was his fault.

It was all his fault.

It was all his fault.

It was all his fault.

It was all his fault.

It was-

———————————————————————

———————————————————————

Whitty’s eyes snapped open as he hastily sucked in a gasp of air.

He laid there, motionless, greedily filling his lungs with the oxygen that his unconscious mind believed so strongly that he had been deprived of.

He could hear how shaky his breaths were despite the numbness, he was practically hyperventilating as he gave the ceiling a wide-eyed stare.

His form felt frozen in place as images from his dream flashed in front of his open eyes like a movie.

His stillness was disturbed only when you shifted beside him, he flinched, quite violently actually, as your head bumped into his arm.

The groan and words that came from you were his first indication that he shouldn’t have done that.

You were up.

Shit.

“Whitty..? Are you... mmph, are you alright?” You yawned as you propped yourself up in bed beside him, taking a moment to rub the sleep out of your eyes so you could look at him.

When you opened your eyes you saw that he had flinched back from laying down into a sitting up position. He was staring down at you, being the skyscraper that he was. Although there was only one thing that stood out to you, sobering you up from your sleep-drunk state.

“Y... y-yeah sorry I uh... didn’t mean to wake you u-”

“Wait, why are you crying?”

He paused, only now noticing the dark and warm trails that trickled down his face. He was quick to look away to try to wipe them out of existence, the concern on your face had only deepened when he looked back.

“It’s really nothing you... you don’t... don’t have to worry... about me... s-sorry I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

He was a mess and couldn’t piece together a sentence to save his life at the moment but he hoped it would be at least slightly convincing.

He really shouldn’t have thought that.

You very clearly weren’t convinced as you gingerly took hold of his upper arms and guided him to you, leaning back and wrapping his arms around your body as you followed suit with your arms around him.

He wanted to protest, he wanted to further reassure you that he was fine and let you go back to sleep so you didn’t have to deal with his emotional baggage at three in the morning. When he looked up at your patient but distressed expression though, made contact with those eyes that told him that he wouldn’t be judged for whatever it was that had upset him... he just couldn’t hold it in.

It started with tears silently starting to flow again as he pressed his face into your abdomen to hide them, his body starting to tremble in your embrace. It didn’t take very long for him to break into choked sobs, gripping at the t-shirt you had worn to bed like it was his last lifeline.

“Oh Whitty... I’m here, everything’s alright...”

You had no idea what it was that had upset him yet, but the need to console him was intense and immediate. Your hands moved to the positions that had worked before, one on the back of his head and one on his back. Small circular motions were what you started with on his back, gently caressing his head with your other hand as you allowed him the time he needed to vent out his emotions.

This went on for around ten minutes. You didn’t really care, you weren’t watching the clock.

He had stopped crying within the first five, but it took another five minutes to regulate his breathing. Now he was breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, the way you had showed him to before when he needed help to calm down.

You continued to console him through actions, waiting to see if he would initiate the conversation you knew he was ready for now.

He turned his head to the side while still keeping his grip on your torso, he looked exhausted.

“...Y/n?”

You were glad you waited.

“Yes?”

“Do you ever think that I’m...”

You didn’t try to push him to finish his sentence, you knew he just needed a moment to get his words straight.

“...too dangerous to be around?”

You didn’t want to ask, you really didn’t, but you needed the context if you wanted to help him feel better.

“In what way?”

His expression soured as he glared at nothing from across the room.

“There’s a reason why there’s people after me, Y/n...”

Oh.

Oh.

He meant himself being who he was that dangerous.

Well that just wouldn’t do.

“Oh Whitty, why would I think that?”

“Because I fucking am!”

His sudden outburst didn’t frighten you, you had gotten used to them a long time ago.

“I’m unpredictable and can’t control myself sometimes! What will happen if you’re around me when I lose control? Human bodies can’t piece themselves back together Y/n!”

You kept silent as you took in everything he said, committing it all to memory since you knew that these were valid concerns and he needed to lay them all out if he wanted to address them.

“I love you... so damn much... but I’d rather be on the other side of the world if I knew that it would protect you from me!”

He moved to look up at you, the fear in his eyes was heartbreaking.

“I couldn’t... I couldn’t live with myself if I knew that it was me that... that killed you...”

There it was, the heavy statement that served as a queue for you to speak, you could see the anticipation in his eyes. It was peculiar actually, the look he held, it was like he was expecting you to agree with everything he just said and run or something...

You tightened your embrace around him to stamp that thought out of existence.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, you know?”

“I... huh?”

“I’ve seen the amount of times that you’ve been close to losing it, I know how hard it can be to stay in control.”

He couldn’t hold contact with your eyes, the amount of pure love and care for him was overwhelming after all the fear and desperation that he had just given in return.

“But I’ve also seen how much better you’ve gotten at keeping control.”

That was a surprise to him, but you knew that he would know what you were talking about if you gave some examples.

“Remember the guy in the grocery store? You looked like you wanted to rip his head off, and I didn’t blame you.”

You chuckled at the memory of the guy that decided to try to argue why the two of you shouldn’t be together since you were human and he wasn’t. The man was frustrating and made no sense at all, but Whitty’s fuse didn’t even spark, he didn’t lose himself to anger. He gave the guy the sharpest glare he’s ever done, told him to ind his own damn business, and then lightly took your hand and continued on.

His show of restraint was impressive to say the very least.

“You’ve been getting really good with controlling yourself, and we’re still working on it too. I’m not scared of you and definitely don’t plan on going to the other side of the world.”

Your grin was infectious, he hated and loved how infectious your grin was as he tried to stifle the small smile working it’s way up onto his face.

“I’m so proud of how hard you’ve been trying to keep control of yourself, and I’ll be here with you every step of the way.”

He... he let himself smile after that.

“I don’t deserve you...”

“And you’re clearly overtired since you’re just saying nonsense now.”

He chuckled, it was hoarse and faint but it was a wonderful sound.

“Really though, let’s try and get you back to sleep, okay?”

He pushed himself up further on the bed and carefully intertwined his body with yours, breathing out a sigh as he buried his face in your hair.

“I love you...”

“I love you too.”

[dailyunsolvedmysteries]

Georgi Markov: The Poisonous Umbrella 

It was on September 11, 1978, that Bulgarian emigre writer and journalist Georgi Markov died in London at age 49. He was a victim of a political murder. But his killer has never been apprehended. Markov was an acclaimed novelist and playwright in Bulgaria prior to his defection to the West in 1969. He settled in England and became a broadcast journalist for Radio Free Europe, the British Broadcasting Company (BBC), and the German international broadcast service, Deutsche Welle. He had a large listening audience in Bulgaria. He was known for his harsh criticism of the autocratic rule of the communist party and particularly of its leader, Todor Zhivkov. His broadcasts were subsequently seen as providing an inspiration to the nascent dissident movement in Bulgaria. A Bulgarian investigator established that in June, 1977, Zhivkov told a party Politburo meeting that he wanted Markov silenced. The task was given to Interior Minister Dimiter Stoyanov. He is said to have requested KGB assistance, presumably to avoid possible ties to Bulgaria. Yuri Andropov, chairman of the KGB, reportedly agreed to help, provided that there would be no trace back to the Soviets.  Three attempts to assassinate Markov followed. The first attempt was made in Munich in the spring of 1978 when Markov was visiting friends and colleagues at Radio Free Europe. Someone put a toxin into Markov's drink at a dinner party in his honor. The attempt to kill him failed. The second assassination effort occurred on the Italian island of Sardinia, where Markov was on summer vacation with his family. It also failed. The final, and successful, attempt was staged in London on September 7, 1978, Zhivkov's birthday. Markov worked a double shift at the BBC. After finishing the early morning shift, he went home for rest and lunch. Returning to work by car, he drove to a parking lot on the south side of Waterloo Bridge. It was his habit to take a bus across the half-mile bridge to the BBC headquarters in the Bush House. Having parked the car, Markov climbed the stairs to the bus stop. As he neared the queue of people waiting for the bus, he experienced a sudden stinging pain in the back of his right thigh. He turned and saw a man bending to pick up a dropped umbrella. The man was facing away from Markov. He apologized. Markov subsequently remembered that the apology was made in a foreign accent. The man then hailed a taxi and departed. Markov later described him as heavy set and about 40 years old.  Though in pain, Markov boarded the bus to work. But the pain continued. Markov noticed a small blood spot on his jeans. He told colleagues at the BBC what happened and showed one friend a pimple-like red swelling on his thigh. By evening, Markov had developed a high fever. His wife called a colleague at BBC, who took Markov to a London hospital, where he was treated for an undetermined form of blood poisoning. His condition worsened. He was not responding to doctors' efforts. The next day he went into shock, and after three days of agony he died. The preliminary diagnosis indicated that the death was caused by "septicemia, a form of blood poisoning caused by bacterial toxins, possibly a result of kidney failure." Various newspapers in London carried the story of Markov's death as front page news. Scotland Yard began an investigation into the death. An autopsy was performed at Wandsworth Public Mortuary. The doctors found a tiny metal pinhead in the wound. When they attempted to extract the "pin," a tiny pellet fell on the table. Upon a microscopic examination, it was established that the pellet had minuscule holes. Further examination of the pellet at the Chemical and Micro-biological Warfare Establishment at Porton Down found that two 0.34 millimeter holes had been drilled in the pellet, producing an X-shaped cavity. The holes were empty.  This prevented investigators from establishing the type of substance that had been used, but was sufficient to determine that Markov had "not died of natural causes." British Anti-Terrorist Squad (BATS), detectives then joined the Scotland Yard investigating team. After weeks of research and experimentation, in January 1979, a coroner's inquest in London ruled that Markov had been murdered via a poison called ricin. A Scotland Yard detective said the investigation team traveled to France, Italy, Germany, and the United States searching for possible suspects. None was found. The coroner, Gavin Thurston, ruled that Markov had "been unlawfully killed." Several years later, two former KGB officers, Oleg Kalugin and Oleg Gordievsky, publicly admitted Soviet complicity in Markov’s murder. Purportedly, the highly-secret KGB laboratory known as the "Chamber" developed the weapon, which was concealed in an U.S.-manufactured umbrella. The biotoxin ricin was impregnated in a wax-coated pellet the size of a pin head. Ricin reportedly is much more lethal than cobra venom. British scientists later estimated that only about 450 micro grams were used to kill Markov. The case was dormant until after the fall of the communist government in Bulgaria in1989. Bulgarian and Scotland Yard officials resumed the investigation of the case. But their work was hampered by the lack of documentary evidence. Files on the case in the Bulgarian Interior Ministry were destroyed. And all traces of the crime have been eliminated. Reportedly, the Bulgarians used a low-level Italian criminal to commit the murder. In 1993, the man was located in Denmark and questioned by Scotland Yard and Bulgarian investigators about his involvement. The questioning was inconclusive and the suspect was said to have fled Denmark. He was then reported to have lived temporarily in Hungary and the Czech Republic. His whereabouts are unknown. More than a year ago, the British Parliament asked Russia to help in finding KGB agents who might have been involved in or had knowledge of the murder. The request remains unanswered. Last year, the Bulgarian post-communist government issued a white paper on the State of Bulgaria's Foreign Relations. It blamed the previous government of the now minority Democratic Party for "the self-denigrating confession to crimes . . . and to the concurrent link of the name of Bulgaria with the tragic death of Georgi Markov, without a final and unequivocal explanation of the incident." The Markov murder case remains officially unsolved.

[thessalian]

Thess vs Spoon Recovery

So, here’s the end result of the Great Vanilla Fudge Experiment (before it set and I cut it into little cubes)

It is creamy and sweet and lovely. And just about worth the absolute agony that comes from about a half an hour nearly non-stop stirring when one has a chronic pain condition. Still, I will persevere. I did not buy a candy thermometer to have it only used once. Though I should have got a smaller candy thermometer. It’s kind of awkward in my biggest saucepan. Still, did the job. I double-checked with the cold water test. Also, however awkward it is, this thermometer actually has labels for what temperature you need for, say, jam and various different grades of candy. So ... yeah, maybe I just need a bigger pot. But then the liquid in it might not be deep enough unless I was making BIG batches. So ... taller pot.

Anyway, I have further plans for the remainder of the week, insofar as snacks and treats are concerned:

More refrigerator dill pickles. I may have devoured the last of mine. Because I adore them very much. Anyway, I’ve boiled up the brine for that now so it can cool overnight and have my big saucepan free for Other Stuff later.

Pickled beets. One of the ‘other things’ I need the big saucepan for. I wanted beets but I also promised my stepfather some more beets; just I didn’t quite get around to it. But I got beets specially and I didn’t lug that many beets home for nothing.

Dehydrator Shenanigans. The strawberries are nearly done - just had to swap the tray order and give them another hour or so. It’ll probably be too late to do anything with that tonight but tomorrow will be bananas. Or at least, most of the bananas. One is going to be reserved for Other Stuff. But I’ve also got kiwi, mango, and more apples that are destined to be cinnamon sugar apple crisps.

More peanut butter cookies. This time, vegan so Scruffman can have some. I’m going to see how well a mashed banana really replaces an egg in this kind of thing. So it’s an experiment.

Mocha marble fudge. This one doesn’t use an insane amount of sugar (it goes to the sweetened condensed milk and the chocolate for that, I take it) so it doesn’t need a thermometer and requires - oh, beautiful words - “stirring occasionally”. I will not have to kill myself to make this particular recipe.

If I have time and spoons, there’ll be hard candy in various flavours and lip balm, also in various flavours. The above list is the basics because most of the bits in them are relatively easy and they’re relatively simple to multi-task. I can slice stuff up for the dehydrator and fill jars with refrigerator dill pickle things while the beets boil, and ‘stir occasionally’ my mocha marble fudge while cookies bake and stuff in the dehydrator dries.

Other things I need to do involve laundry and a haircut, but laundry’s another thing I can do between kitchen-witchery tasks and the haircut ... well, I’ll see about that over the weekend. Just, so much of this stuff can’t be done in a weekend as things currently stand, owing to a spoon shortage after work + commute. It’ll be different when I finally get to work from home, but for now, I’m taking advantage of the time off in a different way. Yes, I need to rest, but sometimes that has to involve an achievement that doesn’t have to do with base survival. Sometimes the best way to recover spoons, at least for me, is to remember what fun feels like, not to mention a sense of achievement of a tangible kind. Typing is just seeing the letter form and the typing queue shrink; the snacks I make keep me going through all that. Plus giving these treats and snacks to others makes people smile, and that really is good for the spoons reserves.

[fateguided-a]

         ❛    Ren    !    What  do  you  think    ?    ❜    At  her  words  ,  she  gives  her  kimono  a  small  twirl  ,  accented  with  a  beaming  grin  `pon  her  mouth  .    ❛    It’s  pretty  ,  right    ?    I’ve  never  worn  anything  like  this  before  .  ❜

        `・ﾟ☾    @shinkiirou    /    starter  call    !