#humblingly

[jrdjgt1ykq]

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[peachesofteal]

PEACH i’m humblingly asking for more omegaverse dead disco, maybe hearing some more thoughts from ghost and johnny about darling’s heat? perhaps they managed to get you to rest (as they’re both still incredibly sensitive) and as they’re talking about what to do, they witness even more self soothing behaviors from darling in your sleep, like they aren’t even there.

i usually don’t particularly read omegaverse, but the way you wrote it??? AGHHHHH I LOVE IT

So, I don’t usually dabble in omegaverse either, this is the first time I’ve actually started to put words down for it (except for a little fic I’ve been plucking away at) so it’s a little intimidating but also fun! I find it very self indulgent but hey, that’s why I’m here. 🩵

I live for your ideas they’re always sooooo good. Takes place after this.

Johnny closes the door behind him, ensuring it clicks shut, but keeping it quiet enough that it won’t wake you.

They don’t need it to open to listen for you, your scent alone will tell them everything they need to know.

“She’s asleep. Finally.” His head droops forward, into Simon’s chest as the bigger Alpha rubs his back gently. They managed to lull you into a heat hazed sleep, both of them emitting enough pheromones to break through your hormone addled state, reassuring you it was safe enough for you to lay in the bed.

“No- no.” Simon strips his hoodie off and places it on the bed, followed by his t shirt and then Johnny’s as they coax you towards the mattress.

“Yes, darling. It’s okay. This is our bed, it’s your bed.” He holds out your own long sleeve t shirt, trying to jog your awareness with your own scent. Your temperature has gone down since they got home, regulated by their ability to relax you, scent you, but it’s evident you haven’t slept in days. You don’t have the strength to manage a cycle right now, and their priority is your health.

The rest has to wait.

“It’s- it’s not safe.” Your eyes dart around and Simon tightens his grip on the back of your neck, just enough to help settle you into to an calmer state, while Johnny eases you onto your side slowly.

“You’re safe. We’re right here. You’re in your nest, at home.” Fat tears pool at your eyelids and then roll down your cheeks while you grab for them, trying to press yourself as close as possible.

“A-alpha.” You whimper and Johnny’s heart chips. How long had you been here, crying for them? Alone?

“Shhh.” He hums, and you wrap your arms around his neck. Simon keeps his chest to your back, steady and soothing subharmonics rattling through the three of you. “Close your eyes, darling. Rest.”

It wasn’t uncommon for Omegas to experience feelings of distress and anxiety during a heat or before, and considering the depth of your emotions on a regular day, it didn’t surprise Johnny or Simon that these heat standard emotions were affecting you so strongly.

But for you to be trying to self soothe, scent yourself, was enough to make them both very, very concerned.

It makes them wonder if there are other things about you, that maybe they don’t know.

“She won’t be down for long.” Simon murmurs into Johnny’s overgrown mohawk, and he nods. When you wake, he knows it will be to unbearable agony, and he dreads those moments when you’ll be upset and in pain.

“Need to go to the grocery store.” He grunts, and pulls away to peer into the fridge, worrying his lip between his teeth as he stares at it’s sparse contents. You haven’t been eating. Anxiety roils his stomach, and Simon rumbles a bit to calm him. You’ll need food, and lots of it, fresh fruit and vegetables, protein. Enough to water and juice to sink a ship, too. It’s been a long time since either of them have experienced an Omega’s heat, and it being yours, makes it all that more intense. Precarious. Precious.

They always dreamed of sharing your heat with you, used to whisper about it to one another during their ruts, dreaming about you, wishing you were with them.

But you were insistent about the suppressants. Stubborn about them. You said you needed the drugs, that you couldn’t handle your heats, that you didn’t want them. That you didn’t want to be controlled by your designation.

And they believed you. They didn’t want to push you, make it seem like they were engaging in overbearing Alpha behavior. They loved you no matter your designation. With heats, or no heats.

“Why did she lie?” Simon questions aloud, staring off at the door. His face is grim, and Johnny shakes his head.

“Dinnae ken.”

“I think… there are a lot of things, we don’t know.” He pauses, and then a look of heartbreak filters across his face. “This… this is my fault. I should have been paying closer attention. I shouldn’t have pushed away my instincts, should’ve taken control.” Johnny’s about to disagree when there’s a spike in your scent, waves of sour tinged distress and confusion pulsing from the bedroom.

You’re curled on the bed, shaking against the sheets, a pillow tucked between your knees and-

Your wrist is rubbing against the gland in your neck, again.

Trying to scent yourself, soothe yourself. Even though you’re laying in a pile of their clothes, even though Simon’s balaclava is twisted around your forearm.

Johnny feels sick.

Why don’t you recognize your own partners? Why are you emulating abused, abandoned Omega behaviors?

Why does it feel like you’re on an island somewhere, where they can’t reach you?

“Darling.” Simon coos, and then starts to break down the tense lines of your body, your muscles, encouraging you to lay flat while you whimper and squeak in your fitful sleep.

They shouldn’t have left you alone.

You curl up against the bigger Alpha, but your wrist finds the gland again, and Simon catches it in his hand, pressing a finger to your palm in circular movements.

“No, no baby.” He holds your hand steady, and you twitch against him, lashes fluttering. Johnny molds himself onto the other side, and replaces your movements with his own, pushing out as many calming pheromones as possible, letting his lips press to your hair, your ear, the soft skin of your neck.

Minutes pass, and Simon holds your wrists firm. You twist and pull against him but they hold you steady between their bodies, gentling you as much as they can until your eyes are blinking awake and you’re wincing in pain.

“I don’t feel good.” You moan, and he hums, wide palm sliding over your belly to tuck you closer.

“I know darling, I know. We’re going to make it better, I promise.”

[aropride]

i need to get a hair cut like right neowww not just cus its annoying but cus every ttime i do a stupid little head shake to move my hair out of my eyes i think of this one fic i read in 2017 that has embarassingly and humblingly become deeply relevant to my personal life in 2024 by way of the main character's bisexuality being strikingly reminiscent of my own & strengthening my theory that my entire existence is just me being reincarnated into the same situations over and over again (the situation in this instance is bisexuality)

[raineandsky]

#36

This is quite possibly the best day of the villain’s life.

The hero had walked directly into one of his traps, one of his most obvious, and gotten picked up by a couple of the villain’s henchmen. She’s currently downstairs, one of the henchmen has told him, and he’s been pacing for the last hour figuring out his victory speech. He wasn’t really expecting to catch anyone yet, so he’s a little unprepared.

He eventually decides to make his way down, carefully rehearsing what he’s going to say. God, he can’t believe his luck. He has blackmail, ransom, and an endless pit of information all rolled into one.

The hero has been left on her own—he’ll be talking to someone about that later—with several layers of thick rope holding her in place. Her hands have been tied behind her, and he kind of wishes they hadn’t done that. God knows what she’s holding.

“Oh, thank god,” is what she opens with, which is decidedly not the emotion he was hoping to evoke.

“Good afternoon, [Hero],” the villain opens coolly, and the hero actually smiles at him. She doesn’t look particularly bothered at all, in fact. That’s annoying. “I see you’ve played fool enough to let yourself get caught by me.”

“Yeah,” she says brightly.

“Your stay here will make you rethink every moment of your life that led you here,” he continues, pointedly ignoring the eager grin on her face. “I’ll make you regret being born.”

“Sweet. So, what's the deal?” She glances around the room for ideas. “Lasers? Some kind of giant blade? Oh, no, a contraption! You’re always doing those.”

The hero’s guesses are met with confused silence. The victory of getting her here is fizzling out humblingly fast. “I thought you’d be… more upset to be here.”

“Oh god, no.” She laughs—actually laughs. She’s in the villain’s domain and it feels like she’s making fun of him. “Agency’s been really messed up recently. Been shooting heroes down left right and centre. Nothing you do could ever be worse than what they’ve done to me.”

That is somehow an insult. “What, so this is just a holiday to you? A nice bit of time off?”

“Kind of. Was hoping for something a bit more permanent, away from the agency. Thought you might like going down as the guy who took out a hero.” Her grin widens, hopeful. “Figured you’d be more inclined to talk to me if you didn’t think I was going to dropkick you into next week.”

So she’d walked straight into one of his traps. Of course she had. This is definitely a setup.

“I could just, you know, actually kill you,” he points out, and she hums thoughtfully.

“You could, but god, the payout for a dead hero is huge. You could get in on that if I’m still alive.” Clearly the idea of being murdered like this hasn’t particularly fazed her. “You help me evade the agency, and I’ll make sure you get a chunk of that money.”

His inventions have been a little lackluster recently—most of them are made from scraps he found in the local junkyard. A bit of cash wouldn’t hurt.

He pulls a small knife from his belt, leaning down to get to work on the abysmal twists of rope securing the hero down. He can’t believe he’s agreeing to this. “I want at least half.”

The hero snorts amusedly. “Leave some for my family, man. A quarter.”

“A third.”

She smiles as the rope falls loose, and she gets to her feet with a sigh. “Deal.”

[girls--complex]

just wanted to say i think that millie drawing where she's got scissors is the most beautiful thing you've ever drawn

Lol thanks I remember drawing it I was on the couch with my friends watching cartoons and my Friend Lane looked at it and laughed my friend Ari said "What is Morty drawing" and Lane said "a penis" and Ari said "What kind of Penis" and Lane said "Humblingly realistic"

[faithofgods]

fog log #34 — RO speech quirks

Sol’s way is simple; unhurried, a fluidity in how they speak that comes as easy as their step.

Their words spill over into the next, meld together, one smooth flow of thought running into the next. Pieces will get left out, sentences halved, reorganized, but it’s never choppy; there’s never any rush to be heard or to speak before they forget. It’s simply a natural extension of how they think.

There are times, though, that their speech slows, that the melding ceases and things become thoughtful, deliberate, a little less flippant. A breath, or a pause before speaking again, a need to be intentional, to get their point across. To quiet and be seen as more than someone impudent, careless.

It never lasts long, flash of a smile chasing away darker thoughts and freeing any cause for worry. A lean in, a staged whisper, and they can allow themself to act senseless again, satisfied that they were, for once, heard.

—

Khiita is intention above all else; leading, guiding, careful little footsteps directing one to the conclusion she wishes to arrive at.

There's a tendency to leave things open. For her voice to rise into a question, plain statements to be re-examined as something more. Everything is a curiosity to her, so why not take advantage of it at every possible opportunity. To push and prod—sometimes gently, other times far more abruptly—until they either acquiesce or leave

It shows itself in how she delivers, how she presents herself. Quiet enough that those favored enough to converse with her are forced to lean in, to focus, but still clear as a struck bell, still lasting. Melodic, lulling, a way to distract their mind so she can see for herself what she believes to be the truth: instinctive reactions.

In it lies a formality, though, her own desires to dance around things stretching out her sentences into something more thoughtful, more winding, but it's a habit she's slowly breaking. One that dissolves even further when in company she appreciates.

—

Flor considers things deeply; more so than many others. Their speech is slow, rhythmic, though at times it halts, stutters, a difficulty in translating exactly what they think—and everything they feel—into something as humblingly inadequate as words.

There are long pauses. Many of them scattered throughout a conversation and many more stacked atop each other; a reprieve granted to themself, a step away to either process quickly or push fully aside, to be examined closer another time.

They trail off often, a distracted mind chasing down too many thoughts, trying to rein them into tenable order. Just as likely, they speak without meaning to, quiet asides intended only for their ears, but their voice has a way of carrying.

But with all things that they are, there is sincerity in their speech. It bleeds through without warning, an earnestness presented to whoever they engage with: that everyone is equally worthy of their time and interest.

—

Cían is sharp; rough edges peeking out, a propensity to share what's on his mind if he's pushed far enough, and to share it exactly as scathingly as he thinks it.

He's blunt, clipped. His speech—when he's actually moved enough to engage—is final, conveying only the surface of his annoyance and obscuring any useful tell about his deeper, more personal reactions.

He speaks in false questions often, voice lowering into something snide when he's feeling blasé, but otherwise, he remains firmly dry. Flat. A keeping of his distance in tone and in person, wary of letting any too close. A guard that is difficult—if not impossible—for him to drop.

And he drags out conversation without meaning too, a refusal to easily give what another wants to hear and a deeper reluctance to dip into uneasy silence. Perhaps it’s why he can never truly turn away from something, whether it’s a request or a challenge; he doesn’t want to be alone again so soon.

[baladric]

If cala was evil what would his motivations be? Would he still support Maia as emperor? Would Beshelar be evil too, or would there be super huge angst when Cala betrays him?

HEY uHH. my hand. slipped.

*

It should perhaps come as less of a surprise when the most mercurial man in Deret's ken turned out to be in possession of a slew of less than lawful motives—especially considering the seed of superstitious distrust of maz that his humblingly rural upbringing had planted so deeply in the loamy earth of him.

The day was hot and bright—far moreso than was at all normal for mid-autumn so close to the Mervarnens—and yet Cala Athmaza burned brighter and hotter by far. His smile was a phosphorous glow, a slash of brilliant white in his marmorial face, his ears pricked to a wild attention which Deret had seen only once before, in the moments immediately following the demise of Eshevis Tethimar. He was as terrible as he was beautiful, and though the bitter bezoar of betrayal had stoppered Deret's throat and curdled his lunch in his stomach, he could not but think that poets would do well to pen epics about this man.

"You must understand, Serenity," Cala said, turning his glittering gaze on Edrehasivar, who sat in an attitude of uncomprehending shock, "That I do this for your people. Our people."

"And what," replied Edrehasivar, slow and careful as the steps of the unsettled horse, "Exactly is it that you do?"

"Mmm, one could call it blackmail, if one must," Cala said, his tone—idle, thoughtful—as familiar to Deret as the lines of his own palm. He wanted to be sick; he wanted to take him by his thin shoulders and shake him till sense returned to the world. "Though I prefer to think of it as opportunism."

"Opportunism that involves holding your Emperor hostage," Edrehasivar said, not bothering to make it a question. Though unsettled he might have been, he at least understood the bare bones of the thing.

"Yes," Cala said, and Deret heard an odd current beneath the single word. It gave him hope—and how odd was it, he mused in the distant way of the gently concussed, that he had any room in him for hope as concerned a man who had reneged so plainly on every oath he had ever spoken. What a ruin Cala had made of him, of his dignity, of his once-staunch mores.

"Cala," he said, his voice reedy with the constriction of his chest that came with one's arms being bound behind them; tremulous with something that tasted a lot like fear.. "This is madness."

Cala lifted his eyes to meet Deret's pleading stare, and words rolled through the veil of memory like so much mist: His sword and his staff, the vow went. His stone and his shade, his death become mine, and my death be thine; for I become thee and thee become we, and so shall it be till the sun drowns the sea.

Please, Deret thought—or perhaps he spoke it aloud, for something shifted in Cala's pale face. Softened, saddened.

"Trust me," he said, as gentle as the kiss he had pressed to Deret's lips that morning, mere minutes before the train slowed to its unanticipated stop in the vast nothing of these barren hills and everything turned so neatly on its ear.

And the thing was that Cala knew better than to bind First Nohecharis Lieutenant Deret Beshelar with something so common and flimsy as rope. Just as easily, he could have held him with maz—or, better yet, kept him asleep, as simply as Dazhis had sundered Nazhiris all those years ago.

But he had used rope, and they both knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Deret could be free of it. It would take only a moment, and though the man before him had doffed his lackadaisy like a theatre mask, had become a foreigner in skin whose every inch Deret had touched with finger and tooth and tongue, he knew that Cala would not raise a hand to him again. No revethmaz would come for him if he lept free and moved to cut him down—for this was, he realized, not about Cala himself. Nor was it about Edrehasivar, or perhaps even the Ethuveraz herself.

Deret would not be harmed, aside from the single blow to the temple he had won in the initial surprise of the moment, and the immutable truth of it rendered him... curious.

His breath left him in a long, taffy-stretched moment, and the smile Cala gave him was a softer thing than made any sense outside the two of them, considering that the Emperor of the Elflands was sat between them, a white-clad captive all their own.

"Explain," Edrehasivar said—and there was his steel, tempered, lo, these many years by the Zhasan's abiding flame and Csevet's steady hand. Deret wondered where they were right this moment. He hoped they were together, taking one of their not-so-secret comradely teas; the Adremaza was surely at their door now, carrying word that... Well. Deret was unclear on the details of that word; he knew only that Cala had sent a missive in that baffling, silent way of mazcraft, and that demands had been made in some circuitous fashion.

"Your Serenity knows of the conflict with the Nazhmorathveras," Cala said, and all at once, many things came into focus.

[commaclear]

(p.s. because the last ask got too long: I am of the strong opinion that all quackities hold one thing in common: they want to be as cold and logical as possible because they believe that that's the smartest way, if not the only way, how they can achieve their humblingly human desires, and that's how they always end up having horrible moral standards and being in absolutely dreadful predicaments. I still don't understand BM!q's background and motives for wanting to delve into dark magic, but I think he only sees Wil as a cute puppet that will be incredibly useful for his plans. he'll use and hurt wil's heart, but I don't think he wants anything else from Wil but a powerful associate for Very Bad spells. He'll fuck his bfs up BAD, but he doesn't hurt people to hurt people. that's what I think rn, and that's what I'm hoping WITH ALL MY HEART is the case instead of whatever nightmare qaa said mentioned in one of their last analysis asks. AND DONT EVEN SAY IT QAA IK IM AN APOLOGIST /j

sincerely,

the cooler qaa (quackity apologist anon))

dare I say..... excellent analysis, cooler qaa *genuine applause*

[izhunny]

I have to do a happy ramble about being a fic writer receiving acknowledgement.

~(｡♡‿♡｡)~

You ever check out who left a kudos on your fic because you kind of want to gage your audience (who are they, what else do they like, are there treasures in their works or bookmarks for me to go explore) and the user ID has only 4 digits?

Then you kind of leave your body for a second with amazement and pride?

w(°ｏ°)w

I'm a fairly new writer. And not very recognized or terribly skilled, though I'm improving with each piece.

I am grateful for every single kudos I get, no matter when you discovered and joined AO3. But holy shit, my dudes! It feels like winning the lottery when somebody whose been around (to see probably EVERYTHING from AO3's inception) finds your humble little offering and tells you it was okay enough for a kudos.

It's a joy to write, just to write, and to share, but...

Pleasing my readers? Delightfully encouraging. Thank you for spending your time on my stories.

Pleasing other writers? Humblingly astounding. I am honored.

Pleasing a pillar of the community? Indescribable elation. I can't even words.

Thank you to everyone who has ever read one of my fics and left me a kudos.

Thank you.

[sweetestbaby]

(not the same anon) how do you stay so positive in face of so much evil in the world?

i'm going to be honest: very easily so. as much as i feel enraged, disgusted, revolted, appalled and horrified by what i see in the world, the truth is that my personal daily life is almost as peaceful as can be. i have exactly the life that i want; i wouldn't change anything about it. ok, maybe i would give myself neighbors that were just a little less noisy. but see, that's literally all i can think of when i think of what i would change about my life. if i turned off my phone and never saw the news ever, it would mostly be as if evil didn't exist. i'm extremely, humblingly privileged, and that makes it very easy to just keep smiling, and i'm very aware of that, both because i know how evil the world is and because it hasn't always been this way for me, quite the contrary, which just makes me want to enjoy this happiness as much as i can: because i know how rare it is and how stupid it would be for me to take it for granted

[esriteiatha]

Hi Dears!

Esrite is checking in.

I would love to get back to writing my stories.

But...

I have a quite big exam coming up. It would allow me to become a so called expert in my field (internal medicine). However, the things I should know for that is humblingly vast. I'm gonna try my best. Positive thoughts are welcome!

Whatever happens, see you after the middle of november!

Love you all,

Esrite

[beveragelover]

i had the most humblingly realistic dream about my ex last night and it has been throwing me off all day

[skinlike]

i think it is important to earn deserving to be adorned. not everyone deserves to be adorned in good material things. that is a fact. adorn yourself or be adorned, but earn it. i think the way to do that is by being humble, grateful, and not dwelling in idleness. that's what it feels like to me anyway. so many people do not know the satisfaction of tending to family in the simplest ways, even if just in the only ways we have skill to do, and then the humblingly honest appreciation from people who truly see you.

[wolfye]

Penn Zero exists

[rgr-pop]

mirah, of course, venus in virgo

[cannibalsforbreakfast]

I’M HOSTING AN AMA!

Last month marked my first full year writing in the IY fandom! It feels like both a very LONG time, and also a humblingly short time. Getting to meet everyone and make new friends -- plus getting to read so many awesome fics and bask in so much amazing art -- has been the best part of the whole experience. I can’t even begin to describe how warm and welcoming; supportive; kindhearted; funny; and badass everyone is. I’m blessed to know you all. 

So to celebrate, I’m going to have an AMA on Sept. 12, 2021! Feel free to send in questions about fandom/writing/life/food/coffee/books/IDK what sort of socks I like to wear; little prompts for drabbles; random comments; requests for crappy doodles; what have you throughout the week and I’ll answer them all that Sunday.

As a reminder, my fics are:

The Fifth Flavor

Sing, My Little Bird

Skeins and Schemes

You’ve Got a Read On Me

Tasting Spoons

Entitled to You

In My Pulse, There is Only You

Constellation Consolations

I Love the Flaws You Try to Hide

Tags (on/off let me know):  @fawn-eyed-girl @neutronstarchild @anisaanisa @gribed-li @bluejay785 @ruddcatha @kawaiichan67 @cookiethewriter @redflamesofpassion @dis-gruntled-beast @holi-holy @thornedraven @heynikkiyousofine @hopidoodle @liz8080 @kirrtash