#i feel like i am on my way to the guillotine and i am not even a french aristrocrat

[aroacewxs]

terrible terrible part of not growing up with a very very big piece of media is that once you get into it older, there is just So Much. and you're like well shit how long will this take

[icewindandboringhorror]

Current temperature inside of my room right now in the middle of the night whilst about to go to sleep... villain origin story...

[junipersberries]

Jesus Christ I feel like I am going mad.

[autixel]

Fuck the gen 1 apple pencil all my homies hate the gen 1 apple pencil.

[bioethicists]

beer killed my father . he had a disease which destroyed his body and strained his relationships with his wife, his friends, and his children. Alcohol destroys everything it touches, theres a reason you see so many liquor stores in poor neighborhoods. don’t be fucking obtuse. Prohibition obviously doesn’t work, but I wish alcohol was taxed higher. And i want the CEO of Heineken on the guillotine right after Jeff Bezos.

before anything, i want to let you know that i am incredibly sorry about your father. alcohol has decimated entire generations of my family, played a crucial role in the neglectful family structure i spent the first 19 years of my life suffering under, + played a minor but not insignificant role in my brother's death. i would never undermine or dismiss that in anyone.

i used to feel very similarly to you, in large part because my mother is a recovering alcoholic who raised me to believe that alcohol is a magic poison which turns people into monsters + i, being her child, probably inherited a disease which would also turn me into a monster if i chose to drink. it's a deeply painful + understandable response to the pain that alcohol can cause.

my first question is, does alcohol really "destroy everything it touches"? are there not millions of people who engage with alcohol, in varying degrees of recreational use, who experience minimal or no negative impacts? or do you believe that everyone who drinks alcohol in any capacity is experiencing severe destruction in their lives as a result? does the existence of people for whom alcohol enriches their lives (or is a neutral presence) at all invalidate your experience, or your father's?

my second question is, you've identified that there are 'so many liquor stores in poor neighborhoods' (i would add there is a lot of alcohol in rich neighborhoods, just distributed in less stigmatized ways, like boutique wineries + fancy bars), do you think that companies are strategically attempting to create alcohol dependencies among poor people, or do you think that poverty creates the pain, hopelessness, + desperation which can fuel an alcohol habit (which is then exacerbated by intergenerational trauma + community alcohol culture).

i feel no allegiance to liquor companies- they absolutely do make the bulk of their profits off of people who are drinking in a way that is destroying their lives (unsure if i trust the exact scope of the research in that link but i trust the gist). however, liquor companies love the disease model, because it exempts them from responsibility. if alcoholism is truly a genetic disease, then liquor companies, bars, package stores hold no fault in the development of destructive drinking habits + community norms (natasha Schüll discusses this in her book about gambling addiction)- the people were already sick + would be getting it somewhere else, anyway, right? but as you have correctly identified, liquor companies help create the structures which turn alcohol use into an accessible + normalized mode of self-destruction.

my third question is, will taxing liquor help the real problem? yes, it reduces alcohol consumption, but does it reduce addiction? or does it make cheapskates like me say "i'm not fucking paying for that" while individuals who consume alcohol compulsively either eat the cost or turn to more illicit ways of obtaining alcohol. or, rephrased, is the problem that alcohol is too accessible? is alcohol a magical poison which turns 'normal' people into 'alcoholics'? alternatively, is alcoholism a genetic condition, unrelated to any outside circumstances, which is triggered by drinking?

or: is alcoholism one of many ways in which people who are experiencing hopelessness, pain, grief, poverty, trauma, etc use to numb themselves, harm themselves, + make life feel more bearable? at this point, i do believe there is at least a temperament factor which makes people more likely to use substances over other forms of escape (hence why my brother used substances while i turned to anorexia + do not struggle with substance use). are we actually addressing the problem if we make it more expensive (thus, mind you, further impoverishing people with alcohol addictions!)? or are we shifting the pain these people are experiencing to either other avenues (opioids, other drugs, totally different ways of coping which are often just as destructive) or an unregulated, underground alcohol market.

the way you are viewing alcohol, alcohol is a unique substance which is manufacturing or feeding illness in people in order to make them behave in ways which destroy their lives + the lives of others. the way i am viewing it, alcohol is a presence which can fill a void that is being created in people's lives as a response to structural, communal, or social suffering. when alcohol is painted as the cause of this pain, we are able to look the other way from a which world is structured to cause an immense amount of people to suffer needlessly. at the same time, the common sense observation that many of us engage with alcohol in ways which do not destroy our lives, as well as the knowledge that prohibition does not work, prevents the erasure of alcohol from public or private life.

who benefits from the belief that alcohol is a uniquely corrupting substance? what lessons did we actually learn from prohibition- is trying to do it to a lesser degree (make alcohol less accessible) actually going to do anything? when the price of opioids went up due to dea crackdowns, did people stop buying opioids or did the market flood with cheap + deadly fentanyl? is the problem that people are drinking or that they are suffering?

[chaotic-iguana]

Twisted Love

summary: as we know, im a bit of a gremlin. i take ur asks and fucking add my own spin. here we are. its like a “joel edges reader, reader accidentally comes” with SUPER dark twists. let me know what you think. feel free to (gently) yell at me because honestly @breakfastatjoels is the only reason i decided to post (love you dee)

pairing: dark! joel x reader

wordcount: 2.3k

warnings: survivalism, dubcon, dark!joel, edging, dom/sub dynamics, pussy slapping, very out of my comfort zone writing this, stockholm syndrome, this joel is everything husband joel is not. hes a dick please dont acc be in these kinds of relationships, swearing (no bc me being a smartass and adding swearing as if its worse than STOCKHOLM SYNDROME), choking, slapping, passing out and keep going, somno? i think?, dacryphilia, he’s a genuine fucking asshole

A/N: please be warned that this is not a vanilla smut fic, it follows some super dark themes. unlike my other fics, no “soft” joel, or aftercare; no checking in or wiping tears. also forewarning, i do not support relationships that are in fact like this. i am not glorifying sa or abuse. dont want any anons in my inbox tearing me a new one. 

masterlist // navigation

Four hours. You’d been tied to the bed spreadeagle for four hours. Your wrists and ankles had chafed, you’d nearly lost your voice, and you couldn’t seem to stop trembling.

Joel had one hand on your stomach, pressing down, and another between your legs, bringing you to orgasm after orgasm only to pull away at the last second to watch you buck your hips into thin air, chasing friction, as your high ebbed away again. And then he would start again. And again. And again.

By now, you were gone. Your mind had long been wiped clean of coherent thought. Broken moans and whines escaped you as you tried to beg despite having seemingly forgotten the ability to articulate yourself - you could barely manage short gasps of breath in between sobs; words were proving to be near-impossible. 

A dizzying chant of Joel, Joel, Joel, took up your mind as he wrenched his fingers out of you once again, just a second too late to accomplish what he wanted. No; in your desperate, hyper-sensitive state, that split second alone was enough to send you into a  spiral: toes-curling, back-arching and your breath coming in sharp gasps as an orgasm that had your vision whiting out for a few seconds washes over you.

Joel glared down at you, the vision barely registering to you past the buzz of euphoria, eyes rolling back as reality faded away. He gripped your jaw then, snapping you out of the daze by bringing a hand down on your cunt, repeatedly striking the sensitive folds, the painful sting heightened by your orgasm. 

 At the pitiful groans of protest and the way your legs contorted against the bindings to fall into themselves; instinct taking over to protect you from his merciless assault, he rolled his eyes with a huff. 

“Y’gonna be a brat? Be a fuckin’ brat. ‘M not wastin’ my time on a girl that can’t behave.” 

Snapping his switchblade open, he leaned down to rip through your restraints before turning and walking out of the room without another word.

That had been a week ago. You had spent an hour curled in on yourself, numb in disbelief that he’d just left. You hadn’t meant to go against his wishes, your body had just taken over and practically pushed you over the edge. You knew the deal-  of course you did, it was seared into your fucking mind- it’s what kept you alive. 

It was an offer he had spat at you with a blade pressed to your neck, a decree that signed your body over to him. He’d let you live and keep you alive, and in return all you had to do was obey him; be his “good little girl”, as he put it. All you had to do in exchange for your safety was listen to him, do what he told you to. 

A paralyzing fear had gripped you since that day you had accidentally defied him, death looming over your head like a guillotine you couldn’t quite see just yet but knew was inevitably coming. 

You’d hated the arrangement at first, resisting it; resisting him. But once he had made it abundantly clear that there was no way for you to leave, nowhere you could go, you found yourself fighting back less. Life had already been so long, taken so much from you already. You’d never have to worry again. He’d keep you safe. Despite his inherent brutality, he took care of you; more care than anyone else had taken since the world went to shit. He made sure you ate enough, slept in better spots, showers. When you had nightmares, he’d set a bruising pace against you and rut until your head emptied of every thought but his. 

Your disdain for him faded over time, and you began craving him. You wanted him under your skin, you wanted to feel him and nothing else, to be reduced to a mindless mess as damp sheets clung to your skin. Wanted his bites and bruises, wanted his grip on your thighs, your waist, your neck. Slowly, you wanted him. A twisted love characterised by dizzying need for him to rip you apart and put you back together infected your mind. To be with you, hold you, praise you. And you were perfect for him as a result, wanting nothing but to keep him happy. 

He, however, hadn’t so much as looked at you all week. If he said anything, it was bit out in your general direction as an afterthought; an inconvenience. It was like he’d stopped caring where you were, how you were. Pent up and needing him, needing to feel the scrapes of his callouses against your skin, his teeth nipping your flesh, you simply endured it all fearfully. Your arrangement had gone on long enough that you genuinely did not know if he would follow through - but you’d seen enough of what he was capable of not to risk it. You may have your own infatuation with the man, but you weren’t stupid. When he stood jaw clenched, shoulders tense, and with that crazed glint in his eye, you did not speak to him; your self-preserving habit of pointing out his tells blaring at you to run. If you so much as stepped too close to him on days like these, you’d see how blown out his pupils were, how his face was set in an expression that made it difficult to identify him, before he’d pin you to the nearest wall and use his mouth, fingers, cock, blade handle, beer bottle and makeshift toys on you until you passed out, and then he’d keep going until exhaustion overtook him. Which, for a man that size, often took over a day. 

So you settled for trying your best to impress him. Wore that dress he liked, did your hair in a ponytail because you knew it made his fingers itch to tug at it, painted your lips with a shadow of red and just followed him like a lost puppy, without stopping or complaining once. Didn’t matter how many gashes you got on your hands and knees from getting your foot caught on sharp edges or rocks he didn’t warn you of anymore, didn’t matter how hungry or thirsty you were with him neglecting to pass the canteen back to you, didn’t matter how badly his biting comments hurt you or how many tears filled your eyes, you followed him without complaint.  

But it had been a week, and your resolve had started to break. If he was going to kill you, he had to do it now. The buildup, the constant fear, the desperation to impress him, the cuts and bruises now littering your body, the hungry ache in your stomach - they all reached a point where your knees just buckled, and you just couldn’t. Joel was ahead of you, still trudging on without so much as glancing in your direction, not even after the pathetic wail that sounded from you as you fell to your knees. Gasping out his name, wincing at the rasp of your voice from the disuse, you watched his steps falter as he looked at you over his shoulder, and kept walking. 

“No, no, no, please Joel, please.” Tears began streaming down your face, your body shaking with the force of the devastation sweeping through you as you began crawling after him. This made him stop and turn, brow raised and mouth set in a cruel smile as he took in your form. He took slow, deliberate strides to where you lay on the ground, elbows given out, and looked down at you. 

“Please, what?” His dark eyes were glittering as he smirked at you, watching you crumble before his very eyes. 

“No more. ‘M sorry, I’m so sorry I won’t ever go against what you say again. Didn’t mean to come - it just happened n’ I couldn’t stop it. I’ve been so good for years, Joel. I’m s-sorry, please I’m so sorry.” Cheeks burning hot with humiliation, you could barely meet his gaze as you began begging the man you’d sworn to kill when you first met him. Begged him to take care of you, to forgive you. 

He crouched low, reaching a hand out to tip your chin up and meet your eyes. 

“Need me?” A jeering, boisterous laugh. “Do ya, now?” At your nod, he snorted. “You forget who’s in control -once, just once - I fuckin’ leave you then and there. Clear?” Another nod. “Take what I give you this time.” Not a question, but you find yourself nodding feverishly anyways, making his lips twitch as he grasped you and lifted you into his arms the rest of the way. 

Joel spotted a cabin while trudging through the rough terrain, your hands around his neck and torso flush against his chest as you hung limp in his arms, half-asleep. Deciding to settle there for the night, he barely took a minute to scout the place out before he was making his way to the bedroom. He dropped you onto the bed before turning to strip his flannel and trousers off. Watching you blink in confusion as you started to wake up, he scoffed, tangling a hand in your hair, flipping you onto yoru back, and yanking your head to the edge of the bed. 

Giving you no time to brace yourself, Joel shoved the blunt head of his cock between your lips, working your jaw open as he starting using your mouth. One of hands came to rest on your exposed neck, putting enough pressure to feel himself moving in and out of your throat, while the other gripped the edge of the bed next to your head, intermittently coming up to slap your tits, your stomach, your thighs - anywhere he could reach. The sounds of your garbled choking and gasping filled the room, Joel using your mouth like a fleshlight. 

Refusing you a single second of reprieve to get your breath, he kept rocking his hips until you were lightheaded and there were spots in your vision, consciousness fading. When he glanced down and realised you were about to pass out, he pulled himself flush against your mouth and stayed there, drool and spit spluttering from your nose as you struggled to accommodate him, struggling against him until you blacked out. 

When you came to, you were lying on your stomach, hair still in Joel’s grip and head held back. Your hands were tied to the headboard in front of you with the underwear you had been wearing all day, and his fingers were bruising your waist in his grip as he pounded into you from behind. 

You could feel that you had lost some time. Come and blood streaked all over your jaw, neck and chest, and you could feel some drying on your back, thighs and stomach as well. Moreover, you were drenched. Covered from head to toe in a mixture of blood, sweat, saliva and cum. You could see skin on your chest and stomach swollen and red, broken by his teeth, which had left permanent indents into the flesh. Blinking steadily, you realised that the sun was up, the room bathed in the first few rays of dawn. 

“Welcome back, sweetheart.” His rasp from behind you had a shudder dancing down your spine, straightening up slightly. You could barely sob your response - the new angle had your eyes rolling back, and you could feel yourself being jolted up the bed by the sheer force of his thrusts into you. 

Feeling the muscles of your stomach tense, you hardly had the rationality to start babbling a half-understandable “Gonna cum, ‘m g-mmh-cum,” before feeling him shift his hand on your hip to move it between your legs, swiping over your clit with just enough pressure to bring you to your peak - before he leaned down to snarl into your ear. 

“Don’t come.” At your whimper, he laughed. “Y’wanna live? Be good f’me? Don’t you dare fucking come.” You felt your muscles lock up, a pitiful whine leaving your mouth as you staved off your orgasm, tensing so hard against it that your whole body hurt. Your legs were shaking with the force of holding off, and you felt Joel smile into your shoulder in approval before he moved his arm under your thigh, lifting it as the strength of his hips snapping into yours increased, making you scream when his fingers returned to your folds. 

He reveled in the wails that were piercing the silence of the room, at the force with which you began convulsing in the effort to obey him. Sucking a bruise into the skin behind your ear, he let you suffer for a few more plunges of his tip into your cervix until he felt his own climax fast approaching, uttering a permissive “Come,” until you were gripping him so hard his vision whited out for a few moments. Watching your hand come around to the back of his head, body trembling as you moaned low and near-pained next to him, he stayed inside you for a few seconds before pulling out and stepping into his jeans immediately, watching you collapse onto the bed from overexertion. 

He just reached across the bed to twist a particularly large bruise between his index finger and thumb, savoring your squeak of fear and the tears streaming down your face. 

“Best get cleaned up quick. We gotta lot’a ground to cover today.” And with that, he was walking out again. At least this time, you knew he’d keep you around. 

hello loves, as always - thank you for reading. comment your thoughts or find me on ao3. stay hydrated and have a great day! taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @theywhowriteandknowthings, @josephquinnswhore , @evyiione , @breakfastatjoels  , @millerscoffee dividers by @cafekitsune!! cover by the AMAZING @pedrosaidsheispunk. what a LEGEND. 

[sinfulslytherin]

New eternity.

Warning: sexual content

Summary: Draco lets you sleep over after your arranged husband treats you like shit.

I close the bathroom door behind me as I re-enter Dracos room.

The blonde boy already placed himself under the blanket of his huge king sized bed.

I can see the upper part of his toned chest peek out from underneath the sheets.

I don't realize my stare until Draco points it out.

"This could be all yours, Amara." Draco exclaims with a smug smirk and a sarcastic voice, clearly mocking me for staring.

"You mean your annoying ass? No thank you." I smirk while making my way over to the bed.

I make myself comfortable as I slip under the sheets.

As I move my legs, I feel something warm against my toes as I hear a shriek.

My eyes quickly wander over to Draco.

"What the hell, Amara! Keep your freezing feet on your side of the bed."

The blonde boy complains.

A grin plasters on my face as I take my opportunity to tease him a bit.

I scoot closer to him in a swift move as my legs touch his.

Again.

"You are such a child!-Sto-" Draco starts to complain again and tries to build some distance between us

but is quickly interrupted by another cold touch of mine.

Loud laughs escape my from my lips.

"Aww, are you going to cry?-Do I see some tear-"

I am the one who gets interrupted this time. Draco throws himself on top of me and grabs my arms and pins them down.

The grin that was plastered on my face only a few seconds ago vanishes completly.

I look up and stare into his cold, grey eyes.

Draco stares right back at me.

Not saying a word.

His eyes wander down to my lips and further down to my thighs, which got exposed as soon as we started moving more and more, pushing the blanket away from us.

The silence eats me up alive before he finally opens his mouth.

"You seem pretty happy for a girl who is entangled in a fake, forced and abusive marriage."

His eyes never leave mine.

"Maybe that's because I'm with you." I blurt out my feelings.

His eyes slightly widen but he tries to hide his suprise.

Did I just confess that he makes me happy?

Wait-

Does he make me happy?

My mind wanders off to the thoughts of Draco defending me against Graham earlier.

Draco saying that he cares.

I have the feeling that I might have a chance to heal when I am by his side.

The therapy session in my brain is interrupted by Dracos voice.

"It's so hard to tell sometimes."

I look up at him, visibly confused.

"To tell what?" I ask.

"To tell what's going on inside that little head of yours." Draco says as he uses his index finger to tip on my forehead.

I smile softly.

"A lot."

"Tell me."

"That would take an eternity."

"I'd spend my eternity with you."

We both fall silent.

Dracos eyes wander down to my lips.

Back up to my eyes.

And then my lips again.

He suddenly crashes his lips on mine.

He kisses me as his left hand rests on my waist and the other one is on my cheek.

His tounge enters my mouth after I gladly accept it.

His tounge fights for dominance.

And wins.

As always.

His right hand leaves my cheek and slowly makes his way to my clothed breasts.

"May I?" Whispers Draco against my lips.

I lightly push him off of me as I sit back up. Draco looks visibly confused, probably scared that he might have done something wrong.

I suddenly take my shirt off in a swift motion, leaving me in nothing more than the boxers that Draco gave me. Dracos eyes widen and I can see him turn red.

"Yes. You may." I say as I look him in the eyes.

His eyes darken as he suddenly pushes me back down and kisses me.

"You are so fucking perfect." Draco suddenly says in betweens the kisses.

His face wanders down to my breast.

He teases me by licking my nipple lightly.

Small moans start to leave my lips.

He suddenly starts to suck on my nipple, pushing me into a whimpering state.

"Fuck...you're so beatiful. Who is my beautifuly slut, hm?"  Draco suddenly asks, instantly creating a throbbing feeling between my legs.

"I-I am..." I try to answer.

He pushes himself up again as he makes his way even further down.

His fingertips reach the boxers as he looks up at me.

I nod, signaling him my permission.

He takes off the thin fabric, leaving me completly naked now.

He looks at me one last time before I can feel his lips on my inner thighs.

He kiss es his way up.

He keeps on kissing, teasing the living shit out of me.

"D-Draco-"

"I'ts Sir."  He says as he suddenly bites my inner thigh

"Sir...stop t-teasing." I moan out due to the pain.

Draco actually listens and he suddenly sucks on my clit. His tounge moving against my sex gives me a feeling of being drunk, eventhough I am clearly sober.

The euphoric feeling doesn't stop and more moans slip out of my mouth as my craving for his touch rises up inside of me.

I can feel him pushing his tounge inside.

"Fuck me..." I suddenly moan out.

Draco stops in his tracks, clearly suprised by my words.

His eyes meet mine and he seems to search for any kind of uncertainty.

"Are you sure?" He asks.

"Yes. I want you inside of me...please." I moan, craving his touch.

"Fuck.." Draco growls as he suddenly pulls down his boxers...

Read the rest here~

[radiocurrency]

FANFICTION MASTERPOST

Hi, my name is Jay and I like to write gay vampire smut.

My AO3 account is brandedforeverlame

I am currently publishing a Devil's Minion fanfic series entitled 'If You Had Life Eternal' :

All Rated E. All with Armand x Daniel as the main pairing.

1. Loving You's A Bloodsport

(4016 words)

Post 2x08 turning fic.

After Louis leaves the apartment in Dubai to head to NOLA, Armand decides to reveal all to Daniel.

2. Lestat and Daniel's Grand Adventure (Lessons In How To Provoke Your Maker)

Currently WIP, multichapter, Lestat and Daniel friendship buddy fic.

It's been one year since Daniel was turned and he still hasn't heard from his maker.

Daniel decides (against his better judgement) to reach out to the only other immortal he knows besides Louis for help to track down Armand.

Also please check out the absolutely awesome fanart my lovely friend Anna @once-delight made for this fic right here. Anna is also the official beta reader for this fic.

3. My kingdom for a kiss upon his shoulder

(3,788 words)

San Francisco, 1978:

Daniel makes a spur of the moment decision and Armand reacts accordingly.

4. Arms Tonite

(4,760 words)

Yes. The fisting fic -

It lay on their kitchen bench, framed in golden light which streamed in through the window of their Tuscan apartment.

“Uh… whose arm is that?”

~~

Daniel has never been fisted and when Armand offers to change that, Daniel can't help but make a comment that brings out the Gremlin™️

5. To All Besotted Souls

(2,564 words)

The first time Armand and Daniel have sex during the chase years.

Pompeii Ruins, Naples, 1976

And now he was here - waiting on this strange demon with whom he was pretty sure he was in love with.

Could you fall in love with the monster under your bed?

Could you fall in love with a guillotine blade as it hung over your neck?

--------

And there's plenty more on it's way. I'm almost always writing and love to talk to any fellow DM writers. Please feel free to follow/ask/dm me :)

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

TTD - And then They Were Roommates ™

Before Villain was their roommate, Hero never had any peculiar feeling about their apartment. They were grateful to have a roof over their head, but were not particularly picky about how it looked like under. It wasn’t like they had the kind of time to arrange the place. To be honest, with their working hours, they didn’t see why they would find energy left for this. As long as they had a bed and electricity, it was fine. The result was a reasonably clean room, but a rather bland place. The only thing that was really personal was the vanity in the bathroom, covered with hair products and beads of all colors. At Villain’s displeasure, Hero spent hours in front of it, because unlike some people whining from behind the door, they had their priorities well in order.

True, Hero had felt a bit insecure when Villain had entered for the first time, stopping in front of every furniture with such solemnity you’d swear they were staring at a masterpiece in a museum. Flustered, the not-so-proud owner had explained that they were not that rich, but Villain had seldom made any comment, and well, with their shadow covering them it wasn’t like their body language was readable. Maybe they were tired too, and after their place had just been destroyed by Supervillain it was understandable. They’d glistened towards the guest room and locked their door without a word.

The agency had called in the middle of that night for news. Hero, toying with their blanket, had assured their superior on the phone that yes, Supervillain had been destroyed for good, no they weren’t making it up, and oh by the way, Villain had reformed and changed their ways, hmmhmm, yep, definitively. On the other side of the line, that declaration was met by no little skepticism. After one hour of pleading, they’d at last convinced their interlocutor not to send a team to eliminate the threat. The next day, they were ordered to keep Villain under lock and key. Villain had stared when they’d shyly explained the situation to them, brandishing a padlock they didn’t really know how to use, and had only said:

“I could open this pathetic thing in my sleep.”

Given how gifted Villain was with building tools and machines, it was probably no idle boast. The good news, though, was that they’d accepted to stay in their room whenever they were left alone as long as Hero would give them an old game-boy left in a drawer for years to keep them occupied. As time passed, it became evident that Villain was an indoor creature who was delighted at the idea of not stepping outside ever again. In return, Hero had given them pretty much whatever they wanted, including scraps of metal and lots of tools. At first, they’d said nothing, but when parts of the room had began to be covered with sinister forms, they’d felt they had to put their foot down:

“You are not building a torture room in my place.”

“What else am I supposed to do, you oppressor ?”

“I’m the one paying the taxes.”

Villain had sulked for a moment after that, but then they’d suddenly asked:

“Aha, but what if my torture tools were also useful appliances?”

Hero had stared and said:

“No.”

“No as no or no as it can’t be?”

“Both.”

“You have little faith.”

Villain had immediately put themself to work. In an alarmingly short time, they’d built a tiny guillotine for the kitchen. It could cut even coconuts properly, in one strike. Hero couldn’t use it much, because it made them feel sorry for the poor vegetables (especially after seeing Villain do it, yelling “death to all of you, you feeble preys!” at a bunch a carrots), but they had to acknowledge it was a decent tool to slice a loaf of bread. Actually, Villain was good with the kitchen in general. Being disturbingly fond of cutting vegetables and fruits, it was no surprise that they’d fallen in love with the blender Hero had never used before:

“For what it is but a miniature death trap, where my innocent victims are trapped in a transparent prison and melted into oblivion by unforgiving blades?”

Hero had asked what kind of blade would be forgiving, and they’d got lightly tapped on the head with a cardboard tube for their trouble. But the outcome of all of this was a fridge always filled with bottles full of drinkable food that never got Hero’s stomach upset. Villain had even made a damn acupuncture chair which spikes looked deadly, but were in fact quite soothing. After that they’d stood up, and Hero just knew that they were puffing their chest behind their shadow:

“So, have I succeeded in my impossible task?”

And Hero could do nothing but answer:

“Yes. Completely. It’s genius.”

And it was. Really, the biggest beef they had was the time when Villain had stolen their two favorite magnets on the fridge. They’d stopped dead in front of the aro and ace pride flags that fixated the to-do lists of the day, declared that green, purple and black were traditional colors for villains and so they were “bound to have them”, had yoinked them and flied back to their room before Hero had time to react. And as much as they were for people exploring their own identity, how were they supposed to keep their groceries list in sight now?

But none of this was the weirdest thing. It was the fact that whenever Hero returned to their place with all these strange additions, it didn’t feel bad or crowded. It was the strange new and warm feeling that finally they were home, they were home, they were home.

(Though they still wanted their magnets back.)

*

Check the These Two Dorks Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with this Hero and Villain. This is how they met and now they’re roommates.

Or back to Hero x Villain Masterlist.

[mcmuerteflurry]

Lobo/muerte/death handlers HC-GN victim reader- muerte speech

!CW: suggestive and possible NSFW and google translate!

Whistling will be one of the most common sounds you’ll hear in a daily basis

You have to either be the most interesting being in existence or a Cupid must’ve used their most powerful arrow and ran out along the way

Perhaps one of, if not, the most dangerous in the Shrek universe

Would commonly call the victim conejito (bunny in Spanish) in a mocking tone

Running only motivates him to chase

An example you tried escaping him

“He will cling on to you like a demon in love with a religious woman”

Possibly going to any religious professional or spiritual professional such as a shaman or a fortune teller would all have their thoughts and astral minds clouded on your situation

It is merely impossible to escape the images of muerte wether it’s paintings, cards, cups or even posters the victim will see him everywhere

No tailsman or any religious or protective relics can save you from the personification of fear and death

The victim should get use to being in a continuous state of fear

The first time the victim hears those answers they’re at the state of confusion or laughter either way it doesn’t end right

Victim’s first time hearing the whistle placed them in the state of panic attacks or even anxiety attacks for their words are true

“Do not indulge with him for his appearance is most appealing”

“Mi amor engulf yourself in my aura for there would be eternal safety” he would announce with open arms that he has completely not recited for hours before introducing himself

“Do not feed to the delusion of his for it will consume you”

“I am indeed your one true love”

Mirrors are the reader’s worst enemy because muerte can watch them via the mirrors (like how some Jinns and demons can watch through the mirrors)

Tú pensamiento pobre conejito

Think someone can help nope! Not even witchcraft or a guillotine would get that wolf’s tongue out of your ass for as long as you cease to exist

Would destroy any form of communication with others because he believes “he knows better, he’s been on this planet since the beginning of time and knows every scenario by the”

He would hold the victim in his arms as a “protection” mechanism to make the victim feel safe in his delusions

“Mi amor, mi conejito I know what’s best for you, you don’t even have to repay me like those friends of yours just stay in my arms is all I’m asking for”

Any time you deny his assistance he would always find a way to get you to lean to him

Would purposely cause casualties to make sure you’re entirely dependent on them

“Mi conejito… I always knew they didn’t care for you only I care for you in the highest of levels because I am the only true love for you”

His sickles tallies the amount of family he has killed and is craving for many more to envelope their victim into isolation

I HC that he can interact with animals like how in some demonology books some demons can interact with someone via animals or revive and give messages

He says as the animal souls gave him the signal that your friend’s and family soul has reached the river to the ferrymen

Animal souls become a common visitor wether it is a message with gifts or regular message

You haven’t touched your drink you okay mate

The victim is either avoiding some pubs or finding hidden ones

The victim attempted to stand up and walk away but was soon stopped by a pair of arms gripping the side of their waist

Muerte’s breathe brushes against the victim’s ears

“mi conejita donde pensaste que podías correr” (my bunny did you think you could run)

Muerte would coo nothing less than sweet things whilst their hand explore the victim’s body

The victim’s breathe hitch as they try to stabilise themselves causing the bartender to question them in concern

“No one can see us so why don’t we continue this somewhere”

I don’t want to do this to you but you need to learn

If the victim managed to run that’s a miracle but disguised as a curse (Some NSFW)

Scenario A

The victim’s back has been slammed to the wall of an alleyway late at night during a festival

The victim’s hands above their head and Muerte’ touches teasing the victim under their cloak

The area getting steamy with huffing and yelps

Scenario B

The victim cannot find a proper disguise thus steals the poncho/cloak to hide in the crowd

The victim finally arrived to the back of a building to rest their breathing with their palms on the walls to avoid showing their face

“mi conejo, no puedes esconderte de mí, estoy tan en tu mente como en el área en la que resides” My rabbit, you can't hide from me, I'm as much in your mind as I am in the area in which you reside.

Was the last thing the victim heard before a leg was lifted and muffled moans escaped

“You look adorable in my poncho/cloak we should continue doing this for our ‘little sessions’ hm?”

Conclusion

“All I want from you is to act obedient and submissive under my rule is that too much to ask” he complains

He would throw the victim onto his back and walk back to an area where you cannot run nor hide

[sometimes-i-write-good]

5 + 1

Top Gun: Maverick - Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x f!pilot reader (callsign: Fallbeil)

4.4k || 5 times Bob remembers your little quirks and habits, and 1 time you remember his. 

===

Genre: Fluff, crushing, love confessions

CW: mentions of drinking, swearing

Author’s Note: Bob is such an acts of service kind of person - I can feel it deep in my soul. Also, I thought the idea of him ending up with someone who has a scary ass callsign like Guillotine (which is Fallbeil in German) despite him being a cinnamon roll would be the funniest thing in the world. || cross-posted on ao3

===

===

The first time you noticed something was because Hangman had that stupid ass look on his face again. That same one he always had, the only one he had in all honesty. The one that, recently, only ever seemed to be directed at you and that pissed you off most of all. 

“What?” He asked, but the smirk pulling his lips back into the stupid, smug fucking smile told you clearly: he knew exactly what.

“Leave her alone, Bagman. I’m not in the mood today,” Rooster said, and you could tell he meant it. HIs voice sounded surprisingly tired considering mornings were his prime time of existence. Maverick insisted on calling these meetings earlier and earlier, chinking away at everyone's stability, and it was proving to be too much for even the earliest of risers. 

Hangman scoffed, pressing his hand to his chest, and feigning offense. “Why am I always the bad guy? What if today was the day Fallbeil finally snapped and did something to me instead?” 

You rolled your eyes. “If I snapped, you wouldn’t be holding a conversation with me. Your head wouldn’t even be attached to your body.” 

“Living up to your name as always, doll.” 

Rooster slid into one of the empty chairs at the conference table, slapping down a notebook, and turned to look at you. “I’ll punch him if you want.” 

“I’m perfectly capable of throwing my own punches, thank you.” The look on Rooster’s face said he didn’t trust you not to take it too far. 

“And coffee mugs.” Hangman glanced over his shoulder; eyes trained on the spot where a cracked, open travel cup lay open. Opened and spilled, everywhere. “Which I managed to dodge.” 

“Try to dodge my-” but your insult was cut short by Rooster saying, “Coffee? You hate coffee.” 

You set your lips in a thin, embarrassed line. “He told me that it was tea.” 

“And you believed him?” Rooster snorted. 

You slunk back into your chair, crossing your arms with a pout. “It’s early! I’m basically the walking dead right now, birdbrain.” 

As with every mission of this sheer level of importance, your anxiety had been too great to let you sleep. Usually Bob or Phoenix or Rooster, the early risers of the group, would be up to go for a job or hit the gym with you. You were up well before all of them today and had taken it upon yourself to go for a run, shower, and be painfully early to this briefing. You had hoped Bob would be the first one there, he typically was, but the universe was out to get you because instead of those sweet, doe eyes behind some thick-lensed glasses all you got was a stupid pair of lips messing with a toothpick. 

“Don’t be too hard on, Rooster.” Phoenix called out, walking into the hangar with Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote in tow. “I already smoked him during our run this morning. He’s fragile.” 

Before Rooster could get all up in arms or Hangman could jump on a moment of vulnerability, Maverick walked in. He had his way to the head of the table while everyone else found their seats. “Good morning, everyone.” Tired, disjointed voices repeated the sentiment, pulling a smile onto Mav’s face. “I see we’re all ready for a busy day. What do you say we get started?” 

“Sorry, I’m late, sir!” Bob’s voice comes from behind you. “I couldn’t find the kettle.” 

Kettle, you thought to yourself, but Maverick just waved for him to sit down and continued talking. Before Bob headed over to the only open seat, by Hangman of all people, he placed a small cup of tea in front of you without a word. In your favorite mug, too. You brought it up to your lips to taste it… and it was perfect. Exactly the way you liked it. 

‘Thank you,’ you mouthed at him after he sat down. Bob just nodded and focused his attention on Maverick. You did the same, not even registering that he didn’t have a cup of anything for himself. 

–

The second time you noticed something nice Bob did for you was during poker night. Fanboy and Payback had decided tempting fate and coming out the other side had bonded you all for life. A point any of you could hardly disagree with. That mission was not something any of you were supposed to come back from. So, the idea of a movie night had been tossed around, but Payback always tried to guess the endings and Hangman tried to outdo the one-liners and Rooster just had to know if he knew that actor from another movie - needless to say, movie nights were shelved very fast. 

Then the idea of bar hopping came about, followed by karaoke night, followed by trivia night. Each of which ended up in all of you spending too much money on booze and drunkenly embarrassing yourselves with horrible vocals or blatantly wrong answers to obscure history questions. You all settled on the idea of a game night. It seemed to work well enough. A ‘family’ dinner followed by a board game. Except for the fact that Payback instead of placing bets no matter if it was CandyLand or Monopoly, which Coyote would double, and Hangman would triple. Leaving you all spending just as much money as you had at the bar. 

It was Bob who brought up the idea of having poker nights. Something with betting already designed into it so that none of you had to worry about emptying your bank accounts at the end of the night. That was the problem with setting elite competitors against one another, they never knew when to quit. 

You’d all been kept relatively close to TOPGUN, usually stationed a few hours away max. Months where distance wasn’t a problem, you all tried to meet once a week. If one of you weren’t stateside, then once a month worked just fine. Six months into poker nights so far and you’d been able to have at least one every month. Every time the list of things to bring shifted down a person, so that each time a new person would be in charge of chips or appetizers or the main entree, etc. It was a system that worked with military precision. 

Until the one time it didn’t. 

Bob was the last through the door of Payback’s small apartment. At least, it looked small with so many people crammed in there. “Here, I got special plates this time.” He raised them high above his head like a prize. Large, sturdy, and compartmentalized. Like the trays you’d get in the mess hall or for a school lunch. 

The statement caused immediate uproar.

“I was on plates and napkins!” Coyote said around a mouthful of sour cream and onion chips, brought by yours truly. And Hangman started making comments about how if no one was going to follow the list, then he wasn’t going to either. 

“You weren’t in charge of plates, Bob!” Fanboy tried his best not to get too worked up over it. He had created a spreadsheet of everyone’s responsibilities. Verifying everyone knew their roles was his main role in making sure this whole operation ran smoothly. “Please tell me you still brought dessert.” 

“I’ve got dessert. My grandma came out this weekend and made a peach cobbler.” 

The mention of his grandma’s baking ensured the pitchforks and torches were put away, for now. That woman had godly skills in the kitchen. You would gladly sit down and eat an entire cobbler of hers by yourself in one sitting.

Coyote, still hurt by his duty being impeded on, asked, “So then what are the plates for?” 

“Fallbeil doesn’t like when her food touches,” Bob said as though it were the most common knowledge in the world. “You guys always insist on getting plates that are way too small.” 

He set down the plates on the counter, followed by the pie, and went to take off his shoes and didn’t bring anything like that up again for the rest of the night. 

–

The third time you noticed something nice that Bob did for you was a day he had to leave early. A helicopter was coming to pick him and Phoenix up to take them overseas. Just for a few days, or so said those in charge, and you knew how easily a few days could change to a few weeks to a few months. 

The thought of possibly not seeing them for a while aggravated you. It meant being stuck on a ship hundreds of miles from the nearest shore without your two best friends. You’d known what you were signing up for when you first started. The military liked to keep their secrets. At any moment you could be swept away for a mission, but it still felt unfair when you woke up only to realize that your wingwoman and her WSO are replaced by strangers.

Back soon, take care. 

Not signed but the handwriting was so obviously Bob. Cursive with careful, purposeful loops. Hangman tried to tear him apart for taking so much care in his notes during the pre-briefs before the uranium mission. The insults died out fast once everyone realized he had chicken scratch for handwriting. Funny how spreading a rumor Hangman deserved the callsign Rooster over Bradley could put him in his place so quickly. 

Back soon, take care.

You stared at the sticky note, so carefully pressed against the outside of your locker. It was easy to imagine the conversation among him and Phoenix. 

“I’m leaving her a note.” 

“She’ll be fine, Bob. We’ve got to go.” 

“Four words.” 

He’d gotten into the habit of leaving sticky note updates in between lengthy letters. They held more emotion than an email or text, and you found that you liked it more than digital words on a screen. You could trace your fingers over each letter. Pretend as though he were pressed up in the seat next to you like when you’d go to the Hard Deck on a busy night and everyone would shove together in a few booths. A closeness you’d found yourself longing for in all moments spent together despite there being no reason for the two of you to share an armchair in the common room. 

You had crushes before. A few relationships littered your history of schooling, but you, like many others who had graduated from TOPGUN, assumed the sky was to be your first and only love. And then Bob showed up with his quiet, gentle ways and your heart would soar every time he walked into a room. There were days you went without talking, but you could count on some kind of a note to be waiting for you on your door or waiting for you on the control of your jet. 

Reminders that he was thinking of you. The way a best friend would. Surely. That’s all it had to be. No sense in constructing something out of nothing. Something that could wreck this perfect routine the two of you had created in one another’s lives. 

You peeled the sticky note off the front of your locker to place inside, out of harm's way. Your finger traced each letter. It was likely he and Phoenix were off somewhere with Coyote or Rooster or Hangman doing something far more dangerous than the intelligence patrol you’d been assigned to. As you swung open your locker, you wished you’d had enough sense to write him a letter before he’d left. Something reminding him and Phoenix to be safe, but you hadn’t known he was leaving. You hadn’t even let the thought cross your mind.

“Oh, Bob,” you sighed. 

A smile tugs its way onto your face. He’d left a mug in your locker. Not filled with tea this time, but with pens and highlighters and all your favorite stationary to use on your paperwork. You usually had a pencil case with you filled with pens that flowed smoothly and didn’t smudge or highlighters that didn’t bleed through the page.

He must have packed extra in his bag in case you’d forgotten that pencil case, which you had. But that wasn’t the best part. Somehow he’d managed to keep a rose alive and blooming to stick amongst the stationary. For, what it seemed to you, the sole purpose of making you smile. 

–

The fourth time you noticed something nice that Bob did for you was at Coyote’s birthday cookout. You were running late. Very late. More late than you’d ever been in your whole life to a point that you would have turned around if you could have, but you had been stuck on a highway without an exit for miles on end. The need to pee had never been stronger. 

Stuck in the literal sense. Construction fed into traffic fed into cars stopping for no reason at all fed into fender benders fed into your frustration. “Please just move!” You shouted at the trail of brake lights in front of you. All you had to do was make it to the next exit two miles away. 

But no one met your frustrated request. Instead, the standstill continued. You were destined to never arrive at this party. It had been weeks since you’d seen everyone together in one spot. Poker night had been postponed to tomorrow. Bound to be a dismal affair of hangovers and stale chips left out in bowls overnight. A slice of heaven on earth. Though, you would say that for just about anything if it meant being released from a fucking prison of a car. 

Your phone went off. The distinct sound of big band music filling your car. Bob’s ringtone. 

“Where are you?” His voice came through the other line at the same moment you shouted, “I want to rip my head off!” 

An amused chuckle filled your car which only caused you to fume further. “I’m serious, Robert. This two-hour drive has become four- maybe five. I lost count when I had to come to a full and complete stop for the three millionth time today. It would be so much easier if Coyote had a runway in his backyard. Then I could just fly there-”

“Fallbeil,” Bob cut in, “are you almost here?” 

“I’m a mile from my exit. I should be there in twenty. If I’m allowed to take my foot off the brake for more than a few seconds.” You let out a loud groan. “I’m going to stop at a gas station because I think my bladder might explode. So expect me in thirty actually-” 

Bob laughed and spoke once more, saving you from yet another breathless tangent. “I’m excited to see you.” 

You smiled to yourself. Grinning at the stopped cars in front of you like an idiot. “Yeah?” 

“Have I ever not been?” 

“I’m excited to see you too.” You could envision Bob’s own shy grin. No, you couldn’t hear the sounds of the party going on around him. He had closed himself off alone in a room to talk to you, which would mean the smile would be big and beaming. “Coyote enjoying himself?” 

“I think he might have cried when Natasha put on the birthday playlist she made for him.” 

“She’s good at that.” 

“Good?” Bob laughed. “She’s elite at it.” Then, after a moment of comfortable silence fell over the two of you he said, “Want me to stay on the phone until you show up?”  

If it were a normal poker night, you would have jumped on the offer. Phone calls with Bob had become a staple in that routine in one another’s lives. Letters and notes were not nearly enough to tide the two of you over. But today was a special occasion. 

“No,” you told him. “I’ll be there soon.” He deserved to go enjoy the party. Not be tied up in a phone call where you were bound to blow your lid if the car in front of you did not speed up. 

“Be careful. Drive safe.” The line clicked. 

Be careful, you turned the words over in your head wondering what they would sound like punctuated with a kiss every morning when you headed out the door. 

You turned down Coyote’s street, knowing exactly what you’d find. Cars taking every spot. Coyote was the most popular out of the crew. Charming personality, willingness to help everyone so much as passing by, and good looks. The combination needed for a party of the century. 

And the shouts of excitement that flowed from his backyard told you just that was happening. Without you, and it would continue to go on without you if you couldn’t find an open spot to park. Bob waited at the end of Coyote’s packed driveway, hands stuffed into his jeans. A surprising amount of muscle strained beneath the button up shirt he wore to every part. More cars shoved onto the asphalt and spilled over onto the lawn.

Bob waved, waited patiently for you to park the car in the middle of the street, and then came around to the driver's side of the car. “Hey,” he said as he popped open your door. “How was the drive?” 

You shot him a look. One that immediately set that bright, beautiful smile on his face. “Funny.” 

“Here, get out.” 

“What?”

“Get out. Go inside and say hi.” He leaned over to unbuckle you and the scent of his cologne tickled your nose. “I have a plate of food for you in the oven, on low so it stays warm. There’s one in the fridge too with the cold stuff.” 

“Bob-” 

“They’re all separated.” He waved you out of the car, grabbing your hand to help, and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, Fallbeil.” 

You saw him again ten minutes later because he had to park two blocks away and walk back. 

–

The fifth time you really noticed Bob going out of his way for you was a few months into the two of you moving in together. Solely as roommates, two best friends making the most of a perfect situation. Rent was going up, you had an extra room, and Bob had just gotten hired as an instructor at TOPGUN. The timing couldn’t have been better. 

In truth, nothing could be better. The two of you fit perfectly into each other’s lives. Bob with his early habits. Having tea on the table for you alongside the crossword section of the newspaper he insisted on reading every morning. The hardest word always filled in as a starting point. He’d saved you the frustration of straining your mind over a word you couldn’t have dreamed up in the wildest corners of your imagination. 

The preference over sticky notes as communication over texts still remained the same. Left on the mirror in your shared bathroom always signed with “be careful” or “take care.” Sometimes there is nothing of importance to say, but Bob would write those two words anyway as a reminder. 

You’d leave voicemails if it was something that needed your immediate attention - talking on the phone to Bob became a bright spot in your week. You tried your hardest to leave them only for emergencies but hearing his voice every day had spoiled you. Sometimes your mind would lock on something you would absolutely have to tell him. Then you would find yourself pulling out your phone, typing in his number, and putting it away with a great sigh. You had planes to fly, he had students to teach, and the torture of being apart for a few hours each day made returning home to him all the sweeter. Returning home to movie nights or long walks on the beach or stories of students who remind Bob of each member of the Dagger Crew. 

Phoenix would crash often when she got called back to TOPGUN, and Bradley hung around often enough seeing that Mav and Penny had made their lives here. Everyone cycled through at some point. Even Hangman had a welcome place on your couch if he ever needed it. 

There was one night Jake had spent the night. Out of the blue and completely inconvenient as was the case with Hangman, but he offered to cook dinner while the two of you were at work and you came home to a good meal and surprisingly good company. What a sight to see the three of you laughing at a small table. 

You hadn’t minded Hangman staying over. Though he did scare the shit out of you when he knocked on your door and let himself into your room to talk. “You know he likes you,” he had said, perched on the corner of your bed with that same stupid ass look on his face that meant trouble. “I think he might even be in love with you.” 

“Bagman-” 

“Hey, I come in here to tell you some life-altering news and you start with insulting me.” Hangman had let out a low whistle. “Think about it, Fallbeil.” 

“What if it ruins everything? We’re doing so well.” 

“What if it changes everything for the better?” 

You hadn’t expected those words to play in your head as often as they did when Hangman finally left. It had been weeks since you’d last seen him. Poker night was tonight. He was hosting, and you had a feeling he was going to corner you with all sorts of questions as to if you’d made a move on Bob yet. A foolish notion. Bob might not be a skittish dog, but making a move on him still might cause spontaneous combustion. You were just trying to figure out which one of you it would be. 

What could be the right time to tell your best friend and roommate that you loved him? That you have always wanted to be more? 

You thought it over as you wiped sleep from your eyes and made your way into the bathroom. Bob had left earlier than usual this morning. It was a test day for the students and he was nothing if not prepared. Likely that kind, painfully chirpy teacher in the early hours of the day. 

There was a sticky note on the mirror. As expected. Longer than usual. Unexpected. 

Took your car this morning. Saw you needed an oil change. Be home late, then he can head to Bagman’s. Hope that’s okay. My keys are on the counter. Be safe. Love you.

You traced those last two words with the tip of your finger. It was the first time he’d added those two words. 

And they fit so naturally on the note. Like they always belonged there.

–

The one time (the first time) you realized you were going out of your way to do things because you loved Robert Floyd when you went into the mall with a head full of ideas to get for Rooster’s birthday and came out twenty minutes later with one thing. One thing not for Rooster. 

A model plane for Bob. Before he’d gotten so overwhelmed with his responsibilities at TOPGUN to cease having many hobbies, he’d built model planes. It’s what had gotten him into a love of planes. At least, that’s what he had told you one night at the Hard Deck, when the two of you were shoved up against one another. 

Growing up in a small midwestern farm town didn’t give him many chances growing up to be around planes, but he’d watch the ones that flew over crops with rapt interest. He memorized flight patterns, sat alongside fields, and watched them every chance he got. Then, in the late nights where he only had his imagination to keep him company, Bob built model planes and memorized their histories.

“I’ve always wanted to be around planes.” He had slurred the words a bit back then. One too many sips of beer between handfuls of peanuts. “I kept them around me as much as I could.” 

You hadn’t been able to figure out how crop planes became fighter jets in his history, but more stories came out as the two of you moved in together. Dismissive comments about school bullies. Talks about how he knew he wasn’t the strongest, but had always felt the need to prove himself. It seemed to fit into this idea people created of him - always a bit behind the rest. You respected him for sticking to what people told him he couldn’t do and making a name for himself in spite of it all. 

And you loved that he trusted you enough to bring you in on those hobbies of his. Building fighter jets in the low light of desk lamps and night lights. Reminding you of the purpose of each piece. Telling the history of each plane. But your favorite part of all was when the two of you would build a jet you were flying and he would include all your statistics, everything you’ve accomplished, and, when you caught him in rare form, things Bob imagined you would do that would etch your name into the very fabric of history. 

“Did you get a present for Bradley?” He asked, hearing the click of the door behind you. There was a rag thrown over his shoulder. Bob turned to face you with a smile. In the midst of cooking, glasses slightly fogged from whatever it was he was cooking, and your heart couldn’t take it. 

“N-no,” you said, tripping up on your words. “I, um, I forgot.” 

“But on the phone you said you couldn’t wait to show me what you got?” He tilted his head, watching as you kicked off your shoes, and placed your shopping bag on the table. “I hope you’re not trying to sign your name onto my gift, Fallbeil. I spent three months finding a vintage record of ‘Great Balls of Fire’ for him.” 

You smiled at his thoughtfulness. “No, Robert, I will not steal credit for your gift. He’ll know it’s from you anyway.” You took a deep, shaky breath. “I got something for you instead.” 

Bob’s brows scrunched in confusion. “Me, but it’s Bradley’s birthday?” 

You pulled the model F-18 from the bag and held it out towards him. Your hands shook slightly. Silly considering the two of you were always going out of your way to do things for each other. Plates and oil changes and parking cars. Small things. Nothing as momentous as a declaration of pure understanding of one another. 

He said your name with a softness you’d never heard before. As though he were praying. 

“I love you.” You said it at the same time as him. And the words fell so naturally from both your lips. Like they always belonged there.

===

ask and you shall receive (taglist): @whoeverineedtobe​ @dhwanishah09​

[isildur-apologist]

You don’t hate Amazon you hate the Silmarillion: a genuine review of Rings of Power

It’s no secret that overall I liked RoP. I watched it with my roommate who gets very hyped about stuff like that and it made for a really exciting viewing experience, instead of the more bitter perspective I might have taken if I watched it alone. But, I also know there are some real faults with the show, I never thought it was perfect and know it’s not on par with the the LOTR movies and I never expected it to be. But, the fault for that is not on Amazon.

(I want to note that I am not defending Amazon. I hate Amazon. Jeff Bezos can catch this guillotine. I am, however, defending the creative team behind the show, which is how I will refer to them from here on out, I only called it Amazon to grab your attention. )

Here’s my point though, almost every (valid) critique I see of this show isn’t a problem with decisions the creative team made, it’s an inherent problem in any adaptation of the Silmarillion (and associated works but I’m just going to refer to the Silmarillion for brevity’s sake).

The Silmarillion, as full and detailed as it is, is a shit story. The events of the second age do not fit neatly into a clean story structure the way LOTR does because it’s not supposed to. The Silmarillion isn’t a story, it’s a history, and history is never narratively satisfying. Tolkien (Jirt, not talking about Christopher here) didn’t publish the Silmarillion in his lifetime, he only even published LOTR and the hobbit, everything else attributed to him was published after his death. He had no intent of making the other works anything other than a comprehensive history of the world he made for documentation’s sake, never with intent to publish. He didn’t even compile all the writings, Christopher did.

Because if this, the Silmarillion is really hard to adapt for a number of reasons:

1. Elves aren’t good main characters.

Elves aren’t supposed to be relatable characters, they’re aloof and static and inherently non-relatable (There are exceptions but they’re usually not regular elves. Elrond is half elven, Legolas is very young). Humans and hobbits are the relatable characters through which we view the world, because they can have human flaws and conflicts, which makes for a very human story. To make elves the main characters you need to make them interesting characters, and elves aren’t supposed to have human flaws, and so you either stay faithful and they don’t feel relatably human, or you change their to be more human and it feels disingenuous to what we know elves to be like. It’s a lose lose.

2. Middle earth is not supposed to be pretty.

A huge part of LOTR is realizing every place they visit is either the ruins of a past, much larger civilization, or a city that is a fraction of what it used to be (Gondor in lotr is NOTHING compared to what it was in the early 3rd age, or Arnor and definitely not Númenor, Rivendell is a pebble compared to Lindon and Eregion, we only ever see Khazad-dûm as a decrepit tomb instead of the most prosperous mine in all of middle earth is once was). This juxtaposition is integral to the main themes of lotr and is imperative to the story jirt was trying to tell. A story set in the 2nd age cannot have these ruins because IT IS THE RUINS. It cannot “feel like lotr” because it is what will make lotr lotr.

3. Characters (individuals) are of little importance in the Silmarillion.

As important as Elendil and Isildur (and even Anárion) are to the plot of literally the entire 3rd age, we know little about their own narratives. They are names for the people that did these important actions and that’s it. Again, the Silmarillion is a history, it’s not going to say what Elendil and Isildur’s relationship was like in excruciating detail or what Isildur wanted to do with his life before sailing to middle-earth and becoming a king. You have to write these characters a good story if you’re adapting the Silmarillion and sometimes there isn’t space to write a compelling journey in the space Tolkien left. Because they don’t have a character, any character you give them will seem “out of character” to many people.

Basically my point is that before you go and say “well this is weird or I didn’t like this choice” think about what the creative team had to create to make an interesting show out of a story not designed to be told. Sometimes they didn’t make the perfect decision, but if you were tasked with adapting something unadaptable do you think you would do it perfectly?

[rynnthefangirl]

Alicent is the one who, despite his protests, made aegon king. If anyone commited treason it's her. Aemond has only done what she had been teaching him - to make war because Rhaenyra will kill them to take the throne (she literally says this in s1).

But great to excuse her because she is a woManH and woHmen can do no crime. Her sons are what she made them, if anyone deserves the guillotine it's alicent. But that doesn't fit the bullsjit Rhaenicent they are trying to paddle.

You are right, Alicent bears a huge responsibility for raising her sons to be monsters, and she does deserve to be executed for her role in starting this war as much as anyone. I am not excusing Alicent, my blog has been an Alicent hate blog for like 3 months. I have called her out many many many times for her endless failures and awful choices. She has failed her children in the most egregious and unforgivable way.

But Aegon and Aemond are what they are, and they made the choices that they made. They were grown men, not children. They knew damn well they were committing treason and that their actions would start a war. I will not baby then bc “oh my daddy didn’t pay enough attention to me and my mommy told me my sister was a big bad monster.” People are dead because of them. Alicent being guilty does not make them innocent. Particularly not when they had the power to the end the war and chose not to. If they were concerned for their lives if Rhaenyra took the throne, there were options. The citadel, marriage pacts, renewing their oaths to Rhaenyra and seeking to form friendship and familial bonds, sending the twins to be squires and cupbearers at Dragonstone as hostages to vouch for their loyalty. Serving the traitor Green council and their own mother and grandfather up to Rhaenyra on a silver platter and laying the conquerors crown at her feet as a gesture of loyalty and fealty.

The situation is what it is. Alicent can either double down, let Daeron and Helaena get pulled further into this mess until their lives are also forfeit. Or she can do what every single Green should have done from the very start— bend the knee to the rightful queen, and let Rhaenrya enact her justice and pray for her mercy. I am not going to condemn Alicent for doing the very thing I have repeatedly said that TG should do. This is best for the realm.

I am sorry for Aegon that his own family screwed him over and betrayed him so catastrophically. I shall not feel bad when Aemond and Alicent die. But none of that was Rhaenyra’s fault, who would have gladly given Aegon mercy and a position of honor in her court had he kept faith with her. Rhaenyra and her children should not pay the price for Alicents lies and mistakes. It is now Aegon or Rhaenyra, and I will choose Nyra every time and support each and every character who does as well.

[finalfrontierpublishing]

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Vaster Than Empires by Ayezur - bound by myself. 

Bookbinding spammage under the cut.

So I fell in love with japanese stab binding and decided to do a faux stab pattern atop a case binding for this particular bind! 

I love Rurouni Kenshin, and i love how timeless the story is. This fic is very dear and close to my heart, and I am so proud to have an opportunity to hold this fic in my hands. 

Statistics:

163848 words || 452 pages 

Body text: Garamond

Chapter headers: Nipponica

This typeset was made fairly early in my binding journey hence my adherence (and passion) for Garamond font. What i was insistent on was sticking to the sakura border that surrounded the body of text, despite my printer telling me there would definitely be a white border around that. It was rather unsightly, so i decided to try to use a guillotine to remove it. Oh boy. One textblock was sacrificed to the bookbinding gods because the guillotine hates me and doesn’t like cutting square. this particular textblock is not square but i am pretending it is, for reasons. As you can see - it is also my virgin rounding attempt and it is mostly acceptable. 

I changed cover design at least 3 times - vacillating between using a shiny HTV design, using chiyogami paper and ultimately i committed to the stitchery after great indecision (and realizing my chiyogami paper wouldn’t match my bookcloth). i owe muchly to @teleportbooks​ for showing me it could be done, who did a lovely faux stab binding and i was very envious and decided i had to try to make one of my own. 

 my first try was rather ghastly - the bookcloth i chose from a mystery bookcloth pack was this awful brown that just looked hella washed out with the burgundy thread under lights (see below). I like browns but this is just --- eugh. 

i am easily convinced to redo something from scratch (I hate cutting boards with a passion) when i find something absolutely hideous. 

Moved on to using Burgundy Italian bookcloth from Hollanders with gold linen thread and voila. I am not that much of a fan of bright red and gold (it just feels FESTIVE AF to me, being an Asian in Asia) but i won’t fight what works. Endpapers came from a Mineral-themed paper pack - the endpaper is rather lumpy from the threads of the stitching but i have zero regret. 

I also applied HTV (Siser Metallic) for the title - thought about putting the title on the spine (decided against it as was trying to keep the theme of stab binding), and did the title on the front instead. Lack of foresight while i was designing - if given half a chance i would have done the title right to left instead. i also overcooked the HTV a little because it didn’t want to adhere right off the bat (this is odd, because ??? duo cloth usually hates htv more than anything, and this hated HTV more than duo). 

Completed with simple white (due to indecision, stuck to neutral colour) ribbon bookmark and cherry blossom charm. 

How much do i like doing some form of stitchery? Very much. Would like to try some embroidered spines - i’ve seen some fucking exquisite examples and i’m in an aspirational mood. 

Resources: https://beccamakingfaces.com/2013/10/05/japanese-stab-binding-tutorial-maple-leaves/ was an excellent reference for a stab binding tutorial for this pattern which i modified a little along the way. 

[mpchev]

Update on fanbinding dissertation: more typesetting, more test prints, more guillotines!

I’ve now spent 23 hours learning how to fanbind! Having SO MUCH FUN, despite the tiny bit of panic that has started to settle in — everything else also takes a lot of time, and these fanbinding hours could have been spent reading more of the abundant fanbinding / fan studies / folklore research, or working on transcriptions, or getting some writing done. Going for equal parts of “it’s all about balance” and “fuck it we ball”.

I ordered some supplies from Ratchford a few days ago — I’ll need to order some more because I was mid flare-up when I did it, so brain was mush and I forgot a bunch of things, but! I now have enough supplies to do some of the next steps.

My new best friend the blue guillotine from the last update? Not such a good friend after all, test signatures were very uneven. Mentioned I was looking for an alternative to one of my profs, and he lent me his own! (Thanks Tom!) It is also blue, I’ll miss it dearly when I have to give it back. Walking around campus casually carrying a guillotine made me feel like the most interesting person in the world, many opportunities for French revolution jokes, highly recommend.

Spent a day at the library finishing up the typesetting, and doing some more printing and cutting tests. With the actual fic on the page instead of the SFW version, so here’s a title reveal if you squint (I’m binding 5 short fics together, had to come up with something). Was worried about regular printer paper looking way too blue-white for a book, but that printer had recycled paper as an option and it looks so much better. Huge thanks to Kait for the moral support, the carrying of the guillotine when I couldn’t, and the pictures of me doing things.

Spent the night making a punching cradle out of millboard (using embroidery scissors as an x-acto knife?! do not recommend) and PVA glue, after seeing someone else posting about how easy it was. (Now, is it somewhat functional? Yes. Should I maybe have googled it a little instead of just eyeballing it in a trance state of Must Do Something Now? Also yes. Later found a great youtube video of what I should have done instead, might give it a go later.) Then punched some holes (so far, feels like I didn’t need to get an awl/my awl is way too big, but we’ll see), and then sown my two more test signatures, one with more embroidery floss and one with the linen thread I now have. Something feels a bit off in the very-thin linen thread + recycled paper + big awl + wonky punching cradle combo, not sure which one to blame, probably a bit of everything. The collection of test signatures keeps on growing!

Went back to the library the following day, printed one more test signature (in case the printer had decided to grow a new personality overnight), and then the two copies of the actual book! Sliced all the sheets in half, put them in the right order, folded the pages, arranged them into signatures, and sliced them to the actual size. Thought I messed up by folding the signatures before cutting them to size, but that turned out to be a better way to do it. They look SO GOOD and SO REAL, I am SO HAPPY, this is SO SATISFYING, I desperately want to learn how to make paperbacks next to carry them everywhere. Also want to bind bigger books. Look at that happy autoethnography face.

Next steps: sewing the signatures, getting the missing supplies, attacking the terrifying ordeal of casing those bitches.

[drunktuesdays]

YES i'm posting a lot but it's simply because i do NOT want to do my human job. the thing about fans holding tony accountable for how completely shit the women's division is that the problem is not really that they only get one match per show.

i mean--it is, obviously that fucking sucks. but that will never change until people get interested in what's going on in the women's division which no one will ever do so long as the stories suck. obviously, i'm f u r i o u s that shida lost on sunday, like that was unbelievable bullshit. but there's a world in which shida and britt REEL from this fucked up situation where this asshole outsider who (in kayfabe) consistently disrespects everything they've ever done now has the belt. and they end up linking up with nyla and maybe riho, and create this storyline where it's like--fuck the outcasts. fuck everyone who consistently devalues how hard it is to come up from the indies as a woman. fuck these jerks for showing up and immediately hogging the spotlight. and britt and nyla and shida are NOT comfortable in an alliance, and the short backstage glimpses we get are sort of reminiscent of the start of cole/mjf with the constant tension of them scorpioning each other. and they loop more originals and homegrowns into this uneasy homegrowns unionization effort, and everyone gets a chance to be like "this is my character. this is who i am. this is the side i'd take." like, wouldn't you enjoy the SHIT out of watching the bunny and skye blue discussing their strategy for a tag team match against toni and ruby, and bunny keeps saying slightly bonkers unnerving shit that skye has to be like "PLEASE stop saying you want to wear ruby's skin as a bathrobe and ENGAGE with me about whether you think we should try and put them through a table." that kind of stuff would INTEREST people and people would start clamoring for more which WOULD get them more matches and time. and when finally someone is set up to take saraya down, it feels earned and triumphant and moving. and we all say "well, it's still completely fucked up that shida got that short of a reign but in the end, you have to admit saraya's reign did SO MUCH for the division."

but i know that won't happen. saraya will end up in the exact rut jade was in, where she keeps doing meaningless squashes, week after week after week. i keep thinking about this exchange dave and bryan had after britt's squash for blood and guts. dave was like "everyone would have gotten mad at tony if there wasn't a women's match on the card," and bryan disgustedly was like "i would rather not have a women's match than a pointless 15 second squash just to satisfy the letter of the law" and dave just kept robotically saying "there had to be one." and that's how tony thinks too. if people mobilize enough to get two women's matches on any given card, sure, he might do it. but they won't be anything he put work into. it won't be part of a planned arc. there's rumors about an all women episode some day. he might do that too, and the whole thing will be randomly generated matchups that might end up being good matches but won't do anything to move anyone forward. and i don't know how you organize to get tony to care. i don't know how you convince him to think through character motivations for wins and losses and face/heel turns. it's just depressing and idk how you navigate your way out of it now without a guillotine