#or at least yet to have the requisites for

[halfling-myth-lady]

If I had a nickel for every time I randomly entered a new musical fandom by listening to an animatic of a song that then gripped me by the throat and got me into said fandom,I’d have two nickels which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice.

[lloth]

LOVE that it isnt an oc playlist by me if there isnt at least ONE vocaloid song on it

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for Karam, plus a cut for more; Billy adopts Conner and it actually goes pretty good!

The walk over to the diner is quiet, mostly. Billy tells Lynn where some things are in Fawcett and points some stuff out in the neighborhood, but Lynn doesn’t really say much back. He nods along, though, and Billy's pretty sure he's listening. 

Maybe sure, at least. 

Worst case scenario, he figures he'll just repeat himself later. If Lynn's a little too stressed or overwhelmed to really be listening right now, well, he definitely wouldn't blame him. He's a baby, basically! Everything's gotta be so new and weird and overwhelming for him right now.

Billy isn’t gonna push. Not on day one, when they don’t even know each other yet. Lynn can take his time all he wants right now. It’s not like he’s hurting anyone, or even himself. So Billy just has to be patient with him while he learns stuff, same as any little kid he’s met in the system or on the streets. 

They get to the diner and Lynn hangs back a little bit. Billy suspects Cadmus did really not prepare him for restaurant etiquette and stuff like that, considering. He’s pretty positive it didn’t, in fact. Billy doesn’t go to many restaurants himself, but . . . 

It’s fine, he figures. He just needs to be a good example for Lynn, that’s all. And that’s what he always needs to do right now, so it’s no big deal. 

He hopes he’s being a good example, anyway. He really wants Lynn to be able to trust that he is one, so he can know he has someone to learn from, so . . . yeah. 

Billy goes to the counter, politely gives their fake last name–Batman would not appreciate them half-assing the new secret identities–and tips the waitress twenty percent and thanks her. It’s kind of a lot of food, but they have super-strength and a fridge for leftovers, so he figures it’ll be fine. 

He does feel a little nauseous over how much money he just spent, though. 

Batman gave them way more money than that, Billy reminds himself as he gathers up the bags. And there’ll be more next week. And if they actually somehow run out or just have an emergency, he can just fill out the League paperwork to requisition funds to make up for it. They could spend way more than this and still be fine. 

He’s pretty sure takeout is still gonna be a special occasions only thing, though. And couponing. Couponing is definitely gonna be a thing. 

It’s just a lot of money. 

Billy gets all of the bags juggled into his arms. Lynn looks awkward again and shifts Tawky under his other arm. 

“I can carry it,” he says stiffly. 

“Well, if you wanna,” Billy says. “We could split it?” 

“. . . sure,” Lynn says, still stiff. Billy smiles at him and offers him a couple of the bags. Lynn frowns, but takes them. Billy figures it makes sense Lynn wants to help; that’s pretty normal with little kids. Like, they always wanna do what the older kids are doing, or the adults, or just whoever. So it makes sense Lynn would too, especially if Cadmus didn’t teach him this stuff to begin with. He’s learning, basically. So yeah, it’s normal. 

And also a good sign, Billy hopes, if Lynn trusts he knows what he’s doing enough to copy him. It’s even sorta cute, actually. 

. . . okay, it’s really cute, but Lynn’s kinda a teenager so he might not appreciate hearing that. 

Still cute, though. 

They walk back to the apartment–back home, which is a weird thought, Billy recognizes fleetingly but tries not to focus on right now–and Billy unpacks all the food onto the coffee table in the living room. He figures that’ll be lower-pressure than the kitchen table for their first meal together, and they can put a show or a movie on if Lynn doesn’t want to talk too much or anything. 

Lynn sets Tawky on the end of the table, looking a little awkward about it. Billy smiles encouragingly at him. Tawky doesn’t really need to eat either in his stuffed animal form, but it’s nice that Lynn’s including him at lunch. And food does still taste good, obviously. 

“What do you wanna try first?” he asks, nudging the open box of onion rings over towards Tawky. He knows he likes them. Lynn frowns, looking a little wary. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says stiffly. “Just . . . whatever.” 

“Okay,” Billy says, figuring that means he’s a little overwhelmed by the options. They did order a lot, so . . . yeah, that makes sense. “How about the soup, then?” 

“. . . sure,” Lynn mutters, and warily pulls the takeout bowl over to himself and takes the lid off. Billy offers him a spoon. Lynn frowns, but takes it. “. . . thanks.” 

“You’re welcome,” Billy says cheerfully. Setting a good example, and all.

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Choices in Silence

Author's note: Catius's next chapter. Thank you to @sleepyfan-blog for letting me borrow Cedric.

Past =-= Next

Warnings: A Bit of A Panick Attack From Ramiel, Let me know if I need to add anything.

Summary: Catius gets back to base. Warns Cedric, and they split up to warn the rest of them. Catius doesn't realize that Hura's listening in to their panicked worry. He offers a solution; come to the Chaos Base and hide out there until Chaplain Captain Petras leaves. For it's likely the Chaplain Captain and his war band will visit the base for various reasons.

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams,

Tagged continued: @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k, @ms--lobotomy @bispecsual @thevoidscreams

Tagged continued: @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

Catius had returned swiftly from the city back to the base, with only about half of the things that he was ordered to requisition from the base line human city.

He checked in and did the proper procedures to make sure that the items were in inventory and then headed in to check in with Captain Ash’val before being told to stay in the base.

He nodded and then practically ran towards where he knew Cedric was, his helmet off and eyes wide with fear as he warns Cedric about Chaplain Captain Petras being in the city. Again.

Cedric’s reaction is understandable, Catius catches the object that he had in his hands and informed his fellow Apothecary that he was going to inform the rest of the Primaris Marines that they knew of about his presence.

Cedric recovered with admirable swiftness and he says shakily, “I will tell Ramiel.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Jophiel and Claude then,” Catius says as he carefully sets down whatever finnicky Apothecary thing he’d caught as Cedric’s hands had shook and understandably grown clumsy with terror.

Cedric had been the one to find Ramiel as the other was murdered by his Mentor for the crime of being a Primaris Marine. There is much that they haven’t spoken of to their elder cousins and brothers from different Eras about what things are like in M42. Mostly because whatever they do tell them, seems to upset the lot of them. Catuis gently squeezes one of Cedric shoulders as he tugs the other in for a brief hug, gently tapping their foreheads together.

“Claude will have hiding spots in mind for us, whether we are all together or split up,” Catius said. “He… he’s with one of the Feral Warbands of Black Templars. They don’t tend to stay in base line cities in Ancient Terra for long. I... informed Captain Ash’val of- of… him and the danger he represents to you and Ramiel specifically.”

“He’s a threat to all Primaris,” Cedric points out quietly.

“Yeah,” Catius says with a nod, “But, per The Rules, if he goes after non-chapter loyalists for no good reason it will get him and his War Band into an amount of Trouble that he likely won’t want to deal with.”

“… He Challenged Lord Helbretch on his decision to allow us to live,” Cedric argues.

“And he suffered the consequences for it,” Catius pointed out with a hopeful ting to his voice.

What Catius did not notice when he’d bolted into the storage room that Cedric was in, was that another Apothecary had been with Cedric. An older Apothecary. A Chaos aligned one. Hura had paused in what he was doing when the Scout-ling Catius had burst into the room wild-eyed and spooked. Wondering if he or one of the others had found yet another wounded Primaris Scout-ling.

What he learned of, at least vaguely was about some Schism that happened within the Loyalists of The Black Templars. About a Loyalist Chaplain Captain who murdered a Loyal Scout-ling. One he specifically chose to train. Hura’s hands slowly clenched into fists. How wasteful! He’d met skittish young Ramiel, who was a quiet, and dutiful young man.

He’s quite frankly impressed that the youngster hadn’t decided to go ‘fuck it, I’m going Renegade or Chaos’ for such a betrayal. First Born brothers had done so for less. Apparently the psycho-indoctrination in M42 is far more advanced. Not that he’s surprised.

“He might come to this base,” Hura pipes up.

Both youngsters jump and whirl to face them, eyes wide. He stops himself from chuckling, youngsters occasionally forgot to check their surroundings when so upset. Which was fine, he’s honestly pleased that he didn’t register as A Threat, at least for the moment.

“As he’s a Loyalist, and even the Feral War Bands have to come to base occasionally when they are in the city for check ins on what they have seen, and medical checkups,” Hura says honestly. “Among other, various things.”

The way the Scout-lings curl in on themselves, recoiling in horror at the thought of that. The despair on their faces and mounting panic as they look at each other. Even if they do hide in this base. They have a higher likelihood to be found by him or his war band mates, simply by being in the same space.

“I have a proposal,” Hura continues, after pausing to see the impact his words are making, “You could come visit the Chaos Base in the city, for a while, once this… Petras leaves, you would be free to come and go as you please. Not that you wouldn’t before, of course.”

The Base Commander, among many other Chaos Marines had heard of Primaris Marines, but very few of them had actually ever seen, much less met a Primaris Marine. Also, he’d be stealing these adorable, competent youngsters from the Loyalists for a while.

“We will think on your offer, sir,” Catius says diplomatically. “It… your offer is appreciated?”

That sounded more like a question, but he nods generously to the youngster. It’s understandable, after all, they will have to decide, whether individually or as a group what they feel is safer. Stay in the Loyalist base where a known murderer of one of their Friends is coming. Or go to the Chaos Base, and all that entails to hide out in for a while.

“Let me know either way,” Hura says with a patient nod. “There are plenty of options. I know there is a Blood Angel and Lamenter base nearby that would be happy to take in Jophiel, and likely the rest of you as well, for a time at least.”

Catius and Cedric make complicated faces at that. Which Hura notices and tilts his head a little. Interesting reaction. Especially since young Jophiel is in Blood Angel armor, and has a very rare blessing for a Son of the Great Angel. His holy wings, and a Psyker’s power, well trained in Loyalist fashion.

“The Blood Angels do know about Jophiel… right?” Hura asks, brow furrowing.

The looks they give each other, and the suddenly placid masks on both of their faces. “What they do or don’t know isn’t something I’m aware of. Sir.”

Ah, that was from the young Ultramarine, in that smooth tone of bland nothingness. Which likely meant that no. Jophiel hasn’t reported into the Blood Angel and Lamenter base yet. Which is interesting since the youngster has been here for several months. That speaks of… something. Sons of the Great Angel, no matter the chapter tend to flock together and are quite a tight knight lot.

From what Hura knows of the Ninth Legion they are particularly protective of their Psykers, and of their brothers who have more of the Great Angel’s rarer traits. Perhaps the lad doesn’t want to be smothered for being the only winged one of his brothers in this hemisphere? Or does it imply something else about M42, something darker, and grimmer.

[haravath0t]

Beautiful Stranger

(college au!alhaitham x f!reader - inspired by laufey’s “beautiful stranger”)

Alhaitham would be the type of man to double major. As a man that loves to see connectivity from the very root of things, he’d definitely be a History/Linguistics Major.

He’s definitely the type of man to just show up to classes and leave the minute the system says it should end. A lecture ends at 10:50 AM? He’ll be out the door the minute he sees his watch change numbers. If he finds his professor to be terrible on “rate my professor”? He’ll simply come on syllabus day and test days.

The man is busy! He surely would find a way to sustain himself. He’ll probably start off as a tutor in the student center to teach students within his majors. If there’s empty days, he’d surely be the type to simply catch up on his work.

His phone would be on “Do Not Disturb '' 90% of the time. The remaining 10% is due to an argument his roommate Kaveh strikes about not seeing emergency notifications. Not that taking off the mode would make a difference anyways. The only people actively contacting him are Kaveh or other classmates from pre-requisite classes like Tighnari or Cyno.

He practically graduates with perfect grades and a stellar GPA from undergrad. It’s almost astonishing how a man that’s rarely around manages to be graduating with Summa Cum Laude honors.

By the time he joins a master’s program, he’s seeming to be set on what he wants to do now. He doesn’t seem to enjoy tutoring all too much, so professor is out of the question. However, the idea of conservation and working on archives catches his interest. Preferably, a library preservation technician. Yes, a job with minimal communication, yet a close up look at documents that he has either studied or not? It seems almost ideal!

He has already found a path to graduating with a masters degree too, already having planned out how to tackle writing his thesis with ease unlike his peers. However, there’s been a string of inconveniences he’s been experiencing lately in his own place: Kaveh. Kaveh has been hammering away at making his own architectural models. While Alhaitham didn’t really see this as a dealbreaker of living conditions, he won’t deny how his precious sleep gets lost, even if his soundproof earpieces are on his ears.

Two weeks and no improvement, he decides to go against his usual decision making and decides to make a late night stop to the library of the university. He finds it to be easy enough; he lives quite near it, and certainly no one would be there. It’s almost perfect. He finds the floor with the study rooms, finding a desk with the outlets and sitting on it with what he considers a content look on his face. However, it’s when he takes a quick look around that he realizes that he’s not the only one. There’s you.

Now, you were definitely quite the sight. You were in the study room across his, the clear plexiglass separating you both. You two were technically facing each other, yet the laptops you two were typing away at were enough to cover most of what you two were doing. He saw you with a comfortable appearance of a sweatshirt and some sweats, your position on your chair quite comfortable as you hacked away at your own work. The only time he managed to fixate on your workspace was when he was deciding to stretch his arms. He took in all the formulas on your papers, all the charts and plots you’ve made, and the handwritten notes with long words and arrows between them. He saw the word “metabolic pathways” and deduced that you were a science major at the very least.

“Alright. Cool. Back to work.” He told himself. And he was working quite well. However, he wouldn’t lie, he found the way you studied to be quite amusing. He’s passed by a good amount of students in the library when he was tutoring. Some people were quiet and worked away, some people probably brought in food, some people even cried and slammed their laptops shut. However, you seemed to be in your own little world. You had your tablet being your own main source of brainstorming, you had your papers scattered by chapters, and you had brought some food for yourself and…coffee?

The sight of the huge cup slowly being drained by your constant sipping almost made him want to chuckle. Almost. His long fingers stayed idle as he watched you quietly mouthing the words to whatever song you had in your headphones, your head bopping along with the tune.

“Hmph.” He’d grunt, going back to his work. The next time he’d look up at you is when you went to tap him on the shoulder. “Excuse me?” A voice asks, making him take off an earpiece and look back. Sure enough, it’s “science lady”, as he has dubbed you. “Yes?” He asked. He wanted to look amiable enough for you to talk to him, but you saw his plain look on his face. He almost looked…unamused. You suddenly felt so embarrassed to disturb him at this ungodly hour. “Do you mind watching my stuff? I’m going to be using the bathroom.”

The question made him scoff before he realized: Why would he need to watch over it? Everyone looked like they’d be doing nothing of the sort, but still, seeing the look on your face made him realize it was an earnest question. And so, he decides to agree. Seeing your face brighten accompanied with an earnest thanks almost made him want to smile. Almost. He saw the way you briskly walked to the bathroom, which only amused him more.

The coffee only gets to you after how much you’ve been drinking it. Though, you couldn’t get over how cute this guy looked! Did he look kinda scary? Yeah, but you couldn’t deny that he looked quite cute. Though, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was because you were cooped in your research lab so much that you found anything amusing nowadays, including this mystery guy. Still, he had interesting eyes, you had to admit it. You liked his shaggy silver hair, the way he casually came in and seemed so fixated on his work. What a shame it might be a one time thing. Oh, how did this library crush become part of your thoughts so quickly while you washed your hands.

You thank him as you return to your seat with a little thumbs up, and he only sends you a little smile back. You would be lying if you said that the little curve at the edge of his lip made you wanna squeal. What you didn’t see was that his green eyes were staring at you as you sat down, waiting for you to see a particular item. And you saw it, alright. He can tell just by the raise of your brows and your wide eyes. It was right on your keyboard of the laptop, a paper torn out of the corner of his notebook. His penmanship was quite remarkable, and the contents of it amused you: “Maybe a little water would be more efficient than that coffee you’re chugging, no?”

Alhaitham practically was curious to see how you’d react. He could only gauge your reaction from your eyes, seeing your hand reach for a piece of paper before your head disappears behind the screen. He didn’t know what you were thinking either when you passed back a paper to him. It was a blank page which only contained your handwriting: “My water bottle actually spilled on my way here.” Next to it was a little sad face next to it.

Now, Alhaitham wasn’t prepared for that type of wholesome response. In fact, he’s surprised that it went as well as it did. He saw you practically scurry back to your studying table with a tiny smile on your face, your eyes back to focusing on work. However, it did not go without you making a little scene of taking yet another sip of your coffee from your large cup. It didn’t occur to him till you gave him a tiny smile that he was stealing glances your way a little too much. He was long done with his workload for the night, yet something bolted him to his seat. There was something that kept him in this crowd of procrastinating students.

Though, it’s clear that you were trying to be diligent despite your antics. He couldn’t deny that he found the way your lips pout as you concentrated on an endearing sight, or that you were the one he’s been oddly eyeing in this busy space. He was a bit let down seeing that you wouldn’t be looking his way for a while. You didn’t look at anything but your work until a push of a chair is heard, the tall man is seen making his way out. Your eyes carefully watch him with some sort of melancholy stirring in your heart, wishing he stayed longer, or that he wrote even just one more note to you.

Little did you know that as Alhaitham kicks off his shoes at his house’s foyer, he’s left thinking of a particular science girl chugging on coffee, clinging onto the post-it with a particular someone’s scribbles and sad face. Little did you know that the man was thinking of an excuse to visit the library tomorrow night, wondering if you’d be there.

[lorei-writes]

Character Thoughts: Clavis & Chevalier #1

Brothers: The Cradle of Their Issues

Chevalier and Clavis' relationship is tense from the very beginning. Many may argue that it's all due to Chevalier's difficult attitude. However, is that all? In today's episode of Character Thoughts, we shall explore the topic.

[Contains game spoilers.] // ~ 500 words

Clavis' Side: Attitudes

Chevalier's Side: Envy

Clavis' Side: Attitudes

To see matters from Clavis' perspective, we must realise that both he and Chevalier are forced to play certain roles, on top of being assigned a set of pre-requisite notions from the day they were born.

For years, Chevalier is considered to be the king's firstborn. His mother comes from an influential family. He's exceptionally talented, but more than anything, he becomes aware of the expectations set out for him very early on. He grows while moulding himself into the embodiment of what royalty should be, with very little regard for anything else. Why does he do that? Because that is what he concludes to be the most beneficial approach, even at the cost of his personal feelings.

Meanwhile, Clavis? Clavis was not born within any legitimate union. Worse yet, he was not a planned child to say the very least. His family? Nobles in servitude of Michels. Even before he came to be, he could be seen as "worse", yet he is expected to face the same expectations as Chevalier.

Things do not end there, however. On top of all the expectations come comparisons. Clavis is younger, yet every aspect of him is meticulously measured against the older and exceptionally skilled Chevalier. (The age does matter, as even a year can make a huge difference in case of young children -- meanwhile, nobody seems to pay any mind to that). Wherever he goes, he can be sure to see people refuse to acknowledge him, simply because of being "just" himself.

If we now take a step back, we may notice that all -- all -- of this is prompted into being by external forces. Neither of the brothers chose to be born into this position. Even Chevalier's cold attitude towards Clavis and his ruthlessness, his choice to cast aside his feelings, could be presented as a resultant of their personal circumstances. (More on Chevalier in this context can be found here; Let's also notice that Belle is the first person to prove value of feelings to Chevalier -- this speaks volumes about what sort of things he must have seen in childhood in particular.)

Chevalier's Side: Envy

There is one thing Chevalier wants that he doesn't admit even before himself. It is the sole desire he held in childhood, but violently discarded in his adulthood: to be loved.

And it is the one thing that Clavis has an abundance of, while he is starving.

Chevalier can do everything right, but no matter what, no love follows. He thinks he was born a beast and thus accepts this role, with everything it entails. It does not mean he takes pride in it. All his perfection is completely irrelevant. Clavis, despite his flaws, is bathed in affection. Something Chevalier could never accomplish for himself.

Meanwhile, Clavis? He envies the very thing that made Chevalier's wish an impossible thing.

It isn't Chevalier's fault that no adults in his life could show him love. Likewise, it isn't Clavis' fault that his worth was only ever measured in relation to Chevalier.

--

As boys, they weren't in a position to understand each other's perspective. As such, in his struggle to be acknowledged, Clavis has overlooked a single thing: Chevalier did acknowledge him, and has continued to do so since.

--

@scorchieart , because we talked about this and I promised to put my thoughts on this to paper. :)

[swordbisexual]

Marcher Blended

Cat and Blackwall share a drink, part one. 1k words

--

The Inquisition is a small operation. Tidy, for what it is, and run well enough, but there is still not enough of it to do more than scratch a few breastplates and nick a few blades. Blackwall can’t help himself as he walks his own watch through Haven; he makes a list of what ought to be done, though who this list is for, he could not say. It’s not his place to give orders anymore, and he’s yet to receive any to follow, though he’s still undecided of yet whether he’ll truly follow all of this through at all.

More drills. More men at work on the fortifications, at least double the number hammering away at the reinforcements right now. More arms, and more armor, though without the proper materials, the need for more is as good as wishing on stars. He could bring his concerns to the Inquisition’s commander, perhaps, but all of those at work at the top of the heap seem stretched thin enough as is, and prone to view his sensible suggestions as little more than the nagging of an old busybody.

He comes to a stop back at his usual post by the smithy and sighs. Not his place anymore. He has to remember that, lest he draw too much attention to himself and draw the kinds of questions he’s been able to avoid in his solitude for years now.

He doesn’t usually turn to drink just to keep himself warm, but it’s bloody frigid up here in the Frostback snow, and he’s taken to having a nip here and there when he comes to a pause. The bottle he draws out is as meager as the rest of his possessions: a poor green glass, unlabeled, with only a few drams left sloshing around the bottom. It’s Free Marches whisky, that he knows, but the kind of brew mixed together from one too many different malts, aged only just enough to take off the worst of the bite and likely better suited to being used as fuel for a torch. He takes a sip straight from the bottle. It burns going down, which is warming enough, and he makes ready to shove the cork back in and turns his face up to look once more at the eerie green glow of the Breach.

“How is it?”

Maker, but he’s not used to being in a place where a voice can come up on him like that, much less the voice of a lady. Blackwall tears his gaze away from the hole in the sky and turns to look at the lady in question: Lady Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, and in a flash of honesty brought on by the tingle of terrible whisky on his lips, likely the reason he agreed to join the Inquisition in the first place.

He squints back up to the sky, trying to think instead of honor, and duty, and the staunch reasons a Warden might join the fight for the good of the world. “Still unnerving to look at, same as last time we spoke of it.”

Cat Trevelyan crosses her arms and shakes her head with a smile. “No. The whisky.”

“Ah.” Blackwall looks down at the bottle. “It must reek something awful, for you to be able to tell what it is.”

“Next to the horses? No.” She delivers the last word on a soft laugh, a sound that’s at once youthful and wise, a strange sort of dichotomy that’s held fast at the back of Blackwall’s mind ever since he first looked her in the eye. Holding out an open palm, she nods at the bottle in his hand. “Let me see it.”

He tries a jest, carefully, cautiously, wondering if perhaps she might laugh again. “Is this some Inquisitorial inspection, my lady?”

She closes her fingers around the bottle’s neck, and Maker above, she does laugh again, a rare and wonderful sound. “Hardly. Unless you mean inspecting that you’ve got spirits fit for human consumption.”

“Come to requisition my personal stores?” She’s easy to talk to - too easy - and he’s been without this kind of company for too long. “Go on, then. For the good of the Inquisition.”

Cat lifts the bottle to her nose and her brows shoot up with a start. “Maker. That’s a Marches peat if I ever smelled one.”

Blackwall reaches out to take back his whisky, though he doesn’t grab for it, expecting instead for Cat to simply pass it over. “And a few more besides.”

She lifts the bottle to her lips and tilts back, and he sees her throat bob behind the folds of the silk scarf bundled loosely around her neck. It’s a lovely neck she has, with wisps of ash-blond trailing along the back where some of the finer, shorter hairs at her nape haven’t held fast to the otherwise neat braid that loops around her head. He has no idea how young she is; surely too young for him to think of her this way, and even if she wasn’t, he can’t be thinking like this of the woman who holds the world’s salvation in her palm.

With a shiver and a shake of her head, she blinks away the tears that spring to her eyes and peers at the bottle a little more closely. The way she wrinkles her nose says that she’s not satisfied with whatever she’s been able to divine from the glass - that is, if mages can do that sort of thing, and Blackwall realizes he hasn’t the faintest idea what she can do besides summon a storm from her hands and make him feel like he’s brushed up against lightning itself with only a word - and she finally hands it back over. “I’ve had worse, but I have to say, I’ve certainly had better.”

He pushes the cork back into the bottle, smacks it once with his palm just for good measure. “Can’t be too choosy, traveling the lonely Warden’s path.”

She flashes him a smile, wide and winning, and he feels a burning in his belly from more than the drink. “Then I’ll have to bring something better next time.” 

[useless-catalanfacts]

A new rule to increment discrimination

Context:

Public healthcare is one of the places where the most Catalanophobic interactions are reported. In 4 years, more than 100 Catalan speakers have reported that they have been denied healthcare or otherwise discriminated against for speaking Catalan, or were unable to access any healthcare in Catalan in a Catalan-speaking territory.

From disabled people who only speak Catalan being refused any medical attention unless they speak Spanish (which they don't know how to speak), to a man calling the ambulance but the healthcare worker who answers the phone spends the time scolding the caller for not speaking Spanish instead of calling for the urgently-needed ambulance, to many, many, many, many, many, many doctors telling patients "either you speak in Spanish or you leave", and many others given choices that link their language to shame: "would you rather speak Catalan or your son get cured?", "do you want to speak Catalan or do you want a vaccine appointment?", or being told "[derrogatory/infantilizing word for "woman"], you're making me waste time" for seeking medical attention as a Catalan-speaker.

Lack of access to healthcare is a systemic problem for Catalan people, who are often forced to use Spanish if we want medical treatment in our own country.

People should have the right to access public services (that they pay for with their own tax money) in the language of the country. Can you imagine an English speaker in England not being able to see any doctor or nurse who can attend them in English? Or in French in France, or German in Germany? It doesn't happen because speakers of the dominant language have the State on their side, but Catalan speakers have the Spanish (and French, in the case of Northern Catalonia) Government actively working against us.

And, more than anywhere else, in a moment of great vulnerability like the medical setting, it's very important that patients can speak their own language and not have to worry about translating concepts, they need to have the confidence to speak clearly on what happens to them and be focused on the issue, not on word choice or accent of this second language. Even less be worried about possibly facing discrimination for it.

The new rule:

The new Government of the Valencian Country (a coalition of the right-wing party PP and the fascist party Vox, both Spanish supremacist parties who make the hatred against Catalan/Valencian one of their main campaign points) has announced yet another way to increment that discrimination.

Until now, to decide who to hire for public jobs, there was a system of points, where each kind of certificate and qualification gave you some points. Speaking the local language (Valencian/Catalan) was already not a requisite —legally creating the situation where doctors and nurses can not know any of the language spoken in the place where they work. But, until now, speaking the local language at least gave some extra points.

Now, this new Spanish supremacist regional government has decided that knowing Valencian in the Valencian Country to work in a job with public interaction is worth less than speaking any language of an independent EU state. This means that you get more points for speaking, for example, Latvian, Swedish, Maltese, Slovak or Lithuanian, than for speaking the language of the place where you will be working and where you will be talking to people.

My full respect for speakers of all these languages, but (as an example) a hypothetical Estonian speaker who you might never even encounter in a Valencian town should not be worth more than the very real Valencian speakers that you will surely encounter working in the Valencian Country.

This rule is another step to legally protect systemic discrimination and to make it continue in the future.

Note: Valencian and Catalan are two names for the same language. They're being used interchangeably.

[dnickels]

RE: 5x05. I have no idea how much I'm supposed to read into this, but that has never stopped me before:

It's VE Day. Havers is back in England. The post office, telephone system, communication infrastructure etc all still work. So where is Cap's sense of urgency coming from? He knows the full name and regiment of a serving officer, a letter will get where it needs to go, they're very good about that over there. Yes, Cap's been waiting, but its been six years, he can wait a little longer-- hang out in the bushes until he sees Haver's car drive away and bang on the window, if he insists on being an insane person (<3). Figure out where he's billeted. Japan hasn't surrendered yet, so I suppose there's a chance Havers could get shipped to Burma or something and potentially die there, but he's not going to go straight from the cocktail reception to the troop ship, especially if everyone there is about to get "Hitler defeated"-levels of drunk. ("They're all red tabs, surely decency and decorum--" they are going to roll those old soaks out of there in wheelbarrows)

The urgency isn't because Havers might die. I think Cap knew his time was short.

He's a middle aged man in tolerably good shape, all that ration food aside. He make good time on his morning jogs, and his biggest ailment is 'creaky knees'. "Widowmaker heart attack out of nowhere" isn't an unheard of COD for someone who seems otherwise fine, especially someone who has been under a fair amount of stress (six years of wartime, including the fucking Blitz would do a number on my heart) but his sudden relocation makes me pause. It's only been about a year since he got relocated away from Button House, right? What was all that about? It's presumably still requisitioned, given that they're throwing a swanky victory party there and Heather Button is nowhere to be seen, but has the weapons program been disbanded? Or was there some reason to pull the CO out of a high-stress position and send him to the beach to take potshots at seagulls? (I am being glib here-- the coast was NOT a stress-free place when you can see your enemy just across the Channel). I genuinely forget what he said he was doing in season three-- was he even still in the army at all, or did they send his ass to the Home Guard? Even they got a campaign ribbon.

I think Cap made one last push to get to the front, and while its very clear that this dingus should under no circumstances be on the front line (<3) they humored him with a medical-- and found something really troubling. Or maybe he went in of his own accord, the old flutter, or maybe it was just a routine checkup. Either way he got some very serious news, so sorry old boy, just one of those things, could be any day now-- best make sure your affairs are all in order.

Hence the single-minded desire to meet, once last time. Everyone else clearly drove-- did he walk all the way from the train station, down the country lanes? Did he feel a little short of breath scaling all those walls? Did every set-back and stressor make him more determined-- just give me a little more time, just a little more time...

It could also be that he just got yelled at so hard he died of it, which is almost certainly how I will go, but that was my immediate impression and it has not left me, nor have I known peace. I know there's a few holes in my theory but I haven't talked myself out of it yet. For me the kicker is that he experiences at least ten devastating emotions in the last moments of his life, but "surprise at entering cardiac arrest" does not appear to be one of them. It looks more like grim acceptance. Stoic in the face of death-- a soldier to the end.

[edutainer2022]

Inspired by conversations with @janetm74, here's a little thing based on the idea some time very early on in Jeff's fledgling business phase and before nuclear power got banned, and when the kids were small, the Tracies and the Van Arkles of the Uranium Empire might have been in each other's orbit through mutual acquaintances in high places. This was supposed to be nothing but laughs and wee shenanigans, but hey! Some angst and foreboding seeped in.

BEFORE THE DARK

The dinner ran it's course all the way to coffee and cigars at a drawing room overlooking the gardens of the Creighton-Ward manor. Just as the conversation shifted inevitably on to new bills regulating the nuclear energy production and radioactive ore mining, as well as the looming possibility of a big war. The men stayed standing in a close circle, voices hushed and tense.

Summer evening in the British countryside peeked in through the glass terrace doors with wiffs of the warm wind, infused with birds chirping and gleeful shrieks of children, playing outside, finally free of the formal confines of the dinner table. Jeff Tracy brought his little platoon of sons over to visit Lord Hugh. The Van Arkles too had their young son and daughter in tow. The elder boys, by the sound of it, were now wreaking havoc on the immaculately manicured lawn. The Tidy Twosome, at least - three year old John and Penny - were quiet and primly engrossed in a mutually fulfilling task of navigating a picture book.

The sudden patter of little feet on the terrace tiles and a painful yelp interrupted the cadence of the talk, as a five year old Scott ran inside - all wild blue eyes and windswept curls - made a beeline for his Dad and hid behind Jeff, hugging his knees for extra protection. Jeff barely had a chance to glance down at his (usually) fierce and fearless eldest, as the latter was closely followed by a tiny running girl, brown hair in two matching pigtails, now askew, brandishing a pool noodle about twice her size. The girl was eliciting something closely resembling a war cry. Jeff could feel Scotty squeeze himself into the adult's leg tighter. Jeff reached down and hoisted the boy up into his arms. He saw Willem Van Arkle do the same with the girl, who was yet to relinquish her weapon and waved it dangerously close to Scott's head. Lord Hugh was exercising all of his aristocratic poise not to laugh out loud. Jeff tightened the hold on his son.

"What's going on, Bluejay? Didn't I tell you to look after Virgie and Johnny after dinner?"

Brilliant blue eyes grew even wider, if it were at all possible. Scotty squirmed in Dad's arms to point outside, then at the militant girl.

"I WAS, Daddy! SHE wanted to hit Virgie, but Mommy says I should never EVER hit a girl so I created a dive... diva... diverzhon and she HIT ME!"

Lord Hugh gave up and was laughing by that point, trying not to spill vintage cognac on an antique rug. Jeff tried, unsuccessfully, to school his face out of an amused smile.

"SHE is Marion, right Scotty?"

"Yes, sir."

Van Arkle Sr. was frowning worried at the girl in his arms.

"What did we talk about, missy? We're guests here. We don't go hitting people."

Little Marion appeared less amenable to the idea and directed a glare at Scott, more befitting a mortal enemy than a preschooler. Both fathers put the kids down at that, but Jeff made sure to requisition the pool noodle from a grumpy Marion.

"You two go outside now and play nice. Bluejay, you make sure Virgie doesn't wander off and get lost in the park, okay?"

Scotty sketched an eager salute and beamed up at Jeff.

"K', Daddy!"

Ever the southern gentleman, he even offered a hand to the young lady. Marion contemplated his open palm, a little sticky with freshly mowed grass, slapped it forcefully and took off running outside with a yell:

"Tag! You're IT!"

Never the one to turn down a race challenge, little Scotty was sprinting off in a second, hot in pursuit. There soon was a sound of kerfuffle in the garden maze. Apparently Marion's brother and Virgil had joined the fray.

Van Arkle and Lord Hugh collapsed into the leather chairs, both sniggering. Jeff spared another moment scanning the far perimeter of the spacious grounds, making sure he didn't need to intervene.

"Told you, Tracy, the kids would take it on like a house on fire."

"That's one way of looking at it."

Jeff turned back to face the two men, steel eyes going a shade darker. Lord Hugh's face hardened as well.

"Now, gentlemen, what do we know about Bereznik repurposing those old nuclear warheads?"

Children's laughter drifted back inside through the open doors, but the air got chilly before impending dark.

[babybluebex]

GASP an idea just popped into my head

so imagine: you’re dommy’s actress/singer/whatever gf and you’re at an event and it’s like summer or smtn and it’s super hot

and ofc you’ve dressed for the weather (some super cute sundress that dom swears he’s gonna tear off you later) but you’re still like sweating your theoretical balls off

so dom offers u a sip of his water cause you have yet to grab a drink and like a pap snaps a photo of it

AND THE INTERNET (tumblr) GOES WILD

people are all like “omg that’s so sweet” and “wish it was me” but then there’s someone who’s like “dominic dominic aren’t u worried you’ll get cooties or smtn” (it’s bella probably) and he just responds w smtn like

“i don’t mind having her cooties”

anyways. just a thought .

oh my god yes, he's so sweet, cuz he's wearing a suit and a sheer shirt and you're worried about him, but he's like "nah sweetheart i'm fine, here, take a sip" and he'll hold the bottle for you as you sip at the straw and he sorta says "watch your lipstick" and you're like "i know how to drink water, baby"

and the picture that starts circulating is you sipping at the straw but making big does eyes at dom, and he's got a faint smile as he watches you, and obviously people online are eating it up, calling him a "booktok boyfriend" or whatever (i know nothing ab booktok, but i feel like tiktok would take the picture and RUN with it), and it gets posted in a carousel that like vanity fair posts about the event, and bella comments "gross, in front of everyone?? it's bad enough you guys do that in front of me" and dom comments "yeah well that's the least of gross things that happened that day" and the ensuing comments from fanpages like "UM DOM??" and the requisite "IS DOM FREAKY??"

[corazondebeskar-reads]

well it's love, make it hurt - chapter two

well it's love, make it hurt series

two: watch you hang on every word

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: The Mandalorian teases you on a hunt, and you get your revenge.

Warnings: established d/s relationship but only undertones present here, dirty talk, teasing, bounty hunting, reference to alcohol, mild canon-typical violence, sometimes reader can have a turn being a menace as a treat

Originally written for Kinktober 2023 - Day 11: Exhibitionism/Teasing, inspired by @absurdthirst’s Kinktober 2023 prompt list

also on ao3

3 ABY - Summer

“Got eyes on the quarry yet?” you murmur into your drink, taking a tiny sip to keep up appearances. The cantina is a small, but airy, wooden dome. The heavy tarps had been rolled up to let the breeze through the windows, unfortunately also allowing the swollen afternoon sun to shine in right in your line of sight, unable to see more than black shapes at the entrance.

“No, but I’ve got eyes on something else,” Mando says from on the roof across the path, sniper rifle poised and the sun at his back.

You roll your eyes exaggeratedly, knowing he had a good enough view of your profile to catch the movement.

It was your third day staking out the target's alleged watering hole, and coming back another day would be pushing it. Nobody stayed here for long without a reason, and you were running out of them. It was bad enough that you’d had to actually make notes about the local flora to keep up appearances.

“This is, like, my least sexy disguise,” you say. It was also one of your usuals. Nerds, as it turned out, were on the same page as hunters about practical clothing with plenty of storage. You had the requisites for your cover: binocs, glass tubes, tissue samples from various bushes and sprouts, small clippers, and an assortment of tools for gathering specimen. The less obvious pockets had explosives, a switchblade, smoke grenades, and more.

The rusty orange vest and dark olive shirt hung loose enough around your torso to conceal the blaster tucked into your waistband. A commlink is nestled in the ear facing the wall, behind a curtain of your hair.

“I don’t know,” he muses. “Those shorts are pretty short.”

“What has gotten into you today?” You already know the answer. You don’t fuck on hunts, too wary of getting distracted. But the two bounties before this were on the same planet, and now it’s been over a week since you had touched him. And maybe you had left the fresher door open this morning, hoping he would come in, but he didn’t.

He definitely watched, though.

You, at least, had your drink and your datapad. He had nothing to do but watch, and his mind kept replaying filthy memories from between your thighs.

“Like you aren’t thinking about it too,” he says, voice low and rumbling. “I bet you’re starting to soak through those little shorts.”

You don’t respond, swirling the drink idly in the cup and trying to focus on the botanical database.

“I can see your nipples through your shirt, cyar’ika,” he says. “Is it cold in there?”

“Shut up,” you groan. Every time you responded, you had to take a little sip as a cover. At this rate, you were going to end up actually getting drunk.

“So you’re not thinking about what I’m going to do to you when we get back to the Crest?”

“No, I’m thinking about getting off this damp ass pit of a planet.”

“Hmm. That’s too bad.” He wasn’t actually lingering on you through the scope. He was doing his job, keeping watch, and fastidiously ignoring his half-hard cock. “I was going to help myself to something sweet before we left.”

You cursed through gritted teeth. “Behave,” you hiss.

“That’s my line.”

You could hear the smirk through the crackle of the commlink, so you stretch a hand up to scratch the back of your head, middle finger extended.

He laughs, and even through the double distortion of his helmet and the line, it makes you smile.

“Hey, shit, here—” he cuts off, static buzzing.

Your smile wilts as fast as it had sprouted, but you hold your body in the relaxed slouch over the datapad, still idly twirling the cocktail in one hand and annotating something in meaningless shorthand.

The line clicks twice, and you move to stand. Another being comes around the corner of your booth, and you stumble right into them, knocking the violently green remains of your drink over their tan shawl.

“What the hell?” they begin to unwrap it from their neck.

“I’m so sorry, here; please, let me help,” you tell the tall Pantoran woman. You reach for your little napkin on the table and grab for her shawl with the other, tugging her to you with it. The hand that went for the napkin comes back with a blaster, pressed between her shoulder blades where the shawl hung down.

She freezes.

“C’mon, let’s go,” you murmur in her ear.

She turns her head side to side, looking with pleading eyes to see if any of the other patrons had noticed her predicament. If they do, they know better than to care.

“I can pay.” She still isn’t moving.

You nudge her with the nose of the blaster. “Outside.”

In the alley behind the cantina, Mando leans casually against a wall. He has one leg bent, foot against the wall, arms crossed. “Took you long enough,” he says when you shove the bounty toward him.

She stumbles and screams when she sees him.

You cover her mouth with your hand, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, he’s a big, scary Mandalorian. Shut up about it.”

Mando forces her arms behind her back and claps the binders on tight, magnetizing them to the side of a stack of crates.

“What’re you doing?” You try to ask, but he crowds you against the wall in seconds, gloved hands running down your sides.

“Need you,” he huffs.

“Are you kriffing kidding me?” the quarry yells.

Mando puts one hand on the holster facing her, and she falls silent.

“C’mon, baby, please.”

You go to push him off and roll your eyes, but at the last minute, decide to wrap your fingers into the cowl of his cape instead. “You need me now, huh? Got yourself worked up?”

He squeezes your waist in warning, but lets you move him so your positions were switched. Well. He cooperates when you tug on his cowl. You aren’t stupid enough to think you could actually move him when he was in full beskar. He was like a broken repulsortank.

His head falls back against the wall when you sink down to your knees in the filthy alley. The quarry tries very hard to look anywhere else. You palm him through his trousers, and he groans, clenching a gloved hand in your hair.

You nuzzle your face against him, pressing kisses through the fabric. He reaches down to pull his cock out, but you wrap a hand around his wrist and use it to pull yourself to your feet.

“Where’re you going, sweetheart?” He tries to pull you closer, and you duck out of his reach, laughing.

“We’re on a job, Mando, where do you think I’m going?” You call over your shoulder, already walking out of the alley and leaving him to grab the woman.

“Gonna pay for that,” he warn.

You spin around and grin. “No, I’m not. We’re not home, sweetheart.”

You turn and keep going, missing the way he stops for a moment, jerking the bounty in the process.

Home. It rings in his head, ricocheting off the helmet and his boner-addled brain.

“Should have just shot me. Then I wouldn’t have had to see that,” the bounty grumbles.

He snaps, “Shut up,” and gives her a harsh shove forward, following your leisurely path back to the Crest.

*title from "Sink Into Me" by Taking Back Sunday

[pavlovianfuckery]

darth tantrum, space OSHAs worst nightmare

MASTERLIST

I wrote this and 4 other oneshots back in 2016 after TFA came out, but between moving house and my pc breaking this is the only surviving part, this one was number 4.

pssst darth tantrum isn't nearly as good of a dirty talker as he thinks he is but nobody tell him

2.5k-ish of spanking, some inappropriate use of the force and some general vag shenanigans under the cut

After yet another mind-numbingly dull shift you're making your way back to your quarters, though maybe a bit more cautiously than usual. It's been a few days since the last encounter, and you'd spent more time than you'd care to admit replaying it in your mind over and over. Granted, with the way the General has been acting lately like something crawled up his ass and died there, it's been a pretty convenient way to tune him out.  Finally reaching the door to your quarters you let out a sigh of relief as you step inside, a bit proud to have made it without being caught unawares again. Shrugging the uniform jacket off you look forward to a nice long shower and just relaxing for the rest of the evening, far away from angry ginger men in too big coats. If this keeps up you might apply for a transfer soon, even sanitation crew would be preferable at this point. Kicking your shoes into the corner you turn the light on and freeze in place. Aw, shit.

Lounging in the room's only chair is the very same Force-warrior you'd been trying to put out of your mind for the last few days. He's sprawled out nonchalantly, long legs crossed at the ankles, the very picture of leisure. At least this time he's elected to forgo the stupid cape. "You've been avoiding me." He crosses his muscular arms, his voice gruff. "That ends now."

You briefly fantasize about ejecting him and his theatrics through the closest airlock but doubt it would go very well for you, even if he was unarmed. Eyeing the hilt clipped to his belt, you recall the last encounter. Heat pools between your legs, making you shift uncomfortably on the spot.  "Do you have a habit of breaking and entering the staff quarters, or what?" The words really aren't coming out with the confidence you were aiming for so you do the next best thing and mirror his stance, all scowl and crossed arms, though the effect is much less imposing when you do it. "You really need to get another hobby."

The taunt clearly gets to him and he snaps of the chair lightning-quick, every line of his body tense with barely restrained fury as he stalks across the small room, saber in hand. "And you need to learn some respect." He all but spits the words in your face. Even with his shoulders hunched he towers over you. "I am your commander and you will address me as such."

Deciding to press your luck, you roll your eyes. "Or what? You're clearly far enough under the General's thumb to keep from murdering his staff, if that's what you're trying to threaten me with. Maybe you should try asking nicely?" The blade in his hand screams to life, carving a jagged furrow in the wall next to you, the durasteel parting like butter.  "Really?" You try to sound bored as you survey the damage. All things considered it's not too bad and you could probably requisition a repair droid to get it fixed in short order, but now your quarters smell like burnt metal. So much for a quiet evening in.

The rod of unstable light narrowly misses you this time. Ignoring the sweat starting to prickle on your forehead, you stare him down. Or up. Fuck, he's massive. With a growl he punches the wall only inches from your head, the impact deafening.

"I will tolerate no further insubordination from you." Grabbing your collar, he drags you sputtering and kicking to the chair and simply sits down, hoisting you across his lap like a sack of corellian potatoes . The seams of your trousers crack and pop when he roughly yanks them down, exposing your ass to the chilly air. Then smooth leather glides over your bare skin and you bite back a gasp. "What's this? Have the laundry droids broken down, perhaps?"

He lets out a puff of laughter as he gives you a quick slap, making your cheeks jiggle. Face burning you stay quiet, refusing to give him the satisfaction. The saber is back in his belt-clip, the ugly thing taunting your helplessness, just inches from your rapidly heating face. "Or could it be that you've wanted to be ready for me?"  Even the vocoder can't fully disguise the mirth in his voice. "Let me go, you complete and utter asshole!" You try to struggle free, but the broad hand at the small of your back keeps you pinned in place.  Your outburst is met with a bark of distorted laughter and another slap. "I really need to do something about that mouth." Roughly squeezing one of your cheeks, he hums. "Maybe I should wash it out with my cock?" Another slap, lower this time, nearly making you yelp. "But you'd like that, wouldn't you?" 

Ducking your head, you hope that he doesn't see the wanton look on your face proving him right. The next strike hits across the crease between the buttock and thigh, the sting reverberating through your core. "Answer me!" He snarls. You squirm but stubbornly stay silent, praying he won't notice the wetness pooling between your thighs. A few strokes later those hopes are dashed as his gloved hand comes away from your reddening skin slick. Pausing, he studies his glistening palm for a moment, then groans. "What a nasty little slut you are." He tilts his hips, grinding his growing erection into your side. "Stop fighting me and just admit that this is what you want."

The strikes rain down in an unrelenting pace until your skin feels like it's glowing, but you refuse to give in, biting your lip to prevent any sound escaping. After a particularly punishing blow, he runs his hand almost soothingly over you. "This can end, you know," he murmurs, "All you have to do is give it up and submit to me." You can't suppress the small whine that escapes when he places the pad of his finger at your asshole, rubbing lightly. "Just give in, let me own you..."

Using your own juices to ease the way he starts sliding the digit in torturously slowly, your resolve withering by the minute. "Fuck!" you gasp, nearly boneless in his lap now. "What's that? I don't think I heard you." His voice turns mocking as he presses a second finger to you, circling the entrance. "Perhaps this is what you want? Or maybe you would prefer my cock?"

"Fuck you, and your shitty sword!" You choke the words out, seemingly stunning him into silence. The moment seems to drag out forever, and then he jerks his finger out with an annoyed grunt, an abrupt wave of his hand wiring your jaw shut.

"Fine. If that's what you want, then I'll give it to you." Still pinned in place, you can only watch as he unclips the weapon from his belt, turning it around in his hand thoughtfully. You inwardly curse yourself for pushing him too far and brace for the inevitable, the image of the ruined wall fresh in your mind's eye. Half expecting the worst you squeeze your eyes shut. When the stroke never falls and you feel cold metal rubbing across the lips of your cunt, your mind grinds to a halt.

Once slicked up to his liking, he starts pressing the hilt of his saber into you, inch by unyielding inch. Finally satisfied that it's deep enough, he gives it an experimental wiggle, admiring his work. The wrongness of it all makes every hair on your body stand on end, but he just chuckles, making your gut twist.

"Maybe I should force you to come like this." Wiggling the hilt again he prods your insides, stoking the fire building there. "I want you to imagine that for me, your little cunt twitching as you come apart on my weapon. Do it now." The image comes to mind almost of its own volition, and for a few burning seconds you want it, more than you can remember wanting anything before. The bulge in his trousers pulses against you and you realize that he felt your want, the shame making you want to sink through the floor. The metal scrapes your insides and for a moment you think he might actually fuck you with it in earnest, but instead he slowly pulls it out and clips it back on his belt, not even bothering to wipe it off.

"You don't get to do that today." With that, he shoves you off his lap roughly. "Get on the bed." It's not far but you're still not fast enough, earning your backside a shove from his boot to hurry you along. Summoning the chair to the foot of the bed with a yank of Force, he settles down on it, legs obscenely wide. His gaze is heavy on your body as he rubs himself through the fabric of his trousers. Trying to find some relief you go to touch yourself but something invisible keeps your hand away and he tuts with disapproval.

"I didn't say you could do that."  You resort to squeezing your legs together, but he stops you again. "Stop that," he chides.

Unhurriedly he pulls the zipper of his trousers down until his erection springs free. You used to think that he probably had a member as crooked as a barghests leg and twice as ugly, but even after finding out first-hand it still feels unfair somehow that someone so boorish would have a nice cock. Pretty, even. It's on the larger side but not comically so, thick and with a pleasing curve to it. The head is flushed and leaking already, almost begging you to wrap your mouth around it.  You scoot closer and start to put your fingers around him, but he pushes you back.

"No. You don't get to touch me if you can't behave." He moves his gloved fingers slowly up and down his shaft, the slide of the soft skin almost mesmerizing.  "Get on your hands and knees," he nods at the foot of the bed directly in front of him, "and present yourself to me. Show me that hungry little cunt of yours."

All resistance melts out of you, leaving you no choice but to obey as you put your sore ass in the air for him, legs parted.  "You should see yourself right now, look at how wet you are." His voice is so low that the vocoder almost cuts out, "I could destroy you like this." Not prepared for it, the touch at your entrance makes you jolt. Sneaking a peek you can see that he's still working himself methodically, and it dawns on you exactly what he's doing. The realization makes you squirm helplessly and he slaps your ass again, hard enough to rock your entire body. "Hold still." As he spreads your lips with his fingers he continues, "I want to see how much you can take."

The tendril of Force slithers into you, thin at first but slowly swelling until it's nearly the same thickness as his cock. You whine into the covers, aching for more but not moving.  There is a pressure at your temples that you first attribute to the lack of oxygen until he speaks again. "Oh, you like this, don't you?" It's almost a purr, the smugness radiating off of him as the intrusion inside of you grows. "If you behave, I might even let you come like this."  Your body betrays you then, fluttering in anticipation around the emptiness inside. Head swimming you can barely think or focus on anything else. An invisible finger flicks your clit experimentally, making your walls contract. The pressure inside keeps building until you're sure that it's too much, that you can't take it.

"No, I'll decide when you've had enough." He scolds and gives your clit a small pinch. The pleasure bordering on pain nearly makes you snap your legs together, but in the end, pleasure wins out.  The hand on his cock speeds up slightly as he increases the pressure inside even more, making you whimper. He doesn't stop until he's got you stretched open wide, wetness oozing out in thick drips. Breathing heavy, he runs a finger around the rim, admiring his handiwork.

"Look how easily your body yields to me, how eagerly." Collecting some more of your juices he slicks it over his member, using it to stroke himself. "You look so good right now, maybe I should just leave you like this, ready for my use. I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" He muses. "I'm going to make you come now, but you will not move, is that understood?"

Unable to reply or barely form a coherent thought, all you can do is think the words yes and please but it seems to be enough to satisfy him and he rubs your clit teasingly, still without physically touching. You're painfully aware that he can see every quiver and pulse as he holds you open like this, but somehow it spurs you on, the need for release overwhelming. It takes every ounce of frayed self control to stay still when the wave of pleasure finally start to crest.

"Yes, squeeze that little cunt for me," he rasps and finally lets your mouth go, hand almost a blur on his shaft, "that's it, go ahead, come for me, show me how you come for your commander." Black spots dance across your vision as you suck down great lungfuls of air, your entire body trembling under the strain as you struggle not to move. Convulsing again and again, the pleasure crashes over you until you're all but screaming into the covers, not caring who might hear. 

"Fuck!" It's drawn out, positively filthy, the vocoder garbling the strangled noises as his hips stutter and he spills all over his gloved hand. After milking every drop he collapses in the chair, broad chest heaving as he pants. When he recovers a few moments later he lets out a huffed laugh and cups your still gaping cunt in his hand, kneading it slightly as he withdraws the nothing holding you open. Still trembling, you collapse in a boneless heap.

"Maybe you can be taught after all." He wipes his messy hand all over your ass, rubbing his come into your skin. "Consider this a reminder of who you belong to." As he gives your throbbing ass one last slap and turns to leave, you long desperately for the shower.  "What kind of reminder would it be if I just let you wash it off?" He pauses on his way out the door. "Try it and I'll know." As the hatch slides closed behind him, you contemplate the general state of your life and what kind of deity you could have possibly pissed off enough to end up in situations like this. You punch the pillow in frustration, then do your best to settle down. It turns out that falling asleep half-clothed with your backside crusted in come isn't all that hard. And you definitely don't drift off looking forward to any kind of "next time". Not even a little bit. 

[praecurokat]

Ted Lasso S3E9 Thoughts- ‘La Locker Room Aux Folles’

“Just because they’re dirty doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to have a friend.” “He’s right. After all, we’re all mates with Richard.”

Keeley sending repeated texts to Jack…. girl stoppp she doesn’t deserve youuuuu

Thought the whole ‘Roy replacing Ted in the press conference’ thing was going to be an overly obvious attempt to get Keeley and Roy back together, glad it wasn’t.. (not against them getting back together, it just felt like a bad time)

I may not be very invested in Jade and Nate’s relationship yet, but I need Rupert to stay at least 5000 ft away from both of them at all times!!! The creepy and manipulative vibes are strong…

Ah, what a surprise. Coach Beard acting unhinged again by starting fights with the reporters!

Roy being summoned to the principal’s Rebecca’s office was funny! Brought back memories of my parents’ similar lectures lmaoo

Yayyy we got the requisite Trent-Colin meeting, they were being suprisingly calm and wise about everything.

Love Trent’s Dolly Parton shirt!

I like Isaac, but Sam would also be a great team captain.. he’s always resolving conflicts between the players.

“Roy Kent as the voice of reason. What a world.” Indeed.

Omfg not the old “guessing who’s gay based on statistics” game giving me flashbacks to my childhood.. please what is this episodeee

“So there are probably more people in this room who are gay….” Everyone looks at Jamie.. “I’m flattered.”

Roy is being so sweet to Isaac awwww

“The little things we get mad about are like snowflakes on a mountain. And if we wait too long, we’re just one sneeze away from an avalanche that will kill us all.” Lovely thought Will.

Not Ted using a sports metaphor to explain being gay to Colin… Colin looked so deeply unimpressed.

Most Memorable Quote: “I hope his kids shiv him in his sleep.” -Mae

Trent drinks everything in his gay mug, from hot drinks to alcohol!

Loved the moments between Isaac and Colin at the end of the episode, they were so well acted.

Very little Jamie content though, hope to see more of him next episode!

[wishcamper]

All in the Family: ACOTAR PART II

Welcome back to our multi-part lesson on ACOTAR and Family Systems! Today’s topic is family roles, the interplay between them, and their combination’s influence on the nuclear family emotional process in the Inner Circle.

Pre-requisites: Part I

Creds: license and mf master's degree in counseling babyyy. and unhinged enough to write it all down.

No content warnings, just garden variety family dysfunction.

oh my god what the fuck does that mean

Let's back up and start with the structure of the IC pre-Archeron invasion. We have Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, Morrigan, and Amren in a found family. This is where we have to suspend our disbelief a bit, because you’ll notice there are no parents in this family. However that doesn’t mean no one functions as a parent, because in any system there is a hierarchy, at least in an emotional sense, and the power vacuum will always get filled.

When a parent is missing from a nuclear family, very often one of the children will step in to fill the role and rebalance the system. Older siblings caring for younger ones, female children picking up housework, even phrases like calling someone the “man of the house” confer symbolic authority and responsibility to someone theoretically on the same level as the others. The dark end of this road is emotional incest, when parents rely on a child emotionally in the same way they would a spouse, a dynamic that is deeply inappropriate and incredibly damaging for a child.

Okay, so let’s talk about sibling position to see who is most likely to step up. This is a found family, so obviously none of these are based in biology, but if we look at the core four, they have a pretty clear birth order layout in terms of both power and personality. 

Rhys: A textbook oldest child - responsibility-seeking, serious, tending toward leadership roles. Oldest children often feel the burden of setting a good example for others. Prone to relieving anxiety via control.

Az and Cas: Classic ends of the middle child spectrum (invisible to hyper-visible). Middle children are flexible, adaptable, and competitive, and often struggle with questions identity. They may seek to meet needs for connection and validation in unhealthy ways.

Mor: Baby of the family energy through and through. Youngest children are more likely to be outgoing, creative, and rebellious, and struggle with inferiority and self-centeredness. Interestingly, they’re also more likely to abuse alcohol and are overrepresented in psychiatric populations.

Amren, hilariously, comes across as an only child - they tend to be wise, independent, and private, struggling with social skills and receiving criticism. (1)

So who’s filling our parental roles here in the IC? Who has power over the others? Rhysand is an obvious choice - he regularly makes decisions for the group as well as individual members on the basis of his feelings and his political position. I think you could even argue Rhys sees the people of Velaris as his children, too, though he definitely plays favorites lol. Amren also emerges as a person with power, given everyone is afraid of her and she has influence over Rhys. Amren has some authority over the others, though she is less invested in their personal lives and so functions differently in the system than Daddy Rhys.

So Rhys is one parent, and Amren is like a weird aunt. It’s very normal in systems with a parentified child (PC) that the other children feel resentful - they’re all supposed to be on the same level, and yet one of them has been exalted above the rest. The PC can respond to this so many ways - force, charm, control, bribes, threats, ignoring them - it’ll depend on the person and the individual system. But the PC will also feel that counter-resentment and leverage the power position to create balance in the family (Cassian, Azriel, stop trying to kiss your sisters). The irony is that, in this system, no one asked Rhys to be in power over his friends - he decided he wanted them in his court and blurred those lines himself. I suspect this was intentional, though likely unconscious, because it gives him a nuclear option if he ever needs to reestablish order and control in his family. We see him pull rank in tense personal moments that have literally nothing to do with politics despite his excuse they do.

(I do think, though, that there’s an argument to be made here that, for people in certain positions of prominence and influence, all your choices are political. Your image is part of your power and so, by extension, the parts of your personal life that become public have an effect on your ability to rule. Rhys and Feyre use this rationale with Nesta in ACOSF, though my babe isn’t exactly a Hunter Biden. More of a Claudia Conway, I’d say.)

Let's go back to our scary image from the beginning.

Bowen believed in the importance of visualizing this structure, so he advocates for family mapping or construction of a genogram (2). Given what we’ve unpacked so far, we can roughly plot the individual connections and hierachy. I’ve created this one to show the basics of the relationships and power structure in the IC, and we’ll get more specific from here.

Solid lines=connectedness

Dashed lines=conflict

Arrow=direction of energy

Squiggles=ambivalence/fluctuation

Line thickness=emotional closeness

Amren’s special line to Rhys=whatever ulterior motive she has

If you remember from my last post, one of the most important forces in a family is the triangle. Take another look at the triangles above, and see which ones seem unstable to you. The one that immediately stands out to me, even just visually, is the Cas/Az/Mor triangle. Each individual relationship has a different tenor, which creates a lot of instability. You can see how Mor needs that closeness with Cas to balance the tension with Az, but in order to keep their relationship stable, Cas and Az have Rhys as a moderating presence. Because what is the one thing they all have in common? A close relationship with Rhys. And Rhys has Amren to reinforce his power and responsibility, keeping the whole system in balance.

In this way, the IC’s system, while dysfunctional, is relatively stable pre-Archerons.

To understand how that’s possible, we have to talk about anxiety. Anxiety is the main energy that moves conflict through the family and sets off the nuclear family emotional process (NFEP). Anxiety must go somewhere. In enmeshed systems like this one (members’ emotions and security are highly dependent on one another), members relieve their anxiety through the system instead of resolving it individually or in dyads. In cut off, emotionally distant systems, anxiety gets internalized or displaced outside the family.

Given the sheer variety of relationships in the system, the most likely source of anxiety is Morrigan. She has a different relationship to every person in the system. She’s in the middle of the power hierarchy between the “parents” and the “kids”, and floats around inside the relatively stable triangle of the bat boys, with individual connections to each one . She also has a pattern of internal conflict that she moderates externally via alcohol and relationships. Despite not having the most power externally, Mor’s actions and reactions often cause the rest of the system to shuffle around her, giving her a great deal of power.

But don’t just take my word for it - let’s look at this in action.

Say Mor, Cas, and Az go out together bc apparently that is something they do regularly. Mor feels Azriel getting too close, which triggers her anxiety because she does not want to talk about whatever is between them. In response, she communicates her displeasure by leveraging the triangle and focusing her intimate attention on Cassian. But this creates conflict for Cassian, who wants to moderate Mor’s anxiety without rupturing his relationship with Azriel. Hence, we get the weird overfamiliar platonic besties routine, threading the needling of giving Mor the protection she’s asking for without out-and-out antagonizing his brother. Azriel buries his hurt feelings and retracts emotionally, despite wanting to be connected, and they go back to how they were.

So we can see how Mor has generated the anxiety, and it follows down the chain: she passes it off to the boys, who deal with it through emotional cutoff (Az) and enmeshment (Cas). Cassian steps in between the conflict at Mor’s unconscious request and takes inappropriate responsibility for Azriel’s feelings of rejection and Mor’s anxiety, while Az puts his feelings away and reestablishes emotional distance. This is the NFEP in action.

And yet Cassian and Azriel are still shown to be close, so where do these feelings go? I mean, they do physically fight each other all the time lol. Azriel banks a lot of repressed resentment he has to discharge elsewhere. Cassian feels the burden of peacemaking and internalizes the unresolved conflict as his own fault, doubling down on his commitment to making it better. Mor avoids contending with her own feelings because everyone else is doing it for her.

And here’s where Rhys becomes a moderating presence for all of them. Rhys has ultimate decision-making power over who is in and who’s out of the family, and sets the rules of engagement. He decides who gets respect, who’s allowed to initiate conflict. Rhys hold’s the power in the bat boys triangle, the strongest alliance in the system, incentivizing Cas and Az to get along with each other. He also incentivizes Mor/Cas/Az to keep their shit together because Amren has influence over him, and they need their alliance to leverage power against her. Rhys doesn’t have a problem with the buffer, so they rest of them “don’t” either.

The best question to ask when it comes to dysfunction is this: who benefits? We can see this in larger systems, too: who benefits for housing disparity, patriarchy, systemic racism, ableism, homophobia and transphobia? People in power. If a system is balanced via dysfunction, it’s because whoever is in power wants it that way. With families, this is often more unconscious - perhaps Rhys is just as afraid of family disintegration as Mor, and believes addressing their issues will cause them to split. Perhaps there is a more generational pattern at play. I think it’s worth considering not just how this family functions, but what conscious and unconscious choices are being made given their individual families of origin.

And then the Archeron’s come, and all these cracks will be exposed and the system will get blown to shit. See you next time, class dismissed!

Sources: 

Eckstein, D., & Kaufman, J. A. (2012). The role of birth order in personality: An enduring intellectual legacy of Alfred Adler. The Journal of Individual Psychology, 68(1), 60–61.

Brown, J. (1999). Bowen family systems theory and practice: Illustration and critique. Australian and New Zealand Journal of Family Therapy, 20(2), 94-103.

Genogram made with Canva, art by @artworks_by_rokii, rosalynnart on deviant art, @sallteas

[spontaneousglitterbees]

If I may ask, how do you think Kokichi acts around Maki after the game? Because I always imagined that what with the whole 'shooting him in the spine with a poisoned arrow' probably left him a little scared of her. I mean, if you consider that Strike-9 is likely named after strychnine, if the symptoms are similar, then that poison probably wrecked his body pretty good while him and Kaito were setting up his murder, he'd have been in considerable pain right up until the press came down. I can't imagine that Maki isn't a regular part of his nightmares.

Sorry it took a bit to answer. This is a lovely ask with much to think about, but your first question there really grabbed me and I immediately wrote a three-pager about it.

I think that after the game, Maki is actively trying to distance herself from her V3 persona. She's stated she doesn't like fighting in the first place in TDP, so in this universe I think she'd in the process of legitimately trying to change her title to SHSL Child Caregiver. It's kind of a probationary limbo in admin, proving she has the requisite skills to outright change tracks since IIRC there's not much if any precedent for it, but Maki works hard and has found herself opening up a bit more in the wake of surviving the simulation. She cut her hair to further put the past behind her (though she's not sure she quite likes it yet, it's a work-in-progress) and is, in part, trying to reclaim pieces of the childhood she functionally now never had. Kaede has taken her to I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Claire's at least once.

Now, Kokichi on the other hand.

He tries to avoid her like the plague, as he is (justifiably) terrified of her. They haven't spoken since the end of the game, but it isn't lost on Maki that Kokichi is the only person she's actually tried to assassinate (and, depending on who you ask, she succeeded. She, Kaito, and Kokichi each ultimately blame themselves for the press, even if Kokichi outwardly blames Maki for all of it and not just the torture) and it's just a bit difficult for her to stay angry. Especially when her one and only mark backs up against the wall and covers his upper right arm subconsciously so she cant shoot him there again when they pass each other in the hall.

Putting a nightmare sequence on the to-draw list, but Kichi has... thoughts, about potential poisoning he does as much as he can to suppress (only packaged food, even if that's not how he was poisoned before, because 'they'll have to get more creative now that it's not a game'; never leave your drink unattended anywhere, at all, even your own room; he started doing his own laundry again instead of asking Kirumi like the rest of Class 79, considering she defaulted to doing it to keep her hands busy and nobody else has really stopped her...) Little things.

Little things Kaito notices, now that he knows (now that he cares) to look. He thinks that they'll be friends, someday (but it'll be pretty far out, if it ever happens.) Mutual tolerance is a bit more viable.

Oh, hey. Looks like someone started listening to Miu.

[AU Masterpost]