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theobservatory · 4 months ago

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｡⁠☆I'm Baby｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+⁠

☆Tim drake x reader

☆Cw: Damian being a menace, crack/fluff

To be honest, Damian was only getting close to you to bother Drake. He didn't really have a reason for it either, but bothering is pseudo older brother is entertaining, fun even.

It's not tranquil, like painting. It's not rewarding, like training. It's not adrenaline filled, like patrol. No, it's just... Fun.

Damian can't even explain why it's fun either. There's just something about the look of utter anguish, irritation, that crosses Drake's face that just makes him smile.

It's an evil little thing, all sharp teeth and hard lines. Nothing like those big grins you see kids have in childish movies. No, he looks like a shark in fish infested waters. Like a wolf locked in a pen of sheep.

So imagine his surprise when you derail his plans by being likeable. You're clever, and kind, but not smothering like Grayson. He didn't start showing up at your window to actually get close to you, and yet here is, tucked into your side as he vents about school today.

The people at his school are utter imbeciles, and he only goes to appease his father. Not that he understands why his father sends him. He already has a friend his age, Jon! He's sure you'd be his friend too, if he asked.

... Even the thought of doing that is too humiliating to fathom.

He's sure you'd just look at him with that dumb smile that makes his chest feel tight, and you'd probably pet down his hair, and say something like "Of course we're friends! Why else would I let you crash on my couch after patrol?" Because you're good like that, and always give reasons why you do and feel things.

But he'd rather drop dead than be perceived as childish or immature. Asking someone to be your friend is playground chat, and Damian stopped going to a school with a playground this year so he's much too old for that. Instead he just rambles about how many times he's had to correct his teacher this year, because if he thinks the kids are stupid don't get him started on the adults.

You listen the whole way through, an arm wrapped around his shoulder. He's practically squished to your side. He planted himself there as soon as he got through the lock on your front door, but you don't say anything about it, you never do. It's much more tolerable than Grayson's constant cooing.

"And do you know what the worst part is?" Damian huffs, a balled fist gripping your pants.

"What?"

"She tried to correct me on the Greek Pantheon, me! It's as if my chosen aunt isn't Princess Diana of Themscryia! Imbeciles, everyone of them!"

You nod solemnly, clearly understanding Damian's plight. This is why he comes to you, no one at that blasted manor gets it. They would try and correct him, teach him to be more understanding, but you just listen! You listen, and commiserate! Like any good sibling should.

"I used to have a teacher like that. It turned out no matter what I told him, no matter what evidence I presented, he just decided that I was a lost cause anyway." You roll your eyes, picking at the stitching of Damian's sleeve. He should probably stop you, but he can't even bring himself to give the gesture a glance of his attention. "I ended up transferring out of the class, my peace was not worth the credit. I just took it online instead."

"If only father were that understanding. I would take every class online if I could."

"What, there isn't a single thing you enjoy about school? When I was your age I only ever showed up for extracurriculars, but they managed to at least make it a little worth it for me."

Damian wants to say no, "My art and art teacher isn't deplorable." But that would be a lie.

"What're they-"

The lock of your farthest window clicks, interrupting you. Damian slips a blade out of the pocket of his school uniform, but doesn't bother moving. A measley intruder won't stand a chance against him, especially because they would be interrupting his you time.

A foot slides in through the open window. Black slacks, he can tell by the hemlines they're expensive. The shoes are glossy, but slightly scuffed, also clearly expensive.

Damian glares, he knows exactly who this is. The grip of his blade gets tighter.

"Hey babe." Drake greets, pulling his satchel in the window before closing it. "You'll never believe the day I had at work-"

Damian and Drake lock eyes. He can feel his eyes turn into giddy crescents as Tim's face falls into disbelief. Yes, this is the exact feeling he's been waiting for. He could revel in that disgusted expression he has.

"What's he doing here?" Drake sneered.

"Don't be rude."

"Wha- I'm not being rude. I just- baby, sweetheart, why the fuck is my little brother in your apartment?"

For his part, Damian just snuggles closer to you, causing you to squeeze him tighter. If it's even possible, he looks even more smug than he did before. All according to plan.

"I invited him. He likes to hangout after school sometimes." You smile, it's genuine, as if you're completely oblivious to why this would distress Tim. They both know you well enough to know you're having just as much fun fucking with your boyfriend as Damian is.

"You know each other? You do this regularly??"

"No thanks to you. I've only met your family once and it was in passing, Tim! What was I supposed to do, tell him to leave? He's just a baby!"

Under normal circumstances, Damian would grow irate at being called a baby. He is ten years old, in double digits, basically an adult! However, annoying Drake takes precedence right now.

"Yeah Drake, I'm just a baby." Damian says flatly. "I'm just a baby, and you're scaring me."

You gasp. "Timothy you're scaring my baby!"

"That demon is NOT a baby! Are you under mind control? Blink twice if you need help."

Your hand tugs Damian into your chest, and you plant a kiss on his forehead. His demonic smile wavers for a moment as a flush hits his cheeks, that same icky syrup-like feeling you tend to give him curling in his chest. It comes right back when he sees that absolute offended and affronted look on Drake's face.

This is the best day of his life.

"If you don't start being nice to this sweet baby angel right this second, I'll have to throw you out of my apartment. Sorry Tim, those are the rules."

"You just made that up, those- that's- those aren't the rules!"

Damian pulls out of your hold to sit up straight on the couch, re-pulling out his switchblade. It glints off the yellowish lighting in your apartment, the same glint in his wolfish grin.

"Please." He stands. "It would be an honor if you would allow me."

You pretend to think about it, a matching mischievous look on your face. "Hmm okay, but only because you asked so nicely.

"I'm sorry Tim, but I don't make the rules, I just follow them."

"I'm not sorry." Damian brags.

"Shut it, brat."

Tim begins to climb back out the window, huffing as his satchel gets stuck on the sill for the second time. His head pokes back in before he closes it, a glare, that would be terrifying if Damian was anyone else, on his face.

"This isn't over."

"I disagree."

The window slams shut, and Damian slots himself right back where he was before. Both of you have the evilist of giggles as you basket on the high of teasing Tim Drake.

Despite his shitty day at school, it's a good day, anyway.

You only played along bc Tim's been ignoring you for the sake of work, leaving his stabby little brother here to satiate your boredom. This is petty revenge.

Damian also becomes the biggest cock block in the world after this. You think it's funny, Tim not so much.

Also planning on writing a short follow up to this where Tim comes to you after patrol and needs reassurance.

｡⁠☆Requests open

#this was supposed to be like 5 paragraphs max... and here we are..#˗ˏˋ ★ venus writes ★ ˎˊ˗#˗ˏˋ ★ batfam ★ ˎˊ˗#tim drake x fem!reader #tim drake x you #tim drake x male reader #tim x reader #tim drake x reader #tim drake x gn!reader #tim drake x y/n #gn reader #gender neutral y/n #gender neutral reader #fem reader #male reader #wrote some angst yesterday so i balanced it out with some fluff

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j-jared · 1 year ago

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Demon... Triplets?

Demon twins au but with a twist.

I have seen countless de-aged Dan being raised by Danny alongside Ellie, making him a pseudo son.

Now, I like the family dynamic, but, Dan is just another Danny. He isn't a clone made from his DNA, he is just another version of the original. So imo that makes them more like brothers.

Now imagine that in demon twins. Danyal Al Ghul gets out of the league just like usual, he goes and dies, meets his evil future self and kicks his ass. Dan reverts back to his teenage self due to some Clockwork timey-wimey bullshit, qnd lives with Danny. GIW/Fenton parents happen, suddenly they gotta run from Amity. Ellie's already off exploring the world, so now its just the two of them against the world.

They end up in Gotham.

Damian is doing Damian things, that Robin life, tolerating the countless siblings, but he ends up meeting Danny and Dante (cause I get confused, Dan changes his name) volunteering at the soup kitchen.

So not only is his dead(?) Twin alive, he's gotten a replacement Twin!

Cue the three of them bonding and making life for Bruce Wayne hell for shits and giggles.

They start coming over to the manor and separating, everyone is convinced Damian is everywhere at once, what the hell, until suddenly they see two of them together. Funny thing is, Damian has green eyes, and that other Damian has.. red? Clone?

They proceed to lose their shit when the third one pops up with blue eyes.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #batman #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #dpxdc #dp #dc #danny fenton #dan fenton #damian wayne #demon twins #prompt #holy smokes batman #bruce wayne

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vxnuslogy · 1 year ago

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𐙚 my love, mine all mine.

— some headcanons about certain things the hsr men would do while in a relationship.

— warnings: none

— author's notes: self-indulgent, once again credits to @.cafekitsune for the banners. this is lowkey dedicated to the stellaronhvnters <3

𐙚 AVENTURINE

would always accompany you on your spontaneous night drives around pier point. before you can even leave your room to drag aventurine to his car, he’s already leaning on your doorframe, his car keys in hand as he flashes you a smile; not the gambler like smile he shows to his enemies but a child-like one filled with uncontained excitement and wonder.

its half past midnight and your both in your pajamas (he insisted that you both wear matching ones) as he rolls down the roof of his very expensive car to let the wind flow with your hair. your phone connected to the speakers as you blasted your shared playlist. loud enough to satisfy your needs to have a mini carpool karaoke session but quiet enough you won’t disturb any civilians trying to sleep the night away.

aventurine shakes his head in fondness and amusement when you scold him as he skipped a song he didn’t particularly like. the pout on your lips would soon fade as he reached to pull you by the chin and give you a peck on the lips. your nagging turned into panic as you hit him in the arms for not keeping his eyes on the road.

𐙚 VERITAS RATIO

always comes home exhausted. even in his tired and slightly dazed state, he always comes home at exactly 7 pm and each time his arms wouldn’t fail to snake around your waist and his lips press a soft kiss on your neck in greeting.

when you ask about his day, the doctor just grumbles and complains about his students. but you knew deep down he was proud of them after they finally managed to solve this one particular problem he gave them without his help. they’ve been making fast progress, he once stated, making a smile bloom on your face when he checks their papers.

you chuckle under your breath as ratio continues to chatter away about his students' progress. your back flushed into his sturdy chest while arms kept a steady hold of you – tight enough that you could feel his muscles but still be able to move around the kitchen. a melody starts to fall from your lips as you hummed and swayed, and ratio follows with his own humming as you both start a pseudo dance in the middle of making dinner.

𐙚 BOOTHILL

date nights with boothill usually consisted of going bar hopping and hiding away in a dark alley as the IPC passed by. you’ve grown fond of the excitement as your lover drags you out the bar with officers high on your tails. it never fails to rip out an uncharacteristic laugh from you and cherry grin from him.

tonight was a lot tamer than other nights. sitting in a bar counter, a cup of whiskey boothill had asked you to hold while he gets another bounty for the both of you. he knows you wouldn’t take a single sip of his drink, your alcohol tolerance was nonexistent he says making you roll your eyes. your peaceful night was disturbed when a new face popped out from seemingly nowhere, taking the seat your lover once occupied as the man tried to buy you a drink

boothill always had impeccable timing. just as the man was about to take a hold of your – his – glass, a cold arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back into a firm chest. you try to look up but a familiar hat was instead placed over your eyes as the glass in your hand was taken. the liquid disappeared in a flash as boothill downs it in one go. just to prove his point, he gingerly lifts his hat over your face and press a kiss at the corner of your lips, making it known to the man that you were with him.

𐙚 SUNDAY

not many would believe you if you told them the stories of how easily flustered the head of the oak family. everyone would picture him as a full package gentleman – opening doors for you, pulling back your seat, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, etc. – but what they don’t know is that, in your relationship, the one being worshiped wasn’t you.

without a doubt, you were the one who always opened the door to his office for him, offering to carry his things even if he protested, even going to one knee to tie the laces of his shoes. sunday was always in competition when it came to being a gentleman and he always loses to you every time. and he doesn’t make any effort to make you stop despite his embarrassment; one drag of your knuckles under his eyes when he’s overworked and tired and he’s putty in your hands.

how could he resist your pampering when you always take off his gloves when it's just you two in his office, pressing a delicate kiss to his knuckles and whispering sweet nothings to him. admiring the writing calluses on his right hand as you talk about your day.

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the-well-known-scout · 2 years ago

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A Bride in the Eyes of Some

Tywin Lannister X Reader Fic 🦁

(nsfw!)

“The Lady (Y/N) Lannister”, a title that ran through your mind and rang in your ears as you heard it.

You felt a certain disdain run down your spine that day, a rattle in your soul like no other. The announcement was a shocking one to you, remembering the day you were declared as the newest woman to Tywin Lannister. You remembered the wedding, how he didn’t share more than the hardest of pecks on your cheek as the Septon declared you man and wife. You remember the silence, the groaning and worn down creaking of the bed of your wedding night. You forced yourself to like it, you forced yourself to muster out pseudo-moans as Lannister-bred seed poured into you. You forced yourself to embrace your life as a vessel for blonde-haired children, with eyes as green as emeralds with a stiff lip. He’d never love you like he loved Joanna, you would never replace the whole in his heart she left behind. You would never be his love, you’d never be her. Or so, you thought.

Over time, you had learned to navigate the Red Keep, you learned to navigate the people that resided there. And you especially learned to navigate your lord husband, of Tywin. At times you didn’t have much to go off of, a grunt or a mumble underneath his breath damning something to the Seven Hells. His cunning mind and how it worked its’ way around the realms of politicking and pursuits of power. It intimidated you, it made you question yourself and your intelligence. Which you knew for sure, was a purposeful act. You needed to be on his time, you needed his mind, or he’d cast you away as useless. You learned to keep your distance at times, the Great Lion a man you didn’t dare to want to upset. You kept your interactions to a tee, never wanting to overbear him with what he viewed as “imperfections”. He only needed you when he called you, whether it be an execution of such schemes, or to warm his bed. He didn’t love to embrace your flesh, you imagine he thought of Joanna as he rocked you against the sheets. But you were wrong in that behalf, at least, as he grew used to you.

To most of Westeros, and even his own flesh and blood, Tywin was a lonely, bitter soul that threw back at the world what it gave to him; ten times as harsher. A cold, calculating man that cared for the benefit of him and him alone. But, he remained gentle with you, becoming more than a means of his lust. He was as delicate as he could be, being the Great Lion of The Rock. A softer stare in your direction rather than the cold, brutish one he darted to his enemies, or even the politest of terms when he speaks of you. You could listen to the words “lady-wife” roll off of his tongue all day and into the darkest of nights. He learned to tolerate your differentiating antics over time, finding them rather comical as he grew to know you more. How you interacted with servants among the Rock, to how passionate you grew about something you were determined for. You watched as a connection blossomed between you two, no longer the glacial silence that you both slept through, begging for one of you to find the courage to speak.

He would watch you as you read in bed with him, occasionally making a few notes and sneers about your posture. He would poke at the Old Valaryian books you insisted to put your nose in, laughing at your naïveté of the past. You were on guard at first, ready to bite back at whatever you felt was an insult until you realized it. He was talking to you, he was jeering with you. He was loving you. What stared off as the burden of your existence, the dread you wished to hide from as you laid next to him, become passionate. You were making love to Lord Tywin Lannister. No longer hid pathetic tears you held back, became moaning, a desperation for flesh you shared.

You daydreamed of how he rocked your hips atop of him, his grunting and slight-growling. He never said much during the act of fervoring your cunt onto him, but he didn’t need to. You would have his children, you would make his heirs, hopefully to turn out better than the three he was given. He was strong enough to place you how he saw fit, whether it be upon your knees, lying on your back and holding onto your ankles, or below him. He wanted you to worship him, every inch and fold of his skin he gave to you. At times, he’d whap you across the bottom, leaving warm spots from where his hands struck. At other times, he would have you on your knees, pulling you by the shoulder back to the gracious inches he gave to you. Tywin’s hands were some of the most dangerous pair within Westeros, hands you were not exempt from in the bed. And he would fuck you, until he grew tired, or had had you well-filled with enough loads of his seed to give him an entire line of Lannisters.

As his seed would pool out of you when you turned over to find a smidgen of rest, you would feel him. A singular hand wrapped around you, his head not too far from your shoulder. It was no longer the political prison you so desperately wanted to escape, it was love. Love of the highest points, love that stretched from The Rock to Dorne. A love that could never be taken away from you. A love that would be seen and heard among the Gods and men, new and old. And a love, you would never want out of.

#game of thrones #got #asoiaf #tywin x reader #tywin lannister #tywin lannister x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #got x reader #house lannister #cersei lannister #jaime lannister #casterly rock

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morlock-holmes · 4 months ago

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A lot of mutuals and people I see on my dash read Umberto Eco's essay "Ur-Fascism" in a very hostile way, such that I have now re-read it several times, because frequently I read criticisms, and go, "Wait, that doesn't seem to match the essay I remember" and I go back to check.

What's basically at stake in the essay is that Eco asserts that Italian fascism was extremely contradictory and incoherent when you try to view it as an ideology:

Italian fascism was the first right-wing dictatorship that took over a European country, and all similar movements later found a sort of archetype in Mussolini’s regime... Nevertheless, historical priority does not seem to me a sufficient reason to explain why the word fascism became a synecdoche, that is, a word that could be used for different totalitarian movements. This is not because fascism contained in itself, so to speak in their quintessential state, all the elements of any later form of totalitarianism. On the contrary, fascism had no quintessence. Fascism was a fuzzy totalitarianism, a collage of different philosophical and political ideas, a beehive of contradictions. Can one conceive of a truly totalitarian movement that was able to combine monarchy with revolution, the Royal Army with Mussolini’s personal milizia, the grant of privileges to the Church with state education extolling violence, absolute state control with a free market? The Fascist Party was born boasting that it brought a revolutionary new order; but it was financed by the most conservative among the landowners who expected from it a counter-revolution. At its beginning fascism was republican. Yet it survived for twenty years proclaiming its loyalty to the royal family, while the Duce (the unchallenged Maximal Leader) was arm-in-arm with the King, to whom he also offered the title of Emperor. But when the King fired Mussolini in 1943, the party reappeared two months later, with German support, under the standard of a “social” republic, recycling its old revolutionary script, now enriched with almost Jacobin overtones. There was only a single Nazi architecture and a single Nazi art. If the Nazi architect was Albert Speer, there was no more room for Mies van der Rohe. Similarly, under Stalin’s rule, if Lamarck was right there was no room for Darwin. In Italy there were certainly fascist architects but close to their pseudo-Coliseums were many new buildings inspired by the modern rationalism of Gropius.

The question for Eco is essentially, how did the fascists decide who was fascist and who wasn't? The Italian fascists were hardly tolerant, they blatantly and aggressively destroyed their enemies, and yet at the same time people who almost certainly would have been liquidated by the Nazis were counted as good, proper fascists in Italy.

So what is it that made observers both inside and outside the ideology look and go, "Italian Fascism and Naziism are both forms of Fascism" and also, how did the Italian fascists decide who was a fascist and who was an enemy of fascism to be ruthlessly destroyed?

Because it does not seem to have been any kind of coherent ideology or intellectually consistent philosophy or standard.

Rather, to Eco, and to a lot of people, it seems to have been more of a kind of psychological/emotional approach to the world; certain emotional reactions characterized the fascists, and Eco attempts to illuminate what those emotions were.

I don't think there's much point in saying "Well, pretty much any ideology that includes an enemy must conceive of the enemy as strong enough to do damage and yet weak enough to be worth fighting, so having an enemy which is both too strong and too weak isn't really meaningful in an analysis of fascism"

First of all, Eco himself already says,

"I think it is possible to outline a list of features that are typical of what I would like to call Ur-Fascism, or Eternal Fascism. These features cannot be organized into a system; many of them contradict each other, and are also typical of other kinds of despotism or fanaticism."

Bolding mine.

But besides that, there is, as I said earlier, a genuine importance in drawing a distinction between the psychology that animates "We're going up against the best team in the league, but we've been improving all season and we're going to go out there and show them what we are made of" and "Damn Jews always stick together and help themselves, they don't care about the country."

Or, for that matter, between "Someday, you won't have power over me anymore." and "Someday, I'm going to put you back in your place."

The rebuttal, I suspect, would be to focus on the political organization of the fascist nations, how they organized and delegated political power. But part of that has to be how the fascists made decisions about who was in and who was out.

I've been thinking a lot recently about how radicals and conspiracy theorists relate to each other.

Donald Trump is a staunch ally of Israel; his son, Eric, has spoken at the Reawaken America tour, a tour that has hosted multiple holocaust deniers as speakers. Like, flat out sympathizers with Adolf Hitler who say that the holocaust never happened but that Hitler was right to try to "defend" Germany from the Jews.

So what is it that allows tour organizer Clay Clark, and Eric Trump, and holocaust deniers like Ian Smith to say, "Yeah, we're all on the same side here"?

I don't think it's a coherent ideology, I think it is closer to a shared set of emotional reactions to the world.

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amazing-nightcrawler · 1 year ago

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NIGHTCRAWLER WEEK 2024 NOV. 11 - 17

Welcome Nightcrawlers!

The Amazing-Nightcrawler is proud to present our first NIGHTCRAWLER WEEK featuring our favorite Fuzzy Blue Elf, Kurt Wagner aka The Amazing Nightcrawler! We hope you'll join in & participate! See you in November!

Nightcrawler Week Prompts

Day 1 - Circus or Swashbuckler Day 2 - Fangs or Fashion Day 3 - Shadows or The Silver Screen Day 4 - Alternate Universe or What if...? Day 5 - Family or Abilities Day 6 - Romance or Team Leader Day 7 - Creator's Choice

Alternative Prompts

Sword Devotion Trapped Abandoned Exhibitionist Hope

Nightcrawler Week Ao3 Collection - Opens Nov. 11 2024

Creators can use one or both prompts for each day. Alternative Prompts are available for additional inspiration; Creators can swap out a daily prompt for an alternative prompt or use it in combination with a daily prompt or not at all. Creator's Choice can use any prompt in the list or whatever the Creator's heart desires.

Please read all FAQ's & Rules located under the read more. If you have any questions then drop the Mods an Ask. The Amazing Nightcrawler Discord is accepting new members! This is an 18+ Marvel Discord server. Please read & follow all rules upon joining.

FAQ's

What is Nightcrawler Week?

Nightcrawler Week is a Marvel Fandom Event created by Nightcrawler Fans for Nightcrawler Fans, with fanworks featuring Kurt Wagner, aka Nightcrawler.

I want to be creator, how do I join?

No sign ups, no checks, just create whatever you feel like creating! Choose one or all of the prompts. Please read and follow all rules to be a part of this event.

What type of fanworks are accepted?

All types of fanwork are accepted; light, dark, fluff, angst, romantic or platonic, etc. please be sure to tag properly. Fanworks include: Fanfiction, Fanart, Podcasts, Edits, Playlists, Podfics, Moodboards, Aesthetics, Gifs, etc. You may commission work to be submitted but it must be created for this event, so no reposting an older work for this. Due to Tumblr's restrictions we cannot reblog anything that is explicitly N S F W, but we can reblog links to N S F W creations that are hosted on other sites.

What media is accepted?

Any and all media that features Kurt Wagner this includes; Comics, Animation, Movies, and Video Games.

Do I have to create to participate?

Not necessarily, while creating is highly encouraged, we also value the fans who wish to participate in the event by sharing, reblogging, commenting, and supporting Creators works!

When does Nightcrawler Week open?

Nightcrawler Week opens on November 11th, Kurt's Birthday! The week closes on November 17th. During this time Mods will be checking the #nightcrawlerweek tag to reblog creations to this blog. So don't forget to tag with #nightcrawlerweek or @amazing-nightcrawler so we can see your posts! You can also add to our Ao3 collection.

RULES

1. No Racism. Racism in any form will not be tolerated nor accepted. Kurt was raised in a Romani Family, please be mindful and respectful about their culture.

2. No Pedo, Incest, Pseudo Incest fanworks (such as Amanda/Kurt where they are raised as adopted siblings or Rogue/Kurt.) (However X-Men Evolution Amanda/Kurt is accepted as a ship pairing.)

3. Absolutely NO AI generated fanworks, including art or writing.

4. No Nightcrawler x Reader, Character Imagines, Kinships, Selfship x Nightcrawler. (OC x Nightcrawler ships are welcome!)

5. Kurt is not a furry, or an alien/demon/catboy, he is a Human Mutant, please be mindful to not dehumanize Kurt.

6. Don't like? Don't Read! You, the fan, are responsible for your comfort in fandom. If there is something that upsets you then please take the steps necessary to remove yourself from that situation.

7. Tag your triggers! Please remember to properly tag your work!

8. You must use #nightcrawlerweek in the first 5 tags of your post so that Mods will be able to find your work and share. You may also use @amazing-nightcrawler to tag us on your posts.

Mods will not share any works that does not comply with the rules. We strive to be a supportive & fun community, no drama or racism will be tolerated.

#nightcrawlerweek #x men #nightcrawler #kurt wagner #marvel comics #marvel events #comic fandom #mod: imperiuswrecked

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inbabylontheywept · 4 days ago

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Yo. Dumbass autism sufferer here. Just wondering how the everloving shitfuck you managed to get your writing so engaging? I'm not the worst, but I also feel like I stopped getting better years ago. I can regurgitate tropes and give twists on them, but it always feel like, idk, obvious? Simple? Your stories are anything but, and I was wondering if there's a trick to it, or some wisdom for you to share, or if you just happen to be a very interesting person? Or is it that dreaded "you just gotta work on it" that people keep talking about (as if I haven't been writing my dumbass stories on and off since 09, though i suppose "work on it" is supposed to be a move involved process than 'just write some shit at 3 am'). Also, your aviators sound great.

Generically, if you want to develop engagingness, I recommend writing online. Online feedback comes most handly in terms of engagement (upvotes, likes, kudos, reblogs, comments, shares, favorites, etc) and because the writing is short form, you get that feedback quick enough to immediately change and develop a style. I don't know how to put it exactly, but it's like it takes ten pieces to develop a good writing voice, and the size of those pieces mattters less than the fact that they exist and you got feedback on them. So writing very long works can underdevelop voice development because it takes too long to produce the The Ten Pieces.

The downsides of writing online is that the hyper development of engagingness and pacing (the twin skills of Never Boring Your Reader) often don't carry over as well into longer form works. I still highly recommend it because you can get years of style and pacing related skills done in just a few months, but don't expect short stories to just organically turn into novels. I did, and I feel very silly about it now.

If you want good writing advice, I also recommend WonderBook to anyone that asks. It's the only book with advice about writing that I have ever liked, at all, ever. It has pictures. It has web exercises. It's written by Jeff Vandermeer, who is talented and well adjusted and will not say insane shit like Being An Author Requires Writing 10k Words A Day + Substance Abuse + Daddy Issues. If read one book next year, aim for that one.

For me personally: I started writing on HFY. The tropiness gave me structure to start my stories around, and general reddit pseudo-anonymity meant that I had basically the same shot of getting noticed every day that the really talented old hands did. So if they wrote a flop, and I accidentally wrote a zinger, I'd get my 24 hours at the top of the subreddit, then the content cycle would move on. As a new writer, this was a huge benefit to me, but I frankly don't know why the older authors put up with it. Still very grateful that they let me ride their coattails for a while.

That forum helped me develop my prose smoothness, my story pacing, and my general story ideas, but it still kept me in a small box, and it just didn't do a lot to develop a writing voice.

(I don't know what you write, but if you're feeling like you just do tropes with a twist, I felt that way when I got to the end of my reddit writing. I think that was my sign to move on to writing something else.)

Eventually, I went to tumblr and started writing here, which gave me new things to work on. The site just has its own unique tastes. Reddit wanted good story ideas within a constrained genre, smooth but not standout prose, clear story outlining, and above all, great pacing. Tumblr likes stories that feel personal, that are highly idiosyncratic, unstructured, and told with prose that feels a bit dramatic. Tumblr readers love it when you play with words. Reddit readers just kind of tolerated it.

But that environment gave me room to work on my voice. Which contains a lot of those things - the idiosyncratic speech style, odd words, personal feeling, close, lots of word play, a much more dramatic voice than Reddit's "never met an adverb I liked" style preference.

So that's how I developed my engaging style. Reddit was, at that time, unusually friendly to new writers. I don't think it has kept that trait. The key that I've seen in my writing growth is that changing platforms and audiences changes what skills are needed to hold their attention. If you feel stagnant, maybe try writing on AO3, or Reddit, on in some new niche. They're always moving. I don't know where they all are now.

(Also thanks for the ask. It wasn't just very flattering, sitting down to write this out actually organized my own thoughts. Frankly, I've been feeling a little stagnant in my writing too, and I'd kind of forgotten why I started writing short stories. My own skill gaps are in long form. I think that if I want to grow, that's where I need to aim.)

(Also also - thank you for liking my aviators.)

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londonfog-chan · 8 months ago

Text

Emperor Geta x Barbarian!Reader: Free Will Sacrifice

Jesus H Tapdancing Motherfucking Christ. Here we go.

Big, huge shoutout to @eddiemunsonmash for beta reading the clown shoes snippet I had written of Geta falling for a masochistic pseudo-viking, in a time where the vikings didn’t even exist yet.

Look, I love the idea of being a concubine as much as the next person, but I also want to be a gladiator secretly. Like a battered, tired warrior draped in silk holding a sword whose retirement consists of getting dominated on occasion by her insane emperor boyfie. Just two deeply, weirdly fucked up individuals being nasty is all I ask.

Gimme a break here, alright? I like to pretend that Geta thinks he can dominate anyone, meanwhile his partner can foist him over her shoulders and launch him into the sun.

Content Warnings: 18+ Only, Fem!Reader, Elements of power imbalance, dom/sub sadomasochism shenanigans that would not pass a vibe check under normal circumstances, slapping, choking, unprotected p in v, dirty deeds done dirt cheap by two fucked up individuals, you can fix him she can chase him with a knife to humble him, breeding kink

Summary: The northern barbarian allows the emperor to believe he is able to make her tame.

****

“ Soon we will be gone

A free will sacrifice

As free men we are born

And free we shall die “ - Amon Amarth

****

“No gods… no masters…”

A stinging backhand struck across your cheek and jerked your head to the side, a headache coming as your head was already bobbing listlessly up and down from the incessant pounding assault from below. The thrusts of his hips were brutal, erratic. You knew the taste of coppery sanguine from his rings splitting your lip wide open.

This was of course by design, purely by your own allowance. Should you want to, you could just as easily regain control of him, but you allowed Geta to take his pleasure as if overtaken by rut.

And you loved every minute of the pain he inflicted in a desperate bid for domination.

“You will not speak of gods or masters. You will only speak of me! You are mine, and mine alone. Now say it. To whom do you belong?”

Parched lips split into a wide grin. You knew then that among all the things he tolerated about you, he would never tolerate your flagrant disregard for authority, nor your atheistic views.

Cockhead stabbing at your cervix, he drilled into you as though he was a farmer armed with an aratrum, determined to sow the seeds of his bastards inside you. In a frenzied moment of madness, you hoped one would take. Even if it left you gravid and vulnerable.

To be used and manhandled as per your consent was the first stroke of indulgence you had experienced in this place. Such was an indulgence not to be overlooked. It was a blessing. A kindness.

Such kindness was foreign to you in this land. To Rome you were an aberration — the northern barbarian— your foreign blood was meant to be proffered as libation to the gods, your body merely altar bread to be thrown into the colosseum for the rats to consume.

Yet Geta saw in you something more.

By some twisted miracle of fate, you snatched freedom out of the hands of desperate half-starved men; they who were unused to the sting of hunger deep in their bellies stood no chance against your determination to survive. What was suffering to you? Nothing more than an itch of an insect bite. Meaningless. Worth less than, because, at the very least, the itch of the bite was acknowledged with a scratch. When nursed by clansmen in the piercing gales blowing across the glacier’s barren face, the only thing that mattered was the struggle.

Struggle to overcome the cold.

To survive to see each morning sun, shining against the blue ice and snow.

You did survive. Using a blade made strong from the bones of your ancestors, you cleaved that freedom from the enemies of the Romans to choose this life.

The co-emperor had asked what you wanted with this new found freedom. Despite the fact that you were a woman missing your lower lip, and plagued with blindness of one eye, Geta had offered you a choice. No law existed for free women, only free men were expected to live to tell the tale of their colosseum victory, living lower than the slaves in Rome’s underbelly.

Geta’s cruelty would have sealed your fate had you been taken under different circumstances. Aberrant conquests were plucked out specifically as offerings to Caracalla, lesser goods bestowed to his lesser brother to be ejaculated in and on. Had you not shown your ability as the strongest fighter the colosseum had known, Geta would have given you to his brother on a silver platter.

Yet he worried about you beating his poor, weak minded sibling into bloody pap with nothing but fists. Poor, simpering little Caracalla would never stand a chance before you castrated him in a blind rage.

Admittedly, Geta was intimidated himself. It took six men to hold back your berserker strength, and you did not calm down until a blade was held to your throat. He did not expect anything less than for you to ask for a seat as a general, to demand a place in his army barracks. He would have given it freely too. Anything to keep you out of the streets where the senate feared you would begin a massacre of the people in bitter vengeance for your capture.

In your northern tongue, you made one request, translated by a warrior — frightened army fodder— who just so happened to know your language.

You wanted Him.

You wanted Geta.

“Sire, the barbarian… She says she is the sword forged in the ashes of her kin. She is the war bringer, the northern wind that can cripple the Roman empire. She is the free will that defies the hand of the gods… Her only request is that she wishes to take whoever she so chooses to bed — for this night and all the nights after, and she has chosen you.”

Any lesser man would have laughed. Made light of the wish. Geta’s generals had laughed. Hard. Teasing and baiting the mutilated free woman who had the audacity to lust for the glimmering, golden perfection of the co-emperor.

But the emperor’s genitals had other motives, and instantly sprung to life at the mere mention of the request.

You saw it. Trying to maintain your composure, you turned your head to face his arousal with your eagle eye.

A desireable length. Uncut, favoring to the left.

Clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you called to the emperor, like a man catcalling a prostitute.

Geta’s erect penis tented under the deep indigo of his toga picta when he heard this click. A primal response to a primitive call.

A call to he who looked into your one good eye, and saw passionate fire burning in your iris.

You knew he was yours from that moment on.

“Tame me…” you had told him, words translated by the frightened warrior, “Make me docile… Take me on the ground in the way that the animals do.”

His amber eyes darkened.

He would make you tame, and take you on the ground on all fours, like the animals took their mates.

You would become concubina to the co-emperor. Just as you asked.

“You will not defy me with your silence, heathen!”

The emperor hissed into your ear through clenched teeth, his shaking body bringing you out of an orgasmic trance as he ceased jerking you back and forth, spearing you on his length.

“I am your master, your commander, your ruler. Say it.” He demanded.

“You are… my Geta-…” you began.

The emperor’s hand lashed at your cheek once again. Harder. With purpose. His fingers tangled into your knotted hair as he yanked your head back. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he looked into your one good eye. You would not be permitted to use such affectionate familiarity while in the throes of being taken like a beast.

“No… you will address me as your emperor.” he hissed.

He leaned forward. Warm, boozy breath against your skin. Hot, dripping wet tongue lathing in your ear canal.

“I am your emperor, not ‘your Geta’. I am your ruler, your master… your commander... I alone will decide whether or not you are to live, or to die. Now say it. Say it, heathen of the north.”

“Mu… my G…”

It almost slipped out on accident. Pure reflex and poor command of the Roman tongue made you seem incompetent in his eyes. You could see his ring adorned hand ball into a fist in warning, could already taste the golden bands even though they were nowhere near you yet.

You decided enough was enough. You needed more. You needed to take your pleasure, aching and throbbing with need around his cock shaft.

“My Emperor…” you whispered, the word foreign on your tongue as you mispronounced it.

Geta’s body stilled.

My Emperor…

It had come out of your mouth all wrong, mispronounced and uncertain. But to him, it was a start. Something to be worked with. His fingers loosened in your hair, hand moving to cup your neck, a gentle touch as he throbbed inside you.

“Again…” he murmured, voice soft and commanding.

“My Emperor…”

In a single fluid movement you contracted around him, his eyes nearly fluttering shut as his brow wrinkled. Geta was holding back, the moan catching in his throat as he remained stoic.

“Say it again…” he said, voice strained, “Sweet siren, sing your song once more…!”

“My Emperor… Princeps… Augustus… Imperator…”

When he heard these titles, you felt his heart thrash against your back. In a frenzied stutter his hips began moving involuntarily, utterly captivated in his rhythmic dance of taking pleasure. You responded in kind. Mouth open, tongue lolling out to catch the warm, wine tinged saliva he spit into your mouth.

“Again…!” He croaked.

This time, he held back no shameful sound of lovemaking. His voice was cracked, thrusts becoming erratic as he pumped in and out, pace quickening with anticipation. Low, tantalizing bleats of erotic mania escaped from his ruddy lips. One ringed hand wrapped around your thick neck, squeezing the breath from you with one hand as the other was coated in slick spit, fully intent on either slapping your firm buttocks or your face. Whatever was more convenient depending on your answer.

He would not abate his abuse until you said it again. Would not allow you the sweet release of climax until you screamed his name to the heavens, to the gods you didn’t believe in, to all of Rome should he have commanded it.

“Princeps…!” You keened.

And you were rewarded. Two moistened fingers, vigorously creating friction against your clitoral hood.

His title left your mouth in a wail as you sprayed his sheets with the aftermaths of ecstasy.

“Imperator… Imperator…!”

#emperor geta #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta x female reader #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #geta #geta x reader

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