#queue queue kachoo

[comatosebunny09]

second best | sylus

cw: reader is not mc, injury, blood, mild language, alcohol consumption, melodramatic, jealousy, confessions, ooc, unrequited love, all hurt, no comfort now playing: no one noticed - the marías never tell - luke chiang

The pain in your side is visceral. Pulsing. Sticky.

A stab wound. You didn’t see it coming. Then again, it’s become more difficult to focus on not getting yourself killed these days.

Blood stains your haphazard dressing. You’re donned in slacks with your blazer slung over your shoulders—only a bra beneath to maintain a scrap of modesty. 

You hiss as you plop onto the barstool of an empty Lux, signaling to the bartender for a drink—anything to dull the pain, both in your side and in your head. 

She’s hesitant. Pensive. She pulls something dark from the top shelf. Whips out a shot glass, poising the spout over it to pour, already accustomed to seeing you like this. Bearing it all on your own, bleeding, splintering at the seams. 

You knock her hand away, grasping the neck of the bottle. The bartender catches your glare when she doesn’t immediately let go. Narrows her eyes. If only eyes could speak. And if they could, if only you’d listen.

Reluctantly, she relinquishes the bottle to you, turning away to wipe the opposite counter. 

You scrutinize her shoulder blades before tugging out the spout and throwing your head back for a swig.

It burns. A good burn. It’s unsightly how liquor pours down the sides of your mouth. Whatever. You’re not in a contest to be ladylike. 

You set the half-consumed bottle down as the bartender returns. 

“Should I bring you a gun to finish the job, or are we taking the scenic route to our graves tonight?” 

Your jaw ticks. You finger the bottle’s foil label. Huff at her audacity. She doesn’t renounce her iron glare. She cares. You know she does. And she’s right—the wound beneath your bottom rib throbs, reminding you of its existence. Of your mortality. Your carelessness. 

The bartender looks like she might admonish you further. Mouth drops open, brows pinched. She doesn’t get the chance as you watch her eyes flit over your shoulder, chest expanding with a quiet gasp. She stiffens, skin clammy beneath the red wash of the strobe lights. 

She draws away before you can bug her about the shift in demeanor. The back of your neck prickles. You rotate in the barstool, wincing, a hand shielding your wound, the other clasped around the bottle. 

And now it all makes sense.

Your blood runs cold. Tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. It’s suddenly hard to swallow. You’re wincing for an entirely different reason now, unconsciously shrinking beneath the brilliance of his irises.

Typically, you would appreciate him like this—arms crossed over a virile chest, forearms spilling from the rolled sleeves of a dark sweater, watch gleaming on his wrist. Pressed slacks, polished loafers. Coiffed hair, warm skin. 

But his expression is sour. Lips thinned with annoyance. His eyes flit from the hand over your side back up. Something stirs in his gaze—disappointment? Grief? Guilt? Whatever the cause, you suddenly feel self-conscious.

He exhales slowly, letting the pulse of the turned-down music and the impenetrable atmosphere stew between you. A wordless staredown. A silent war of pride. 

Ah. 

Did you ruin his date? 

You knew you shouldn’t have let the twins see you like this. Fucking snitches.

—

He works quietly. Efficiently. 

There’s a rehearsed grace to his movements as if he’s done this before—personally tended to your injuries, lips tight, brows pinched, fingers shaky as they dab antiseptic onto your stitched-up wound.

Ah.

He has done this before, hasn’t he? Used to do it all the time. The norm before everything changed. Before you started hiding things like this from him. 

You hiss at one particular press of his fingers. Feel the malice behind it. “That hurts,” you push through a scowl.

“Good,” he clips, eyes trained on his task. 

The air of his study is dense with tension. Nothing but the tick of his wall clock and the sound of him rifling through the first aid tin on his desk.

You’re propped on its edge, hunched over, jacket thrown over the armchair near the entrance. 

He’s seated halfway to the side, pasting a foam dressing over your mended skin. You flinch when he smooths over it. Not from the sting, but from how gentle he’s being despite the mood. It’s almost like an insult—a nick to your pride.

“Well, aren’t you quiet tonight?” you note, trying to sound nonchalant. It drips with resentment—a challenge. You want to argue. 

“You’re hurt. I’m focusing.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Focusing. Yeah.”

He doesn’t outwardly react to your jab. You twirl the figurative knife between your fingers, poising it at his throat.

“Always so focused. So calm. So put together. Until someone else is around to distract you.”

He errs in his movements. The tendons in his jaw pull. You’ve slid the blade across his neck. Done well on your threat. You narrow your eyes, driving the serrated edge deeper.

“Since when do you care, anyway? Since when do you give a shit what happens to me? Don’t you have better things to worry about? Better people?”

You garner the reaction you initially sought. He straightens, elbows digging into his thighs. Exhales slowly, scrutinizing you. 

“If there’s something you want to say to me, I suggest you get to the point.”

You scoff again, hopping down from his desk. The pain is still there, yet it doesn’t contend with the ash burning your throat. 

Crossing your arms, you pace around, tongue passing over your teeth. Stopping, you cast your glower on him. “You know what pisses me off more than anything, Sylus?” 

His name on your tongue is thick with vitriol. Venomous.

He flinches as if visibly struck. Shifts on his seat, shoulders bowed forward, lacing his fingers together, drilling into your soul. His silence serves as your cue to forge onward. You swallow, steeling your resolve. This confrontation is long overdue. 

“Four years, Sylus. I’ve been by your side for four years.” 

You drop your hands at your sides, a humorless laugh dribbling past your lips. He bites the insides of his cheeks. Glances at his hands, expression slackening, before he’s looking at you again, attention undivided. 

“I’ve been your little errand girl for years. Running behind you, taking out your trash. I’ve been stabbed, shot, and nearly died. All because you made me think I meant something to you.”

The man of the hour sits up, spine ramrod stiff. Features halfway hopeless, his voice breaks. “You do mean something to me.”

“Bullshit.” Your lips quiver, eyes warm. “If I mean something to you, why do you keep leaving me by myself? Why do you keep—”

Arctic, shaky hands close around your arms. You rub them to self-soothe, emotions welling in your throat. Dejection worms through you, spilling hot. 

You’re tired of treading thin ice. Tired of pretending like you aren’t cracking yourself.

Your voice steeps low, crackling with agony. With untapped feelings.

“God, Sylus, I—I love you, for fuck’s sake.” It’s like the words are ripped from your throat. From your very being. You blink away the bleary film of tears hijacking your sight. “I’ve loved you forever. So much, it hurts.

“And you—you always used to look at me like I was the only person in the world. Like I was all you needed. You trusted me. You told me everything.” You take a tentative step closer to his desk, feeling utterly hopeless.

“Now, you…you won’t even look at me.” 

As if remembering his voice, he tries to speak, mouth spilling open, hovering around words that won’t come. You don’t grant him the satisfaction.

“You don’t even see me. Not like you see her. I mean, she just fucking walks in, all bright-eyed and optimistic, and you—you throw me to the wayside to play knight in shining armor to someone who hasn’t seen you bleed like I have.”

Your wound throbs, blood lazily beading through the stitches from your jostling about. You pay it no heed because keeping these things bottled up any longer will kill you before infection settles in. 

“I’ve been your right hand. Your ace. Your fucking lapdog. I never complained. I never asked for anything in return. I stayed, Sylus. I stayed this whole time. I worked my ass off to prove myself to you, to prove my worth, hoping that one day…one day, you’d feel the same. That you would see me.”

The weight in your chest doesn’t let up. Despite the molten tears pooling in the corners of your eyes and your uneven breathing, your attempt to compose yourself, control, you still feel heavy. 

He stands so swiftly that his chair lifts, nearly toppling over on the floor. Hands held out placatingly—fingertips sticky with your blood—he nears you. Blinks steadily as if keeping his own emotions at bay. You don’t recall a time you’ve ever seen him so conflicted. So disjointed. 

“I never meant to hurt you.” His throat fills with bile like sand spilling through a sieve. “I never wanted to lead you on.”

Your lips pull into a bitter smile. Tears stream down unbidden, plopping thick and heavy on the polished surface of his desk. 

Shrugging, you laugh, “Of course you didn’t. And I never wanted to fall in love with you. But here I am, giving my heart to someone who doesn’t even want it.”

“I’m sorry. You know that I can’t—”

“Don’t!” you bite with an accusatory finger aimed at him when he cautions forward. “Don’t even—I don’t—fuck!”

Frustrated, you tear your fingers through your hair, beating on your temple with the heel of your palm. “I feel so fucking stupid! I can’t—fuck.”

Hysterical and utterly humiliated, you snatch up your blazer, shouldering through the heavy door of his study and out of sight until the frenetic, jarring click of your heels in the hallway is but a distant memory.

He’s motionless in the wake of your afterimage. Stunned as something acrid furls in his chest.  Every synapse in his brain fires off, screaming for him to go after you. To fix this. Closure.

Yet he fears driving the metaphorical knife deeper, permanently severing the remaining, fragile sinews keeping your relationship intact.

[boimlerkisser]

Everyone PLEASE look at this comm I got from @selins-drawings of my self insert and Sportacus!! 😭💖💘💖💘💖💘 its so pretty I could cry, and it's my first worrysport commission so it's even more special! Thank you so much again!

[oh-great-authoress]

Hey there. Was wondering if I could help jog your muse so how about this?

Can I have five facts about a Top Gun AU where Bradley is hurt on mission and Mav is of course the Dagger dad. You decide if he's actually there or on the radio. ;D

Thank you so much for this ask, @musewrangler!

I’m so sorry this took an eternity, but I only got the inspiration for this now!

*sighs in author*

Anyway, many authors better than me have tackled the idea of Bradley getting injured on the Uranium Mission, so I decided to tweak the prompt a little bit—I hope you like this!

It’s a big deal—this is the first mission of the newly formed VFA-223, the “Black Cloaks”, and it’s air cover for a high value hostage rescue in Eastern Europe; a simple task, ostensibly, for such skilled pilots: Bradley is mission lead, Jake is his wingman, with Omaha and Halo, Payback and Fanboy as their two Foxtrot teams.

Mav is there in the command center, practically ready to jump out of his skin, praying they all make it home, his heart sinking when, though the hostages are successfully rescued, the mission quickly turns bad for the Daggers; there’s much more firepower than the intelligence indicated, including a UN sanctioned missile system—however, Mav’s trained them well; they’re all able to evade its targeting system, barely using their flares and chaff, but when an RPG catches Bradley off guard, Mav practically knocks Cyclone over in his rush to get to the radio as they all hear Jake’s terrified “Roo!”.

Bradley just manages to dive to avoid most of the explosion, but the blast has damaged his right aileron, with shrapnel striking his cockpit, cutting into his leg, and shearing off most of the F-18’s right elevator; he’s about to bail out of his jet into enemy territory for the second time in two years when he feels a warm hand close around his own on the stick, the battered aircraft suddenly stabilizing. “Let me show you the way home, kiddo,” a warm voice echoes in his ear, the ghost of a mustache whispering against his cheek, and as he looks out the corner of his eye, he can see the mirage of an F-14 on his wing, with a silver and blue-helmeted pilot at the stick.

Gently reassuring everyone over comms that he had control over the aircraft, especially Mav, whose fatherly concern is thinly veiled by military protocol, he miraculously makes it home, to the shock of his whole squadron when they see the state of the aircraft, everyone hugging him, Mav the tightest of all, who then promptly drags him to medical, and if the whole squadron along with its commanding officer decides to camp out in a particular room, the corpsmen decide not to mention anything.

Over the squadron’s long and storied history, it becomes a legend reverently whispered by every aviator assigned there, that if you ever find yourself in a mission gone bad, more often than not, you’ll feel a warm hand around yours on the stick, as a mustache ghosts against your cheek, and catch the faint sight of an F-14 at your wing with a silver and blue-helmed pilot at the stick, and eventually, also an F-18E with a black, white, and red-helmed pilot at the stick, VFA-223’s own guardian angels, ready to show their aviators the way home.

[weirdbird74]

you are not immune to touch drumless edition string section

[cryscal]

"Not lost in all this is the sad irony of the world’s richest person making life more difficult for the world’s poorest people."

The CHOTUS, the Muskass, and the broligarchy. People with too much money and a flagrant refusal to accept any limitations on their behavior. For Trump, Musk and their ilk, anyone or anything that states (or even suggests) "You can't do that," must be vilified at best and destroyed at worst, be it a bishop who asks for mercy for the country's most vulnerable or the Constitution of the United States.

For anyone who thinks this blatant arrogance is a good quality in a President, don't whine to me when the leopard eats your face. It will happen.

For those who think otherwise, remember, they can't win unless we all lay down and shut up.

[pfungu]

🥺 Home

[comatosebunny09]

*snap snap*

Huh? Me? Oh, nothin’. Just thinkin’ about—

—his hand between your legs, playing with your clit as he drives. You’re on the phone, telling your friends you’re on the way, struggling to keep your voice from wavering, your feet propped on the seat, calves strained, thighs sore and quivering.

When you hang up, he smirks, slipping his fingers into the pucker of your pussy to reward you for keeping your composure. He curls his fingers upwards to tease that spongy mesh of pleasure inside, thumbing your clit, softly cooing at how greedy you are.

“Go ahead and make a mess, sweetie,” he soothes, coaxes, “I have leather seats for a reason.”

[oh-great-authoress]

Nadia Sings no. 7

Link to last song

Yes, believe your eyes—it’s a Nadia Sings double feature!

This is one of my favorite jazz standards to sing, and it’s not one that I think most people will know: “You’ll Never Know” (Music by Harry Warren, lyrics by Mack Gordon)

The song was introduced in the 1943 movie “Hello, Frisco, Hello”, where it was sung by Alice Faye, eventually going on to win the 1943 Academy Award for Best Original Song.

In the 21st century, the song was featured in the 2017 film “The Shape of Water”, sung there by the legendary American opera singer, Renee Fleming.

When I first heard this song, between the lovely lyrics and beautiful melody, I immediately fell in love, and I could not believe it when I saw that it was sung by Renee Fleming, who was one of my inspirations growing up.

So I learned it as soon as I could… and have never performed it since—until now, and I think this is the proudest I’ve been of a recording.

I’ll let it speak for itself.

Again, my usual disclaimer; this was recorded in my new recording studio (my closet), using my favorite recording app, BandLab (again, you guys know the drill 🤣), and, as usual, while I put a little reverb effect on my vocal track, this is otherwise as unadulterated a track as the one I posted last time, just my voice, with no pitch correction, recorded into my iPhone.

(Headphones recommended to hear the reverb)

Tagging the same people I tagged last time, as well as those who enjoyed the last-last offering:

@welsharcher

@themareverine

@batmantaking-hobbits2gallifrey

@justhereforfandomandfriends

@musewrangler

@oh-nostalgiia

@sakar-rad

@radical-sky

@randomfoggytiger

@agentfaust

@two-microscopes

@canmking

@asentienthaze

@gays4galadriel

@redcoatchemist

@thehappybaker

@peanutbutterandsadness50

@mymusicbias

If you would like to be taken off the taglist, just send me a message, no hard feelings, and if you’d like to be added to the taglist, just interact with/reblog this post, or send me an ask!

[weirdbird74]

she Leach on me slow til i Win

[cryscal]

Farewell Sweet Crabs 👋 🦀

When I remember my crab friends I'll think of:

a salty summer breeze

[oh-great-authoress]

Nadia Sings no. 6

Link to last song

After a hiatus, we are back, baby!

Today we have a Christmas classic: “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” by Brenda Lee (music and lyrics by Johnny Marks)

As a child, this was one of my favorite Christmas songs to sing along to; I would especially put on our album of Christmas songs to sing this, among other songs, and in the spirit of the season, I thought it would be fitting to give you all this.

In the time I’ve been away, I’ve found a new recording studio—my closet, I’m not even kidding—and I am still using BandLab, which just keeps improving, in my opinion (still not an advertisement, though at this rate, I feel like I should get paid for it), and I have to say that I am very happy with how I produced this; the little radio/vinyl effect I put on my vocals really makes it feel retro, which I did on purpose to match the feel of Brenda Lee’s original recording.

Again, my usual disclaimer; this was recorded in my new recording studio (my closet), using my favorite recording app, BandLab (you guys know the drill 🤣), and, as usual, while I put a little vintage/retro effect on my vocal track, this is otherwise as unadulterated a track as the one I posted last time, just my voice, with no pitch correction, recorded into my iPhone.

(Headphones recommended for the full vintage experience)

Tagging the same people I tagged last time, as well as those who enjoyed the last offering:

@welsharcher

@themareverine

@batmantaking-hobbits2gallifrey

@justhereforfandomandfriends

@musewrangler

@oh-nostalgiia

@sakar-rad

@radical-sky

@randomfoggytiger

@agentfaust

@two-microscopes

@canmking

@asentienthaze

@gays4galadriel

@redcoatchemist

@thehappybaker

@peanutbutterandsadness50

@mymusicbias

If you would like to be taken off the taglist, just send me a message, no hard feelings, and if you’d like to be added to the taglist, just interact with/reblog this post, or send me an ask!

[cryscal]

Reblog to take this oath, my lovelies.

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[oh-great-authoress]

New queue tag!!

#queue queue kachoo → #all the time you have to leave a queue

(You might still sometimes see #queue queue kachoo due to tumblr being the hellsite and not letting me edit some posts in the queue)

[cryscal]

☝️☝️☝️

If you're a writer you're supposed to write a lot of bullshit. It's part of the gig. You have to write a lot of absolute garbage in order to get to the good bits. Every once in a while you'll be like "Oh, I wish I hadn't wasted all that time writing bullshit," but that's dumb. That's exactly the same as an Olympic runner being like "Oh, I wish I hadn't wasted all that time running all those practice laps"

[cryscal]

Why stop at one?

⚔️

Everyone is fighting a tough battle so reblog to give previous a sword 🗡️