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muzansfangs · 11 months ago

Note

Black Russian with muzan?

The scientist and his experiment.

Starring: Muzan Kibutsuji x f!reader;

Format: one-shot;

Warnings: nsfw, spanking, power imbalance, blood and gore, violence, mention to death and death threats, mention to cannibalism, body horror, abusive language, hair pulling, creampie, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, demon!reader, orgasm denial, language, degradation, sub!reader, dom!muzan, testing onto underlings;

Plot: Experimenting in his laboratory, Muzan had tried once again to come up with a way to finally withstand the sunlight. Not keen to test the potion on himself, he had summoned you, one of the new Upper Moons who had joined the higher ranks. Teasing him about the most likely negative outcome of his experiment, you ended up smashing the cruet containing the potion and you both inhaled the exhalation generated by the liquid. If you both were pissed off a minute before the accident, why were you now growling and tearing your clothes off of your bodies?

Drink chosen: BLACK RUSSIAN (spanking, hair pulling, orgasm denial, vaginal sex, creampie);

MASTERLIST FOR THE EVENT | RULES FOR THE EVENT

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

“Not a day can pass without you craving my presence, huh?” you sassily gloated, head dangling from the edge of the canopied bed of the infamous Kibutsuji Muzan to stare at his back, flexing underneath the silken fabric of his shirt with each movement he made. If you were a lower rank he would have most likely already killed you.

He never truly enjoyed your presence, only restraining from getting rid of you for your loyalty and lethality. You were not the strongest Upper Moon at his service, yet you were the only one who solely searched for the Slayers and consumed them to the bone. Your diet was remarkably satisfying for him. Pillars, new recruits, you never paid attention to their rank. When they died, their flesh tasted the same.

“Silence” Muzan flatly muttered, pouring some greenish substance into a still empty cruet. Sadly, he had summoned you for testing his new experiment and had no interest in striking up a conversation with you. Let alone actually enjoying your company.

Then again, you could not actually believe he was completely unaffected by your charm. Brows knitting together in indignation, you scoffed and rolled off of the bed. Your kimono had slided down your shoulders, cleavage on full display for a wandering eye to admire, but still Muzan blatantly ignored you. He deemed you something between a slimy worm and pretty much an annoying fly, to be correct. A slave to his whims, at best, a pawn in his scheme to conquer the sun and expand his reign of terror to the daylight.

Walking up to him, you slammed your hands onto his desk, paying no attention to the papers you were creasing, as your head tilted to the side to scrutinize the way his hands flipped the pages of his diary, or how he carefully grasped a pipette to mix up multicolored substances “Shush me again and I won’t drink up your shitty potion. Or shall I refer to it as your new failed attempt to imitate the skills of that doctor you regrettably murdered, huh?” you asserted, fed up with his attitude.

This bastard should have been glad you worked so hard to purge Japan from his natural born enemies. You even went to the extent of setting fire to the wisteria you ran into through your journeys. However, it was not enough with him. It was never enough.

Muzan’s irritation grew exponentially at your words, jaw clenching in unbridled rage at the mention of his incapacity to find the blue spider lily and improve the medicine his doctor had given him so many centuries ago. You should have been grateful he had even bothered turning you into a demon, welcoming you in his kingdom, sharing his blood with you, donating incommensurable power and eternal beauty. Still, ungratefully, there you were, daring to mock him for his unsuccess in upgrading a stupid medication. He was a man of intellect, he only lacked a mere ingredient to perfect that effing brew.

“Useless brat, wash your mouth, when you talk about me. — he hissed through gritted teeth, the nails in his right hand sharpening under your now wary gaze — Will you ever understand how insignificant to me you are and how privileged you have been for having stumbled on my path?” he bitterly stated, snapping his diary close with a dull thud and tossing it across the room in sheer wrath.

His fangs had protruded from his gums, shiny, pointy and deadly. The veins rooting on his face and his pupils reduced to two slits were your last warning. You tried to dodge his attack, but the dark blood dripping down the floor from your face, as your skin slowly regenerated, were events happening in a fraction of time not even your demonic eye had registered. The pain though was there, the wince burning your throat the proof he had already struck you, before you could react.

A slash straight on your cheek, deep cuts left by his claws still bleeding up led you to clasp your hand pathetically over the wounds, as if you could stop the flow. You cussed, fury glinting in your eyes, your subservient nature leaving space to an unprecedented thirst for revenge nothing could quench. You knew beating him was impossible. Lacking the skills was the least of your problems. Why? Because how could you defeat someone who could read your mind?

You growled, fangs on full display, before your good eye darted from his face to the desk. Fetching a blow directly at him would have never worked, but not even Lord Kibutsuji could prevent glass from shattering, or ink to restore on the paper.

The moment he understood your aim was not directed at him, he did not hesitate to wrap his hand around your throat. The air was sucked out of your lungs, feet leaving the ground, kicking at the air, as you glared in defiance at him. Maybe he thought he could physically stop you, but your blood demon technique worked without you touching the elements you wanted to destroy.

“Don’t you dare” he snarled at your face, his nails digging onto your smooth flesh drawing crescent bloody moons, tinging your white kimono in a crimson shade of red.

“Respectfully, f-fuck you” you choked out, smiling like a mad woman as you snapped your fingers and the very potion he had just ultimated exploded into a million splinters under his incredulous eyes. The sound of the glass shattering was the sign of your victory. You were probably going to die, your immortal life coming to an end by the very hands of the man who had gifted you that second chance of living like a supernatural being.

But you smiled, you never stopped smiling, not even as your forehead was smashed down against the edge of the desk. You laughed instead, an hysterical but genuine laughter that made Muzan’s blood boil as he tangled his fingers through your hair and strained your neck back to meet your eyes. Pain was long forgotten in that very moment. Every fiber of your body screamed to you that you had reached a level of freedom from him no one had ever been able to reach.

“You are a degenerate worm not deserving of existing. The sight of you makes me vomit” he deadpanned, forcing you back on your feet roughly and tightening the grip on your hair, as he watched the puddle of the liquid spilled sizzling onto the carpet underneath his feet, liquifying it. He had failed then. He had wasted his time once again. Two weeks spent in mixing together ingredients, studying new a formula, only to be reminded of the thruth you had shouted at his face: he could not match the skill of that damned doctor.

He never lost his composure, not even when he punished his underlings. But you had truly amazed him with your stupid antics and a kink for self-destructing choices. He had made up his mind. You could not live another day. You had to die, now. It would have not been enough to calm him down but it was going to be extremely satisfying anyway. He wanted to be covered in your blood, only to forget your name when he would have washed himself.

But no, he needed you to suffer. What a way to go down it would have been, if he devoured you?

“I was right, you’re too dumb to comprehend chemistry” you spluttered out, your vision finally restored albeit you were still bleeding out on the parquet.

The moment he heard the sound of you voice again, he pinned your head down onto what remained of his potion, disgust in his gaze as he watched you whimper out in pain as the liquid burned your skin. It was corrosive, your flesh on fire as he forced you to practically wipe the carpet with your cheek. The sadism in his action dripped hatred, while tears brimmed up in your eyes. You clawed at the carpet, disperately attempting to set yourself free, but Muzan had other plans for you. Kneeling down next to your writhing frame, he grinned, lifting your head up to examine the resault of his assault. Your cheek was deeply damaged, but you would have surely been able to regenerate it.

“Tell me, Y/N, would you rather have me consume you to the bone, or reduce you to nothing by biting chunks off of your body? Tell me, you stupid bitch” he chimed, your mouth going dry as you inhaled sharply, eyelids closing to avoid looking him in the eye.

Muzan clicked his tongue, impressed by your sudden silence. He leaned even closer, taking a whiff of the disturbing smell of that potion that had scarred your face. His lips curled into a crooked smile, his eyes watching intently the way you sobbed and your skin gradually restored its former smoothness. Your head was spinning at this point, breath uneven, whilst Muzan pushed you down onto the carpet once again. He had all the intent of beginning to devour you, his mouth salivating as he leaned down closer to you.

He barely had the time to pierce your jugular, though, that he felt his pants tighten uncomfortably. A boner in the middle of a hunt. This was not exactly what he had anticipated, just like the sweat beading his forehead and his heart pumping the blood faster in his veins. This was primal arousal, a need setting his body on fire as he pulled his bloodied mouth away from your neck. Your whine, pained, was strained with something else. Muzan saw the way you were writhing underneath him, chest heaving, as you pressed your thighs together.

Your dilated pupils, the way droplets of sweat were running down the valley of your breasts causing his cock to twitch into his undergarments. You were just as aroused as he was, thrashing onto the carpet in agony. He could smell your hormones, he could see the way you were looking at him questioningly. You were on fire.

“What the Hell have you done to me?” you blurted out, gripping the collar of his shirt so harshly it ended up being torn.

Muzan refused to believe this was the effect caused by his potion, but it was the only valid explanation to this. He bristled, swatting your hand away and growling at your face like an animal “Oh, believe him, I wanted to kill you, not to fuck you. — he snarled, grasping your jaw roughly and leaning his face down to let his lips hover over yours hazardously — Now, however, I have no other choice but to rut into someone. The question is: do you want to be that someone and be satisfied, or do you wish for me to end your misery in a more brutal and permanent way?” he hissed, watching the way you stared daggers at him.

You had a choice, that much was true. You did not want to die, you still had plenty of things to do before dying. The possibility to be eradicated from the world was not alluring anymore. Your clit throbbing between your legs, craving attention, some kind of friction, made you agree with him. You gritted your teeth, legs spread to let him accomodate between them.

“So be it” you stated, watching him fidget with his hands to unbuckle the belt keeping his trousers up.

It was not something you two could control. The fire coiling on your lower abdomen matched the pulsing desire in Muzan’s briefs. Gentleness, care were far away from them. The moment he had gotten rid of his clothes, he was already disrobing you of yours.

You thought it was going to be a regular intercourse, something to look back at with a weird sense of disgust and the thrill of the rush, but it turned out to be much more than that. Flipping you over your stomach, Muzan gripped your hair with one hand to force you to arch your spine. The bulbous tip of his cock dragging up and down your slippery heat to collect your juices.

“If you think I am merciful enough to grant you the sight of my face, you’re even more of a goose than I deemed you to be” he rasped out, your scalp stinging, as he yanked you back against his chest.

You whined, mouth ajar, as you felt him enter you. The friction was surprisingly smooth and pleasurable, your spongy walls sucking him in perfectly, whilst he grunted from behind you “Honored! You should feel honored I’m f-fucking you” he mocked you, hips driving into yours quickly, smacking your skin with a ferocity you had never experienced before.

You moaned out, unable to look back at his face, but capable to speak up again “I should’ve let you fuck your fist. How would it have felt, huh? Instead— fuck, instead, there you are, nestled into me and moaning like a pig to the slaughter… H-How low the Demon King has fallen” you taunted him nack, regretting your impudent display of courage instantly.

The smack on your rear felt like incandescent iron on your flesh, his cock rubbing insistently through your walls causing you to babble out incoherent words you could not repeat. Muzan was furious, his desire to ruin you and humiliate you blinding him as he felt you clamping down onto his length tightly. No, you did not deserve to reach your orgasm, but he did.

The sudden feeling of emptiness within you felt like a cold shower, as you gasped and tried to whip your head around to meet his gaze “What—”.

The audacity, the direspect you continued to show him could not proceed any further. He could not bear the sight of you for any longer.

Your protests falling deaf to his ears, as he pumped his shaft with one hand, lolling his head back in ecstasy as he felt his orgasm wash over him as a violent wave. The feeling of his seed dripping down over the curve of ass, warm, sticky, was the last thing you felt before you heard the biwa’s melody echo through the room and you fell naked and alone into a black-pitch forest.

Underserving of an answer. Underserving of a goodbye. You were nothing for him.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hi, there! Well, guys, what can I say? Muzan is a walking red flag. Let’s be real, albeit I love studying his character and personality, he would very much do all of the atrocities you’ve read in my fic. I do not condone any of this and I never will, therefore I will keep on depicting him more human in my modern au’s and pretend he is a good person. Stay the fuck away from people like him, hons❤️

Writing is fun, but he is a monster.

Until next,

x o x o

TAGS: @mrskokushibo @doumadono

#kibutsuji muzan x reader #muzan x reader #muzan smut #demon slayer smut #kny smut #demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #muzan kibutsuji x reader #demon slayer fanfic #muzan x you #muzan x y/n #muzan kibutsuji

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florencebirdsong · 8 months ago

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All smut. 18+ minors DNI

ao3 | thoughts tag

wip wednesday tag | wip updates tag

Events

Agatha All Along Week 2024 Masterlist

Valentine’s Day Event 2025

Key -

✩ non-xreader

𓉸 dark

Sharing is Caring (2/2)

-> bad decisions: rio lets agatha have a turn with her pet, she never said she wouldn’t join in

-> welts and caresses: pain is just as delicious as pleasure when it comes to them

Healer Knows Best (2/2)

-> open wide: you have a problem you can’t ignore anymore. The local healer, Agatha, is more than happy to help

-> healing hands: you can’t seem to get the same feeling Agatha gave you

Basement Bunny (1/9) 𓉸

-> You should always start training your pet from day one. Or, Agatha steals a bunny and decides conditioning is the best way to train it.

you can run but you can’t hide ✩

-> Agatha wants Rio’s attention and now she has it. Quick and dirty style

Trick or Treat

-> with Agatha away planning a trick, Rio decides to have a little treat

Bent Over

-> joining in on Agatha and Rio's special brand of foreplay is just like flipping a coin

Established Jealousy

->Agatha comes home to find Rio two knuckles deep in you. She isn’t impressed.

Dreams 𓉸

-> Agnes has a nightmare. You make the mistake of letting her stay.

Staying In

-> When you insist on going out with a friend who is clearly into you, Agatha takes matters into her own hands.

Pipette Visit

-> You’ve stolen the good pipettes. Professor Harkness interrupts your office hours to convince you to give them back.

Wolf Hunt

-> Rio needs to get out some of those animal instincts

Monthly Hunt

-> Foxes don’t submit on command. Rio has to catch you if she wants to breed you.

Deathmark

-> Death marks your soul.

Fake Marriage, Real Hands

-> Wanda wants some off-air entertainment. Her fake married neighbours are encouraged to fulfil that want.

Bloody Fuck Fest

-> Vampires sucking and fucking.

Expending Energy

-> Cosmic beings need to let off steam every now and then so they don’t take it out on the little people. Sometimes they get hurt. You’re there to make them feel better.

deep breath

-> Wanda wants to see just how good you can be

Guiding Hand

-> (includes selfcest)

Taking Mommy

-> Wanda wants to try out a new toy and Natasha knows the perfect position

Pull, Don’t Push!

-> Getting stuck under the bed hadn’t been on your plans today. Your girlfriend fucking you however…

The Only Gift I Need Is (The Smell Of) You

-> What better present to give to your horny girlfriend then fulfilling a kink of hers. Or, Kate loves the smell of your cunt

severance masterlist

#birdsong sings #masterlist

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mariacallous · 4 months ago

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Last month, the Trump administration placed a $1 spending limit on most government-issued credit cards that federal employees use to cover travel and work expenses. The impacts are already widely felt.

At the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, scientists aren’t able to order equipment used to repair ships and radars. At the Food and Drug Administration, laboratories are experiencing delays in ordering basic supplies. At the National Park Service, employees are canceling trips to oversee crucial maintenance work. And at the Department of Agriculture and the Federal Aviation Administration, employees worry that mission-critical projects could be stalled. In many cases, employees are already unable to carry out the basic functions of their job.

“The longer this disruption lasts, the more the system will break,” says a USDA official who was granted anonymity because they aren’t authorized to speak to the media about the looming crisis.

A researcher at the National Institutes of Health who tests new vaccines and treatments in rodents says he has had to put experiments on hold; his lab is not able to get certain necessary materials, such as antibodies, which are needed to assess immune response. “We have animals here that are aging that will pretty soon be too old to work with,” says the researcher, who requested anonymity as they aren’t authorized to speak publicly about the agency. Young mice and rats that are 6 to 8 weeks old are typically used for drug and vaccine studies, but some of the animals in their lab have now aged out of that window and may have to be euthanized.

They say NIH workers have been using internal listservs to ask for reagents and lab equipment from other buildings or institutions to try to compensate for shortages, but they’re not always able to track down what they need. The NIH is made up of 27 institutes and centers, and its Bethesda, Maryland, campus is spread across more than 75 buildings. “Sometimes you need something that's really niche, and you're just not going to find it from someone else on campus,” they say.

The change comes as Elon Musk’s so-called Department of Government Efficiency continues to hunt for alleged examples of waste across the federal government. Late last month, DOGE announced that it was working to “simplify” the government’s largest credit card program, which issues GSA SmartPay travel and purchase cards for federal employees. Last Wednesday, the agency claimed 24,000 cards had been deactivated.

The credit card program allows federal workers to bypass the typical procurement process required to buy goods and services. A 2002 report from the Department of Commerce said that, “by avoiding the formal procurement process, GSA estimates the annual savings to be $1.2 billion.” It also enables federal employees to avoid paying sales tax on expenses that the government is exempt from.

At the FDA, labs that analyze samples to ensure that food, drugs, medical devices, and cosmetics are safe and meet regulatory standards are already facing shortages. "While we are always acutely aware of when Congress’ funding is going to run out, we are able to order supplies to keep things going in the lab. This abrupt ending felt like the rug was being pulled out from under us," says an employee at the FDA who requested anonymity because they aren't authorized to speak with the media.

The employee recently placed an order for pipette tips, an essential laboratory supply, but found that order was put on hold. "Now we are running out, asking colleagues at other offices to share what they might not be using,” they told WIRED.

In addition, workers say FDA labs now have to go through a lengthy process to order liquid nitrogen, which is used to keep ultra-cold freezers running. These freezers preserve samples of cells and other biological material that reflect years, and sometimes decades, of research. Delays in getting liquid nitrogen tanks could destroy that material. Previously, new tanks could usually be acquired the same day as putting in a request. Now, it takes a week or so to receive a tank after initiating a request.

An employee at the Environmental Protection Agency says her facility is not able to place regular orders of liquid nitrogen at the moment. “We have dozens of these freezers full of important environmental samples that are imminently at risk of being lost because we can no longer get our regular shipments of liquid nitrogen,” says the employee, who requested anonymity. These samples are used as part of research on detection and remediation methods for chemicals such as PFAS, which are found in many products and break down very slowly over time.

“Scientists are being forced to jerry-rig the connection points on these freezers to accept pressures of liquid nitrogen they were not designed to handle,” the employee says. “Divisions are resorting to bartering with each other to obtain needed items.”

The FDA and EPA did not immediately respond to a request for comment from WIRED.

The credit card freeze also means that federal researchers who were working on scientific manuscripts can’t pay journal fees, meaning they can’t submit their work to certain journals for publication.

An employee at a federal forensics lab told WIRED that spending limits mean the lab is no longer able to pay to ship evidence back to agents, effectively halting its ability to do casework. Before a case goes to trial, defendants have the right to access and review evidence that the prosecution intends to use against them, which includes access to the evidence in their case. Defendants are able to send that evidence to an outside lab for analysis if they choose. “Cases can’t progress until we return the evidence,” says the forensics lab worker, who asked to remain anonymous. “I basically can’t do my job right now.”

NIH employees were told that travel cards could not be used at all for 30 days, forcing scientists to cancel plans to attend a major infectious disease conference next week. USDA employees at the Pest Identification Technology Laboratory have stockpiled reagents used for molecular tests in advance of the spending limits, according to the USDA official.

FAA employees who travel to work on and test aviation systems worry the credit card freeze will prevent them from completing their projects. “We are allowed to use our personal cards in emergencies but none of us trust them to pay us back now,” says one employee.

The impacts have hit the National Park Service as well. One employee was poised to go on a trip to oversee road maintenance at a national monument when the change went into effect on February 20. “Unless I want to pay for it myself, I can’t go. I can’t pay for my hotel, my rental car, fuel for the car. Now I can’t carry out the mission,” the employee says. “Today, instead of focusing on other work, I’m focused on three different contingencies on how to handle this. Do I go? Do I call my engineering team and tell them to reschedule? And if so, when? The project is on an indefinite hold.”

A memo written to staff at the National Park Service specified that “all travel that is NOT related to national security, public safety, or immigration enforcement should be canceled if it begins on Wednesday, February 26, through the end of March 2025.” A long-term decision on the travel policy, it said, will come “at a later date.” Some NPS staffers were able to travel in February despite not getting official clearance. They have now been told no travel will be allowed in March. To date, roughly 75 trips have been canceled or rescheduled, according to a source familiar with the situation.

The National Park Service did not respond to a request for comment from WIRED.

Some government employees say they were given a warning prior to the change being announced on February 20. “We went out and bought cases and cases of toilet paper the night before,” another current employee at the National Park Service says. “There’s a general acknowledgement that things are going to break.”

That employee works in the Pacific West Region, which manages federal land in California, Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Nevada, as well as parks in Arizona, Montana, Guam, and American Samoa. While the GSA did allow for the possibility of exceptions to the clamp-down, the employee claims there are only four purchase cards with spending limits above $1 available for the entire region.

Some of these parks pay for services like internet and wireless on purchase cards—leaving staffers wondering if their work devices could soon be cut off. “Before someone can fix a bathroom a work order has to be issued,” the current employee explains. “That happens electronically. Like any business, we rely on email, Teams, and chat to get things done.”

The spending limits reflect Musk’s belief in zero-based budgeting. After he purchased Twitter, he slashed the budget to zero and forced employees to justify every expense. He also froze people’s corporate credit cards.

“With the Twitter pausing of payments, at some point we were in a meeting at 1 am on a Saturday, and it was like, ‘Hey, let's turn the credit cards off to see what bounces, and what happens,’" explained angel investor Jason Calacanis on the All In podcast in February. (Calacanis was part of Musk’s transition team at Twitter.) “And of course, we started getting calls ... The people who come first, they're probably the ones who are in on the biggest grift.”

Employees see it a different way. “There are so many controls in place to make sure fraud doesn’t happen,” alleges the current NPS staffer. “I honestly believe the only fraud occurring is being committed by Musk, [Russell] Vought, and [Donald] Trump.”

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t00thpasteface · 10 months ago

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i totally forgot to share this— check out the world's crappiest photo of dna gel electrophoresis! i'm taking a genetics lab and it's my first time working with mechanical pipettes that can draw up as small a sample as 0.01 μL. what you're (very blurrily) seeing here is dyed samples of dna suspended in a gel matrix according to increasing molecular size and viewed under a blacklight!

#shebbz shoutz #shebbz irl #luckily one of my lab groupmates has a phone that takes way better pics than this :')

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femenaces · 4 months ago

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I may or may not be one of the anonymous sources in this article

Edit, the text of the article for those who can’t view it (under the cut):

“The longer this disruption lasts, the more the system will break,” says a USDA official who was granted anonymity because they aren’t authorized to speak to the media about the looming crisis.

The FDA and EPA did not immediately respond to a request for comment from WIRED.

The National Park Service did not respond to a request for comment from WIRED.

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phosphoresccent · 8 months ago

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yoglabs xeph headcanons

he got a single piercing around the start of SoI because honeydew was working on his gold smithing and gave it to him 'because you have too much bloody ear not to put something in one' and xeph was too soft not to wear it. the first time an experiment ripped it from his ear, shredding it and part of his arm as he fought to get it back, he stopped wearing it.

after yoglabs he gets a few more piercings, golden rings and bracelets and chains. he still doesn't wear the one honeydew made for him - its far too important (if honeydew was still here, he'd tell him to 'wear it anyway you silly bugger, i can just make another' hes not, though.)

often forgets to actually button up his labcoat, but will yell at staff if they don't button theirs. in his defense, the chemical burns and DNA damage aren't permanent for him. if he actually accumulated scars he'd be a patchwork of angry red and well-healed white. he's burnt off his freckles before

honestly distressingly fine with dying. has killed himself when he's sprained a joint rather than wait the 3-4 weeks for it to heal. has done so for other reasons. he's one of the few people who respawn who has more than one master clone, after lalna saw him blankly looking at the preserved version of himself, hammer in hand. lalna will not tell him where the extra(extras?) are.

often forgets (or claims hes forgotten) to eat. in reality the stress of it all makes him nauseous and without someone to share a meal with he'd rather not bother. he does have some caffeinated nutritional supplement shakes he'll sip on if he starts to get too shaky for fine pipette work.

started the whole cloning set up because he didn't trust whatever magic that had let him and honeydew respawn would keep working after israphel. the longer time goes on, the more he wants to test it.

#yogscast #yogscast xephos #xephos #yoglore #thats what im tagging this stuff with now and no one can stop me #yoglabs #yoglabs xephos #yogscast lalna #cw suicidality #xephos im so sorry but you are deeply mentally ill and need large amount of therapy #friendship and sunshine #hes not gonna get any of that for a hot minute though

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i-cry-and-sleep · 9 months ago

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Yall , I'm sad right now so I'm looking at moo deng and I thought why not share what I learnt from her

How to Moo Deng your way out of a bad day

1. Stay hydrated .

Moo deng loves the water she wants you to love it too . If you are afraid of large bodies of water you actually don't have to drink out of a large body of water to be like moo deng ! Shocking I know ! Instead use a small cup and a silly straw ( moo deng is silly ) or a pipette if you're really afraid of large bodies of water !

2. Stay moisturised .

OUR GIRL IS A SLIPPERY QUEEN ! If you dont have a loving zoological friend to tenderly spray you with water or pygmy hippo genetics . Thats's sad . Instead use a gentle moisturiser , you'll fell better if your skin feels more comfortable.

3. Scream a lot at inconvenience.

Trust.

4. Spend time with loved ones and admierers .

Moo deng is loved by all and so are you even if it dosent feel that way , me and moo deng love you .

5. Have a snack .

Moo deng loves to munch on fruit and veg . It nourishes her body and soul . She needs many souls so needs many vegetables and so do you. It will cheer you up .

Hope you feel cheered up . Love you :)

( I genuinely don't know what comes over me when I write this stuff anymore)

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emmg · 4 months ago

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Aftertaste

aka the Modern Sugar Daddy (in-the-making) AU no one asked for lmfao

Chapter 4: Attending +1

Emmrich texts with the grace of a malfunctioning AI, Dorian sticks around just long enough to turn mild discomfort into full-blown secondhand embarrassment, and Rook drops a boob pic.

rest below the cut or on ao3

The sandalwood arrives before he does, curling through the air like a prelude to self-importance. Then comes the voice—Tevinter, smooth, self-assured, the kind that probably recites poetry to its own reflection. And, oh, the swaying. Not quite drunk. Just delightfully, expensively unsteady. Whatever it is the gilded call their inebriation when they refuse to call it that.

"Professor Volkarin," the man repeats, stretching the syllables like taffy. "Alwaaaays a pleasure."

"Indeed, Dorian," Emmrich replies.

He has the air of a sailor realizing, too late, that the map was upside down. His hands have settled on her shoulders, as if she is now the last anchor to reality, and she strongly suspects he is one sigh away from vanishing into the void. Perhaps he already has. She tilts her head back just enough to catch him staring—blankly, existentially—not at Dorian, nor at anything so mundane as the displays around them, but at some tragic, invisible point beyond, where better life choices might have once existed.

"Are you going to introduce me?" Dorian inquires.

For the first time since she has known him, Emmrich commits a small, personal rebellion against the tyranny of politeness. He doesn’t scowl—no, that would be too crude—but something happens to his face, something tectonic. His eyebrows lift in a slow-motion collapse of patience, his eye twitches as though suppressing a century of grievances, and then, inexplicably, his mustache joins in, quivering, as if even his facial hair is trying to excuse itself from the conversation.

Ah. So that’s it. A shared alma mater. They must have attended the same prestigious school of mustachioed exasperation.

"Now is not the time, Dorian," Emmrich sighs.

"Now is precisely the time," Dorian counters, pivoting toward her. "After all, moments like these are rare, fleeting—much like my former enthusiasm for academia. Yes, I was once a scholar, toiling under Professor Volkarin’s ever-watchful gaze, mixing reagents, refining titrations, pretending for the briefest, most misguided period of my life that I cared about biochemical kinetics. Oh, the memories. The noble struggle against contamination, the endless, tragic waltz of pipettes and centrifuges. A saint, this man," he adds, gesturing toward Emmrich as if presenting a relic to the faithful. "His patience was truly biblical. Pity it was wasted on me. But I see you have managed to capture his, ah, more personal attention. Well done. Truly. I applaud your… resourcefulness?"

"I'm the charity case," she supplies, because someone ought to correct the record, and it certainly won’t be Emmrich, who at this point looks perilously close to dissociating straight into another dimension. "And what do you do now?"

"Politics."

"Mm-hm. Must pay well."

"Oh, immensely," he drawls. "Especially when one is born into the right lineage. It’s a rather charming system, really; an elaborate game wherein fortunes are inherited, power is bartered like exotic spices, and the art of saying absolutely nothing while appearing profound is honed to perfection. The proper family name, you see, is the ultimate currency. Mine, for instance, is practically an overflowing vault."

"Which is?"

"Pavus."

A beat. A blink. "Doesn't ring a bell. I'm not from here."

"Good for you," Dorian says, with something almost like envy. "Truly. Never knowing my family is perhaps the greatest privilege of all."

The hands at her shoulders begin a slow migration. One lifts entirely, a reluctant farewell, while the other settles at the small of her back. With a decisive push, Emmrich steers her sideways. Away from Dorian, away from the shop, away from whatever this is.

"We will be leaving now," he announces.

"But you will be attending my little soirée, won’t you?" Dorian calls after them. "I still have yet to receive a proper answer."

"Of course," Emmrich mutters, the universal phrase that, in fact, means no, never, over my dead body.

"Splendid," Dorian purrs. "Do bring the charity case, won’t you? It’s becoming quite pitiful, watching you glide through rooms like some tragic specter, murmuring lofty thoughts on ontology while others are far more engaged in the practical applications of, shall we say, carnal phenomenology. You’ve been positively dreary since Johanna cast you aside."

Something short-circuits. Emmrich jerks to a halt. A double-take, an about-face, a full mechanical whir-click-spin like an automaton malfunctioning in real time. "Johanna did not ‘cast me aside,’" he corrects, in the kind of high-pitched near-yelp that sends dogs into frenzies. "Nor am I ‘dreary.’ Johanna abandoned all semblance of professional integrity and paid the appropriate price—"

"Yes, yes," Dorian interrupts with a wave of his hand. "The tragic fall of Johanna, the righteous indignation of Doctor Volkarin, we know. What I am saying—purely as an observation, of course—is that perhaps, for once in your dutiful little life, you might actually partake in what people do at an after-party. Join the living. Loosen your tie. Get a drink. Or better yet, have someone get it for you while they’re already on their knees. Indulge in a thrilling round of finger the clam under the table—"

"DORIAN."

A scandalized shriek, a full-body recoil. Perfection.

****

She keeps the handkerchief. Takes it from his breast pocket and watches his cheeks bloom pink before exiting the car.

Promptly laughs herself stupid in the shower.

****

Perhaps, in another life, things might have been simpler for him. Two hundred years ago, when marriages were arranged, when love was a secondary concern easily mistaken for prolonged exposure, when respect had no choice but to curdle into affection because there was nowhere else for it to go.

He isn’t entirely sure what the proper word for himself is. Distinguished, perhaps, if he’s feeling generous. Dreary, if Dorian is to be believed. Pretty, if Rook isn’t merely toying with him. She doesn’t seem the type to lie; she’s far too direct for that. If anything, she’d likely inform him, with that same even tone, that he would look absolutely breathtaking as a bloodstain on a set of train tracks, should he ever make the fatal misstep of ending up on her bad side.

He gets an email from Dorian. No subject line. No introduction. Just the quiet, lurking presence of something undoubtedly irritating.

The longer he’s been teaching, the more office hours have become a ceremonial gesture, like the King's wave (the bastard is somehow still alive) or putting turn signals on a BMW. No one shows up. Which is fine, really. He uses the time for far more important things, like staring wistfully out the window and dozing off in a sunbeam like some overworked academic housecat.

But today, it seems, he is being summoned back to reality. He sighs and clicks.

A link.

He hovers, debating. Dorian has never once sent anything that didn’t have a serrated edge, and yet—

Curiosity wins. It always does.

Independent Review Panel Overturns Prior Allegations Against Dr. Johanna Hezenkoss: Insufficient Evidence to Substantiate Claims of Financial Malfeasance and Ethical Breaches in Gain-of-Function Research

He closes the window so fast he nearly dislocates a finger.

He feels tired, he feels old, and, most of all, he feels resigned. So when Rook finally deigns to reply to the message he sent hours earlier—an act of mercy, really—he feels something in his chest uncoil, like a particularly stubborn knot finally giving way.

He tried calling her first. A foolish endeavor. A waste of breath and dignity. The call rang into the void, swallowed whole by whatever abyss this generation has collectively decided to inhabit whenever a phone vibrates. He’s still not entirely sure what the aversion is—does the human voice burn? Does conversation wound? Is the mere suggestion of real-time interaction offensive?

It hardly matters. This is simply how things are now. Bellara does it. His friends’ children do it. Students. Colleagues. Everyone. An entire generation that treats an incoming call like a debt collector pounding at the door.

It is, without question, the single most irritating development of the modern age.

sure

Sure, she writes. Sure, she’ll go on a walk with him. A word so infuriatingly flat it might as well be a shrugged shoulder in textual form. He wants to kick himself. A walk? What an inspired suggestion. Perhaps they can also discuss the weather, the stock market, or the merits of a good, sturdy walking stick while they’re at it. He had wanted to retract the offer the second he hit send, but she said sure, and sure is enough.

He stares at his laptop, fingers twitching above the keyboard, resisting, barely, the urge to seek guidance from the omniscient abyss that is Google. He has already disgraced himself enough for one lifetime; there is no need to involve algorithms in his personal tragedies. Besides, he doubts even the vast and depraved depths of the internet have a satisfactory answer to this particular conundrum:

How does one properly apologize for an ill-timed orgasm across a young woman’s face in the fitting room of a department store?

Somehow, he suspects there is no etiquette guide for that.

****

She is wearing a sundress, and he realizes that he likes those quite a bit. Light enough to drift around her like some impractical, romantic notion, long enough to preserve what little remains of his dignity when the wind decides to misbehave.

He wonders why he likes her and comes up with nothing but a shrugging sort of inevitability. No great epiphany, no poetic rationale; just a quiet, irrefutable fact. He has always known himself to be vain, but with the polite delusion that he values the soul above the surface. And yet, here she is—this very, very pretty creature, latched onto his arm like an ornament designed specifically to enhance his stature—and suddenly, he is standing a fraction taller, puffed up like some rooster who has just discovered the concept of personal branding.

Perhaps it is the bluntness. Very few people walk through life with such a perfect, effortless disregard for expectation. It suggests an individual so wholly committed to their own existence that they cannot be bothered to accommodate anyone else’s.

A rare quality. A dangerous one.

He is, of course, terribly impressed.

"I've never been here before," Rook says. "It's nice."

"Yes, the Memorial Gardens are particularly lovely this time of year," he agrees, because that is what one says in such moments, in pleasant company, when one's mind is occupied with far weightier concerns than the seasonal appeal of horticulture.

He settles onto one of the stone ledges overlooking the fountains, and she follows, lowering herself beside him.

"I would like us to talk," he begins carefully.

"If you don't want to see me again, you could have simply texted that," she replies, utterly unruffled, as if she is stating a practical alternative to an unnecessary detour. "I could have picked up another shift instead."

He exhales, shakes his head. "What? No, of course not. Why do you keep saying that?" The question is sharper than he intends, but Maker’s breath, does she truly think him the sort of man to orchestrate a public, overly formal dismissal like some brooding protagonist in a bad melodrama?

Without fully considering the action, without feeling particularly bold or courageous, but pressing forward regardless, he reaches for her hand, enclosing it within his own. "I am well aware," he says slowly, "that I am not the sort of partner you would typically consider. I recognize the differences between us, and while I am, by nature, a creature of habit, I am also very willing to make adjustments where it matters."

"What do you want, Emmrich?" she asks instead. She is not quite smiling, but she is still holding his hand, her thumb tracing lazy circles against his skin.

What does he want?

Ha.

Well, Rook, since she’s so kindly offering, let’s start with the absurd. He would very much like to age backwards, if she doesn’t mind, without forfeiting his intellect, his accomplishments, or the carefully curated sense of self-importance he has worked so hard to maintain. He won’t even ask for the return of his hair color; that deserted him in his thirties, and he has long since accepted its betrayal.

Perhaps then, he could do it all properly. They could fall madly in love, the kind that leads to questionably legal spending sprees, running through his credit limit (which, incidentally, is the sort that makes bankers weep with admiration). They could make love endlessly, because youth is a generous and reckless thing, bestowing stamina upon those too foolish to appreciate it. They could talk well into the night—he, expounding on the latest theories in his field, she, delivering impassioned diatribes about the insufferable, barely-literate students she is forced to endure as a teaching assistant. She must be one. She is in graduate school, after all, and graduate students sustain themselves on a diet of resentment and meager stipends.

Then, in the morning, they would share coffee from the same cup, discuss marriage between sips, wed by evening, and by midnight, they would be pouring champagne into the bath, fucking in it, and laughing at their own lack of foresight. They would live recklessly, extravagantly, stupidly, and they would begin again. And again. And again.

However, since this is the real world—mundane, uncinematic, stubbornly resistant to poetic license—he would settle for something quieter and be as equally happy with it.

A kiss in the morning, perfunctory but warm. A how was your day, darling spoken into the evening air, not out of some tedious social obligation, but because he would genuinely want to know and she might actually enjoy telling him. And, in a year or two—because he is grey, and the lines at the corners of his eyes are as permanent as a badly inked sigil—they could even have a child. A small one. Preferably one that sleeps through the night and does not inherit his ability to overanalyze basic human interactions.

But first, of course, she will marry him. That much is non-negotiable. And on that blessed day, while everyone else prattles on about love and eternal devotion, he will promise her something far more tangible: a credit score so astronomically high that empires could be built upon it. A financial fortress so unassailable that she can have anything she wants. A house, a vacation home, an entire fleet of Halla-drawn carriages, a personal assassin for minor inconveniences—anything.

All he asks in return is that she love him. Just a little. A manageable amount. Enough to make all of this slightly less tragic.

That person has worn many faces in his mind over the years, answered to many names—another she, a he, a they, shifting, fading, replaced like actors in a play that never quite reached its final act. The person changed. The person walked away. But the dream? The dream remained, patient, stubborn, immune to reality’s indifference.

For now, though, it is Rook.

And so, as he thinks, as he dares to want, he pours it all into her—this ridiculous, enduring fantasy—letting it settle in the colorless depths of her eyes.

"To live with grace and fervor," he answers her eventually.

"Hm," Rook muses. "I see. Do you want to hear some of what I wrote? It’s not part of my thesis. Just a personal project."

He brightens. "I would be delighted."

She releases his hand, delving into her bag before producing a well-worn notebook, its cover scratched and softened by use. Licking her fingertips, she flips through the pages with the studied air of an artist searching for their finest work. Finally, with a small a-ha, she settles on the passage she was seeking.

"It’s still a work in progress," she warns, almost—almost—sounding hesitant. "Call it stupid, but I’ve always wanted to write a romance serial."

"Love is the most profound of human emotions," he offers, nodding. "A worthy pursuit."

"Right," she says. "Exactly that. But, again, rough draft. I’m merely setting expectations accordingly."

He places a hand lightly on her knee in quiet encouragement. "I have no doubt it is beautifully written. And I am honored that you feel comfortable enough to share something so deeply personal with me."

She snorts. "Emmrich, I’ve had your cock in my mouth. A little purple prose isn’t going to expose my soul in any meaningful way. Anyway."

At minimum, he is going to close his eyes very slowly, exhale through his teeth, and then, without preamble, bang his head against the pavement in what will, ideally, be both cathartic and mildly concussive.

"Well, then." She clears her throat. "In a clearing, she looked at him longingly. There was something impossibly alluring in the way his pecs glistened—" she pauses, her voice thick with significance, "—not merely damp, not simply oiled, but imbued with a celestial sheen, as though the Maker Himself had taken up bronzing as a divine hobby. She wondered, briefly, whether he had been forged this way in some ancient, erotic crucible, or if, in some tragic, beautiful accident, he had tumbled—no, plunged—into a vat of oil, only to emerge transfigured, shimmering, blessed by the gods of sweat and lust. His skin, radiant as a freshly basted roast, gleamed beneath the sun’s jealous gaze, and she—poor, trembling thing—felt herself grow weak, moist, as if she, too, might dissolve into the earth under the sheer magnitude of his slick perfection."

Rook looks at him.

He looks at her.

In her own words: well, then.

Well.

Then.

There are, he supposes, very successful authors out there. Authors who wield adjectives like battering rams, who fear no sentence too overwrought, no metaphor too tortured. And they are, by all available evidence, doing exceptionally well. If the bestsellers lists are anything to go by, the literary world is absolutely starving for descriptions of men whose jawlines could cut glass, whose eyes smolder with the heat of a dying sun, whose every movement is somehow both a feral prowl and a ballet of masculine grace.

Perhaps he simply doesn’t understand.

Perhaps years of academic writing have withered his appreciation for such unbridled creativity. He has spent too long drowning in a world where the most impassioned sentence one can construct is, “Further research is needed to substantiate these claims.” A world where no one moans breathlessly while filing citations, where no one’s abs are likened to moonlit cobblestones, where desire is rarely liquescent in nature.

Perhaps—Maker help him—he has lost his ability to appreciate the finer things. The poetic things. The timeless artistry of a man whose pecs are so transcendentally oiled, so anointed, they might very well qualify for sainthood.

"It is wonderful," he croaks.

Rook rolls her pretty eyes. Tosses her pretty hair. Shoves her notebook back into her bag with her pretty, still unmanicured hand.

"It's bullshit," she declares. "Bullshit that I came up with on the spot. Just like whatever you're feeding me." A pause to zip up her bag. "Living with grace and fervor," she repeats, slow and unimpressed. "That’s not an answer. What do you want, Emmrich?"

Oh, he thinks, because there are no exits, no dignified retreats, only the absolute certainty that she will drag something true out of him, one way or another.

"I suppose, then, that I would like to kiss you again."

"You should do that," she says, and this time, when she smiles, it is mercifully free of sarcasm.

He touches her hair first, following the soft weight of it down to her shoulder, lower, until he catches himself just before his fingers stray somewhere indelicate. He should look around, make sure he is not about to scandalize some poor passerby with what must look like an absolutely shameful display of handsiness. His hands feel both eager and heavy, as if they have only just realized their true purpose in life and are overcompensating accordingly.

But then again, why not?

She has given him permission, has she not? She is even leaning forward, touching the collar of his shirt like she has every intention of taking liberties of her own.

So he kisses her, just a moment too long, just a moment too sweet, and when she takes his hand—his very disciplined, very careful hand—and presses it against her breast, the same one he so graciously attempted to avoid out of sheer decorum, he does the only thing he can do:

He laughs into her mouth, helpless, undone, because of course she is not wearing anything underneath, of course the peak of her nipple is pressing into his palm like a reward for his useless attempt at restraint.

"I'll text you tomorrow," she promises, after he drives her home.

Later, staring at his inbox, he exhales, fishes out Dorian’s invitation, pins it, and changes his RSVP from unsure to attending +1.

The road to hell, as it turns out, is remarkably well-paved.

****

She does text him.

She tousles her hair. Bites her lips raw, like some tragic heroine wasting away in a garret. Paces the apartment for the most flattering light—nature’s filter, since she has standards—and extends one arm to the heavens, the other tugging at the neckline of her shirt. Nothing too obscene; wouldn’t want to inconvenience some tragically repressed colleague of his with a crisis of conscience. Then again—why not?

Let them suffer. Let them swallow around the dryness in their throat, let them grip their pens a little tighter. A whisper of lace, just enough to suggest that yes, she owns lingerie, and no, it is not because she enjoys spending $80 on machine-washable disappointments.

Let him imagine her breasts—imagine that they exist, that they could, theoretically, be his to touch, that perhaps, if he’s really exceptionally well-behaved, he might even get to slide his cock between them. Not that there’s much to work with—more symbolism than substance, more spiritual journey than actual grip—but hey, she suspects he’s the kind of man who would whimper at the mere suggestion of friction. The type to shudder through it, clutch at her shoulders afterward like she’s just guided him through some kind of sacred, transcendent experience—one that leaves him dazed, vulnerable, and in dire need of a therapist with very strong professional boundaries.

And maybe, just maybe, if fate is kind and the gods of dignity finally decide to smile upon him, next time he spills onto her face or neck, it will be on purpose. A deliberate choice rather than an unfortunate trajectory issue. Perhaps even with a plan this time, some semblance of aim, a fraction of control. And afterward, he’ll do the gentlemanly thing: wipe the tear tracks from his face, mumble something about how he’s never felt this way before (bless his heart), and take out his wallet to buy her a pearl necklace—the kind that actually comes in a box, not the kind she has to scrub off in the shower.

It wouldn’t be a hardship. She finds, to her mild surprise, that she actually likes the man. At least as a human being, which is more than she can say for most.

Click. Send.

She knows he sees it because he is the kind of technologically inept buffoon who never figured out how to disable his read receipts. A man living in blissful ignorance of his own transparency. How cute.

A pause.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Nothing.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

A great, yawning chasm of nothing.

She sighs and plops her ass on the bed.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Maybe he died.

Perhaps the mere implication of cleavage has sent him into full cardiac arrest, right there at his desk. Emmrich Volkarin, well into his fifth-or-whatever decade, struck down—not by time, not by fate, but by the revolutionary concept of boobs. Maybe he hit his head on a stack of his own pretentious books—some dusty, 800-page discourse on moral decay—and perished instantly, a martyr to propriety. Mr. Professor, defeated by décolletage. Tragic.

Ah. Something.

A ha-ha reaction, skittish and accidental, yanked back almost immediately, and replaced with the trembling penitence of a heart.

And still. No. Words.

She rolls her eyes, sends him a photo of the most aesthetically offensive thing in her apartment.

thats my monstera

This time, a response. Still criminally slow, but at least they've moved past Morse code levels of hesitation.

Emmrich, miracle of miracles, finally sends a photo back.

It's loading. Her internet is shit.

This is my Manfred.

Oh, no. Manfred. Oh, no, no, no. Fuckity no. She is about to become a stepmother to a child burdened with a name that belongs to either a Tevinter magister deep in his villain arc or a 70-year-old Fereldan noble with very strong opinions on cheese. A Manfred.

She can already picture him: pale, solemn, inexplicably dressed in suspenders, asking adults deeply unsettling philosophical questions in the manner of a hauntingly precocious Circle apprentice. The kind of kid who speaks in perfect, measured cadence, raising unsettlingly existential musings like "What do you think happens to the soul when it dissolves in the Fade?" and refers to his parents by their full names.

Finally, the photo loads.

It’s a dog. Poorly cropped. Enthusiastically blurry. A dog in spirit, certainly, but in form? A vague collection of fur and misplaced limbs. The man takes photos like a cryptid spotter. At least, the pup looks happy.

Manfred.

What an absolute catastrophe of a name for a dog.

Well. If this is to be her reality, then she may as well commit to it.

A silken scarf, first—something impractically elegant, sourced from one of those Orlesian fashion houses where the price tags are written in suggestive whispers rather than numbers. Enormous sunglasses, the kind that transform one’s entire existence into an air of cultivated mystery. And naturally, a convertible—vintage, obscenely expensive, purchased on Emmrich’s dime while he mutters something about financial responsibility and do you actually need this?

Manfred the Dog will sit in the passenger seat, ears flapping in the wind, looking upon the world with the dignified weariness of a lord who has seen too much and spoken too little. They will pull up to an absurdly indulgent brunch establishment, the kind of place where one is served mimosas during a pedicure, because why shouldn’t she sip champagne while someone buffs her heels? Manfred will observe, wise and silent, as she debates between crimson and a truly reckless shade of violet.

Later, they will both thank Emmrich for his abysmal taste in names and even worse taste in people.

She likes him, after all. Which, she is beginning to suspect, is its own kind of irreversible catastrophe.

#i keep forget to update it here lmfao #skipped chapter 3 on tumblr but whatever #emmrook #emmrich x rook #dragon age fanfiction #emmrich fanfic #dragon age the veilguard

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erbiumspectrum · 8 months ago

Text

Returning to my post on my recent struggles here because I want to contemplate some of the things that were said in the comments. Honestly, I didn't expect so many people to share their thoughts! Thank you all for the things you said, be it your own experiences, advice or simply words of support. I don't know if this sort of saying exists in English, but in my language we sometimes say that kindness returns and I'm certain it'll return to you guys too. So many wise, thought-provoking things were said I'm not sure I'll be able to reflect on them all, but bit by bit I'll try.

I want to start with @chemistrss ' comment as it was particularly striking to me, and for two reasons at that. One of them being that back in school I used to have another Albert Einstein quote taped above my desk - it went something like, "I'm neither exceptionally smart nor exceptionally gifted. I am only very, very curious." Not that I believed him, that brilliant bastard. He was definitely exceptional. But that was a comforting thought nevertheless, that your curiosity was more important than your innate "giftedness" but also that you could be quite brilliant and not see it yourself.

The other reason for why that comment had such a deep impression on me is rather straightforward. Because I mean, isn't that completely true? Isn't it true that if you zoom out of your fears and insecurities, it's actually so much better to be of average skill among smart people than it is to be the definite best among average people? What's left to learn when you already know everything and nobody around has anything to teach you?

I had an internship this past summer. When it started, it turned out there were a lot of PhD students from many different countries there, so we all had to use English most of the time. At first I thought, cool! I'm going to practice my scientific English! I'm going to learn so much! Except I soon realized - and please bear in mind I'm not quick to brag - that I'm the best English speaker around. I learnt nothing new. Sure, it felt really nice not to struggle trying to put my thoughts into words, but I gained nothing from that experience.

Similarly, I never give myself any credit for how proper my lab work is. It consists of a lot of small things, but I'd say they're still pretty meaningful. If you don't have any experience working in a wet lab: sometimes to transfer liquids from one vessel to another we use glass pipettes. In order to suck the liquid into the pipette we use rubber pumps. Once you attach the rubber pump, it's important not to hold the pipette horizontally (or god forbid upside down!!!) because then the remains of the liquid may trickle down into the pump and make it pretty much useless until it's cleaned thoroughly - and I've heard that's rather annoying to do. And people forget about it all the time! My friends keep putting those down on the counters and I'm always like tHe PuMp ThOuGh.

It's only a single example, but I'm most often the one to pay attention to this sort of detail. That's something someone else can learn from me!

There isn't any definite conclusion here. What is this? Nature? I simply wanted to muse on these things.

#txt #op

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finniestoncrane · 2 years ago

Note

Takeout [bullet-point/free form story/headcanon style]

Milkshake [fluff]

Pumpkin Ravioli [scarecrow]

🥖 Breadsticks [neck/wrist kisses]

🥗 Green Salad ["do you need a hand?"]

🥑 Guacamole ["please don't leave"]

Just gave me touch rooting (funny enough I think this is the most healthy meal)

general!scarecrow x gn!reader, word count: 300 content (warnings): tooth rotting fluff as requested orders open here! 🔞minors dni🔞 • masterlist • kofi link • tag: finnie1500 (to follow or to block) a/n: yeah for this being healthy and salad-y it's definitely squishy!! 💚

"please don't leave on my account"

it's hard not to try and go though, given that you've interrupted his experiments

you don't enter the lab usually, not while he's working, but you'd forgotten your backpack in there

you assumed that jonathan might be having a break, considering he'd been up all night

but he was there, standing at the counter surrounded by test tubes and vials

he encourages you to come over, to look at his progress

always enthusiastic about sharing with you, trusting you with his secrets

"one last step in the process, i need to add this vial, drop by drop, into the mixture. would you like to do the honours?"

it requires a steady hand, and yours is shaking as you take the pipette filled with neon orange liquid and hold it over the beaker

"steady... drop by drop remember"

your heart races, not only from nerves at handling a toxic and volatile substance, but with joy and excitement

that jonathan crane trusts you this much

that he's willing to share his work, his life with you

"do you need a hand?"

he doesn't wait for an answer, his cold, slender fingers wrapping around your wrist

gently holding you steady as you squeeze the end of the pipette

once you are finished, you lay it down on the surface of the counter

with his grip still around you, jonathan lifts your wrist to his lips, kissing it softly, letting your fingers find his cheek

a sweet reward

"i couldn't have done it without you"

his smile is warm, the meaning behind the words genuine

of course he doesn't mean physically, or even intellectually

he has that handled himself

but emotionally, having someone behind him, to encourage and support his work

it means the world to him

#finnie1500 #finnie writes #scarecrow x reader #scarecrow x you #jonathan crane #scarecrow

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officialleehadan · 9 months ago

Text

Three Brains

Hello darlings! Today's story was brought to you by Kat! Darling, thank you so much for all your support!

Prompt: Between Love and Duty

+++

Nick loved his job.

He worked in bioengineering, which was always a business fraught with supervillains. Mostly, the ones with an intelligence factor who were making weapons to sell to other villains. There were two in Nick’s lab, as it happened, which was probably why the villain with the Cube attacked in he first place. Rayan kept his identity well-hidden, so Nick was pretty sure they weren’t after him.

All the same, it made for an interesting situation for Nick. His coworkers were too smart to not realize he knew about them, and he wasn’t going to insult them by pretending otherwise. As a result, they had a very comfortable working dynamic in which the villains, Stevens, who also went by Doctor Unholy and Tariq, who also went by Gravity Crash, respected his space and didn’t try to recruit him.

It was for the best. Nick didn’t want to get into villainy. He was a talented scientist, and probably could do fine in the work if he wanted to, but he simply didn’t need the drama.

Of course, his fiancé was a Power himself, and his best friend was on the Hero path. His life already had plenty of drama going on.

Still, it did occasionally make for interesting afternoons when they were cleaning up for the day and the shop talk turned to shop talk.

“Word is that there’s a new development in play,” Stevens said as he loaded up the autoclave. Nick himself was wiping down all their counters and Tariq was sweeping, and would mop when they were done. “I heard from the north river lab that the attack here involved a device to remove people’s Powers.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Tariq said conversationally, but without any hint that he actually knew anything. Certainly he didn’t know where the Cube was, considering it was currently taped under Nick’s bed. Even the supervillain who actually slept in the bed didn’t know it was there. “The Heroes are very excited about it, for obvious reasons.”

“I’ve heard Mephit and Libra are working together on it,” Nick added. As he knew they were villains themselves, and enhanced mental abilities to boot, he knew, and they knew, that Rayan was Mephit. They didn’t know about Carolina being Libra, however, and he meant to keep it that way. Rayan knew about the two villains as well, and was alright with Nick talking with them about his work, as long as it didn’t put Nick in danger. “But no one knows where the thing is and it has both sides anxious.”

“it has me anxious too,” Tariq admitted. “Avia as well.”

Avia was his wife and was a Power on the villain side. She specialized in hydrokenisis and tended to target big resorts on the coast, and cruise ships. Lately she had formed an alliance with three other Elemental powers, all women, and they were making the news as environmental terrorists. Nick approved of their work all things considered. Cruise ships were sailing biohazards.

“I think all of us who have someone in the game are worried,” Nick said, since it was true, and also because he was considering bringing his fellow scientists in on his secret. “Does anyone know where the thing came from? That fellow who attacked our lab had it, last anyone knew, but where did he get it?”

“That’s a good question,” Stevens said, and turned on the autoclave before he moved to pipettes next. He eyed Nick, and caught Tariq’s eye. Nick looked them both over and sighed. He had been too obvious. “So, where is it?”

“I couldn’t possibly be able to say,” Nick said, since there was no point insulting them by pretending he didn’t know what Stevens was asking. They figured out that he had the Cube. Now it was up to them, and him, to decide what to do with that information. “But I might be able to mention something about how a scientist I know examined it, and couldn’t figure out how it works.”

“Did this scientist leave you lab notes to share?” Tariq asked carefully. They all understood they were on very dangerous ground. Everyone on both sides of the Powered community would kill to get the Cube, and only the three of them knew who had it. Only Nick alone knew where it was. “Or any other information that you might be able to give, safely, to a colleague?”

“Maybe,” Nick hedged. He wasn’t sure he wanted them to see his research not he Cube, but he needed help. So far, it had defied all his efforts to figure out how it worked, but it had to affect the body somehow. Powers were a genetic mutation. Whatever else it did, the Cube must hit those genes too. That put it firmly in their realm of expertise. “It has my friend very concerned, given the implications on his loved ones.”

Stevens shared a long look with Tariq, and then, very deliberately, reached behind the autoclave for a control panel Nick pretended he didn’t know about.

All at once, the noise from outside the lab cut off, and there was a slight shimmer over the windows as forcefields powered on. The lab security of a pair of villains who didn’t want their personal lives in danger if there was another attack. A reaction, Nick knew, to the attack that brought the Cube to his door.

“Right,” Stevens said when the lab was locked down. He set the pipettes aside and washed his hands as Tariq set aside the broom. Nick joined them at the nearest table and took a seat. “We have a lot of genius in this room. Tell us what you know, and we’ll see if three brains are better than one.”

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Between Love and Duty

Two-sided love (Subscriber Only!)

Close to Home (Subscriber Only!) (New!)

Three Brains (New!)

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MASTERLIST

#Writing #Lee Hadan #fantasy #scifi #spilled ink #writing prompts

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