#this trope has been done a million times I don’t CARE

[a-concert-just-for-me]

It’s literally almost 4 in the morning and I’m still thinking about the potential Waffle TheOwlHouse has as a plot device

[bbyboybucket]

Beds

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: While sharing a hotel room with Reader, Bucky has a nightmare.

A/N: Surprise. Bet y’all didn’t expect a fic from me. How longs it been? Too long. Anyways, I’m rewriting one of my old fics, or more so taking the same concept but doing it more in character. Also I think this is the first time I’ve written something where we don’t see Bucky’s pov, so I think that’s kinda fun. Btw I’m rusty so don’t judge me if it shows. Also I think this is gender neutral but I’m not sure?

Warnings: language, sexual references, nightmares, ptsd, panic attack (not too intense), allusions to some hydra stuff but nothing graphic, hurt/comfort, frenemies to lovers, Bucky is moody, the one bed trope™️, no use of “y/n”, kinda sappy

—————————

A loud sigh came from the left of you just before the elevator dinged and the metal doors creaked open. You ignored him, you chose not to engage in his passive aggressiveness. You weren’t going to accept the invitation of a petty rant hiding behind that sigh.

You walked down the hallway with Bucky stalking behind you, like an angry pitbull trailing after its owner.

“I don’t even know why we got a fucking hotel in the first place.” Bucky grumbled, and you could practically feel the weight of his eye roll, even though you couldn't see it.

“Here we go.” You muttered under your breath. “What did you want? A safe house? It’s not like we’re on some high stakes, undercover op. Anything more than a hotel would be excessive.”

“Anything more woulda had better sleeping options.” He whined. “Coulda at least got us separate rooms.”

“My god, give it a rest Bucky, you’ve been complaining all day about this.” You we’re exasperated, it was about the third time you’d heard him gripe that day.

“Well, I’m not a fan. Us sharing is the stupidest fucking idea Sam’s ever had.”

“Bitching about it isn’t gonna change anything. And, it’s not like we have to sleep together or anything, I’ll be in a whole different bed.” You said, unlocking the room door. You had been looking forward to chilling out and resting, but as soon as you entered the room, you realized that your night would be anything but restful.

“Fuck.” You laughed, humorlessly, knowing you were about to hear an endless rant. “I take that back, there isn’t different beds.”

Surprisingly that rant didn’t come. Bucky weirdly seemed calmer than he had before and merely shrugged. “‘S fine. I’ll take the floor.”

“Well, one of us can try the couch?”

“That thing could fit a toddler at best.” He gestured towards the small leather love seat as if it was the most ridiculous suggestion he had ever heard, and in all honesty, he had a point.

You pinched the skin between your eyebrows. “Sam said he booked a two person room.”

He shrugged again and then blankly said. “This is why he shoulda booked separate rooms.”

“My god Bucky, I’m not that bad of a roommate. I don’t snore, I don’t sleep walk, and it’s not like I’m gonna kill you in your sleep. It’s one fucking night. Just-“ You took a deep breath and tried to mellow out. “You can have the bed.”

“No, you can have it.”

“You’re obviously more tore up about this than me, so it’s yours. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No.” He refused, his eyes held an odd stubbornness. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“I literally don’t care, I’ve done it a million times. Plus, your grumpy ass probably needs some good sleep.” You half teased, trying to do the nice thing. You unzipped your bag and pulled your belongings out. “I’m gonna go change clothes.”

When you came back from the bathroom, Bucky was already in his boxers and a T-shirt, positioning a pillow and blanket on the floor.

“I told you the bed was yours.”

“Okay, and?”

“Why are you getting down there?“

“Why the fuck are you arguing?”

“Because you’re all pissy about this whole situation, so I’m trying to make your life easier and give you the bed.” You didn’t understand his defiance and odd aversion to the thing he’d been complaining about restlessly: the better sleeping option.

“I don’t want the goddamn bed, just shut the fuck up about it!” Bucky snapped. His outburst caught you off guard, he acted as if you had been purposefully pushing his buttons.

“Damn, fine.” You held your hands up in defeat, almost offended at the way he lashed out. “I get you’re trying to be all gentlemen-like but ya know, the aggressiveness defeats the purpose.”

“It’s not about being a gentlemen. Don’t get it twisted, I’m not being nice, I-“ He grunted. “Never mind I don’t owe you a fuckin’ explanation. Just get in bed.”

“I will, thank you, cause I’m tired. Especially tired of whatever the fuck is up your ass and has you so bitchy.”

You said it with full sincerity, of course you were used to bickering with Bucky but it always was in a playful manner, even when annoyed with each other, it was always friendly fire. There had been no sign of that all afternoon, Bucky was purely hostile and treating you like his greatest burden.

“You running your damn mouth and arguing isn’t helping anything.” He spat as he turned off the lights.

“Wow, sorry. Didn’t know offering you the bed was so fucking rude and offensive.”

“Shut the fuck up.” He groaned.

You muttered “fucking dick” under your breath.

“I heard that.”

As you settled into the bed, you couldn't help but roll your eyes in frustration. You found yourself pondering what you could have possibly done to provoke such a strong reaction from him. You couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't entirely about you. Maybe something else was going on and you were standing in as Bucky’s punching bag, just being the unfortunate catheter for his anger.

It didn’t matter. You had to force all the worry and aggravation out of your head because his attitude wasn’t worth losing sleep over. The last thing you need was to be exhausted on a mission.

—————————

You were jolted awake by a sudden, loud gasp, followed by a soft groan emanating from his direction. Rubbing your eyes, you opened them to find him sitting upright, his knees drawn close to his chest. He looked so small, a stark contrast to the huge stature and borderline intimidating presence you’d become so familiar with. His breathing was audible despite the distance between you, it was quick and shallow.

“Buck?” You concernedly called out to him but he didn’t answer. You then got out of bed, and flicked on the nightstand lamp.

“Bucky?” You tried again when you were closer.

Out of all the time you’d known Bucky, this was the first you’d seen him vulnerable. He was trembling harshly, hyperventilating too. He seemed equally dazed and terrified, but also distant as if he were lost in his head. You always thought Bucky had rather sad eyes but right now, the way they were widened with fear and slightly watering, took it to a whole new level.

You knew what was happening and seeing it felt like a stab to the heart. You slowly sat down in front of him, keeping space between you as to not worsen his panic.

“Buck, it’s okay.” You cooed. “Can you hear me right now?”

His gaze shifted to you, finally making eye contact, which gave you an answer.

“Okay, can you try to breathe with me? Deep breath…in 1…2…3” You exaggeratedly took large, slow inhale to lead him. “Out 1…2…3…”

You repeated the example, guiding until he finally started to follow along with you. “Good, you’re doing good. Do you know where you are?”

“….hotel. We’re on a mission?”

“Good, that’s right, good. It’s okay. You’re safe.” With a gentle and caring tone, you spoke to him, hoping to bring a sense of peace to the turmoil that was raging within him. Your heart felt heavy as you seen the pain that was laced within him, and you wished so badly that you could erase it all. You’d been scared you weren’t doing the right things, but his increasing improvement made you more confident.

“Can I touch you?”

He nodded.

You supportively placed your hand on top of his, stroking your thumb over his skin in a soothing manner. He initially flinched but didn’t pull away. “Starting to calm down now?”

“Yeah.” He released a long heavy breath and wiped the wetness off his eyelids with his free hand.

You sat silently with him, providing that tender, tactile support as he as he worked to regain his composure and steady his breathing. As he gradually calmed down, you noticed the shame creeping over him, causing his cheeks to flush red and his gaze to avert from yours.

“I didn’t want you to see this shit.” He finally said after minutes of silence.

“It’s fine-“

“Fuckin embarrassing is what it is.”

“No, stuff happens. I’m not gonna judge, ya know? I understand. I know what having panic attacks is like.” You revealed in attempt to make him feel more seen.

He slightly shook his head, at himself instead of towards to you, but he stayed silent.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He paused for a moment, he licked his lips and hung his head even lower. “‘M used to it. Get ‘em bout every night.”

“The panic attacks?”

“Nightmares. Those sometimes comes after though.”

“Oh.” You whispered, feeling like something in you had just shattered. “About hydra?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna talk about it?” You offered carefully.

“Nothing you should hear. My head’s a fucked up place.” He laughed humorlessly.

“Try me.”

He hesitated for a moment, you assumed he was debating on wether or not he should trust you with such a heavy part of himself. “Basically all memories. Not so much dreams, more so just stuff that’s already happened. Flashbacks I guess.”

As his mouth parted to speak, only to close again, you knew that he wasn’t finished so you waited patiently, allowing him the time he needed to gather his thoughts.

“Most of the time it’s…you know…what I’ve done. People I’ve killed. It’s….of course it’s horrible. Pretty gruesome but uh….I’ve gotten better at dealing with those, it’s still….I just get em so much that I can calm down faster now. But sometimes…it’s the shit Hydra did to me and it’s just….I’d get punished a lot. Some kinda torture or beatings, I’ll spare you the details.”

You continued to stroke his hand and stayed silent, not wanting to push him.

“But uh…they had this chair. Um, I’d get strapped down and they’d electrocute me. That’s how they’d…ya know. And I’d always end up there for a wipe after I fucked up. Or even if I didn’t. I don’t what’s worse honestly…the sick twisted shit they’d come up with or the wipe but…but reliving all that….”

“That’s fucking terrifying.”

“Yeah. Yeah, terrifying is an understatement. Sometimes…it’s hard to feel safe after that.”

His breathing started to pick up again. The cracks in his voice made it clear he was starting to get overwhelmed.

You then firmly grasped his hand, giving it a supportive squeeze. “It’s okay, you don’t have to keep going if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t like to think about all that. I try to never actually. It’s like…obviously it’s…I can’t describe how fucking awful. But at the same time, if I do think about it, it’s like I’m ignoring all the evil shit I’ve done. And that’s not fair to everyone I’ve wronged. So then….if I never think about or deal with the torture….when I have to relive it in these goddamn nightmares…it just fucks me up worse. And my fucking luck is one of the few times it happens is when I’m sharing a room with someone.”

Your heart sank to the floor, your own eyes were watering at this point from getting just this small glimpse of his pain. “I’m so sorry, Buck. Hell, I don’t even know what to say right now. I wish I could do more to help.”

“You’re doing enough.“

“You didn’t deserve it, ya know? I don’t know everything that went on but you never deserved to suffer like that.”

“Half-debatable. At certain point it had to become karma for the suffering I was causing myself.” He shrugged solemnly.

“That’s not true. You had no control.”

He sighed exasperatedly, filled with a sad frustration directed at himself. He put his face in his palm. “We’ve had that conversation. You already know I don’t see it that way.”

“Yeah but I hope one day you will. And I’ll die before I stop trying to get it through your head that you’re innocent. You know you’re strong, right? So damn strong to be holding it together right now. After going through all that pain and to still be here and be a good man? To come as far as you have. I’ve never met anyone as strong as you.”

“We can agree to disagree but I appreciate it….and thanks sitting with me and calming me down and all that.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry about earlier. This is why…I didn’t wanna share. And this is….one…of the reasons I don’t like sleeping in a bed. Makes the nightmares worse sometimes. That’s not your fault though, so I shouldn’t’ve…I just didn’t want you to know.”

“It’s alright. I get it now.”

“I shouldn’t’ve took it out on you. I really am sorry.”

“Buck, I get why you were upset. Well kinda, I honestly can’t imagine even a fraction of what you go through.”

“Goin a little far with the pity.” He grew a tiny smirk.

“Compassion.” You corrected. “And I can’t help it, I mean…not to get all sappy, but I care about you. A lot.”

His smirk morphed into a smile and you mirrored it. You wrapped your arm around him and laid your head on his shoulder, Bucky then slowly encircled you with his own arms. You knew the hug was Bucky's way of wordlessly affirming that he cared about you too.

“Didn’t know Mr. Grumpy was capable of hugging.”

“Consider it a one time gift.”

You chuckled in response but then an idea entered your mind.

“You think it’d help if I slept with you?” You asked softly.

He gave you a cheeky grin. “Could at least take me out to dinner first.”

“You know what I meant.”

He sighed. “Not to be an ass but I literally just told you I don’t like beds?”

“No dumb ass, I mean down here.”

He tilted his head and gave a tight lipped frown. “You don’t gotta do that.”

“No. But if it’d help you feel more comfortable, then I want to.”

He didn’t answer at first but because his face had always been an open book, revealing every emotion with striking transparency, he wore an expression that was etched with heartbreaking gratitude.

“Yeah…we can try that.” He whispered, as if he was in shock.

With gentle movements, you plucked the blanket and pillow from the bed and nestled yourself beside him. As you lay towards him, your faces drew closer, until they were mere inches apart. You could feel his warm breath caressing your skin. In that moment, time seemed to stand still as you both gazed into each other's eyes, it was almost hypnotic. There was no awkwardness when it should have been expected, instead, a comforting feeling washed over you. You were consumed by excitement, tinged with a soothing calmness. Sure, it was paradoxical, but it was consuming and left you lost in the moment.

“Um…” Bucky started hesitantly but then cut himself off, he bit his bottom lip nervously.

Before you had a chance to even consider the words, they spilled from your lips. You were surprised with your own spontaneity, but the question had already slipped. “You wanna cuddle?”

It was as if you read his mind, you could practically see all the anxiety melt off Bucky before he pulled you into his chest. “This okay?” He asked.

“Mhm.” You replied, allowing yourself to sink into the comforting warmth of his body, all while listening to the soft thumps of his heart beating. It was a new intimacy that strangely felt familiar and natural, like everything had suddenly fallen into place.

You heard him yawn and you hummed fondly at how cute it was. “Goodnight, Buck.”

Tenderly, he leaned in and softly placed his lips upon your forehead, holding them there for a fleeting moment before settling his chin atop your head.

—————————

Bucky straddled your lap, his hand cupping your face as he devoured you in a passionate kiss that unraveled you with each flick of his tongue. His other hand roamed to less innocent regions of your body, exploring them with a touch that was both bold and tender.

He repositioned and pressed you down onto the couch, towering over you as his tongue continued to dance in your mouth. You were both breathless, and desiring more. He proceeded to plant kisses on your jawline before moving down to nibble on your neck.

He suddenly stopped, muttering against your skin. “You wanna move to your room? Have a little more space for this?”

“You know what’s funny?”

“Hm?”

“How before we got together, you hated beds, but now you want in my sheets every damn second.” You teased.

“Well…feels a lot more pleasant now.”

“Weird way to say ‘I’m always horny’.”

“I’m making up for 80 some years. And like you aren’t, you’re worse than me half the time.”

“Definitely worked up now, so get me to the bed and we’ll go as many rounds as you want, pervert.”

“Fuck you.” He laughed.

“I’m waiting for it.”

[yuri-is-online]

And Your Name Is? (Malleus and Ace)

Synopsis- After successfully resolving whatever was causing NRC to be trapped in an endless time loop of overblotting and disaster, one last reset should give him a chance to experience a normal school year with you. But instead you find yourself trapped in the here and there, appearing as a vague shadow around the school that vanishes as soon as he catches up to you. The kind thing to do would be to allow you to be forgotten in the chance it lets you return to your world.

But this is Twisted Wonderland where the kind thing is seldom done, and he wants you back as much as you want to find him again.

a/n: The first version of this can be found on my masterlist here (x) . I have been thinking of a million scenarios for each of the boys because I am real attached to this sort of trope and will probably write more in the future.

notes: they/ them pronouns used for Yuu, angst with the intent of comfort. Everyone in this post is a wee bit pathetic but then these two kinda are. The love triangle of all time I tell you /j

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is a king, his rule is absolute and his word commands the reality around him.  Literally sometimes, it would appear, as he looks up longingly at the ramshackle window.  A shape flickers there, one he has flown to greet many times before.  For memories that don’t exactly belong to him they are vivid, the shape and feel of your hand weighs heavy in his as he wills himself to remain on the ground; there is no guarantee the night sky will remain cloud free if he is forced to watch you disappear now.  He used to think the thought of a power beyond him laughable, but when he sees you now, this strange colorless void that refuses to fully leave his world, he is almost certain that there must be.  There must be some divine force in the world that is punishing him for his hubris in thinking that he could stop the wheel of time; punishing him for refusing to treasure the time he had to spend with you and thinking he could spend your life as he pleased.

It was ironic really, how powerless he felt when you disappeared from view.  Like you were the god and he was the child of man groveling at your feet for a chance at salvation.  An introspective part of him wonders if this is how his people see him; it is most displeased with how little he cares, all regalia abandoned at the foot of a human that cannot be saved with any magic he can weave.

“Lilia says I should see this as practice for when you are older.”  His guardian had decided to be considerate of his feelings when he came to him for advice.  If Lilia had been acting only as an advisor, it hurts his heart to think of what he would have said.  “I wonder, would you prefer me if I was human?  Would this be easier, could I have made you stay?”  You do not immediately appear to reassure him, no one does.  He supposes no one could, Malleus Draconia is not above wishing for things despite what Sebek might think.  A light layer of frost covers the walls of the old mansion, it is becoming harder to focus on the stars.  “It is cruel of me to wish to keep you here with me, children of men do not belong trapped in the dark; but what a sight you would be.”  He can picture you clearly, time is cruel but this re-set timeline is much crueler.  Your face and the sound of your voice are still his to cherish, but he has no pictures or records to refresh his memory when it inevitably begins to fail.  

“Tsunotarou?”  Yes, the frost begins to retreat as he resigns himself to his grief, that is what your voice sounded like.  Someone reaches to touch his face, and to his surprise he allows them.  Yes, he takes in a deep breath that goes on for so long it almost hurts him, this is your scent, your appearance filling his vision and blocking the stars from view.  “You look so lonely.”  And you look so confused, but more importantly you look unafraid as he takes your hands from his face and intertwines your fingers.

“And if I am?”  He tries to give you a charming smile, one that he knows will only work on his family and you.

“Then…”  you look confused, like you are searching his face and recognizing him but unaware of what you are looking for.  “If you are my Tsunotarou, then I wouldn’t want you to be lonely.”

“Then stay.”  Stay here and keep him company until you are nothing but the dust you were born from and allow him to stay by the side of your grave forevermore.

Ace Trappola

This was unfair.  Infuriatingly, ridiculously, beyond merely mildly unfair.  Ace had never been more enraged with the way things work at Night Raven College.  “The strong bow to the weak” his ass, how many of these housewardens (and Jamil) bowed to you only to dismiss your current status as not their problem?  It was their fault, and as far as Ace was concerned they were well beyond needing to take responsibility for their actions.  He had no problem telling you as much, pretending the way you were constantly out of his reach was not his problem.  That it didn’t bother him to run after you for hours, chasing you down hallways, through the rose maze, anywhere you went Ace Trappola followed.  If you were not made of memories and mist it would be just like it was before.  You went and he followed, if it would bring you back to life he’d crawl.  Riddle had said his behavior was unbefitting of a card soldier.  Ace had told him he was one to talk.

And just like that he was back on a couch in Ramshackle, a collar around his neck he swore up and down didn’t belong.  But you were not here to see it.

“Honestly, who does Riddle think he is?”  He grumbles as if you could respond, sometimes he swears you do.  Deuce thinks he is losing his mind, Riddle probably does too.  They might be back in the past, but Riddle remembers his mistakes and what little growth he’d squeezed from the stone cold loop of time.  He is strict, but seldom tyrannical, if Ace wasn’t in the middle of a spiral he would be willing to acknowledge his housewarden’s willingness to try and help you.  “Hey-” the door doesn’t open for you when you appear, Ace doesn’t think you can interact with objects the way a ghost can but that doesn’t stop him from talking to you like you are one.  “Bet this looks familiar.  Honestly, how many times am I going to have to show up like this before you let me take the bed?  I’m super skinny and you’re not- you’re not there.”  Memory isn’t like a video Ace can replay, but from the timelines he’s spent chasing after you he is almost certain this shade of yours is simply following an echo of your routine.  It has a set path, if he gets too close you will evaporate from view, but still he reaches when you approach, praying that this time his hand will find purchase.  “Just what is it you wanna hear huh?”  He finds something, cold and slightly wet like this shimmery shape is made of melting ice.  “That I didn’t think you would be my type because I already knew you were?  That when I said what was really important was finding someone you could laugh with I thought of your face?  That I’m a coward who couldn’t reject a girl he didn’t like and who couldn’t face it when he saw what he actually wanted?”

“I want Ace.”  He feels it more than hears it, as much as he wants to smile and hide behind himself Ace Trappola is smart enough to know he can’t.  Not this time, he has to watch you fill in your outline, eyes unhurried and unfocused but locked solely on him.  If he doesn’t watch you come to he will never believe he is looking at you again.  “I want to stay with Ace.”  Your arms are around his neck pushing him back onto the couch with a thunk and he wraps himself as much around you as he can.   “Just what am I going to do with you?”  He tries to laugh but between the collar and you it’s hard to breathe, but he can’t bring himself to move.  “I guess I’ll have to make you happy for the rest of your life.”

[wuxiaphoenix]

Worldbuilding: How to Create an Apocalypse

No, not the typical zpoc. It’s been done, a lot; sometimes better than others. My kudos to anyone who’s pulled it off with care and thought. Kabaneri of the Iron Fortress is still one of my favorite animes ever. But I’m thinking of a different kind of apocalypse. Of “the magic comes back” variety.

Of course that’s been done too, with root causes ranging everywhere from “mad physics gone wrong” to “System Apocalypse” to... who knows what. Some of those tend to wipe out gunpowder in the process of magic coming back, which to me seems like an unnecessary handicap to anyone caught in the End of the World As We Know It. Sure, maybe your average SCA-type or martial arts guy can scrape through monsters appearing on Main Street by the skin of their teeth; the rest of us need an equalizer!

And frankly, if your world isn’t going to allow equalizers enough for some normal-to-handicapped people to survive day to day life, your civilization is doomed.

Because there will be no families possible. No children. No future.

I want worlds with a possible future.

So. How can you pull an “end of the world” scenario which has that kind of hope?

This is where folklore research comes in handy. There’s an entire folklore trope devoted to stories like this - the King Under the Mountain.

The really interesting thing about this? Not all these “sleeping heroes” are people any regular person would want to see come back. Not when the candidates include, among others, Napoleon Bonaparte, Vlad the Impaler, and Genghis Khan.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say the thought of the guy who wiped out Nishapur, Merv and Herat - who left piles of skulls and empty wastelands where there had been nations, whose death toll is conservatively estimated in millions - back with a potentially supernatural army-

Ah. Yeah. I think that constitutes apocalypse material.

But. A survivable apocalypse, if you’re lucky, out of the way, or able to fight back hard enough. This would be a Dark Time. But not a hopeless one.

We need stories with hope. We need stories where what the heroes do makes a difference; makes a future. If you don’t have that - then all you’ve got is horror and desolation. If I want that, I can turn on the evening news.

So. Who’d try to bring one of these bad boys back, thus bringing about an apocalypse as the necessary precondition, magic being nasty and literal that way? I’ll have to think about it!

[burninlovebutler]

1,000 Follower Party 🥹

when i came back to tumblr, i never expected to have the experience i’ve had or make the connections & friend’s i’ve made - friends that i consider some of my best friends now.

i also didn’t expect the love i’ve received for my writing, it has been truly overwhelming (in a good way obv) - my numbers aren’t the highest but i am so grateful for my time here & the people i’ve met - thank you for all the laughs, cries, screams lol they make me so happy. you all have shown me a kindness that is such a bold reflection of elvis 🥺 it’s so beautiful & it just makes me wanna pay it forward

and thank you for accepting me & letting me take up some space here 💗

**since i do get quite overwhelmed easily with asks (bc my adhd) i can’t guarantee that i’ll be able to do all of them or that they’ll be done quickly but i will try my best to do most!**

(this is long bc i’ve never done a follower celebration before so i’m making up for lost time lol prob nobody cares & this is prob lame but 😭 idk)

anyway send me an ask w one of these if u want ☺️💘

🍉 - About me / Commentary / Opinion

-tell me about yourself / introduce yourself to me if you haven’t already or ask me anything about myself that you’re curious about or just rant about anything!

-idk people come to me for advice often about random stuff ? could be anything you want or writing related! or ask my opinion on anything fandom related or not

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-send in a made up fic title and I'lI tell you what I'd write for it 💓

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- self explanatory - if you wanna hear my thoughts about you💕

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- random quotes from WIPs

- or fav quote from existing works

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2 options for this one:

Send me A or B & i’ll make/write a short 3-6 song playlist for you 💗

A - send me either austin or elvis + a fav trope / vibe / mini fic idea OR any of my fics regarding a certain scene or dynamic

B - send me either austin or elvis + your personal typa vibe/aesthetic/etc

(perhaps also include like what kinda music u listen to / any specific artist you like so i can include some if they overlap w my library ?)

ALSO - specify if you have spotify or not!

🦋 - Moodboards

similar to ^ playlists

send me A or B [+ the respective details] & i’ll make a 3-6 pic mini moodboard for you ��

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-ask me about any of my fics! send me one of my fics & talk/ask me anything about them like how i got the idea / ideas for certain plots or scenes or my writing process or my fav lines/plots/scenes or anything really idk

- or hints out of context 🤭 i love doing those

👽 - Head Cannons

-ask me about a specific fic of mine OR elvis/austin under a certain setting / trope / plot / pairing & i’ll share/make some head cannons for it

🌸 - Recommendations

-recommend some things for me! movies, shows, music, makeup!!/skincare!, tarot decks, books, anything & i’ll answer w some of my own 💓

since my writing process is rather lengthy & intricate i don’t like to write blurbs or take requests etc. so unfortunately i can’t be like y’all that can write/post a million lil stories effortlessly ☹️ i so wish i could, i’m just not built like that 😭

HOWEVER it seems just wrong for me to not include some sort of fic component in my celebration since i am mainly a fic blog SO

i decided i wanted to do a lil contest ??? idk lol

🦋winner will receive a imagine/one shot with the plot request of their choosing🦋

TO ENTER:

- make sure you are following me lol

- like & reblog this post

- comment 🍉🥀 on this post

- comment something that made you happy today 💓

- bonus entry: reblog this w proof that you took a drink of water when you read this 💗 (empty water bottle/cup or something!)

that’s it!

💗whenever the winner is chosen i will convene with them directly on what sort of fic they want & i will write one for them (tho it may take some time lol) 💗

✨contest will be open for the next 2 weeks & the winner will be chosen at random around then! [04.07.23]✨

tagging some of my fav people i’ve met through this blog/fandom 🥰

@cryingabtab @lllsaslll @presleysdarling @loving-elvis @samfangirls @bisexualwvtson @troubleinapinksuit @karamelcoveredolicity @lindszeppelin @succsessions @steph-speaks @luluthesandgoose @ab4eva @softsatnin @elvisfatass @homerow99 @michellelv @flwrs4aust @powerofelvis @elvisabutler @sournatromanoff @jelliedonut @sagesolsticewrites @fangirlwithasweettooth @thatbanditqueen @purejasmine @slowsweetlove @areacodefan @generoustreemystic @golden-kiwis

and so many more 😭 anyone whom i’ve inevitably missed due to my overly medicated rotting brain 😭

again i love you all so much 🥺 thank you for letting me be a part of this beautiful little family 🥺💗

-mel xx

[coffeedrgn87]

Hai. I just wanted to say that LPK has ruined me for almost every other BDSM story. Now when I read any, I'm like "Where's the enthusiastic consent? Where are the loving and frequent check-ins with your sub? Where is the scene where you discuss whether this is something both of you want?" And I'm including original stories in the list too. There are very few stories that can satisfy me now. Even when the sex scenes are hot, the lack of a connection between the Dom and sub puts me off. There's a Sterek BDSM fic that kind of lives up to LPK, but that's the only one I've found. You have completely ruined me. I hope you're happy, you ridiculously talented author.

Hi! 💜

Funny you should say this, because this is, in part, how LPK came to life. I wanted kinky reading that really emphasised consent, communication, and negotiation.

And sure, there are some relatively good works out there (now at least) but they generally feature a) a hetero relationship and b) some rich dude who happens to be a Dominant and a submissive gal who wants to try out kink or is in the community (to some degree) but falls head over heels in love with the Dominant which changes the whole dynamic and leads to much unnecessary drama (my personal opinion, also mainly reference original works here…fan works very often do have queer representation).

While there’s nothing wrong with that trope, it doesn’t represent me in any way. I want queerness with my kink, I want munches and shibari and tough conversations, and trust. I want things to reflect reality with a scene going well and emotions changing the dynamic midway.

There are many reasons why LPK is so dear to me, and you mentioned some, the enthusiastic consent, the conversations, but also life getting in the way and finding ways around that, growing together, etc.

I grew a lot with the writing of the story which I absolutely expected I would (or at least hoped for). Never in a million years did I think so many people would read it, comment on it, favourite it, etc. I’m not in any community where people might talk about different works so I don’t see it happening…which is why I, for the most part, still have imposter syndrome about it all, but I think that can be said for all my other writing too, not that any of it comes close to where LPK went.

I have this recurring dream of wanting to turn it into an original work, but I’m daunted by my own word count thus far and the amount of rework required so I keep thinking that the perfect idea will eventually come along.

I honestly cannot thank you enough for you very enthusiastic support and your kind message. It means the world to me, and I know I say this to everybody who takes the time to tell me what LPK means to them, but it’s not some spiel, I truly mean it. The verse has done something special to me, even though I don’t want to believe it. I fear believing it may lead to me getting a big head about it all, even though I’m certain that I could never…ugh, look at this, not only do I digress but I’m also rambling.

I won’t lie, there’ve been many times I’ve wanted to take the verse down, and not just it but all my works, as I don’t especially feel connected to the fandom world, but then I remember that I primarily write for myself and anyone who would like to come along for the ride is more than welcome. As for the rest, I try my best not to care and if I do, I run to yell at my therapist.

Okay, this response is getting out of hand. And it’s also starting to sound a lot like a journal entry rather than a response to a very lovely and sweet ask. Let me close with this: I hope to have an update for book 3 soon. I’ve a lovely idea floating about my head…

[fights4users]

Flynn | Justice, and chaotic good

As happy go lucky as Flynn seems he has quite the sense of justice. He may be a jokester but when it comes down to it the man has a admirable set of beliefs. When were introduced to him we see a man in a desperate search for something buried in a computer- he’s sweaty and manic and it seems like his search has been going for a bit too long. When we see him again he’s showing off to a bunch of teenagers having the time of his life. These two images aren’t entirely in contrast with each other but it’s a major turn around.

I love Flynn as he gives you the whole “I’m the joke guy,mis quippy and I don’t take anything seriously all I care about is Impressing kids and making money” but the minute the heat is on you see how he really cares. I love the defensive walls coming down to reveal a big softie, it’s a trope for a reason. (He’s very much Peter Venkman before Peter Venkman, he may joke the whole time but this man’s ride or die).

This is a man who lost millions. Who lost all chance at recognition from some corporate sleezebag and he’s rightfully bitter about it but doesn’t take it out on the kids. He’s not resentful of these games he grins and shows kids “how it’s done” he runs the most popular joint in town with fair rules. I love how the novelization expands on him and how he’ll let kids stay late if they’re close to finishing, it’s really sweet.

He’s not exactly well off, living in the arcade - I doubt he’s making much. While the machines may make TONS in quarters between the electricity bill it must rack up and fees- I think he’s riding a very thin line making the want for his credit all the more prevalent.

Going into things, Flynn wants his credit— it’s much more about the credit and about taking Dillinger down then it ever was for the money. The money is a bonus to this man, he already does what he loves — eating more than microwave dinners would be a nice cherry on top but not the goal. He’s pissed. For himself and for all the other programmers Dillinger has screwed over, if Alan’s any proof of that.

Flynn’s a big talker, a part time hacker but he never imagined actually being able to do anything about it. The pure excitement hearing about the TRON program and seeing Lora’s enthusiasm? Oh, he’s found his people.

Flynn’s a chaotic good. He always wanted to take down the MCP as that was his goal besides getting TRON running in the first place but he hears “oh evil dictator” and is instantly “let’s go in there and fuck him up” it’s so funny seeing him instantly jump to being a freedom fighter so easily… especially after coming to appreciate and marvel in the electronic world. They all want the same thing , man.

I Hope this made sense, I had this big idea in my head of a elegantly worded essay that just didn’t happen. Contrary to popular belief I actually adore Flynn. At least 82’ Flynn. He’s hilarious and actually quite big hearted and —- character who cares too much being their downfall is so delicious (no matter how upset I get over what the sequel did)

[spurious]

laura seeing all your sga reblogs is making me want to read mcshep again. what are like... your top five fics. whether or not i might have read them before!

OH MAN okay so i have been wanting to make a McShep fic recs post for a little bit and now you've given me the perfect excuse...only FIVE though i am gonna do my best but idk if i can contain myself tbh. (narrator voice: she could not)

Silly wrong but vivid right by SquaresAreNotCircles | ~4k words, rated T

John is leaning in, head bent low towards the curly-haired guy he’s talking to. Rodney is a little annoyed instantly because hey, what’s so important they would need to whisper it? Why isn’t John pulling him into this?

And then John reaches out and pulls the other guy in. Over the table, by his neck, and suddenly this other guy is kissing John.

Or: With DADT gone, John starts kissing guys. Rodney is (very mysteriously!) not having a great time.

➞ the idea of Rodney being so out of touch with his own emotions that he thinks he’s homophobic rather than into John is just…chefs kiss.

Tutorial by objectlesson | ~3.5k words, rated E

This softness—John doesn't know what to do with how good it feels, how much he wants it. How temporary it probably is, how much it’ll hurt when it’s gone.

Or, Rodney's never touched John's dick, until now.

➞ ok it’s no secret that “we’re fooling around and I’ve got Feelings but he definitely doesn’t (but actually he DOES)” is one of my favorite tropes and this is it done to PERFECTION. (one of the great things about this trope is that it allows for sex scenes and pining at the same time and who doesn’t like having their cake and eating it too?)

Loop the Loop by alsaurus | ~9k words, rated T

One man's quest to comfort a friend. And maybe himself, just a little.

(AKA the one where John takes Rodney out on a million dates without realizing it.)

➞ Every time that someone mentioned Rodney's poor social skills, John had to suppress a smile. In the private universe of his mind he'd come to interpret "bad with people" as "made for me".

This line has lived rent-free in my head since I read this fic and it is wonderful. The whole fic is wonderful. They fit together SO WELL and it’s just. It’s nice ok

Harmonic Function by shaenie | ~8k words, rated E

"Let's go with Banach-Tarski as your safeword," McKay says almost absently, lips tracing lazily along John's hairline, and John blinks.

➞ alright this? This is just really hot. Like, really hot. I bookmarked it for a reason. You know my tastes so, you know. Lol

Little Storms by Chandri | ~18k words, rated T

None of them like to admit it, but sometimes John's wrong. Usually it's Rodney who has to say so.

-> I have several fics by Chandri in my bookmarks, and I felt it might be a bad idea to subject you to the one that’s 50k (though, if you’re interested…) so instead I’ve chosen this one, which made me cry in family mart at 11 o clock in the morning.

Rebuilding Babel by fiercelydreamed | ~20k words, rated E

He wondered if this was how it felt to go crazy -- you didn't lose your mind, it just stopped synching up with the world around you.

The Pegasus galaxy makes Rodney an expert in what he can survive without.

➞ I remember being just floored by this fic when I finished it, like just, daaaamn.

Holy Rivers by objectlesson | ~21k words, rated M

Once they’re back on Earth, things start falling apart.

➞ ok I intended to only link one fic per author BUT this is the perfect post-series fic where Rodney figures his shit out

Monomial Factors by anonymous | ~12k words, rated T

“A cat café,” Rodney says, as he sits—sprawls—on the loveseat. John scopes the terrain before settling himself down beside him, careful to keep his knees tucked safely away from where Rodney’s leg is stretched into his space so their limbs don’t knock together. “You remember that I had a cat, before Atla—we went away?”

John nods. “Sure, yeah. Quirk.”

“Quark,” Rodney corrects. “Well, he’s been with my neighbour for so long, and he’s getting older, and when we got back it just didn’t seem fair to upend his life all over again by having him move back here with me. Putting him on a plane, taking him away from his dog friend—so I’m, well, I’m interested in adopting.”

Rodney wants a cat. John's always been a dog guy.

➞ tagged “cat adoption as a catalyst to romance” I MEAN. HOW COULD I NOT. It’s soft and sweet and in character and I loved it.

It’s been absolutely insane to me to come into this fandom because like. You know that I spent years being The Person who wrote my ship and it’s like going from this tiny little trickle to a fucking…FIREHOSE of content and so much of it is GOOD? And LONG? Like……….how is this happening. Hence why I failed to choose only five fics lol. Anyway if you or anyone else want more recs or specific recs, hit me up because i am READY FOR IT.

[jhilsara]

Ooooh, those notes were super inciteful, I love that it goes at a slower pace and isn't just a copy of the original. I smell an enemies to lover's trope brewing and I'm living for it! If you want to provide more notes, that would be super cool! But again, it's totally up to you<3

Thank you for reading it! It makes me happy you enjoyed it even though it's just some draft notes. Anyway here is pt. 2- Again this has not been proof read,,, I just word vomit on the doc then clean it up later also I now have MC in place of Mika... I was debating on doing y/n with this or not.

She’s bonded with all the boys in one way, except Sam.

Damien and Matthew were easy. They loved the human world and wanted to know so much. They also just had bright personalities and were eager to finally meet Howard’s granddaughter.

The three of them had done many things together. Movie nights, video games, going out to the mall or a bar. She even introduced her friends to them one night.

Explaining her situation to her friends was wild. Too many prying eyes and a story she tried to keep straight.

They were a group hired by her grandfather to travel around to do research for his company. He had offered his home in exchange for some elderly care.

MC said her grandfather always was an odd bird.

With some demon power help her friends believed it.

Erik and MC go shopping a lot. Erik, she learned was into fashion. He was also great at sewing. He worked full time as a seamstress in a local shop.

They also were very into RuPaul’s Drag Race and watched it every Friday.

They’ve been to the local drag shows and have tipped GENEROUSLY.

James has been planning the reveal/debut of him as CEO with MC. Their plan was for the very beginning of May. Invitations had been sent out and RSVPs were coming back. Including a few news outlets.

Including her father.

James reassured her he wouldn’t touch her. But her father’s words were always more painful than any hit.

Sam was… illusive.

He avoided her like a plague. She mostly saw him at family dinners and grocery shopping he never missed.

Honestly it kind of hurt her feelings.

The next time they needed to go grocery shopping all of the boys were busy except for Sam. So, they had to be alone.

The car ride -silence and awkward Buying food, Sam took half the list and left her. She was in the freezer section contemplating depression ice cream when he came back with his half of the list. “Are you not done yet?” his tone accusing. “No, I am.” She sighs. “Just thinking about something for me to veg out with later.” He quirks a brow. “isn’t ice cream like, I don’t know, sad food?” She nods. S I L E N C E crickets if you will She grabs a pint of lemon custard. “Lemon custard?” Sam She side eyes him. “Yes. It’s my favorite. I’m not big on many other flavors.” “Don’t people usually get like chocolate when they’re sad?” Sam She rolls her eyes and puts her ice cream in the cart and starts pushing. “I like lemon custard. I didn’t know I was gonna get grilled for my depression ice cream.” “I’m not grilling you!” He groans throwing his head back pushing his cart. “I’m trying to have conversation…” He mumbles. She whips herself around in irritation, “Then why didn’t you just stay and shop with me? Or why did you literally say nothing in the car? You’ve had opportunities. OR MAYBE the million times you’ve avoided me?!” Sam steps back, furrows his brows, “What’s that supposed to mean?” She takes a deep breath and turns back. “Just forget it, let’s check out.” She can feel him fuming next to her as they check out and pay for their groceries and loading them into the car. Once inside the car he presses her again. “What did you mean inside?” he all but snaps at her. “Exactly what it sounds like Sam. You avoid me. All the time! So, I find it hard to believe you when you say you’re trying to start conversation when there have been better opportunities to talk to me.” Sam opens his mouth but keeps shutting it. He can’t really argue with the truth. “Point proven. Now can we just go back to you ignoring my existence.” Sam jolts forward in his seat glaring her down. “I don’t ignore your existence. In fact, I’m more than aware. I can’t get away from you.” “That doesn’t make any sense! We never talk, about anything! You’re always hiding somewhere on the roof. Or when I come into a room and you’re with one of your brothers you promptly LEAVE.” “That’s not- fuck.” He groans in irritation. “I’m sorry okay.” Sam “What?” “I’m sorry. I swear-” he sighs “I swear I’m not trying to be a dick to you. I just didn’t want to irritate you more after the whole… kiss situation and then…I don’t know a whole week passed and I didn’t know how to talk to you.” He sighs and runs his hand aggressively through his hair. She sits in silence for a moment. “Are you saying that you were to embarrassed to talk to me?” Sam’s jaw drops and he stutters, “I- no! No that is not what I’m saying!” She’s giggling at him now and teasing, “I think that’s exactly what you’re saying.” Sam scoffs and crosses his arm but a smile tugging at the corners. “Fine. I was embarrassed are you happy?” Sam “Yes! I am actually. Because it was bumming me out that you weren’t talking to me or looking in my general direction… like at all.” Sam sighs, “I really didn’t mean to just avoid you. I didn’t know how to talk to you after a very embarrassing event. Damien and James chewed me out.”

Life gets a little easier with a truce between her and Sam.

Then the announcement party comes.

MC is frantically pulling things together worried something will go wrong. James tells her to breath. All the boys are helping her. “You are just going to make the announcement and I can take it from there okay?” James “While yes that is frightening, I’m more worried about my dad.” MC “Just stick with me. I’ll just be like your guard dog.” Sam “Sam can frighten anyone away.” Matthew Sam shoves his little brother away by his head. “Hey! I just styled my hair dude…” Matthew complains and runs to find a mirror. “Go get dressed okay? We got this.” Erik shoves her upstairs. The beginning of the party goes by way too fast for MC. It’s mostly meet and greet for people she doesn’t know and her friends who she asked to come so she isn’t alone. The boys actively are working. She does constantly feel Sam’s eyes, so she knows he’s actively watching for her dad. When her mother and father enter she clams up. He barely acknowledges her. The event is spent mostly with her mingling with company people and media coverage in the back of the room. It comes time to make her announcement. James stands next to her. “Welcome everyone from Anderson Toy Company! I’d like to say thank you for coming for not only the announcements we will be making tonight, but also for the celebration of life for my grandfather Harold Anderson. We will be doing a candle light vigil for him later this evening.” MC

“Tonight, I know all of you are here to witness me telling you that I am stepping into the CEO position of my grandfather since he selected me. I am here to tell you tonight I have picked and hired a new CEO who will be taking my place in the company.” GASPS and her father’s ANGRY ass face. Like the man is red. “I know you all were expecting me to step into this role, and I was prepared too. After consideration I cannot in good faith take this role. My grandfather left me the option to be CEO but he would have never made me take it if I didn’t want to. He wanted me to follow my heart and find something I was as passionate about as he was making toys. So tonight, I welcome you to regard your new CEO with the warmth my grandfather would have. Please welcome James Anderson.” 

LITERALLY MUMBLES GASPS AND CHATTER AND CAMERAS GOING OFF

James goes into a spiel about the company (and his not relation to MC even though same last name) James also provides for the public documentation that he was very close with Harold and that they had talked about this as an option.

MC steps down as James discusses the future of the company. She tries to find her friends to fuck off and find a drink but her father corners her behind the massive staircase.

“You ungrateful brat!” He grips her arm. “You were left everything and you take it all for granted! You have let our family name tarnish within this company!” Father “Let. Me. Go.” She growls out. “Not until you understand the biggest mistake you’ve made! What are you going to do with that business degree now! And don’t think I’ll be paying those student loans! HA!” Father She starts to shrink back into herself trying to look for anyone to help her. But they’re all engaged with James. Her father knows better than to be yelling in public to make a scene. Suddenly his bruising grip has left her arm and she can see the familiar back of Sam. Sam has stepped between them, gripping her fathers’ hand in a death grip she can hear his bones cracking. “She said let go.” Sam tells her dad in a low but demanding voice. She can see the fear in her fathers’ eyes. “How dare you!” her father growls out as he looks around frantically to see if anyone sees them. “How dare I? I’m not the one threatening and physically attacking their own kid, am I?” Sam has yet to let go of her father’s hand “I’m not hurting her and this is family business!” her father tells him with a glare. His voice cracks though. “Oh yeah?” Sam gently guides MC’s arm up to show the already forming bruise on her forearm. “She fell.” There’s another bone cracking as Sam’s tightens his grip on her fathers’ hand. Her father almost yells. “It’s in the shape of your hand. Now I suggest you apologize and leave before I shatter the bones in your hand and convince James to fire you from your family’s company.” Sam “MC! He can’t do that! I’m your father!” he’s shaking in his shoes. She grips the side of Sam’s sleeve and he looks at her. “He needs to apologize to you. It’s unacceptable.” Sam “I’m sorry! I’m sorry okay just let go of my hand!” Sam releases instantly and glares at the man. “Be a better father. Or she’ll never talk to you again.” Sam He glares at both of them and runs off. He’ll probably make an excuse to leave. Sam turns to look at MC and her whole bodies shaking. The bruise is darkening too. Sam holds her gently to him, rubbing her back gently. “It’s over it’s okay.” He whispers into her hair. She lets out a shaking breath. She pulls back and looks at her arm and frowns. “I can’t cover this up…” she mumbles. “Stay here, I’ll go ask Erik if he has anything he can do okay?” Sam She nods and loosens her grip on Sam to let him find Erik. They both come back in less than 2 minutes. Erik hums in irritation and gently escorts her to his room. “Foul man, I have something to fix this dress wise, but that’s a nasty bruise love.” Erik finds some gloves that go up to her elbows and hides her bruise and also acts as a good accessory. “If anyone asks you had them the whole time. Just gaslight them.” She huffs out a laugh. “Thank you, Erik.” “It’s more than fine. Make sure you go back to Sam before you mingle again. He’s worried, and more than furious about your less than savory father.” Erik She nods and goes back down. Press are surrounding James and he’s taking it like a champ. They have another few hours before her grandfather’s vigil too. She looks around to find Sam and her eyes meet his in the back of the room against the wall. “You good?” he asks her. She nods. “As good as I can be.” He grunts in acknowledgement but his eyes burn where he knows the bruise is developing. “Thank you, Sam. I don’t know what he would have done if you hadn’t come in.” He looks into her eyes, silent and burning. It sends a chill down her back. “I should have been faster.” She grabs for his hand and holds it gently. “You were plenty fast. He could have said or done a lot worse. He has before.” Sam looks over her shoulder and smiles softly back down at her, “Your friends are looking for you. Go on. We’ll talk later.” She turns to look over her shoulder and a couple of them are raising their brows suggestively at her. She rolls her eyes but blushes furiously. “I uh- yeah. We’ll talk later. Thank you Sam.”

The vigil is successful too, everyone who stayed for it, which was a lot, said wonderful words about her grandfather.

After every guest leaves the boys and MC are sitting on the stairs exhausted.

Okay listen, I have so much... like so much more but I can only add so much text to an ask. So again, just let me know if you want more.

<3

[writing-for-life]

Tell me about your stories! What kind of stories you like to write? Any particular themes you like to explore? Any trope you're fond of (plot or character wise or both)? What inspire you as a writer?

Thanks so much for the ask!

I’ve been writing for as long as I remember; I think I must have written my first short stories when I was still at primary school and then got a bit more serious about it in high school (I held the school record for most words ever written in an essay for a very long time—brevity is not my forte, in absolutely nothing I write).

I am bilingual, and I usually write in my other language because I perceive it as slightly stronger (I grew up in a different country, my mum didn’t speak English with me, only my father did. I moved to an English-speaking country some 20 years ago though and mostly speak English today). My published books are all in my other language. However, I write fan fiction exclusively in English, for a million reasons, but mostly because it gives me a different voice I guess, and I can stay anonymous 😂? In any case, it’s quite interesting to explore how your voice changes between languages…

I love writing dialogue. It’s my greatest strength and my biggest weakness. I had editors tell me to look into screenwriting, and I always need to watch that I don’t write talking heads. I am not particularly fond of reading pages of descriptive text to set a scene (I don’t care about every tiniest detail of a wallpaper, unless it is truly essential for the plot and your name is Charlotte Perkins Gilman), so I think that has always bled into my own writing. I personally detest purple prose, it makes my eyes glaze over, and I don’t think it’s necessarily good writing to be ornate for ornamentation’s sake. It always reads self-indulgent to me and disrupts the narrative flow.

What inspires me? The human condition, psychology and philosophy, and although I mainly write (often steamy) romance, all my works deal with existential questions. I sometimes think it’s only romance because there’s a love story at its core, and I’ve definitely written stories that my publishers handed back to me because they didn’t fulfil genre expectations for romance enough (romance is probably the genre with the least breathing space, and publishing is a whole ‘nother topic).

Generally speaking, I think I just like people, despite being the worst introvert in existence (I am not shy, neither do I have social anxiety, and I find it important that people get that cognitive introversion is not the same as being anxious or shy. I can convincingly pretend I am an extrovert and have done presentations and performances in front of hundreds of people without problems. I can also start conversations and keep them going without trouble, and my whole life is built around human connection. But I can only do so much of it before I need to lie down in a dark room and feel completely drained, and I mostly live in my head if given the choice).

I like to write about human relationships, about grief and loss, also about trauma, but not in a self-serving way. I think the fact that I am a therapist (amongst other things—complicated life story) always makes me look at a way through instead of lingering on it, while at the same time acknowledging that these things stay with us forever. There is no life without them, but there is living with them.

I like to write female characters, and near all my works have female protagonists. I write both f/m and f/f relationships. I detest the caricature of strong women characters that seems quite popular though—they do everything the way a man does, have the physical strength of a man and generally behave like a bitch. I believe strong characters are not afraid of their vulnerability, and I find that a million times more interesting to explore and write.

Apart from that, I can work with most tropes and wouldn’t have particular problems with any if they slot nicely into the plot, but there are definitely some I haven’t written because there was just no opportunity yet, or I don’t find them particularly interesting. I mean, most of us are walking tropes in one way or another, but we’re also more than that. Am I particularly fond of particular ones? I don’t know. I quite like the idea of soul mates, and although it’s not always realistic, it’s interesting to write because it makes us think about what is important in ourselves and our connection to others. So I rather see it as an exploration of human connection than something that is the be all, end all. Funnily enough, I often write friendships that go into that direction, so it doesn’t always need to apply to sexual/romantic relationships. Even my fanfic has a female friendship in it that somewhat falls into that category, and it was important to me not to sideline it, despite it not being the main plot.

[cyarskj1899]

Sounds like a stroke! He’s already done a lot of evil in his time on earth, so BYE Demon! Don’t let the door knob hit you on the way out or better yet the way down

Can we please get something straight here??

Mitch McConnell has supported Donald Trump and will support him again if Trump wins the Republican nomination. I have never supported Trump and I never will.

Mitch McConnell has been a willing tool of the NRA and helped pass countless stand-your-ground laws, he has helped pave the way for laws like permitless carry, and he has helped make guns easier for anyone to get. I have not.

Mitch McConnell has helped pass laws that intentionally suppress the votes of millions and millions Black people. I have not.

Mitch McConnell has helped write or pass laws that deny millions of women access to reproductive health care. I have not.

Mitch McConnell has helped write or pass laws that deny basic healthcare and living wages to millions of poor people. I have not.

I AM NOW AND I WILL ALWAYS BE BETTER than Mitch McConnell and Republicans, because my wishes do not have any material impact on anyone, unlike the myriad of hateful draconian laws that Mitch McConnell has helped to pass.

I could continue, but hopefully I’ve made my point: people sending Mitch McConnell “ill wishes” IS NOT being “just the same” as Mitch McConnell and Republicans, and it doesn’t make anyone “as bad as” McConnell and the GOP.

Are you fucking kidding me??

Saying that my wishes = McConnell’s actions is a false equivalence. It’s false, it’s offensive and it’s gaslighting.

Mitch McConnell is an elected politician who has a very long history of using his political power to actively harm the poor, marginalized communities, women, LGBTQ people, and non-Christian, non-white people. If you cannot differentiate between the words and the unenforceable “wishes” of the oppressed vs. the actions of an oppressor, then you have some serious problems to unpack.

I could ~almost~ see it if there was some chance that a Republican would go, “Oh wow, those progressives are being nice to Mitch McConnell, maybe I’ll stop being a racist and vote for a Democrat now.” But that almost never ever happens, does it??

You are not going to win over a Republican by being kind. Their entire ideology is based on racism, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, and cruelty.

Look, I’m not tryna write a dissertation here, but please believe me when I say that this neoliberal knee jerk Pollyanna reaction of, “turn the other cheek” and “be kinder to your oppressors” is very much rooted in Christofascism + white supremacy. It’s a weaponization of the “hate breeds hate” trope and the “forgiveness narrative” meant to tame slaves, and I refuse to fall for it.

I absolutely positively do not wish Mitch McConnell well, and HELL NO, I am not being a bad person for hoping that a racist, evil, old white man suffers a fraction of the pain he has inflicted on others for decades and decades.

I am a proud member of the #MitchMcConnellDieChallenge community.

That all said, at the very least, Mitch McConnell has unintentionally provided us with a teachable moment: please learn to spot the warning signs of someone having a stroke

[ardentlytess]

love in the air episode 5 post credit scene my beloved !!!!!

[herefortheships]

Most of my ships are gay not because I prefer to ship gay ships. I actually don’t care if the ship is gay or straight as long as there is chemistry and a solid, good story there.

It’s just that straight ships have gotten frustratingly boring, predictable, and just plain bland. There is nothing there for me to work with. I feel like the only conflict between straight, canon straight ships lately is the overused love triangle trope. That’s just not good enough when usually the foundation to these ships is also weak and unstable/not solid enough for me to root for these characters or even care.

Gay ships just have so much more conflict going in, more chemistry, more intense and interesting stories going for them, and infinitely more material to build a solid foundation for the relationship in a satisfying and believable way, than any straight ships. 

I don’t know if you get what I mean. I think the writing for het ships has gotten way too lazy. Because as long as the characters are opposite genders I guess the audience will expect them to get together, so there is very little effort and passion being put into these relationships. They are just bland af. There are no meaningful conflicts, no meaningful connection and development either. 

The bar is just so low, too; straight ships are kissing after only one or two interactions in an entire season of a show. Or by the end of the movie when there has been literally no build-up to that moment at all; it’s just expected because one is a boy and the other is a girl. 

Where is the drama? Where is the juicy conflict that makes a story work well? In a freaking love triangle with a few misunderstandings and a lot of bickering/plain fighting each other with no meaningful moments in between? Where is the devotion? The passion? The pining? The love? The drive to do anything for that person? Where is the soul connection? The actual attraction and chemistry (literally I don’t even feel these straight ships have chemistry anymore. I wish I was kidding but have you seen the canon straight couples on TV lately? Literally the exceptions could be counted in one hand...) 

Where is the good, meaningful, beautiful, heart-wrenching, soul touching story?

Usually reserved for male x male friendships. That’s it. 

This is why. 

Male characters are also written infinitely better than female characters and their arcs are well-defined and carefully written; these are usually well developed, well-written characters, whereas female characters usually lack any character development and exist as love interests with zero personality. I’ve said this a million times: being hot is not a personality. 

Male x male friendships are often beautifully written, with so much heart, of course anyone with a love for well crafted stories, who is starved of a beautiful love story, will expect something more to come out of these fictional soulmates. Here you have a character who is clearly pining over their “friend” when things aren’t going so well; a character would do anything for their friend and who has always been there for them; a character who will forgiven them and understand them when they’ve made a mistake. 

A friend, a soulmate; someone who truly cares about this character like literally no other character in the story.

Usually these friendships are so solid and meaningful, that nothing will break them apart; not even their own realistically unforgivable mistakes like Eli breaking Demetri’s arm in Cobra Kai, or Castiel messing with Sam’s mind in Supernatural, when Sam is Dean’s most important person in his life and wouldn’t forgive something like that if any other character would have done it, for example because these two forgive each other, because these two love each other. 

These two will work through unimaginable forces and unsurmountable obstacles that want to tear them apart, and they will walk through these obstacles to find their way back to each other, no matter how big or how terrible the rift between them, because their friendship is that meaningful, because they love each other.

The problem is that this “love” is never defined as more than platonic love. The problem also is that, if these relationships happened between a woman and a man, these relationships would have been canon with waaay less story to feed the canon. Everyone would expect something romantic to come out of it.

Of course we want a relationship like that to have a payoff with a kiss onscreen or a confirmation of that love as romantic love, because it would make perfect sense, and it would be satisfying to the story that was told between these characters. There is substance to these relationships, in contrast to the “straight boy meets hot straight girl he has literally no connection to/nothing in common with besides being protagonists or funny side characters in a show/movie, they flirt, they get together, there is a love triangle, they fight and split, misunderstandings, and now they kiss and make up, roll the credits”. 

When the bar is so ridiculously low for heterosexual romance, and heterosexual love stories have become so incredibly boring and predictable, we crave something more. Something with substance, and that is what gay ships usually give the audience. But it’s frustrating, because despite being so interesting and full of story as they are, gay ships usually don’t end up being even acknowledge beyond fanservice and/or queerbaiting for ratings (because they KNOW people want this). 

We are all bored of bland het romances telling the same story over and over. Gay ships (and not just male/male ships, but also any queer ships) are so much more interesting but they just aren’t given a chance...

[dramioneficrecommendations]

I rarely get personal here, but I’ve seen people talking about shipping Dramione and not shipping them any more, and it prompted me to share my thoughts.

First of all, don’t put the equals sign between racism and pureblood doctrine, or shipping Dramione and a Nazi man/Jewish woman’s romance. Apart from huge ideological differences between the two, the biggest and most obvious contrast between them is that racism is real, and the Holocaust really happened, whereas pureblood supremacy only exists in the books and has never hurt anyone in real life because — what a surprise — witches and wizards aren’t real, and Voldemort had never been born. So please stop diminishing the tragedy and suffering of millions of people to justify your opinions and dislikes.

Don’t tell women what they can and cannot read. So many people think themselves woke and their actions politically correct without realising how terribly misogynistic they are in fact. Let women choose what they read, let them make a decision on their own, and don’t assume they can’t tell a difference between reality and fiction. Because — NEWS FLASH — they’re perfectly capable of differentiating between the two!

If you want to hold fictional characters accountable for their actions, at least be consequential and hold all of them accountable for what they’ve done, not only those who fit into heteronormative culture. Don’t omit LGBTQ+ characters, judge them too, they’re capable of making bad things as well and their being in a non-heterosexual relationship or being part of LGBTQ+ community doesn’t undo their deeds in that fictional world. The same goes for fictional women. Don’t excuse their actions if you decide to play morality police. HOWEVER. In the end, it is a fictional world, and they are all fictional characters, so you can root for them even if they’ve done horrible things (yeah, you can root for Lord Voldemort for all I care), just don’t be selective about your judgement to fit your agenda/make others feel guilty about who they like or ship.

Don’t make others feel guilty about or ashamed of who they ship. And don’t feel guilty about or ashamed of who you ship. There’s nothing wrong with you even if you like the most vile and twisted fictional characters.

Now on a more personal note. Why do I ship Dramione? Most of the time, I don’t know, I don’t think about it, I just do. Obviously, I love their dynamic, I love the enemies to lovers trope, and I love their bickering. Deep down I’m a hopeless romantic and love the idea of star-crossed lovers. And I simply enjoy brilliant writing that Dramione authors offer to fans. But if I reflect upon my reading choices, I believe they’ve got something to do with the fact that most men in my life have repeatedly disappointed and hurt me, and I’m not sure if I ever will be able to build a romantic relationship with another human being, especially a man. In fiction, everything is possible (and when you think of it, in reality too; life writes the craziest, most improbable stories). So let me have one of my favourite book heroines fall in love with a man who had been a prejudiced arsehole but redeemed himself and now loves her unconditionally and is someone she can always rely on. Let me have my imaginary utopian world in which a man is capable of a profound change.

And yeah, I read dead dove fics too. He that is without sin among you and has never seen a horror or a thriller, let him first cast a stone at me. (Don’t take this too literally; it’s not a sin to enjoy dark stories.)

Long story short: SHIP AND LET SHIP. Shipping should be about having fun. If you don’t like it, don’t ship it, but don’t try to take away fun from ships other people love, and don’t try to make them feel guilty about their favourite pairings.

And I can’t believe how some people still don’t get this.

[authortobenamedlater]

Posting this now in case the finale proves me right or wrong. 😂 These rambles brought to you by way too much time waiting for my grocery pickup order.

Here are some reasons I think Halo MIGHT go for the Demon Spawn (as I’m calling it) angle next season:

It would up the ante for John and Makee. Not only are they dealing with each other and being on opposite sides of a war, now they are trying to save THEIR CHILD. The child both of them desperately love and desperately want to keep safe. Does this child unite them? Divide them? Both depending on the day? What would be the Covenant’s plans for the offspring of their Blessed One and the biggest thorn in their side? How far will John and Makee go to save their baby from each other?

Men in armor and helmets tearing the galaxy apart to save their kids are hot stuff in sci-fi at the moment.

Makee would have to reckon with her view of humans when she realizes that view would apply to her own kid. She would also have to reckon with her loyalty to the Covenant when she sees that their intentions for her child might not be the best, cause we know they won’t be.

John is good with children. We see this with Kwan, admittedly not done very well, but we still see it. Kessler takes a liking to him and even in his awkward and stiff way, John reciprocates. The show has gone out of its way, particularly in the last few episodes, to demonstrate that while Master Chief is a human wrecking ball, John is gentle and kind.

It would at least make The Scene a relevant plot device.

The biggie: In another life, John would have wanted his own family. When he meets Soren’s wife and kid, and then goes into his own childhood home and sees memories of parents who loved him, you have to think John started wondering if that could have been his. If he would have had a “normal” life with a wife and kids and a dog had Halsey never taken him (I touched on this in Choose You This Day).

The bigger biggie: The Halo showrunners do not seem to care who they piss off. In fact, I’d wager they enjoy subverting audience expectations. It’s like they all sat around a table and said “Hey. This show is going to draw a lot of ire so LET’S JUST GO FOR IT.” The Master Chief lost his helmet in E1 and his virginity in E8. Would Baby Chief really be out of the realm of possibility? Do we put anything past this show anymore? I don’t.

Before you all come for me with pitchforks and torches: I do not think this would be a good idea. I really, really do not want the show to go here. I’ll read a million fanfics about Daddy Chief. I might even write a few of them. But this is one of those tropes that makes great fanfiction and lousy source material. Unless you’re Jon Favreau and Dave Filoni, and Halo’s production team has painfully demonstrated that they are not.

This brings me to my final point, why Halo won’t/shouldn’t go with this idea: It makes absolutely no sense that the Spartans would not have been sterilized.

Halsey planned the abduction, replacement, and memory wipes of 100+ children. She planned their enhancements and training. She managed to cover her tracks for 30+ years. Do we really think she would overlook assuring that they wouldn’t get up to extracurricular activities and possibly throw a monkey wrench in the whole thing?

In fact, there’s some evidence that the Spartans WERE sterilized. John says he “thought it was impossible” upon meeting Soren’s son. But Soren DOES have a son. Maybe Kessler was a miracle baby? Hey, vasectomy babies happen. Maybe whatever 26th-century sterilization method they have is reversible. But would John know that? Would he even think of it? Maybe he went into his thing with Makee thinking they were protected and Baby Chief is another miracle baby. By John’s own admission, he should not be able to have children, so if he does the show needs to explain it.

Buuuuut. Halo has surprised me enough that if they did decide to go this way, I think they might actually swing it. Or, it would be a total glorious dumpster fire that we all just can’t stop watching.

[dilfbane]

Tell Me About It

Summary: When you wake up from a terrible dream fueled by insecurities, Loki helps you - and convinces you to - talk it out. 

Pairing: Loki/Female Reader

Warnings: Lots of talk about self-doubt, but nothing really more serious than that. A bit suggestive towards the end but nothing explicitly sexual. And of course the angst, though done in service of the fluff. 

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: So. It’s been.... Awhile since I’ve written anything then, hasn’t it? I honestly don’t have a good explanation for that except that life has been kicking me in the ass mental health wise, things were hard for awhile, and I’ve only just now been able to get back into the swing of writing. I wrote this because I love the ‘reader wakes up from a nightmare and character comforts her’ trope, and needed some angsty Loki fluff in my life. Hopefully those of you who also need that that can take comfort from this! 

“Tell me about it,” He says. His arms are wrapped around your torso. His body is warm, his voice molasses-thick and drowsy from sleep. You feel his legs tangled up with yours, with the white linen sheets, hopelessly - 

Hopeless. That’s how you feel. 

He shouldn’t have to be here with you. He shouldn’t have to know you. He shouldn’t have to wake up to you weeping. Not him, you think, as he shifts around you, propping himself up on one elbow with a languid, tire-induced elegance that defies all explanation. 

Not him, you think. 

Not Loki. 

He has changed, so much, since you met him. Become - not a different man, you would never want him to be that, but a kinder one, a softer one, an almost tamer person than the jagged-edged, growling, sardonic man who used to stalk around the Tower at three a.m in the morning, eyes narrowed, looking for a fight. 

He has told you, multiple times before, that you have no reason to fear him. He has said it with the drape of his frame over yours, the brush of his fingers over your cheekbones, the loving, kindly looks he throws you when you wake with him in the warmth of the gathering dawn; you can’t count, anymore, how often you’ve woken to find Loki watching you with some gentle, ineffable caring, stroking and sifting and braiding your hair with feather-light touches. 

He has told you, also, with his words, with the firm, silken caress of your name on his tongue. He tells you, all the time, that he loves you. That he isn’t going to leave you. That he doesn’t wish you any harm. It’s times like these, when the moonlight filters against his pale, bright skin and silvers the shine of his long, dark hair, when you most wish that you could believe him. When you yearn that Loki were telling the truth, that he really wouldn’t leave you, once he realized how inadequate you were. 

But then you would blink, would feel, truly feel, his touch on you, and fight back the keen urge to jerk away from it. In your experience, that wasn’t the way these things worked. 

Besides, you couldn’t tell Loki what you had been dreaming about. It didn’t matter what he said - if he knew, for even a moment, what your mind made him do while you slept, it would shatter his heart into a million pieces. You refused to be responsible for that, on top of everything else that you had made him sacrifice. Loki would never forgive himself. Neither would you. 

With a huff of frustration, you tried to pull out of his grasp, put some space between you, but Loki’s arms only tightened. You had hoped that he might forget about this, go back to sleep; unfortunately, the look on his face told you instantly that you were wrong. Your attempts at diffusing the situation had caused him to wake up fully, and now he was staring at you with a gaze that could only be described as concerned - forehead creased, lips pursed into a worried frown. 

“Shit,” You muttered, under your breath, “’M sorry, I didn’t mean to -“ 

“It’s no trouble,” Says Loki, in a tone that you are sure is meant to be placating. Still, it cuts you to the bone - how deeply Loki cares for you, when you know that, rightly, he shouldn’t. 

You grapple for the right words to say, the ones that will make him leave you now, before it’s too late and you hurt him even more. Perhaps the Asgardian can read your mind, because the next thing you know, his lips are pressing soft kisses into your hairline, and his hands are smoothing over your back, pausing to dance soothing, pressured patterns onto your skin with cool fingers. 

“My darling. Are you sure that you’re alright?” 

He’s calling your bluff, and you know it. You’re not alright, not even close. Yet you push the darkness down, forcing the angry, roiling, howling thoughts that rip and tear at your fragile self-esteem as far away from here as you can manage. Somehow, you’re already aware that even after your best efforts they still linger much too close to the forefront of your mind, threatening to pour out of you in a wave of salty tears that you try to blink back hastily. 

“Right,” Says Loki, evidently drawing his own conclusions. He sighs as he looks down at you. 

His body is still twined with yours, pressed to the length of the mattress. He is only leaned on a single joint, but it seems to you that he’s looming over all of your small weaknesses - you can almost hear him stand and leave, whisper a cruel torrent of vile, true comments into the shell of your ear. I’ll never want you, you stupid girl. You were only a waste of my time. 

He will leave you. He will. You’re certain. 

You shut your eyes, and steel yourself for it; instead, though, Loki surprises you, as he is so wont to do. You visibly and audibly flinch as he brings his fingers up to trace a warm line from your tear duct over your cheekbone, then down, under your jaw, with two fingers. They turn, then, swooping cold and steady around the curve of your neck; his index pressing sure and solid into the fearful running-beat of your pulse, and he tsks. 

“Look at you,” He says, low and quiet. His voice is unbearably fond. “Your heart is racing, and yet you insist that all is well - what am I going to do with you, little one?” 

The usual, sweet jolt of hearing him call you that - an inside joke from the years when he sniped at you every time you ran into each other, snapping at the youth and folly of your species - is lost on you, your mind honing in, instead, on what had preceded it. 

What am I going to do with you, little one? What am I going to do? 

“I think,” Loki says, in a careful tone, “That you’ll have to tell me what you were dreaming about. In fact, I’ll have to insist.” 

He is teasing you, you realize. Trying to lighten the mood. It only makes you more furious at your past, at your insecurities, the wariness that your blood pumps through your body with all of that rich oxygen. 

“I’m sorry,” You tell him, not knowing what else to say. “Loki. I’m sorry I’m like this - I’m sorry that I’m so - I’m so -“ 

“Hush,” He says. Soft, still, but sharper. Harsh enough that it makes you stop, momentarily halting the dark spiral of your thoughts. “Stop. I’ll have no more of this talk. You should never feel badly for being yourself - I wouldn’t be here, without you.” 

He means it literally, in more ways than one. You have saved his life, before - he is adamant about that, though you don’t know why, when it was an accident, when you’re nothing like him at all. You don’t have super-powers. You possess no seidr, no mind-control, no extraordinary strength. You aren’t a particularly skilled fighter. You’ve gone on only one one mission with the Avengers, and then because you were, to quote, ‘Average. Unnoticeable. Good at blending in and not getting caught’. 

If you had ever saved Loki’s life - and he was adamant that you had, had screamed at him to move from a bullet on that mission, though you cannot exactly remember; the battle had stolen the wind from you, and your mind had fuzzed out the edges afterwards - then it wasn’t because you were special. It was because you were the exact opposite of that. 

Beyond all that, though, it is the honest truth. Loki wouldn’t be on Midgard, save for you. Wouldn’t be in New York, save for you. He could have everything and anything he desired - he was a royal, a prince of Asgard, a god. And he had settled. Had weighed his whole life, his whole legacy, and, for you, found it lacking. 

It was so far from fair that you nearly laughed, but the sound that actually came out of your throat was of a different kind entirely, somewhere between desperate whine and frightened whimper. 

“Breathe, love,” He tells you. He keeps his thumb pressed to your pulse point, but allows his other hand - the one on your back, slick with anxious nightmare-sweat - to roam. His touch is as graceful and self-assured as ever, as if he were trying to push the confidence with which he makes each movement into you, to fill up all the empty, self-hating parts of you with his strength and his love and his there-ness. 

“Tell me about it,” Says Loki, “The dream.” 

And you do. 

Your voice is shaky, to start, but by the time you’ve finished it’s evened into a sob-hitched, stilted rhythm. You can’t process how many emotions have flickered, pranced, leaped across Loki’s face. There was anger, and nervous anticipation. Quiet, intense, concerned concentration. White-hot fury. At times, a shame you knew he shouldn’t be feeling caused his head to hang low and his nails to tighten, digging into your skin against his volition. 

Behind and beneath all these things, though, his love for you was lain bare - there was so much sorrow in his green eyes. Unshed tears turned their surfaces glossy, made them shine like coins, emerald and gold in the solitude of your shared bedroom. 

In the face of his tender insistence, you spilled every ounce of the nightmare out, flooding the floor around you, turning your bed into an island of solace amidst the stormy, smoking sea of recollection. You told Loki how the dream had begun, the same way that it always did: 

With you, coming home to find him gone. His deft glances and small, caring motions and the very force of his grounding presence cleaved from you, leaving not even a word, a note, of Goodbye. No semblance of an explanation for his absence. 

You spoke of how, in the next moments, the walls of your house ripped apart, tearing at the seams into a miasma of snarling wind and torrents of steely, acidic rain. How you burned where it hit your skin, the flesh where it landed blackening under the unrelenting tidal wave of its destruction until you were nothing more than a charred amalgamation, a sick thief of your parents’ love, an amateur and unwanted excuse. The floor bled away, became a checkerboard, a stark plane of whites and blacks. Around you, above you, in front of you: mirrors. 

Around you, above you, in front of you: Loki. 

In the dream, you couldn’t look at yourself, and he couldn’t look at you either. His voice dripped like venom out of forked fangs into the cracks of your bleeding soul, a burst plum on a concrete sidewalk. 

He told you that you were worthless - that you would come to nothing, that his time with you had been a waste, that you were something pitiful. He told you that you were a facsimile, a failure of a girl. The words dug in with startling precision, thorns in your side, spilling your blood thick and scarlet. They were the ripping teeth of wild dogs, the sizzle of a hot brand blistering your chest. You started to cry, and your tears were dying stars, mercy at the hands of a betrayer. You little traitor, dream-Loki said. 

He laughed at the dirge of your pain. 

And the checkerboard floor flexed underneath you. The gone walls screamed and groaned, crackled like an army of wraiths. There was hell in his eyes - they flashed ruby red. His fingers on you were ice, but the scars on your body were fire, a cacophony of syncopated agony that he would not let you forget or escape. 

Now, though - 

Here, in this room, in this bed that you share, slick with fear, your heart beating like a pride of cicadas - 

His hands run interference on your galloping panic. They are warmer, always warmer, than you expect, what with him being Jotunn, but cooler, too, for the slowness of their sweeping way. You are crying still, and maybe Loki hated you for that - he should do, you think. What are you, to him? What could you ever be? There is a silence that stretches, tense, as your mind, subsumed by remembering the dream, returns to the world of the living. 

“I’m sorry,” You’re spewing out, somewhat nonsensically; you feel rushes of cold breath on you. “I didn’t - You’re not - I don’t know why I’m like this.” 

It seems the right thing to say, the guilt rising in you steadfastly. But Loki will not have it. He is pulling your face back up to him. Tracing your cheek with his thumb, again. The tears that have fallen from you are reflected on his own skin - you could feel them, you know, if you tried. Taste them, and they would taste bitter. 

The only thing left for you to do is wait. 

“Y/N,” He says, “Little one. Darling. Surely you must realize -“ 

He breaks off, staring into the distance over your shoulder, at the joint of the door on its off-bronze hinge, the patterns of shadow the moonlight casts onto the walls. You hear him sign into the blue darkness. He removes his hands from your body to run them through his hair, and you mourn the brush of his fingertips against you. 

“No,” He says, “Not that. Not that. How to make you understand -“ 

“Understand what?” You ask him. Your voice sounds frail to your ears. 

“That these thoughts,” Says Loki, gesturing slowly but with some urgency at you, and then at the rest of the space, “These thoughts inside your beautiful, beautiful head - aren’t your fault.” 

“Oh,” You say. You can’t parse it - when you consider the sentiment it runs iup against your carefully cultivated sense of self-preservation, the instinctive need to blame yourself for all that is wrong with the world. Better that than start arguments; better that than risk being alone. You feel you’ve been alone enough for a lifetime. 

“You don’t believe me,” Loki says. He laughs to himself, a dry sound. “I should have known. What - will I have to trick you? Play some little game? What’s going on in that puzzle box, sweetling? What’s the root of all this?” 

You hear his voice warm in the night as he settles into the familiar territory of mischief, eyes glinting, can see the gears twisting behind them - How best to convince, to twist her words back at her? 

Though you’ve grown accustomed to nearly all of Loki’s ticks and habits during the months of your courtship - and he always, always calls it courtship, despite how antiquated a notion it seems; courtship, he says, is what they call it on Asgard - you’ve never quite gotten your sea legs for his perpetual scheming. 

Oh, you trust him implicitly - whether in conversation or pleasure, he makes sure that your participation is worth your while - but it makes you uneasy, throws you off your game. Perhaps that, too, is a part of it; you belatedly realize that in your attempt to prepare yourself for what he’s going to say, your tears have fully tapered off, and your breathing has calmed. 

Realizing it, you scowl, hoping that it will convey your annoyance at this, your distaste at having been had. 

Loki smirks, and ruffles your hair - This is who I am, love. Doesn’t it please you? 

“I hate you,” You tell him, “You know that?” 

“Mmm,” Says Loki. He’s pulled you into the hazed alcove of his shoulder, nose buried in his inky hair, pressed against his shirt, the sharp bone a surprisingly comfortable pillow. You can feel the sound reverberate through you, the rough purr of his contented exhale, and know without looking that a smug grin is plastered across his face - can tell how pleased he is with himself through the hum, at what quick work he’s made of your sadness. 

Still, he isn’t done.

Now that your mood has improved, Norns willing, it’s time to collect on his payment - he will have this discussion with you, glean the information he needs, by whatever means necessary. 

His arm tightens around you. His hand snakes upwards to tangle in your hair, not enough to hurt you - Loki would never dare hurt you, unless you asked him - but just enough to get his point across: Listen. Pay attention, or be damned. The choice is yours. 

In the end, the joke is on him - his voice is rarely ever so serious as when he speaks again, and you’re tugged to it like a moth to the flame. 

“It isn’t me that you hate,” He muses, sensual and cajoling and a little bit sorrowfully wistful, “Would that you did, it would make my job much easier. No,” He says, “I think your hatred lies closer to home.” 

“Like yours doesn’t,” You find yourself hissing - you don’t know where the hiss comes from, and are horrified with yourself, but it seems appropriate, somehow. Loki prefers when you’re committed to your counteroffensives; it makes the challenge so much more delicious, to him. 

“Ah,” He says, “But unlike you, I know how to come to you about it. When was the last time I hid from you? The last time you allowed me to feel badly about myself?” 

Your gaze lowers, chastised. He tuts. 

“I don’t want this,” He cautions, “To turn into something it’s not.” 

“Then tell me,” You say, “What it is.” You smile. You’d like to imagine you flash your teeth; love the way he rolls his eyes, like, Well, if you say so. 

“This,” He says, “Is me helping you to feel better about yourself. I would hate for my beloved to be weighed down by all of this - doubting. It seems positively dreadful to me, an utter waste of resources better spent elsewhere.” 

He pulls you back a safe bit, stares you down while he says it, and holds it for an instant that lasts, bearing his gaze into you. You don’t back down from it. This is a threat and a dare and a promise, and the familiarity of it re-lights the fire of your confidence - Loki has set a challenge for you. 

You square your shoulders, fully awake now, refusing to be the first one to break. You do it at the same time, as you should do everything - you are laughing, suddenly and fiercely, and Loki is sighing sternly at you after his own chuckle, waiting ’til your giggles subside to admit: 

“I was worried about you.” 

“I know,” You tell him, “I’m -“ 

“Yourself,” He says, “And thank the Norns for it. But so very foolish, sometimes. Do you want to talk about it, now, or will I have to hatch some plan of leaving to force your words?” 

“No,” You say - you know that it betrays you, but can’t hold it off. It replaces any We already have, I told you about the dream, right?. Your eyes go wide, and your fingers claw at Loki’s sleep-shirt, which you realize now is wet at the collar, your doing. “No, don’t - Fuck, Loki, please don’t leave me, I can’t -“ 

“Ah,” He says. Sounds anguished, as if he hadn’t known it already. “So that’s what this is about. You think you’re unworthy of me.” 

“I think lots of things,” You tell him. Defensive. He shakes his head, stern look returning.

“You’re not,” He says. Casual, as if it means nothing, costs nothing, for him to say. Then louder. Firmer. “I love you. I chose you. I want no-one and nothing else save for you, and I did not come lightly into that decision.” 

“That’s -“ 

“Preposterous?” Loki asks. “Mm. But I see it in you. I am the God of Lies, remember? You do not have to tell me the truth - “ 

“But you’ll know.” You say. 

“But I’ll know.” 

You swallow, your throat dry as you assess your options. The look in his eyes says you shouldn’t be, and maybe they do call him Silvertongue for a reason, because you feel yourself relaxing into the hold of him and his seriousness, your overworked, nightmare-soaked fear dulling to a slight, warm buzz. 

Realistically - well, realistically, Loki would be in Asgard right now, if he wanted to be, no matter what you said or did, so you might as well let yourself get soggy with his tender affections, take him up on his offer to unburden yourself of the weight you feel you’ve carried so long. The need to be perfect for him, for the world, and the keen understanding that when it comes down to it, you aren’t. 

“I’m not perfect,” You say, as if that explains everything. 

With anyone else, you would need to say more, but you know Loki gets it, can feel it in th kiss that he brushes onto your cheek, then your jaw, moving to skim his hands down your sides, over your taut, nerve-tensed skin. Something about his gentleness gives you the strength to press onwards, drinking in his care like a starved animal, like leaves in the sweet summer rain. “You say that you love me,” You stumble, “And it’s - hard to understand that, sometimes. I mean. You could have anyone that you wanted.” 

“Little one,” He says, with a huff. You narrow your eyes at him, and he raises his hands in a placating gesture before settling them back on your  thighs to rub circles against them. “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” He tells you, arching an eyebrow and shooting you his patented smirk. “But shouldn’t it tell you something that I’m here with you, that being true?” 

This time you scowl, true and fierce. 

“I’m trying to be serious, Loki,” You tell him. 

“And yet you say things that I can’t take seriously.” He says. Hums into the encroaching dawn light. “It’s five in the morning, and you woke me up sobbing. And even still, you are perfect to me. The only way in which you aren’t is in your humanity, and that’s the best part of you - I doubt that I would ever be able to love someone who was utterly flawless. It’s no fun being around perfect people, if there even is such a thing. Certainly, no one who held that as their standard would ever be able to love me -“ 

Your mouth opens quickly, nostrils flaring, already forming the first sounds of vehement opposition, but Loki silences you with a look. 

“That,” He says, nodding towards your set jaw, “Is exactly how I feel, when you insist such things about yourself in front of me. It wounds me - How could you ever think you’re anything other than precisely what I need? How could you not be proud of yourself?” 

“I’m not - not proud of myself,” You say, half-heartedly. “Most of the time. The rest, I just -“ 

“It’s okay,” Loki says. “We’ll work on that. It gets better.”

“And the bad nights?” You ask him. He smiles, honest. 

“That’s what I’m here for,” He tells you. 

He says it kind, and insistent, leaving no room for argument. There’s not a single part of you that doesn’t believe every word - a dangerous decision, some people might say, trusting the Liesmith, but the heart wants what the heart wants. And what your heart wants is for Loki to keep looking at you the way that he’s looking at you, and never stop; to wake up next to him every morning, to have a place to call your home in his lean litheness, his sharp wit and sweet trickery. 

You’re a fool, you think, to not realize that he would make this talk so devastatingly supportive. You can feel yourself fallling into an ever-burgeoning self-confidence, and though you know it takes more than a night, and are well aware he knows it too, the way that he speaks, continuing to murmur sugared, assentive nothings into your sleep-messed hair, the sweat-salty heat of your once-shaking skin, convinces you that he’s right - 

You really don’t have to be perfect. There are lots of things about yourself to be proud of, above and beyond those which pulled Loki to your side, all those months ago. Your tongue reaches out to lick your lips, and you catch how his eyes darken when he sees the comprehension dawn in your face - 

“There,” He says, “That’s how you should feel about yourself, all the time.” 

“You’re really not going to leave me?” You ask him, but it isn’t earnestly, now. There is no fear in you, of that. This is Loki you’re talking to. 

“I never would,” He tells you, “But even if, for some reason, we were parted, you would thrive. There is so much life, so much wonder, in you. You don’t need anyone’s approval as a condition of loving those qualities. Only your own. You know that, yes?” 

“‘Yeah,” You say - and you do believe it, can’t not believe, when he says it like that, that come hell or high water you will be fine, no matter what life throws at you. “You’ll stay with me, though?” 

“Oh, Y/N. I couldn’t stay away from you if I tried.” 

“It’s a shame,” You say. Let your grin spread from ear to ear, allow him to see just how much you mean it, how much this conversation has helped you, a new and different challenge. When he rolls you onto your back, grumbling something about Minx and insatiable in a hot exhale, you know that you’ve won. 

“A shame,” He says, nipping at your collarbone - then adds, in that low, admonishing tone from earlier, “A necessary shame.” 

It might be, you think, as he kisses his way down your body, as you pull him upwards and tell him, I’m tired, can’t we just sleep?, as he calls you a Tease, but of course, whatever you’re comfortable with; as you abide him a slow, languid kiss that tastes all Loki, all mint and smoke from dark-grained wood and the tart sting of fresh raspberry juice, all glittering lake in wooded glade, all sage fire in mid-winter; as he groans your name into your mouth like nothing else has ever, or will ever, belong on his tongue -

No. It will be. It will. 

“Hey Lokes?” You ask, as the sleep gets it hooks back into you, threatening to lull you under. “Thank you. For - Reminding me who I am. I know I don’t need you for that, but… that doesn’t mean I don’t love you for it. Doesn’t mean it doesn’ help.” 

“Shh,” You hear. Distantly. Softly. “You’re welcome,” He says. “Go to sleep, love. Pleasant dreams this time, alright?” 

“Alrigh’,” You mutter, eyes drifting closed. 

His hushed, appeased laugh is an ocean breeze on a wooly gray evening; the dew and the amethyst of it ushers you completely back into your slumber, and stand gate at the door of your dreams so that this time, your demons can’t enter. 

And when you wake - entirely too late in the day, lax in the loose, sleep-heavy grasp of his arms - you know in the core of your very soul that your lover has spoken no lies.