#try for writing exercises!

[bacchuschucklefuck]

they tried to rebrand as The Criminals but riz is literally the city council's treasurer and also turns out people in their late 20s don't really name their friend groups. so now they're The Intrepid Heroes

[scealaiscoite]

.☽༊˚ a hundred assorted prompts

¹⁾ raspberry lip gloss

²⁾ pajama bottoms

³⁾ a silver lighter

⁴⁾ fresh honey

⁵⁾ flushed cheeks

⁶⁾ a fogged-up mirror

⁷⁾ the imprint of a belt buckle on skin

⁸⁾ helium balloons

⁹⁾ a broken cocktail glass

¹⁰⁾ old playing cards

¹¹⁾ chipped green nail polish

¹²⁾ a brown leather wallet

¹³⁾ bullet holes in a wooden wall

¹⁴⁾ seashells lined up along the curve of a spine

¹⁵⁾ beaded curtains

¹⁶⁾ pomegranate seeds

¹⁷⁾ a carabiner heavy with keys

¹⁸⁾ fresh-cut orchids in a pottery vase

¹⁹⁾ vending machine cigarettes

²⁰⁾ an out of date map

²¹⁾ a creaky wooden gate

²²⁾ a minifridge stocked with budweiser and paracetamol

²³⁾ snapdragons growing between pavement slabs

²⁴⁾ smudged yellow eyeshadow

²⁵⁾ slept-in braids

²⁶⁾ library books that’ll never be returned

²⁷⁾ a pink-tiled shower

²⁸⁾ a honeybee on a linen shirtsleeve

²⁹⁾ burnt popcorn

³⁰⁾ watching an eclipse from bed

³¹⁾ a black lace bralette

³²⁾ a tattered patchwork quilt

³³⁾ blue raspberry bubblegum

³⁴⁾ a rusted fishing rod and a dried-up lake

³⁶⁾ the taste of whiskey on someone else’s lips

³⁷⁾ rose-scented candles burned down to the wick

³⁸⁾ crescent-shaped coffee stains on a wooden tabletop 

³⁹⁾ odd socks 

⁴⁰⁾ a loose thread on a jumper sleeve

⁴¹⁾ warm sheets on cold skin

⁴²⁾ amber-tinged perfume

⁴³⁾ gold jewelry 

⁴⁴⁾  a calloused palm against a soft cheek 

⁴⁵⁾ a busted headlight

⁴⁶⁾ sunrise from a jail cell

⁴⁷⁾ hand tattoos that weave around fingers

⁴⁸⁾ coconut shampoo

⁴⁹⁾ a doorbell sounding in the middle of the night

⁵⁰⁾ ladybugs crawling across a headstone

⁵¹⁾ grass stains on blue jeans

⁵²⁾ a loaded saddlebag

⁵³⁾ a dusty wine cellar

⁵⁴⁾ a bikini top draped over a bedpost

⁵⁵⁾ snow in july

⁵⁶⁾ dirt-red mountaintops

⁵⁷⁾ goosebumps in a heatwave

⁵⁸⁾ an empty dinnertable

⁵⁹⁾ a fresh manicure and bruised knuckles

⁶⁰⁾ zombie movies

⁶¹⁾ bitten lips

⁶²⁾ dark eyes full of tears

⁶³⁾ a soft cast in summertime

⁶⁴⁾ stale coffee in paper cups

⁶⁵⁾ frozen peaches on a black eye

⁶⁶⁾ acrid smoke

⁶⁷⁾ bound hands

⁶⁸⁾ animal tracks

⁶⁹⁾ unwound vhs tapes

⁷⁰⁾ cartoon plasters

⁷¹⁾ lipstick marks on shirt collars

⁷²⁾ silver bangles

⁷³⁾ sharing a coat in a downpour

⁷⁴⁾ fields with grass at waist-height

⁷⁵⁾ daisy chains up to your forearm

⁷⁶⁾ rolled-up shirtsleeves

⁷⁷⁾ the smell of bleach in a dark room

⁷⁸⁾ a shared sleeping bag

⁷⁹⁾ a new haircut

⁸⁰⁾ swimsuit tanlines

⁸¹⁾ perfume clinging to a pillow

⁸²⁾ lollipops dangling between lips

⁸³⁾ a badly-timed grin

⁸⁴⁾ old books

⁸⁵⁾ tongues stained from slushies

⁸⁶⁾ waking up in a hailstorm

⁸⁷⁾ dying sunflowers

⁸⁸⁾ colourful sunglasses

⁸⁹⁾ the last pew

⁹⁰⁾ tall, rattling windows in a storm

⁹¹⁾ six missed calls

⁹²⁾ sticks of incense burned down to the last

⁹³⁾ bunk beds

⁹⁴⁾ matching sets

⁹⁵⁾ ruined mascara

⁹⁶⁾ a boxing ring

⁹⁷⁾ stained glass windows

⁹⁸⁾ fairy forts

⁹⁹⁾ a cluttered bedside table

¹⁰⁰⁾ a hangover in the evening

[eshithepetty]

Doodles of me experimenting with my own bbq!ENA design, making her more creachure, trying out expressions.... very self indulgent but I don't care RAAAAGHGGGHG ARFHGGG RAGHG

[ID: colored and shaded doodles of worker ENA from ENA Dream BBQ. She has a few changes to her design, namely: her ears are more animalistic, moving in accordance to her emotions; she has a golden ring on her right ear and a golden hair clip holding back a lock of hair on her white side; she has slight markings on either of her sides; and her outfit has minor changes, adding a bit more detail, as well as adding a dark green watch to her red arm.

The first doodle is lineless, of ENA screaming in anger, her hands clutched at her side. The markings on the white side (on her face and arms) are spiky. The next doodle is lined, but the lineart is colored to fit with the shading, and it's of her walking forwards, clawed hand at her hip and the other raised in a wave, face downturned in a slightly angry expression, mouth open, markings slightly less spiky. The next three doodles are similarly lined headshots of different expressions - first is of her staring, wide eyed, blushing so hard it merges the two sides of her face in a pale orange blush; the next is of her looking up and grinning with her meanie side; and the next is of her seeming embarrassed, looking down and to the side, slightly blushing. The final doodle is another lineless drawing of her sitting down, one leg over the other, claws holding onto her hat and her smiling with her salesperson side as she looks at the camera. End ID.]

[daistea]

First Burn — Mithrun x F!Reader

“You have a choice, Captain. You don’t have to follow me around if there’s something else you’d rather be doing.”

“There is something else I’d rather be doing,” he admitted with a slow nod.

—

post-canon, spoilers for Mithrun’s story

7000 words :0

NSFW! pls interact responsibly. No minors.

Disclaimer: I do not know how to write smut :)

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

Recently, the world had stopped on its axis. Dungeons collapsed, entire countries burst up from the sea, and Mithrun of the House of Kerensil decided to try.

And he would spend the rest of his life trying. Sometimes, he succeeded. Sometimes, he did not. The other week, he felt an inkling in his chest that he translated as a new desire— for bread. A desire for fresh bread. You proceeded to fulfill his desire, because that’s what you’d decided.

You tried, too. You tried hard. Sometimes, you succeeded. Sometimes, you did not. And judging by the barely-there expression of annoyance on Mithrun’s face, you had a feeling that today would be the latter.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said. While the street around you was crowded and bustling, the space between you and Mithrun felt private, quiet. He was lost in that secret space until your words yanked him back to reality.

You watched as his brows furrowed and a little line formed between them. His good eye searched your face as if looking for answers, but he had to know what you meant. If he wanted to go, then he could go.

It seemed to be the kind of day where he didn’t want anything. He was a ghost lingering at your back, pulled through the hours by some invisible string that kept him tied to you. On his worst days, he viewed himself as an anchor dragging behind your ship. Yet, you never cut that line. You wouldn’t dare.

Without an ounce of hesitation, you met his face. The line between his brow had disappeared, but Mithrun’s usual apathy was weaker, softer. Again, you said, “You have a choice, Captain. You don’t have to follow me around if there’s something else you’d rather be doing.”

“There is something else I’d rather be doing,” he admitted with a slow nod.

You perked up. You offered him the choice to leave simply because Mithrun deserved to have choices, though you knew that if he wasn’t following you then he’d most likely end up spending the day staring at the ceiling of his home. It was one of those days. When his brain decided to comply, he would keep himself busy with a hobby, or he’d visit the palace, or search for monsters on the outskirts of the city. He didn’t always need your company to keep himself functioning.

Yet, the fact that there was something he wanted to do was enough to make you smile. “That’s great,” you turned to face him fully. You had a basket of vegetables hanging off your arm as you and Mithrun stood in front of a merchant stall. Another customer approached and you placed a hand on Mithrun’s arm to gently guide your bodies out of the way. The streets of Melini had become crowded as of late, with more tourists coming to see the newly risen country.

“I suppose it is,” he agreed. He glanced down at your hand on his arm, following your fingers as you pulled them away and rested them on the handle of the basket. Then, his good eye flickered back up to your face.

“So,” you rocked back and forth on your heels, “what is it? Anything I can help with?”

The apathy instantly disappeared. Mithrun raised his brows and tilted his head, his good eye widening in thought. “Yes, actually. I want to have sex. With you.”

You froze.

Despite his words, the world still spun and time still flowed. It was offensive how nothing came crashing down for you, how the planet’s rotation didn’t stop to allow you a moment to comprehend Mithrun’s words.

Heat curled in your lower abdomen. Your throat went dry and you let out a soft exhale. All you could manage in response was, “Huh?”

Mithrun gave a quick nod and looked at you as if you were a bit stupid. “Now.”

Now. The hair on the back of your arms stood to attention. “Huh?”

“That’s what I want,” he slowly explained, “pay for the food and let's go.”

You had no choice but to close your eyes and block out the street sounds. “Wait. I thought you were having a bad day.”

“Hmm… No. I think you’re mistaking me being contemplative for me struggling.”

Right. Okay. Contemplative, that was the face he made when he was contemplating something. Something like sex. With you. Now.

Mithrun wrapped his fingers around your wrist. His skin was cold but his touch was like fire. He pulled, urging.

You yanked yourself free, “No.”

And he blinked in surprise, “You don’t want to?”

“No,” you corrected, “I mean, yes.”

“What?”

“I mean–” you groaned and ran your fingers through your hair, “I want to, believe me. I want to. But not like this.”

Mithrun’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. The apathy returned in full-force. He wasn’t hurt, you knew, but he also wasn’t used to having one of his few desires rejected, especially by you. “Alright, I won’t force you.”

A flicker of panic passed through your chest. You grabbed his arm to stop him from wandering off, “I’m not saying no, Mithrun. I’m saying that— Well, that I have standards.”

He glanced at you, “Standards.”

It wasn’t a question. “Yes. Standards. It’s really not arousing to just be told ‘I want to have sex with you’.”

“Oh,” he nodded, the tiniest amount of realization dawning on his face, “I see. You want to be romanced and seduced.”

Truthfully, you wanted to shrivel and die. You would’ve liked to melt into the cracks on the sidewalk and hide in the darkness forever. Romanced. Seduced. Mithrun wasn’t judging you, but you were certainly judging you.

“Not exactly. I just mean that the time has to be right. We can’t plan these things,” you explained. The heat you had initially felt from his offer was replaced by cold, unpleasant dread. Mithrun was the one who so bluntly brought up the subject of sex, yet you were the one panicking and overthinking things.

“Alright,” again, he brushed it off with the least amount of effort. You wanted to smack him for the cavalier attitude, though you knew he couldn’t help it. Mithrun would most likely spend the rest of the day feeling perfectly calm, without a hint of awkwardness, while you slowly drowned in the flood of your own thoughts.

Except—

Except, as Mithrun turned away to continue the task of vegetable shopping, you saw his right hand flex. He curled his long fingers in, and out, then made a fist before stuffing it into the pocket of his coat.

It didn’t have to mean anything.

You weren’t technically a couple. Despite how emotionally intertwined you were with him, you’d never kissed.

Yet, he wanted you. He specified, Mithrun didn’t want sex with just anyone. He wanted it with you. That was his new desire.

Without a second thought, you let the basket on your arm slide off and hit the ground. Then, you grabbed the sleeve of his coat. He glanced at you, stopping mid-step and allowing you to softly yank him closer.

Mithrun knew. He wasn’t as connected to his emotions as some, but he knew what you were doing. He placed his left hand on your hip, the other still in his pocket. And as he leaned in, meeting you halfway, your panic and anxiety melted like ice beneath the sun. He pressed his lips against yours and you tilted your head to deepen the kiss. Whatever your body did from then on was not your decision. Your arms snaked around his neck and you tangled your fingers into the soft hair behind his head.

Both of you knew this moment would come. He was yours, you were his. That had always been the case. Mithrun simply hadn’t had any desire to be physical before. Yet, with the way he pressed against you, now both hands on your hips as he gently walked you backward until your back hit a wall, it was clear. Somehow, in some way, the desire for physical intimacy had returned. Whether you had anything to do with that or not was a mystery, but there was no time to question that. He had needs and wants and there was nothing more important in that moment than fulfilling them.

The rest of the world faded away. Your knees grew weak as you realized that it was finally happening; Mithrun had made such progress. He had a desire, and the fact that the desire concerned you made warmth spread through your body.

Another kiss, then another, while gasps and pants between presses of your lips consumed the space around you. You lowered one hand away from his shoulder and rested it on his chest. Mithrun pushed further until he was the only thing holding you up, keeping you on your feet. His fingers splayed across your back and gripped your clothes. Your chest rose and fell with desperate attempts to get air without breaking contact. If it was possible to melt together, to erase every centimeter of room between your bodies, you and Mithrun would’ve found a way.

His hips brushed against yours. It was barely there, but easily identifiable— a hardness beneath his trousers. Flames within you burst into life and threatened to consume you whole.

“We–” through the fog of sheer want, you managed to grab hold of a sliver of logic, “we can’t do this here.”

Mithrun paused. He still held you, but slowly lifted his face. His lips separated from yours with a soft sound. You already missed the feeling of his mouth. It was cold and empty without him. He glanced out at the street, at the passersby who were pointedly not looking in your general direction.

He shrugged, “I don’t really care,” and returned his attention to you, leaning in again.

You pressed your palm against his face to keep him at bay, “Nope. No way. I care, and we’re not doing this here.”

With an annoyed exhale, he brushed your hand aside, “Fine. Then where?”

The heat in your abdomen was slowly dying down. The realization that most likely a fourth of Melini had seen you and the Captain making out in an alleyway was enough to dampen your fire.

You untangled your arms from his shoulders, trying to pull back. His grip on you resisted until you sent him a half-hearted glare. Only then did he let go and raise his hands to signify that you were free. Yet, as you turned to leave, he instantly grabbed you again.

“Where?” He repeated, his good eye narrowing.

“Nowhere!” You shot back, then paused, “Well, somewhere. But we can’t plan these things, they have to happen naturally, when the time feels correct.”

“Right now certainly feels correct to me.”

“I’ve got things to do,” you complained while you slipped out of his grip once more. You didn’t mean to be so difficult, but the lingering dread of making out in a public alleyway, combined with the fact that your armpits were a bit sweaty, killed every ounce of arousal within. You picked up the basket of veggies and sent Mithrun an apologetic smile, “I promise, we’ll try soon. I want you to be happy and to do these kinds of things, but this is more serious than, like, a food craving or something.”

“Objectively, I’m aware,” he answered, his tone clipped.

“You’re just horny,” you finished for him.

“Unbearably horny.”

What progress! “Good for you,” you patted his arm and smiled, “I’m proud!”

He made a face. You hoped that your imitation of a mother praising her child for a good grade would ease his newfound lust for at least a bit, at least until you could match his energy.

However, Mithrun still clung to you for the next hour. When you stopped to discuss a price with a merchant, Mithrun wrapped his arms around you from behind and nuzzled his face into your neck.

“Is now the right time?” He murmured.

And you brushed him off, because you had no desire to make everybody around you uncomfortable. (Mithrun did not care.)

“No,” was all you said.

He made a small, flat noise of disapproval. Despite your nature, you couldn’t help but smile. Torturing Mithrun made your heart skip a beat, it put you in a good mood.

You separated for the evening. Mithrun had resorted to giving you the silent treatment, which only raised your amusement to new heights. As you watched him turn to walk home without so much as a goodbye, with his barely disguised brooding and glare, a flicker of power passed through you. Admittedly, you were tempted to spend the night in his bed. But you were more tempted by the possibility of teasing him to the brink of his control, of seeing him overcome and ruffled and desperate.

Another curl of heat in your abdomen took your breath away. You forced yourself to turn, to retreat. Good things come to those who wait.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

But it was midnight and waiting was no longer an option. Only several hours had passed since you’d last seen Mithrun, but his words refused to leave your mind.

‘I want to have sex. With you.’

There was absolutely nothing romantic about them. He didn’t use a sultry voice. He spoke those two sentences as if he was reading items off a grocery list. And it was so out of the blue.

Yet, the fact that they were from him, from someone who so rarely felt desire, was special. Without trying, Mithrun had branded the words onto your brain with a hot iron. And that heat traveled down your body like a spreading fire until it burned and pulsed between your legs, growing more urgent with every passing contemplation.

You needed to know: how did he come to realize that desire? What changed? Did he simply wake up that morning in the mood for sex? Had he been trying to cultivate that desire?

You laid in bed, your hands spread out over your chest, your eyes on the ceiling. Another throb of pleasant warmth between your legs made your lips part. Mithrun wanted you. Why didn’t you just give him what he wanted earlier?

Something began to build up inside of you. If you just had a little friction, a touch, it could burst forth and envelop you in warmth.

Your hand trailed down your stomach and—

And a loud clang from outside your bedroom window stopped you. You turned your head to look, hand halted mid-air as your flames began to dim.

In the darkness of the night, a shadow passed by the glass. Their features were blurred by the darkness, but they were tall, wide, and slowly stepping past your window. Your little cabin was on the outskirts of the town, and all of your neighbors were a half mile away. Your friends had always told you that it wasn’t safe for a single woman to live alone in such a vacant area.

Your blood ran cold as the shadow moved on towards your backyard. Instantly, you scrambled out of bed and through the house to make sure all your doors were locked. Another peek outside the window in the kitchen revealed that the figure had crossed the yard and was rifling through your garbage. At least they weren’t trying to get inside. Yet.

Breathless, with a racing heart and tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, you hurried back to the bedroom. You flicked a hand and your communication pixie twirled into existence. You didn’t give it any time to stretch and yawn from its slumber, grabbing it from mid-air and squeezing its little body.

Mana channeled through your veins. You attempted to shove aside the fear and imagine Mithrun, then frantically tapped the pixie’s head, “Mithrun!” You hissed.

A moment passed. No answer.

“Mithrun,” you insisted, your voice choking up. Air refused to travel through your lungs, and you started hyperventilating into your free hand.

Four seconds passed before you heard a soft sigh through the pixie’s mouth, “What is it?”

He sounded tired, groggy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about waking him up. “I-I think someone’s stalking around my house. They haven’t tried to break in yet but I’m really freaked out—“

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he instantly said, sounding more awake.

And with Mithrun, he meant it. Walking regularly would take around fifteen minutes, since you lived several miles apart. Yet, when he was determined, he could teleport quickly enough to cross those miles within five minutes.

You quietly groaned and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, releasing your fairy— who sent you a worried look before twirling and disappearing into thin air.

There was nothing wrong with calling Mithrun for help, but embarrassment and dread settled into your stomach nonetheless. He’d prefer you call him with these types of situations, you knew. But you were capable too. You had helped save the world from the demon, yet some random shadowy figure in your backyard reduces you to tears? Pathetic.

It was simply an invasion, and you were in your night clothes and your weapon was thrown into the back of your closet somewhere. That was all. And the fact that the figure passed by your window when you were seconds away from pleasuring yourself made you want to throw up.

Another set of footsteps crunching down on the grass tore you from your thoughts. They were accompanied by a light spell which illuminated silver waves of hair and a dark cloak.

Relief flooded your chest, though you hesitated to let your guard drop entirely. You scrambled through the cabin and toward your kitchen window where you saw Mithrun silently crossing your yard towards the shadowy figure.

He paused mid-step. Then, he rested his hands on his hips. As his light spell floated over him, you caught a glimpse of what he looked at; brown feathers and a yellow beak, accompanied by the slithering of a snake.

A basilisk. It was just a basilisk digging through your garbage.

You couldn’t decide whether you wanted to collapse from relief, or scream from frustration.

Nonchalantly, Mithrun reached out a hand and tapped the chicken part on the back. It disappeared, and he wasted no time in turning around and heading for your back door. Despite your shaking hand and sick stomach, you unlocked the door and opened it to let him inside without a word. He dispelled the light spell and pulled off his cloak with a sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” you exhaled heavily, locking the door, “I should’ve just gone to check on my own.”

Mithrun sent you a blank glance, but as if he’d been caught by a hook, he did a subtle double take. His good eye flickered over your body, across your shoulders, down your thighs.. It took several seconds for his brain to catch up, “No… If that happens again, don’t go outside. I know you can take care of yourself, but I’d rather not risk it.”

He didn’t stop staring. The shamelessness of his gaze on your diaphanous nightdress made you heat up. The intruder was just a scavenging basilisk, you weren’t in any real danger, yet Mithrun had been so determined to help you.

As offensive as the whole situation was to your personal sense of feminism, it made your knees weak.

Mithrun finally looked away. He took a breath that made his chest rise and fall, his hands buried in the folds of his cloak. “I’ll go now, then.”

“No,” you argued before you could even think twice. You grabbed his arm to stop him. He was wearing a loose night tunic so different from the long sleeved, high necked outfits he usually chose. You’d seen his scars before, but it was so rare to touch his bare skin like that, to feel the soft texture beneath your fingers.

Mithrun raised a slight brow, “No?”

He wanted you.

You wanted him.

“Could you stay the night?” You asked, trying to keep your voice steady, “I’d feel better with you near.”

Calling Mithrun to investigate potential attackers was one thing, but requiring his presence to help you sleep was beyond uncharacteristic. He knew exactly what you were doing, and he sent you a look that revealed precisely that.

But he also wasn’t one for complaining. He simply nodded and draped his cloak across the back of a chair, then pulled off his boots. With weak knees, you turned around to return to your bedroom. You wanted to be casual, to not be too hyper-aware of his presence following you down the hall.

Any other decent man would’ve politely asked if you’d rather he sleep on the couch. Mithrun was not other men, and he was only decent around 42% of the time.

You pulled back the sheets. The silence was consuming, but only to you, apparently. Mithrun remained cavalier as he slid onto the left side of the bed and pulled the sheets up around him. He sent you a blank look as if to ask why you were hesitating, why this moment was so monumental for you.

He knew exactly why, he was just being a jackass.

You crawled in. Before you could get comfortable, Mithrun snaked an arm around your waist and pulled your back against his chest. Your bodies molded together as he buried his nose in your hair.

Right down to business. He knew precisely what you wanted.

Your heart started to pound and heat flooded the space between your legs. Mithrun hadn’t wanted anything intimate in forty years. It was the least you could do to let him be a little greedy.

His hand slowly ran down the curve of your waist, brushing over the fabric of your night dress. Once he reached the hem, his fingers danced across your bare skin. He had rough callouses, and as he stroked your outer thigh, the scratch created from years of fighting sent tingles through your veins. The room was quiet save for your exhales, your attempts to control your breathing.

“I wonder,” Mithrun murmured, “did you know it was just a basilisk in your yard, and you used it as an excuse to get me to come over?”

You scoffed, “No. I was fully planning on drawing this whole thing out for longer, actually.”

He exhaled in annoyance, but despite the sharp sound, his hand rounded the curve of your thigh and brushed closer to the sensitive inner part. That warm pulsing between your legs returned. The slight twitch of his growing hardness against your ass was enough to send a wave of arousal through you.

His hand drew up, over your underwear, to your stomach. And while he did that, he pressed his lips against your neck.

“You’re-“ you tried to gather the scrambled pieces of your brain, “you’re surprisingly eager for someone who hasn’t wanted this in so long.”

Mithrun ran his lips down your neck, “I’ve been working on it.”

Spectacular. That answered your burning question. You tilted your head to give him more access as you spoke, “So you’ve been trying to regain the desire for intimacy?”

He nodded, “I have.”

“How so?”

“Just putting some thought into the matter,” Mithrun lightly dug his teeth into the crook of your neck, earning a soft gasp. Then, he continued, “Contemplating what it would be like. Focusing on you, looking at you. Physical stimulation.”

He spoke so clinically, yet the implications behind his answer sent a shiver trailing down your spine. “Physical stimulation?”

“It was hard, at first. Nothing much happened.”

“So… It wasn’t actually hard at first?”

Mithrun promptly pinched your side, but that only made you laugh more. When you didn’t stop giggling quickly enough for him, he dug his teeth into your shoulder and hooked a finger into the line of your underwear. That dimmed the amusement. Despite the interruption, you could feel him growing harder against your ass.

“Anyway,” he grumbled, kissing the spot he’d just bit, “it took some determination and focus.”

“Focus on what?”

You knew. You just wanted to hear him say it again.

“On you,” he pressed himself against you. His hand rose to cup your breast, and his thumb brushed over the hardened nipple.

The image of Mithrun trying to revive his sexual desire by thinking of you, by stroking himself as he focused on you, flickered through your mind. You couldn’t help but arch into his hand.

“How long have you been waiting to try it out?” You asked, breathless.

Mithrun’s hand left your chest. He sat up, and you rolled onto your back to look up at him as he pressed his palms into the mattress.

“A bit too long for my taste,” he said. The gravel in his voice was evident despite how calm he looked. Silver curls fell, framing his face.

You couldn’t tear your gaze away, not even for a second, “What do you want me to do?”

Mithrun tilted his head and raised his brows, looking a little thoughtful, “What do you mean?”

“Do you…” you paused and raised a hand to brush a lock of hair away. Then, you trailed your fingers down the jagged edges of his ear, and he closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. “Do you want me to take the lead? Just to ease us into it?”

His good eye flickered open, “Another time. I’ve given this enough thought to understand exactly what I have to do.” He sat up and gripped the outer flesh of both your thighs. His fingers dug into your skin. You wanted more, you wanted him to hold you so tightly he left bruises, evidence.

“And?” You urged.

“I know that with the few things I want…” Mithrun’s hands slid over the tops of your thighs and to the inner curves, then he slowly spread you apart, just for him. “I have to put in the effort and work to get it.”

There was something so beautifully sinful about his hands on your inner thighs. He opened you up, laid you bare, invited himself in with full confidence that you wanted him there. Your core pulsed, aching to be filled. All you knew in that moment was Mithrun as he sat between your legs. His good eye flickered over your body. If he cared about any imperfections you had, he showed no indication. Rather, he looked slightly thoughtful, as if he were mapping out a battle strategy atop the landscape of your hips.

You couldn’t help but shiver beneath his stare. He glanced up at you, then back down, and hooked his fingers in the band of your underwear. His shoulders rose as he slid them down your thighs, the fabric a caress. You moved your legs to help shimmy them off before he tossed them aside and picked up your right thigh. Leaning down, Mithrun positioned your leg over his shoulder.

As realization burst through your warm haze, you sat up, “You don’t have to do that. I should be focusing on you—”

“Quiet,” Mithrun commanded. He dipped down, but paused, and his gaze flickered up to meet yours, “You’re already wet.”

Wonderful. He said it so casually, too, as if he was pointing out the weather.

You scowled despite the incessant pulsing in your core, “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not teasing,” he commented.

Usually, you could read Mithrun well. You knew his subtle indicators of emotion— the furrow of his brow, the slight widening or narrowing of his good eye, the twitch of his lips. However, whether he meant to or not, Mithrun’s book was shut for the moment. The closest emotion you could attach to him was analytical. Or rather, curious.

Still, you fought. The heat on your cheeks demanded that you go to war. “We don’t need to bother with me. I think that right now we should—”

Mithrun dipped down and flicked his tongue against your clit. Pleasure rippled up from your core and to your throat. You gasped, but he gave you no time, no mercy. He sucked at your clit, pushing and pulling and enveloping and stroking. Mithrun carried out intimacy much in the same way he fought: ruthless, relentless, disregarding what was right or wrong and focused solely on his goal.

It had been a while for you. You’d given yourself to Mithrun for so long that you never glanced at anybody else. You’d resigned yourself to a relationship with a lack of anything physical. You were okay with that. Mithrun wouldn’t care if you used your fingers, and you’d never ask him to do anything for you without his desire present.

Yet, he’d been trying. And he’d given it so much thought. And he increased in intensity as he stroked your clitoris with his tongue. You’d been writhing and gasping without realizing it, bucking your hips up in a desperate attempt to get even closer.

He let go of your thigh and pressed your hips deeper into the mattress. As his fingers dug into your skin, holding you down like leather straps, the pressure and pulsing and throbbing grew stronger. You ached to be filled. It was all you could do to grip the sheets and gasp for air.

“Mithrun,” you said, breathless. It felt right to say his name, as if that might make the moment feel any more real.

His good eye flickered up to you, but he instantly returned to his merciless attack. You watched as his shoulders tensed in his attempt to keep your hips down. He pulled back for half of a second to catch his breath before diving in with far more enthusiasm than you were used to from him.

The very fact that he wanted to pleasure you, that he was putting in the effort, that you could see the outline of his cock growing hard beneath his pants— it all built up like water filling a balloon. If he continued, the walls would burst and you’d be in ruins beneath his fingers and mouth.

Heat rose. Your muscles tensed and you planted your feet into the sheets, hoping to ground yourself before you floated away. Another intense caress of his tongue threatened to push you over the edge. You wanted it so badly. You wanted to fall, to be ruined by him. The fire within your abdomen started crawling through every inch of your body as you desperately tried to catch your breath.

“Mithrun,” you murmured again. It was louder, then. And, again. Again. His fingers dug further into your skin and you writhed helplessly. You were saying something, though you weren’t aware what it was. Another gasp, another flick of his tongue, and you were broken.

Mithrun rode out your orgasm with a surprising amount of patience. He opened his eye and watched from the spot between your legs as you threw your head back. While he had enough mercy to slow down in his ministrations, he licked up every bit of you that you had to offer. Your chest rose and fell. Your nipples were hard and poked through the thin fabric of your nightdress. Once you started to catch your breath, he pushed himself up, but that was where his mercy ended.

Mithrun gripped your arms and pulled you into a sitting position. He had to hold you to keep you from falling backwards onto the pillows. With one hand, he pulled the end of your nightdress up. “Off,” was all he said.

The command barely reached your ears, but you wanted to take it off anyway. You raised your arms and let him pull it over your head to toss it aside. Then, he yanked off his loose shirt. As you floated back down to reality, you took a deep breath— returning to the land of the sober just in time to catch Mithrun picking up the edges of the bed sheets and using them to wipe your slick off his mouth and chin.

You gasped, “Not the sheets!”

He pointedly ignored you as he lifted his hips and pulled down his trousers, though an ink-black eye lingered on your face, refusing to look anyway. His earlier curiosity was gone, replaced with determination you’d only rarely seen— once, when he encountered the demon. Another time when he couldn’t get a noodle recipe right.

Once his trousers were off, he shifted closer, between your legs. Hesitantly, you leaned back and rested your weight on your elbows. It felt wrong to blatantly ogle him, but the slopes of his arms and shoulders and the angle of his torso would surely haunt you all your days. He didn’t seem to mind, focused on his own endeavors. It was only when he held his dick and brushed it against your wet folds that you finally paid attention.

He rubbed the tip on your clitoris. You tensed, still sensitive, and raised a hand to cover your mouth as if that would be enough to stop the desperate sounds. Mithrun was experimenting, then. He was rarely careful, but he was analytical, smart enough to figure out what you liked. Again, he pressed his length against you and you couldn’t help but shudder.

“You’re very sensitive,” he observed.

Again, the asshole sounded like he was simply discussing the weather. You were crumbling and his demeanor sustained not even one crack.

You managed a glare, “I thought I told you not to tease me.” As if Mithrun ever teased anyone.

“Stop complaining,” he murmured as he snaked his hands beneath you and lifted your hips. Your insides throbbed for him, desperate, begging for him to fill you.

First, the tip. It sunk in like a massage on a sore muscle. Mithrun’s gaze dropped and he watched himself go further. You enveloped him. All he knew was you, your warmth, your wetness, clinging to him. He let out a shuddery exhale as he finally pressed himself inside entirely. His lips parted and he lifted your hips to pull you closer, though there was no more room left between your bodies to close.

His cock inside of you was like honey dripping onto your tongue. It was like silk. It was a several years long hunger finally being satiated. Mithrun thrusted experimentally and you couldn’t help but gasp from the sudden pulsing reverberating up your body.

“Move,” you begged, breathless.

“I—” Mithrun took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He still held your hips, but his hands quivered, “I can’t yet. Just give me a minute.”

His answer managed to pull you from the haze. He hadn’t had sex in forty years, of course he was sensitive. It was his first time feeling the warmth and wetness of a pussy in so long.

But, simply because you had a sadistic streak, you tightened your muscles to clench around him.

Mithrun’s head dropped. He tensed. His exhale was a shudder that racked his body, and he couldn’t help but grind against your hips in response. Finally, he was showing some response, some weakness. You bathed in the sight and feeling of pride. It was you who cracked him. It was your tightness that made him gasp and lose his mind.

He didn’t even need to move, and you were already addicted to having him inside of you. The look on his face, the flutter of his eye, the harsh press of his fingers; how could you ever stop?

But he took a deep breath and straightened himself out. Then, holding your hips, he slipped away, leaving you cold and empty. You sat up with the intent to complain, but he slammed back into you. Any words you had were instantly strangled into silence. His tip hit a sensitive spot, sparks ran up your body. With no warning, Mithrun began to relentlessly drive into you. Skin slapped against skin. Every thrust was yet another breath stolen from your lungs. And somehow, he hit the perfect spot each and every time.

You gasped his name. Mithrun’s lips were parted and his cheeks were flushed, but he looked up to meet your face. Without another word, he lifted his right hand and slid it between his hip and your thigh, then pressed two fingers against your clitoris and began to rub.

With just the simplest touch, he had you falling apart once more. You held desperate eye contact for a moment until you could no longer take it, until you had no choice but to shut your eyes. His name was a prayer on your lips. You praised him, reverential, letting him take you, own you, claim you. His touch was religion. Every time he filled you, you sunk deeper, indoctrinated. Mithrun pressed his fingers down harder and faster as you began to writhe once more. Another moan of his name was followed by a string of curses as the thrum within your core rose to unbearable levels.

“There,” Mithrun breathed out, “There you go. That’s my girl.”

You broke. He shattered you. You had no clue how loud you were, what you said. There was a few ‘fucks’ thrown in there, a few words of blasphemy and sin and pleading. The only sound that cut through your fog of pleasure was Mithrun’s hips snapping against yours even harder. He might leave bruises. He might leave you sore. You certainly hoped so.

Mithrun groaned your name. His hair fell into his face as he pressed both arms into the sheets. His right hand, still slick with evidence of your arousal, went to your face and lifted you into a hard kiss. His teeth knocked against yours but you were too lost to care. Another screw, another thrust, another slam against the most sensitive spot in the back of your body. You’d never come from just dick. You’d never orgasmed with so few rubs.

Mithrun repeated your name and his hips stuttered and—

Then, he buried his face against your neck and dug his teeth into your skin. You wrapped your arms around him to hold him close while he spilled inside of you. All you could think about was his seed coating your vagina, covering every inch while your walls milked him dry. He was yours. You wanted every ounce.

His thrusts slowed down and he caught his breath. You’d told yourself for years that it was okay to forego this kind of physical intimacy with him. You could handle that for the sake of being with Mithrun. Yet, now that you’d felt it, you couldn’t imagine ever parting with it. He was inside of you. He was holding you. He was bruising and marking and claiming you.

And he collapsed on top of you like a limp rag doll.

You let out an oof, “Get off. You’re too heavy.”

He only groaned into your shoulder, the sound muffled. Mithrun was absolutely boneless.

His dick slowly softened and slipped out of you naturally, though you already missed it. You would’ve gladly been his cock-warmer if he asked. You would’ve gladly allowed him to use your body beyond what was proper.

Holding him tightly, you buried your face into his hair. “I’ve got to go pee or else I’ll get a UTI,” you grumbled.

“Just… One more minute.”

One more minute. You wanted more than one, but you were also far too pragmatic to let yourself fall asleep with the threat of unbearable bladder pain on the horizon.

He was dead weight on your body, but it was grounding. If Mithrun ever thought of himself as an anchor, he might be right, though he greatly misunderstood the purpose of the role. Without an anchor, you’d drift endlessly. Without him, you’d lose a part of yourself.

Your soul slowly returned to your body as you patted his shoulder, “Come on, we’ve got to change the sheets too.”

“They’re fine,” he grumbled, another muffled sound.

“They’re gross.”

“It’s natural.”

“It smells.”

Mithrun lifted his head to shoot you an unamused stare, “Get used to it.”

You refused. For the moment, though, you would humor him. It was his first time fulfilling a new desire, a lack of complaints might be in order.

Mithrun rolled off your body and collapsed onto the spot next to you. With a contented sigh, you got out of bed and made toward the bathroom with him dripping down your thighs. The very thought made your knees weak.

After peeing and cleaning up— a shame, despite your concern for cleanliness— you returned to the bedroom to find Mithrun lying on his back in the bed. He had one hand on his forehead, his hair pushed away from his face and his good eye wide as it stared at the ceiling.

You tensed, “What’s wrong?”

“Please tell me you–” he sat up to pin you in place with an intense look, “tell me you’re taking some sort of birth control.”

You were. But all you could do was raise a brow, “You’re just now thinking about that?”

Mithrun looked a bit dead inside, more so than usual. “I was caught up in the moment.”

You decided to cut him some slack, “Yes, I’m on birth control herbs. Really, they’re just to control other things, since I haven’t had sex in years. But still.”

Slowly, his eyes closed. He nodded and lowered back to the pillows.

“Water?”

Another nod.

He lasted longer than you thought he would. He didn’t seem exhausted, though the adrenaline from his orgasm would most likely help him sleep. You brought water and he gratefully drank as you pulled the covers up over your body.

Mithrun set the glass down on the nightstand and sent you a glance. No words needed to be said. No grand gestures were required. He caught your cheek with his calloused hand and nudged you closer until your lips met. You tangled your fingers in his hair. Despite the monumental moment in your relationship, the air remained clear. Your comfort, the naturalness of it all, felt as if you’d been intimate for years, as if you were made for touching each other, as if your bodies were molds created specifically to fit together.

Still.

“Get up,” you demanded between kisses, “I’m changing the sheets.”

[spottedenchants]

coordinate conversion

~

Happy @cr-aspec-fest Week 3!

This week's prompt is Unconventional Relationships and my dear wizards have much to say about that :3

I'll have a short addendum to this for Week 4!

[tevan-the-firefly]

Is Tommy surprised whenever he gets the call that Evan is in the hospital? No. But even after all this time, his heart still stops for a second and it feels like he’s holding his breath until he sees for himself that Evan is okay.

He plays it off smoothly, making jokes, giving Evan a look. It’s probably why he laughs with Eddie when the other man pokes fun at Evan’s superstitious beliefs, more out of relief than anything. He takes the wishes of good luck from the rest of the 118 whenever Evan’s injuries require any kind of recuperation time. They all know Evan is one of the worst patients.

But the frequency of Evan’s injuries don’t lessen the blow of the call. They don’t lessen Tommy’s cynicism, or his gut reaction to worry the worst has happened to Evan. To the love of his life. And as terrifying as it is to be seen and known, Tommy can’t help but finally embrace being known. He still skitters away some times. He still hides.

But after everything that’s happened, Evan has finally wormed his way under Tommy’s defenses. Tommy doesn’t know when he happened, sometimes between the breakup, the hookup, and watching Evan completely break down alone in that hallway. Tommy wanted to be the one there to catch him. Always. Every time. And somehow, Evan had become that for him too.

So when the last of the 118 finally trail out of Evan’s hospital room after his latest injury that’s landed him there, Tommy easily accepts the hand the pulls him in. It’s a squeeze, but Tommy cuddles into Evan, half of him hanging off the edge of the hospital bed, as they take comfort in each other and take a quiet moment to reassure one another that the other is still there. Their heart beat is still strong. They’re still whole, if a little scratched.

[moralesmilesanhour]

teamwork (makes the dream work...?) - the re-up!

summary: the very first chapter of TWMTDW, re-written! wc: 800-ish a/n: not sure if I'm going to do a complete re-write of the entire series because I'm rlly busy with school rn. but lemme know if you'd be interested! read the original here

Sunlight bounced off of the white and red walls of Ms. Jones’ classroom. The first cloudless sky in months made the class extra chatty, newly energized to gossip. You sat quietly one row away from the whiteboard while resting your chin in one hand and clicking a pen in the other. Your usual gossiping partner and best friend Tianna was out sick, leaving you sitting next to an empty desk.

The heavy-set, chestnut-toned woman clapped her hands in that familiar rhythm that told kids when it was time to shut up, cutting through the buzz of conversation. She pressed her lips together as she waited with clasped hands for the remaining chatter to die down. Her black curls were pulled back into a slick, tight bun that made you wince. You wondered if she got headaches from it the way you did on Sundays.

“Alright y’all, today we’re finishing up our unit on velocity and acceleration,” she announced, reaching for the pile of thick packets sitting next to the projector and thumbing through them. She counted off the number of students present under her breath as she did so.

“I need somebody to hand these out in exchange for a merit. Anyone?”

The offering of a merit at the tail-end of the sentence made several hands shoot up. Most of them were either gunning for a chance at earning a pizza party on Friday for racking up as many as possible, or just wanted the opportunity to walk around and be The Guy Who Hands Things Out. Sitting in a hard chair for hours a day made you look forward to any novel distraction that gave you an excuse to stretch your legs. After choosing a boy with rectangular prescription glasses and a jet-black fringe covering his forehead, Ms. Jones looked up from her now-smaller stack of papers and made eye-contact with you.

“You’ll need a partner to work on today’s packet, sweetie, why don’t you go pair up with Morales in the back–and just where are you going, young man?”

She craned her neck sideways to stare down a lanky, brown-skinned boy with twin braids brushing his shoulders. You turned to follow her gaze. He was halfway to the back entrance of the classroom when he stopped, tilted his head up towards the ceiling, and sighed so loudly you could hear it all the way from your seat.

“To the bathroom,” he groaned, as if he’d had to repeat himself at least twenty times before. You’d never seen him before in your period, but this seemed to be a frequently-waged battle.

“And what’s the proper procedure for that?”

It only took a couple strides for Morales to return to his seat and drop back into it with a force that pushed his chair back with a slight screech. He raised his hand.

“May I please use the restroom?”

“Yes, you may,” Ms. Jones replied with a triumphant grin. “And put your glasses on. Your mother told me to remind you.”

Already in the hallway, he called out, “I can still aim, I promise!”

This earned a few scattered snickers from across the classroom - that kid’s voice could really carry.

Jones rolled her eyes and turned back to you.

“You can move back in the meantime, honey.”

You grabbed your packet and pink pencil case as you quietly stood up, making sure to push your seat back in before making your way to your new hopefully-temporary seat.

Morales arrived some twenty minutes later, breaking your focus with the loud screech of his chair. His profile blocked out the warm sunlight you’d been getting from one of the big windows that ran along the left side of the classroom that saved you from the harsh chill of the air conditioner. He didn’t say a word the entire time, just began flying through the problems in the packet while you were still tussling with the second page. Physics wasn’t your strong suit, but it was clearly his. 

You let another minute pass awkwardly staring at him before finally speaking up:

“What’s your name?”

No answer.

“Hey, can I get your name please?”

His pen began to slow down, but he remained silent.

With an added harshness, you raised your volume one more time.

“‘Scuse me, sir, with the braids. I’m talkin’ to you–”

His head snapped up, and he gave you a nasty glare. “I heard you. You don’t see me workin’?”

Indignant, your mouth opened and closed before you found more words to say.

“Yeah, well,” you tried to maintain your abrasiveness, “Ms. Jones said this is partner work and you haven’t said anything to me since you got back. I don’t even know your name–”

“Morales,” he paused, then added, “Miles. And we not partners.”

Miles returned to his work on the second-to-last page of the packet, saying not another word to you for the rest of the period.

[fatedroses]

Finally I can post the comic for Adventurer!Zenos that has taken hold of my brain for the past week.

AKA a man who is currently running off the fumes of the literal souls of the damned being very desperate to be out of the void he was stuck in (and for the first time actually being able to just enjoy something mundane), only to get absolutely overwhelmed but all the stimuli he had just... ignored until now.

[peachfruitcake]

well gosh

[moonlit-tulip]

Over time, I'm growing increasingly convinced that a lot of the craft underlying what people-into-storytelling call 'writing' isn't actually really about writing at all, and it would be useful for many people—me included���to swap over to some different term, like maybe 'storytelling'.

Because, in my experience, the goals pursued by me and by most of the people in my fiction-creation-focused social circles aren't particularly constrained to what's easy to render in prose. They're much more about conveying things to audiences, in ways which prose can certainly be helpful for but which other things can also be helpful for.

To bring up a topical example: Deltarune is a game which is very effective at its storytelling, able to deliver high-impact moments at pretty high density. And it's true that a decent chunk of that is down to being well-written; Toby Fox is, in fact, a pretty skilled wordsmith. But a lot of it is also down to other things: music, art and animation, timing, et cetera. The writing is just one component of many in the overall soup of Factors Behind Deltarune Being Good.

As such, it strikes me as worthwhile to view a lot of the skills traditionally touted as writing skills—plotting, characterization, pacing, et cetera—as, instead, more general storytelling skills. Skills which are more specifically writing skills still very much exist—various elements of how to write good prose, good dialogue, et cetera—but they're not the main mass of what most people are thinking of when they talk about writing skill. The main mass of 'writing' skills apply just as well to such things as text-free comics, voice-free animation, silent-protagonist-explores-abandoned-ruins games, and so forth, even if they're made without any writing-per-se involved in the process at all.

There are many tools which can help with telling a given story. Writing is one. But the writing isn't the story; it's just a medium through which the story can be conveyed. The difference is important.

[tablestoastandtime]

Legacy and Shadows

Say what you will about large parts of Tim's characterization being a product of the archetype he used to embody in the DC universe, it's kind of fucked up to suddenly become a completely different kind of character without your say so.

Or, Tim and the fact he doesn't get to have a future.

Tim wasn't sure what to make of the way everyone seemed confident that one day Damian would be Batman.

The kid was the only one to say it out loud, for the most part, but like a surprising amount of things that came out of his mouth everyone seemed to mostly take it for truth. And to be fair, when had Damian ever let anyone really stop him from going after something he felt he had a right to? So maybe it was true, if only because he was going to make sure of it. 

It was just. People used to think that about Tim, too. Not that he'd ever said that, ever even wanted it. If anything, Tim had spent as much time as he could reminding people that he wasn't Batman and had no intention of being him. But the shadow of it had lingered, and part of Tim had been bracing for it for years.

After all, Dick wanted to be Batman even less than Tim did, had initially been willing to let the mantle die to avoid it. Dick was Nightwing in a way not everyone ever got to inhabit their titles. Part of what made Dick one of the best of them was how he managed the split; by not letting there be one. Dick was Nightwing was Coach Grayson was whatever bullshit name he'd picked up while playing super spy. He never stopped being himself in any of those roles, for all that he'd put on the appropriate hat to play the crowd. There was a difference between performing and lying, and Dick was born for the lights. 

Batman didn't have much to do with light even at the best of times.

And on the other end of the spectrum, Batman was bad for Jason in a way that honestly caught Tim off guard when he first saw it. Sure none of them had been at their best back then, all alone in their own seas of grief, but Jason had lost whatever stability he'd had for a while there, and was only more recently leveling back out. He'd latched onto the mantle as both connection and insult, a last 'fuck you' to a man he wasn't ready to let go of yet. For Jason the cowl hadn't been about any actual interest in the job that needed doing. And yeah, maybe Tim was a bit biased because if he ever saw Jason in a batsuit again he was liable to do something truly stupid to pay him back for last time. What was worse, being attacked by a symbol of trauma or a symbol of faith?

Tim sure knew that he hadn't liked his end of the stick, at the very least. Maybe he'd feel differently if things hadn't gone the way they had, but he didn't want Jason to be Batman and it was only mostly personal.

Even before all that though, the idea of legacy had still been haunting Tim for longer than he'd wanted to admit. People died, heroes died, Tim knew that better than he knew what school he'd taken second year bio at, but the job always remained. Dick had only been interested in doing part of that job. He'd do the parts he wanted to well, Tim had always believed that, but that still left the rest of the job.

And Tim had kind of figured that would be his responsibility.

He hadn't always been happy about it, had resented the shapes Bruce built into his work even as he'd learned more and more why they'd been necessary to keep the undead freight train of the Bat going. Tim didn't like a lot of what Batman had to be to be effective, but he understood it and he didn't want to see Gotham or the world go without the pillar he represented. If you wanted a job done right, sometimes you had to do it yourself. Tim wouldn't ask anyone else to do something he wasn't willing to do, and if it meant Gotham got to keep its hero then yeah, he'd put on the cowl one day. He'd already tried once.

More than that, Tim was pretty sure Bruce used to see things the same way. Half of his training only made sense if it was to be something that was both more and less than Robin. He'd been preparing Tim for a role that wanted to eat him alive, and for all that Tim had gotten maybe more attached than was strictly healthy to the Robin mantle, it had become a part of him rather than his whole identity. Robin leapt into dark and danger feet first. To be Batman was to live there all the time.

Whether Tim had liked it or not, he'd spent the better part of the last four years half-knowing he'd have to move there one day and he'd lived like it was true. Frustrated, fighting it sometimes and dutifully twisting his edges to better fit others, but always like it was a future he couldn't afford to be unprepared for.

And then Damian came into their lives and Darkseid tried to transtemporally nuke Tim's remaining mental health. There was a paranoid imp that lived in the back of Tim's head that still half-believed that the whole thing had been another elaborate test, except this time if it had been then Tim must have failed because he never did get his life back afterwards. 

Tim put himself and everything he believed into a blender to find the cracks in everyone else's certainty and for all that he'd been right it had never even mattered. The Justice League found out about and went after Bruce independently. They'd only called him after he'd spent months playing into his own worst instincts to get the job done, just to do almost all of the work in front of him.

Maybe he'd done it all wrong. Maybe he'd been doing it wrong for a while.

Even if he hadn't wanted it, he'd been Tim Drake. Robin. The kid who might one day be Batman. And now, by some silent consensus he hadn't been invited to, he wasn't.

It was a relief. It was a deeply haunted house he'd been written out of the will for, it was a black hole that had materialized over his head and swallowed everything he had seen ahead of him.

It was the reality Tim needed to figure out how to live with.

He was doing his best these days, trying to fit the pieces of the person he used to be into the new shape of his life, but he kept cutting himself on the edges where they didn't quite line up. Cut other people sometimes too, even when he tried not to. But when he tried to take space to keep the sharpness to himself, it took his eyes off the movement of the world and when he looked up he had to start all over again to try to put together the puzzle of what he was going to do for the rest of his life.

And through it all, Tim kept turning over the issue of finding a name to use, methodologies to employ, somewhere he could even live, because the ones he used to have didn't really belong to him anymore. Never had, in all fairness.

They'd always been things gifted to him in exchange for dedication and hard work. He'd thought at the time that had meant earning. Now, of course, he knew better.

And now he had to do without them.

Who was Tim Drake if he was never going to be Batman? Who was Tim Drake, as someone who used to be Robin?

He had no idea. Tim just hoped it didn't take the rest of his life to figure it out.

[moondrenchedshoresoftransylvania]

frank n furter? i hardly know h— (is shot)

[graylinesspam]

Eldritch horror, post mortis, immortal au Ahsoka.

They were having her meditate again. It itched under Obi-wan's skin to watch her. But even he had to admit that communicating with the- entity willingly mitigated some of it's effects on Ahsoka's life.

Whatever it was that had taken root in her, it wanted to communicate with them. It wanted them to listen. And the more that they ignored it, the more insistent it became.

So Ahsoka was sitting crosslegged across from master Plo. His calm voice low as it guided her through the motions of clearing her mind. Not that it took that anymore.

Ahsoka had described it as feeling her face turn away. The way one might turn the pages of an old flimsibook and turning another forward.

The other thing taking her place.

It called it's self Morai. The keeper of the light. Morai was the guardian of the lightside. Some kind of immortal entity that safe guarded the living force.

A living force that was currently being housed within his grandpadawan. Ahsoka said it felt like an egg buried deep in her soul. All the threads of herself pulled around it like a nest.

The former embodiment of the light had perished and until this new one was ready to be born, it needed a host to incubate within. Morai jealously guarded the nest. Offering Ahsoka immense force abilities and near invulnerability in exchange for the use of her soul.

It also regarded it's self as a kind of regent. looking after the galaxy in the absence of the light. directing the jedi to do it's bidding in an effort to maintain the balance in it's master's absence.

They'd tried to ignore it before, defy it. Only for it's twisted form to crawl from Ahsoka's body, extending out in all directions like a terrible explosion of feathers and wings, demanding that they provide safety for the host or else it will take her away.

That was over the presence of a single jedi master it didn't seem to like.

And It had taken hours to get it to melt back into Ahsoka's body and release her.

As he watched now, She tilted her head up oh so slowly. Green feathers growing from her brows extending out until skin and muscle and bone and whole wings spread over her face. Tucking close over her eyes like two hands shielding them. Like when he used to sneak up behind Anakin and cover his eyes, like a game.

Still more wings sprouted around her shoulders spreading wide and flapping like and agitated bird. It's flight feathers reaching as far as the span would allow. Two huge sets behind her, six wings in total.

Eyes, like an eagle, round and striking blinked open in place of her own, peeking from between the feathers.

They rustle with breathe as the thing speaks. Ahsoka's mouth parting to form the words. Low as a whisper.

It never addresses them by name. Only by Jedi or Keeper of the light. And that title. It feels more literal coming from this being.

They possess the light...for now.

[gofishygo]

i know this is pretty niche in terms of topic, but i just want a strings orchestra conductor! john price n first chair violinist! reader.. (definitions below bottom banner)

price of the burningham royal string orchestra has the unfortunate habit of losing his first chair.

his first victim was johnny mactavish- an ex military- just like him. sharp mouthed and witty, with an obnoxious mohawk that the man had sworn he would tear right off of his head. but what had stuck out to him the most was his passion for his arts running far less silently than price's had, even in the old days from before he had started conducting. but after an incident dug out from his sas days had left him half deaf, with a starburst shot on the side of his head and bad blood to be cleaned, he had bid farewell to soap.

and next in line was kyle garrick, who had shared a desk with johnny. unlike soap, who was sharp, loud, a serenade written in baroque times, kyle was much more snide with his work. charming, and gentle, in all the right ways- he'd guided you to your desk with a gentle hand on the small of your back in your early days- but as price's successor, had coined his conductor's ability to lay a heavy hand, a sharp look when needed. but kyle, he has his own fatal flaw; he often finds himself entangled in brilliant melodies, lost in his own interpretation of every piece of repertoire. and soon, that leads him to conducting an orchestra of his own, taking on the studies of a musician like price had, and leaving the first chair cold.

but unlike other fleeting faces, johnny and kyle only fill out two of the four he'd bothered to remember. because he remembers bringing out a hand to first cellist simon for a few months since kyle's transfer, the shadow and backbone of his orchestra.

and he also remembers you.

you, with your pretty face and nervous expression as you had ducked your ways through the chairs and stands in your first days as a violinist under the burningham's string orchestra- and the sparks that had flickered behind doe eyes. even then, you had always had some sort of bratty rebuttal hidden under the tonal qualities of your violin- the way you would glare at him with quiet concern when he would slip marlboro cigarette between his lips in the small breaks during rehearsals, how you would look up at him and promptly play your own, quieter interpretation of the repertoire you gave him. your silent determination- it takes up space in the sounds of his own viola, fills the gaps of what he has longed for during lonely nights. it is your quiet, ingenious spark, and the wisdom behind your eyes that makes him offer you the first chair with a firm tap of your shoulder after rehearsal, the quiet liverpool drawl of his voice inviting you to his office for a chat. it is not the sparkle in your eyes when you focus, the fluster that you try and fail to hide when he attempts conversation with you, how perfectly he imagines your face would fit in the palms of his hands. it is not that at all, he thinks, he lies.

but behind the closed doors of his own office, whatever bubbles in his chest can no longer be fought off by the low hum of whiskey or the pleasant fuzz of tobacco in his veins with you- such a lovely songbird- trapped in his cage. and he simply cannot help it, with the melodies that escape your lips in between his kisses.

so now, you finally sit in the first chair that he knows you have worked so hard to deserve- and you also lay in the arms of the man who has managed to entangle you- wholly, truly, melodically.

first chair- usually, first chair in violin 1 is considered a very prestigious seat in any string orchestra. they act as musical leaders, tune the orchestra, and work very closely with the conductor. them, and the conductor (and guest of honor), usually take bows at the end of a performance.

conductor- a person who directs an orchestra. i dont know what else to say girl

*a strings orchestra will usually consist of instruments: violin, viola, cello, and double/alto bass.

[yujeong]

Pete felt himself return to his body, slow but steady. He could sense Vegas being close, could sense his fingers brushing over skin. Back and forth, barely touching. He sighed, stretched a little. "You're obsessed with that thing." A low laugh. "Can you blame me?" "It's just a phrase." "Someone has clearly never read Shakespeare." Pete's face grew hot - not because of his lack of knowledge, but rather the implications of it. "Well, something tells me you haven't either. I never saw that name in any of the books you had in that room." It was the wrong thing to say. Vegas tensed, his gulp too loud in Pete's ears. Pete opened his eyes to find him hovering above his head, searching for something Pete wasn't sure he could give him. "At least I know I'm not supposed to take it seriously." Pete frowned at the words, but thought it best not to tell Vegas he never took the phrase seriously either.

[A little snippet inspired by my latest nonsense]

[girlsdads]

48- rampage 💕

“It has not moved in days, Daniel.”

“He’s luring us into a false sense of security! He’s plotting a spidery rampage as we speak—I can see it in his eyes.” Daniel is glaring at the tiny black smudge that’s taken up residence where the wall meets the ceiling of their living room. He’s pulled his bare feet up onto the sofa underneath him, like he’s expecting the spider to launch itself at his toes.

“You do not know it is a boy spider.” Max says because he knows it will make Daniel squawk indignantly. It is a cute sound he makes.

“Boy I know it’s a spider!” His lovely expressive face morphs into an exaggerated pout. “Kill it for me, Maxy.”

“You are from where they have giant dog-eating spiders and you are afraid of this thing?” Max is shaking his head in mock disappointment even as he’s pulling the step stool out of the closet and ripping off a piece of paper towel.

Daniel blows him a kiss.