#what I wrote is such common knowledge probably

[kairithemang0]

Guys let’s be real here as much as I love the “Curt doesn’t shoot Owen” fics I feel like Curt realized Owen was way too far gone and that he should kill Owen because it would help the world rather then himself.

I feel like me thinking about them has 1. Ruined my perception of reality and 2. Royally fucked up my sleep schedule

[pierregazly]

let's face it together ꨄ carlos sainz

carlos sainz x wife!reader

warnings: nightmares, mentions of anxiety, mentions of infidelity (in a nightmare) [wc: 2.3k words]

in which carlos' wife has been dealing with an onslaught of nightmares because of the heinous things people have been saying about her, and their relationship, online. carlos finds out, and does the only thing he can think of, he comforts her and professes his undying love.

The nightmares had been reoccurring for months. Waking up with beads of sweat dripping down your forehead, your heart racing, your mind trying to place exactly where you were in the very moment you woke up; it had been an unfortunately common event for quite some time now.

It was all something you had grown accustomed to. Getting used to waking up because of them was the easiest part, trying to force yourself to forget about the nightmares and the implicit meanings behind them? Well, that was far more difficult and was the part you were struggling to grasp the most.

They were always the most vivid after a night of scrolling through endless unkind messages and comments. Strangers, people you had never met, people your husband had never even met; all saying heinous things about you, to you, because of you. About your looks, about your career choices, about how Carlos could do better than you, about how he probably already has and knows how to hide it.

Deep down, you knew there was nothing to truly worry about when it came to Carlos and his dedication to your marriage, but once the overthinking set it… it was tough to push it back.

The nightmares, the overthinking, and the anxiety that accompanied the overthinking weren’t things you had ever expressed to Carlos. To your knowledge, he had no previous awareness about them at all. He, of course, knew about the heinous things people wrote online, often telling you to disregard the unkind things they were saying and that usually ended up with him repeating sweet nothings to you in his native tongue to emphasize how untrue the words were. That didn’t stop the nightmares, nor the anxiety that caused them.

It was obvious when they were at their worst as well. Your body craved the warm comfort of your husband’s arms only to roll into a cold, empty space, your husband in a whole different country so his spot on the bed remained evidently, empty. It was as if your mind was taunting you, reminding you that you were physically alone when you needed him the most.

Eventually, you knew not telling Carlos about the sleepless nights would come back to haunt you. What you weren’t expecting was how distraught it would make him that he wasn’t aware.

Carlos had called you earlier in the evening to make sure you were aware when his flight would get in, and that he didn’t need you to pick him up as he had left his car at the airport. After telling him you’d wait up for him, he immediately discouraged that, attempting to convince you that he didn’t want you waiting up all night for him, and that he’d much rather crawl into bed with you when he got home and cuddle up.

Ignoring his words, you stayed up as long as you could. Passing the time with whatever you could find, a book, a drawing, your phone, eventually you felt the pull to your eyelids. You convinced yourself you would just close them for a moment, that you could rest them for just a few seconds and then you’d be able to go back to distracting yourself with whatever you could find to keep yourself awake.

The dream started as it always did. It was as if you were invisible, an outside force looking in on an intimate moment. It was always Carlos in the dream, and another woman, she never had a recognizable face, no one that you ever knew. He would be whispering sweet nothings into her ear, just as he always did to you, her face pressed into his shoulder as she giggled.

“Carlos, my love, when are you going to leave her? You’ve told me so many times it’ll be soon, please my love. I just want to be together, truly together.”

He would always sigh and press a kiss to the crown of her head before she continued.

“She’s not good enough for you, you know that. I’ve always been what you wanted, what you needed. She’s nothing, please my love, let us be together.”

Carlos would always pull her in a little tighter after that, looking in the direction where you stood in the dream, looking right through you.

“Don’t worry, mi corazón. She means nothing to me anymore, but she is so sensitive, I cannot just divorce her. I have to make her fall out of love with me first, I cannot handle her reaction if I do not. You know I don’t love her anymore, not like I love you, amor.”

That’s usually when the tears began streaking down your cheeks as you silently begged Carlos to take the words back, the words you tried to speak aloud coming out empty, further proving that you were simply invisible in the dream.

The nightmare would often continue from there, both Carlos and the unknown female drafting short insults, unkind words, and even worst statements about you as you were forced to watch upon them silently.

What you weren’t expecting was the gentle nudge to your shoulder, followed by a firmer shake, then your name being whispered softly.

“Mi amor, wake up. Mi amor, wake up, por favor,” you felt another gentle shake to your shoulders, your eyes beginning to open as they slowly adjusted to the soft light streaming into the bedroom.

Having never been woken up in the middle of the nightmare, it took you a moment to place your surroundings. Your book was still placed gently on the pillow next to your head, your phone face down on the spot Carlos usually laid, your mug, half-full of the chamomile tea you had started before drifting off was on the table next to your side of the bed. Carlos was directly in front of you, his brown eyes looking down at you with a soft look of concern present in them.

Carlos was directly in front of you.

A small bead of sweat trickled down the side of your forehead, your lash line wet with the unshed tears that your body had not had the chance to expel. You could feel the racing of your heart, the panic from the dream having started to set in before he had shaken you awake.

“Are you okay? You were whimpering and twisted up in the sheets, mi corazón. I could hear you the moment I stepped into the room.”

Shaking your head, your hands balled into fists as you moved them to gently rub at your now wet eyes. You had hoped there would be more time before Carlos was present for one of the reoccurring nightmares, had hoped you could work through what was causing them on your own before he noticed.

“Just a nightmare, my love. Nothing for you to worry about,” you continued to rub at your eyes as Carlos gently ran his hands down your exposed arms, his eyes still brimming with concern.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The Spaniard questioned, his body gently falling onto the bed beside you, careful to not crush the book that still laid on his pillow.

Shrugging your shoulders, you turned your head so that it was pressed into his chest, his arms instantly wrapping around your body to pull it closer into his own. Similar to the position he held the unknown woman that constantly haunted your dreams.

The soft sob escaped your throat before you could contain it, your hands that were still balled into fists pressing gently into your lips as you tried to keep the sounds at bay. Carlos instantly pulled back, concern and confusion even more prevalent in his warm brown eyes than they were before.

“Please tell me what’s going on, mi corazón.” His voice was filled with defeat, his free hand gently trailing his fingers down your face as he attempted to peer into your eyes.

You didn’t know how to tell him exactly what you were feeling, how you had been struggling almost every night he was gone, having to deal with these constant nightmares. How the anxiety was continuing to get worse and worse, which was causing the nightmares to become more vivid, more aggressive.

Carlos began gently running his hand up and down your arm again, trying to coax words out of you with his gentle demeanor. You knew you were safe with him; you knew he wouldn’t judge you for the anxiety, but you didn’t want him to think you didn’t trust him.

Eventually, the words began to spill from your lips. You explained the nightmare in detail, from start to finish, how it had been happening for months now, every time he was away it got worse and worse. The Spaniard’s face dropped, sadness embedding itself in his eyes as you continued to speak, his arms pulling you as close as they could the more and more you told him of what you had been suffering through.

By the time you were finished, Carlos’ face was marred with a large frown, his eyes looking down at you softly as he traced gentle circles on your exposed skin.

“Mi amor, I wish you had told me about this. It hurts me to know you’ve been suffering through this alone,” another soft sob fell from your lips, rubbing at your eyes as you looked up at him sadly.

“I’m sorry, Carlos. I just… I didn’t want you to think poorly of me, or think I didn’t trust you, or… I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Moving his body down so he could spoon you from behind, Carlos peppered a few gentle kisses against the back of your neck and shoulder as you spoke. “I could never think poorly of you, mi corazón, nor would I have thought you didn’t trust me. I just wish you had told me so we could have faced this together.”

The sincerity was obvious in his words, he was trying to emphasize exactly what you had been telling yourself since the nightmares started. You had been telling yourself for months that he would never think badly of you if you expressed what you had been dealing with, that he would drop everything and anything to help you through your inner turmoil.

Carlos was constantly professing how much you meant to him, and how he never wanted you to go through things alone, and that he would far rather suffer with you, than either of you suffer alone. It was something that he, himself, had been working on. Expressing when he was going through something internally, because of a bad race, or because of something Carlos Sainz Sr. had said. Both of you had spent years internalizing everything, refusing to ask for help from those around you.

“Mi amor, you are more than enough for me. I am such a lucky man to be able to come home to you after every race, to be able to have you waiting in the garage for me when you travel the world with me. There is truly no one else that I could ever want, if anything, I am not enough for you. Strangers online don’t know anything about what you have done for me, what you have sacrificed for me, as my wife.”

Whirling around to glare at him, your eyes caught on his own sad ones, softening yours instantly. Carlos had told you more than once that he felt guilty you had to cater to his schedule more than he could ever cater to yours. You had stressed to him that you would follow him to the end of the world, just as you had told him in your wedding vows months before that conversation.

“Marriage comes with sacrifice, my love. If we had to start all over, I would still do everything again. I’m just scared that one day maybe I won’t be enough for you, that you’ll decide someone else is prettier, or more suited for your lifestyle.”

A loud scoff fell from his lips, “No one could be more beautiful than you, or more perfectly suited for me, mi amor. I vowed that I would love you til’ the day I die, for richer or poorer, for better or worse. Nothing will ever change that.”

Turning your body completely so you could fit your head into the juncture of Carlos neck, you wrapped your own arms around him as you breathed in the smell of his cologne. You felt him press a kiss to the crown of your head as he threw one of his legs over your own.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to go through these things alone, cariño. You have been so anxious, and I have been a horrible husband for not noticing, I hope you will let me make it up to you.”

His hands were drawing different shapes down your back, as he began to murmur sweet nothings into the crown of your head. The words were illegible, a combination of Spanish and English, apologies and professions of love, promises that he would be there for you whenever you needed him, that even if you called him in the middle of the night before a race, he would still do everything he could to help you through whatever it was you were going through.

“My love, you are a wonderful husband, a wonderful partner, an even more amazing support system. The comments online just get to me, especially when you’re not here, it’s harder to believe that what they’re saying isn’t true.” Gently murmuring the words so that he could hear them, all Carlos did was sigh before continuing with his declarations of love, attempting to do anything he could to comfort you.

You knew it was unlikely the nightmares would discontinue just like that, but it eased a portion of your anxiety to know that Carlos was now aware of them, that he truly didn’t judge you for the things you had been going through. A feeling of contentment washed through you, knowing that even if they did continue, they weren’t something you had to face alone, but something you could face together.  

ahhh im not too sure how i feel about this one, so please let me know what you think! thank you to the lovely person who requested it, i hope it's everything you wanted!! there will be a smau part 2 to this one, which will encompass a second request that was very similar but i didn't know how to incorporate it in. i hope you all enjoy!!! 🫶🏻

taglist

@leclercdream @myescapefromthislife @princessria127 @iloveyou3000morgan @love4lando @asfaraslifegets @decseptapril @somanyfandomsbruh @fangirl125reader @imagandom @motorsp0rt @jspitwall @sarahedwards16 @glitterf1 @christianpulisic10 @carlandonorri-s @smoothopz @eugene-emt-roe @epitios @ihrtdan @myloverjk-blog @glow-ish @avxntxine @goldenmclaren

if your name is struck through/bolded it wouldn’t let me tag you. please let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist (preferably send me an ask, it's hard to keep track other ways)

[byoldervine]

What Common Writing Phrases Actually Mean

For years I assumed a lot of the common writing phrases that get thrown around were just generic things that were never actually going to help people write because it doesn't actually tell you what to do. But recently I've been able to work out the meanings for a few of them and I'd like to share them with my fellow writers, especially for my fellow NDs with literal thinking

"Write what you know" - it doesn't mean that you should only write what you're already familiar with, it means to do your research, gain knowledge and go from there; if you haven't done the research, don't write about it *until you have*, not just shrug your shoulders and find something else without ever trying to write it. Additionally, things will have more of an emotional impact if you write about things you yourself have experienced, or when you tie in your own experiences to something; you’ve probably (and hopefully) never had acid thrown in your face, but you’ve probably gotten shampoo in your eye and can amp that experience up

"Writing is a discipline"/"Write even when you're not motivated" - my reaction to this was always that, since I was only doing this for fun and didn't have any deadline to meet, why should I force myself to write even when I don't want to? But what they're trying to say with this is to make sure you have some level of consistent progress, even if it's only one sentence every week; having a minimum level of progress you can count on is an absolute lifesaver when writing, as well as being motivating in its own right

"Edit as you go" - this one really doesn't mean to change up your entire chapter every single time you get a new sentence down, it means to take breaks from writing new chapters to reflect back on what you've previously written and make sure to fix up any inconsistencies while the next few chapters are still fresh in your mind. Outside of SPAG mistakes or quick one-sentence-or-less tweaks I generally wouldn't advise properly editing the same chapter you just wrote simply because you could easily burn yourself out speedrunning to the final draft before you even get to chapter two

[vintagegeekculture]

Marvel's 1992 Darkhold Redeemers

“Darkhold Redeemers” was a comic created in 1992 about a group of supernatural investigators in possession of the Darkhold, an evil book of dark sorcery that has evil pages scattered over the world. In Marvel lore, the Darkhold is the book that created the first vampires. The comic was created by 90s Marvel journeyman Chris Cooper (also known for creating Starfleet Academy, a comic about the adventures of Cadet Nog that tied in to the events of Deep Space 9). 

The book is notable for three reasons. 

The first is that the premise is shockingly and coincidentally similar to the later Buffy the Vampire Slayer, with occult investigations carried out by a group that is led by a beautiful, tight outfit wearing vampire killer from a lineage of vampire hunters (Victoria Montesi, the Montesi Formula being the way vampires are destroyed in Marvel Comics), and also includes a mouthy scrappy everyman, an occult expert and archeologist who’s knowledge of the supernatural and collection of books leads to the secret of beating the creature of the week, a tough as nails government agent out of his depth when fighting the supernatural, and finally, a tremendously powerful and immortal dark antihero who joins the side of good despite his dark past (Mordred the Mystic is both Willow and Angel together, I suppose). 

The second detail is that it was the first Marvel Comic with an openly gay lead character. You might have heard it was Northstar, but this is not true. Chris Cooper is openly gay himself and always fought for inclusion of this nature. Victoria Montesi’s debut predates Northstar coming out of the closet (a comic, incidentally, that Chris Cooper wrote as associate editor on Alpha Flight, so he worked on both).

There are, likewise, many candidates for who the first gay character in Star Trek is, but one of the characters with the strongest claim to this title is Chris Cooper’s Yoshi Mishima in his Starfleet Academy series. 

Chris Cooper eventually left Marvel Comics after the 90s. Nothing happened. Most people in a freelance job like comic editing and writing are not Chris Claremont, who are there for decades. Careers in the arts don’t last forever, and they have to come to an end sometime, where you go and get a real job.

But Chris Cooper came up again decades later in the news, was the subject of an incident in 2020 when birdwatching in Central Park (he’d been a member of a birdwatching society at Harvard), where he was threatened by a female jogger, who said she would call the police as he threatened her, when we can see he did no such thing. The incident was known as either “the Central Park Birdwatching Incident” or the “Central Park Karen.” 

Looking at the footage now, it’s easy to see why it was national news and viral on the internet. Apart from the obvious racial angle, it is a chilling reminder of how a woman’s vulnerability can become a weapon, and how man’s strength can turn into a vulnerability. 

All the while watching the incident, I was like "...the Darkhold Redeemers guy? No, it couldn't be...it's probably a coincidence, Chris Cooper is a very common name." But nope, it really was the Starfleet Academy guy from the 90s.

Chris Cooper received a birdwatching show on National Geographic, and inspired many black people to go into birdwatching, but I could care less about birdwatching. I would like to see what happened next with Darkhold Redeemers and Starfleet Academy, which ended at a cliffhanger with a lot of unresolved plot points.

[inklore]

crimson and clover.

part one | next part | series masterlist

premise: maybe you shouldn’t get high with eddie again but you can’t get him off of your mind, and his lips are too inviting to fight the growing addiction you’re succumbing to from the things he can do with them.

pairing: eddie munson x richgirl!reader

word count: 7k

warnings: eighteen+ content, porn with plot, f receiving oral, fingering, a touch of voyeurism, weed smoking, virgin!eddie, teasing and banter, soft dirty talk, alluded blowjob, jealousy mention, cheesy fluff, shitty parentals.

etc: i’m literally obsessed with these two to the point of insanity!! like i’m not usually that much of a plot heavy girly but buckle up besties we in deep <3.

i do not give anyone permission to translate or repost my work, please be respectful — if you enjoyed please comment or reblog!

It’s quite embarrassing, excruciatingly taxing, vexing and every other big word that you could remember and barely comprehend—but now are having a grave first-hand experience with—from those Jane Austen books you had to read in class.

Every ten sellable verb, feeling, pretext; all of them describing the exact state of your mind right now, and how superficial it made you feel. Aforementioned: excruciating, embarrassing.

A week has gone by since the night you spent with Eddie, and it’s all you find yourself thinking about.

Your mind plays a constant loop reel of everything that happened; the giggles, the kiss, the…other thing. At night when you want to sleep your mind is too busy thinking about whether or not Eddie’s thinking about it too, what happened. Or if he’s out bragging to his friends—something you have your doubts about. The two of you hadn’t discussed if this was an under-wraps kind of thing, it was probably common knowledge you wouldn't want it to be spread all over town. Which it would be, like wildfire.

None of your friends have called you to belittle you yet, so you doubt he’s told anyone.

But was it plaguing his mind as pathetically as it was yours? Or were you just so starved for decent human interaction that your mind was holding onto this one night like it was an aphrodisiac?

Maybe if you had received a call from him you wouldn’t be acting so…mortifyingly in your feelings for god knows why.

"Will we be graced with your presence across the tracks again, princess?" He had asked when he pulled up a block down from your house, not trusting his loud engine to not wake up your parents—or at the very least a neighbor who would see and then go running to your parents about the strange man they saw you with. It wasn’t a mess you wanted to deal with.

"Don't call me that." You had groaned, undoing your seatbelt and hiding your smile by biting the inside of your cheek. You hadn’t thought past this night, were still too busy rolling off that high from smoking and having Eddie against your mouth…inside of your mouth.

And maybe it was his smile, his thumb tapping on the steering wheel, eyes flashing to your mouth and back up like he didn’t know if he was allowed to kiss you again, or if he should.

But you reached across the dash and grabbed the pen randomly rested atop of it, leaned over to pull his hand from the wheel, and wrote your number on top of it.

"Don't call before six or after midnight.” You let your smile spread, threw the pen back on the dash, and opened the passenger door hopping out. “See you around, Munson.”

That was seven days ago and counting.

Never-ending counting.

It’s not like you expected him to call. You figured he probably wouldn’t, the two of you were not about to become best friends just because he cleaned your shoes, or let you smoke his weed, or because he came in your mouth. You didn’t—shouldn’t—have any expectations from Munson and you were sure he had none from you.

History didn’t make you friends. Sharing weed or an incredible kiss didn’t either.

So it wasn’t a big deal he hadn’t called.

And yet as you sit at one of the pristine white table cloth tables of the Country Club, your parents on either side of you, your fingers playing with the straw of your drink; you’re wondering if he’s called.

You’re so hyper-focused on that thought, of the thought of that stupid smile that you can’t shut your eyes without seeing—that you don’t hear your mother speaking to you until the words “I heard you two broke up” are spat through the air.

Reality crashes down on you, and you can’t help the grimace that flashes across your lips. Word really does spread like wildfire in this town. You hadn’t expected your parents to find out until at least a few weeks—or never, a girl could dream. Enough time for you to come up with an excuse at least, anything but the truth. Which would be nothing but unacceptably unrealistic to them.

“He’s not a good-”

“I didn’t ask for your feelings on the matter.” Your mother interrupts. Scowls down at the martini glass in her hand. “Fix it. You’re both going to the same college, a college your father called in many favors just to get you in. Since you couldn’t do it on your own.” Her last words are mumbled, snappy, and hurtful as always. “His parents run in the same social circle as us and could do wonders for your father's business. Don’t ruin this for yourself over girlish feelings.”

Your throat feels tight, constricted, suffocated. Your fingers have dropped from your straw to grip the end of your white pleated skirt under the table. You know even if you told your mother the full story, how you truly felt, how you’ve been with him since sophomore year and neither of you have even muttered the words ‘I love you’. And don’t think you ever will. Would.

Or how last year over spring break the two of you broke up for a month and you had felt more rejuvenated than any hundred-dollar spa treatment ever could. As if you had peeled off a deadweight and could finally feel something other than the caked-on layers of presser that were endlessly put onto you by him, by them.

Then he came back and said the same thing your mother did “don’t ruin this for us” when he had been the one to leave you. And you’d done the stupid thing and said yes. As the two of you kissed and made up your mind searched for the why, the how, the what-the-fuck-were-you doing.

And now with your mother's words as fresh as a reopened wound reminding you of the memory, you know you said yes because of her. Your father. Their need to seem so disgustingly perfect on the outside, to hide how ugly they were on the inside.

Were you as ugly as them?

The question makes your knee bounce, knuckles straining from the grip on your skirt.

Your mothers already moved on from you, talking to the friend at her side. Smiling, keeping that perfect crown in place. Turning towards your father you hope to see a sympathetic look, some wise words—wasn’t that what fathers were supposed to do? Wise words and comfort? But he’s not even looking at you, too busy laughing at something the man beside him has said.

You need to get out of here. Go home and scream into your pillow or something.

Standing from the table, a little too quickly. The legs of your chair screeching against the hardwood, your father finally looks at you.

“Everything alright?” A monologue of how everything is the farthest thing from being alright in the back of your throat and ready to be screamed. But then you can feel your mother's eyes on you, don’t have to turn to see her look of impassiveness to know it’s there.

“Yeah,” you give them both your best performed smile. “Just going to do what mom said, fix it.”

Your lie only gets you a hum from said woman and then she’s done with you and turning her head. Your dad gives you the weakest of smiles and asks if you need any money—for no reason at all. Shaking your head you quickly bid them goodbye and do your best walk-sprint out of the building.

The hot summer night air a welcome humidity from the suffocation you felt in there.

You have your parent's driver take you home. Screw your ex and screw your parents.

If your mother wanted him to be in your family so bad maybe she should drop her Pilates instructor and have him instead. It would take a hefty price—that you were sure your parents would gladly pay to get you to shut up and listen to them—to ever bring yourself to his front door and beg for him back.

You didn’t beg. For anyone. Over anything.

You asked. You got. Demanded. Sometimes you didn’t even need to ask. You were just given to. Your bank account and school career showed as much.

Fuck, maybe you were the Princess of Hawkins after all.

You start in a small sprint up the stairs to your room, your throat still feeling as if it’s being squeezed by your mother's words, indifference towards you, demands. Even with her not around you feel like you’re being suffocated by her.

You really shouldn’t have come back home.

Not for the summer. Not anytime. Should have just stuck to the one call a month and check in the mail. Life was more peaceful that way. At least you could breathe.

It was going to be one hell of a long, torturous summer.

“Someone called for you!”

You hear just as your foot lands on the last step. Your heart leaping in your chest as you turn and yell down, “who?”

“They didn’t say.” Your family housekeeper appears at the bottom of the stairs, a small smile on her face. “But they did leave their number and said to call them if you needed help on biology or something like that.” She shakes her head, “could barely understand them. There was loud music in the background.”

Eddie.

The grin that spreads across your lips is demeaning to your social status. Same with the way your heart feels like it’s pumping from your stomach now as you run back down the stairs and take the number from her, only to run back up them and to your room; dialing the number into the pink phone beside your bed, pacing the floor as you wait, hope, shamefully pray that he answers.

On the fifth ring he answers and when his voice floods through the phone when you hear the “shit-hold on” as he turns down the music blaring in the background, you feel like you can finally breathe again. No more tight throat. Suffocating. The only thing you feel now is that familiar giddy ache in your cheeks.

“Biology huh?”

You can hear the puff of air Eddie lets out from realizing it’s you, from the smile that you can tell is on his face when he speaks through the receiver, “I thought telling her I was ‘the weed guy’ would be worse, town freak was my second option.”

"Munson, it's summer no one's doing biology!"

“Incorrect. Summer school is a prison sentence I have had the displeasure of being sentenced to.” Of course, he has. You can’t help the laugh that comes out, one he joins in on.

There’s a silence that spreads where you can hear him fiddling with something on the other line.

And then he’s saying, “is the Princess busy or can she step away from the castle, and grace us, peasants, with her presence?"

You’re smiling again, fuck.

“She could, but I don't know, she might need payment." You say in your best uppity voice, flopping back on your bed. Your fingers coiling and uncoiling the cord hanging from the phone.

"Drats! Right when I’m out of gold doubloons too."

“Oooh, and I only take gold, looks like the peasants must go un-graced today.”

"Would thy majesty take my humble payment of the best weed in the county instead?" He puts on his best historically accurate voice that has you snorting.

“That’s very presumptuous of you to say it's the best."

"Did I say the best? Sorry, I meant the greatest.”

God, you despised how nice this felt. How the muscles in your cheeks were already sore and you hadn’t even been talking to him for more than five minutes. How you can’t remember someone calling you and it being like this, no gossip, no hounding questions or accusations.

Oh, how the normal half lives.

"I'll meet you where you dropped me off the other night, okay?"

"Your chariot will be waiting, princess."

When Eddie picks you up and the two of you fly across town, sharing silent smiles, the town passing in the rear view, heavy metal blaring throughout the speakers—that he doesn’t turn down until his van comes to a stop through a wooded clearing, in front of a familiar lake.

Lovers Lake.

"Really, Munson? Trying to get lucky again?" You tease, a cheeky grin covered up by him laughing behind the hair that moves in his face as he undoes his seatbelt and moves to the back of the van.

You follow him into the back, sitting on the van floor. Eddie on the sofa, much like the last night the two of you were together. Except now you’re sitting with your legs crossed out in front of you, back against one of the walls of the van.

You let him do his thing of pulling out the metal box and rifling through it while he finds what he needs. Occupying your time with looking at the newly added amps and wires that weren’t there the other night.

"What's your band called again?"

"Corroded Coffin.”

You smile remembering him telling you that when you were partnered together. Remember how he drummed his fingers on the desk and air guitared you a silent piece to emphasize how good he swore he could play, how good the band was.

"You should come see us play sometime. If you're into that.” He looks up at you through his bangs, his fingers moving in his lap as he rolls the joint.

You give the tiniest smirk as you say, “like a date?”

His shoulders are shrugging, ringed fingers scratching his cheek. “If a grimy bar and drunk geezers falling off their barstools is your ideal date then yes. Absolutely.” You share a smile and then he’s going back to his task at hand.

When he’s finished rolling, and after you’re done eyeballing him: watching how his fingers work along the rolling papers, those damn rings distracting you, and finding yourself at a loss for words when you watch him bring it to his lips and run his tongue along the seam to close it.

You were here to get away. To kill time. To smoke. Nothing else.

What happened the other night should stay a one time thing. With how your insides keep acting up from the mere thought of it. This was dangerous territory already.

"Your payment, princess." Eddie holds out the freshly rolled joint, doing a little bowing motion as he does. Making you laugh and playfully snatch it from his fingers.

Bringing it to your lips, he pulls out a lighter from the front pocket of his jeans. Leaning forward he flicks it and holds it to the other end, lighting it for you. His eyes on yours as you forget to inhale for half a second, too busy staring back at him. The thick smoke almost making you choke after you’ve come to and inhale; an intensity holding between your gazes.

He’s so close, if you were to remove the joint you could lean in and….

Nope. Not happening. Not tonight.

You quickly move back over to your spot and take a few puffs, praying that it chills whatever tempestuous feelings were burning in your lower belly right now.

The two of you fall into an easy rotation, puffing, passing, Eddie making a joke and you losing it. A peaceful cycle that soon has you forgetting about the earlier events of the day and how you had felt; your nerves now lax, body feeling good. And not just because of the weed, but because of the boy sitting in front of you.

A fact you let yourself feel.

The only thing you allow yourself to feel.

You’re tapping your foot mindless against the bottom of the couch to the metal playing through the van, ignoring the friction it causes against the pant leg of Eddie’s jeans; his leg pressed against yours as the two of you have your limbs spread out.

Your fingers are flipping through a random magazine you’ve found in one of the many piles of junk on the floor. “Who sings this?”

"Corroded Coffin.”

Your head snaps up a little too fast giving you whiplash, as you look up at him—he’s already staring back, how long has he been watching? And have your cheeks always been this warm, or is the thought that he had possibly been watching you for god knows how long that’s making you feel overheated right now?

“This is your band?!”

“Yes,” he chuckles. “I don't see any blood coming from your ears so I take it your majesty approves?"

You make a face, shrugging. "I was swallowing down my vomit actually, was trying to hide it with being nice."

“Mmm.” He replies, his hair covering his smile as he fiddles with the chain connected to his jeans.

It’s an effort to pull your eyes away from him and go back to flipping through the magazine—as if you were doing anything other than looking at the pictures. Your high mind having very little comprehension of the words printed across the flimsy papers.

That comfortable silence spreads between the two of you again, your foot going back to its tapping. Your head doing a little bob along with the beat.

“Was that a jive I just saw?”

Your movements stop, “a jive?” The snort of laughter that comes deep from within your throat should be embarrassing. If it were anyone else in front of you you know you’d do everything in your power to cover it up.

“Who says that?”

“I know many people who say it.”

“Are they 80 and over?”

Eddie shakes his head, his laugh dying down. “You like it, the music?”

“I’ve heard worse.” You shrug nonchalantly. Close the magazine and toss it back in its pile of junk.

“I’ll take it!” His fist pumping in the air in triumph.

Shaking your head you send an eye roll his way. Your heart doing a little leap in your just at how cute you think he looks right now. Your mind working overtime to hone in on the little things that light up his features when he smiles or laughs—and then the little things that don’t matter at all: like how this is your second time here and the first he had scurried around and tried to move his random messes out of the way, to clean it up. But this time around he didn’t even bother, as if a comfortability has already grown between the two of you. You hadn’t run for the hills, already knew what he was about, that this van was a second home to him by the looks—and he knew you wouldn’t care what it looked like. Hadn’t made a fuss the first time so why not let you see him more in his realm?

It makes a weird affection burn in your gut and has you toying with the bottom of your skirt to distract yourself from it.

Just listen to the music. The band. It’s pretty good.

Which isn’t shocking to you in the slightest. It only took you all your school career, and give or take a few years, to realize that Eddie Munson was a lot of things but mediocre was not one of them.

But your mind is racing a mile a minute, unlike the first time, you smoked Eddie’s stash. Which meant that you were the problem, the issue causing your mind to run from the blissful high into difficult feelings and misunderstandings of said feelings.

Go figure.

Your legs are still touching each other. You can feel the bare minimum of his heat against your legs, but it’s enough to add flashbacks of the other night into the mix of your mind. How you could feel the heat from other parts of his body; under you, beside you, against you, inside your mouth.

The tender skin of your bottom lip quickly becomes raw from your teeth, as the memories bombard you. As you grow warmer and warmer. And make the mistake of looking up at him, watching him, staring at him—and then he’s catching you doing just that and you have the urge to ask him if he’s thought about you sense that night, or why he hadn’t called sooner.

Questions with obvious answers.

But your mind is working against you here.

And the last thing you want him to think is that you’re just sitting at home waiting for him to call. Like you’re desperate for it, begging for it. Something you do not do. And was not about to start for Eddie Munson.

“Did you have plans later?” He asks.

Making your brows come together, a confused look on your face as you wonder if you’ve missed something. If he spoke before this and you just didn’t hear because of your internal war.

“The outfit,” he points with a finger, “it’s chic.” A lopsided grin pulls up the corners of his mouth just as you laugh.

“Chic?” You shake your head, “I was at the Country Club with my parents.”

“And you let me steal you away from such fun with the other royals? Honored." His hand splays over his chest.

You make a face, “my mother thinks I’m crawling on my hands and knees back to lover boy." You drop the same nickname Eddie had the other night for your ex, seeing his expression change from it. His smile faltering, fingers brushing at a few loose strands of hair in his face.

“Are you?”

“If I was, would I be here with you?"

"Maybe you needed some devil induced bravery to help you crawl."

"I wouldn't waste a good high on him,” you scoff.

Eddie’s silent for a second too long for your sanity and then he’s saying, “instead you're here wasting it on me."

"It's not a waste.” The words slip out. Come out so naturally that you don’t realize how sentimental of a meaning they have until you see Eddie’s expression. See the softness of it, and how you cannot bear the way your insides feel right now.

What’s the worst thing that can happen from you hooking up with Munson again?

“At least it doesn't have to be.." you’re pulling at your skirt again, can’t bring your eyes up to his as the words hang in the air—an invitation.

"Hitting on me now, princess?” His leg pushes into yours playfully, “who knew you could be so flattering. So charitable.” He teases.

You only look up to scowl at him, because you were not hitting on him—maybe, not really, you didn’t hit on people, you were hit on. But like many things around Munson it had changed, morphing itself into something you don't recognize; something better. You are going to tell him as much, flaunt your Princess status tenfold. But can’t stop looking into his big brown eyes, can’t stop the burning in your stomach going lower lower until it turns into that same lust you felt for him the other night.

And fuck it.

You’ve already dipped your toe over that line once, mine as well put your whole foot in.

"Shut up, Munson.” Your retort is less ice than it is fire, a breathy huff that you mean to sound playful but miss the mark. “Come here,” you hesitate. "Please.”

The beam that spreads across his face is anything but subtle or shy, promptly dropping down to his knees and crawling the short distance to you. A position he stays in even as he brings his lips to yours.

The kiss, his lips, his fingertips at the side of your neck just as heart stopping and pulsating-ly devastating to your insides as last time. A pang of jealousy shoots through your belly at the thought of how many girls he has kissed before you, he’s had to have kissed a couple, a handful maybe, you weren’t this good at kissing if you hadn’t. Kisses didn’t just feel like this, normally. Right?

Or maybe you just weren’t kissing the right people. Person.

It doesn’t take long for the kiss to move into the realm of breathless pants and tongues against each other, teeth biting into lips. And unlike last time Eddie doesn’t need an invitation to touch you; his hands go from your neck to your cheeks, your jaw, chin, the back of your skull, and into your hair. The tips of his fingers making a road map of every sensitive spot above your collarbone.

Eventually, thanks to some maneuvering and awkward giggles the two of you are laid on the floor of the van—you on your back, Eddie on his side with his front pressed flush against you. His lips have veered from yours, leaving a path of kisses and nips along your jaw, under it, to your neck where he runs his tongue along a sensitive spot of skin, his lips wrapping around it to suck softly and then sink his teeth into.

A breathy gasp strangled out of you, your hips moving against the air. An imprint of Eddie smirking against your skin from the noise, left behind when he kisses just below the area. Fuck.

“How many–” you swallow, lick your lips, breathless, “how many girls have you kissed like this?”

It’s probably not the right thing to ask right now, but your mind keeps going back to it. That jealousy making your stomach sink as you anticipate his answer, as you dread and wish your body and brain were working together instead of on separate plains of pain and pleasure.

“Uh, a dozen obviously.” He laughs softly against you when you dig your nails into his arm playfully, in replace of the scowl you’d shoot him down with if you could turn your head—or if you wanted him to stop the knee shaking presses of his lips right now, which you’re delirious but not that delirious to stop him. “Only you, princess.”

The information shouldn’t have you soaring any more than you already are, shouldn’t make those jealousy twists get snuffed out by a belly full of butterflies, and flutters that go all the way down to your throbbing clit. But it does and you’re reeling at the sentiment that you’re probably Eddie’s first everything in this sense. In this realm.

It’s not triumph you feel, it’s something softer and dangerously close to affection and attachment that has no business filling your chest with warmth right now.

And instead of feeling the aforementioned feelings, distracting yourself with giving him pleasure—and to hear those beautiful noises from the other night—your hand is moving from his arm to the bulge pressing to your hip.

Your fingers and palm run up his clothed length and pull those delicious breathy grunts from him. No man should sound this good, no sound should have you feeling like you’re melting into the floor.

Your mouth finding Eddie’s in a hungry kiss, a need to swallow down his noises like a drug, needing sedation. You could get addicted to this if you’re not careful.

Your fingers drag themselves up to his belt, try to blindly pull the leather through its buckle, the loops. And just like a repeat of the night before, his hand is there to stop you.

“Gotten shy on me?” You ask with a coyness that makes him give you a ‘not in this lifetime’ look.

“I just want to make it crystal clear that I didn’t bring you here for this.” His tone only holds gentleness, his hand bringing yours up to his mouth to brush a few kisses across your knuckles.

“Even if you did,” your fingers twist a strand of his hair, “I wouldn’t be upset.”

And you mean that. If Eddie had only brought you here for a replay of the other night or something further than that, you know—even if it was against your better judgment—you wouldn’t be too upset about it, or at all. It was hard to be upset with lips like his pulling out smiles and whimpers from you.

But it also means that Eddie had called you because he wanted to see you, to hang out…which is harder for you to grasp than the prospect of only casual hookups between the two to you.

Those Jane Austen feelings back with a vengeance in your chest cavity.

Your answer makes a chuckle echo in his chest. “But,” he’s looking at you with all seriousness within those doe eyes. “Now that we’re–” he motions to your current positions with his hand, “here. I want to return the favor. For the other night.”

Oh?

Oh.

Pressing your lips together, you do your best to hide the excitement that shoots up your spine, nodding in a super-casual-not-too-fast way. “Yeah, okay, yes, totally.”

“Totally?” He mocks you, smirking.

“Totally.”

Then his lips are on yours again without needing further confirmation. The kiss slower this time compared to the last lip lock that made your bottom lip feel like it was inflamed from his teeth. Your mouths move in perfect sync, and if you could figure out a way you know you could get off by just his kiss alone. He moves your hand back to his crotch, giving you back access to his hardness as his hand begins its travel down your chest. Palming your boobs over your white polo, his thumb moving across your nipple, making you whimper. Your chest pushing up into him.

The closer he gets—the further his fingers move along the fabric of your clothes—the anticipation of where you want him, where he wants to be, makes your legs pull together. Thighs in a tight lock, your attempted relief of the pressure on your clit only makes the throbbing worse. You can feel how soaked you are through the cotton of your panties, know that once you feel his fingers slip inside of you it’s going to be game over.

There's a whoosh of air against your thighs from Eddie pushing up the top of your skirt, putting your clothed pussy on display for him. His mouth pulling from yours as he looks down at you and takes you in. The hunger in his eyes turning the brown hues in them black. You’re about to ask him if he wants you to take your underwear off, his fingers slipping past the elastic of them stopping you. His palm warm against your mound.

Eddie runs his middle finger through your folds, voice low and gravelly when he says. “You’re so wet.” All you can do is mewl, bite your already raw lip as you try to keep your hips still, try to hold yourself back from fucking his hand the way you want to. His fingers explore you for a bit, misstepping your throbbing clit each time the tips of his fingers come close to it. Even as you finally let yourself move your hips a fraction of an inch up, he’s still not touching the spot you really need, instead, he’s moving every place you don’t need him. Until he slips a finger inside of you too aggressively, making an “ahh” hiss out of you.

Your face scrunched when he turns to look down at you, halting his actions. Body tense, “did I hurt you?”

He’s never done this before, it’s not new knowledge and yet thanks to your hormone filled haze—and the need to come—you were expecting him to know all the places to touch. To not be as aggressively pushy right from the get-go.

“No,” you sigh, laughing softly. “Sort of, just…can I show you?” You’re nervous he’s going to take it the wrong way. That this is where it’s going to end because it'll be awkward and he’ll be embarrassed or mad or something.

But there you go thinking Eddie is one thing when he’s the exact opposite. The endless surprise of this boy never ceasing to show you why you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover—or by its fellow shitty townspeople.

Eddie nods, eyes soft and tentatively looking at you in the same way an excited student looks thrilled to learn from a teacher.

Wasting no time you loop your fingers into the elastic of the cotton covering your pussy, pulling the garment down your legs and tossing it to the side. Moving comfortably back into your lying position, skirt still pushed up, completely showcasing yourself to him. A flutter sinking low into your belly when you watch Eddie’s throat bob from a tight swallow as he looks down at your wet cunt.

And while he watches, stares at you, you’re staring up at him. Watching the hunger and desire to learn—to be taught—displaying itself across his face; your hand moves between your legs, the pad of your index finger putting the lightest of pressers on your clit. The moan you let out has Eddie’s hair falling in your face for half a second as his eyes snap to your face. As he watches your mouth part, brows come together, breaths shaky and weak as you touch yourself. Rubbing slow circles against your throbbing clit, where you wanted, needed to feel him. Where you’ve been throbbing and aching for what felt like hours—days—for him.

His fingers dig into your thigh as he spreads your legs wider, holding it up and against him below your knee so you’re completely open for him. So he can see you run your fingers down between your folds to catch the gathering arousal at your entrance and pull it back up to coat your clit.

You should be talking right now, should be directing him with your words, but you can’t. Have never touched yourself in front of anyone before, never had to, or wanted to. The act of touching yourself strictly permitted for when you were alone in your room at night. Never like this. But you’ve been convinced. Turned over a new leaf in the things you like, enjoy; the way Eddie is watching your fingers, the way he brings his gaze back up so fucking slow to look at your face. To hold eye contact with you as you moan and tremble. That mounting pressure already starting, so fast, so good.

Eddie leans into the small distance of space between your mouths to swallow down one of your moans that comes out at the same time his lips press to yours. “You’re so pretty.” He whispers between kisses. “How many guys have you let watch you like this?”

You whimper, breath hot on his mouth, “none. Only you.”

He’s grinning against your mouth, “you do this at night when you’re alone in your bed?”

“Yes.” Humming, you feel breathless, can feel your hips gyrating against your hand, legs trembling. Know you’re so close. But don’t want to make yourself come. Want Eddie to be the one to make you come, want his fingers to be inside of you when your walls constrict and carry you through that euphoric high.

“Who knew you were such a dirty girl, princess.” His head lifts back up to look back down at your pussy, the wet sounds of your arousal against your finger and clit filthy.

Have you ever been this wet before? This turned on? Fuck, Eddie Munson.

Without thinking—reeling off of your own need—you grab his hand that's still holding your leg to him. “Put your hand over mine.” Following directions eagerly Eddie does so, places his searing palm atop yours, his index finger resting perfectly against yours; moving along as you go back to stroking your clit. “Like this, slow–ahh–circles.” The last syllables of your words choked out over a moan. Your skin feels like it’s on fire, know you’re probably making a mess on the makeshift carpeting below you.

He copies your movements for one, three, six circles and then you’re snaking your hand away and it’s his finger on your clit. The change in feeling is instantaneous and has your hips stuttering, whines coming out weaker. Your hand gripping the material of his shirt, needing to ground yourself. To remind you that yes, this is reality and not some crazy out of body wet dream.

“Like that?” Eddie asks against your cheek.

“Yes.” You don’t think your moans have ever sounded this wailing, this intense to the point where you’re almost embarrassed at how good you feel right now. How your body is shaking and mewling and reaching out for him for pleasure. In need of it.

This time when he slips a finger into you it’s slow, so good and gentle as he pumps it inside of you, that amplifies the squelching of your wetness. “This okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

He fucks you like that, his middle finger fucking up into you, his thumb brushing against your clit at just the right angle that has you on the verge of seeing stars. You’re so so close, know that if he keeps doing that you’re going to be a goner–

“Wait, what are you doing?” Your brows pull up in confusion as you watch him detach himself from your side, removing his hand from between your thighs. Settling himself between your legs on his knees.

You expect him to start undoing his belt, figure he’s ready to take it further, aren't mad at the thought—but he’s surprising you again. “You got to taste, it’s only fair, princess.” Eddie smirks, situates himself in a comfortable hunching position, and then you’re gasping as he runs the tip of his tongue along your clit. Any rebuttal you could have thought to reply with dead in the water.

“Fuck, Eddie,” there are no missteps like the first time he was down there with his hand. Mimicking the movements you showed him with your fingers with his tongue, with a few added experimental licks and sucks that have your breath caught in your throat. “Ohmygod, and you’ve never done this before?” You curse, feel a breathy laugh fall across your clit. One, then another, finger slipping into you moving in tandem with his tongue.

Only one other guy has gone down on you and it was not as nearly intense or agonizing pleasurable as this—to the point where your thighs are closing in around his head, hands in his hair. Back arching. You feel like a woman crazed, like you had no idea you could feel this searing, pleasure this good.

You mean to say something, to warn him, to say any words that you can dredge up from the crevice of your dysfunctional brain; but all you can do is scream as you come against his mouth, as your pussy convulses around his fingers. Your hips rolling up into him, thighs shaking, body spasming as his name falls from your lips like a sinful prayer.

“Munson,” you whine, pulling at his chin once you’ve come down enough to function. Once you can finally see something other than the white bursts of light across your vision. Eddie’s tongue still running along your sensitive clit to the point of oversensitivity, that you have to pull him up.

His chin and cheeks are damp, bangs pressed to his forehead. Find yourself laughing at his tousled hair—no thanks to your fingers. There’s a cheshire grin stretched across his face as he runs the back of his hand over his mouth. Crawling up your body to hover over you and kiss you, a whimper coming from your throat as you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Wow.” You breathe, smile over at him as he rolls back to his side beside you. A palm resting over where your heart is still beating a mile a minute.

“I’ll take it.” Your laughs are in unison as a look of triumph flashes in those big eyes.

“If only you were that much of an eager learner in school, might have graduated, joined me on the road to success.” You pick.

“Not even seconds after I make her come and she’s already wounding me.” His chuckle muffled by the press of another kiss to your lips. “Better than lover boy?” Eddie teases.

“Can’t compare something that never happened.”

He makes a disgusted noise from the back of his throat, “no wonder you left him for the steerage.”

You hum nodding, turning your head to the side to press a kiss to his throat. Would it be too sentimental of you to tell him that he’s better than anyone you’ve been with? That no one has ever made you come that hard, not even yourself. That you can feel your wetness rolling down your ass cheeks and inner thighs from how wet he made you.

It could be a mood killer, sentiment isn't even your thing.

Plus it’s his turn now. Fair’s fair right?

There’s no complaint from Eddie as you move on top of him, roll your hips against his hardness, the seam of his jeans making you shudder from still feeling over-sensitive, as you move down the length of his body to rid him of his jeans and take him into your mouth.

“Here.” There’s a cassette tape gripped in his hand, the back of his head resting on the headrest of the driver's seat. You’re parked in the same spot he picked you up earlier, a block from your house. “Since you liked it so much,” he smiles.

Sentiment. Fuck.

Your smile is too cheesy and girlish for you to wrap any logistics into your head about it just being a tape, as you take it from and see his band name in black marker at the top. Your stomach fluttering. A simple gift that's not a big deal. You have to remind yourself as you try not to lean over and kiss him on that beautiful mouth of his.

“Here,” you say as you pull off your underwear and drop them into his lap. “A gift for a gift.”

You don’t let yourself stick around to see the heart-palpating look in his eyes as he grips the fabric in his hand and laughs, shouting “gold doubloons could never compare!” out of the open window. Making you press a finger to your lips, shooting daggers at him through the windshield as you pick up the pace towards your house. Trying to quiet your giggles and wipe the big girlish grin on your face.

[blissfullyapillow]

┃Summer Rendezvous 

₊˚⊹♡ Jing Yuan x fem reader

₊˚⊹♡ wc: 1,283~

₊˚⊹♡ warnings: consumption of alcohol, misunderstanding with reader (lol)

₊˚⊹♡ Summary: A misinterpretation of your relationship with Jing Yuan leads to a deep conversation after a few drinks 

₊˚⊹♡ Pillow Talks: I wrote this when I was obsessed with the song Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift lol, so it’s heavily inspired by it (｡>\\<). My favorite line from the song is, “I love you, ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard? He looks up grinning like a devil…” So I incorporated that into this fic. I have a love-hate relationship with this work and I’m tired of it living in my drafts. I hope someone enjoys this haha (>᎑<๑)/♡

₊˚⊹♡ Masterlist

What you have with Jing Yuan isn’t common knowledge.

The late nights, full of lingering touches.  The way you sneak past the Cloud Knights in broad daylight to see your general. The secrets you keep; the lazy smile you’ve grown fond of when Jing Yuan yawns, and the way his eyes sparkle with mischief as his hands slowly creep up your sides.

When you first started seeing each other you were perfectly okay with keeping things private. You were more concerned with how far this relationship will go.

...

But now it hurts.

You peek through the crack of the door, hiding in his office as he converses with an unexpected visitor. Your cheeks warm at the radiant smile on his lips. Your eyes follow his line of sight to see who the guest is.

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest when you realize his smile is directed towards an attractive young foxian.

You know you’re probably overthinking things, but you can’t stop your thoughts from running wild.

What’s stopping you two from making your relationship public? Does he even want your relationship to be public?

You wonder if Jing Yuan is as invested in this relationship as you are.

You sneak out of his office once the beautiful foxian leaves. Your gaze lingers on his handsome features as you round the corner, longing to return to his office and spend the rest of your days by his side. His golden hues meet yours, with obvious curiosity swirling beneath the surface, but you turn away; lest you be tempted to run into his arms.

Unbeknownst to you, he smiles softly in your direction as your figure disappears around the corner.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

Jing Yuan’s massive pile of paperwork has him holed up in his office today. You’re sitting beside him as you two participate in a drinking game.

You both alternate taking sips of the alcohol in front of you, seeing if he can finish his paperwork before he gets drunk or if you’ll get drunk first.

Spoiler alert: you’re losing. Horribly.

Jing Yuan continues to work as you two drink. From the looks of it he appears to be completely unaffected as he continues to scour the words on the pages.

As your finger traces the rim of the glass your hooded eyes languidly trail over Jing Yuan’s body. He has an elegant flair about him no matter what he’s doing, but this is the first time you’ve seen him intently focused on something.

He continues to write as your eyes devour him. His free hand moves to rest comfortably on your thigh.

“Love?” His voice sends shivers down your spine, and his hand on your thigh incites you to lean into him further.

His eyes leave the paper to take you in. Your beautiful eyes are full of passion for him. He chuckles as he leans in to press a tantalizing kiss to your lips.

His breath brushes against your cheek when he pulls away, a soft laugh leaving his delicious lips. “It seems like I’m the winner this time around, dear.”

Jing Yuan leans in to kiss you once more. When you two part once more, you steel yourself. You take a deep breath to let go of your inhibitions; you work up the courage to finally speak your mind. The alcohol in your system helps give you the boost of confidence you need.

“I love you.”

Your words are no louder than a whisper, yet they cause his body to freeze as his lips brush against yours.

Hah.

Ain’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard?

If it weren’t for the alcohol, you’d be chiding yourself right now. How could you say something like that, knowing it’ll shatter this tentative relationship you have with the general?

The alluring moans of your name he’ll grace you with during make out sessions, and his heavy breaths as his greedy hands explore the expanse of your exposed skin both indicate Jing Yuan’s feelings for you are true.

Yet the general hasn’t told anyone about your relationship, and it makes you think he doesn’t see you as someone he’d like to spend his life with.

You kept silent and settled for late night rendezvous whenever Jing Yuan snuck away from his duties.

But now, you want more. You want to be his, openly and forever. You hold your breath as you look into his eyes that are swirling with emotion.

You can’t and won’t take back your confession, and now all there is it do is wait for his response and your inevitable heartbreak.

Jing Yuan shuts his eyes for a moment as he takes a deep breath. When his eyes open once more, your heart lurches.

He’s grinning like a devil.

A velvety chuckle leaves his lips, but he remains silent. He dips towards you, and soon his lips hover over yours.

You shut your eyes as you indulge in what may be your last kiss with the general of the Luofu. However, your eyes shoot open in surprise as you feel Jing Yuan’s lips are pressing against your neck.

“..General?” You yelp when he nips the skin of your neck. You look down to see unbridled passion in his eyes. “It’s Jing Yuan to you.” His lips continue to graze your neck, and as he presses another kiss to your sensitive skin you decide to voice your thoughts.

“Jing Yuan.. does this mean you don’t want me to be a secret anymore? We can.. be open about our relationship?” Jing Yuan’s lips pause briefly before they gently suck on the skin of your neck.

You shut your eyes as his name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper. He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are warm as they stare into yours. “Yes, sweetheart. To be honest, it’s not that you were ever a secret to be kept. You seemed hesitant to define what we have, so I willingly took things slow. ..Even if that meant a bit of sneaking around. I wanted to give you the opportunity to see if this is something you really want, so to hear you say you love me.. well..”

You’re sure your facial expression is comical, eyes wide and mouth agape, as you take in the adorable blush on Jing Yuan’s cheeks. His eyes flick up to meet yours before they lower once more. “I.. I love you too. I have for a long time now.” Jing Yuan smiles as he reassures you, and your eyes water as you finally register the meaning of his words.

“So..so you weren’t ashamed to be seen with me? You want to be with me, openly?” Jing Yuan can only muster a sound of surprise at your words.

He’s honestly a bit shocked. He didn’t anticipate you taking his actions in that way. “Of course not. I’m grateful that life blessed me by introducing me to you. You were never a secret to me; you are the one I want to cherish for the duration of this long life I have. If you’ll have me, that is.”

The tears are falling now, his sweet words alleviate all of your previous doubts. You throw your arms around him. The move was so sudden you catch him by surprise, and since the both of you are a bit tipsy he falls onto his back.

His eyes shine with love as he looks up at the love of his life, happily laughing at how clumsy the both of you are.

As you lean in to give him a kiss, he closes his eyes, grateful for the wonderful blessing that you are.

[that-ari-blogger]

Galinda's True Colours

One key theme in Wicked is superficiality. The world of Oz is a place where honest conversation is difficult to come by. Almost everyone is pretending to be something, or believe something, or have something, all to get what they want.

Popular approaches this theme with the subtlety of a hyperactive wrecking ball and gives a musical monologue about how this world works, and why.

Because Galinda has been portrayed as ditsy up to this point, with a bit of the self-serving schemer archetype thrown in for flavour. But here, we see just how intelligent she is. Galinda has caught on to how the world works, and understands what buttons to push.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD (Wicked)

The first element to be brought under examination is Wicked's love for subverting expectations. By this, I mean that certain mindsets in the world have stereotypes associated with them, take idealism and cynicism for example.

From what I have observed, when a writer wants to use one of these archetypes, they will probably draw on a few common ideas. The former is usually portrayed as stary-eyed and naive, or unflinchingly positive. Cynicism meanwhile has a certain sarcasm to it. A cynic might feature a permanent scowl and a dry remark as a kneejerk reaction to anything.

In short, Cynics are usually written to be villains who are overcome by hopeful heroes, or to be heroes who are proven right by a world where hope is meaningless. Idealists on the other hand are either heroes who make the world a better place by sheer force of goodness, or naive fools who the world breaks down.

Obviously, there are exceptions to the rule, but those exceptions are mostly more developed characters in their own right, so the label of "a cynic" doesn't really fit them. Batman is an idealist (when he's written properly).

What is fascinating about Wicked is how the characters are presented. Elphaba is introduced as cynical, she fits the archetype to a tea. But after a musical number, her character swaps entirely. She keeps the sarcasm, but the hopefulness becomes a driving force that goes against the stereotype.

Galinda is... introduced as a bit of a ditz. She's got an ego, she gets what she wants all of the time, she has a well-known family. She's the generic rich kid, essentially. Fiyero gets the same treatment.

For the record, By Galinda, I mean young Glinda, and I am treating them as separate entities until they meet back up.

Anyway, when Galinda starts singing, her real worldview becomes clear. It's possible to argue that it wasn't particularly hidden to begin with, but in Popular, she bludgeons you over the head with it.

"Celebrated heads of state Or 'specially great communicators Did they have brains or knowledge? Don't make me laugh! They were popular! Please, it's all about popular! It's not about aptitude It's the way you're viewed"

As much as I despise it, Galinda is kinda right here.

In 1964, Henry Littlefield published an essay in the American Quarterly titled The Wizard of Oz: Parable on Populism in which he gave some opinions on a theoretical metaphor inherent in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz book (if you don't want to read it, TedEd has a video discussing it and its legacy). He claimed that it was an inherently political book about the time Baum wrote it.

The sparkly new world looks even better if you put on tinted glasses, and only works if you understand that the wizard's power is empty, so Littlefield proposed.

Scholars since have praised, debated, and debunked Littlefield's essay. Pointing out the fact that this is pattern recognition with hindsight, in the same way that you can look to the stars and see a goat.

Essentially, there is an argument for The Wonderful Wizard of Oz being political, and there is an argument (most famously made by its Baum himself) that it is just a children's book.

Wicked is a satire, and not a children's book, so it gets away with some heavy insinuation, but to avoid landmines and a lack of knowledge on my own part, I am going to talk exclusively about how this affects the land of Oz itself, rather than its implications for the real world. Please don't argue in the replies.

So, Galinda's hypothesis here is that the leaders of Oz do not get to where they are because of any actual skill, but rather because they were well liked by either the people, or their superiors. She gets proven right about this throughout the musical. Madam Morrible moves up in the world by presenting Elphaba to the wizard, the Wizard gained power by giving Oz a common enemy, and Galinda and Fiyero themselves gain status seemingly out of nowhere.

In Oz, it doesn't matter what you know, but who you know, and who knows you.

In the show that I watched, Galinda was played by Courtney Monsma, who knocked this number out of the park. Galinda is an incredibly cynical character, but Monsma played her with what I can only describe as "manic pixie energy", which circles back to Wicked's idea of superficiality.

Because the ditzy pantomime of Galinda present in What is this Feeling and half of Dancing Through Life is nothing compared to the madness that is Popular. This is a character who knows exactly how to toss her hair to get what she wants, who knows how to make people think she is something she isn't.

Monsma played a character who was well aware that perception would get her further in life than intelligence, and was having fun with that confidence. But she is actually clever, Galinda has picked up on this fact that everyone else has just accepted subconciously, but now she can explain it.

This song feels like a hyper fixation rant. The frantic obsession was a mere outlet for the excitement of finally being able to speak to this worldview head on to someone who she respects and knows will actually understand her. This song feels like Galinda and Elphaba are on emotional and intellectual equal footing.

This song is also part of my case for Wicked as a queer musical that only works as a story because the romance doesn't. As in, this is a story about a romance that could have been, and that romance reads as queer to me. I will get more into it next week, but for now, I will say this:

This song doesn't matter, and that's exactly why it does matter.

This is the moment when Elphaba and Galinda connect, and share. This is Galinda trying to give back for the wand and make up for her previous behaviour to make Elphaba less of an outcast. But she has already done that.

The moment at the end of Dancing Through Life when Elphaba and Galinda share the spotlight, when Galinda makes herself look like a fool to match Elphaba, when she lets the outcast lead, and the rest of the room goes along with it. That moment is when the romance is kicked off, that is the moment when she starts making amends. That is the moment when she starts to make Elphaba less of a social pariah.

That dance renders Popular superfluous, or at least it does on paper. In reality, this song is doing a lot of heavy lifting in the foreshadowing department, even more so than What is this Feeling, in my most humble of opinions.

Popular happens because Galinda is right about so much in her world, but wrong about the most important thing. Brains and knowledge are irrelevant in Oz, perception is powerful, but empathy rules them all.

Galinda gives this big show of how amazing she is for helping people. Look at her, she's so good. But, Elphaba doesn't care about that, and Galinda does. The romance doesn't work in the end because Galinda realises too late that in the big scheme of things, superficiality is nowhere near as fulfilling as connection. That's why her romance with Fiyero breaks off, and its why her romance with Elphaba is doomed. She only realises this when both options are off the table.

The romance between Elphaba and Galinda breaks apart, but it can only do that because it was there to begin with. You can't tear down nothing.

You could read the relationship as entirely platonic, a friendship that breaks down. But art is subjective, and to me, the romance makes this story so much more compelling.

Final Thoughts

Popular is a popular song in the fanbase. It's an absolute bop, but it's also one of the simplest numbers in the entire production. The set is two beds, there is no fancy dancing, just one character sitting still and the other jumping around like she's on springs. The set doesn't change, there are no extra characters, nothing.

This song doesn't let anything distract from the character drama that is going on in centre stage, so that the audience can take in what is actually being said and done.

Next week, I am taking a look at I'm Not That Girl, and I will being going all in on the queer reading of this musical. Although, that is a heterosexual love song, right? How could that be queer? I have thoughts, so stick around if that interests you.

Previous - Next

(Images were sourced from this video)

[tycarstairs]

ready to fight for my life for ty blackthorn when twp is released because the way people are already infantilizing and patronizing him bc he’s autistic is so….

no one asked for this but i’ve seen a lot of people have weird takes on his autism so as an autistic woman i need to clear some things up ok 😭 so buckle up, this is gonna be a long one (seriously, it’s long)

the main arguments i’ve seen are: (i’m paraphrasing here btw)

“ty didn’t cry when livvy died but he did cry when kit said he wished he’d never known him so it’s clear that he does love kit.”

and

“ty clearly loves kit because he cried when they argued and it’s hard for autistic people to cry.”

and

“ty gets on my nerves because he didn’t react at all when kit told him he loved him”

like. i do get what you’re saying (with the first one. not the second one, that’s a stereotype, and also not the third one bc that’s just weird), because it does show that ty cares but like. obviously? all his actions before that showed that he cared too.

saying “he cried when him and kit fought but not when livvy died” just comes off as acting like he’s more upset about kit leaving and insulting him than he is about kit dying and that just rubs me the wrong way.

i know this is not common knowledge but autistic people often have delayed processing, especially when we’re grieving because it can be so overstimulating and even when we do grieve, it’s not gonna look the same as when an allistic person grieves.

so, delayed processing:

delayed processing in autism is where you are recording/aknowledge events as they happen, however that information is stored elsewhere in the brain and isn't taken in.

once the brain is ready or has capacity the information is suddenly taken in. this could be hours, weeks, days or even months later.

an example (from justkeepstimming_ on instagram):

An autistic person whose mother died at quite a young age. At the time, when his father was grieving, it did not appear the autistic son was upset.

However, one year after his mother's death, he suddenly processed that she was gone (permanently) and only then started the grieving process.

that example is pretty much exactly what happened with ty in qoaad.

partly, ty didn’t cry when livvy died because he didn’t accept that she was dead. he was so sure that he was gonna bring her back and for a long time, he probably didn’t even consider the fact that he might fail.

after livvy dies, kit says this:

“Everyone had been terrified. Ty would fall apart, they’d thought. Kit remembered Julian standing over Ty as he slept, one hand stroking his brother’s hair, and he’d been praying—Kit didn’t even know Shadowhunters prayed, but Julian definitely had been. Ty would crumble in a world without his sister, they’d all thought; he’d fall away to ashes just like Livvy’s body.”

if ty were allistic, he probably would have reacted like this immediately. and he does react like this eventually when his brain fully processes that the ritual didn’t work, that livvy is actually not coming back:

“Livvy!” Ty didn’t scream the word so much as it was ripped from him; he curled up, hugging himself, as if desperate to keep his body from shattering apart.”

this is when ty actually processes that his sister is gone. so saying, “ty didn’t cry when his sister died but he cried when him and kit fought” as if it’s some really romantic thing that he was sadder about kit leaving than livvy dying (which is not true) is just iffy because it’s such a stereotype and a misconception that autistic people don’t seem to care at all when people die, and way too many people from this fandom are feeding into that so much.

and ty does show is grieving throughout qoaad but because it’s not in the allistic way, a lot of readers don’t recognize it.

(i was actually so positively surprised to see that cassandra clare, an allistic woman, wrote the grieving process for an autistic character—and everything else about being autistic tbh—so well but it gives me so much hope for twp)

for example, autistic people (this is obviously not all autistic people as all autistic people are different but i'm just listing the signs i've seen in ty in qoaad) when they're grieving might show their grief gradually in more subtle ways by hurting themselves, emotionally or physically, which ty does do:

"The only person he was unkind to, Kit thought, was himself."

and we also see in gotsm that ty is continuously punishing himself because he is still grieving. livvy is simultaneously there and dead, and ty has to live with both the grief of her death and the guilt of her being stuck as a ghost.

there's also the fact that kit observes that ty starts keeping secrets and doing things alone, which is also common when trying to process emotions that haven’t fully caught up yet:

“In the past days, though, since Julian and Emma had woken up, Ty had been harder to find. If he was working on something, he hadn’t included Kit in it—a thought that hurt with surprising intensity.”

like. ty is pulling away because he is trying to process everything that’s happening. him excluding kit is very likely a symptom of some kind of delayed grief because it’s very unlike him to exclude kit from anything, as we can see when he says multiple times outright that he doesn’t want to do things without kit.

just because it’s more subtle than breaking down into tears doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel it at all. it’s more likely that he simply feels too much and is shutting down because of it.

and of course his grief is gonna be subtle when he hasn’t even accepted and processed the fact that she’s dead yet.

and yes, he cried when kit told him he wished he’d never met him but that is so different because there was no room for denial. kit told him that word for word, the processing wasn’t delayed this time because there wasn’t really that much to process.

ty truly believed right away that his only friend wished he had never known him, and when livvy died he didn’t accept that she was dead. those things are different and pitting them against each other is weird.

so, onto the second argument/misconception i’ve seen that:

“ty clearly loves kit because he cried when they argued and it’s hard for autistic people to cry.”

this is a misconception stemming from the stereotype that autistic people are emotionless. yes, some autistic people might have a harder time crying because of shutdowns etc. but generalizing it to it’s hard for autistic people to cry is just wrong, especially because this has never been implied about ty in the text.

in fact, it’s the opposite:

“Ty heard everything twice as loud and fast as everyone else. The headphones and the music, Kit sensed, were a buffer: They deadened not just other noises, but also feelings that would otherwise be too intense. They protected him from hurt.

He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live so intensely, to feel things so much, to have the world sway into and out of too-bright colors and too-bright noises. When every sound and feeling was jacked up to eleven, it only made sense to calm yourself by concentrating all your energy on something small that you could master—a mass of pipe cleaners to unravel, the pebbled surface of a glass between your fingers.”

so implying that it’s harder for ty to either cry or feel sad is just wrong. kit notes that “every sound and feeling was jacked up to eleven”, and this includes ty’s grief. him not crying when livvy died has nothing to do with how much he may or may not be feeling and everything to do with how delayed his processing was.

and the third complaint of ty is frustrating because he didn’t react when kit told him he loved him.

first of all, i don’t know if it’s my autistic ass not understanding allistic people but is it not normal to be in shock when someone tells you they love you in the middle of a necromancy ritual???

and second of all, this scene from city of heavenly fire where julian says “i know it’s hard to understand, ty, but we love you” like it’s supposed to explain their actions and ty reacts like this:

Ty looked at him blankly. He knew what “I love you” meant, and he knew it was good, but he didn’t understand why it was an explanation for anything.”

ty looking at kit blankly in surprise in qoaad is not him “not reacting”, it’s him trying to process 1) what that has to do with anything and 2) why that would be an explanation or an argument as to why ty should stop the ritual.

(it is probably also partly because ty thought kit had feelings for livvy at this point but that’s just speculation so i won’t get into it now)

to kit, this was probably his way of saying that because he loves him, ty can stop the ritual and kit will help him with the aftermath.

to ty, kit’s confession made no sense in that moment because why would kit loving him mean that he should stop the ritual? and this was most likely also the moment when his grief was really starting to kick in, so that just adds to it.

yeah idk if anyone made it to the end but as you can tell, i have a lot to say and i’m tired of people romanticizing ty’s grief.

[phneltwrites]

Got some comments a while back asking me about how I do research for fic, so here are my two tips of dubious quality based on my own experience.

become an observer of habitual things

a bad detail is worse than no detail, take things out

I think stories feel well-researched or lived in when there's details that feel true and real to what those characters would be experiencing. But it can be hard to figure out what to include. That's usually when the research rabbit hole kicks in. Researching everything, trying to figure everything out but not knowing what to look for and ending up overwhelmed. And then! still not knowing what to include.

The counteragent to that is to look up the things that character would be eating, touching, using, travelling through as they are going about their life. And then including those things.

But figuring out those things is the hard part!!!

That's where I recommend really pausing and noticing mundane things. For example: Character A is walking down the street, finishing up a snack and then throws the wrapper into a garbage can.

If we break that down, there's a lot implied there, but I'll talk about one thing: the garbage can.

Streetside public garbage cans imply that there is a central authority responsible for garbage that will come and collect it and take it away. That's a monumental amount of civic infrastructure! So streetside public garbage is not a thing that exists most places in the world.

If you notice the things you do and then stop and ask yourself what systems need to be in place to make that thing happen, that can help point to where something might be different for your character. Those differences are opportunities to include small details that will make the work feel more lived in.

Become a person who pauses and notices. It'll make your research more targeted and manageable.

The more repeated an action is in your own life, the more invisible it becomes to you, and the more rich and depth you can give your writing if you challenge its normalcy.

Sometimes, though, you figure out something is probably a point of different but are like fuck me if I know what they do about garbage. So my other tip for writing things that feel well-researched is: omit details.

Character A doesn't have to do anything with that wrapper. They finish their snack and continue on towards the train.

I wrote a fic once that many lovely people said felt very true to the 90s and I was like heck yeah!!! I spent all my research points on 90s vibe research so that felt good. And then the second most common thing people said in the comments was that people in Seattle don't use umbrellas. It was a throwaway line that if I'd focused on being a noticer of habitual things, I might have thought about. But I'd been cocky about my knowledge of Seattle, a place that I've visited, and didn't pause. And that line threw a bunch of people out of the cocoon of 90s popcorn ceilings and screaming modems that I'd been weaving. It didn't need to be there and without it I could have kept up the illusion that I knew what I was talking about.

This doesn't just go for writing about places. For example, RICH PEOPLE DON'T BUY THEIR OWN GROCERIES. That man is NOT in a grocery store looking at basil he has people for that. What is the point of a dubious billionaire fantasy if he's acting like a middle manager i ask u.

So to sum up: pause before including any everyday actions and consider their implications. Find out if that character would do it differently.

And if you can't find out, then skip it.

[winterlogysblog]

4KOTA FANFIC

Note: I wrote this on a whim so it may not be good, but please enjoy

"Sin, what's wrong?" Nasiens asked, wondering why the small pink fox stopped walking.

Lancelot shook his head and started walking again. "It's nothing, I just remembered something, it's not anything you have to worry about."

He looks like them, the similarities are uncanny. He didn't think of too much in the looks department at first, it's just a coincidence he argued to himself but as days passed by he's sure of it... Nasiens... Nasiens is his cousin. He's the child his Uncle lost a long time ago, an event that tormented his heart and soul to this very day. Sometimes, he considers his heart reading to be a curse simply because he can hear everything, he can hear all the things that he shouldn't hear.

"Anne should calm down now." He changed the subject as quickly as he could.

"Yes, your method might be questionable but it certainly made her let out all of those feelings." Nasiens nodded. "Besides, what happened is quite unfortunate, losing his daughter like that."

Lancelot stayed silent for a while before hopping into the topic that would hopefully lead to his desired conversation.

"What about you? We're told that your grandfather found you in the Gorge, ever wonder about your real parents."

"I don't think my parents care about me anyway, they wouldn't abandon me like that if they did," Nasiens answered, glancing at Sin and wondering to himself what made the fox so chatty today.

"You're so sure about it, why is that?" Nasiens picked up a sudden shift in Sin's tone, it's like he's hurt.

"It's just... I can't help but think that they don't want anything to do with me. I mean, they left me in a forest, they probably think I'm already dead."

"Nasiens... Ever heard of a changeling."

"A changeling???"

"It's a ridiculous 'prank' that some fairies like to play where they would switch a fairy baby to a human baby, the Fairy King banned this practice, however, there are always some thick-headed miscreants who are too stupid to listen."

Nasiens gasped. "That's horrible!!"

"I know." Lancelot nodded.

"But, what does that have to do with... Do you mean to tell me that..."

"Don't jump to conclusions yet. I'm not certain, but it's a possibility."

"But, the others didn't tell me anything about this."

"They most likely didn't think of it that way," Sin answered.

"Then, why did you?"

Sin deeply sighed. "It's your magic... Mix Venom, it makes you completely immune to poisons right?" Nasiens nodded in response

"Immunity to poisons is rare in humans, it's commonly found in fairies though, and also one more thing... your scent."

"What about it?" Nasiens fiddled with his fingers, his curiosity about what Sin had been talking about turned to nervousness.

"A faint natural smell of Jasmine, quite interesting for a human."

"It's just a hunch, but you may just be a fairy, my friend." Sin chuckled. "But, what do I know!! It's your choice if you trust me or not."

Nasiens lowered his head. "The fairies in the forest also pointed that out when I was young but... I can't be a fairy!! I can't even fly or have wings!"

"Flightless fairies are surprisingly quite common, and as for the wings... I've been told that the Fairy King was once wingless."

"Sin... what exactly are you trying to say to me?"

"I dunno, like I said it's a hunch, you're found in a forest filled with fairies after all. It could be that your parents just lost you because of this stupid prank, fairy or not."

Nasiens smiled a bit, he didn't understand where it came from but he couldn't help but be glad at the idea of it. But a small thought did cross his mind.

"How do you know all this?" Nasiens asked.

"I'm acquainted with the Fairy King, he's quite knowledgeable about a lot of things."

"Really?! That's amazing!!"

While they're in the conversation of Fairies, Nasiens asks Sin a few things.

"What is he like?"

"Who?" Sin turned to Nasiens.

"The Fairy King, what is he like?" Nasiens asked.

Sin smiled warmly which Nasiens never thought was possible. The fox hopped up and rested on Nasiens' shoulder. "He's the kindest King I know." Sin started talking.

Nasiens smiles as Sin talks, seeing him like this makes Nasiens look at the creature from a different angle, Sin seems happy and cheery, Nasiens doesn't expect the ever-so-serious fox to laugh and giggle as he tells these stories.

"You seem to be more than acquainted with him you two seem to be rather close, for you to act as you do."

Sin chuckles. "I'll probably introduce you guys to him someday."

"Okay, you don't have to go that far." Nasiens sweated nervously.

[hannahbisssssss]

I love how in your headcanons for patrick and art, you wrote the opposite of what someone would expect for both of them. I think it makes a lot of sense! I see it very well.

I don’t have any specific requests but i’d love to see anything related to patrick 🙈

(I'm gonna be a little self-serving with this one. I LOVE supernatural headcannons, especially where they don't belong. SO ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE TO YOU...)

Werewolf! Patrick Zweig x reader

He's so pretty ghfhfdhdhgkd

Can't keep his eyes off you when you first meet at the Adidas party.

Art is googoo eyes for Tashi, which leaves more of you for him.

In this au, it's common knowledge that the supernatural exist.

When Patrick approaches you with that cocky sideways smile, you can't help but smirk back.

OF COURSE you've heard about the ace-serving, cocky werewolf player who DOMINATES on the court.

"So... y/l/n... when are you going pro?"

"Probably when I see you chase the tennis ball for the first time."

Patrick is INTO IT.

"A dog joke, huh? Wow, I didn't take you for one to discriminate."

There's a long pause.

You both laugh.

You reach your hand out to shake.

"Y/N."

"Patrick."

You both hit it off that night.

So much so that Patrick makes Art find a different room for him and Tashi that night.

It starts out slow and sensual. You occasionally reach over to take a drag of your cigarette.

"Come on, Zweig, I know you want to go harder than that."

He LOVES the encouragement.

"I don't want to hurt you."

It just kind of slips out. (The words not his dick.)

He's never been so forward about wanting to be intimate with someone. ESPECIALLY someone who knows what he is.

He's just afraid he'll go too hard and end up hurting you.

"I think you'll be gentle even if you go a little harder. I trust you."

Those words... Oh my god.

I trust you.

Patrick is ALL over that.

He starts to go a little harder, pushing in and out of you at a steadfast pace.

He can't help it when he starts to sniff at your collarbone, loving the scent of your perfume mixed with your natural scent.

It urges him forward.

His hips start to snap forward, making incredibly lewd noises heard throughout the hotel.

"Fuck, honey, you're treating me so well."

You LOVE hearing those words.

You pet his hair back and let him nuzzle into your skin.

He's in love with your scent.

He allows his instincts to take over a bit as he continues to speed up.

Finally, as he gets close, he starts to pant and moan a bit more.

You can't help but blush and squirm a bit with some of the noises buried in your neck.

You start to whine.

He starts to groan.

He cums first, but keeps up his pace to allow you to finish.

Can't help but go down on you for a taste.

"It's an experiment in seeing if we mix well."

Nasty. (You know you love it.)

[sentienttoastah]

Trying out new art styles. Whale skeletons are very cool :) And of course it wouldn’t be complete without the usage of the colour green for no reason in particular (Spoilers: I think I like the colour green).

Thoughts on Moby Dick for today: A bit of the cetology chapters and a bit of Ishmael! Because… Whale.

We all know there’s copious amounts of whale anatomy lessons in Moby Dick, some of which are true and some are more outdated. This is usually the least favourite part of the book for many people, and understandably so. It can be annoying for those who only read for the story and probably even more annoying for people who are actually interested or knowledgeable on the modern topic of cetaceans (or marine biology in general I mean like Ishmael called a seal (or was it a walrus? I forgot) an amphibian I don’t think I have to elaborate).

But I’ve always thought the way Ishmael narrates the story, even though it’s through a book, is as if you were actually there sitting in front of him while he tells you the tale. Like listening to an actual sailor ramble about the ocean. Like a one-sided conversation, you could say. It just gives those vibes. That feeling of a naturally flowing conversation was actually what kept me really interested in the book because even though he barely talks about himself you can feel a kind of connection to Ishmael.

So if we were to treat it like him actually telling you all of this in one sitting on the spot I thought wouldn’t it make sense for him to want to avoid the worst parts of the story? So he drags it out before getting to the sad part. Or alternatively, the more logical explanation is the fact it’s a sailor telling a story about the sea to a land dweller so of course he would want to give them quick context notes. And especially considering the time this book was first published many people were unaware about even the basic facts of a whale.

Because among the many reasons Melville wrote Moby Dick was to educate people on the wonders of whales. And he succeeded! …Partially. He might not be the one we should give all of our credit to for the research of whales but at the very least he sparked a kind of curiosity in the common people back in the day. Sure it’s outdated but he tried his best and I think that’s very cool :) shout out to Herman Melville for that.

Oh oh wait! I just thought of something. We can also view it as Ishmael writing a personal diary instead of being an actual book to publish to many. That works well too, and gives him more reason to want to drag out the tale. He’s not just writing about their death and demise he’s writing about their lives to remember as well. A diary.

But on a different note, since I think that whole previous subject is already commonly thought about enough by Moby Dick readers;

Whale skeletons like I mentioned before are very cool too. But at the same time they kinda freak me out. Cause it looks like both a fish and a mammal at the same time. The skull especially reminds me of I think horses or other medium sized quadrupedal herbivores?? And the fingers are freaky too. The fingers are the freakiest. I’m sure if you showed them to someone who has never seen a whale skeleton they’d be very confused or scared. Maybe both.

But it really is curious to see the remnants of their land dwelling days through their bones!

[ritens]

∞ Arisen & Pawn Character Introductions

Original template by @arisenreborn

Probably will come back to edit this at some point. I wrote it while numbed out of my mind from medicine.

♛ THE ARISEN:

NAME: Raures AGE: 123 (whatever that means) RACE: Elf PRONOUNS: he/him PREFERRED VOCATION: Magic Archer FAVORED GIFTS: fish, selfmade things FAMILY: no longer in the picture. They fell to the dragon.

POSITIVE TRAITS: gentle, keeps his word, patient, hard-working NEGATIVE TRAITS: stubborn, huge flirt, gullible LIKES: fishing, exploring and gathering materials for various craft projects. DISLIKES: rainy muddy days

1. What was their life like before becoming Arisen?

Rau lived with his parents away from other elves. They preferred a more simple but labor-intensive life among humankind’s common folk. Father was a hunter and taught Rau the way of the magic archer. Mother was a mender with a great knowledge of medicinal herb usage. Humans taught Rau archery and thief skills for wilderness survival. He also learned their language.

The family moved towns and villages every 10 years to conceal the aging differences between the two races, essentially avoiding the possibility of becoming chiefs or other figures with higher responsibility.

Raures became Arisen in an attempt at buying time for his parents to escape the burning village. The attempt was unsuccessful but the dragon deemed him worthy.

2. How do they handle being Arisen, and the responsibilities that come with it?

He is mourning the family he lost but even so he does his best to move forward and do what is expected of an Arisen despite his pawn’s chagrin. He doesn’t fully grasp what he’s doing, just feels like he has to.

3. What are their thoughts on Pawns in general?

Pawn rights activist. He finds all of them to be quite cute.

4. What's their relationship like with their main Pawn?

Rau opted to “adopt” an existing pawn to be his main instead of shaping his own perfect image of a pawn to avoid bias. The two have a lot of opposing opinions on matters and Rau has no idea that Lane already has a bit of his own will which he's maintained from master to master throughout his conscious life.

Raures sees Lane's episodes of fear and paranoia as normal pawn behaviour, but treats his companion with care and respect no matter what may come up. He is very fond of Lane and forbids the pawn from traversing the rift to other worlds to assist other Arisen who may call upon him. He doesn’t want Lane to end up as brutalized as he was when Rau first met him.

5. Do they have any interest in being Sovran? What are their opinions on the politics of the world in general?

He’s too much of a farmboy to care much about what goes on in the life of the rich and noble. The prospect of being Sovran seems exhausting to Rau, but if need be, he would take on the role. But avoid spending much time at the palace. It’s also likely Lane would hold him back from all this mumbo jumbo anyway.

6. Who are their love interest(s) and/or closest friends?

Rau’s closest companion is obviously his pawn. He doesn’t form lasting relationships with people aside from the local baker. And he indulges in short lived dalliances now and then.

7. What drew them to their preferred vocation? Do they have history with it? 

He keeps pursuing the way of the Magic Archer as a way to honour his elven roots but isn’t bound to just one vocation. Survival asks for many skills and he hones whatever he can.

8. Do they have any hobbies? Any way of relaxing between all that monster-slaying and traveling?

Suck and fuck. He enjoys fishing a great deal which is a rather fruitful hobby as it’s fun and it provides food. Rau has been making birch skin baskets and other tools since childhood. Originally picked up the craft to avoid buying these items in bigger cities as travel by oxcart often ends up being catastrophic. Now as an Arisen who is constantly on the move, he makes the baskets and leaves them as gifts for the villagers he happens to visit.

♟︎ THE PAWN:

NAME: Lane AGE: appears young adult RACE: human PRONOUNS: he/him PREFERRED VOCATION: Thief FAVORED GIFTS: soft warm clothes, bread INCLINATION: Calm

POSITIVE TRAITS: clever, creative, humble, observant NEGATIVE TRAITS: withdrawn, fearful, unreliable, low self-esteem LIKES: bread, Raures, afternoon naps DISLIKES: stale bread, being manhandled, loud people

1. What was their life like prior to being summoned by their Arisen?

Lane served many Arisen. His first was Amaury from Gransys who summoned him in the shape of their deceased brother. The pawn ended up a tad corpse-like in appearance and while it didn’t bother Amaury at first, it eventually resulted in them becoming uncomfortable once they accepted the fact their real brother is gone for good. By that time Lane had already developed his own bit of will, and sapped enough of the Arisen’s spirit to also develop Amaury’s negative emotions (and even a streak of their golden locks of hair). Lane ended up killing his own master out of fear during an argument.

He didn’t return beyond the rift afterwards and became a street rat who survived by using his strider->thief abilities to steal from people.

Plagued by aimlessness the pawn answered the summons of other Arisen in other worlds who would order him around, sometimes harshly and cruelly. But the pawn desperately desired a sense of purpose and so he went with the flow, ignoring his human aspects as best as he could.

2. What is their opinion on the Arisen? How do they view their relationship?

Lane was stunned when he first saw who had summoned him in Vermund. The face of his second Arisen from ages past in a different world. The first Rau had summoned him and made Lane his main pawn in a similar fashion. He was Lane’s favorite master. But, unfortunately, he fell in battle against the dragon.

As Lane learns more of this Vermundian Rau, he gets more and more determined to prevent the same outcome that his former master was fated to meet. Lane selfishly and desperately clings to Raures and does everything he can to get the Arisen to settle and let someone else take the wheel of the cycle.

3. Is there anything about the Arisen they find troublesome?

The pawn is very much bothered by the Arisen’s frequent visits to the Bordelrie though he won’t say a word about it. The Arisen does get treated to a cold shoulder for it though.

4. What is their specialization and is there any story behind how they cultivated that skill set?

Raures taught Lane elvish language as a bonding exercise. But now Lane uses the skill to listen in on conversations he has no business knowing about.

5. Do they have any thoughts on the politics of the world and their place in it as a Pawn - or how Pawns are treated?

He accepts things as they are for the most part but has his low moments where he wishes more people treated him as something other than a resource.

6. Does their journey with the Arisen change them in any significant way and how?

Though he himself doesn’t realize it, Raures helps Lane calm down and open up to the joys of life outside servitude. Lane learns what fun is, what friendship is and what it means to love unconditionally. He begins to stand up for himself.

7. Is there a reason they chose their preferred vocation?

Lane is a thief in the literal sense of the word. He had to get by while Masterless and he did so by stealing.

8. Do they have any hobbies or preferred past-times? 

During his time on the streets post-Amaury Lane picked up drawing with coal on cobblestones and has since moved on to other mediums and continues to hone his art skills. He usually scribbles sceneries and detailed drawings of plants, but lately has been toying with human silhouettes as well.

[effervescentbee]

More punkflower rambles because the panic still hasn't set in

So miles likes to draw his crushes, right? He'll fill his sketchbooks with just that person and draw them on walls while doing graffiti, but what if him drawing his crushes didn't end at that?

We've all drawn on a school paper or in our notebooks at least once, just absentmindedly doodling while the teacher talks and stuff. So, what if miles drew Hobie on his assignments in class?

What if, before he met Hobie and still had a crush on Gwen she would be the person who he constantly drew on his assignments. His teachers would recognize her since she briefly went to the school and in the teachers lounge they would sometimes bring it up

They'd be like "you know that miles kids? Yeah, the one that draws Gwen all the time" and it was just common knowledge between the teachers that it wasn't possible to grade an assignment of his without seeing a Gwen drawing

Then miles disappears for a few days while the whole spot thing is happening and when he gets back he has a mountain of work to catch up on. By this time he doesn't have a crush on Gwen anymore so when he turns all his work in it's without any Gwen drawings

The teachers are a bit shocked by this but ignore it and assume it's because he had so much work and couldn't afford to waste a single second

Then a days go by and the lack of Gwen drawing is really bizarre to them. They talk about it a bit in the teachers lounge but they don't do much cause it isn't their place to be interrogating him about his love life

Then miles begins drawing Hobie on his school work. The teachers are again shocked and once again talk a bit about it. It quickly becomes the new normal to see drawings on Hobie everywhere on his assignments

One day there would be a 'new student' roaming the halls. The teachers see him the first day he arrives and don't pay any attention to him because he isn't in any of their classes

They get suspicious when they realize that they see this kid inconsistently and they've never seen him go into a class, they only see him at lunch hanging out with Miles or in the halls

They then realize that he's the guy miles has been drawing and that he's not supposed to be at the school at all.

Once they realize this that they can't just let them wander into the school whenever he wants because safety issues and stuff so every week there's a chase for Hobie by the security guards

Miles of course gets interrogated about this cause he obviously knows Hobie but he refuses to say anything and insists he doesn't know him

Then one day security catch Hobie and bring miles into the office and interrogate them again but they both deny knowing each other

The principal then pulls out a box full of miles classwork that has drawings of Hobie and so they're caught

And Hobie is shocked and forever teases miles about that and miles is threatened by the school with detention and a call home if they catch Hobie at school again

Ngl I wrote all that just because the idea of the principal placing a stack of papers with a bunch of Hobie drawing Infront of miles and Hobie is so funny to me

I went into this with only the goal of incorporating that part and Ive just been going on and on about the first thing that pops into my mind and this probably makes no sense

[blues824]

Hellooo!!! Could I request a Ciel x Fem!Reader where Reader is extremely intelligent and witty. Like she is so smart brooo. She reads HUGE books and can quote almost anything from any book, can solve any math problem, and is literally just a fucking genius. She’s very quiet and very observant too. Please ignore if needed, no pressure at all!<3

love ya!🤍

Love you too! And just so y’all know, this is how I am irl, but it depends. If I’m with people who I am comfortable with, you can tack on sarcastic to the end of the description. We’re also gonna ignore his engagement to Lizzie for the sake of this request.

Ciel Phantomhive

You both probably met at one of the Queen’s royal balls. As the youngest member of a noble family, you had to. It was mostly so your father could find another noble family of the same rank who had an unwed and unbetrothed son for you to be afianced to.

When Ciel saw you, he had to admit that you looked absolutely breathtaking. Oh, how he wished that he could properly waltz just so he could lead you out on the dance floor. But, he opted to walk up to you to start a conversation. Sebastian had the smuggest smile.

“My lady”, he took your hand in his, bowed, and placed a soft kiss on the back of it. You were a bit flustered, but you managed to brush it off. I mean, it wasn’t everyday that the head of the Phantomhive household walks up to you out of all people.

“My lord”, you gave a polite and graceful curtsy. He led you over to the table that held food. He explained that since his parents died, he was never truly given the time to be taught to dance and to excuse him for it. You both got a few sweets on your plates before you stepped aside.

You both had a deep conversation about a case that the Queen had you both working on (but didn’t tell either of you). He was very pleasantly surprised at your competence and common sense, as well as being able to piece together the evidence that he brought to you.

Once the ball was over and everyone was leaving for their carriages, Ciel escorted you arm-in-arm to your carriage to assure your safety. However, before you got in, you leaned towards his ear and whispered something.

I know that Sebastian is a demon.

He went wide-eyed as you acted like nothing happened. You even gave him a peck on the cheek as his butler helped you into the carriage. He made a note to formally invite you over to the Manor the following day so that you both could continue your conversation.

Once he did, you came and you were both locked in his office for hours working on the case. When you visited the Undertaker, he mistook you both as Mr. and soon-to-be-Mrs. Ciel Phantomhive. It was rather embarrassing for the both of you, but it made him laugh 🤷‍♀️.

After a mutual agreement between the two of you, he wrote a letter to your parents saying that he would be glad to be betrothed to you. Of course, the recipients of said letter were beyond ecstatic that their daughter had found a nice and respectable (see: powerful and wealthy) man.

Sebastian often catches you reading many different books in many different languages to Ciel to get him to calm down after a stressful day. Your fiancé is always impressed by the sheer amount of knowledge you store in that wonderful mind of yours.

You would often stick around and help Sebastian with his lessons. You set up a game where for every question he gets right, he gets to choose between receiving a sweet or receiving a kiss from you. I think we all know what his choice is here.

You very rarely get into arguments with each other, but when you do, you’ll wait until you’re both calmed down and you will talk through the issue like responsible young adults. You have both learned from each other and grew more mature with each passing day.

Each and every day, where one goes, they are not without the other in their arm. You both look like a young married couple with how lovingly you both look at each other. The love you have reminds everyone of the love Ciel’s parents had when they were alive.

[sepublic]

            I’m probably late in suggesting this but… King James I published a whole book about witches, a guide of sorts, called Daemonologie. Published in 1597, it saw another reprint when he became king in 1603. James was said to have a fascination with witches and demons, to the point that it’s claimed Shakespeare wrote in an additional scene with the witches in Macbeth to pander to James’ tastes. The thing is…

         James thought witches were evil. And his Daemonologie book explained how to recognize witches, how they worked, the animal familiars they used, all that stuff, ultimately to give witch-hunters an idea of how to find and kill them; Because the main solution to witchcraft in this book was execution. Daemonologie was meant to expose the existence of witchcraft to the common people, and prove it.

         Philip and Caleb Wittebane entered Old Gravesfield in the year 1613. Just a decade after the Royal Re-Release of Understanding Witches (So you can kill them). Philip documents a lot of the stuff he sees in the Boiling Isles, to a scientific degree, cataloguing, categorizing, etc. And in the first diary entry we hear, Philip ruminates on how he wishes humanity could see the Boiling Isles and understand…

         @fermented-writers-block already suggested this to me a while back, the idea that Philip initially wrote his journal as proof of witchcraft and especially the demon realm’s existence, so he could convince people to help him eradicate the alleged threat, and/or prove he went on a successful crusade that saved the world. Granted, the people of Gravesfield seemed like earnest believers by that point, but I can imagine Philip taking real-life inspiration from King James I to convince others around the globe, who may not be as receptive to his claims.

         Anyhow, I think it deeply re-contextualizes our understanding of Philip’s diary entries in a complete 180 way; Most of us were under the initial impression that Philip’s fascination stemmed from a place of genuine wonder, curiosity, and appreciation for the Boiling Isles. But knowing he’s a witch hunter, it seems his interest came from a place of condemnation; Wanting to understand the witches so he could kill them. Whether James actually believed in witchcraft, I’m not sure, but to Philip, it was lore contributing to his favorite game of destroying the Bad Guys; Cowboys VS Indians, basically. The Collector accuses Philip of having fun destroying Grimwalkers, and they’re not even his main target.

         It’s a borderline fetishistic attitude towards witches; Philip is enamored, he wants to know and understand and figure them out. But he’s so deeply committed to dehumanizing and hating them, wanting their utter annihilation. Witches exist as the enemy NPCs in a video game where Philip immerses himself into their lore and in-universe dialogue, even as he slaughters them in droves. It’s a sick and sadistic pleasure at the expense of others he loathes, paradoxical in the way fetishization is; Philip’s previously-shown interest is not a contradiction, at least not from a writing perspective.

         It works as a way to trick the viewer while still making total sense. A brief outside glimpse might suggest to the unsuspecting that Philip DOES like witchcraft, but no, he’s an objectifying colonizer who wants to own and appropriate, not learn and engage with on the same, humble level as a learner. Philip sees himself as a conqueror looting knowledge instead of riches from his victims, and he gets just that from people like Luz and the Collector.

         He doesn’t really understand what he’s playing with and he doesn’t want to; He’s the White Dude who indulges in ethnic stereotypes and cuisine, in the tourist-y commodification of cultures, while at the same time voting for minorities to be outlawed. I would even compare Philip to a trophy hunter, knowing all the stuff about his prey, writing comprehensive guides… all for the purpose of how to kill and destroy them, as part of some big game.

        I get the feeling that Philip ultimately WANTED witches to exist; Because if he was truly genuine about saving the world, about protecting people, it’d be a relief to find out there was no threat after all. But Philip wants for there to be a threat, never mind what it can pose to others, because then he gets to be the hero!!! He gets to be chosen one who goes on a sick adventure beating people up! He goes on rants about a hidden threat beneath our very eyes, not because Philip actually wants to warn people, but because he sees this as his opportunity to be the savior; So really, Jacob Hopkins IS Philip, isn’t he?