#Seed & Spark

[killerbananas]

Lines

Zeke always has to have the last word.

🔞 mdni | masterlist | 750+ wc | afab!reader x Zeke + ??

Warnings: smut; dubcon, voyeurism, exhibitionism, possessive behavior with a little cuckery, revenge sexual behavior, marking, degradation/humiliation, slut, objectification, come play, pearl necklace, embarrassment, humor, ??lmk

AN: This is sponsored by the classic scientific method: Fuck Around and Find Out. This is also unbetaed and maybe a little oddly written bc I'm inebriated. 🙃 Thanks to @blondeboyfriend for egging me on and suggesting one of our surprise guests.

The sun paints your skin in luscious ambiance, allowing Zeke to take in your appearance with awe-tinted nonchalance on the sparsely populated beach. You are one of the crazy few out in this heat, but at least it allowed him such a sight. His gaze spans along the valleys and peaks of your chest, areola displayed to the gods, down to your ill-fitted suit bottoms that hardly cover enough of your non-existent modesty, for when you flip over, both of your cheeks are proudly displayed, compliments to your thong, as he witnessed earlier.

It takes a few glances along the shore for Zeke to find his opportunity to return the favor he owed, peeved at your flippancy of letting your body be oogled by anyone walking by that could just abscond with spank bank material of you to jerk off to not ten feet behind you in the dunes.

Zeke takes a big inhale to collect himself; he couldn't argue since he was appreciatively enamored with the idea of being able to fuck, destroy, and love the very object of another many admirers' desire. Anyone else only got enough to be properly jealous of what was His. Well, that tops out for his ego stroking, but it also sparks another idea. Zeke believes he should make sure he leaves a nice mark on your body that will serve him a plethora of good: such as your embarrassment and fuel for the covetous.

With the ease of breathing, he pulls his cock out, starting to harden from his blatant palming and inner grousing at your audacity and the details of his solution. Within moments, he's thick and throbbing in his hand, prespend leaking down to aid in his valiant efforts of amping himself up at least once to edge before he bursts, hopeful to make sure he could give you every last bit of His seed. It only takes him ten languid strokes and the thought of you humiliated in public by being treated like a cumrag before he's losing it again.

"Fucking slut. My beautiful fucking slut."

He can't stop the heavy onslaught of his orgasm that nearly topples him into you as he bursts His shameless brilliant white ropes with which he ties you to him. He's panting, but basking still as he rubs his sensitive head into your perky nipple, leaving smears of liquid that drip down to join their brethren at the small pool on your tummy. He takes in the way thick lines sporadically decorate your upper torso while the sun continues to shine down without relent. He can't wait until you wake up, but knows the longer you lay there, the better his painting will set.

"You guys said you'd be at the beach, but this wasn't what I'd pictured."

A voice reaches your ears that you slowly begin to recognize. As you open your eyes, it confirms your suspicions and has you grabbing for your towel to bring around your chest. As the shield makes contact with your skin, you realize that there is something odd about the way it feels. You can't quite put your finger on it as you try to make yourself presentable enough to your company well simultaneously taking in everyone's features to judge how awkward the moment would be without your top. While Zeke watches you come closer, Reiner unloads the cooler in his arms with a thunk, Bertholdt next to him. Porco sniggers and points to your shoulder.

"Looks like you missed a spot."

Horror slowly licks up your spine as you investigate the white liquid you'd original believed to be sunscreen. While Reiner remains oblivious, Bertholdt has turned maroon in the face and Porco is still laughing while Zeke chuckles to himself.

"Excuse me a moment."

Mortified, you ditch your towel for your previously missed top and submerse your shame into the ocean waves. Emerging a few moments later, righted as much as your hands could make do, you sat on Zeke's legs and stole a bite off his plate.

"Huh. Those are some weird tan lines you've got there. How'd you get them?"

You choke on the delicious food in response to Reiner's innocent question. He squints suspiciously when he hears Zeke and Porco laughing, catching Bertholdt staring at the ocean as if transfixed on something that would take him out of the awkward moment and simultaneously stop his cock from hardening.

"What? I don't get it."

"Don't worry about it. We'll tell you when you're older."

Taglist: @aotwarriorsimp @alex--nya @animediplomat @antoxsmith @armoredpotato @bakunny @beffjurky @casuallyck @chaotic-nick @dearbaji @dilferwinsmith @erwinsbaby @eyesucket @fairypiku @fandomficsobsession @hinasakuino @i1k @erenyaygirl @interfectio-mortales @blondeboyfriend @kireirengoku-main @koulakoukoula2003 @lavenderdaisyhoney @mybadluckshouldmakemefamous @nathalunalune @notgoodforlife @peachysunrize @phoenixpype @pockcock @25306 @seychellse @shigarakiapologist @simpsarzie @sinnerofthewalls @soaringmirror @sparklekitteh @stigandr-the-cat @syrma-sensei @reiners-milkbiddies @tiffanyy-21 @theinariakuma @tohailalegacy @tonaken @torapologist @touyyes @we-are-so-close @witchycamisado

#aot #snk #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot smut #shingeki no kyoujin #aot x reader smut #writing with kbee #attack on titan fanfic #zeke yeager #zeke jeager x reader #zeke #zeke jaeger #zeke x you #zeke x reader #zeke x y/n #bertholdt #reiner #porco #dubc #snk zeke #zeke smut #zeke yaeger smut #zeke yaeger x reader #zeke yaeger

[writer59january13]

Sans sixth (psychic) sense...

poise zen dystopian rant

This prognosticator doth predict potential based at current rate sinister debacle that will instantaneously annihilate,

United States storied republic, which alarming horror points to instantaneous annihilation of America the beautiful;

(ohm my dog) turbulent endemic chaotic spate

within human race poised to strike doom and generate shock tummy once

amp pull goldenlocks, now revealing a shiny baldpate

erratic behavior attendant prescient intimations presage apocalyptic fate

while current commander in chief didst unwittingly generate,

and sow the seeds of anarchy sparking

global conflagration that will create

instantaneous prime evil total mortal kombat,

cuz "FAKE" mandate issued, when Trump went ballistic loose sing rockets red glare, when pressing hot button to demonstrate

thermonuclear supremacy,

(albeit a moot point), would render superfluous need to late

to draft intestate

last (or perchance first, second, third...) will and testament, tete a tete perhaps minuscule (nee infinitesimal) bomb turns out a dud (Amazon, Toys "R" Us

Walmart, or store

of choice reject) aye narrate finding Don irate (blaming "crooked Hillary," democrats, gumby...yours truly...)

the list goes on, thus no need to iterate,

thus a sudden religious fervor gripped the wide webbed world attributing why weapons did not actuate

which found pontiff in high demand in an attempt to accommodate frenzied zeal attributing aborted blitzkrieg to divine intervention with bajillion

talking heads airing where to dedicate

material trappings to indigent, great

full not dead, plus those petty criminals rightly or wrongly, the strong arm of lanced law did incarcerate

bowed down on daily and nightly basis exploding huzzahs every human did ejaculate

"not prematurely," where all walks of life did integrate, a spontaneous international

utopian revelation awoke with linkedin diversity to promulgate protecting the planet took precedence

yea right Matthew Scott - dear mate only in the context of this poem I did create

on December twenty third two thousand eighteen, and now hemming and hawing CANNOT wait,

thus conscientious, fractious, and incautious, members of the electorate must not shirk their role

as arbiters of life, liberty,

and the pursuit of happiness

obliging themselves obeisance to the fifteenth amendment of the United States Constitution, which prohibits the federal government and each state from denying

or abridging a citizen's right to vote "on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude," when said legal resolution ratified on February 3, 1870, as the third and last of the Reconstruction Amendments

cuz the wise ghost of Abraham Lincoln

did not procrastinate.

[getmymettle]

Elevate Your Metabolism with These 10 Naturally Boosting Foods

Hey there! Let's embark on a fascinating journey into the world of metabolism and uncover its pivotal role in keeping us healthy and fit. Picture metabolism as your body's energy conversion wizard—it transforms your favorite foods into the fuel that propels you forward. Imagine this process as a vibrant dance, influenced by factors like genetics, age, and your level of physical activity. And here's the star of the show—your daily diet!

The Marvelous Metabolism Boosters

In this blog post, our mission is to reveal 10 incredible Indian foods and beverages acting as metabolism superheroes. They're here to provide that extra boost and add excitement to your journey towards better health. Additionally, we'll explore strategies to turbocharge your metabolism, touch upon supplements and drinks offering a helping hand, and shed light on metabolism boosters tailored for women.

Foods That Spark Metabolism

Green Tea:

Green tea is the superhero elixir for your metabolism. Packed with antioxidants and catechins, it's your morning wake-up call to burn fat and elevate energy levels.

Spicy Foods:

Indian spices, especially chili peppers with capsaicin, turn up your metabolism. Spice up your routine for a natural metabolic lift.

Ginger:

The flavor MVP, ginger, teams up with gingerol to amp up calorie burning. Add it to tea or sprinkle it on your dishes for that extra magic.

Turmeric:

Golden turmeric brings curcumin to the party—anti-inflammatory and metabolism-boosting, a double whammy. Include it in curries, stews, or enjoy a cozy turmeric latte.

Cinnamon:

This everyday spice is not just tasty but also a metabolism buddy, giving it a nudge while helping regulate blood sugar.

Protein-Rich Foods:

Lentils, chickpeas, tofu, and lean meats make your body work harder to digest, giving your metabolism a high-five.

Curry Leaves:

Packed with antioxidants, curry leaves regulate blood sugar and give your metabolism an extra kick. Add them to curries, chutneys, and soups.

Coconut Oil:

Coconut oil, with MCTs, is digestion-friendly and gives your metabolism a boost. Use it in moderation for optimal results.

Fenugreek:

Often overlooked, fenugreek seeds are linked to improved metabolism and blood sugar regulation. Soak them overnight or include them in your cooking.

Water:

The simplest hero—staying hydrated boosts metabolism and keeps your body running smoothly.

Strategies for a Turbocharged Metabolism

Get Moving:

Cardio and circuit training are the dance moves for your metabolism. Integrate them into your routine to boost metabolism and build lean muscle mass.

Beauty Sleep:

Aim for 7-9 hours of quality sleep. It's the secret sauce for a happy metabolism, allowing your body to recover and regulate hormones.

Stress Less:

Combat stress with meditation or yoga. Chronic stress can hamper metabolism, so embrace chill vibes.

Snack Smart:

Eat smaller, regular meals throughout the day to maintain a steady rhythm for your metabolism.

Supplements and Drinks to Boost Metabolism

While whole foods are crucial, supplements can enhance metabolism:

Metabolism-Boosting Supplements:

Consider options like green tea extract and thermogenic fat burners, but consult a professional, especially for women-specific choices.

Apple Cider Cheers:

Try apple cider vinegar as a potential aid for weight management and metabolism. Mix a teaspoon with water and enjoy it before meals.

Wrapping It Up

Boosting your metabolism involves savoring these fantastic Indian flavors, making small lifestyle tweaks, and perhaps adding a supplement or two. It's a journey towards a healthier, more energetic you—let's make it delicious and enjoyable! These natural ways to boost metabolism are here to stay, so groove on and let the good vibes roll.

#boost metabolism #drinks to boost metabolism #foods that boost metabolism #how to increase your metabolism #supplements to boost metabolism #how to boost your metabolism

[unlividoxwrites]

Short story:

The Nymph’s Game by @unlividoxwrites

Prompt: Summer

My 4 things: A field of flowers, a bonfire, animals grazing and a summer heat wave

My 5 words: blistering, frolic, sun-kissed, sweltering and humidity

It's that time of year. You know, don't you? When it's blisteringly hot, even though it shouldn’t be—it's England, for Pete’s sake, it’s not meant to get this hot here. But still, sometimes it does.

Scientists and Meteorologists will tell you all sorts of nonsense about heat waves, extreme weather phenomena and high-pressure systems—what they don’t tell you is that they’re just guessing. That, in reality, humans have no idea what causes the weather to shift so suddenly—to be so starkly different from the ‘accurate’ predictions they forecast. If we knew, really, how these things worked, the weather forecast would never be wrong, would it?

What they don’t know is what really controls the weather; barely-there visible humanoid creatures called Summer Nymphs. Similar to the nymphs you may know of from myth and legend, these fae sun-kissed beings take pleasure in inciting chaos and strife, in fact their favourite activity is causing mischief on the hottest days of the year. Despite already thriving on the intense heat their presence creates, they also adore provoking anarchy. With skin like stained glass windows and smiles that turn ravenous, the Summer Nymphs inhabit rural fields full of flowers, where brooks and streams babble and gossip, and animals graze in peace. Their most favoured pastime, however, when visiting more urban areas, is to flit just out of human sight and whisper kindling into the fires of people's minds.

Their sweltering heat plays its part, too, amping up frustrations and sparking wildfire arguments from the aggravated hearts of those suffering the unbearable blaze and humidity. Children, their minds not yet so muddled and shaped by society's stumbling blocks, are open enough to perceive these creatures, and the Nymphs take great pleasure in the way the children’ tales of their existence infuriate and madden their parents. You’ve probably heard their mocking laughter carried on the wind, their voices conspiring behind your back as you cross the street.

They sow seeds of doubt. They trifle with affairs of the heart and mind. They frolic and foil and flourish in turmoil. Their twisted hearts mean no harm, yet their beams of joy brim with bared teeth and butchered pleasantries. They aren’t inherently dangerous, they’re rather neutral beings when left alone. Yet, when one really thinks about how they must feel—creatures of old who’ve seen century after century of humanity’s meagreness, who’ve endured waiting for tireless wars to end, and watched on as we allowed history to repeat itself time and time again—it isn’t all that surprising they’ve grown fed up of us. Especially in our narrow minded and blinkered states of adulthood.

As the summer months come to a close and the nights get longer, they stretch their festivities well into the nights. Dancing rituals around bonfires and singing their goodbyes as they settle down for the harsh winter months. As previously mentioned, these Nymphs aren’t dangerous in nature, but that doesn’t mean their intentions haven’t shifted over the millenia. So if you hear of children spinning stories of fairies and pretty creatures, take heed and don’t underestimate their ulterior motives.

#unlividox writing prompts #writing prompt #writing #summer writing prompt #greek mythology #original short story #unlividoxwrites #twisted tales #greek myth retellings #nymphcore

[ajepyx]

How You Can Continue to Support AMERICAN GUNSLINGERS #western #episodic #webseries #oldwest #wildwest #paypal #crowdfunding #support #donate #contribute #filmproduction #strugglingartist #cowboys #outlaws #preachers #bountyhunters I want to personally thank everyone who contributed, followed, or shared our campaign for American Gunslingers. As you can see, we fell short of the minimum goal.

#American Gunslingers #Crowdfunding #Episodic #old west #PayPal #Seed & Spark #Support #TV #TV Series #Webseries #western #Wild West

[bibliocratic]

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

-

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

-

Martin is happy.

-

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

-

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

-

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

--

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

-

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

-

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

-

Jon is happy.

-

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

-

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

-

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.  

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

-

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

-

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

-

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

-

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

-

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

-

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

-

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

-

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“…  you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

-

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

#tma #the magnus archives #cw racing thoughts #cw anxiety #tw eating disorder #tw ptsd #ask to tag #cw nightmares #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tma spoilers

[starshipsofstarlord]

Hiya when u gave the time can you please a continuation of the luke from skins one where they were in Morocco and they are both back from Bristol now and they see eachother again and it’s a smut where they r high and kinda intense if that makes sense 😂 ❤️

What Happens in Morocco, Stays in Morocco

This is part two to this imagine, find it here

Pairing | Luke x reader

Summary | perhaps, you were wrong. Not everything stays in Morocco. It is a tradition for things to come back to bite you in the ass, more so when you have been forced to be clean, and kept away from any kind of drugs.

Warnings | use of drugs, addiction, smut, it’s bit dark so read at your own risk, this is a warning so please keep that in mind,

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

An insatiable stirred within your gut, pelting you with reminders of what you had lost after Morocco. The love of your life had been departed from your shaking grip, the people that claimed to care about you forcing you to be sober off the high that it gave you. Drugs. It was your only desire, but you stayed strong as you walked back from college, even as you saw a dealer out of the corner of your eye, trading his special product with someone in your English class, that sat two seats to the right of you.

Licking your lips, you held onto the straps of your rucksack tighter, hoping that the weight of all the items within it would succumb you under the lenient pressure that it composed against your spine, pushing you into a lower station of dwelling, so that you would feel nothing, and the emptiness sure as hell would not be burdening you with satisfactory mockery.

At such a young age, you had found a friend, even if it be absorbed into a conversation through digestion or clouded fumes. And without its presence you were someone else, a stranger trudging hopelessly through the ambient streets of Bristol, lost and in need for a high. That holiday had been the end of you, your friends didn’t say it, but you were more than certain that they were thinking such a spectacle.

Whilst you were amped up on various chemicals that engorged your veins with images of new possibilities, you were far from a sullen composure; you were happy. You had no problem speaking to Nick’s brother, though everyone seemed to be wary of him, and listening to Grace talk about her various recitals, and the strictness that her father intended upon her. To everyone you had been a breath of fresh air, until that place that they called rehab.

In there they had starved you from the one thing that you had truly craved. Even the security guy wouldn’t trade a blowjob for a little picking of white powder, and it showed you how messed up their priorities were. Morocco, it had been an escape, something you were sure it never feel again, but you wanted to, so desperately.

“If it isn’t the wisp of the waters, in the flesh, and looking like she could use a pick me up.” A blonde male asked, he couldn’t have been much older than yourself. There were scrapes adorning his pale complexion, brandishing his cheek with what could only be seen as battle scars from a testosterone endorsed fight.

“I’m sorry, but who the fuck are you?” You roughly spoke, having no recollection of ever meeting this man in your life, though, half of your memory was boggled. Going cold turkey appeared to have had that affect on you, but a deep internal part of you was warning you to leave now, and conserve your own safety from whatever offer he was about to propose.

Sure, you’d have once done anything, but the possibility of danger preached louder when there was nothing numbing your blood stream, and dirtying the contents that ran through it. A small snicker fled from the boy’s mouth, revealing that he was much amused by your naivety. He tilted his head, observing you with a lick of his lips, plodding closer as you froze.

“We’ve met before.” He toyed inside his pockets, extracting a clear bag that contained a couple of vibrant yellow pills that had your heart beating promiscuously against the captivity of your ribcage. “In fact, we got to know each other very well darling, your manners weren’t so spectacular then either, though they sure were better. It appeared as though you rather enjoyed the attention and now you’re here, looking like an innocent doe under the flare of headlights.”

“I don’t do that kinda stuff any more.” But you wanted to. It didn’t matter what prospects spewed out of your mouth in the form of conjunctive excuses, it was more than clear that you were aggressively attracted to the small spheres that had caught your attention fast. “I’d find the next girl to corrupt, because I’m clean and intend to stay that way.” Did you?

“You’re already corrupted, there’s no point in dismissing this, because it is what you want. But you’re denying urself from the simple luxuries of life, all because ripple; family, friends, think its better for you. They want you to be healthy, though that entails you perceiving though life as someone that you aren’t.” He sighed, rolling his shoulders slightly as his eyes bore around your sullen demeanour, recognising every trace that your body showed of restraining itself. “I’m Luke. And you, you are y/n, aren’t you? I’m sure I heard your friends call you that on holiday.”

Gulping, you realised that this must have been the boy that fucked with Frankie’s head, and made one of your group disappear, all whilst Grace was away, and in intensive care. As soon as it all clicked, you felt overwhelmed. There was nothing that you could do against him, he had already broken everything around you, whether that was his intent or not. Without thinking at all, you snatched the self made packet out of the clasp of his fingers, emptying the contents into your palm, throwing them into your mouth.

“Good girl.” It felt like a taunt, he was messing with you, you knew that. But it wasn’t his fault that you were messed up; all that was on you. “Don’t you want some water with that, it might make it wash down easier?” To answer him, you swallowed the pills dry cocking a brow at him as he pulled out another clear sachet of impulsive medications, taking it himself before you could whisk it away and endure further affects yourself.

Luke, feeling the tingle himself, pulled you down the alley that he was occupying, pressing your numbed back against the wall, his mouth running along your cheek as you felt swarmed with various desires. A part of you wanted to push him away, and beat him until he could no longer walk, but the other wanted nothing more than to feel his toxic skin dragging along yours, increasing the high that was spurring around your lungs until you felt like you could no longer breathe.

Your hands were uncertain of where they were supposed to be, and thus they roamed around his thin arms, grasping at his shoulders as his face sunk into the crook of your neck, his hands daring below your skirt, and feeling you up over your panties. Every touch he presented upon your burning flesh induced sparks to collapse in your mind, displaying through each of your appendages. “Fuck me, or I’ll find someone else to a better job.” You snarled at him, growling as he chuckled at your desperation.

“Now I recognise you, instead of that good girl facade.” He nipped at your neck, dropping his preppy slacks as he grasped his cock, thrusting your panties to the side so that he could penetrate your cunt, a cry abandoned your throat, echoing around the nearby streets. Your walls convulsed around him as you felt full and completely satisfied with the sensation. The memories of him flooded back into your mind as you pictured Morocco. He had stalked over towards you as though you were his prey, and it seemed that he had continued to hunt you down.

The thought was kinda hot, and thus you clenched your teeth, succumbing to an orgasm around him, whimpering as he slipped himself out, jerking his length so that he spilled his seed over your legs. “I have more of the good stuff back home, you fancy coming over?” Hazily you nodded, as his wobbling hand grasped your face, smashing his poisonous lips upon yours, suffocating all the good that you had been laboured into, making you swim in the darkness of his pupils as the two of you wobbled away from the scene, his cum still painted upon your legs as the two of you slowly headed towards his flat.

#luke skins x reader #luke skins #skins x reader #skins imagine #skins fic #skins fanfiction #imagines #imagine #xreader #luke imagine #luke smut

[yes-lukewinter]

For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow. Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail. A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live. When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. . . . Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all. A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother. So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.

Herman Hesse, Wandering: Notes and Sketches.

#hesse #herman hesse #trees #tree #quotes

[granblue-fantasies]

Between Frost and Flame

Aglovale x Reader x Percival

NSFW. To fulfill the multiple requests for these two from my Sharing is Caring event.

You had been taking a break from your duties in Wales Castle in your favorite fashion - draped across a chaise lounge with a book in hand - when Percival approached you with a proposition.

“I depart for Feendrache a few days,” he said stiffly, his chin held high, “and I would ask you to accompany me.”

You balked, your book slipping from your fingers and tumbling to the floor. His sudden invitation had caught you completely off-guard.

“Accompany you?” you could only echo, cheeks flushing. “My lord, I—“

Aglovale’s deep chuckle sounded from a doorway at the opposite end of the room, announcing his presence and startling you and Percival both.

“So you plan to steal my dearest vassal away from me?” he chided. “Percival... You know I won’t let such a brazen attempt go unchallenged.”

The sounds of shifting armor and heavy footsteps drawing steadily nearer raised the hair on the back of your neck. You saw ire spark in Percival’s eyes as he watched his brother approach, and noticed his hands ball momentarily into fists before he squared his shoulders and faced the king with dignity.

You swallowed thickly around the lump in your throat, heart fluttering in nervous anticipation. Your previous encounters with the king and his younger brother hadn’t left you any less enamored with either of them.

And upon learning this, a rematch was declared.

NSFW, lewd naughtiness below!

- - - - - -

The two proud men bore down on you with a voracity that bordered on barbaric. Had it not been for your deep affinity for both of them and your knowledge of their finer characters, you might have mistaken their true natures for that of common brigands. But you’d been playing along with this game of theirs for a while now. You knew it well, and you were a willing - and equally insatiable - participant.

Though one couldn’t deny the impropriety, you were shocked and delighted when the royal brothers endeavored to ravish you right there where you lay. There were some skills and habits you’d picked up during your time here that lent themselves well to the situation at hand.

Percival’s hot-blooded nature fueled a fiery appetite, and to bend you over and take you suddenly and impulsively was his guilty pleasure. Some time ago you’d began cutting out the gussets of your undergarments, so he need only push up your petticoats to gain access to you whenever he wished. 

The king, meanwhile, was exceedingly fond of calling you to his side in private appointment. You usually spent a significant portion of those intimate meetings on your knees. Not because he didn’t respect you, no; he simply savored the many long sessions you’d spend beneath his desk, at his bedside, or even before his throne, devoutly worshiping his cock and balls with the passionate caresses of your lips and tongue.

Each of the two, therefore, had his own favorite post to assume, and each hell-bent on staking their claim on you once and for all.

Aglovale cradled your cheek in his hand, gazing down at you with a warm and benevolent air even as he fucked your mouth in slow, decadent thrusts. Your head was tilted against the cobalt velvet of the armrest, and angled so as to grant him the most convenient access.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, “You please me so.” 

You hummed in delight at his words, bobbing your head along his shaft and trying to coax him deeper. He stroked your cheek with his thumb and slid his girthy cock down the back of your throat, watching with approval as you strained to take his full, magnificent length. There was something so overpowering, so hypnotic about him — his deeply reverberating voice, his gentle touch upon your face, his very being commanded your adoration. It made you enjoy the way your throat seized to fight its natural reflex, muscles straining as his throbbing clock slid ever deeper. With fervent devotion, you strove to embody the perfect instrument of his pleasure.

Can he not see how completely she submits to me, and with such passion? Aglovale mused, glancing at his brother. She shapes herself to fit me, she bends to my will. She is mine.

Percival held one of your legs up in the air as he fucked you sideways, his hips snapping back and forth with precision. The velvety warmth of your cunt seemed to draw him in deeper, that heavenly sensation that drove him to seek you out at every opportunity. Only one thing marred this moment... The presence of Aglovale. Percival gritted his teeth at the sight of you blissfully sucking his elder brother’s cock.

Always so selfish, brother, he thought wryly. It makes you short-sighted. How many times have you used her so, unaware that my seed was likely dripping down her thighs all the while?

His pride swelled as he felt you rocking your hips into his thrusts, knowing he was the one your body was aching for. He drove himself harder inside you, bottoming out and grinding his cock in deep. The quick, confident tempo of his thrusts incited a steadily building pressure deep in your belly. As he reached down to gently tease your swollen clit you bucked your hips and groaned, your walls clenching down hard around his shaft.

Enjoy her service while it lasts, Aglovale, he seethed. Soon she won’t be able to use that mouth of hers for anything other than screaming my name.

You were in the throes of ecstasy, your moans of desperate delight echoing up into the coffered ceilings. Aglovale’s deep, slow thrusting against your face did somewhat muffle your cries, but Percival amped up his fierce pounding, eager to hear you gasp his name around his elder brother’s cock.

Aglovale’s gaze slid to meet Percival’s in a silent taunt. He relaxed his body and let the plush slickness of your mouth and throat carry him towards climax at last. With a sly gleam in his eyes he ran his fingers through your hair and pulled your head against his hips, slamming his cock down your throat and pumping his cum deep inside you. Your body shuddered as you choked it down, your eyes squeezed shut and tears beading at your lashline. But when you’d swallowed every drop and your eyes opened once again, you looked up at Aglovale with dazed and delirious adoration.

His stomach twisting with fury at the sight, Percival hammered into you even harder than before, as if to punish you for your disloyalty. You gasped and pulled back from Aglovale, long strings of saliva and cum trailing from his dick to your parted lips.

“You’ll cum for me,” Percival snarled, and you writhed under his relentless assault, your hand sinking down between your spread legs. As you frantically massaged your clit you felt Percival grinding the head of his dick inside you where he knew you liked it most; panting and whimpering you drew nearer and nearer to your climax. He chuckled triumphantly between his own ragged breaths, watching you come unraveled beneath him.

Aglovale took this opportunity to lean down and murmur something in your ear; filthy words meant only for you, utter blasphemy on the lips of a king.

Percival saw this — he watched his brother’s mouth move, felt your pussy pulse in wild desire in response, and his heart burned with indignation until your next move soothed him. You reached your free hand out to Percival in yearning and he grasped it, lacing your fingers together as you pulled him closer to you and crested the peak of your release. You orgasmed nearly in unison, your cunt milking his throbbing cock and drawing his hot seed deep into your womb. He was too overcome with bliss to notice Aglovale stroking your hair as you rode out the shockwaves of pleasure that wracked your body.

Face flushed and chest heaving, you lay sprawled across the chaise in a breathless stupor as the men pulled back and righted themselves.

“I’ll send for you tonight,” Aglovale whispered in your ear, audibly smirking. “You will come to me.”

Before you could answer he straightened up and turned to take his leave.

“Percival,” he tossed over his shoulder, his calm demeanor suddenly stern, forbidding. “You won’t have her again.”

He stepped over the threshold and was gone.

Percival scoffed and pulled you into his embrace as his brother left the room.

“Come with me,” he said, kissing the top of your head and stroking your leg tenderly. “We can leave tonight. I can make the arrangements at once.”

Your heart raced.

The taste of Aglovale was still on your tongue, Percival’s seed hot and wet between your thighs.

You hadn’t even caught your breath yet.

How in God’s name were you supposed to decide?

#gbf percival #gbf aglovale #granblue fantasy #gbf fanfiction #gbf imagines #request event #requests #sharing is caring #gbf reader insert

[soundsaboutrighttumblr]

another ramking meta - morning after and more

also titled: The morning after - What is happening King?

Sorry this is long and kinda all over the place but.

I loved that scene? I think it fits so well with both characters? Lemme explain. The knowledge we gained in that earlier tent scene about King tells so much about his entire character. Because I think a main source for King’s struggle may be the role he assigned himself with Ram. Roles and behavioral mindsets are a powerful thing. Have to take a big swing with that one, here comes: King is a nurturing soul, a caretaker, the one who knows, who’s clever and a good student, who guides, who’s responsible, who gives out advice among his friends. So very often he finds himself in the role of tutor, of soft-spoken guidance, of support, of voice of reason even if a quirky one, it’s just his nature and how he fits with people. You can get used to such roles and overlook that they are not all that makes you up.

So for King it started out with Ram as a spark of interest in that silent boy, a challenge also, a playful one over all. I think at the point where King tells Ram’s brother that he is just playing with Ram in a friendly way because he appreciates his weird character, that this is truly what it feels like for him in that moment. He may be even platonically flirting at those times, because it feels like a fun dynamic between the two, and Ram’s reactions are interesting to King, it’s a playful exploration of another human being, that you click with. He might be oblivious the potential of catching actual feelings I believe, that maybe the seeds have already been sown, that this has potential to be more than just a fascination, that it maybe is already starting, that he feels actually drawn to Ram, attracted. That Ram might actually respond that way. Oh, what a word that fits them… attraction, the pull towards each other.  

Then situations arise, so many of them, where King can be helpful to Ram in so many ways, and he falls into his natural role of tutor, supporter, of big brother, because he is just good like that, and also because it brings him closer to that fascinating person, he’d very much like to figure out. Then problems get more serious for Ram with his father’s affair, things actually hurt and hit close to the heart and taking care of Ram in that situation, I think that might also be the time when King realizes just how much he cares, how much he is invested himself. The more serious matters provide the atmosphere to get a sense of how deep the care and affection really goes, how important they’ve become to each other.  But it is in a time when Ram needs; needs support. And so that is the role that King puts himself in. That he decides Ram needs. A supporting friend, big brother figure, not someone who might get distracted by his tattoos and eyes and neck and the racing heart it might cause in him.

That’s when the holding back everything beyond starts. The feelings that are surprising and unsettling King with how much they WANT now,  but that he decides are not part of the perceived deal made with Ram,  the deal King decides Ram deserves in this time of distress, the ‘this is what you get out of this relationship, support, and comfort, not messy feelings from a kind of overwhelmed human disaster with needs himself’-deal.

The senior-junior/big brother-little brother dynamic plays a big role with it I believe, and correct me if I am wrong with this, since it is not my culture, please do. (But I think it also plays into Ram’s behavior, because Ram never actively takes a step of taking things further, he is always just asking and waiting for King to take that step if he is willing, he offers and amps up the intensity in his eyes, and it kind of backfires in that way that it makes King so flustered that he backpedals, because what King gets is that he is freaking important to Ram in those moments, but what it does to King is amp up his sense of responsibility for Ram, to fill that important role responsibly, as a supporting friend and brother.)

So yeah, long rant short, King feels that he is in over his head, because Ram is just so important to him, and he puts such high standards of responsibility onto himself, that coming in there with needs of his own feels like he is betraying the trust Ram puts in him to being the source of comfort and guidance that he thinks Ram deserves. He doesn’t want to bother Ram with worries about a sick King, so he keeps silent about his fever. He will remove his needs from the picture whenever he’s able to and it takes actually being knocked out by a wooden stick, or having a fever, or being drunk to let the lines blur... and still he will try and not bother Ram with it, and push him away when he has a fever from an infected head wound, because he thinks it is better for Ram’s needs. But of course Ram makes it not easy for him, because he is such a protective caretaker person himself, and that’s when King stumbles and slips up occasionally in his resolutions because caring Cool Boy is a force of nature? 

But it really needed those 14 felt concussions, infections, fevers, medications, and alcohol to get King so inebriated that he could break out of that headspace for a moment, and confess to his own wants and still being so angry about it all, about failing what he set out to do, failing Ram. It needed that inebriation together with Ram upping the ante, trying to pull King closer, to touch, to be in his space bodily, to aggressively take care of him right back, to make King’s fluttering feelings so hard to ignore and hold back, for King to lose his balance; for King to push back so hard and out of proportion it had to collapse somehow.

Whew. Whew.

But old habits die hard. So I think what is happening in the morning scene is a falling back exactly into this. King looks at Ram sleeping, and goes: Oh, how freaking beautiful he is, and oh neck tattoo, and arms, and flash backs of lips on lips, and smell good, and HE IS SO IMPORTANT TO ME, and… am I doing right by him? What did I freaking DO?

King is panicking again, struggling with the sheer weight of the responsibility he feels he has for their dynamic, their relationship, that he fears he might have crossed a line, second guessing Ram’s motivations, and probably even fearing he pushed Ram into something he didn’t want. Or need.

So he jumps at conclusions that get him out of that acute stress of change, of potential and responsibility, and he puts words into Ram’s mouth.

I actually believe Ram was going to say something like, I was playing cards with P’Tee, and then we came back to the tent and we kissed, dry like that, but Ram is also stalling with his answer because he senses King is almost vibrating out of his skin, he is reading King’s cues and giving him the time to react and interrupt, and when King jumps to conclusions, in that excited and relieved voice, he just goes with it and gives King space and time. Never once does he plan to let him off the hook though, because Ram gets King, I believe, and he is exactly what King needs even if King might not have realized that himself.

King needs a person like mountain that brings themself back into the picture whenever he’s pushed out for his own good, that gives him time and space but doesn’t let him off the hook. This is physically so well represented in that Tent scene, when Ram just keeps coming back and building himself up in front of King, Even when shoved time and time again.

Like he just builds himself up again before King when King is about to leave for his grandma’s. Just watching and waiting, being intensely present – and yeah King’s face then, he FEELs that presence and wants it, even looked for it - just being there, giving King another chance to react, to act, reading his cues, caring so so much. He will again and again, with that text, and when they meet again.

Because I think Ram’s feelings have already settled, he is IN this, and he will wait for his messily human disaster boyfriend to arrive there in his own time, with all his needs and character quirks and insecurities, and fricking heck this couple.

#ramking #kingram #meta #my engineer #s01e14 #I am not done talking no #i am so hyped for season 2 #this couple #katishideout #gaysarawat

[charlesbivona]

The Artfully Woven Layers of Joyce Wu’s Filmmaking

The Artfully Woven Layers of Joyce Wu’s Filmmaking

I could tell you Joyce Wu’s film She Lights Up Wellis about a Chinese ­American actress struggling to find her voice in a creative world plagued by subtle, and not­ so ­subtle, racism. I could point to the scenes tackling this racism directly, and the scenes creatively alluding to it. I could even spend a paragraph on our hero, Sophie—played by Wu—wrestling with the cognitive barriers of race…

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#Charles Bivona #film #filmmaker #Joyce Wu #Memoirs In Fragments #Moran Press #movies #Poet #poetry #review #Seed&Spark #She Lights Up Well #The Mourning After #Writer

[doomedandstoned]

THIS IS SOUND OF ORIGIN

~By Shawn Gibson~

When last we encountered SOUND OF ORIGIN, the smoked-up and tuned-down quartet from Huddersfield were featured in the landmark compilation, 'Doomed & Stoned in England' (2019), where we dipped our feet "Into The Vile." Since then, Sound of Origin have gifted us with an entire album's worth of material and we've had a blast immersing ourselves in their groovy soundscape of swirling riffs, vicious beats, gritty singing, and some terrific vocal harmonies. Our resident sludgehead Shawn Gibsonheavy set out to get to know these guys better, speaking to drummer Chris 'Foz' Foster following their latest APF Records release, 'The All Seeing Eye' (2020).   [Billy Goate]

Chris, how the hell are you? Thank you for your time!

Hey, Shawn. All good and absolutely no bother at all, thank you for reaching out and doing the interview. It’s very much appreciated.

Who are the members of Sound Of Origin and what do they do in the band?

There are four of us in the band. Joel (Bulsara) who is our vocalist/ frontman. Joe (Wilczynski) on guitar/backing vocals. Jax (Townend) on bass and myself, Chris (Foster) on drums.

Where is Sound Of Origin from?

We are based out of and rehearse in Huddersfield, UK. I live in a place called Sowerby just outside of Halifax and Joel lives in Leeds, so we both travel across to join up with the other two guys.

What bands do you love from your area?

Wow. That’s a tough one as there are so many. The UK Underground scene is awash with fantastic bands, and many come from around our local area. If we are talking around our immediate area, then there are the likes of Ironrat, Gandalf the Green, and our bros in Son of Boar that immediately spring to mind. But if you look within an hour's drive from where we are, you have the likes of Barbarian Hermit, Spaztik Munkey, Archelon, Boss Keloid, Ten Foot Wizard, Blind Monarch, Hundred Year Old Man, and so many more. All killer bands doing different kinds of heavy.

This is the reply to all who wrote us off: Not Dead Yet.

What venues or bars do you go to see heavy music?

There are a good number within a short travelling distance to us. The Parish in Huddersfield is our local venue. However, our good friends in Iron Boar bookings put killer lineups on in Bradford at venues such as The Underground and Al’s Juke bar. Manchester-wise, Chunk from Stonebaked promotions usually uses The Bread Shed and there is also The Alma in Bolton that puts on some cracking gigs, too.

Which bands got you turned on to doom, psych, and stoner?

From a very young age it’s got to be Black Sabbath, for sure. I can still remember how I felt when I heard them for the very first time as a five-year old, It’s stayed with me all my life. But bands like Type O Negative, Acrimony, Cathedral, Candlemass, Trouble, Weedeater, Paradise Lost, Eyehategod, Reverend Bizarre, Saint Vitus, Monster Magnet, Electric Wizard, My Dying Bride & Anathema have all hit the spot at some point over the years.

The All Seeing Eye by Sound of Origin

Who did the artwork for your new album 'The All Seeing Eye' (2020)?

A friend of Joel’s called Sam McDougall. Such a talented guy and really easy to work with. Our mates over in 4Q Media delivered the overall design for the CD package and it has worked out really well.

I love the slow part of "Warfarin" at about 5:35 minutes in. Slow and on the moon! There's even a part that incites moshing!

The end of "Warfarin" finishes off low & slow for sure. (laughs) We wanted to ensure the first song from our original EP ended with a big riff. As for the faster part, all of us in the band like some faster bands (Joe used to play in a thrash band many moons ago) and we felt like it was a natural fit in the song when we were first putting it together.

Seeds of the Past by Sound of Origin

On your first album, "Seeds Of The Past," "Warfarin," and "Asphalt" are my favorites. Tell me a little about these songs.

"Asphalt" is my personal favourite from the first EP. The way it keeps coming back around, but builds and builds each time and John’s vocal delivery (old singer) did it real justice. It was always great to play both in the studio (volume turned up to 11) and live as we used to get a great reaction from the crowd on that one. The end riff on "Warfarin," where we slowed things down, always was fun to do as we rehearsed it in the studio 'till we got it down to a virtual crawl.

My favorite off your new album, 'The All Seeing Eye' (2020), is "Not Dead Yet." That is how you start an album, goddamnit! Face melted!

It’s a big sound, for sure, when it kicks in. When our old singer left the band, we went through some pretty dark times, and we were written off by many people -- some going as far as to say we were dead as a band and we should just knock it on the head. Enter new vocalist Joel and everything changed for the better. The fact is, as a band, we have never been more alive and well. This is the reply to all who wrote us off. Not dead yet.

At times, it’s been like a budget version of Spinal Tap.

What are some things that inspired your album 'Seeds Of The Past' (2017)?

Joe had been trying to get a solid stoner-doom band together for about 10 years or so. It took a very long time to get a workable, regular platform to flourish, as life generally got in the way of establishing a fully integrated band. Seeds Of The Past is a reflection of some of the music Joe wrote years prior. That said, the title track "Seeds" we came up with in the studio jamming and it just took off from there.

What are some things that inspired the music on 'The All Seeing Eye' (2020)?

The main contributing factors that inspired the music on The All Seeing Eye were more circumstantial than anything. We hunkered down in the studio and started writing material for a new album whilst we were in the process of finding a new front man. With this in mind, we set out on patching the initial framework of songs together and took things from there. It wasn’t until the addition of Joel that we really started to get to grips with the music and what we could achieve with the overall sound on the album.

What has been an awkward moment as a band?

Ha, where should I start? At times, it’s been like a budget version of Spinal Tap. Band-wise, I would say the most awkward time for us all would be the gap between singers. Having an idea of what you want to do moving forward and not being able to do it became frustrating at times. When Joel arrived, it was like a huge breath of fresh air swept through us all. Things came together really quickly and the growing pains we had when we first started out have all but disappeared now.

On 'Seeds Of The Past' (2017) there is a song "Left For Dead." 'The All Seeing Eye' (2020) has a song "Not Dead Yet." Your sophomore album is alive and kicking!

Absolutely. There was a completely fresh take and approach on this album. The arrival of Joel in the band led to a clean sweep of what we had done before. The lads (Joe & Jax) invested completely in new amps and cabs and guitars, and a change of approach came with dropping our tuning further. Whilst a number of the songs from the album had already been written, because of Joel’s vocal range we had another look at them between the four of us and reworked a few things here and there. The four of us now are in a much better place than at any time previously with the band.

"Dim Carcosa" and "Morning Bird" are rippers off 'The All Seeing Eye' (2020)! Talk to me about what's behind these songs.

"Dim Carcosa" references Robert W. Chambers and his fantastic work in The King in Yellow. Dim Carcosa is where horror truly resides and it delves into madness in various forms. This song describes the practical inevitability of mental health issues in today’s society.

"Morning Bird" came about when Jax started playing a bassline in the studio and sparked a song out of the group. Following the general themes of perseverance and will power, this song discusses the ups and downs of self-worth and the way the political landscape recently has given a lot of people the excuse to judge, be racist, and to discriminate on all fronts. As human beings, we are very tribal and like to separate. We don’t realise that we are, in fact, one tribe.

What makes Sounds of Origin laugh?

Each other. There is a two-decade age gap in the band and we are four very different people, but when we get together the laughs are constant. There is a real feel-good vibe in the band now more than ever, which has led to an intense period of songwriting and ideas. Even through this period of uncertainty with the COVID situation. Everyone is contributing now and the songs and ideas are coming together for the next album already.

Chris, it's been a pleasure! Thank you again for your time talking about your new album 'The All Seeing Eye' (2020)! I hope you and your mates in Sound Of Origin are well.

No problems at all. Again thank you guys for the support. Big shout out to APF Records for signing us and giving us a platform to push our music on. Best wishes to you all and we hope you stay safe and well in these strange times.

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#D&S Interviews #Sound Of Origin #Huddersfield #United Kingdom #doom #metal #doom metal #APF Records #music video #Shawn Gibson #Doomed & Stoned

[ajepyx]

American Gunslingers: A New Western Series & What it Means to Me @seedandspark #western #oldwest #blog #crowdfunding #directorsstatement #filmproduction #webseries #personalblog #directorsdiary I want to take this moment to talk personally to everyone who has been following the progress of our next film production American Gunslingers from the beginning.

#American Gunslingers #Blog #Crowdfunding #fundraising #old west #Seed & Spark #TV Series #Webseries #western #Wild West

[hisgirlwonder]

One Shot - Heaven in Hiding

Length: 1.7k words Warning: Smut, kink, humiliation, etc Synopsis: Michael calls for you to his office but you won’t go without a fight. Unable to tolerate your insubordinate behaviour, he has to show the others who is in charge before anyone else decides to step out of line. Notes: I did plan to create a second part but I’m not too sure currently, will see if I get the inspiration to :)

Gallant comes back from his interview with Michael declaring to you and Coco as he sits down, “Girls, your boy is in with a chance at Langdon. I got slapped in the face with a total gay vibe. I mean, look at him. No straight male has hair like that,” then points to himself, “I should know, I do hair for a living and I’m gay.”

The two of you look at each other in disbelief then look back at Gallant. Coco comments, putting her hand in the air for him to stop, “Oh honey, no no. I hate to break it to you but that man is the modern day Prince.” Agreeing with Coco, your lips are lightly puckered and you nod. She continues where she left off, gesturing with her hands, “His magnetism, his charm, his prowess are all part of the appeal. He knows he’s so pretty that straight men would bow before him.” She looks Gallant up and down, “He probably can figuratively feel that hard on you have for him a mile away. “

Before the conversation can continue any further, Michael walks in the room and directly to your table. “I hate to break up the party where the three of you are discussing my sexuality but, y/n, you need to come with me.”

“Why? Why me? What could I have possibly done to warrant you moving from your throne coming down here?” You question him, snapping at his demand.

He dug at you, “Why not? Shouldn’t you feel honoured that I’m wasting my time on your existence or that I even know your name?”

You scoff, “I don’t think you need to barge in here, dick in hand to wank over the authority you possess, and not tell me why you want or need me to come with you.” You knew what you’d be in for but you never let a man speak to you like that. This place was the end of the line and he could kill you for all you cared. He’d never kill you though; you were too much fun. You were a brat and you drove Michael crazy.

The contempt sets Michael off and he wants to show everyone who’s boss. He doesn’t want the others thinking they can speak to him the way you just did. He gets a hold on a handful of your hair and pulls you to him. “You live here, we provide for you, and for what? For your insolence?” He pulls tighter and spits callous words at you, “I could snap your fucking neck right now and your peers would thank me that I spared them.”

He drops the tight grip around your hair causing you to lose your balance and fall to the floor. “Come with me now. You don’t need or deserve an explanation. Just do as I say. You need to remember, you’re only a grey and not a purple. You don’t have the privilege like others do when it comes to deciding what you want to do around here. I also don’t repeat myself more than once.” That’s right. He dug the knife in a little deeper. You were only a grey; no more, no less. You watched as those like Coco got to wear beautiful purple dresses and you were stuck in the grey smocks provided for you.

-

You loudly close the door to Michael’s room and exclaim, “You didn’t have to rip me a new one back there, you know?” He walks over from his desk and runs his hands up and down your arms, “I’m sorry, pet. It just needs to be believable. You did insinuate that I was going to wank over my power so…” he trails off, placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder. You interject, holding back the laughter, “You have to hand it to me, the dick in hand comment was hilarious. Now, you say believable huh? Don’t you mean terrifying? Gallant isn’t adept at being around you when you’re like that. He’s terrified of you. Not all of us are like me.” You smile, your tongue caught in your teeth. You didn’t love this game but you didn’t hate it either. “Michael, why did you call me here anyway?”

“A couple of reasons,” one of his fingers push some of your fallen hair behind your ear, “Let me get the first for you.” He makes his way back to where he was before you came in and undoes the clasp on the necklace around his neck. You can only presume from his actions and what you can see he’s unlocking a drawer. Michael takes out a lilac coloured box, calling you over. You wander to where he’s sitting, positioning yourself to the right of him. An arm of his wraps around your thighs and he cocks his head at the box in front of you, “Open it.”

Michael had, in secret, bought you many things before but never anything like this. He usually bought you things like your favourite books, your favourite treats, that sort of thing. This was different. This was purple lingerie and not just any purple but royal purple. You look to him and try to say something but you’re unable to form a proper sentence, somewhat speechless.  “You may wear grey dresses and seem like another number to them but to me,” he plants a kiss on your outer thigh, “Deep down you’re a purple to me; more of a purple than anyone else here,” he assures you.  Your hand strokes his hair in approval - you were the only one allowed to even think about touching his golden locks. Once you’ve gained composure enough to be coherent, you swoon, “Oh, Michael, they’re beautiful.”

Michael stands up to meet you at your level, slightly above you in height. He was only around 3 inches taller but it made enough of a difference to the situation – you felt small, and it added to your submissiveness.

“Maybe I can give you the second present now.” You notice his teeth grazing his bottom lip. “I am pretty hungry.” A moment later, the two of you are locking lips - his kisses reek of desperation and desire and his hands are everywhere; one is fixed in your hair, tugging at it, and the other is exploring your body. He moves his hands down and positions his arms to pick you up. The two of you are still engaged in a passionate kiss when Michael throws you down on the bed. He positions himself above you and asks, “How shall we do this, Miss l/n?”

You swirl your fingertips over his chest and playfully tease in a childlike manner, “Like I’m just a pathetic little grey with no real purpose other than to serve you.” Michael tongues his front teeth at your words, “This morning has sent you into a state, hasn’t it?” You bring him down to you, your eager mouth finding his earlobe, whispering, “You have no idea.”

-

There is a change in the energy inside those four walls suddenly. His hand grabs at your face, “Oh, little grey, what are you doing here? Why are you in my room?” You got too much of a kick out of this. You stay quiet, waiting to see what happens next. His tone changes, becoming louder. “Answer me! I am your superior and I demand an answer.”

Rolling your eyes at his comment, you jest, “Well, if you must know, was bored.” You knew how much Michael disliked someone rolling their eyes at him so it amped up his frustration even further. You wanted him to break and become merciless on your body. Michael snaps, “Bored? Is that so? Well, maybe I can find some use for you.”

He runs his hands up your thighs and teases at your slit through your damp underwear. “I can feel how wet you are without even taking them off. Pathetic.” His fingers slip the fabric to the side and force their way past the entrance. You try to hold back a moan of enjoyment to stay in character. You’d be lying if you said his humiliation didn’t set you off. The power and dominance he asserted against you, both in the bedroom and in public, drove you wild.

Michael remarks with a low snarl, “I’m learning more and more about you every time I see you. Like, right now for example, your body is offering itself to me.” He brings up his speed, fucking you faster with his hand. “It doesn’t know that I already own it,” then comes a pauses as he rips off your underwear, leaving you exposed. Saying nothing to you as his face dives in, kissing and tonguing every inch of flesh between your legs.

You try to hide the fact his mouth, especially his tongue, felt like heaven. “W-w-why are you doing this?” You stutter, pretending that you weren’t enjoying what was happening.  “You can’t do this.” He looks up, chin covered in your juices, “That’s where you’re wrong. I can do whatever I want.” Everything about the moment felt so right; his hands, his fingers, his mouth, his tongue (oh god his tongue). If you were to die right now, you would die happily.

With fingers still in your dripping pussy, he can feel you reaching the edge, so he taunts you, “If I had plans to actually use your worthless hole to fill you with my seed right now, your body would dissolve like a sugar cube in water before you realised what was going on enough to try and stop me.” His mouth finds his way back to your clit and he’s more aggressive this time.

His own words spark a match inside him and the fire consumes him, and it spread to consume you too. The heat rises up throughout your body and explodes. You burst at the seams, climaxing intensely. You cover your mouth with your arm to try and muffle the loudness of your noises. Michael looks up from between your legs. He bites your thigh gently, unable to hold back his satisfaction of what just happened. “Do you want to go make a show?” Your hand tousles his hair and you knew exactly what he meant.

“Yes, yes I do.”

#writing #fanfic #ahs apocalypse #american horror story #ahs #michael langdon #michael x reader #one shot #smut #set: in ahs #d&s #michael langdon smut #ahs smut #michael langdon fanfiction #american horror story fanfiction #ahs fanfic #american horror story fanfic

[erikurtz]

All Star Creators Team Up For New Fantasy Series On Seed & Spark

Geek & Sundry, Peter & Wendy, and Pemberly Digital alums are working on a new fantasy series, crowdfunding today on Seed & Spark! http://snobbyrobot.com/2018/02/20/all-star-creators-team-up-for-new-fantasy-series-on-seed-spark/

#EMMA APPROVED #Fictional Fares #James Brent Isaacs #Jenni Powell #Omar Najam #Paula Rhodes #Seed & Spark

[millies-theme]

Tesla had expected something similar to her parents. A small cat, like her mom, or maybe a jaguar like her dad's familiar. Or maybe even a fox like Owen's. Some sort of small, fluffy mammal. A tiny, screaming puff ball of a bird hadn't been on the list. Well, what her parents had expected. She'd been fine with what ever she'd gotten. Bird, cat, fox, dog, rhino, she didn't care. Her parents however.... They expected something like theirs. Either that or an exact copy of Owen's. Maybe if she had a fox, maybe mother and father would treat her more like they treated Owen.... The bird on her bed screamed louder – Hungry. Mother and Father still weren't home. Mom likely wouldn't be home for another few hours, and Dad would likely be home in about half an hour. Plenty of time to brush the fluff ball out and figure out a name for it. The puff ball yelled as she picked it up; they were surprisingly heavy for their size. It was probably the giant beak. They nestled into Tes' armpit, making small murmuring noises. They were quiet for about two seconds – after that, they screamed again, loudly. “Jeeeezzeee calm down! I'm getting you food, gosh.” What did birds eat? ...seeds? Meat? D- Father, had taken her out a few months ago to get some stuff for her familiar-to-be. And all of it had been for more mammalian familiars. Cat (fox? Dog?) collar, canned food, tags (seriously, her parents needed to stop freaking out about the possibilities of a familiar getting kidnapped or lost. Did it matter? No one was going to mistake a baby pink siamese for an actual cat.) Not surprisingly, her parents had already picked out a name – Icauna. Not that she didn't like Irish and Celtic mythology, but she wanted to pick out the name. Why wouldn't they let her pick out the name? It was so unfair. They got to slap her with a stupid pretentious name, why couldn't she give her poor familiar something nice and simple, like Alice? Or March? god. The bird squealed again. “Sshhhh!” She really wished she had her phone. One of Violet's siblings had a bird familiar, and she was sure violet would be able to help. “Buuutttt nooOOooo, no phones in the house Anastasia! It's rude to walk around on your phone!” The bird chirped. “I don't have a boyfriend, like they're apparently afraid I have. Not like I really have any friends beyond Violet at all....” The bird chirped, seemingly in agreement. “Sure, we have a security guard at the front of the house, but what if there's a fire? What if I literally just wanna talk to ANYONE?” She shouted, half to the empty house and half to the bird. The bird shouted back, head bobbing happily at the noise. She continued her way to the kitchen, murmuring to the bird as she wandered around in her socked feet. (“No shoes in the house, unless you're Owen! Owen gets to do what ever he wants. And I mean what ever I saw him light off fire works in the backyard one year. “ “Squa?” “That's what I said!”) The kitchen was massive. Not like her mother ever cooked – the kitchen was only ever used on holidays, when her parents hired caterers and made her wear itchy reindeer-patterned dresses and sit in the kitchen, acting like the porcelain doll they thought she was. Maybe the bird could eat cheerios. Cheerios were good. Not as good as the home cooked meals she sometimes ate over at Violet's house on the rare occasions she managed to convince her parents to let her have a sleepover. But still good. A quick flip through the lower cabinets proved useless. Shiny, unused pie pans and shiny, also unused, stand mixers were the only things down there. The upper cabinets didn't really have much in the way of things to feed birds. The bird was sitting on the marble counter tops now, moving around on wobbly legs. “Cheerios it is.” Violet fed her Familiar, Geri, 'people' food all the time. And while most people were advised to feed their familiars “Specially formulated diets made by specialists in their fields” (Like Mom) she wasn't sure that people food would hurt a familiar. “It's like dogs. I've seen lots of people feed their dogs 'people food'. It's not like a dog's stomach is so wildly different from a humans, right? At the very least this'll tide you over til Dad comes home.” She whispered, doling out a few in front of the wobbly avian. Ever so gently, the bird grabbed one of the o's, and snapped it back into their mouth. Tes reached out a wavering hand. Familiars were supposed to be friends with their bonded, right? Like kids in kintergarten. ..What it they didn't like her? Would the bird reject her, and she'd end up having to leave them home all the time? The clattering of a cheerio to the counter top made Tes realize she'd been sitting, hand out, for a few minutes. She reached out quickly, stroking the fine down of the baby bird's head. It churred, looking up, eyes narrowing in a pseudo-smile. She let out a sigh of relief that she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. The bird shook, feathers standing on end as small white sparks jumped from shaft to shaft. Tes touched the bird again, laughing as she felt the hair on the end of her neck rise up. “You're a staticky guy, aren't you? Big ol' ball of static electricity.” What was that third thing for electricity? Volts, watts, and... “..Amp.” The bird looked up and churred happily again. “I'm gonna call you Amp. And no one's gonna change my mind about it.” Needless to say, Mother and Father weren't happy. “You can't call him “Amp”, that's not a name.” “Pick a better name. Why can't you use Icauna?” Tes ignored them. They couldn't make her change the name. Every once in a great while, Tes could put her foot down – the last time she had was six years ago, to emphasis that she did not want her bedroom to be bright pink. It wasn't stuff she could do often, but sometimes they would listen. The only thing was she had to compromise this time; Her parents insisted that “amp” wasn't a name, so their full name was “Amphere.” Fine by Tes. Fit the electricity theme she seemed to have cultivated around her over the years. (you touch one outlet and it follows you forever. Well, an outlet and a few plasma balls. And maybe touching a pigeon or two. Or five.) Unfortunately, with Amp, meant she now had to go through the family tradition of a photoshoot with her new Familiar. Which meant getting dolled up, her hair done up in some stupid style, and 'smiling' at the camera for two hours while her parents sat in the back of the room. At the very least, she had Amp. So maybe... being alone for hours at home wouldn't be so bad. She wouldn't really be alone, would she?

So, some explanations lol: Tes's name isn't Tes. It's Anastasia. But in her early years of middle school, Tes would chase after and pet the wild pigeons, and may have been dared to touch electrical outlets (with a plastic fork) a few times. This ended up earning her the nickname "Tesla" which was later shortened to "Tes" Violet is the one friend Tes still has. After middle school, her parents placed her in a private school. Being the "Strange, new, not-as-rich-kid", most of the kids in the school ignored her. Tes's parents mean well, they really do. They just.. don't know how to engage with her. She's wildly different from her brother, Owen (A definite momma's boy) and added on top of that her parents are very busy. They're well meaning, they just unfortunately end up being neglectful :<

#oc #original character #bird