#and i am withholding them from this kind of happiness

[aemoonie]

my personal biggest delulu check is always when they act so cute around children. bc it makes me sad realizing i don't want any and they are so great with them

#suddenly i am very much reminded that i do not want this myself #😔👎🏻 #i mean not that i want my future s/o to be a dick to children but it always makes me sad #bc i immediately assume that they love interacting with them and would make a great parent #and i am withholding them from this kind of happiness #this is gonna bite me in the ass so many times in my life and i already know this #i can feel the heartbreak already #dl #i'm mostly talking about irl btw i'm not really talking about idols 😭 #tho sometimes i get a hint of the same feeling when i see them interacting with children #not bc i am THAT delulu but bc they remind me that ppl genuine love and want this in their lives yk #( 💭 ) !

[googiekitsch]

I AM BEYOND EXCITED TO PRESENT TO YOU MY FIRST EVER WEBCOMIC, TOYHOSPITAL!

WHAT IS IT?! To keep it short, it's a Christmas-centric comedy horror comic - with more of an emphasis on the horror part of that. Believe me, there's no shortage of blood and guts and horrific body horror in this, and though there's jokes and the occasional bit here and there, it gets very dark, very quickly!

More specifically, it's about a version of the North Pole where Santa (or, as he's referred to as in-universe, Father Christmas) encounters a shortage of workers. So, instead of having the elves make the toys, he decides to open up an isolated, ominous segment of his workshop dedicated to turn the adults on the naughty list into toys by brutally transmorgifying them. He does this by employing the use of a disease fittingly dubbed Toyetic Syndrome, which has the ability to turn living matter into toys - albeit slowly as the science behind it is still pretty experimental. This establishment is called the Toyhospital - but it has a duplicitous veneer to it as to not raise suspicion from Father Christmas' wider community of workers. To most of the elves, they know the Toyhospital as it's much less prominent side - a toy repair shop where toys from all over the world are sent in and fixed. This side has been internally dubbed as the 'nice' side, while the real, actual hospital side of the Toyhospital is dubbed internally as the 'naughty' side.

The most evil, vile, or easy to manipulate elves and holiday creatures are in employ at the 'naughty' side of the Toyhospital, and they tend to be pretty relentless to those unlucky enough to end up as 'patients'. Fortunately (or unfortunately if you find yourself taking sympathy on them) the Toyetic Syndrome affects them, too. They're staffed there to basically prolong the patient population's suffering as long as possible, be that through physical or psychological methods. The thing is that Toyetic Syndrome is such a biohazard that everyone in there is locked in for the public's safety, making escape near impossible.

SO WHEN'S IT COMING OUT??? Uh! Sometime in the near future! No exact date yet. It's still getting it's footing established for now so nothing official will come out for a while. I've still got a lot of work to go through to get this thing out there, but all the main character designs that you see here have been finalized and the concept's tight enough where I feel comfortable presenting it in a loose form like this, so here you go! I've still got some characters I'm withholding for the story's sake, but these are the main players.

On the topic of these guys, let's get into the characters! (info about them below the cut)

CINNAMON is one of the protagonists of Toyhospital alongside IAN! He's your traditional cheerful, tooth-rottingly adorable Christmas elf. He used to work at the 'nice' side of the Toyhospital before his curiosity over the building's unusual floorplan led him into the 'naughty' side of the building. He got locked in, and he's looking for a way out. He's also infected with Toyetic Syndrome - albeit a much less outwardly harmful version of it that manifests in him becoming a cute, cuddly plush worm - but he's still desperately seeking a cure for his ailment before things have the chance to get ugly. Naturally, raised in an environment of pure sugary happiness and then suddenly getting thrusted into a hellhole of blood and disembowelment, Cinnamon is utterly terrified. Despite his horrified state, Cinnamon always approaches situations with a pacifistic, 'understanding everyone' mindset and is more than willing to give others second chances even if they don't really deserve his kindness.

WHITTAKER is the Toyhospital's dentist! He has an extreme aversion to seeing others discontent and will do anything to make them smile, physically altering their faces to get them to do so. He's prone to laughing fits, often interrupting himself mid-sentence to burst out giggling at nothing. Though he seems driven to achieving his goal of making every person in the Toyhospital 'happy', the guy doesn't actually seem all that...lucid. He tends to seem kind of 'out of it' a lot. Disconcertingly a lot, in fact. Sometimes, though, he can have brief moments where he snaps out of whatever funk he's in; and when he's not being giddy, Whittaker is surprisingly critical of those around him, most notably his other coworkers. While some of his criticisms towards others are as petty as them not smiling enough or having bad posture, a lot of them are troublingly grounded and more centered around the morality of what they do to others.

PEPPERMINT is Toyhospital's clown! But they're not all that good at it. Peppermint mainly just sees the whole 'clowning' gig as another stepping stone towards the real career they want for themselves - that being in Broadway musical theater. His dreams aren’t exactly accommodating of others, and he’s always had a tendency to put others down to elevate himself. Now that he’s employed by the Toyhospital, that immature, egotistical behavior has fostered into something downright dangerous. He has no regard for the lives of others, being totally apathetic if people around him die to the point where he has no qualms with hurting others himself if it can benefit him in some way. When they’re not dramatically complaining about others, they’re definitely gloating about themselves. Even at their worst points, their actions are still reflective of their love of performance, and their mannerisms are appropriately incredibly theatrical.

PHONESLEY is the receptionist! Phonesley is certainly an odd character to come across. The guy’s super unsettling, he has a tone that’s a bit too cheery and a bit too jovial considering how gruesome his workplace is - and that’s completely overlooking whatever’s going on with his organs, which he seems to be completely oblivious to. He’s really absentminded and has a tendency to lose track of what he’s doing and drools excessively. There’s a lot of mystery that surrounds Phonesley, from occasional slips mid-conversation that imply that he knows more than he lets on, to his questionable familiarity when it comes to elf culture and just the overall way the North Pole functions despite being employed by them. Who knows, if you stick around him for long enough, you might just happen to hear him rattle on about a few conspiracy theories of his….

SNOWBALL is the nurse, and perhaps the nicest person you'll come across working in the Toyhospital! They seem like a complete sweetiepie who loves rainbow and glitter and just wants to make sure everyone's taken care of. Although, that niceness of theirs is a double-edged sword. While they can seem like a saving grace when you first encounter them, come to spend enough time around them and you'll realize that they're actually suffocatingly overprotective and possessive. Snowball loves toys, and to them, turning naughty people into toys is a complete universal good. They'll do anything they can to speed up the process of that, and they always seem to keep a few patients for themselves so they can 'care' for them. Snowball's niceness melts away once someone even hints at leaving their care, as they'll quickly become enraged at the mere thought of being left behind.

BALTHAZAR is the head surgeon - the brains of the operation, one could say. She was put in charge by Father Christmas himself, and it's easy to see why she would be heading something like this. Balthazar has an undying, burning, festering hatred for naughty individuals. She seems to believe in a grand conspiracy that somehow, anyone on the naughty list is responsible for ruining her life and turning her into what she is now. Needless to say, she does not hold back when it comes to punishing those she believes to be in the wrong. For an idea of what her punishments look like, her favorite among them is to cut a person's legs off and watch as they bleed out and die in the struggle to escape her wrath. Even most of her own staff is terrified of her, as she's always insisting they be more brutal with their punishments, even when they're already being as relentless as physically possible. Her hatred for naughty people makes trying to reason with her completely futile. While most people view her as a cutthroat force of terror, the very few among her staff that are close to her have nothing but good things to say about their boss. Strangely enough, these few tend to describe her like she's some sweet, misunderstood person - a complete juxtaposition to how she actually is.

BEAU is the plastic surgeon of the Toyhospital! She's completely obsessed with being the 'it' girl, having modified her own body to be utterly unrecognizable from the elf she used to be - much more resembling a human than an elf in her current state. She viewed every part of herself as flawed, and now that she's become 'perfect' in her eyes, she now projects that former self-hatred for herself onto others. It goes without saying that Beau is an incredibly judgemental and self-centered person. She preforms unnecessary surgeries on others, not just to inherently improve them, but purely because she, personally, takes issue with the very way they look. She's very talkative, and with the amount of dirt she has on other people, has a habit of just letting their secrets slip randomly. Her entire persona of being a cool, collected, perfect girl completely falls apart once someone mentions a perceived flaw about her - at which point she'll either become violent towards them or become obsessed with fixing whatever's 'wrong' with her.

CHILLBLAIN is the hospital's mortician! Unlike the others among the staff, she isn't an elf or even a human - she's a snowperson, one who's incredibly intent on tormenting humanity for how they've treated her kind like disposable holiday novelties. And though her job has to do with laying the dead to rest, she's not all too keen on that. She is, perhaps, the most cruel individual to walk the Toyhospital's halls, as she's not even insistent on punishing people via infecting them with the Toyetic Syndrome. She dishes out a far worse fate. She's incredibly fond of heat torture, melting people down into puddles of flesh and blood and keeping them alive just to hear them writhe around and scream in agony. She refuses to let any of her patients die, instead locking them away in the mortuary ward and taking them out when she feels like having a little bit of 'fun' with them. She's much more cunning, clever, and for lack of a better word, cold than her peers are. There's a certain eeriness that surrounds her. 'Sadistic' is just about the best word there is to describe her.

and last but not least, there's IAN! Ian is the protagonist of Toyhospital, with Cinnamon accompanying him on his travels throughout the complex. Unlike the other patients, Ian ended up in the Toyhospital by pure mistake. He was on the naughty list as a kid, but throughout the years he's matured as a person through a lot of self-reflection and therapy and has far since outgrown his 'problem child' status. He's just here because of an issue in the naughty-nice list sorting system that sorted him into the naughty list. His main motivation is to get out of this place and sue whoever's behind it.. He's a very rational person and tries to comprehend everything that's going on from a logical perspective even if he's completely out of his element in this strange, magical world. He has no patience for the people behind this operation or whatever motivations they might have, he just wants his freedom. He has a tendency to lose composure whenever things get stressful, a facet of himself he's not too proud of. On the inside, he's very afraid of regressing back into the person he used to be before he went down his path of self-improvement - and fears his time in the Toyhospital may just be his breaking point.

#toyhospital #my art #character design #art #character art #oc #horror #cartoon

[drunkenlionwrites]

omg honkai star rail? imagine being pampered by himeko 😩

Himeko pampering you Oh nonnie, I just wanted to write a short blurb about this, but it turned out to be a whole ass headcanons post with SFW and NSFW parts, cause Himeko is such a mommy, I am so whipped for her. 🥵 Also, happy pride month everyone! ️‍🌈 Warnings: afab!reader x himeko, no gender mentions, nsfw

SFW:

Himeko is so calm and soft and caring with you. She often lets you lay on her plush thighs, while gently caressing your hair and scalp, making you a happy relaxed puddle in her lap. Most of the time, you end up falling asleep in this position, while she reads her book or just enjoys the silence of Astral Express while most of the crew is out on the mission.

She also likes telling you stories about her travels and explaining any stuff to you which you have questions about, her eyes full of gentle affection.

She makes sure to buy you any kind of sweets or in general any food you like and just spend as much time with you as possible.

She calls you her kitten, petting you and cuddling with you when she’s in need of physical affection. Most of the time she’s a big spoon, preferring to hug you from behind, or bringing you into her lap.

She loves to take baths with you, washing your hair, and washing your skin with damp cloth. The baths she prepares are the best: she loves all kinds of fragrances and bath salts that also make your skin silky smooth and tender.

Himeko also likes massaging you: just rubbing off your sore spots, taking care of you after battles or long missions.

NSFW:

She is very gentle, affectionate and attentive lover, although she is more on the soft dom side. She likes it when you’re pliant and obedient to her requests.

She’s very sensual, preferring long make out sessions and petting before making love to you.

Himeko absolutely revels in the sensation of your nipples and boobs caressing each other while you kiss, her hands wondering to your hips and your ass, kneading and squeezing them.

Tho she’s open to all the positions and toys, she prefers tribbing the most, your slick pussies kissing each other’s and your clits rubbing against each other, she just crumbles against this natural feeling without anything superficial.

Can touch you and abuse your clit for hours on end, though she’s never teasing and cruel, preferring to stimulate and withhold your orgasms enough just to make you cum harder, loving making you cum over and over again for her.

She’s also very into oral, preferring good old 69 and feeling you, both satisfying each other at the same time. It just does things to her. Although, you usually end up too distracted to return her affections in the same way, but she only chuckles at that, loving her little kitten moaning and mewling for her.

If you liked the work, please reblog!

#himeko x reader #himeko x you #himeko headcanons #himeko smut #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail headcanons #lion writes

[my-castles-crumbling]

Okay hi, again

Basically:

This has been bothering me for a while now, why did you follow me?

I mean my blog is literal cringe that shifts between different ships every 15 minutes.

Like every day I have to check that we are actually mutuals.

Still surprises me that we are

So yeah: why?

Hi hun!

So here's the thing: SO many people are like "OMG you followed ME?"

And I'm like: "...yeah? Why wouldn't I?"

I don't mean to sound ungrateful at ALL. I am so lucky to have so many supportive, loving, kind people who follow me. Literally the community here had changed my life.

But I'm not trying to create a clique or an exclusive society. If you post something funny or I think something you did is clever or you just seem fun, I'm gonna follow you. Because like...your post gave me dopamine once. So the small child in my mind is clapping and saying, 'Do it again!'

I don't mean to take away from the fact that people feel good that I followed them. But me following you isn't a top-secret invite to a party. I don't like...withhold follows until you reach a certain status or level of cool. To me, I use Tumblr to make friends and to interact with people. So why not follow anyone who seems fun?

I guess I've never understood the idea of being exclusive like that. It's social media. Be social?

And if you're reading this and you want to be mutuals and we're not, or you want to talk more and we don't...like I SUCK at reaching out to people. But if you message me and say, "Hey! We're friends now!" I'll be like, "Bet. Tell me your life story." (just ask @starchasersunseeker and @beautyoftheships )

I guess my point is like- I'm so glad that people are happy I'm following them. But...I'm not a celebrity, lol. I just want to be nerdy and hyperfixate with everyone <3

#ask #asks #ask cas

[chirp-a-chirp]

Devour and Delight: Roy’s Wedding and Wedding Night

Fandom: Court of Darkness (Roy X MC, MC named Carla)

Rating: First third PG/Sugary sweet; last 2/3 R/Sweetly Spicy (Minors/folks under 18 do not interact please!). The spicier section is in dialogue format.

Description: Roy and MC get hitched—and clearly enjoy their first honeymoon night. Part One to this story here: LINK HERE

Word Count: ~2700

Tags: Wedding; wedding night; fluff; sweet and spicy; soft smut

…

A private ceremony takes place in a garden near the Invidian royal chapel. A little girl clutching a basket marches down the aisle, the frills of her dress bouncing energetically. Roy smiles indulgently as the girl curtsies to him at the altar.

“You performed admirably, Nica.” He adds. “Your excitement mirrors mine.”

“Yay!” Nica runs to her older brother, Rio, who serves as Roy’s best man. She had practiced her flower girl routine diligently for a week. No one had the heart to tell Nica that, in her excitement, she forgot to drop any of the petals.

“Sorry about that mate,” Rio says quietly to Roy after ushering Nica to her seat.

“There is nothing to apologize for, my friend.” Roy eyes Nica’s overflowing flower basket, grinning. “I have a better use for the petals this evening.”

“What use could that be—“ Rio stops himself. Roy’s gaze is transfixed upon seeing Carla.

King Klaus walks Carla down the aisle. “I thought I’d only get this honor with Sherry,” Klaus murmurs, his voice choking. Carla can’t help but be moved that the King is reacting like a proud parent this day, his emotions clearly etched on his face.

The audience witnessing this wedding is small—some palace staff, Rio, Lynt and their immediate families, Sherry, Grayson, and Roy’s parents. The Invidian people and other foreign princes will be present for the public ceremony—and all the royal trappings along with it—in a week’s time. But this day is for Roy and Carla.

Carla can hardly contain her emotions as she grasps Roy’s hand.

“No escaping now,” Carla whispers jokingly, her eyes drinking the sight of him in his suit.

“Escape was never an option for us, Heartspell.”

King Klaus makes a gracious escape and sits next to his wife and daughter Sherry. He’s all but sure from Roy’s lovestruck stare that his son did not remotely register his presence.

“Roy’s brimming with passion. It just took the right woman to unlock it.” Roy’s mother notes fondly to King Klaus.

“If he can keep it unlocked until the ceremony ends!” Sherry giggles.

The officiant intones some very poignant and meaningful words—of which Roy would confess later to not recalling much of at all. He does recall every word of his and Carla’s personal wedding vows. When that time arrives, Carla turns and places a gold ring with an etched rose motif on his finger.

“The world is comprised of darkness and light. For years, I struggled in the dark, seeking a life worth living. But then, you arrived. Thank you for being my light—my source of inspiration and joy. I vow to spend every day giving you the same love and happiness you’ve gifted me. To ease the burdens you carry. To lift your spirits in times of sorrow and doubt.”

A beautiful smile forms on Roy’s face from Carla’s words. He places a diamond ring on her finger before clasping her hands.

“The world may be comprised of light and dark, but you brought color into my life. I love you with all that I am. My soul has transformed from knowing you—your goodness, your kindness, your perseverance. I vow to cherish you for eternity, to be the one you can turn to when you require. To comfort, soothe, and protect in times of need.”

The officiant asks if there are any objections. Carla withholds a giggle when Roy scans the crowd and briefly narrows his eyes as if anyone would object. Her thumb caresses his wrist to soothe his nerves.

The officiant pronounces them man and wife. Carla represses the urge to leap in Roy’s arms due to the audience. Roy senses her hesitation and pulls Carla to him in a tender embrace. As their lips touch, Carla whispers on his lips.

“I love you…husband.”

Time stops briefly. Affections overflow as they gaze into each other’s eyes.

“And I love you...wife.”

There’s a joyous celebration at the Castle. The festivities blur in a series of dances, feasting, and good natured ribbing of Roy and Carla being unable to keep their eyes off each other. The moment King Klaus and Queen Charlotte leave, Roy makes his excuses, picks Carla up in his arms, and dashes away.

Carla: Roy! So impatient! Her voice echoes the hallway. What will people say?

Roy: Patience would be rather unusual at present. It is not as if tonight’s plans are a secret. Roy smirks while carrying Carla towards their chambers. Upon feeling her cheeks blaze, his voice lowers. I have the most beautiful wife in my arms. All I desire is to spend time with her.

Carla: Define spend time. Carla nuzzles her nose against his neck as Roy opens their chamber door. I have some ideas…

Roy: Roy chuckles at her coyness. His eyes close briefly at feeling of Carla’s breath against his neck. He steps inside their chambers and locks the door.

Well then, please enlighten me.

Roy puts Carla on the ground. His thumb traces her jawline before lifting her chin towards his gaze. His eyes reflect adoration, love, and rising heat. Carla’s thoughts scatter at his look.

Carla: Roy…She is overwhelmed. A part of her wonders if she closes her eyes if she’ll find this day, nay their entire relationship, nothing more than a dream. She grasps Roy’s free hand. It’s real, solid, radiating warmth. His fingers curl against hers on instinct.

Allow me to burn this beautiful image of you in my mind. Please.

Roy: His eyes widen with surprise—he has been called fair of face by many, but none have mattered before meeting Carla. His expression softens.

Take your time. The corner of his mouth quirks. Please inform me if I pass your inspection.

Carla: She walks a full circle around Roy, eyes roaming up and down from the tips of his shoes to the top of his head. Roy breathes heavier at her examination.

It’s not everyday a girl marries the most handsome prince in Saligia—inside and out. Her voice trails as her arms wrap around Roy’s back.

Roy: He embraces Carla softly, resting his head on top of hers. You understand you've completely melted me, yes?

Carla: You’re standing upright, so not ALL of you has melted. She kicks off her heels and nuzzles against his chest.

Roy: He is determined to make this a night she’ll never forget. One of joy, of gallantry—

Carla: How about we unwrap our…wedding presents? Her fingers untuck shirttails from Roy’s pants so she can caress his sides.

Roy: …gallantry be damned.

Carla: Her hands wander to Roy’s shoulders as she removes his jacket. Carla hums in approval as Roy’s hands travel up her back and slowly undo her dress.

I REALLY despise buttons. Her hands shake as the top three buttons of Roy’s shirt are undone. There is an innate satisfaction in unveiling one another’s skin with their own hands versus using magic—even if their wedding attire consists of the tiniest most cumbersome buttons in existence. Her lips lap Roy’s chest as more skin is exposed. Carla’s wedding dress falls to the ground in a pool of fabric.

Roy: You are exquisite. Beyond exquisite. Heartspell. I love you.

There are more eloquent ways to express these overflowing emotions. But, those are the words that matter.

Carla: Though they’ve come together many times before, this feels different. Her skin is covered in goosebumps as Roy’s fingers trace her curves. His touch is revenant yet burning. When Carla finally gets Roy’s shirt off, she gasps as she’s lifted in his arms. Her legs wrap around his waist, their kisses quickly becoming ravenous. Roy walks to the bed and lowers Carla down, his lips never leaving hers.

Carla’s hands drift to Roy’s waist to take off what remains of his attire. Despite their passionate sounds, Carla can’t help laughing as Roy kicks his shoes off with serious impatience.

And YOU may hate shoes as much as I hate buttons! Even as she laughs, her lips seek Roy’s body vigorously.

Roy: He half laughs, half growls in impatience. His hands finally remove the few articles of clothing clinging to their bodies.

Believe me, you’re well worth the effort of unraveling, dear wife. Roy groans as their lips devour each other, caressing said and unsaid desires.

Carla: Her fingers dig into his rose gold locks. Oh God Roy…

Roy: He moans at her touch, her body, her heart—it is pure heaven. His hands travel up her thighs, tracing every inch, seeking her heat.

Carla: This…this is a problem. She murmurs softly against his lips and neck. I want this moment to continue, but your fingers…oh, just like THAT.

Carla’s fingers dig into his shoulders as Roy’s fingers concentrate on her most sensitive spot, lightly at first and then encircling intently.

Roy: He laughs softly as she murmurs against him. Roy’s touches become all-consuming, her reactions driving him wild.

Just like this…yes? Roy feigns his questioning tone. He knows Carla loves it.

Carla: Her legs quiver from the sensations of Roy’s fingers in her. Carla feels rather than sees Roy smirk as his head is buried against her neck.

Roy, I…her eyes close as she becomes undone by his touch.

Roy: You already need me this much? He grins at her body’s quivering, the lurid wet sound of his fingers loving her. While he wants to savor his Carla, the wanton desire on her lips fuels a need to make her delirious with pleasure. Roy continues to twirl and pump his fingers the way she enjoys it until he brings Carla to her peak.

Carla: Her body convulses against Roy, her mind going blank. Carla clinches his shoulders and cries his name, lips pressed against the top of his head. Her body sinks in the bedsheets in the aftermath.

Roy…though her limbs still shake, Carla pulls Roy closer to her. She should not be the only one delighted this night. Plus, Carla wants to replace the slightly smug look on Roy’s face with another expression. She whispers in his ear.

Your turn. Her hands slide towards Roy’s waist, tracing light circles on his hips and upper thighs.

Roy: He groans softly in anticipation, his mind clouding as Carla pulls him closer. Roy’s breath is shallow and short, Carla’s fingers sending his body into overdrive.

Carla: I’m not the only one in need it seems. Carla purrs against his skin. One arm encircles Roy’s waist while the other tantalizes his length. Her lips press a wet trail across his upper chest and neck.

Just like this…yes? Carla mimics Roy’s previous teasing tone. Her face is flushed, but seeing Roy slowly come apart is an absolute treat. Her tongue swirls on his chest as her hand moves faster on him.

Roy: He groans as Carla’s tongue and fingers perform wonders. Carla’s name falls from his lips, as if it’s the only thing he can utter. Roy is certain his heart will explode from Carla’s ministrations. His hands clinch the bedsheets, his vocalizations intensifying.

Carla: And now to test how soundproof our chambers are.

She nips his neck, stroking him faster still until he comes undone. Carla takes her other hand and glides her fingertips across his whitening knuckles until they relax into her touch. Light kisses now cover bite marks in soothing pecks as Roy recovers.

Roy: Her actions send him to a point where he doesn’t care if the whole Castle hears him. His voice cries out and his body shakes and slumps. A towel is magically summoned to their bed.

It appears we both need this, Heartspell. Roy chuckles ruefully, wiping their bodies as he catches his breath. Carla rests her head on his chest. A smile spreads across her face when Roy drops a kiss on her forehead.

Carla: It appears so.

Carla breathes in a mingled scent of sweat and roses—Roy always smells sweet Carla thinks. She drapes an arm across his torso and lets a comfortable silence remain between them before speaking.

I said you were handsome in your suit Roy. But I prefer what you wear now. Carla can’t see Roy’s face from her position, but she can easily imagine his cheeks turning pink.

Roy: Is that so? Even when I am all...sweaty like this?

Carla: Yes. It’s you in your most natural state—no political trappings, no formal words, no masks. Just you and your heart exposed. Her speech is a bit sentimental so she tacks on an addendum. And no one else gets to see your pretty body and reactions but me. I rather like that.

Roy: He responds back in a teasing tone. You just had the best view then, did you not?

Carla: Carla buries her head against Roy’s chest and laughs heartily. Cheeky man.

Roy: I can never resist teasing my gorgeous wife.

Carla: You couldn’t resist teasing when I was your consort or fiancé, you know.

Roy: Well, you make it so easy. How am I supposed to ignore teasing someone as beautiful as you?

Carla: Carla sits up, looking down at Roy in mock indignation. Oh, so it’s MY fault?

Roy: Of course it is. Who else's could it be?

Carla: Perhaps, JUST PERHAPS, the rascal prince I’ve married!

She throws a pillow in Roy’s direction, but then notices rose petals on it. She scans her surroundings and sees the bed and most of the carpet sprinkled with rose petals, the room cast in a golden light from numerous candles.

Roy… Carla gestures to candles and roses. You sweet man…. Her cheeks turn pink.

Roy: His eyes catch Carla’s glances at the room. It’s a cute reaction he’s compelled to play with. Roy sits up, grabs another pillow, and tosses it towards Carla. Oh, did you just notice the candles and flowers?

Carla: YES! She deflects the pillow.

Roy: You can thank Nica for supplying the petals. A much better use of them I dare say. Roy smirks and tucks a strand of hair behind Carla’s ear. Too bad you didn’t see them until now. Were you distracted?

Carla: I was as distracted as YOU were! Or were our moans not indicative of this?

Roy: You do inspire quite the response from me. His fingers caress the back of Carla’s neck. And here I thought I was a good, quiet boy.

Carla: HA! She launches herself so Roy’s on his back and she’s lying on top of him. You’re good in another context though…

Roy: And what context is that?

Carla: The “your wife wants to pounce you” context. Carla straddles Roy’s hips enticingly and presses her lips to his.

Roy: Her playful desire envelopes Roy. Their kisses grow intense, thorough, and ravenous. They crave without hesitation or restraint. Roy twines his fingers in Carla’s hair and uses momentum to flip their positions. His hips move against hers, entering her in one smooth powerful stroke. They gasp at the instant fireworks unleashed.

Carla: She is mesmerized—his lips, his touch, the way he yearns for more intimacy, the blaze of Roy’s golden eyes as they give into the moment of being husband and wife in every sense of the word.

Roy…Carla hopes he can feel the passion she has for him. More.

Roy: Roy calls out to her, eyes aflame, skin on fire. He presses further into her, their rhythm increasing rapidly.

Feel me. With all that I am.

Lips devour, seeking her everything—her cries, her sighs, the words she tries to express. Roy tries slowing their pace to prolong the moment, but it’s no use. Carla matches his pace, digging her fingers against his back as the pounding pressure crescendos. Roy encircles one arm under Carla’s waist and tips her slightly upwards, pressing further until they hurdle over the edge together, their voices crying out.

Carla: She feels Roy collapse on her shoulder. They roll onto their sides, clinging to one another. Carla maneuvers her position slightly. She closes her eyes and slowly massages Roy’s scalp, his head resting between her breasts.

Ahhh, so this is what happens when we pounce each other.

Roy: Yes, and your claws are truly sharp.

Carla: What would people say if they knew WHY their prince was so tired now? Her words are soft.

Roy: He murmurs. They would understand it was due to our constant pouncing. Very constant.

Carla: Carla yawns, her fingers slowing to a stop.

Roy: Roy moves back upwards, gathering Carla in his arms. Rest up Heartspell. There’s still the rest of the honeymoon to enjoy. He runs his fingers through her hair, savoring her presence, until they both succumb to slumber.

#court of darkness #voltage games #roy invidia #otome mc #otome fanfic #voltage fanfic #soft smut #wedding fan fic #softcore #immmmmm gonna run away now first smut posted…

[moonshynecybin]

the marc-max dynamic is so rich to me not in a ship way but just that they’re both red bull boy athletes child phenoms who came in and defeated the godlike reigning champions of their respective sports

any thoughts on their similarities and differences?

okay i do need a disclaimer that i am not an F1 scholar by any means i simply enjoy it very casually adn see my lovely mutuals post about it :) like i got into it bc my very offline best friend has loved max forever hes like my most beloved blorbo in law <3. daniel ricciardo is my babygirl though i love his ass. so dont throw rocks at meee

so for in terms of their similarities.... ive talked a little bit about the inherent ego that is tied to racing at the level these guys race at, adn max is definitely in that same vein. he's confident! super sweet off track but in the heat of the race knows when he has to prioritize himself and is not apologetic about it in the least. thats how you win. and thats where him and marc often get into trouble with the media lol (though marc is better at withholding, max will mostly just. say it. king.). but i also think theres a conversation to be had about how any single person in the conversation for GOAT in their respective sport has to be at least mildly crazy in terms of how they relate to their jobs. like obsessive religious devotion from young childhood in many ways.... for vehicular death sport more than mildly methinks. so one fun thing is that whenever they meet they can kind of talk to each other about racing in circles forever bc they love it :) freak4freak friendship where they relate to each other bc their sports are in conversation but not competition with each other, which makes the convo more fun! and it means they can literally just sit there and explain racing to someone who understands what its like to be a too-young protege champion but has enough gaps in their knowledge that a lot of info is mostly new. that must be pretty interesting to them both (especially max who loves that shit lol)

but the thing about max (and again im not a scholar) is that his childhood is so dominated by this complex entanglement between racing and his family and his father and all that mess. marc doesnt really have that same familial trauma tied to this huge polestar of his life (there are other traumas adn other family weirdness with marc but uhhhh this aint about that.) like max absolutely has that dog in him. but i think if he got super injured like marc he wouldnt necessarily do the crazy resilient comeback against all odds like marc did, i think he would retire! and some part of him would be kind of quietly relieved that he can let it go without disappointing anyone and then he'd go on the sim 8 hours a day adn be pretty happy. in a way marc absolutely would not be. but again i am no expert!!

#like idk i think marc is more umm. organically insane? if that makes sense. in terms of his devotion to the sport. #truly i enjoy f1 sooo casually i see pretty posts and go yayyy! and my thoughts stop there #motogp #asks #callie speaks #formula one

[jreads]

Unexpected Constellations (Part 12)

Rating: M for dark(er)(ish?) themes

Word Count: 5.5K

Warnings: Warnings: Angst, Mentions of blood, Canon-level violence, Dark themes, Foul language, (small emetophobia again i am so sorry), But genuinely the themes are dark today, please proceed with caution.

A/N: Nothing to say here today except i love you. I am in the headspace of not doing my thoughts justice in writing. The story is good in my brain, please take my word for it. If you're enjoying the fic, kindly consider a reblog; it's really the only way my work gets out there :) Hope everyone is staying healthy and happy. Comment on this post or the Masterlist to get added to the taglist 🫶

You sat cross-legged in your cell, watching the puddle of blood grow larger as it dripped down off of white armour. Some of it had seeped into your own clothes already. Two stormtroopers lay just in front of you, very dead, the food they had been bringing in long forgotten.

But the cell doors activated from the outside automatically, and the soldiers carried no key cards, so it had mostly been for nothing. Mostly, because watching them bleed out slowly had taken the edge off of your bottomless anger, just a bit. 

It was the only emotion you had allowed yourself to feel. Towards him, towards the situation, towards his soldiers… Towards the Mandalorian.

While you had recovered from the internal injuries inflicted by the containment field, you had been overcome with grief. The stormtroopers who attended to you had been armed to the teeth, and you had considered the logic of a more drastic way out. But as the mental fog had worn off, you remembered you had one more thing to do.

“Now look at this.” He tutted at you, as if reprimanding a small child. “Was it really necessary? It’s not as if we have infinite troopers at our disposal now.”

You stared forward, trying to calm your breathing.

“You’re looking better.” He crouched down to be level with you. “Now, I don’t want to use the containment field again, but that means I’ll need you to behave yourself. Can you do that for me?”

You were picturing spilling his blood, in so many ways, across the pristine floor. All the possibilities flashed behind your eyelids. You just had to escape.

So you nodded, one time, still not making eye contact.

“Yes?” He sounded surprised. You couldn’t blame him; the picture before him probably painted you as some kind of feral animal.

He seemed somewhat satisfied with your answer though, straightening from his stoop. “Rest. I’ll come back for you soon. There’s much to catch you up on. You won’t believe the things we’ve been up to in your absence.”

You were clenching your teeth so hard it was a wonder they weren’t cracking. Fissuring and turning to dust in your mouth.

Before he left, he turned over one shoulder. He smiled. He told you he missed you. And from the emotions you read from him, you knew it to be the truth.

--- Years ago ---

You had been lying on this floor for hours. Days maybe. There was crushed glass across the surface, under your curled up body, digging and cutting into flesh anytime you shifted. 

The group had not held back this time, delighting in drawing screams from you. You hated that they could. Each time you would try so hard to stay silent. Bite your lip or grit your teeth, anything to withhold the satisfaction they got from seeing you break. Because it was that exactly.

They got off on seeing you in pain. You could tell from the waves of arousal that would wind through the room as they toyed with you. They weren’t allowed to touch you that way, and that was perhaps the only blessing you had. But anything else was fair game. A stars, could they be inventive.

Fear, pain, rage… those were all emotions that tethered the Sith techniques, strengthened the wieldier. You had learned that much from your brief training. So it seemed this group had taken it upon themselves to give you a fair dose of each. In their minds, they thought they were making you stronger. Fattening you up like a prize hog to eventually deliver to their master.

Only, that was the issue. Palpatine was dead; lost in the carnage of the Death Star. Which meant that this purgatory would go on forever, as they searched in vain. As you grew old and eventually died, maybe on this very floor, on this bed of glass. 

And why not now? If you could manipulate your manacled hands just so, and grab a sharp enough piece of glass, could you do what needed to be done? 

The door slid open, and you feigned unconsciousness. There were arms under your sides, lifting, glass making a twinkling sound as it fell from your body to the tiled floor.

“Come now, let’s get you fixed up.” It was criminal how soft his voice was, as if he hadn’t watched the rest of the group tear you to pieces and leave you in a heap. You hated every place where he touched you, wished you could scrape the tainted skin off.

How sad it would be. That you would never be able to feel the touch of a lover, one that brought pleasure, not pain. How so very sad. It was all you thought about as the medical droid applied bacta and bandages and injected you with a sedative. Even its immobile LED eyes looked sorrowful. You welcomed the fuzzy darkness with open arms.

Boba had cleared off the table and laid a map of the galaxy down, using ornate cut tumblers to keep the edges from curling inwards. “Where was it?”

The two of them had wasted no time in making preparations, and if Din had not been so lost in his own worry and self-loathing, he would have taken a second to appreciate just how willing they were to help. Especially on a mission with so many unknown variables.

“I’m not sure exactly. There weren’t any nearby planets to landmark it. Probably around here.” His had shook slightly as he pointed to a secluded area in the Outer Rim. He knew Fett noticed. “It’s saved in the Crest’s database.”

Fennec came in then, a droid trailing behind her, both of their arms laden with weapons. She dumped her armful atop the stretched-out map. 

“Smoke bombs, grenades, droid poppers just-in-case, and…” She turned a small pistol over in her hands. “…a stun blaster. It’s all I could get on such short notice.”

“It’ll do.” Boba surveyed the stash with an appraising eye. Din couldn’t seem to understand why she’d need non-lethal weaponry. He wanted them all dead. He didn’t say it aloud.

She braced her palms against the table. “Where are we at?”

“Rough coordinates, no estimate on number of hostiles. Din assumes around fifty. Probably more.” A muscle ticked in Shand’s jaw at the information, and she turned to Boba, angling her head towards the hall. He nodded.

“Give us a moment, Djarin.” They both retreated from the war room. 

Din couldn’t blame them. It didn’t look good. He tried not to eavesdrop on the hushed voices beyond the wall.

“…It’s a suicide mission.” 

“It doesn’t matter. We owe him.”

“Is he sure it’s even—” Boba cut her off before she could continue.

“He’s not leaving her. He would never leave her behind.”

She exhaled loudly. “I know.”

“I would do the same, you know? If it was you.”

“Even if it was impossible?”

“Especially then.”

He stopped listening because his throat was getting thick with something, and he felt as if he had been punched in the chest.

Not that it mattered much—they were back in the room within moments.

Fennec didn’t miss a beat. “What ship was it?”

“Nebula… something.” He couldn’t remember the name, just the way it had sounded on your tongue. Silver and beautiful.

“Nebulon Frigate.” She looked towards Boba again. “Shit.”

“Long range sensors… offensive weaponry…” He was thinking out loud. Finally he looked at Din, pointing a finger in his direction.

“I’m going to need you to get those jump coordinates for me. We’re not taking the Crest.”

“What?” Both him and Fennec exclaimed at once.

“The Firespray has cloaking capabilities. We’ll need the element of surprise. We can’t take fifty stormtroopers at once.” He pondered again for a moment. “What class of frigate was it?”

“B, I think.”

He looked intrigued. “Had a long bridge? One larger section, one small?”

“Yes, but it was damaged. Like it had seen battle and been abandoned before they picked it up.”

Boba nodded a few times. “Good. Good, that means it should be immobile. Likely no shields. And hopefully prone to structural warning alarms.”

He shifted the weapons and glasses to the side, rolling up the parchment. “We’re going stealth.” 

The next time the stormtroopers came into your cell, you didn’t kill them. You took the food from them and ate it. If your plan was going to work, you were going to need to keep up your strength.

They had woken you from a light sleep, sliding the tray across the floor, the screech of it seeming to scratch lines into your brain.

It caught on pieces of debris that littered the cell, pushing them out of its path and towards you. You were being sequestered in the main section of the ship, on a lower level, in an area where damage seemed to be at its worst. The lights would flicker at uneven intervals, the floor was pitted and potholed, and every now and again there would be an eerie groaning sound as the ship floated through space.

Everything ached. Especially the wound on your thigh. The bandage was still in place and there was no blood showing through your trousers, meaning the stitches hadn’t pulled, but it hurt.

Din had been giving you pain medication on the Crest which had numbed it for a time, but without them you were starting to struggle. Just the simple thought of him sent another pang through your leg, and a twin one through your chest.

What had even been the point? Of showing you such care and compassion if he was just planning on dumping you here anyway? You could have sworn there were times where you had felt something from him… 

But you were struggling to remember just what it had been. Lust. Yes, there had been plenty of that, but he had been so damn hard to read. Had it really been that easy to play you? He would have cared about your health because he wouldn’t have gotten paid if you were dead. But why keep up the charade with the crystal? Unless he had wanted you and the crystal.

You reached for your food but halted, focusing instead on a piece of metal just beside your knee. An old portion of piping perhaps, scratched and dented and left to rot on the floor. Ironic. You picked it up, tuned it over in your still-manacled hands.

Come to think of it, where even was the crystal?

Din had been keeping it, all too eager to not leave you alone with it. Ah, that made sense now. Perhaps he had handed it over whenever he got his credits. 

Three times the value of the crystal… That’s what you were worth to him. Well, at least it was a lot of money. But what had he been worth to you? The stars and the galaxy and the space in between it all?

Maker, you were an idiot. A lovestruck, naïve, and stupid idiot.

Just like everyone else, he had wanted something from you. And you had let him have it… willingly. You wondered if he knew how much damage he had done. Just how deep it went. How much you loved him.

You would tell him. You would tell him before you killed him.

You finished your meal and curled into a small ball on the hard floor. Clutching the sad piece of piping to your chest, you let the thought comfort you into sleep.

He came for you sometime later, hours, days maybe. It was always hard to tell. Your back had stiffened, and your leg was only getting worse. But when he beckoned you to follow, you stood on steady legs, careful not to let the searing pain show on your features. You tried not to limp as he led you down the halls and up an elevator, flanked by two troopers, with an additional one bringing up the rear.

The control centre was a sorry sight. Only two personnel were working there, standing up from their seats to give a sharp salute. Their uniforms were dilapidated, stained with grime, littered with rips. Quite unlike his own. But, then again, he had always been self-absorbed.

Exposed wires littered the floor, panels had been strewn about, and there was a strange mildew smell to the air. You wondered how many of the ship’s systems were actually still functioning. At least the security cams worked; a wall of them flickered away, showing brief cuts of too many near-identical hallways. It made you realize just how empty the starship actually was. Just how depleted his resources were.

The troopers lined the room, blasters across chests. “At ease.” He ordered from beside you. They obeyed.

“I wanted to show you this.” He motioned to the room, beyond it, where a wide window looked out over the rest of the ship. “We’ll be staying here a while, as we fix the ship.”

You couldn’t help your delirious laugh. “Fix?” He looked unamused. “You mean to tell me the Empire won’t supply you with a brand-new Star Destroyer to go ghost hunting?”

A muscle ticked in his too-wide jaw. Good. You wanted to agitate him.

You laughed again. “We’ll be here for years. This frigate is a piece of junk.”

But he merely clasped his hands behind his back, maintaining composure. “We have time.”

I’ll bet you do. 

Boba activated the ship’s cloaking as soon as it broke from hyperspace. The calculations had worked, and the frigate was still in position, floating idle in space, no signs of life from the outside.

“They must not have expected you to come back.” Fennec mused.

They would have thought he was smart, logical. Eager to save himself. 

They had no idea. If anything had happened to you, he would personally see the whole ship razed, along with everyone inside it. He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

The Firespray took a wide berth around the frigate. “When we dock, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that someone comes to inspect the sound.” Boba punched a few buttons on the dashboard. “If we’re lucky, they’ll just mistake it as debris colliding.”

Fennec queried from the jump seat. “And if we’re not?” 

“Then we stick to plan B.” The ship closed in on its docking port. “Everyone gets out alive.”

There was a tense silence as he maneuvered into position. Underneath the gloves, Din’s knuckles were white, clenched into unforgiving fists.

“Easy… easy…” Boba was muttering under his breath. Finally, Slave One made contact with a short lurch.

“We’re locked in. Din?”

“On it.” He gave the docking port only a second to equalize before opening the shaft door, rifle at the ready. The hall beyond it, mercifully, was empty.

“Clear.” He could hear the others unstrapping from their seats. The hunt was on.

A dull jolt and low clunking noise caught your attention. It seemed to jostle the ground, just a little. You looked at him, and then at the troopers flanking the door for any sort of recognition, but there was none.

“What was that?” 

Only one turned back, acknowledging your question.

“Just damage shifting.”

Some nagging part of you knew they were wrong. It sounded like a ship had docked. And if a ship was here… then that meant you had a way off. One step closer. It was now or never.

“Are you sure?” you asked. “It didn’t sound like damage to me.”

Like clockwork, the comms on his wrist lit up.

“Sir, there’s a small noise disturbance in sector 7. Do you want me to check it out?”

His sigh was patronizing. “Take a look but make it quick. It’s probably just loose steel.”

“Yes sir.” 

He pointed at one of the guards stationed at the door. “You, go with them.”

And just like that, you were one guard down. Only two to go.

You didn’t notice the security feeds along the wall slowly start to go dark, one at a time.

Din, Boba, and Fennec had fallen into a pattern as if it were a choreographed dance. They split up, each taking a different route, sticking to the shadows, and taking out cameras as they went.

By a stroke of bad luck—or maybe in her eyes it was good luck—Shand had run into the bulk of the troopers, including a small party sent to investigate the disturbance. They had made a rule to check in every few minutes, along with a Stromtrooper tally. Boba and Fennec were treating it as somewhat of a challenge.

Din could hear the telltale groan of dying man the next time they checked in. “Espa Three checking in. Nearing the command centre. Six troopers down.”

“Espa two.” Boba replied. “Copy. Headed down to the lower levels. Three.”

Mando was the last to check in. “Espa one. Two down, on route to the sky bridge.”

Still no sign of you. 

In the minutes that followed, his kills got progressively more brutal.

He had been talking at you for some time now, a poor attempt at gloating, or so it seemed. In the meantime, you breathed through stabs of pain in your leg and took the time to examine the room.

The mildew smell meant the presence of water somewhere. Probably a burst pipe under one of the loose panels.

“When the others hadn’t survived the crash, I had to find some new talent.” Maker, would he ever stop talking? “Everyone on this ship volunteered to be here… because they believe.”

You snorted.

“You being here reinforces that belief. It was the first step. I told them that I would get you back, and here you are.” 

You raised your wrists, still circled in cuffs. “I suppose you haven’t been forthcoming about the fact that you’re keeping me against my will. In chains.” At that comment, he dropped your gaze.

“What? You never told them about what you did to me all those years ago? I wonder if they’d still follow you blindly knowing that you used to cut me into ribbons, starve me for days on end, toy with my mind—” The other men had shifted slightly in their seats, perhaps unsure what to do with the new information.

He was inches away from your face then, hissing. “I never touched a hair on your head!”

“No, but you were happy to sit back and watch as everyone else had their fun.”

“It made you stronger!” The veins in his neck were bulging. 

You moved forward, the move so abrupt that he relinquished a step. “You tortured me! For years!”

“I made you powerful!” He was seething. “It was because I cared!” 

There.

Your response was barely a whisper. “Really?” you lifted your hands again. “Then prove it.”

He seemed to assess. You could follow the train of thought in his eyes. The ship was floating out in the middle of nowhere, and he had a small cabal of troopers under his command. They could subdue you if need be. You were a threat but seemed to have come to your senses. Cooperated. He believed what he wanted to believe. You knew the feeling.

Finally, he nodded. And again, to a trooper at the door. 

When he approached you, white armour glinting, and lifted a key you almost sighed in relief. And when the cuffs fell away and the world came back into focus around you, the plan was as clear as day.

Another Stormtrooper entered the room then, delivering a slip of folded paper to the man in front of you. Looking frustrated and somewhat confused, he opened and read its contents. Whatever he beheld had his expression clouding over within seconds.

His order was clipped. “Secure the ship. Now.” The troopers filed out. And then he grabbed you by the elbow, steering you to the front of the room, and into the tattered captain’s chair. Your leg barked at the pain and the edges of your vision frayed a little, trying to keep up with the overload of information available now that you were able to use the Force again.

So, a ship had docked. And it wasn’t a friendly. Good. This could work well.

He was looking out the window with frantic eyes. Scared? Really?

You utilized his distraction to your advantage. The water source was behind the wall across the room; you could feel the steady tick, tick, tick, of droplets falling. It was difficult because you couldn’t see it, but the sense was enough. Focusing enough to make sweat bead on your brow, you manipulated the metal until the dripping became trickling, and then the trickling became rushing. 

It pooled onto the floor of the command room, stretching out perfectly in the direction you had planned, right towards the exposed wires. He was too busy barking orders to notice.

But the uniformed technician beside you had, and now watched you with wide eyes. What caught your attention was how his hand shook, hovered over the power button. A question in his eyes.

You nodded and, after what felt like a millennium of bated breath, he nodded back. You both lifted your feet from the floor.

The power engaged with a zap and it was oh so immensely satisfying to see him go down, comms splashing into the water, body convulsing until it finally went limp. The technician cut the power immediately. You could hear men on the other end of the line. “Sir… Sir?”

“Thank you.” You spoke in an effort to break his eye contact on the immobile bodies of his old team.

He turned to you, palms raised in surrender. “I had no idea.” You could feel the reverence in his gaze. It made you uncomfortable.

“I know.” You backed away in an effort to show you meant no harm. “Go. Get off this ship. Take anyone that will go with you.”

He wasted no time, jumping from the chair and running from the room. Leaving you alone.

You didn’t check the man’s pulse, instead going for the discarded note that lay face-down in the growing puddle.

The writing on it was hurried, messy. The water had already dampened the paper, making the ink run. But the text was still clear enough. It was only one line. And it read: The Mandalorian is on board the ship.

Ah.

Come to assuage his guilt, had he? But all of a sudden, doubt was an insistent kernel in the back of your mind. You were shaking. It was from rage… definitely rage… Rage, and definitely not fear and adrenaline and confusion and perhaps a little, little bit of hope.

A fiery blast hit your periphery as the bridge, visible from the deck window, fractured and burst into flames, the two sides of the ship bowing away from each other. The impact had you struggling to maintain balance.

---Minutes earlier---

His tally was up to 15. Maybe he could have taken fifty at once. It sure felt like he could. He had no idea how many more there were. More, hopefully. Enough to quench his seemingly endless bloodlust.

Mando had run the sky bridge like it was a hundred-meter sprint. His heart was thundering once he took cover in the shadowed corner of the far end, sweat starting to feel uncomfortable under the heavy armour.

A few minutes back, blood spray had caught him across the helmet, partially obscuring his vision. He had wiped at it haphazardly, but he was sure he looked a sight. Not that he had any time to dwell on it. He shot out the camera before he rounded the corner.

He had left Boba and Fennec on the other side of the ship to look for you. He hadn’t liked the idea originally, but it was the only way the plan would work. He was the one they would recognize; he was the one they would come after. The next time he took a left turn, he didn’t bother to blast the camera. He let it run, red light blinking as it oscillated to turn on him. He stared it down.

Come and get me.

He had minutes now, two at most, to get back across the bridge before the big wave arrived. He bolted back the way he came.

It worked like a charm. Of course it did. He had never been any good at planning or strategy, but Fett…

He was concealed in a maintenance closet when the cavalry roared past. Maker, it must have been forty troopers at least. He would have laughed at the insinuation if he wasn’t so tense. 

Forty troopers? To take him down? It was downright flattering. Once the last of them stormed by, he emerged from his hiding place, took two long strides, and fired one of Boba’s missiles right down the skybridge channel. 

The blast doors on each side engaged automatically as soon as the explosive detonated. The force of it almost threw him backwards. But, as expected, the ship split satisfyingly into two.

“Bridge detonated. We’re on our own.”

“I’m not so sure.” was Fennec’s only reply.

You were tracking water down the halls. Strangely quiet halls. Some littered with dropped bodies. You were too exhausted to be confused.

You were dizzy, very dizzy, likely still in recovery from the containment field. Using the Force had only made it worse. As you would turn each corner, you had to brace a hand against the wall for stability. It felt like you were going in circles. Where the hell was the loading bay?

There was a barricade of stormtroopers in the next hall. Enough of them to be more than a nuisance. You could take them, but judging by the way you felt, you might pass out in the process. Then who knew when you might wake up. Your chance at escape was a small, fleeting window. But combat wasn’t an option against that many at once. You steeled yourself, pushing off the wall.

“Stop!” Their blasters were raised, but you knew they wouldn’t shoot. You were much too precious.

One push, just one more. You could do it. As your limbs protested and stomach heaved, you drew upon the Force, a deep pull. One trooper broke from the rest, advancing towards you, holding those damn cuffs. You were so sick of the sight of them.

The ship started to shake. Your fists were curled so tight that your thumbs popped. And then they were choking, all of them, grasping at their necks and flailing before finally falling to the ground before you. Your knees hit the tile hard, the impact jarring your body. There were so many; you could barely see the floor through the throng of their fallen bodies. You wanted to vomit.

Footsteps sounded from behind you, one pair, and you half twisted, delirious with fatigue, ready to throw out another blind attack. It took an extra second for your mind to catch up with your eyes.

“Fennec?” She was already speed walking towards you. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Saving you.” She grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you after her. “Obviously.”

“No, but—” Your brain was failing to keep up. “Din is here.”

“I know. I came with him.” 

You yanked your wrist out of her grip, stumbling again. “You knew?” You were slurring your words as if you had drunk too much spotchka.

“Knew what?”

Stars, no. “He gave me up. He took credits for it.” You didn’t want to hurt Shand. You liked her. But if she had played any part in—

But she looked deflated, pitiful. “What kind of lies did they tell you?”

“Lies?” The hall was spinning again. “He left me.”

“He came to get us so we could get you out.”

A sound came from the far end and you both whirled on it. Your heart dropped out of chest and burned a hole through the durasteel of the floor.

He was stained with blood. It was dripping down the side of his helmet. And he was heaving, breastplate rising and falling dramatically, like he was struggling to breathe. You could swear you felt a tether between his body and your own. You felt him again, anger, stress and above all relief… so much relief.

You were moving before you knew what you were doing. Waking and then running. He opened his arms as if to accept you but—

“You left me! YOU LEFT ME!” You were yelling it, screaming at the top of your lungs, barreling fists against his armour. He couldn’t do a thing, couldn’t think of anything to say to make it better so he stood there, still as death, and took the brunt of your hits. They didn’t hurt, not really, not physically, but every impact seemed to shatter a piece of him. Fennec stepped forward to stop you, stun blaster half raised, but he halted her with a hand. You were exhausting yourself, probably experiencing more pain than you were inflicting. “You LEFT…. Me.” You gasped. The hits were getting weaker. “You left. You—"

Your next throw missed, and you fell forward. Into his chest. His arms were around you on instinct, and your fists curled into the base of his cowl. “You left me.” It was a sob this time, and it was as if all of your muscles had suddenly given up. You weren’t even standing anymore, instead held up purely by the force of his embrace.

Tears were stuffy under his helmet. Din could only breathe you in. “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum ,” he whispered into your hair. He didn’t even notice Boba enter the corridor, a polished looking man in cuffs behind him, blood dripping from his temple. He just held you. 

“I’m sorry, love... I’m so sorry.”

You passed out in his arms.

Boba had led everyone back to the Firespray, including the man who Din now knew to be your captor. The Imperial loyalist you had told him about only a few days ago. Since then, his guilt and worry for you had made way for a sharp anger, a simmering resentment that he was trying so desperately to keep in check. Because he wouldn’t be the one to deal with the man. As much as he really, really wanted to.

That was a privilege that he would save for you. If, of course, it was something you wanted. If not, he would delight in skinning him piece by piece, roasting the flesh on a fire and then feeding it back to him. No, that wasn’t creative enough.

The group passed hallways strewn with the bodies of troopers, some interestingly dispatched. When Boba cast a look towards Fennec, she only shrugged her shoulders. His smirk was fond.

Din carried you, one arm across your back, the other cradling your bent knees. The small puffs of air you exhaled into his neck were the only thing grounding him. But just to have you in his arms again… Tension was lifting from his back, leaving aches and pains in its wake.

The trip back to Tatooine, to Mos Espa, was relatively quiet. Since the ship was tight on space, Din sat, legs extended on the floor, across from the man whose death he was plotting in an endlessly violent myriad of ways.

He had removed his tasset armour plate so that your head could rest on his thigh, body stretched to the side. A piece of stray hair had fallen over your face, and he tucked it back behind your ear with a gloved hand. You didn’t stir.

A piece of old piping had fallen out of the fold of your bloodstained clothing with a loud clang. He had been relieved to find that none of the blood was your own. But it was a strange thing, practically trash, but for some odd reason, you had held onto it. He would ask you about it when you woke. For the time being, he stowed it away in his weapon’s belt.

“You will never value her, you know.” Din looked up to see the man, who was watching him with an emotion akin to disgust. “Not the way I do.”

He shifted on the floor, bound legs moving awkwardly. “You stunt her potential, shrink her to a miniature size so she fits on your ship, among your kind. “But she’ll always be above you. You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as her. You’re filth compared to her.”

“Will you shut him up?” Shand called from the cockpit.

“She deserves more. She was born for more.” His gaze was piercing. “You know it.”

Din didn’t reply. He wouldn’t admit that he might even agree.

Fennec emerged and shot him once with the stun blaster.

Taglist: @that-girl-named-alex @aavengingbucky @prismaticpizza @blub-senpai @a-phan-of-youtube @jaguarthecat @lizajane3 @come-hell-or-eldren-fire @graciexmarvel @soobinsrose @simply-maggie @alwaysdjarin @minky77 @tinytinturtle @tae27 @groguspicklejar @slightlyuglierbeyonce-blog @willow-t @abbyhaslongshorts @andrewshotspot @racetrackheart @leithatnight @messageinadaisy @lostinsideourminds @wren-2-d @goth-cowgir1 @aphterthoughtt @sleeplessskeleton @teawrites01 @dashlilymark @imherefordeanandbones @sunshine96 @kalea-bane

#the mandalorian #sw the mandalorian #din djarin #sw fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x you #mando x you #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian series #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #din djarin imagine #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #my fic #jreadswrites #unexpected constellations

[wolveria]

The Raven’s Hymn - Ch 31

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: “What are you doing here?”

AO3

Two guards in hazmat suits led you out, and you were as cooperative as you could be, wanting to be rid of that room as soon as possible. A sense of uncleanliness pervaded you within and without, and you were grateful for the decontamination shower, even if it left your skin raw and stinging.

You scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to wipe away the filth that only existed in your mind, knowing the tainted feeling would linger far longer than any contaminants did. You might have been wearing the mask, but 035 had wormed his way into your thoughts, nudging your body and voice before you’d realized what was happening. 035 hadn’t controlled you in any significant way, it had felt more like he had taken your anger at Leahy, fed his own hatred into it, and caused a sort of merging that had been a blend of you both.

You shuddered and scrubbed harder, turning your mind to other parts of the so-called interview. It didn’t make any sense what 035 had said about 682. As far as you knew, 682 had been neutralized during Site-19’s containment breach, and Leahy had nothing to do with the SCP or its disposal.

Of course, the truth may have been above your previous clearance level. Hadn’t the Foundation already proven to be withholding more information than it shared? You still didn’t know why you’d been trapped within 049’s cell, let alone what the Foundation had actually done with an SCP they’d been trying to destroy for years.

As the cold, chemical spray drenched your hair and skin, you were unpleasantly reminded of 035’s desire for a containment breach. There was no denying you would love to be out of Foundation hands; taking 049 with you had crossed your mind more than once, but it was little more than a daydream. A way to pass the time and wish for things that would never be. Despite your effect on SCPs, you were still human, with no abilities or weapons that made you dangerous or capable of escape.

Once the spray stopped, you were air dried with a machine that made you feel as if you were going through a person-version of a car wash, and after that, you were led to what you assumed was your next test. Except the next room resembled staff accommodations more than a testing chamber.

You were left alone with instructions to rest, and a clean, white nightgown was left folded for you on the full-sized bed. It was impossible for it to be night already, yet your body ached with a fatigue that meant you’d been awake too long. Just how much time had passed in 035’s chamber?

Replacing the paper-thin hospital gown they’d given you after decontamination, you donned the more comfortable nightgown. Even after crawling into the bed and your weary body thanked every soft layer of material, you laid awake. It felt too… kind. Too nice for the treatment you’ve received so far. You didn’t trust it for a second.

But despite your paranoia, you couldn’t fight the exhaustion that weighed you down. You drifted off, curled under two comforters, and remained that way until the entrance door slid open.

You shot upward, clutching the blanket to your chest in a half-awake, childish attempt to protect yourself.

Two guards led a figure inside; tall, masked, and intimately familiar. You didn’t speak as the guards unlocked 049’s chains and collar before vacating and shutting the door behind them, leaving the two of you alone in the fully lit room. It had been dim when you’d drifted off and must have come back on when the door opened.

“049?” You pulled back the covers and rose from the bed. “What are you doing here?”

The SCP flicked his gaze around the room before settling on you, his head at a tilt.

“I am unsure.”

He took a step closer, his gaze troubled, frowning in his own way.

“Do you require medical assistance? Have they caused you harm?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Nothing on the surface, anyway. 049 was already approaching you, reaching out, but then he paused.

“May I perform a cursory examination?”

You blinked, your throat working.

“Uh… yeah. Yes.”

049 gently took your face into his hands in a way that did not feel like a cursory examination.

“Your skin is damaged. Raw from a mild burn.”

“Oh, yeah. The decontamination shows.”

049 narrowed his eyes.

“Barbarians.”

The word was harsh, but he said it quietly, holding you like a precious thing. Warmth spread down your face and neck, spreading at an alarming rate, but you weren’t concerned. It had been a long time since you’d really feared 049.

“I am… dissatisfied with our last conversation,” he said, rubbing one thumb across your cheek. “I wish to apologize.”

“It’s okay.” You smiled, the gesture so easy when it was him. “I’m sorry too.”

He returned the smile, his eyes warm.

“All is forgiven. Now, you should try to get some sleep.”

He was standing close. Too close. But he didn’t pull away, and neither did you.

“I’m not tired,” you mumbled and leaned in, caught up in the wave of warmth spreading throughout your body. You chased it, craved more of it. More of him.

“You need to rest.” His insistence was undermined by the hand still resting on your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. His other hand was a comfortable weight on your waist. You couldn’t recall when he put it there.

“No,” you breathed. “That’s not what I need.”

You leaned forward, pressing your entire body to him. Your face nudged against the crook of his neck beneath his hood, and it was titillating being so close, exploring a place you hadn’t before. His natural scent was stronger here, and you pressed in further, the cloth around his throat blocking you from skin contact, but that didn’t dissuade you from pressing your lips to where his pulse point would be.

049 shuddered and gave a choked off noise, and then his arms were around your waist, lifting you up and moving you backward towards the bed. You held on tight, more in desperation to be close rather than any fear he would drop you, and you didn’t let go even when he deposited you on the bed.

He carefully relinquished himself of your hold, but 049 didn’t go far. Whatever it was, this unquestionable need that had you in its grip, he also heeded its call, his heavy gaze never leaving yours as he bunched up your nightgown and stripped off your underwear.

Neither of you spoke as 049 leaned over you, the movements wanted and familiar, as if you’d done this before. He pressed his weight down on you, and you finally released a noise as something hard and heavy pressed against your thigh.

049 nudged himself between your legs with gentle insistence. You didn’t need any preparation, you welcomed him greedily, impatient as you slid your hands up his back and wrapped a leg around his hip.

He let out a low laugh, as if finding your lack of patience amusing, but then his expression darkened as he prodded at your entrance. Your nails dug into the thick cloth of his back, every inch of your skin tingled with anticipation.

Clenching your jaw, you sensed in the back of your mind you didn’t have much time left.

049 didn’t make you wait any longer. He plunged forward, fully embedding himself with you.

Lightning crackled up your body, electricity racing down your limbs and firing up every synapse in your brain, and you opened your eyes wide. The sensation, almost like an orgasm but not quite the same, faded away, leaving you unsatisfied. Alone, in an empty bed, with no 049.

You slowly sat upright, your body heavy with sleep, and you looked down to see you were still in your nightgown, tucked under the covers, and drenched in cold sweat. You didn’t even have to check to know your underwear was soaked with slick.

Covering your face with your hands, you groaned aloud.

The dim lights between your fingers bloomed into life, and you jerked up your head as two armed guards and a scientist entered the room.

“Get up,” one of the guards said, the manacles already waiting in his counterpart’s hands. “Stand here.”

You followed instructions, figuring they were simply leading you to the next test, but then the scientist pulled out a pair of black, thick rubber gloves from his lab coat pocket. He put them on and then flipped over your pillow, exposing what was beneath.

It was an old coin, specifically Irish gun money. A half-crown with James II on one side, there would be a sigil of the crown on the other, as well as the year 1690 stamped at its top.

The guard who wasn’t holding you moved forward, carrying a wooden coin box, and he opened it for the scientist to carefully deposit the coin inside.

Your lack of sleep and pent-up frustration from the interrupted dream had you pulling at the guard, your restraints clicking at the movement.

“You used SCP-5964 on me? Are you trying to kill me?”

But the scientist only said, “Please, come this way,” as if you were given a choice, and you were pulled from the bedroom—which had just been another testing chamber, after all.

Next Chapter

#the raven's hymn #scp 049 x reader #scp 049 #scp 049 fanfiction #scp containment breach fanfiction #wolveria writes

[hologramcowboy]

At the recent convention Jensen was supposed to sing at the Saturday night concert but unexpectedly didn’t.

People are joking that it’s because people make fun of his ‘pornstash’ and he was annoyed, but I’ve just been listening to the recent Kings of Con podcast called ‘Beef’.

Rob mentions in detail a chat thread where he maybe upset Jensen as he said no to Jensen’s suggestion for a medley, as Rob didn’t want to learn too many new songs, as was already struggling. (I have a friend who also suffered a stroke who finds this kind of thing difficult and so think this could be a real challenge for Rob now).

Rich was joking that he had offended Jensen. And then Jensen didn’t actually sing at the event for some reason. It all sounded kind of petty if that was the case and I’d like to think that wasn’t the reason.

If you have chance to listen to it I’d be interested what you think.

I personally think it’s wise to protect Jensen from singing at the moment as he seems drunk, can’t remember the words, sometimes sings badly when I know he can sing well, and wanders off when he feels like it. I could never ever cast someone like that in a performance after seeing that and worry how it looks to others.

There are also some details about Cliff not letting other cast members into J2’s private green room at times that do make it seem that they were maybe as close to the cast as I thought.

I want to believe the best, but these stories make me wonder.

That stache or whatever he wants to call it just gave him the creepiest vibes. As an actor you need a thick skin. People might not like your outfit, words, make-up, etc etc but that should never affect your professionalism and, if it does, then please find another career. You clearly are not in it for the craft.

I am going to be bluntly honest, I am super happy Jensen did not take the stage because, and I cannot stress thiss enough, unless you are putting high quality performances out there please don't put out any at all or you risk burning your image and career. Jensen has done enough drunken, mindless performances where he sang off key and was clearly in a highly altered state. My guess is his team probably advised him to take it easy. I do think he was probably too wasted to perform, let's face it he's proven time and time again he cannot seem to get through a con without altering his state and that is such a terrible example for his fans. I adore his voice but it's been years now that he's been delivering extremely low quality performances in an altered state and that does not honor his career, fans nor talent.

As for Rob, I can't even remotely imagine why watching out for his health would be offensive to Jensen. So I am going to withhold commenting on that and just say that I hope Rob chooses health over those who gaslight him. Health is everything.

I don't get the fans that feel happy in a room where Jensen is wasted out of his mind and screaming off key instead of singing. It's like going to the zoo and watching your favorite animal walk in circles due to being driven crazy by the small cage they are kept in and being happy about it, not even caring about animal mistreatment. What's worse is that they sexualize those peformances during which he is clearly self destructing.

If any of you are singers or performers on every level please choose to believe in yourself and train rather than using alcohol to numb yourself. Don't kill your talents, nurture them, they are a gift you can share with the world. 🧡

#jensen critical

[walkswithmyfather]

“WHY does He love me?

(James Smith, "Loved and Blessed" 1860)

“To love, and be loved--is real happiness. Our highest honor and our sweetest happiness below, is to be beloved of God. For if God loves us, He will withhold no truly good thing from us.

"I will heal their waywardness and love them freely, for My anger has turned away from them!" Hosea 14:4

What will God do for His people? He will love them freely!

He will prefer you to all others, setting His eye and His heart upon you.

He will take you into fellowship --the nearest, dearest, sweetest fellowship with Himself.

He will make you happy with the persuasion of the facts . . . that He has loved you with an everlasting love, that He delights in His love to you, and that He will forever love you freely!

O blessed state, that the great, the infinite, the holy Lord God--will love a worm like me . . . preferring me even to the angels; indulging me with the freest, sweetest fellowship with Himself; and sweetly persuading my soul of His eternal love to me!

WHY does He love me? Just because He will. The cause, the reason, is to be found in His loving heart, and sovereign will alone. Not because I am good, or amiable, or can repay His love--for He loves freely, and fixes His love on the most unlikely and unworthy objects!

How precious the Lord's people are to Him: notwithstanding all their unworthiness and sinfulness, notwithstanding all their departures from Him, and unkindness to Him.

There is nothing on earth, or in heaven, except His only begotten Son, that is as precious to the heart of God, as His people are!

God's love is always free and unchangeable. Everything outside of God will change, but His love is immutable!

"Yes, I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn you!" —Jeremiah 31:3

Lord, help me to believe the love which You have for me, and to love You in return! O shed abroad Your sweet love in my heart, and fill that heart with glowing love to You!

Ephesians 3:18-19, "May you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should--how wide, how long, how high, and how deep His love is! May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully!"

#CarryTheLight (FB)

#jeremiah 31:3 #ephesians 3:18-19 #bible #christian blog #god #belief in god #faith in god #jesus #belief in jesus #faith in jesus #bible verses #encouragement #keep the faith #make him known #biblequotes

[wa-kaizen]

Mystery FRUIT | GAME PAC

So, this isn't a pick a card about a specific topic, rather you intuitively choose a pile and read about what's hidden there.

Each will have a fruit - emoji - which the pile will be based off of. Each pile will be a different topic, but none will be romantic.

( :̲̅:̲̅:[̲̅:★:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅)

Info * ˚ ✦

I cannot withhold you from playing, and I won't. However I would appreciate it if you would reblog my paid readings post. I have over 800 followers and the notes are below 100, it's really disheartening because I would like to have some clients.

Now that is out of the way, let's get to the more important stuff!

You can choose all piles if you want, but if your intuition isn't drawn to all, you could feel disconnected.

These are short because I am not sure how it will be received, but I hope you will have fun!

꒰ pile one - cherry ꒱

🍒 - cherry represents femininity, fertility, rebirth, immortality and the circle of life

the question; how to connect with your femininity better?

cards four of cups, four of pentacles, the hermit

So, this pile definitely has trouble accessing and processing their feelings and emotions.

You often suppress them because you feel like they serve you no purpose, make you weak or you are afraid people will judge you for having them in the first place.

Something might have caused this kind of trauma inside of you, causing this huge fear.

So, I need you to learn that it's okay to have feelings and you don't need to bottle them up.

Yes, it is easier said than done, and no body accepts you to have a healthy relationship with yourself over the course of one simple night.

However, the road to healing starts with acceptance. Accept that you are the only one who's opinion matters.

The only one who will stay with you from the first moment of your birth to the last moments of your death is you.

Everyone around you will slowly fade away so don't let them hold you back from being yourself. Who cares if they see you cry, laugh a little too loud or do silly things you might regret later? It's not their life and it will never be. They are simply a side character in your journey. It's your life and you will make whatever you want of it.

Don't make it a pity party, rather a never ending apprication full of love towards yourself.

The first person who needs to stop judging you for feeling things is you. That's the first step towards feminine balance, the first step towards being comfortable in your own body.

꒰ pile two - strawberry ꒱

🍓 - strawberry represents love, purity, passion, sensuality, forbidden temptations and spring

the question; how to have more control in your life?

cards the lovers, the moon, five of pentacles

You are a person who thinks way too much with their head. You ignore and toss away all your passions of what you truly want to do due to pressure from what you deem as society's opinion or the need to be perfect.

You ignore anything that could make you happy, all the things that make you the person you are.

You focus on what you think you need to be, not what you desire to be.

You put on this mask of what you think could make your life flawless and easy. You may even have a job of what you truly dislike just because that 'makes life comfortable'.

For some of you I truly feel like you are also denying yourself from your true sexuality. You could have grew up at a place which judges anyone that's even 'slightly wrong'. A shallow place with narrow minded judgments.

You are the odd one out, the black sheep, and you are afraid to own up to that, to be honest with yourself.

That's the first step. Accept what your heart wants even when no one else does.

Be yourself. Stop thinking so much, there is no right or wrong. There is only you and a mask.

Break the mask, it makes you depressed.

Don't suppress your desire of hobbies, your desire of looking a certain way. You don't have to blend in to be loved. Just be yourself, listen to your heart.

꒰ pile three - watermelon ꒱

🍉 - watermelon represents fertility, intellect, and happiness.

the question; what are you intelligent in?

cards queen of cups, king of swords, three of swords

You are someone who believes they are not smart, you might even often call yourself stupid or dumb, which you are not.

You even got the king of swords who represents intelligence.

You are underestimating yourself due to other people who happen to posses intelligence in ways you don't. What you do not see is that they lack the intelligence you do.

Which is emotional intelligence. It makes you attentive, thoughtful, kind, sweet and understanding. You can see through the emotions of other people, more than what's below the surface.

There is something beautiful about the intelligence you have. Not all of you might be an empath because you understand the complexity of emotions.

You understand that just because someone reacts a specific kind of way that doesn't mean they are a good person, but it also doesn't make them into a bad one. It just means they feel a specific kind of way.

But, because of your intelligence in emotions, your friends often catch themselves rely on you. You understand them before they understand themselves and you also know how to cheer them up or comfort them.

You happen to have a way with words most people don't, and a kind of love most people don't. It's a patient one, because you think of them too, not selfishly of yourself only.

Don't put yourself down or say you are not smart ever again, it takes a lot of energy to be the person that you are.

𓆩♡𓆪

Thank you for participating! ♡

#i made this bc i wanted to host a game #but i didnt wish to answer like 30 asks #pick a card #pac #game pac

[ratsoh-writes]

💚 For the matchups!

For strengths I think I'm empathic and patient. I want to try and treat everyone around me fairly and give everyone a chance. I've also been told I'm kinda funny

For weaknesses I am really anxious and Indecisive and I don’t like making decisions, I can be kinda stagnant and avoid trying new things. I also have a bad habit of holding grudges for way too long

Dealbreakers would be excessive lying or withholding information

I can understand needing to keep certain things to yourself but I don’t think I could be in a relationship where I was being constantly lied to, even if the intentions were good

Similar to that I really like people who wear their heart on their sleeve, people who are kind and nice as well. Not just to me but to others around them

Physically I like people who are larger than me, either taller or just bigger in general, and I prefer men.

For hobbies I like to go fishing, mainly more relaxed just sitting with just a bobber and some bait. but more active fishing can also be fun

I also like to bake sweets and draw in my sketchbook

I like soft and comfortable things, to wear, sleep with or just to hold onto while working. If it’s comfy I'll latch onto it.

I don’t want to describe too much of my appearance but I’m around 5,6 in height

Thank you and happy Valentine’s Day 💚

Oh I have just the sweetie for you! I match you with… OAK! Horrortale sans!

Oak can’t lie. Ok maybe he can, but he sucks at it. In fact he’s so bad he just doesn’t even try, you can read him like a book. So great for someone who needs an open companion!

Oak is a sweet gentle slow life kinda guy. He’s a great partner for someone who just wants to relax and be comfortable with. He has a sort of calming aura to him that seems to draw anxious people in. Oak feels safe. And his cuddles are AMAZING. You will get many hugs from this skelly. He makes a wonderful big spoon too ;)

Oak does have issues with his short term memory. It makes it hard for him to do certain tasks sometimes without having it written down. So he needs a patient SO who won’t hold it against him if he sometimes forgets things.

You will have to have pets if you date oak. The animals just seem to flock to him no matter what you two do. You have been warned

[teejaystumbles]

Hello,

Please don't take this any wrong way, I really don't ask this in an accusatory tone, only out of genuine curiosity. May I ask, why participate in a bang pre-matched with a writer? Isn't the point of it to bring together people who might not have encountered each other otherwise? And, from my point of view but I never participated in a bang before so I know nothing, to give a chance to small writers who don't get lot of attention, to work with an artist that might never have noticed and read their fic otherwise? I'm not sure what is the point in participating with someone you already know, and are free to make art for as often and whenever you wish, which you already do, and don't have a deadline hanging over your head for...

(I'm really happy with the artist that claimed my summary, but I can't help being a bit disappointed that there never was a chance you did if I'm completely honest, since you're never going to even notice my fics otherwise lol)

Wow. Okay. First off, this is also my first time participating in a Big Bang. Joining pre-matched is possible for a reason, to let people be creative together and be completely safe in the knowledge that you know you can work with the other. Also, no, while I can of course draw whatever I want for the people I know, it's not the same as having a project with a clear timeline and goal. It's as much an exercise for me and "my" author as it is for anyone else joining the bang. That's kind of the point, to have an outer force checking our progress. It's good! It helps stick to it and do something new, together.

Also:

Anon, I guess you didn't read what I wrote last in the fest-chatter...which was:

I am more than willing to take on other fics of authors! I was in fact sitting on my hands watching the claiming taking place because I'm not allowed to pick in the first round. I have submitted my choices in the second and have now a match. I hope you too have got one. If not, and now listen up because then you'll see there's no reason to accuse me of "withholding" (which is a bit rude, if also flattering) - if not, I think there are now only three or four fics unmatched) I am a RESERVE. Which means I have given permission to match me up to one other author who doesn't get a match.

Not only did I indeed want to pick up another fic from the list, and did, but I also let them put me on reserve exactly because I am pre-matched and I don't want anyone to not get an artist.

I'm not angry, you couldn't have known, but still. Please think about venting to artists like this. It puts us off illustrating things. We do this for fun, just like the writers. I know it's hard not to get your favourite artist? But that's just the nature of the big bang. If you're not happy with what you get, consider reaching out to artists you like for the next one.

#asks #The Endless Big Bang

[greenlikethesea]

deleted scene from the jargyle!

Hi all! I am most likely not putting this in the final chapter, because I am taking the story in a much more nuanced direction, so here's the fight that is mentioned in Three Weddings and a Funeral!

there's some stuff in this that i'm not super happy with, which is why i'm glad it won't be included, but please know that mike WILL have a redemption round it what is eventually published.

“Jonathan,” Joyce says.

Sometimes I wish it had been you that died instead of him, Jonathan thinks in a flash, and instantly has to grip the side of the table to grapple with how evil that thought is. Wrong move, of course, his knuckles screaming in protest, but the pain helps dispel the thought a little bit. Push it away like an embrace he doesn’t want. He looks at Joyce, who is looking at him expectantly, her foot tapping on the floor with impatience. He grimaces as his wrist burns from the exertion of squeezing so hard.

“Sorry, slept kind of weird,” Jonathan grits out, even though he didn’t sleep at all. “I just need a minute and then I’ll get to it.”

“You didn’t sleep at all,” Argyle says. 

Jonathan can’t help it – his gaze snaps toward Argyle, the hurt and betrayal cutting through him worse than the dull ache of his skin, the sensitivity of his scalp. Argyle knows to not get involved in this. They’ve talked about it, how the burdens of Jonathan’s family are Jonathan’s alone to work out. And he’s agreed, has bowed out of conversations even though Jonathan could see his jaw twitching with some kind of remark. So why stop now?

“Just drop it,” Jonathan says, biting his lip to stop himself from tacking on a pet name. He wants to, desperately, wants to soften the blow despite his annoyance, but he feels the tightness in his jaw, the fear creeping up in his gut, hot and acrid like his acid reflux when he eats even a smidge too much.   

Argyle is staring at a fixed spot on the wall, but his tone cuts as if he’s making direct eye contact. “No, actually, I’m not going to drop it. Joyce, maybe you should ask one of your psychic kids instead of your disabled one.” 

“What,” Joyce says, not a question, and oh, Joyce doesn’t know this part of Argyle. None of them do, not really. This isn’t something that Jonathan has had to share.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Joyce, really, I am,” Argyle says. Jonathan can’t keep his eyes off the two of them now, his skin burning from embarrassment. It’s rare that Argyle drops the surfer boy effect, but when he does, it’s so frightening. “Hopper was a good man and died too soon. And I know you need support. But you have three kids, and two of them are more than capable of putting in some effort. You have me. We’ve got this covered.”

“Of course I have you three,” Joyce says, her smoothing over voice, the one that has everyone else convinced that she’s perfect and oh, that’s just nasty, just cruel, she’s a good mom, she is –

“So what do you need from us?” Argyle says. “From the three of us, that is.”

Joyce stops herself from snapping back with something hot, something mean. Jonathan can see the tension in her neck from her restraint, the tight chord of anger stiff and menacing, but Argyle is immune. This is tame shit compared to Irma, he’s learned, whose posture alone makes her opponents slink away, tail between their legs. 

She heaves a sigh. “He knows he can talk to me if he ever–” 

“He doesn’t tell me when he’s hurting. Why would he tell you?” Argyle cuts her off. 

“I am his mother,” Joyce says.

Argyle laughs, this bitter, mean thing that isn’t new, but it’s rare. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Joyce says.

“Joyce, I love you a lot,” Argyle says, which means he’s about to completely rip her a new asshole. It hurts to withhold his wince. “And I know you love Jonathan. But you have not been good to him. You weren’t good to him when I met you, and you haven’t gotten much better.”

“Please tell me how much I failed as a mother,” Joyce says. “You do not know what it’s like. You will never know what it’s like.”

Jonathan has been seeing his mother as a person since he was very young, but it’s rare that he sees the confused young woman underneath her self-assured mature self. It’s even rarer that he sees this version of her face off with anyone that isn’t her own reflection, staring herself down when she thinks no one else is looking. But Argyle’s got a glance that could cut through anyone, and he’s not backing down. 

“It’s not that deep, Joyce, so chill out,” Argyle says. “I didn’t say you failed as a mother. But you can’t deny that you put him dead fucking last, and that’s not fair. Everything you know about him is something that doesn’t exist anymore. And I can’t sit idly while you continue to take him for granted. I can’t.”

Argyle’s not just talking to Joyce right now, Jonathan doesn’t think. He’s talking to Irma, and he’s talking to Isabela, and he’s talking to every person he’s had to keep level and cool around while his own emotions get cast to the side. Jonathan feels paralyzed, glued to his chair as the two people he loves most face off in Casa Byers-Hopper’s busy, mismatched kitchen, still too shiny and new to feel like a safe place to Jonathan. 

“Argyle –” Joyce starts, takes in a deep breathe to no doubt launch into some kind of argument – 

– but a crash comes from the living room that completely snaps the three of them out of their tense trance, all moving in unison toward the direction of the sound. It’s El and Will. There’s been a tension between them that has been growing since Hopper was admitted into hospice, festering like a disease, but any other time than right now Jonathan would be oddly grateful for it. Will and El have both been permissive of each other’s bullshit for far too long, both in the habit of preserving Mike’s equanimity by avoiding their own myriad issues. It’s been time for them to have conflict, instead of just skating around it. It’s good for them to hate each other a little, so that they can build the love back up. He just wishes, for all of their sakes, that they would have picked a different time to have a blowup. Leave it to his younger siblings to interrupt the one time anyone has stood up for him.

“Why don’t you fucking do it?” Will yelps, with that awful, sniveling tone that has crept in from years of embodying what Eddie has snidely called New York Will in their conversations whenever he’s come up. 

“I have been doing the laundry,” El says, with that jagged staccato leftover from her youth that still graces her vocal delivery every so often. “You have done nothing.”

“Oh sure, caring for our mother is doing nothing,” Will bites back.

“You do not care. You are an asshole.” Another crash, followed by a yell from Will – something expensive that belonged to him, no doubt.

Fuck, Jonathan’s gotta get in there. He starts to get up, wincing at all of his awful bones creaking, and Joyce and Argyle immediately turn their attention toward him.

“Jonny,” Argyle says, his tone a warning.

“Jonathan,” Joyce says, voice sharp. 

“Later,” Jonathan says decisively, and both of their mouths snap shut in unison, which makes him laugh. It’s all so fucking stupid, all of it. “We can sort this out later. Let’s make sure the kids don’t destroy the living room, please. My cane?”

There’s a beat where neither of them do anything, just nervously glance toward each other, like working together is not allowed now that they’ve fully reamed each other out in front of God and everyone. Whatever, Jonathan does not have time for either of their damage. His siblings are about to destroy the living room. “My cane, please, I don’t think I can make it there without it.”

Argyle springs into action, walking past Joyce to reach Jonathan’s cane, which for some reason is precariously leaning on the refrigerator. He hands it to Jonathan, who grasps on its handle and uses that and the table to pull himself up. 

Alright, Jonny boy, he tells himself. One foot in front of the other. You’ve got this. Be the big brother they do not deserve at the moment.

It takes Jonathan far longer than he would like to get to the living room, Joyce and Argyle walking at a glacial pace to avoid stepping on his heels. When he gets there, the first thought that crosses his mind is loud and panicked: I am so glad Hop is not around to see what this looks like. His old record player is smashed on the floor, not irreparably broken but in at least a dozen pieces that are scattered on the ground between them. Blood is pouring from El’s nostrils. When Will turns his head to look at Jonathan, he can see Will’s telepathic tell – all the capillaries in both of his eyes have burst, giving them a demonic glow. And fuck, they’re not even taking turns with their telepathic blows – what isn’t already broken on the floor is up in the air, including Mike’s camera, which they’re both going to be upset about destroying later. 

In a split second of panic, he throws his cane into the melee.

In a matter of seconds, it is crunched into a ball, but the ensuing noise from its destruction and clatter on the floor is enough to shock the both of them out of their fight.

“Enough,” Jonathan says.

Apparently, that used all the strength he has in his body, because he feels himself start to wobble. The both of them rush forward and catch him before he really stumbles, the evidence of their psychic exertion on their faces, both their hands shaking as they guide Jonathan to the couch. Upon a more careful glance, Jonathan can see that Will’s eyes have no white in them, pink and red with burst capillaries, obscuring his irises. His slender body heaves with exhaustion. The cascade of blood from Eleven’s nostrils has painted her lips and chin a murky red-brown, and Jonathan can also see blood leaking from the corners of her mouth, as if her gums have also splintered. When Jonathan settles in the center of the couch, they flank him on either side. Will’s already crying, and El is going to be there in about thirty seconds.

“I’m sorry, Will,” Eleven says. She’s not great at apologizing, but she will if she has to.

Will laughs wetly, wiping at his eyes. “Fuck, I’m sorry. To both of you. Jonathan, your cane –”

“I’ll figure something out,” Jonathan says. He’s not sure what, but Max and Claire are staying at the house instead of getting a hotel, so maybe he can get something from her. 

“Super happy that we’re all sorry, but let’s clean this up, yeah?” Argyle says. He turns to Joyce, who is leaning against him like he’s a support beam. Their size difference is comical, Jonathan notes, not remotely for the first time. “I would like to finish what we started afterward, if that’s chill with you.”

“I think we can have the conversation without yelling at each other,” Joyce says, nodding and squeezing his arm. “Will you join us, Jonathan? Please?”

Jonathan looks at the both of them, these foundational pillars. The woman who raised him and the man who keeps him steady. They’re both looking at him, not expectantly, but…hopefully. He hasn’t seen that expression on Joyce’s face in a long time, one where all she wants from him is him, rather than something he’s doing. It’s all very kumbaya. Hopper’s eyeroll would be practically audible, if he were here.

Jonathan smiles at that mental image, but also at the people who are alive to see the mess. He squeezes Will’s hand. “Yeah, of course.” 

Without warning, there’s a jangling at the door, as someone attempts to open the three-lock system that Hopper had installed when they renovated the house. It’s a bitch on a normal day, but it’s especially a struggle if you’re doing it with one hand…which Mike, who went out to get groceries and some Aleve for Jonathan, would be doing, since he’s the type of person who tries to get it all done in one go. Of course Mike missed the entire fight. In a way, Jonathan’s glad for it. He knows that Will and Mike are better now, that the three of them have a stronger bond than ever, but witnessing his two favorite people attempt to kill each other would have probably melted his already anxious mind.

Upon walking into the destroyed living room, he immediately drops the bag he’s holding and springs into action, picking up items off the floor. “What the fuck happened here? Is everyone okay? Will? El? Jonathan, fuck, your cane –”

Jonathan doesn’t mean to laugh, really, he doesn’t. And when he does, it’s not at Mike. He just…he looks twelve again, instead of nearly thirty years old. His handsome face is completely overtaken by concern as he springs into action, starts to pick up things off the floor. Argyle, with a gentle nod toward Joyce, joins him in an instant.

Mike holds up the cane – or, rather, the mangled mess of what’s left of it. He holds it out in front of him while glaring daggers in the direction of the Byers siblings. “You guys really had to destroy Jonathan’s cane to work out whatever bullshit’s been brewing for the past two weeks? C’mon. You know that’s bad.”

#my writing #fair ithilien verse

[like-rain-or-confetti]

When they have no choice but to accept your love...

You had them underneath you as you sat in their lap and now they have no way to escape your love. "I love you." You said between kisses.

The Riddler: Yes, you had to literally sit on him to get him to stop working. You wanted to keep him a little longer and he seemed to attempt to give you as little attention as possible to help him leave. Seemingly as a method to help the both of you because he enjoyed the attention and you would happily give it for the rest of your life. You mumbled against his lips once more. "I love you." He smiled against your lips, holding your waist. "I love you too." You repeated it over and over again as though it wasn't the response you were looking for. Meanwhile you kept his attention with your lips on his. "I need to go." "No, you don't." You shook your head slightly, your nose bumping against his and the two of you grinned again. Your hands moved into his hair and he groaned. You knew he loved your hands in his hair and that was the final nail in the coffin. Work would have to wait just a little longer.

Scarecrow: Jonathan's hands upon your waist squeezed every so often. He wasn't the most affectionate person but he did try. "Love you." You mumbled against his lips. He hummed as reciprocated your kiss, gently pulling you closer to him. You could get kisses on the nights he was home relaxed. The two of you just enjoyed each other's company more than focusing on the TV. "I'm not crushing you, am I?" You suddenly pulled back and Jonathan scoffed. He muttered something along the lines of 'ridiculous' and pulled you back in for another kiss. He has really began to enjoy kissing since you two got together.

Two-Face: This is right up Two-Face's alley, whereas Harvey is a bit more of a gentleman about it. However the two relished any affection you gave them when you were alone. You broke away from the kiss to whisper in his ear. "I love you." "You do?" Harvey asked, a habit of insecurity that he had developed. You only whispered it again. "C'mere." Two-Face gruffly demanded and guided your head back to his lips. These moments were only in private and in the confines of home. The place he could really relax. He'd often have to force you onto his lap properly as you feared hurting him given the side of him that's scarred. Harvey appreciated it but deemed it unnecessary. Meanwhile Two-Face was more impatient and was more colourful in telling you that you didn't need to worry.

Black Mask: "Oh you love me, huh?" You could hear how smug he was as his hands ran down your back. "Good. You better." His kisses got rougher and you felt his smile between kisses grow. After a while he pulled you closer so that he practically hugged you to him. Pressing some kisses to your neck. Moments like these happened when he was in a good mood at the office or at home. Or they happened when he was stressed, but Roman was rougher when angry or stressed where as this kind of rough was more playful in nature. This could also escalate very quickly if you pick up what I'm putting down.

Penguin: Whether it were the office at the Lounge or at home, Oswald was more than happy for some affection. He also very much enjoyed having you in his lap. He tends to get handsy and smirks against your lips as his hands wander. Oswald wasn't discreet, at all. You might have been on top of him but he very much had the control. He didn't expect you to whisper those three words in his ear as he kissed your neck. He chuckled into your neck. "And I you, sweetheart." He brought your lips back to his own, cupping your face. Oswald, when in a good mood, was always down for some kisses.

Harley Quinn: It was the only way to keep her down, she was withholding kisses to be funny and you had been more than patient until this moment. She giggled against your lips, humming in approval every now and then. "I love you." You said and Harley let out another giggle. "I love you more." She replied before giving in to your kisses. This could honestly happen at any time and any place. Harley adores your love and attention and she will take every bit of it she can get.

#batman #batman villains #batman scenarios #the riddler #scarecrow #two face #penguin #black mask #harley quinn #edward nygma #jonathan crane #harvey dent #oswald cobblepot #roman sionis #harleen quinzel

[funkymbtifiction]

Hello Charity! I am ISTP and either a 9 or a 5.

Based on what you write below, I’d say a 9w1 so/sp. Too much concern for not upsetting people, remaining positive an upbeat (positive core, 9 pushing away from discomfort and avoiding being the wet blanket), and some super-ego self-criticism about being untrue to people in repressing your true feelings (1 wing). 5s are less emotionally attached to other people (non-attachment types; they are core ‘rejection’ types which means pushing away from others’ expectations; you are leaning into them with a core attachment strategy, even if you hate it).

But anyway....

Probably dumb question but how do I open up to someone? My friends always describe me as someone who is very stoic and has a cool head on their shoulders, but lately I noticed that the way they view me makes me feel sort of trapped. I am always expected to be the reasonable one and to never, god forbid, express any negative emotions other than mild irritation.

Let’s stop here. Inferior Fe tends to not read the room well, so... have you asked them or been informed of this, or is this a self-made observation that is keeping you trapped in your own mind and avoiding of expressing yourself? In other words, have they reacted with negativity to your own negativity, or are you assuming there is no room for your negativity within the relationship? Low Fe users can sometimes over-focus on keeping others happy as 9s, and not want to in any way rock the boat -- but they also don’t realize that higher feeling types are fairly accommodating of people’s various emotions and moods. Feelers in particular swim in that kind of an ocean -- so there’s room within most types for even their thinker friends to be upset, negative, complain, etc.

All emotions are permissible, by the way, and since you are not a robot, you are allowed to have and express them. One way to handle this is when others praise you for being calm and level headed, to say -- I am, yes, but I also have feelings that swell up within me and want to overflow. I get angry, I get sad, I get upset.

True friends are okay with your good days and bad days. If your friends are really your friends, it’s okay to be honest with them on an emotional level. As to how you start doing that -- take a breath and just... do it. Opening up means finding a moment and unfolding what’s on your mind or your heart. As an inferior Fe, you may struggle to know the right moment, so watch for it. Pick a time when you are being honest with each other, or it seems “right.” (Bad moments are when sharing your feelings would interrupt whatever is going on with them, or be disruptive in some way to the task at hand. Good moments are quiet talks and catch-ups about your day, week, life, etc.)

It’s very annoying because it’s like everyone else is allowed to be sad and get support for it, but hold me to that standard that I can’t get upset or act irrationally.

You are allowed. What’s more, you don’t HAVE to uphold their standard. You get to make your own choices about what to share and what to withhold, and how you react, and when you react, and you are allowed to get upset/be immature or irrational in certain kinds of situations. That’s called being human. Nobody is perfect and nobody gets it right. You can get sad and ask for support. You can vent, complain, or admit that life is hard, because it’s true.

And at the same time, I feel deep shame for desire to express my emotions because if I do that, I will sort of lose the only good thing I have - rationality, and that, somehow, it will turn out that I deceived people.

I suspect your friends like you for many reasons, and not JUST your cool head. But the problem is that you are seeing a momentary lapse as a make-it-or-break it kind of situation, where if just once you let down your guard and express true feelings, your life will be over, people will see you as totally irrational, etc. That is not true. Inferior Fe often thinks that their feelings are much more irrational and unstable and upsetting than they actually are to higher feeling types. They see a loss of control and stoicism as being “irrational” -- when your friends would probably just see it as a “bad day” or “legitimate feelings given the situation.” It’s important for you to separate what feels to you like “losing it” from how others are going to interpret it -- which is more than likely not a “big deal” in their mind, the way it feels like a big dealt to you. You are still going to BE logical. You will still BE rational, the other 23 hours a day. This won’t kick you off the cliff. It’s fine!

I never tried to “market” myself in any way, I’m usually just being myself, but people (who don’t know each other, so it’s not like it is only in eyes of one group) collectively branded me as “smart, cool and apathetic”, and if it turns out that I’m not like that, then I’m a fraud. Dumb part is that I don’t even consider myself these things. With every compliment I get on being level-headed, I feel more and more that I should keep up with what people think of me. And also, I’m afraid that after I finally show someone that weak side of me, I will be left behind because I will become a disappointment. Thanks.

No, people will just think of you as human. And since you are one, that’s not a bad thing at all. I do understand the attachment need to mold yourself into what others want from you ... but feelings are going to happen whether you admit to them or not, if you don’t make space for them in your life and learn to process, admit to, and deal with them, they will bubble up and cause real problems. You can still be level-headed and get upset. One doesn’t eradicate the other.

#question #istp #mbti #enneagram #enneagram 9