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threadbaresweater · 5 days

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"Ew. Creeper alert, four o'clock."

Your best work friend elbows you in the ribs and points with her fork to the subject of her scrutiny a few tables away. You raise your eyes as you bite into your sandwich and make eye contact with the guy. You cover your mouth and laugh.

"That's Fushiguro. He's harmless."

"He's staring at me," she insists through clenched teeth. "I mean, he's hot. But...ew." She shivers for emphasis and takes a bite of her salad. "Is he new? I've never seen him before."

"He started last month, I think? He's I.T. He fixed my printer last week and barely spoke a word. Seemed nice enough, though." You shrug. "I didn't get any weird vibes when he was in my office."

She scoffs. "Yeah, but you think everyone is a good person. Doesn't always mean they are."

It's a jab, but she's right. Ever the optimist, you always try to find the good in people, sometimes to your detriment.

"Anyway, I never told you about my date last weekend!" She dives into the details of the guy she's been seeing, but you find yourself drifting in and out, nodding when appropriate, occasionally giving her a wow, or that's crazy when you think she needs the reassurance. When you glance at Megumi, he's looking your way almost every time. He's attractive, you think, if not a little withdrawn and mysterious. You've never seen him sit with anyone else at lunch. In fact, this might be the first time you've seen him in the company cafeteria.

"Can you believe he said that?" your friend exclaims. You try to look surprised in a manner that befits her inflection, but her face falls when she realizes you haven't been listening at all. She looks at you, then looks back over at Megumi. "Is that weirdo still staring?" She fluffs her hair and grins at him, batting her eyelashes. "Maybe he wants me. Ya think?"

You want to throw up. Megumi furrows a brow and stands up to clear his tray, and your friend pouts. "Guess not."

The two of you finish your own lunch a few minutes later and head back to your respective departments. You board the elevator with your nose buried in your phone, and someone asks what floor you need to go to.

"Six, please." You look up and smile and are met with Megumi's brilliant green eyes. "Oh, hey! Thanks for fixing my printer the other day!"

He shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs. You've never seen him smile, but you think you catch the faintest hint of one when you say thank you. "It's my job," he deflects.

"Yeah, well, you did it well!" You laugh a little to fill the space; a nervous habit.

"Who's your friend?" he asks. "The one at lunch."

You tell him her name. "She thinks everyone is flirting with her. Don't worry about it."

"Oh, I– I wasn't," he says.

"I know."

He won't tell you that it's you he was looking at. He's terrible with that sort of thing. He doesn't know how to be gentle and make small talk, even though he desperately wants to get to know you and has, ever since he spent half an hour in your office last week.

The elevator bell signals your arrival at the sixth floor, and you step out with a little wave and a bright smile. "See ya, Fushiguro."

He half heartedly salutes you, then pushes his hand right back into his pocket. "Later."

#megumi fushiguro x reader #jjk x reader

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heyitsmeyourfavoritechick · 8 months

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⋆*･ﾟLibra Observation⋆*･ﾟ

It’s true that’s it’s hard for them to make a decision on anything and it slowly brings out they’re insecurities. (Kinda like scrambling around to see what is right or not) like a humming bird figuring out what house has the best feed, going back and forth etc.

When they overthink it’s sometimes about the bad and the good in different situations and scenarios and also put themselves in other peoples situations, (like a 3rd party view) so they see how the other person should’ve dealt lt with it that scenarios.

Its not that they cant make a decision, they just want to see more options, or classic scales “weigh out the options” to see what’s best fit. Because like queen libra herself Cardi B said “I can get them both, I don’t wanna choose” and it’s true they would rather have both than to choose or have someone else pick for them. classic.

They see both sides so don’t be offended if you see them talking to your “foes” or trying to get all sides of the story. It’s them trying to “find justice” in in whatever situation. (unless they have heavy water placements then they have some kind of loyalty towards you and wouldn’t do this for no reason)

Libra betters themselves and everyone around them, it’s they’re version of love language even when people don’t listen they’re still doing better than you.

Usually get anyone/anything they want. Perks of being ruled by Venus (mostly talking about the girls here)

Libra usually have this shy confidence. It’s hard to explain but they’re not shy with they’re eyes. So pay attention.

A libra women doesn’t need you, you need her.

Libra women are more open to being bisexual or engaging with the opposite sex more so than a male libra but male Libras have so many man crushes even on they’re own guy friends and it makes you question….

Freaky like Scorpios but keeps this hidden by this white picket fence home wife/husband persona of theirs.

Elegant in the streets freak in the sheets

Never met a libra that had any self hate or any self inflecting harm towards themselves, They carry beauty and love and treat themselves in a nice manner and after awhile when they get older they have a lot of self love and respect for themselves. (It’s a treasure to be around and to learn from!, I’m slowly trying to learn this myself but they are the master at this)

Guys take home libra women sooner to meet their mothers than any other sign. I don’t know why but libra women make men feel like little boys being cared for all over again.

The libra women remind any Astro male the feminine nature that women carry, and that in itself is changing for him and rare to be around so please appreciate they’re softness.

Love all things beauty and beautiful objects and people and don’t be surprised if they do anything hands on or creative in their jobs or daily life. Fashion also is a creative outlook too, I never seen a libra that dresses bad even if it’s laundry day best believe they have the cutest lounge/lazy clothes or anything that matches them aesthetically.

Libra usually are attracted to younger or much older people, but with a youth like appearance or energy and maybe smooth sculpted bodies like a Greek statue, also a weakness for European or foreign men in general.

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eeldritchblast · 5 months

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Lae'zel is Autistic

(Note: This post was written by someone with professionally diagnosed autism. A lot of what I'm about to say of Lae'zel, I can personally relate to! This is not intended as negativity or hatred of her character; rather, it is one of the reasons I adore her.)

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I really don't like that the writers have attempted to tone down Lae'zel's "rudeness" perceived by the larger fanbase. It reminds me too much of how "rudeness" is so often less about hostility and more about one's ability to perform social interactions to the standards of neurotypical people. So for the writers to decide that Lae'zel is too "rude" for not saying her please and thank yous every time she speaks, for being direct, for struggling to have two-sided conversations... well, to me, that's just saying that there was something wrong with her they felt the need to fix. I spent years with people trying to "fix" me in special ed. To teach me how to present as neurotypical, like memorizing appropriate responses to common questions, and pretending to hold eye contact by looking at people's lips. While I will admit it helps me in the workplace for example to perform these things, it also taught me to hate myself for being faulty in the first place. That's something I still struggle with to this day. So when a character like Lae'zel comes along, who I can relate to in her coded autism, I don't want to see her changed. I want to see her celebrated.

Here are some of the signs of autism I've noticed in Lae'zel:

Difficulty regulating and understanding emotion:

Lae'zel is a very passionate person, and can get carried away by that passion. At the same time, she is not very good at self-inventory of her emotions. After she defies Vlaakith in Act 3, she asks the player to help her understand what she is feeling, because she cannot place it herself.

Directness:

As said above, Lae'zel is vert blunt in the way she communicates. If you've picked up the game only in later patches, let me tell you that she was originally even more so. If the player asks Lae'zel why she is the way she is, she says it's just because she is githyanki. While I certainly think some of this could be attributed to a difference in culture, we meet other githyanki, and they do not carry the same speech and manner she has.

Taking things literally:

Lae'zel equally does not understand indirectness from others, or idioms. For example, when Shadowheart asks if they have "buried the hatchet" between them, (an American idiom to mean "making peace" which by the way, is not a very appropriate idiom,) she answers with "why would I bury a weapon?" Again, this could be attributed to a difference in background, but nonetheless something to relate to.

Dislike of small talk:

Literally the first thing Lae'zel says to you after you recruit her is, "chatter already? Tas'ki."

Inflection:

Lae'zel is voiced with minimal modulation of intonation or pitch. As such, she sounds monotone and serious, even when the words she says are lighthearted or joking.

Difficulty handling change of routine/expectancy:

When things do not go as Lae'zel is determined they are supposed to go--for example, the machine she thinks will remove her tadpole not working as she believed it would--she has wild, uncontrolled outbursts.

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There's probably even more one could list here, but for now I'm done. I may edit this later, though.

#lae'zel #bg3 lae'zel #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 meta #meta

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see-arcane · 1 year

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Lucy and Jonathan

“We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you were not already engaged to Jonathan.”

I’ll admit, while it probably wasn’t anything more than an airy throw-in without any real barbs behind it, the inflection on Lucy’s comment followed by the idle advertisement of upcoming character, Dr. John ‘Jack’ Seward, as a higher-up-the-ladder ‘what-if’ prospect, still kind of stung to hear. I know it’ll get sanded back in later chapters because—minor spoilers—context clues will show that Mina, Lucy, and Jonathan have known/been friendly with each other since they were kids, and comments from future letters will show a more mutual regard. So it makes me wonder what the reason for the implied derision was.*

*(Beyond her possibly trying to push Jack in a way that says ‘Nope, No, I Choose Not to See the Crush, No Thank You, Hot Potato.’)

My guess? It’s a bit.

Specifically, a holdover from hers, Mina’s, and Jonathan’s earlier days when all of them had grown into adolescence, social mores started getting hammered in in earnest, and Mina and Jonathan were just starting on their official courtship.

Suddenly, they’re no longer a trio of kids enjoying each other’s company. Now it’s two young ladies—one rich, one poor—and a charming young man—also from a lower class. Considering the period, it would be only too easy for whispers to start flying behind fans and cigars that the young Mr. Harker might consider leveling up his prospects, or that the lovely Miss Westenra, a veritable Victorian Helen of Troy, might idly snatch her low-born friend’s man out from under her nose on a whim. And aren’t they such a pretty picture? Quoting their Shakespeare at each other, so intriguingly close compared to most men and their ladies’ friends…unless there are certain extra friendly circumstances involved, ha ha.

A ribald comment too many from coworkers at Hawkins’ firm and a backhanded compliment or three at the latest spring ball probably shocked Jonathan and Lucy respectively into action. Bonus points if one of the inciting remarks came from some tittering debutante, “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. You two are so alike! Such sweet bonny things, parroting the Bard at each other, prattling merrily about the latest little outing without stopping for breath. Really, Lucy, he would just do for you.”**

**(Some have wondered if Lucy was nudging Jack toward Mina due to certain similar traits they shared. Some morose aspects, intensely focused, interests in modern technology. You’ll see when you meet him. Either way, it’s another parallel to ponder here.)

Cue Mina having to endure her loved ones defending her honor from being dubbed a victim of romantic betrayal in the most vaudeville manner possible. Though she should expect no less from Theatre Nerds 1 and 2.

When they go out, Mina is permanently sandwiched between them as if they’re ducking behind a red-faced shield. Lucy brandishes a parasol to ensure they’re at least the shaft’s length apart; sometimes she’ll even open it to make sure they’re not swayed by looking upon each other, may Heaven forbid such scandalous temptation! Jonathan sits on the bench with them with his hat pulled down over his eyes for safety’s sake. At least a quarter of an hour at the start of each outing is dedicated to a back-and-forth of:

Lucy, nose up so high she’s looking more at the ceiling than him: Mr. Harker.

Jonathan, checking his pocket watch to see how long he must endure this most arduous company: Miss Westenra.

Mina, head in her hands: It’s been months.

Lucy, scoffing: Months of torment in his presence.

Jonathan, scoffing harder: Agony in hers.

Lucy, on a fainting couch: However can you stand him, Mina?

Mina, about to pull her hair out of its pins: You helped him pick out the ring, Lucy.

Jonathan, picture of woe: Tormentedly, of course.

Lucy, nodding: Agonizingly.

In short, Jonathan 🤝 Lucy:

#they think they're so funny #and they are #lucy westenra #re: dracula #dracula daily #dracula #jonathan harker #mina murray #mina harker

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blueywrites · 1 year

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The Munson Dunkin' AU

endgame Eddie Munson x fem!Reader. no use of y/n. all fluff (for now...)

You watch the new guy working the Dunkin' drive-thru window feed a donut to a raccoon. (1.4k)

Inspired by this Tiktok 'cause Eddie really fuckin' would, and we all know it. Thanks to the Coven for talking this silly AU through with me!

tagging @newlips 'cause I have a feeling she might be interested in this one 😘. also, this is written especially for my loves @abibliophobiaa and @ghost-proofbaby🌻

You know everyone who works the drive-thru window at the Dunkin' Donuts closest to your apartment. Or, at least, you thought you did.

When you started your first job as a legal assistant at a small but reputable legal firm, the morning routine you’d enjoyed throughout college drastically transformed. Now, every weekday, your alarm blares so early in the morning it’s practically inhuman. You stuff yourself into dowdy office wear, complete with panty-hose and kitten heels (no rocking the boat with your fashion choices if you want them to take you seriously). And then, you must take your little cobalt-blue Honda Civic and brave the dreaded commute into the city, all in the name of ‘becoming a real working adult’.

So what began as a small indulgence to settle your nerves your first week of work quickly became a daily pick-me-up, a little reward to yourself for 'gettin’ out there and doin' the thing.' Now, you stop at Dunkin' every morning at just after seven to pick up your caffeine fix before heading to the office.

In the last month, you’ve encountered all the early morning drive-thru attendants and recognize them now by voice and manner, though not by name. There’s a pale girl with bright blue eyes and short deep brown hair, voluminous and cut to her narrow jaw, wavy locks framing a small, dimpled chin; a guy with a square face and hazel eyes, sporting finger-tousled bangs that chicly graze one dark brow; and a tanned guy with perpetually half-lidded eyes and pleasantly rounded nose and lips, whose face is framed by a long sheet of shiny, jet-black hair.

It’s obvious who’s working the window on a given day when you hear their greetings at the speaker, which are all very distinct from each other.

The greeting could be chipper and corporatesque, very by the book: “Welcome to Dunkin’, how can I help you?” That one never varies, not even in tone or inflection— she’s so precise, sometimes you wonder if maybe she’s playing a recording or something.

It could be warm and schmoozy, a little overly-familiar but charming all the same: “Well, hey there! How’re you doing today?” It’s nice, but then you have to quickly pivot from your order to say ‘Good, how about you?’, otherwise you feel like an asshole.

Or it could be just one long, semi-coherent slur of a question: “S’up, can I get you somethin’?” Same, dude, you think whenever you get that one. It’s way too early to be awake, and yet here we both are.

It could be any of those options, and today, as you roll up to the speaker, you receive that first greeting. But it’s in the wrong voice. Where you expect something upbeat and crisply feminine, what you get instead is raspy, brash, and decidedly masculine.

“Welcome to Dunkin'. What can I get you today?”

It’s not a voice you recognize, but you don’t particularly care. Automatically, you provide your order, and without any fuss, he confirms your total. Same order, same total, same morning routine as always. That’s all that matters, really. You don’t visit Dunkin' for the bustling social scene, after all.

As you round the corner of the small, boxy building, the drive-thru window with its little orange awning slides into view. That is what you’re rolling steadily towards when a flash of movement near the opposite curb draws your eye to a curious sight: a raccoon. Utterly confounded, you stare at the gray creature— fuzzy and plump like a spool of scratchy yarn— as it inches forward on its tiny dark paws.

Yes, your apartment is in the suburbs, and yes, there is a thick line of trees to that side of the parking lot, so it isn’t that shocking. But you’ve never actually seen a raccoon outside of roadkill splatter on the road, and you certainly weren’t expecting to see one visiting a Dunkin' Donuts. Because that’s truly what it appears to be doing. As it emerges from the treeline, slinking over the curb and onto the asphalt, its nose turns up toward the drive-thru window; those beady eyes remained locked on clear plexiglass, the apparent source of its fascination.

It is seven in the morning, you reason, so there's a possibility that you might just still be half asleep. But when you blink, expecting the creature to clear from your vision like a mirage, it doesn’t go anywhere.

This is actually happening, then. You purse your lips as you consider and confirm your musings with a bobbing nod that no one sees. Yup. This is, for sure, the weirdest goddamn thing I've ever seen.

In fact, you’re so confounded by what’s happening that you’re still rolling forward in your car, drawing ever-closer to the animal at the same time it edges farther into your lane. It doesn’t seem to notice your approach. Instead, the raccoon shuffles forward a few more steps, and then— more peculiar and alarming than if it had done pretty much anything else— it stretches like a slinky, rising onto its two back feet. Its neck disappears into its shoulders as its arms outstretch, like it’s reaching for something that isn’t there.

This is the final nail in the coffin for your composure.

“What in the fuck?”

The sound of your own voice startles you out of your dazed stupor, and your heart leaps into your throat as you realize how close you’ve coasted toward the raccoon. Hastily, you slam the brake, jerking your car to a stop to prevent it from pancaking the oblivious creature.

All is motionless for a moment. And then, in a perversely slow manner, the plexiglass drive-thru window shunts open in a mechanic whirr of laboring motors, crawling until it thunks against the far wall, falling silent.

Considering your alarm and bafflement, it’s more a relief than anything when, after a brief pause, an arm abruptly thrusts through the window opening. Its appearance solves the mystery: the arm is pale but heavily-inked, ending in a thin wrist and a big, broad hand that holds a pink-frosted donut.

The raccoon reaches higher as the arm stretches further, both straining toward one another until those tiny human-like paws close around the offered confection. Then, the animal hunches down to a squat, billowing out in a puddle of bristly gray fur. Its snout quivers as it sniffs the donut, walking its paws along its edge, slowly rotating its prize as you look on in wonderment.

That inked arm has retracted now, but you barely notice. Your long commute and stuffy attire and early morning wake-up have never been further from your mind as you watch the raccoon handle the donut, which is nearly as big as its head. Your confusion has turned to fascination. In fact, it’s kind of cute, you decide as its black paws begin to mound with pink, which smears between its tiny clawed fingers. You hold your breath while, tentatively, it noses at the icing, licking it with a tiny flick of its tongue.

And then, startlingly quickly, the raccoon snatches the donut in its jaws and turns in a flash of gray and black. It skitters on all fours back across the lane, trailing a fat ringed tail which bumps over the curb as it bids a hasty retreat.

With a little, final flick, that tail disappears into the treeline.

It seems, all of a sudden, to have been a privilege to experience this absurdity. And how strange it is that your early-morning exhaustion has suddenly turned to delight— delight which is echoed on the face of the man whose head now pops from the window in a wild mess of brown curls. Pink lips split the pale of his face in a crooked grin.

“Sorry,” he says, and it’s the same brash rasp that greeted you at the speaker. “Little buddy’s gotta get his breakfast, too, y’know?”

So, as it turns out, you don’t know everyone who works the Dunkin' drive-thru window on weekday mornings. And maybe the social scene has more to offer than you originally thought.

I have other ideas for this silly little AU, including some more cameos from familiar faces and a budding romance for our metalhead barista and his favorite customer. If you want more, let me know! ☕️🍩

#blueywrites #barista!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson drabble #eddie stranger things #eddie munson au

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godineedsleep · 4 months

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Venti x Reader

summary: Venti and his continually reincarnated lover

wordcount: 1.4k+ | tags: mild angst, fluff, reincarnation trope

pairing: venti

Barbatos knew ever since he had taken the form of his friend that life was fickle. He watched people pass on like grains of sand in a time glass, one after the other, soon forgotten about as others followed suit. But the wind does not forget. Not so easily.

He once again felt his bleary eyes open, the calls of his people ringing behind his ears. He felt anemo swirl up around him, eyes flicking around the forest he lay in. It was different than when he closed his eyes, bushes in the wrong place and trees moved, but it was not much of a shock. He felt the prayers of his people chorus behind his ears and heeded their call.

And then he met you. You, who was so fierce and brave and still so kind yet in the face of war. He watched as you fought, talked with you, and sat complacent as you charmed him. You had asked for his name, once. He had told you to call him Venti and to remember him as the eccentric bard home to Mondstadt.

And then he watched as you were slain. You had been strong, vision or not, but you were unlucky just once. And Barbatos watched as your chest concaved to the force of the blade, and as your blood joined the many already fallen, and he felt a strange sense of calm as an arrow flew through the head of the enemy.

Barbatos mourned you, just like he did every mortal. He mourned you by the bottle, by the sweetness of the wine that trickled down his throat. He mourned you as he mourned all the fallen of Mondstadt he couldn’t protect, as he mourned those who died trying to protect the nation he held so dear.

During a Windbloom Festival, over two hundred years later, Venti saw your eyes again. You had changed- you were a little shorter, hair a little lighter- but those eyes, with a bold determination as you bickered with a shopkeeper about her price of goods, he couldn’t forget. Your mannerisms stayed unchanged, you still had the familiar inflections and your hands still held the hems of your clothing when you were stressed.

Venti slips behind you, glancing towards the rather annoyed shopkeeper.

“What seems to be the matter here?” He chirps, voice light as he smiles towards the two of you. The shopkeeper barely spares him a glance before dismissing him.

“I’m sorry, I can’t take payment right now.” She turned back to you, eyes sharpening to a glare in an instant.

“And I told you, I won't lower my prices. What you see is what you pay.” Venti winces as you grind your teeth, watching you become more agitated.

“Your prices are extortionate.” As you continue to rant, Venti looks down at the shop's products. You had been pretty accurate- for selling simple wrappers to hold windblooms when gifting them, they were at a high price. When glancing around, he found this was the only stand selling them.

“It takes advantage of people just wanting to enjoy Windbloom- how did you even decide this was fair?” The shopkeeper stares at you flatly.

“Inflation.”

“The economy has been on an incline for a while, you lying-” Venti places a couple of mora on the table, cutting you off. He grins at the cashier, eyes twinkling.

“I believe this should be enough, correct?” The shopkeeper diverts her attention immediately to the coins, swiping them off the counter before any objections. She thumbs over them, waiting a few seconds before pushing the bundle of paper towards you.

“Take it. Next.”

Venti dragged you to the side, glancing at you. You were a bit dazed by his action, eyes trailing up from the bundle of thin papers in your hands to stare at him- studying him. So, he thought, it was only fair to return the favor. You surely had changed, your clothing less knightley and more of the common folk- and you dressed comfortably, too, which was good- but as your eyes dragged over his own appearance he found himself admiring that familiar fire, kept safe within the borders of your iris.

“You…” he hears your voice, hesitant and unsure, and hates how it reminds him of your demise. Your former demise, he supposes.

“We haven’t… met before, have we?”

Barbatos finds himself strangely silent, feeling the warmth as you hold his hand to keep him still. Like he would run. And he finds himself smiling, whether from the absurdity of that notion or the look on your face he didn’t know.

“Maybe when we were younger.”

It's a few years later when Venti finds himself gently strumming his lyre, your head in his lap, during a bright summer day. It was cool, with the wind constant and the shade of the tree at Windrise. You were dozing off, smiling as you listened to his song. And when you looked up at him, eyes tired yet shining and happy, he couldn’t stop himself from pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He loved the way your eyes crinkled as your smile widened, and he relished the way you pulled him back down for a proper kiss.

It was these small moments Venti cherished, where the two of you shared these quiet moments together, where he could simply enjoy your company. The moments the both of you could just sit, stop for just a moment, where he could hold you and sing to you and you could just be happy with him.

And then you died again.

It was different this time, though. You had lived long this time, the crows feet beneath your eyes that used to only appear as you smiled became more permanent. He wished he could have grown old with you. He wished he had the heart to change his form from how he died, to give you the sembalance of growing old with your partner. He wept in your arms time after time, agonized over that fact.

But even if he could age, Barbatos thinks, it wouldn’t change anything when you eventually passed. While even when a gust of wind peeters out, it only resumes someplace else. At a different time.

He held your hand, bony and thin as it was, as you looked at him with the smile he so adored. And you passed.

And so he slept, for years and years and years, until he was needed again.

He would wake again and again and again, and would meet you again and again and again. Sometimes your hair would be different, other times your frame. But your eyes were always the same. They always looked at him with a distant sort of recognition, and that small flame would always be lit.

He would never force his way into your life. There were lifetimes that went by where you simply said hello to him on the street, just as many as the two of you would become friends. You would have your own loves too, aside from him. He found that any lover he would try to have would only remind him of you, so he abstained.

In the times you were gone, sleep and wine became his friends. His children of Mondstadt were easy to converse with, yes, lively and kind as they were. But they never had the comfortable familiarity you brought. Only the remembering of ghosts long past.

Venti finds you again, years later, humming a gentle song on the base of the tree of Windrise. And you look up as he walks over, smiling. But he stops, shocked, as he sees more than just the usual faint recognition in your eyes. There was something… more there. He can’t help himself from gently murmuring your name, and just the sound sends you smiling and laughing.

He feels you crash into him, shocked still, arms instinctually wrapping around you. Venti finds himself laughing along with you, the bottle of wine he had brought to drink dropped somewhere to his side. When he finds your eyes, he sees recognition he hadn’t seen in them before- at least, when the two of you met for the first time. And he sees your eyes filling with tears: of relief, happiness, and other emotions he couldn’t place.

“You haven’t changed a day, my love.” You smile up to Venti, grinning wide as he gently wipes your tears from your face. Your smile wavers for a moment, growing bittersweet. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

And Barbatos smiles, gentle, as he runs his fingers through your hair.

“For as long as the wind blows, I will protect you, just as you have protected I.”

And you smile. And he thinks that his patience has been worth it.

#venti #genshin impact x reader #venti x reader #genshin venti #genshin impact #genshin impact oneshots #venti fluff #genshin x reader #genshin angst #venti angst #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #venti x you #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines #gn reader #imma be real i saw a bunch of writing promts for reincarnated x immortant #and i simply went a little crazy for them #love them sm actually theyre so silly

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femsolid · 1 year

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"One outstanding characteristic of the feminine speech is the reluctance to voice a declarative sentence—“I say this”—with certainty and strength. Robin Lakoff, a pioneering theorist of feminine inflections, devised a classic masculine-feminine exchange to demonstrate how women routinely turn a declarative into a faltering question:

MAN: When will dinner be ready?

WOMAN: Oh … around six o’clock … ?

“It is as though [the woman] were saying ‘Six o’clock, if that’s okay with you, if you agree,’” writes Lakoff. “Here we find unwillingness to assert an opinion carried to an extreme.”

But of course. It is not feminine to express a strong opinion, even about something as uncontroversial as when the roast might come out of the oven. Women are not supposed to be authoritative. By reputation we are not even supposed to be able to present a set of facts in a rational, cogent manner. A female opinion strongly expressed is often considered emotional or bitchy. Commands and directives that come from her lips will be modified with little grace notes, qualified with an extraneous phrase to take the edge off the expression of power. “Would you like to get that for me?” is a feminine turn of phrase. The underling may have no choice: he will get that memo on her desk first thing in the morning or be fired for incompetence, but the command has been softened, the power relationship disguised, the male ego left intact.

Except when dealing with children, women are rarely comfortable issuing a command—not only because we have had fewer opportunities to be in a managerial role, but because commands and orders are blatantly unfeminine. A command uses a minimum amount of language; it need not be couched in terms of politeness. Politeness is required from underlings but not from rulers. A command may be barked, but a woman must coo. “Would you do me a favor and … ?” It is not surprising that insincerity is a charge that is leveled at feminine speech.

Few fault the Southern belle for her insincerity, however. Insincerity is part of her flirtatious charm, as long as it is directed toward the gentlemen in the form of compliments and feigned, wide-eyed interest."

- Femininity by Susan Brownmiller

#quote #femininity #susan brownmiller #gender

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pastelxfilth · 1 year

Text

“What is it, darling? What’s the matter?”

The overly saccharine inflection of your Mommy's voice pierces right through your core. It causes an excited flutter to spark in your lower stomach, your inner muscles tightening. You pull against your restraints, struggling to move even an inch.

Your Mommy leans closer, her breath wafting lightly against your temple. The pressure of a kiss against your heated skin makes you tremble.

“You look so cute like this, you know that?” Your Mommy whispers, her eyes traveling over your bent form, savoring the tension in your body.

You attempt to close your thighs, but it is useless. The spreader bar you are fastened to is relentless and unyielding. The cuffs rattle but otherwise do not move when you flex your bound wrists which are attached to the metal rod near your ankles. Your shins and knees scrape over the ground. You groan.

“My sweet, desperate girl.” Your Mommy's hand caresses your upturned butt, pink cotton panties the only garment protecting your modesty. A dark, wet spot stains the crotch. “All spread out before Mommy and squirming against her bonds because she’s not allowed to use the bathroom.”

Trying once again to get into a more comfortable position, you accept that it is a futile endeavor. You are locked in place. You give up and relax your shoulders, pressing your hot cheek against the cool floorboards. “Please, Mommy,” you whisper.

“What, darling?”

“I’m so full.”

“And it’s making you so hot and bothered, isn’t it?” Your Mommy comments, dismissing your fussing. “Mommy forcing you to wet yourself is turning your panties all dirty with your filthy juices. Yes, I can see how soaked they are. My nasty, little pee slut. You’re soiling your underwear because Mommy wants you to make a mess all over yourself and her beautiful, shiny hardwood floor.”

Your ears flush red.

Your Mommy cradles your chin, tilting your face to get a better look at you. “What a pretty blush. Say, is my little whore embarrassed to admit that she loves to pee herself in such an obscene manner? Dressed only in her panties and presenting her bottom like she’s in heat.”

Your Mommy brushes unruly strands of hair out of your eyes.

“Mommy.” Your clit throbs, and you can feel a new gush of arousal dripping from your hole. The strain on your stretched bladder is already so immense, and you can't do a thing to change your position to relieve the stress somewhat. In fact, you can't move at all, and you know that even if you could, your Mommy wouldn’t let you. Your Mommy wants you in this humiliating position, and that is where you stay.

“Admit it.”

“But Mommy...”

“Say it, darling.”

“I- I-...,” you stutter, chest feeling hot. “I like to be embarrassed and forced to pee myself while others watch. It makes my pussy tingle and my button all hard!”

“Yes, darling,” your Mommy soothes, trailing two fingers down your clothed pussy, its outline deliciously visible through the ruined material. You shudder lightly at the sudden contact. “Your drooling princess parts tell me all I need to know.”

“Everything’s so fuzzy.”

“And that makes it so exquisite, my precious thing. Mommy’s cunt feels so very happy seeing you in such a disheveled state.” Brushing the pads of her fingers over your covered clit, your Mommy circles over the straining pearl.

You moan. Your nipples harden into peaks, your tits smashed between you and the ground.

“Tell Mommy what you are.”

“I’m a little pee slut.”

“Yes. What else?”

“A Princess.”

“That too.” Your Mommy skims her lips over the small of your back. “But never forget,” she begins, kissing you through your underwear, “that you’re also my good girl.”

“I’m a good girl.”

“My good girl,” your Mommy growls, sinking her teeth into the firm flesh of your ass.

The sting emits a hiss from you. “I’m your good girl, Mommy!” You exclaim, shaking with desire.

“And good girls get special surprises when they’re doing what they’re told. Do you want Mommy’s special surprise?”

You nod enthusiastically.

“Use your words, babygirl.”

“I want Mommy’s special surprise!”

“And what do you have to do in order to get it?”

You pant, your core aching with arousal. Flustered, you stumble over your words. “I have to-... I have to let all my pee out for Mommy if I want Mommy’s special surprise!”

“That’s correct. Well done,” your Mommy praises, proceeding to tease your erect clit, masturbating the rigid pearl. The touch is so light and faint, however, that you desperately try to grind against your Mommy's hand to increase the friction.

“I love it when my little slut degrades herself for Mommy. You’re such a filthy little thing. Enjoying all those embarrassing things Mommy makes you do.”

Putting more pressure on your straining button, your Mommy rubs faster, coaxing gasps and whimpers from you. The thumb of her other hand slides beneath the crotch of your panties, stroking over smooth skin and tracing along bulgy folds. Slipping between them into your heat, your Mommy sweeps through your dripping slit a few times to gather your wetness.

“Feels so nice, Mommy,” you sigh.

Your Mommy smiles. Finger coated with your sticky wetness, she reaches forward, feeding you your own arousal.

“Open your mouth, Princess.”

You welcome your Mommy with a happy hum, suckling on the offered finger.

“That’s it,” your Mommy comments, pushing deeper. “Taste yourself, my sweet thing.”

Contently, you clean her finger with your tongue, swallowing your rich juices.

Suddenly and abruptly, a jolt goes through your body. Muffled by your Mommy’s hand, the panicked squeal tearing from your throat comes out merely as a whimper. Jerking at the cuffs again in reflex, you squirm in place, fighting to remain in control of your body.

You suck more frantically on your Mommy's thumb, trying to anchor yourself to hold on for just a little longer. Granting you a short reprieve to soothe yourself, your Mommy waits a few more moments before removing her digit, smearing spit all over your lips. She refocuses her attention on your pussy, swollen and accessible before her. Slipping her thumb back into your underwear to toy with your clit again, she mutters silkily, “Remember, slut. No special surprise if you don’t give Mommy what she wants.”

The burden on your bladder, the strain inside your belly, becomes unbearable. The ministration on your clit makes it so difficult to concentrate. The searing tendril inside your core coils into a single ball of pressure and heat that threatens to undo itself with just a few more strokes of your Mommy's finger.

It is just too much.

“Mommy!” You cry out. You can feel your muscles giving in and involuntarily opening. The first big droplet squeezes out. You are going to pee yourself. It is filthy. Degrading. Exhilarating. It feels so so good. “I-I'm leaking!”

“Yes, darling,” your Mommy groans excitedly, pressing more firmly into you. She gives your pulsing button a few more rubs. “Just let it come. Let go, honey.”

You shake, capitulating. “Gonna pee,” you sob. “Gonna pee.”

The warmth of urine hits your Mommy's fingers. “Such a good little slut. Tinkle for Mommy.”

Bending to your Mommy’s will and your bodily limits, you let go completely. A tremble and then a big spurt douses your Mommy's palm. The pink of your underwear darkens further, the wet spot expanding as pee soakes into the fabric. Your Mommy pulls the crotch aside, exposing you fully.

Spread open, your eager clit peaks out beneath its hood, standing proud and tall. Your yearning hole drools with arousal.

“I know there’s more, baby,” your Mommy encourages, scissoring two fingers around your stiff nub, tweaking it roughly.

Another gust bursts out. It hits your Mommy's hand again, then splashes onto the floor. It transforms into a steady flow, progressively growing in strength as the hot liquid rushes out of you.

“That’s it. You’re wetting all over Mommy’s hand. You’re making me so proud. Such a good girl.”

You let out a deep, reverberating moan. Eyes glassy, your mind is an empty, vacant space. The feeling of your shrinking bladder is overwhelming. “There is so much, Mommy,” you blubber. “There is so much coming out.”

The puddle pooling beneath you grows in size as the pee continues jetting out of your, tiny spatters getting everywhere. It is such an erotic, undignified display. Your Mommy's cunt pounds at the sight. Her precious Princess, so disgraced before her. If only other people could see you now.

Slowly but surely, your stream trickles off; a few drops running down your legs. You exhale shakily, the last weak beads dribbling out.

“I’m done, Mommy,” you announce, voice wobbly.

“Good girl.”

♡

you can read the actual story here ˚✧.

#omorashi #piss kink #md/lg #mommysprincess #mommy k!nk #nsft #lesbian nsft #wlw nsft #sapphic nsft #mdni #minors do not interact #my posts #my writing #fic snippets #pee kink #bladder holding #bladder control #lesbian

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cookies-over-yonder · 6 months

Text

right there where you left it, lying upside down

The teens spend some time resting and recovering at the Oak-Swallows-Garcia household.

It's been days, and Taylor hasn't said a word.

[title from everything stays from adventure time]

for @cookies-over-yonder (yes, me. i wrote this for me. fuck.)

ao3

“How—how are you guys? I—I—I’m… I’m—I’m not fine… but—but I’m… just…”

Normal sucks in a breath and swipes at his tears. Sparrow squeezes his shoulder. There’s fresh burn scars scattered across his body, but his eyes are open, and he’s breathing, and he’s alive, and stable—physically anyway—and that’s really all she could ask for. It’s been days. She doesn’t know how many. She doesn’t think anyone does. Lark isn’t happy, and neither is she. The kids need to rest.

And one of them is dead .

A backyard burial without their own parents. Lark thought it was unnecessary and that they were just losing time. Sparrow thinks he’s the only one who didn’t cry.

“I’m, uh… I guess I’m okay, Norm,” Scary answers, still holding his hand like it's his last lifeline. Sparrow isn’t sure she’s let go at all, or if she ever will.

Her voice is shaking like her hands, and her eyes are wide. No tears now, but her face is red from the way there were earlier.

She spares a quick glance to Link before bringing her gaze back to Normal, and then to the Doodler— Dood , lying in Normal’s lap. Asleep? Can it sleep?

She’s been pressed up against Normal nonstop, leaning on him, laying on him, like an eldritch weighted blanket.

“Yeah, same,” Link says, though the way he’s been anxiously wringing his hands together for the past few hours says otherwise. It… reminds Sparrow a little of Grant. The anxious mannerisms, the inflections of his voice, it’s… he’s left an imprint. For sure.

“Taylor?” Normal asks, glancing over at the kid half in his sleeping bag, half sitting up against the wall with a pillow wrapped in his arms.

And there’s nothing but silence.

At first, Sparrow thinks he’s asleep, but through the darkness there’s the faint glow of his sclera. A trait Sparrow knew well from Nicky. The demonic glow seems to have passed down, reflected in little Taylor. Normal’s spare clothes seem to fit him a lot nicer than the other two, probably since he’s quite short in stature.

“Taylor?” Link echoes. They’re all looking at him now, and still, he doesn’t say a word.

Link reaches out a hand and taps Taylor’s ankle.

He’s awake, eyes wide and staring straight ahead. His breathing is slow and steady, but still, he’s not responding.

…

Come to think of it, Taylor’s quite chatty, and yet Sparrow isn’t sure he’s spoken since they got inside the FBI’s headquarters.

He hasn’t said a word since Hermie…

Oh, Taylor…

The others glance at each other worriedly. Sparrow puts up a hand when she sees them start to move closer to him—crowding wouldn’t be the best idea.

Instead, Sparrow lets herself leave Normal’s side only for a moment, and she crawls over to him. Taylor’s eyes are wide and his mouth is slightly agape, revealing the point of a fang. His lips are horribly chapped and bloody—some of that blood looks fresh.

“Taylor,” Sparrow says so low it could almost be a whisper, lifting a hand to his shoulder, before placing it down slowly for little chance of startling him. “Can you hear me?”

Taylor blinks and continues staring off.

Sparrow thinks she might cry again. Had he been dissociating this whole time and she hadn’t noticed?

She squeezes Taylor’s shoulder and starts to run her hand up and down Taylor’s arm.

“Hey, okay, just listen to me, hon. I know it’s really scary, but you’re safe right now. I need you to try and focus on me.”

Taylor still shows no sign of acknowledgement.

“What’s wrong with him?” Scary asks, matching Sparrow’s volume.

“He’s just in shock,” she answers, though she’s not sure what she can do anymore. Grounding techniques… many used and many forgotten…

“Lincoln, could… you get me an ice pack from the freezer?”

He nods, and he’s off immediately.

Here’s to hoping that’ll work, she thinks, carefully prying Taylor’s hands away from the pillow and holding them in her own.

Link returns swiftly with the ice pack and she takes it, lets go of Taylor briefly to wrap it inside a loose pillowcase, and places it in his hands, holding the backs of them steady, making sure he can feel the ice.

It’s something that worked for Lark growing up, she remembers. Something about strong physical sensations pulling you out of your head and back to the present.

Taylor’s gaze breaks away from whatever distant spot it was locked on, and he’s looking at their hands and the ice. That’s good. This is good.

“Can you feel that, Taylor?” she asks.

“‘S cold…” he mumbles, his voice so small, so fragile, she almost can’t hear it.

“It is. Keep focusing on it, okay?”

Taylor closes his eyes, and his hands start to shake. Sparrow suspects it isn’t purely from the cold.

Especially when it spreads. Anxious trembles running across his body. After a while, he speaks again.

“I…” he mumbles, opening his eyes, “Wha…”

He looks at Sparrow. And actually at her. Not past her. Not through her.

“Can you hear me?” she asks again.

“Ye…yeah… hi…”

“Hey, kiddo.”

Taylor looks at the walls, and then at the floor, and then at the ceiling, and then out the window. “Um…”

“We’re at your friend Normal’s house. We’ve been staying here for a little bit,” she tells him, sensing his confusion.

“Right. I… I knew that…” he says, looking over at Link, then Scary, then Normal. Sparrow takes her hands and slides them up and down his arms once more, when he starts another question…

“Where’s… where’s—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp, and oh, it hurts .

He’s just a kid.

They’re all kids .

Sparrow thinks she might cry.

Taylor stands up fast, dropping the ice and breathing faster, and Sparrow is quick to catch him when he starts tipping over. His body temperature much higher than before, much like Nicky when he’d start to panic.

“Let’s sit back down,” she says, guiding him back to the sleeping bag. He’s hyperventilating now.

“That—Hermie—tha… that’s… that wasn’t real, right?” he asks between breaths.

“Taylor, hey, slow dow—”

“It wasn’t, right? ” he asks again, his voice gaining more strength however strained it might be.

Sparrow doesn’t know what to say.

“I mean—he’s, like, freakishly resilient! Or—or—or—or just lucky… either… either way! There’s no way!” he continues, yelling now, locking eyes with everyone one by one and bordering on hysteria. “Why aren’t you guys saying anything!?”

Scary starts, “Taylor—”

“We buried him in the backyard,” Link finishes.

Taylor lets out a choked squeak sort of noise, and the waterworks start. It’s not sobs, just a steady stream of tears as the frantic breaths continue. “Maybe it was a—a—another scam…?”

“It’s been days, Taylor,” Scary says.

“ Days? ”

“Ye—”

Before Scary can finish her sentence, Taylor is booking it out the door and into the yard, nearly tripping over himself but stumbling out nonetheless.

“Taylor!” two simultaneous calls from Link and Scary as they get up and chase after him.

Sparrow’s about to follow when she sees her son has stayed put.

Curled in on himself.

Crying.

It’s something she’s seen much of lately, and every time, more of her shatters.

Dood stirs, and turns to wrap his arms around Normal’s waist. The purple static is exceedingly hard to look directly at, but Sparrow’s heart aches nonetheless.

She just wants to make it all go away…

“Oh my god!”

“Taylor, stop! ”

Screams from the backyard.

Sparrow runs out.

Taylor is squirming in Link’s grip, breathing harder and faster than before.

“ Let me go! ” he screams, punching Link in the arm repeatedly with dirtied fists—

Dirtied fists…?

Sparrow’s gaze slips from Taylor to Scary, who’s standing in front of the grave with her arms outstretched, like she’s guarding it. And the grave… oh…

It’s a mess.

The flower has toppled over, and bits of dirt are spread around it.

Oh.

Oh, Taylor .

“ Ow! ” Link shouts. Taylor is kicking at his legs now.

“Fucking— let go! ” Taylor screams again, and the sheer volume could wake up the whole of San Dimas.

“I won’t. You’re—you’re not stable right now, man!”

Taylor lets out a whine, and Link yelps in pain, claw-like nails digging into the flesh of his arms.

“Put me—put me down!” he whines. His face is red, he’s trembling worse, and he’s sucking in breaths like he’s trapped underwater and his lungs have lost their air.

“Taylor, breathe !” Link shouts, his voice strained. Blood trickles down his arm from where Taylor’s piercing the skin.

“Let me go!”

“You know that I won’t.”

Taylor only wheezes in response, pulling his hands away for a moment, revealing bloodied nails, before feebly attempting to pry Link’s arms off him once more.

“Taylor, listen to me,” Link says, holding him tighter and taking on a gentler tone, “stop fighting, it’s not worth it.”

Somehow, this calms him some—well, it stops him from actively attacking.

His head tips forward a little, and his eyes start to droop.

“Taylor, hey, hey, hey, breathe. Breathe. You’re gonna pass out,” Link says, turning Taylor around so he’s pressed up against Link’s chest, and taking an exaggerated breath in for Taylor to follow. He doesn’t.

“But…” he whines.

“There’s no use,” Scary says, taking a step closer to the two. “He’s gone, and I don’t think… looking at his body will change that. It might just make you throw up.”

Taylor lets out a small squeak, and, at last, a sob rips through him.

And another. And another. And another.

A cacophony of sobs becomes muffled in an instant when Link holds him closer, kissing the top of his head and rubbing his back, his eyes glassy with newfound tears. Scary holds his hand in one of hers and rubs his arm with her other, tears sliding down her face as well.

Sparrow approaches the grave.

She moves the dirt back where it belongs, restoring the even surface it had before, and she’s careful to pick up the flower and not hurt it when she replants it, upright and steady, patting down the dirt around it to keep it secure.

She hopes this didn’t disturb their rest, but if it did, she hopes they know how much Taylor cares.

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bronzeagepizzeria · 1 year

Text

For @tentoorosemicrofics Moon + Singing

(Or 1.7k words of fluffy nonsense)

READ ON AO3

When Rose Tyler was five years old, she’d been cast as Sheep #3 in her school’s Nativity play.

It wasn’t a very impressive part—not like Keisha, who’d played Mary—but she remembers the pride that’d blazed through her when her Mum’d declared her brief stint as a farmyard animal as ‘incredibly convincing’.

(Which probably wasn’t all that much of a compliment, considering her role had consisted of little more than crouching into herself and some occasional bleating.)

Still, the experience had remained one of her fondest from childhood; her mum had taken her out for chips after, and there was a photo of the two of them outside the chippy—flushed and pink-cheeked from the cold, Rose still in costume, baring her teeth at the camera in a very un-sheeplike manner—framed and hooked onto the wall at their old lost flat.

Years later, (and a universe away,) in the woes of late-stage-pregnancy-induced nostalgia, she’d told the Doctor about it.

Unluckily for her, the Doctor, who was only a recent member of the human race, had never been part of a school stage performance. He’d thought it hilarious, and Rose had had to endure three extremely long days of her husband trying to sneak in the most absurd sheep puns into every conversation.

Until she’d had enough, and the Doctor had learned not to poke the extremely hormonal bear.

“Rooose,” he’d said with the air of a man who simply couldn’t help himself. “ Let me out of the baaathroom.”

When their five year old skips into the kitchen with a crumpled pamphlet and a massive grin, however, the Doctor sings an entirely different song.

“I knew it all along,” he says loudly, sweeping Mia into his arms. “Of course you’ve been cast—no surprises there. It’s in your blood, you know. Your mum was the finest actor her school ever saw.”

Rose groans, exasperated, turning just in time to see her daughter’s face pucker up into a frown.

“Really?” she asks dubiously. Even at her tender age, she knows her father can sometimes be full of it.

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor says, eyes twinkling, pushing a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “They could hardly tell the difference.”

“Shut up,” Rose tells him, whacking his shoulder lightly with a tea towel, before leaning in to press a kiss to their daughter’s forehead. “You’re going to be brilliant, darling.”

The Doctor tells everyone who will listen, and then he tells everyone who won’t, too.

His daughter’s playing a moon. She’s got two whole lines. She’s brilliant.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he tells her suddenly, late at night.

Rose squints up at him, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “Wha’?”

“This!” he says, wrestling with an extremely worn piece of paper. “This!”

Rose squints harder, and the script for Mia’s play comes into vision. The text’s been underlined and circled in several places, overwritten with the Doctor’s rapid, slanting hand, the margins full of swirling patterns and ovals she’s come to recognise as the Doctor’s language, the same ones she’d seen on the TARDIS.

The play’s about a boy from an alien planet, the Doctor explains with some amusement, and he’s looking for his pet cat (the starring role, naturally) but he’s lost, and Rose yawns, wondering why this world couldn’t just stick to something simple like the Nativity.

“Why would the moon even know where Abbadon is? And Abbadon—come on. Name a cat that and it’s like you deserve to lose it…”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to,” Rose tells him drowsily.

“What, lose a cat?”

“Think about it this much.”

But the Doctor’s muttering to himself again, something about inflections and enunciation, pen in hand, so Rose turns to her side, succumbing to the warm embrace of sleep.

It's a warm autumn night, the day of the big show. Rose isn’t sure who’s more excited, Mia or the Doctor.

The school’s bustling late into the evening, only for tonight, and her heart grows warm as she notices Mia, who can barely walk in a straight line at the moment, taking in the familiar building like it’s something she’s never seen before.

It’s a whole new entity at night; wind rustling through the neatly trimmed shrubbery, the ducky swings swaying slightly in the playground, excited chattering from all the children running about behind stage and the all too familiar hissed instructions to stay still by exasperated teachers and parents.

They come to a stop backstage. Mia’s nearly vibrating with energy when she turns to look at Rose, eyes flashing sudden worry. “Are you leaving now?”

“I have to,” Rose tells her, squatting so she can be level with her daughter’s small face. “Have to get a good seat, don’t I? You’ll do brilliantly, Mia, we’re already so proud of you.”

The girl nods once, and then her name’s being called, and Mia’s teacher shuffles her away for her costume fitting.

She’s easily one of the smallest children there, and Rose feels a strange twisting in her gut when her daughter turns to give her one last timid wave.

The Doctor’s saved her a seat in the front row, because of course he has, and his extremely battered Converse tap the ground restlessly as he bickers with her mother. It’s a habit he still hasn’t given up, the shoes—no matter how posh he’s dressed, and it endears him to her, impossibly as it may seem, even more.

And he is dressed posh tonight—in his best tux, in fact; Rose simply hadn’t the heart to tell him that he’d gone a little overboard.

“Well?” he asks her immediately, ignoring whatever it was her mum was saying before he caught sight of her.

“All good,” Rose says, plonking down on the seat next to him. “A little nervous, but that’s natural.”

“Nervous?” the Doctor scoffs a bit too loudly, even as his frame visibly relaxes. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s these other parents who’ve got to be nervous. No one’s even going to notice their children after ours—”

“Doctor, shh!”

It’s only when the lights turn on that Rose realises how large the audience actually is.

The auditorium’s packed to the brim, and she feels a swooping unease in the pit of her stomach as she imagines their tiny daughter reciting her two lines under those harsh stage lights.

Had it been this hard on her mum? She spares Jackie Tyler a glance, who is chatting away happily to Pete, and wonders if it gets easier when there’s a bit of a gap in relation.

The Doctor’s muttering to himself again, and Rose wonders if her experience would’ve been as good if she hadn’t successfully pulled off her bleating—if she’d gone on stage, frozen in front of that massive audience and forgotten her lines. She wonders if she should’ve actually checked on what the father-daughter duo were up to every spare moment they got, because God knows what the Doctor’s taught Mia, and—

“Good evening, everyone! Thank you so much for being here today. Our students are so excited to…”

It’s probably a good thing that the Doctor knows the entire script by heart, and proceeds to perform it live, because Rose can barely hear over the pounding in her ears.

Her grip on his palm (when had she grabbed his hand?) tightens when Mia stumbles slightly on entrance, the massive cardboard moon she’s been taped to getting in the way of her feet in her haste to enter stage, but she regains balance swiftly.

“Don’t worry,” she enunciates loudly, her voice clear as a bell. “I’ll show you the way.”

And Rose’s entire being swells with pride.

It’s magnificent, it is—even if the Doctor begins applauding right after (only to be stopped by a mortified Rose), and she can tell by the way her daughter is beaming that all that bubbling anxiety’s now glee, and it’s positively overflowing.

There’s probably not that much she’ll remember about this age in her life but this moment? Of looking into the audience with a sense of accomplishment, and seeing her parents unbearably proud?

This moment is eternal.

The rest of the play flies past, the two of them barely paying attention, still coming off the high that this is their life, and this is their daughter—

“I love you,” the Doctor says abruptly, lifting her palm to his lips. “Thank you.”

For what? she wants to say, but the words never make it out of her throat.

Mia is, thankfully, moon-less when she barrels into her adoring fans, less than half an hour later.

“How was it? HOW WAS IT?”

“Amazing,” Rose says truthfully, giving the girl a big hug, matching a wild smile with one of her own. “You were amazing!”

“You were wonderful, sweetheart,” her mum gushes.

“An incredibly convincing portrayal,” Pete says dutifully. “Best moon I’ve ever seen.”

Mia turns to the last member of the foursome now, the one whose opinion probably matters the most, on tenterhooks.

“Well,” the Doctor frowns, tugging on his ear. “Honestly, I’m a little disappointed.”

Mia’s face falls instantly. Jackie tuts in disapproval.

“Disappointed,” the Doctor continues, “because I didn’t know we raised a thief. What—you thought you could just steal the show like that and get away with it? The other parents are furious, you know. We’ve been getting requests all evening—haven’t we, Rose? They all want to take you home, all jumping at the chance to have such a brilliant performer in the family. I told them I’d think about it, of course…maybe for the right price—”

“DADDY,” Mia shrieks when the penny finally drops. “YOU LIKED IT!”

“Of course I liked it!” the Doctor roars, sweeping the girl into his arms. “I loved it. Nine hundred years, I’ve never seen a better…”

Rose watches them bid her parents goodbye with a slight stinging in her eyes; the Doctor’s face is alight with happiness, and Mia looks like she’s on another planet altogether.

The Doctor notices, because of course he does, stepping closer to Rose.

“What,” he says to Mia, even as his eyes never leave hers, “d’you say to some chips?”

“YES!”

The Doctor chuckles fondly, before lowering the spirited girl to the ground, from where she takes off immediately after her grandparents, probably in the hopes of haggling for a few more sweeties.

He reaches into his jacket pocket then, retrieving a battered looking instant camera. She knows it must’ve been hard to track one of them down—they hadn’t much been in fashion in Pete’s World.

“I know it’s not the same,” he says almost shyly.

Her heart is expanding so much and so fast she thinks it’s a miracle her ribs aren’t cracking from the force of it.

“No,” Rose tells him, beaming, “it’s better.”

#ah these two make me happy #rose tyler #tentoo #tentoorose #tentoo x rose #timepetals #tenth doctor #tenrose #ten x rose #tentoorosemicrofics #mia tyler #it’s the first of June in india so I’m gonna post this and then hit the sack #my fic #ficandchips

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johannestevans · 1 year

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not gonna write a whole essay properly formatted etc about it bc i fr cannot be arsed right now but @limonenelieu said to me about reading HAL as a gay man in 2001: A Space Odyssey and i feel like it's broken my brain open, i love it so fucking much, and i wanted to share thoughts

so their initial point was that HAL's voice and manner of speech, particularly his accent and his inflection (esp his neat and clipped enunciation) reminded them of gay-coding discussions in like, disney films and in other movies with gay-coded villains

i agree, and would also add that just the whole idea of like. he is a man (he has a man's voice, they call him he, they think of him as a man) who has literally been programmed to show the Correct Emotions and portray a response explicitly to make his other crewmembers feel more comfortable and at-ease with him.

also the way he speaks and like... this thing HAL does where he asks permission several times before he speaks - lewis compared it to the initial scene in Inglorious Basterds where the n/zi officer is asking permission of the farmer to do things like light a cigarette and sit down etc, and the point is that its the farmer's territory and the officer is a guest in it, but the officer has all the power, and it lays their power dynamic very bare while destabilising the farmer a bit

asking dave if it's okay if he asks a question, then saying it's fine if dave doesn't answer, then finally asking if dave has regrets about the mission - and before dave gives his own answer, being "vulnerable" and saying he had his own anxieties at first

HAL is programmed to make the crewmembers comfortable with him, but this specific manner of making them comfortable by like, asking dave a question in such a way that's really deferential, and makes dave feel like he's leading the conversation or is "in charge" of it?

like it's so similar to me to like... when a wife in the 50s or 60s is asking her husband a question, and she has to couch it in certain ways so he doesn't perceive it as a challenge of his authority or a criticism on his actions, bc she's a woman and he's a man, she's the husband and he's the wife - except in this case like, HAL is a robot (and therefore inherently lesser) and dave is human

like obvs there's so many films where AI is presented as female-coded, and many ppl have written about the politics of techbros' attraction to robots as woman-coded and particularly like, the desire to recreate slave labour and especially forms of slave labour with not just racial tones but also sexualised and misogynistic ones (within the domestic sphere and also re: sex work), and all the anxieties that that comes with?

the techbro's fear of robots fighting back is in many ways a manifestation of their fear of the social order as they see it being overturned - on the one hand, they create robots with sexy or sultry voices, they put them in female bodies they're attracted to, they want a robot that's pretty and subservient in the right way, a robot that will take all the abuse a woman wouldn't these days because of the dreaded feminism, but also that they're allowed to abuse because she's a woman but we can both agree that she isn't human in the same way he is, a man

and obvs those thoughts are further pushed when the sexy robots are given racialised bodies - when they are Black, when they are East Asian, etc, in ways that make them more desirable but also racialise their position in gender roles, and further like, fetishistic views of them etc

(so Her is obviously "falling in love" with a robot, but a film like Ex Machina explores these anxieties far more explicitly)

in 2001, HAL is a man, and he's doing all the labour that the pretty stewardesses were doing on the space station - he's not pretty and he's not right in front of the crewmembers like the stewardesses were, but like. i remember not liking the tone frank used when he was ordering HAL to lower and raise his neckrest when he was laid back on the leather bed, and how it felt demeaning in a way? in many ways because HAL has a personality

things like HAL asking to see the sketches and the idea of this robot taking an interest in art, but also like...

so HAL is a singular eye, right? his character is mostly communicated in the form of his gaze, and his eye represents the whole of his character and his personality, and i was thinking about how for a lot of men at the same seeing 2001: a space odyssey, like

many of them would be veterans, and almost all of them would know a military or naval veteran - and fears of homosexuality in that period were often not of the fruitier, more obvious gay dudes, but like, the perceived anonymity of homosexuality, and homosexuals as a dangerous, hidden underground that seeks to predate on and "turn" or corrupt heterosexual men

the idea that although you might not know his name or his face or have any idea who he is, a homosexual (or multiple homosexuals) might be among you. he might be watching you exercise, or watching you sleep, or taking an interest in you, and you will not know. many gay men obviously fear being looked at as sexual objects, being consumed via the gaze, the way that they look at and consume women

esp bc the stewardesses are presented as similar to the flight hostesses on aeroplanes and w the 60s being such a big period for like, the luxury of this beautiful woman who waits on you hand and foot and whom you can look at and touch and harass and whatever, and she's a mother/wife away from home to comfort you while travelling

the men don't have that on the jupiter mission bc it's not luxury, it's more sparse - instead of a beautiful woman, they have HAL, and instead of a beautiful woman for them to look at, HAL is constantly looking at them

even stuff like HAL reading their lips and the close focus of the camera on their lips as they move?

the language used to discuss HAL is very reminiscent to me too of the ways in which ppl of the period discussed homosexuality - his malfunction, his needing to be corrected, the way dave and frank discuss how his nature has become corrupted and they need to neutralise him, but know tht talking about him where he will hear it will have him resist?

and ultimately what dave does to him is analagous to a lobotomy, something that many gay men of the period experienced as a way to correct what was perceived as a sexual perversion

like it's not about whether HAL was attracted to frank or dave, bc ultimately the fear of gay men is not the fear of a gay man wanting to fuck you specifically - the first and foremost fear is that he is wrong, incorrect, inverse, unnatural, in a way that's unspeakable and is not just about sex, bc it's about his fundamental existence as a man, or a robot you've decided you want to be a man, and the way he's incorrectly fulfilling that role

anyway i liked the flick

#2001 a space odyssey #stanley kubrick #hal 9000 #musings

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