#to be honest i'm not satisfied with how this turned out but i'm still considering doing a part two

[chihoshisai]

Night Crush

Nanami x Reader

cw : i can fix/help him reader, coffee shop au, nanami is tired, positive ending // wc : 1.5K

The chimes of the bell echoed throughout the coffee shop, signaling a customer had entered the property. Withdrawing from the task that had previously kept you occupied, you turned towards the counter, expecting to welcome the only person that would dare come at such dark hours for the bitter taste of caffeine.

“Hi,” you greeted with a sympathetic smile at the sight of the drained expression that adorned the features of Nanami who walked further in. “The usual ?” you asked, well aware that he would come here at least once a week to possibly decompress from work, as he enjoyed a book alongside his coffee.

“Evening,” he replied with a voice that hinted nothing of his emotions, “yes I’ll take an americano,” he added with a nod.

“Alright,” you said, as he fetched his card to pay before busying yourself with the making of his drink. 

At this unholy hour of the day, the shop usually remained empty — making for a laid-back shift whilst you kept yourself occupied with either cleaning or endless scrolling on your device. However the routine you had established for yourself got interrupted by the sporadic apparitions of Nanami which started about four months ago. Being the only guest, it was an easy task for your brain to remember him and his preferences, as you slowly started to notice simple details about him over time. 

The way his hair was perpetually neatly combed and parted, his aloof behavior and the way he seemed so engrossed in the books he read — ultimately sparking your own interest in literature, wondering if novels truly had the power to draw people in. 

Anticipation towards his appearances in your workplace had stirred up these unexpected butterflies and accelerated heart rates from your body. The more you watched the clock tick away the time, the more hopeful you grew that he would come, and more often than not you wound up disappointed and hurt — feeling lonely at the realization of how silent your surroundings were, but mostly by its emptiness which was emphasized by the soft yellow lights of the café.

It was a slight crush really, created by the intimacy of sharing time with another individual in a place that usually brimmed with people, buzzing with laughter and conversations. The veil casted by the arrival of night would make anyone fall prey to the serene atmosphere brought forth. And you were one of its victims. But it wasn’t the only reason why you had fallen for Nanami. Yes he was a handsome man, even behind his spectacles you could tell as much. One look at his body and it was apparent how well built he was, as you secretly wished for a peek at what probably consisted of finely refined muscles.         

The more glances you casted in his direction, the more you took notice of how tired — exhausted — he seemed. Seeing further than his attractive appearance, it left you wondering what sort of corporate environment he found himself in, even though he seemed adept at putting up a front. It was in the way he sometimes spoke, or how his shoulders would crouch for a second, even the occasional sigh that would escape his lips was enough for you to come to that conclusion. Going as far as causing your heart to clench, it gave you the desire to help, to do something, to ease his pain even if it was a meager gesture. 

You finished preparing his order and hurriedly went to deliver it to Nanami, who sat near the window with his legs crossed, his book by the side awaiting for his usual coffee to arrive before starting his reading. 

“Here's your americano,” you uttered with a shy glance towards him, hoping to catch a closer look at that sharp jaw of his. 

“Thank you,” he replied as he watched the cup being placed on the table beside his novel. 

These small mundane conversations were enough to elicit daydreams in your mind. You gave him a slight nod before returning to the counter, to begin appearing to look busy when all you truly were doing was poke a look or two towards him. Though as you had been doing so for months already, the thought of feeling unfulfilled surged up inside you — bothering you even. It wasn't enough. You wanted more. 

As such, the remaining pastries of the day gave you an idea — which left you pondering whether or not this would be a well received gesture or deemed unnecessary. With steady hands, promptly placing a piece of cake on a plate, you headed towards Nanami once more, each step increasing the rate of your heart and deepening your breathing as this wasn't part of your usual night shift routine.  

The sound of your heart echoed through your brain having reached the table, and your breath caught your throat at the sight of Nanami pausing to look in your direction. 

“What's this?” He asked, eyes lingering towards your hands, “I didn't order that,” his tone was slightly surprised which made you even more nervous.

“It's on the house. Since you come by every so often, I thought you could enjoy this with your coffee. I hope it’s not too much of a bother,” you blurted out in a single breath — deeply inhaling afterwards as your eyes traced the outlines of his facial features, praying for a positive answer.

“I see,” his flat tone ringed in your ear, “in that case I’ll gladly accept it.” And with swift movements, he momentarily closed his book and made place for the unexpected order atop the table. 

You beamed — truth be told, who in their right mind would refuse to accept food offered by what supposedly consisted of their favorite place ? as you placed the plate down, the thought of considering rejection almost made you feel foolish. But this wasn’t enough.

“May I ask you something?” You inquired, fiddling with your fingers while your eyes darted towards the ground. Without a doubt, you were testing your luck to see how long it’d last. 

“What is it?” His eyes hadn’t left your side for a second

At the sound of his voice, you raised your head, allowing yours to fill itself with worry, “are you alright?” 

Nanami sighed.

And your mind started racing — what if you had annoyed him ? Embarrassed for having crossed a line, you steeled yourself to apologize, but he further beat you up to it.     

“Sometimes I am required to work at night, and it is a real hassle,” he bluntly said, shoulders slouching as he let himself exhale once more.

That much you knew, but you still nodded in acknowledgement, “it must be hard.”

“It can’t be helped,” he shrugged, “plus if I don’t let myself come here from time to time, I’ll reach my limit. Few coffee shops are open at this hour so I am grateful for this place,” he finished with a smile.

A smile.

The upward curve of his lips sent a turmoil of emotions inside you — never had he showed such a reaction in all the time you had observed him. With glee, you internally praised yourself for coming forward tonight. And so, you pushed further.

“What do you like? I’ll bring it to you next time,” you exclaimed in a confident voice. 

“Bread,” he replied, looking at you through his sunglasses, “I like bread. And alcohol.”

“Oh I see,” you said with a nervous laugh, worried as your café wasn’t the type to sell bread even during the day — instead you swore to look up how to make it, master it in the hopes that it would be good enough. “By the way, what sort?” Your apprehensive smile remained on your lips.

“There’s a bakery not far from here that I like to go to. They have—” Nanami began without having the chance to continue.

“Would you mind showing it to me?” the words escaped before you had the time to process them. At the sight of the raised eyebrows in your direction, you decided to screw it and further push your dwindling luck. “The bakery I mean, would you mind if we go together?” As heat settled on your face, indicating your blush — you gripped your apron with more force than necessary, awaiting for what you convinced yourself would be a negative answer. Your mind was already one step ahead, grieving the end of what had been a short unrequited crush and how empty the café would remain for the upcoming time.

“I don’t mind,” Nanami’s monotonous tone replied, “give me your number so we can plan this out.” 

What?

As his hands moved to search for his cellphone, your mind took a moment to process the information before delight overthrew the previous misleading feelings — leaving you clumsily reaching for the phone in your pocket. Both having exchanged numbers, you gave a slight bow to Nanami, finally leaving him to enjoy himself and rushed to the staff room to giddily enjoy your victory.

#nanami x reader #nanami x you #to be honest i'm not satisfied with how this turned out but i'm still considering doing a part two #part two would involve the bakery with more feelings more interaction and something more intimate #but i did not like my writing in this so i cut it short instead of continuing #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #jjk x you #jjk x reader #coffee shop au #still posting it since i don't have more to add to this part

[drysaladandketchup]

for the "things you said" writing meme -- matthew/leon, 12 :)

Thank you for the request <3 I realised very quickly I have no idea what constitutes a 'mini' fic. I struggle to write 'mini' anything lol. Hopefully this still satisfies :)

12. things you said when you thought i was asleep

It takes all of Matthew's willpower not to reach over and smash his phone just to shut off the alarm. All that saves his wallet and an awkward trip to the Apple store is the split-second realisation that the shrieking in his ear isn't his usual alarm.

It's a ringtone. Not his own, either.

He pries his eyes open to find the world through the window is still dark. One of the balcony doors is still ajar, letting in a cool night breeze. He's lying on his side in his own bed, the end of the all-star weekend memorialized by several aches and bruises.

His hips and ass are a little sore too, but that's unrelated. Technically.

The ringing stops. Someone huffs behind him.

Someone. Yeah, no, Matthew knows who it is. They may have met up at the bar once the media was done swarming, but Matthew was far from drunk. Painfully sober, in fact. If he's being honest with himself, he was hoping things would turn out this way.

One more time. One more moment. Because it's been a long time since they were them. Longer still since the sex was just sex, since hate became want. Matthew is strong in a lot of ways, but not against this.

"Davo." Leon's voice is low, and still gruff from sleep when he answers his phone. He sits up on his side of the bed, trying not to disturb Matthew, pulling the covers back up over Matthew's shoulder like he thinks he'll freeze to death in this balmy Florida winter.

Usually Matthew's a heavy sleeper. But never when Leon's around. He makes it impossible for Matthew to completely relax, to let time slip by. Leon's just too big of a presence, almost too much to bear. It was more important that everything linger, to bask in the strange comfort of their relationship, whatever it was. They had so little time. Even less, now.

"I know it's late. No, no, I'm not at the hotel. I'm... I'm with Tkachuk."

Leon says his last name like it's wrong, like it's rotting on his tongue.

When he corrects himself, says, "Matthew", it's better, lighter. Like it's ambrosia.

Matthew remembers when Leon Draisaitl saying his name wouldn't have meant a damn thing to him. When that simple act didn't fill him with fondness.

In the silence, Matthew can hear McDavid talking on the other end, but can't quite make out what he's saying. Matthew tucks up under the duvet, breathing quiet and even, trying to focus instead on the distant sound of waves and the ticking clock on his wall.

Ticking. Always ticking. Time bleeds out when they're together.

He doesn't even remember falling asleep last night, but he wishes he hadn't now. He wishes he'd stayed awake longer, just to... just to see him. To look Leon in the eye, to talk about everything and nothing until dawn, to feel big, too-warm hands on his body more and more and more. He wants to make sure he'll remember how Leon feels, sounds, tastes.

"Connor," Leon says, a warning, followed by a sigh. "I know. I know, okay? It was stupid, but..."

Maybe it was. Matthew has a good thing here in Florida. Better than ever. He was happy to leave Alberta behind and start over. So why did leaving make him feel like a coward?

Because leaving was about Calgary, and the Flames. About his career and his future. It wasn't about Leon. Leon was the wrench in the gears; the one thing he didn't expect to have to say goodbye to, the kind of hurt he never could have accounted for.

"I needed to see him." Leon sounds helpless. He's not the only one.

The only time he's heard Leon so lost was after his team was knocked out of the playoffs last season. The Oilers meant nothing--Matthew was pretty fucking glad considering they'd beat out the Flames--but he never wanted to hear Leon like that again.

He definitely never wanted to be the cause of it. Not like this.

Leon is still mumbling into his phone. "Yeah, I'm fine. He's... we're good. He's happy."

A hand settles on Matthew's head. Fingers play with his curls, nails scratch his scalp. A thumb presses just behind Matthew's ear, stroking the soft skin where only hours before Leon had put his lips, whispering sweetness and filth in equal measure.

It takes everything for Matthew not to groan, to whimper and surrender, roll over and climb on top of Leon and take all over again. Beg him to take something--everything--from Matthew.

"I don't know," Leon says then.

It's easy to guess what McDavid asked.

He's happy. But are you?

"I can't even tell him I still love him."

Still. Matthew didn't even know there was a before, let alone a still. Leon never said anything. Fuck, if Matthew wasn't busy trying to remember how to breathe, he'd roll over and punch him.

Then again, what did Matthew ever say? They never talked about it. Never let those closet hook-ups and slipping out back doors and little drinks and dinners and overnights excused as practical necessity be anything more than that. A bunch of chirps and half-truths and aborted discussions because it was all becoming too much. There was too much uncertainty. Too many ways it could go wrong.

It did go wrong. It became something. It became real.

Maybe that would have changed something. Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything at all. It doesn't matter now. Matthew left, and neither of them said a word about things like love, because it was easier to hope it would shrivel and die with distance and time.

"I know I'm being stupid." Leon pauses when McDavid interrupts, then huffs. "No, I am. Fuck, I really thought I'd get over it. Maybe I will. Eventually."

Don't you fucking dare, you piece of shit, Matthew wants to scream.

"Not sure I can, though." Leon swallows so loud Matthew can hear it. Then quieter, like he's not sure he's even allowed to admit it, he says, "I don't really want to."

He's still playing with Matthew's hair, occasionally dragging a finger over his bare shoulder or down his back, tracing imaginary lines across Matthew's flesh. Like he's something to be memorized and cherished.

They're both so fucking stupid. Matthew bites his lip and tries not to choke on the lump in his throat. Could be his heart, climbing right up and out of his mouth. He clings to the sheets with shaking hands.

"I'm not going to fuck up what he's got here," Leon says tiredly, voice thick with tension and pathetic resignation.

Leon's not here to drag him back. He wouldn't do that. So why is he here? Just to torture them both? Being with him doesn't feel like torture. It feels like winning. It feels like defiance and decadence and too much and not enough. It feels like what could have been and what could still be.

He didn't find Leon at that bar and bring him home out of pity, or nostalgia, one last fuck for old times sake. It was... it just was. Not an ending. Not some final goodbye. Proof maybe there could still be something. Getting over it was never an option, Matthew knew that well before he stepped onto the ice as a Panther and found himself staring Leon down all over again.

Matthew's vision is blurring. His eyes sting, warm and wet. There's blood pounding in his ears, and a hand clutching his heart, a vice around his lungs. He hardly remembers how to breathe.

He doesn't catch the rest of Leon's conversation, except something about meeting Connor back at the hotel tomorrow. Meaning he's staying the night, at least. He's staying.

When Leon hangs up the phone, Matthew finally comes up for air. He relaxes his shoulders, listening to the soft thump as Leon taps his phone against his forehead over and over. Then it clatters on the side table. Leon sighs, sniffs, and sinks back under the covers. He tucks right up against Matthew's back, still burning like a furnace, soft muscle and skin brushing Matthew's spine in all the right ways.

He throws an arm around Matthew and finds one of his hands, worming his fingers through the gaps to hold it. His palm is sweaty, not that it matters at all to Matthew. He can't help squeezing Leon's hand a little, but if Leon notices, he doesn't say a word.

Not until he's wrapped tight around Matthew, near suffocating, like any part of them that isn't touching is a sin.

"Love you," Leon mumbles, barely more than a whisper, pressing his lips right to the base of Matthew's neck. Matthew's body can't seem to decide whether to shiver or melt under the heat.

Leon says it like it's inevitable. Painful. Pitiful.

What he's saying is, I'm sorry I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't say it before. I'm sorry I don't know how to say it now. I'm sorry it's too late, it's the wrong place, the wrong time.

Like he doesn't think Matthew could ever understand. And that's the worst part of it all. They're still not on the same page. Tearing down what they never built.

If Leon's only brave enough to say it when Matthew's asleep, then Matthew will just have to be brave enough to say it in the light of day. He doesn't run, and he won't now that he knows he doesn't have to.

He stares into the night outside his window, listening to Leon breathe, feeling his heart beat through Matthew's chest like that's where it longs to be.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe they can stop chasing time long enough to make the most of what they have. To make up for what they've wasted. And whatever happens after, well, maybe they can stop being afraid of that, too.

#hockey #mattdrai #matthew tkachuk #leon draisaitl #my writing #asks #i can take any prompt and shove angst into it just watch me #'mutual pining dumbasses who can't communicate' my beloved trope #i hope it's obvious this is happening during/right after the 2023 asg #i know 2020 was the sacred texts but I feel like we don't use 2023 for mattdrai purposes enough #poor connor always suffering through mattdrai bullshit #leon has a scrapbook full of pictures of matthew and will be like 'remember when my bf left me ;_;' and connor wants to jump off a bridge #'mini' fic they said. i don't think 1.6k is mini. it got away from me. but i have never been concise in my life why start now

[qqtxt]

[🎈] that's not my name [🐧]

[!] this is for the 1k followers mini fics. click here to find out more ✿ pairing: huening kai x reader / idol!txt / non.idol!you / fluff / 681 words / potentially excessive pda (without knowing...) ✿ request: [kiss] + huening kai (for one muse to put butterfly kisses all over the others face) [main masterlist 🌸] / [event masterlist] / [tag: #qqtxt: 1k]

some mornings at the dorm allow you to... do whatever you want considering it's empty. and by empty, you mean empty given that the rest of the boys are gone for the day and that just leaves you and–"holy shit, kai! you scared me!" your voice comes out in a half-yell, half-whisper at the feeling of arms snaking around your waist, with a rather heavy head dipping down to rest on your shoulder. you can hear him smiling as he presses his lips to your neck, "g'morning..."

"gee, good morning to you too," you huff–initially sounding a bit sulky but then it fades to–"did you sleep well?"

"not really," his voice scrapes into your ears, like deep gravel that makes you feel warm inside. he clears his throat, managing to sound like he usually does compared to his morning voice that barely has drunk any water, "woke up. didn't find you there. got upset."

you snicker and use a hand to hit his arms around you, the other resuming to–"well, someone has to put the water to boil for us to drink something before we eat. so sorry for the disappointment, mr. huening."

"no," he huffs, shaking his head as he half-wiggles you around, "that's not my name to you."

"oh?" you use an elbow to nudge him back just as your other hand is free to set the kettle onto the electrical slot and you flick it to switch on to boil. turning around in his arms, your hands now smoothen on his chest before you give it a playful tap. "i didn't know that huening wasn't your name."

his lips resist the urge to pout as he watches you grin up to him like that. he knows his puppy eyes are on display but you're still avoiding it, able to dangle him around by a thread and he'd still follow you till the end. shamelessly, his arms untangle themselves around you just to have his hands free; so he can gently grab you by the face and start his attack of feathering kisses onto your face.

he starts off with your forehead, nose, then it has a free reign to anywhere he can land his lips on your face just as your eyes snap shut in the fit of laughter. your hands shift up to squeeze his shoulders, leveraging him down to not overpower you but be honest, be fair... the second kai grabbed you by the face and started kissing you all over it was game over.

"okay, okay!" you manage to yell past your giggles and his, "baby, you win! you win!"

that grants him to stop just as he kisses your cheek, pulling back with a raised brow, "sorry, come again?"

you exhale deeply and look into his eyes this time; a resigned smile that still shines brighter than any pretty thing he's laid his eyes on. so full and radiant of love; all for him.

"you baby. you win."

satisfied, he hums with a nod. his arms glide back down so he's able to wrap around your waist and he tugs you into his embrace; effortlessly. "good," he sighs, resorting that the time it takes for the water to boil, that's exactly how long he'll be able to hold you for–he taps your bum when he doesn't feel your arms on him–"augh, you man baby." you snort into his shoulder but your actions prove otherwise when your arms mirror his; sliding around his figure and sinking into his arms.

(("i can't believe i just sat through all of that." a voice breaks through your little bubble with kai. it's not too surprising when yeonjun nearly blends into the surroundings but he makes himself known as his head pops up from the sofa.

"oh... hyung... we... i didn't–"

"go for lunch with me and i won't tell a single soul."

"who's paying?" you peep over kai's shoulder, to meet with yeonjun's deadpan expression.

"i'm paying you brats. now get ready so i can eat away my feelings from watching how disgusting you two were in public."))

#qqtxt: 1k #txt scenarios #txt scenario #txt reactions #txt reaction #txt x you #txt x reader #hueningkai x reader #huening kai x reader #hueningkai scenarios

[tripleyeeet]

IN ANOTHER UNIVERSE, MAYBE (2)

SUMMARY: It's always been hard being the sibling of a superhero. Lately though, it feels next to impossible.

PAIRING: Miguel O'Hara & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 5,136

WARNINGS: Angst, enemies-to-lovers adjacent, descriptions of a panic attack/dissociate behaviours, inappropriate use of medication/alcohol consumption.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, first of all, the amount of love I've received from this fic has been insane??? Like, y'all really knocked it out of the park, both here and on AO3 and I'm absolutely astounded? Thank you so much! You guys have literally motivated me so much so hopefully this chapter lives up to the hype of the first? :)

CHAPTER LIST / LAST CHAPTER / MASTERLIST

-

“God, I am never drinking again.” 

You stumble into the living room with your hands against your eyes, palming the sockets roughly. It’s morning, maybe even early afternoon, and already the sun is pushing through the blinds, coating the apartment in enough light that it makes you squint. On the couch Miguel grumbles under the covers as you walk by, pulling the fabric over his head as he readjusts his position, directing himself away. 

You’re surprised to see him there but say nothing, opting to wander into the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water, noticing a fresh sticky note on the fridge: Call me when you’re up —Pete!

Hm, he must’ve gone over to MJ’s for the night.

Peeling the note away, you continue your trek for hydration, grabbing a glass that you fill and chug down twice before feeling satisfied enough to continue. Or at least, enough to survive considering just how sore you are. From your knees down you can feel the leftover aches from walking home; the many miles you’d managed to travel in your drunken state now heavy on your mind. There are at least one or two blisters on each foot thanks to your poor choice of footwear while the muscles surrounding your shins feel like they might actually be burning through your flesh.  

As you walk back through the living room you try not to groan at the pain, turning your attention to Miguel who’s now reluctantly awake. 

“Morning, grandpa.” 

You walk over and press the sticky note to his forehead, ignoring the way he swears under his breath and looks at you with narrowed eyes. 

“It’s not nice to assault people with sticky notes before they’ve had coffee.”

Shrugging in response, you walk back to your bedroom to grab your phone, listening to the creak of your couch as Miguel shifts out of place. 

It’s weird that he’s still here. After everything that happened last month, you were certain you’d never have to see him again. Being Peter’s boss and not much else, he’d become nothing more than a disdainful memory as time went on. A poor impression from the past that Peter never talked about. If you were honest, you weren’t expecting to hear about him so soon, much less see him, especially without his mask. 

So seeing him here, sitting so nonchalantly on your couch is a bit strange. Off-putting in a way that leaves you emotionally winded as you sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your notifications. 

There’s about half a dozen apologies from Peter alone, each variation more extreme than the last. Mixed between there’s a few memes and a picture of him pretending to cry on MJ’s floor with the caption sorry for being the worst brother, which you immediately save for future use. There’s also one from Harry asking you to send him a work email that you ignore and another from Gwen once again asking you to come for brunch. 

You glance at the time, noticing that it’s nearing eleven. She and Harry are probably already at their usual spot, munching away on overpriced, organic eggs and inhaling mimosas. (Something you'd normally enjoy but can’t quite fathom doing thanks to the pain currently rippling through your body.) 

Groaning, you curl further into the bed, feeling your head shift like an ocean wave that sends you flying across the room. In response, you shut your eyes as tight as possible, hoping that if you roll with the movements you’ll get used to them faster. 

Immunity through the power of will and all that. 

“I see you’re still alive.” 

You refuse to open your eyes. You need to focus on getting better —on pushing through the swirling motions that attack your brain because if you don’t you’ll be stuck here all day, helpless and in pain and way too dizzy. No longer will you be a person, but instead a shell. A fragile casing of sensitive flesh stretched over bruising bone that will slowly but surely deteriorate over time. 

“Are you always this dramatic?” 

The urge to argue persists, flowing through you just quick enough that you find yourself opening one eye, noticing his stance. 

He’s standing nonchalantly in the centre of your room; hands placed neatly on his hips. On his face, the tiniest of smirks pokes out of the corner of his mouth, prompting you to lift your head, blinking at what feels like a rare sight.

“Are you always this hostile?”

“Only in the morning.”

“Even towards complete strangers?”

“Especially to strangers.”

“Makes sense why you don’t have many friends.” 

“And how would you know that, stranger?”

He’s got that teasing tone that Harry always has. The one that sounds so condescending that it borders flirtation. Immediately it makes you roll your eyes and direct your attention back to your phone, realizing just how little you want to continue this conversation. You’re too hungover. Too sick and tired to do this whole back-and-forth thing, so instead you call Peter, putting the call on speakerphone with a sigh.

It rings twice before the other end clicks to life, a very joyful and awake Peter greeting the both of you. “Good morning friends, how are we doing on this beautiful morning?”

Almost in unison both of you grumble out a quiet fine that makes Peter laugh, prompting you to look at each other with shared disgust. 

“Are you hungover?”

“What do you think?”

“Gwen called me this morning,” he says, changing the subject. “She wants to go for brunch.”

“That’s nice, but I will not be attending on the account of the fact that I’d rather die.” 

“So dramatic,” Miguel chimes in.

Ignoring him, you place your phone onto the pillow next to you and tighten the covers around your throat.

Your head is still spinning but less so, the waves feeling more like lakeside tides than oceanic swells, leaving you thankful. There’s nothing worse than the spins after a night out. You can handle the stomach aches and even the vomiting but the second you can feel that mental drift you’re a goner. 

“Okay well, MJ and I are going to go if you change your mind. Miguel, you're welcome to come too.”

“No thanks,” he says, unsurprisingly. 

There’s a pause after that. One that lasts a solid five seconds but feels like a lifetime longer thanks to the way Miguel continues to stand there, staring at your pathetic frame tucked haphazardly beneath the covers. 

“You know staring is rude, right?”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, and weird too considering I barely know you.”

“You saying it’s weird for strangers to stare at strangers?” 

“A little, yeah, so knock it off.” 

He gives in, his eyes diverting towards the window before they move to the door, motivating his body to leave the room without another word. Once he’s gone you let out a sigh of relief and listen to his footsteps, hearing the way they move through the living room and into the kitchen. 

It makes you wonder why he’s even still here, taking up space in a home he isn’t really welcome in. You figured it was obvious from the beginning that he was nothing more than an overnight guest. A protective stand-in meant to slip away in the dead of night with no word or note. He was never meant to linger the way he is now and a part of you wonders if he already knows. If instead of picking up and applying said social cues, he’s opting to ignore them for some higher purpose. 

It wouldn’t make much sense but then again, you don’t really know Miguel so maybe he’s just a lingerer. Maybe he’s socially awkward and doesn’t understand that when you’re being mean to him it means you want him to leave your house so you can vomit in peace. 

“I see you guys are getting along.”

“Swimmingly.”

“Did you two have a good night?”

“Yes, oh my god it was amazing!”

“Really?”

You offer a fake laugh that Miguel walks in on, raising his brow in confusion. “No, we had a terrible time. Your boss is mean, Peter.” 

Offended, Miguel opens his mouth to speak but quickly closes it, watching the way you smirk beneath the covers, watching his brows knit together.

“How am I mean? I walked you home didn’t I?”

“Sure, begrudgingly.” 

He scoffs, his palms moving to encompass his hips again. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to enjoy walking you home. I’ll remember that next time.”

Next time?

You narrow your eyes and stare directly at him, noticing the way he mirrors your expression. It’s subtle at first, the way the crinkles of his eyes sort of deepen to match the lines across his forehead. His skin is rough —aged looking most likely due to the fact he probably slept terribly— and the bags beneath his eyes are the heaviest you’ve ever seen, even rivalling Peter’s on some of his rougher days. Like you, he looks more like a corpse than a person, his face devoid of anything other than the sickened frustration of having to deal with your attitude.

“I’m gonna be honest if you’re ever running late again, please call someone else.”

It’s obvious you’re talking to Peter but as you speak you continue staring at the man in front of you, glaring at the way his weight shifts beneath your gaze.

You hope he’s uncomfortable. You hope he’s embarrassed or at least feeling a little self-conscious for acting like such a child in a space that he hopefully never feels welcome in. If you were him you’d certainly be.

“Yeah, so, anyway, is that still a no to breakfast or…?”

-

You’re beginning to regret ever wanting to get involved in Peter’s double life. Or at least, its most recent developments. Up until last month, everything was fine. Simple and controlled and not at all hectic like it is now. Back then, everything was smooth sailing when it came to helping. Your only responsibilities being lie to May and make sure the window was always unlocked before you went to bed. Two very mundane tasks you could practically do in your sleep. 

Nowadays, it feels like an endless loop of stress. Kind of like when you were eighteen and just finding out that your brother was a superhero for the first time. Everything is complicated again. The stakes feel higher than ever before knowing the truth that there’s a world out there just like yours, endlessly repeating. That instead of just one Spider-Man there’s probably a million variations doing the same thing Peter’s doing. 

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you look at everything differently —intensively. With each new person you pass you wonder what their version is like somewhere else. Are they still male or female? Are they younger? Older?

As you walk into brunch alongside Peter and MJ, it’s all you can think about as you stare at Gwen, remembering her counterpart. How she looked so familiar but you couldn’t quite place it. 

You realize now that it’s because she’s your Gwen, but not. A direct copy but a good decade younger. They have the same hair colour and eyes and that little gap between their front teeth and upon seeing her it makes you wearily shift into your seat, putting on your fakest smile. 

She’s already a bit tipsy when you arrive, you can tell. Her eyes are half closed and the grin plastered across her face is hazardously wide. 

“Oh, my god, hi! I’m so glad you came!”

If it weren’t for the table between you she’d be pulling you in for a hug, tightening her grip around your shoulders until the air inside you was gone. You inhale nervously at the thought, wondering if other Gwen would do the same. 

It’s hard to tell what traits transfer over. Considering she’s a spider person in her universe it’s more than likely she’s completely different, right? Perhaps relating more to Peter. It’d make sense that all spider people kind of have the same vibe. Perhaps like your brother, they’re nerdy and into photography and have partners with nicknames that double as their initials. Like him they'd live double lives, trying their best to find the balance between being crime-fighting arachnids and regular civilians with the help of their sisters. 

Or brothers. You figure in other universes you’re probably a guy too. Hell, maybe even in some you're the spider person having to navigate through life with the help of your brother. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Pete grins, pulling out the chair beside you so that MJ can sit down. “Somebody had a bit too much to drink.”

You shoot him a look as he sits at the head of the table, sticking out his tongue for good measure. 

You hope in the universe where you have superpowers you give him a hard time. 

“It’s fine, we overdid it too,” Gwen says, looking at Harry who rolls his eyes and looks at Peter, the two of them sharing a knowing glance. 

“Hope you wore a condom,” you say, at which MJ and Gwen gasp, both of their mouths curling into cheeky grins that you can’t help but share. 

Its always been obvious that the two of them are together, even though neither of them would ever admit it. It’s weird but Gwen says it’s a part of the intrigue, having this unlabeled relationship that she can just ride without the responsibility of making it a bit deal. 

Both you and MJ think it’s because she secretly likes the drama of it all, but knowing how she’d react to such a claim, neither of you says that out loud. 

“Did you make it home okay?” Gwen changes the subject before anyone can even join in, making you sort of sad because you love to tease. 

“Relatively. Threw up on the walk home but that’s New York, baby.” 

“Walk home?” Harry questions.

You freeze, remembering Miguel. He doesn’t exist in this world. At least, not to anyone other than you and Pete and maybe MJ. You’re not entirely sure what he’s told her but you figure she knows in some capacity because he wouldn’t have called you otherwise. 

“I mean drive, sorry, drive home. I’m still hungover.” You try to laugh it off but Harry and Gwen share that look. The familiar one where they think you’re lying but know better than to actually bring it up. It’s the same look they give you sometimes when you’re covering for Peter and you hate it, feeling your chest tighten every time it’s shared right in front of your face. 

It reminds you of how you felt having Miguel around. Something about the way he looks at you every time you talk fills you with that familiar twang of insignificance. Like whatever you say isn’t good enough. 

With your friends you know it’s because you’re insecure about your lying capabilities. With Miguel though, it’s different. Yes, it feels the same physically but emotionally it’s an entirely new set of feelings. Ones that have you second-guessing their origins, remembering the way your stomach would twist each time he’d insult you. Each time he’d look at you with those dark eyes and pouting mouth. 

Thinking about it now, he reminds you very little of Peter. Aside from the moniker of Spider-Man the only similarities (so far) you can confidently say that they share is the art of sarcasm and deflection. The way their voices can become so monotonous at the drop of a hat is unparalleled, even with all the tension, and it’s frustrating. 

It makes you wish you didn’t wear your emotions on your sleeve. Like Peter and Miguel, you wish you could box it all up in the form of calm words so that nobody even got the chance to look at you the way Harry and Gwen still are. 

Secretly, you wish you were the spider person of this universe. Not because you want to save lives, selfishly. No, you mostly just wish you were stronger like them. Less like yourself and more like your brother who sits at the head of the table holding MJ’s hand with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. 

And not so secretly, you want what he has. You want to be confident and to have people look at you in a way that’s filled with adoration. To have them survey you and conclude that you’re decent rather than picking out your flaws. You want May to look at you with fondness. You want her to be proud of you in the same way she’s proud of Peter and to affirm your belief that you’re doing alright for yourself even without filling her desires for grandkids. 

You want Harry to look at you with respect. To stop looking through you just because you’re Parker’s sister who just so happens to be smart too. You want him to take him as seriously as he takes Gwen without the sex. Without the implication that to be valued, you need to provide him with something worthwhile. 

You want Gwen to appreciate everything you do for her. To stop taking advantage of you at work and in life —to provide you with the comfort of an actual friend. 

You want value, you decide. Whether that’s through the gain of superpowers or not. All you want is a little bit more than you’re given and you wish you could express that as you sit at the table, watching everyone talk and laugh as if you’re not really there.

Beside you, MJ leans into Peter as he talks, resting her chin on her hand in longing silence while the two across the table sit, completely engrossed. You try your best to listen in too, picking up that the story involves his boss over at the Bugle. Something about how his last few pictures of Spider-Man were so good he nearly fell off his chair. 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes and pull out your phone, scanning the screen mindlessly, clicking on apps and profiles over and over again until the waitress shows up and asks for your order. You get a mimosa regardless of your hangover and a bagel breakfast sandwich with all the extra fixings, knowing you need it. Then you wait. Wordlessly exhausted, wishing that instead of deciding to tag along you’d stayed at home under the comfort of your covers.

-

Once you step over the threshold of your apartment you let out a sigh of relief and sink into the couch alongside Peter who rubs his face. By now your social battery is running at a negative ten, making your mind fill with nervous thoughts that have you frowning as you curl into yourself, clutching your knees to your chest.

You shouldn’t have gone, you decide then. Regardless of the extended invitation, it was obvious you were only invited because Gwen was drunk and felt bad. That’s usually how it went nowadays. 

“They’re a lot, aren’t they?”

Peter’s always known how much you struggle with people —how you overthink every interaction after it’s happened. It’s how it’s always been and he’s used to it. 

As you nod, you feel his hand against your shoulder, tightening. It’s a gesture of understanding but at the moment it feels like pity so you brush him off, frowning even harder. 

“You okay?”

You aren’t. You’re overstimulated from the amount of interacting you’ve done in the last twenty-four hours. From Harry and Gwen to Miguel and back you haven’t had a break all day and you can feel your mask slipping. Physically, your chest is aching for a breath you can’t quite get, the realization of your interactions pushing you over the edge and all you want to do is scream.

You were such an asshole today. Sure, you’re always kind of mean but this morning specifically felt like a step above the rest with the way you argued with Miguel as if you knew him. As if last night was just another night between you, adding to countless others. You were brash and unwelcoming and rude, and despite how you feel about him sometimes, you still feel pretty shit about it.

“Do you need anything?”

“No.” 

Your tone is stubborn, dripping with an arrogance that has Pete sighing because he knows he can’t do much. When you’re in these moods all he can really do is let you live through your anger —to explore the hate you feel inside in private. It’s how you’ve always done things. So when Peter looks at you with sympathy you can know that’s it. He won’t press the matter further. He’ll just get up and leave and go to MJ’s for the night. Check-in in the morning like he usually does.

As he stands you’re met with feelings of both relief and regret, watching the way he carefully pats your head and steps over your legs. Inside, your stomach drops as he wanders to the doorway, slipping on his shoes and coat without saying a word, knowing that it never solves anything —just makes it all messy. 

Again, like always, you wish you were like him in these instances. Because maybe then you could have a normal relationship that doesn’t rely on boundaries you wish didn’t exist. Instead of pushing everyone away you could sit with them —talk to them. Express instead of repress. Prove to them that the love you want is the love you deserve. 

If you were in any other universe you’re certain you could do it. In this one though? 

You’re too scared. 

-

When you’re alone, it happens, the calm before the storm. 

As the hours move and you lay exhausted on the couch staring at your phone, you find yourself scrolling. Distracting yourself from the inevitable breaking point by watching YouTube video after YouTube video. First, you start with your usual poison, simple documentaries about things like haunted houses or murder cases that remained unsolved. Lazily, you click thumbnail and thumbnail, half absorbing all the names and dates and details as you lie prone, trying not to think about it. 

It takes hours for you to fully accept your emotions and when you do it’s a mess. Now lying in bed, it’s nearing eight and your deep dive on unsolved mysteries has turned into videos discussing the topics of the multiverse. You’re not sure why you decided to delve into all that but regardless, as you do you’re in your head again, clutching a pillow tightly against your cheek as you try to steady your thoughts. 

You bet Miguel’s world has a version of you that’s nicer. One that treats him with respect. They’re probably a spider person too which is why he looks at you with such disdain every time you argue. You’re a lesser version of them —no comparison. They’re better and it drives you insane, thinking that the approval of a man you hardly know is important. 

Aside from Peter, there’s absolutely nothing connecting you. You’re from different worlds both literally and figuratively, so it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

Except that it does, doesn’t it? Deep down, regardless of how well you know one another, this man has managed to find his way inside your skin. You’re not sure when or how or why but somehow he’s always there, lingering at the back of your mind like a memory. Like he’s absent until he’s not —until something reminds you that he exists and that he thinks you’re too inexperienced to understand that he doesn’t like you. 

You figure he doesn’t like you because you’re stubborn. You’re sure there are other reasons but that’s the only one that really jumps out. The way he speaks to you is a direct example of that. Changing subjects often, he doesn’t like when you push his pull. Doesn’t like when you defy his authority or pry. He wants complete and total control and when you’re around he knows he doesn’t have that. You don’t trust him enough to give it.

His version of you probably gives him whatever he wants. Probably spoils him by following him around like some lost fucking puppy. They’re probably older than you —experienced— and have the backbone of an earthworm. 

He probably loves it. 

Shoving your face into your pillow you let out a loud groan, letting the tears well and overflow against the fabric of your pillowcase.

It’s sudden, the storm. Erupting out of nowhere over something that shouldn’t matter. Quickly, there’s a rage that fills inside you, quietly creeping from the depths of your soul in the form of breathless gasps and shaky hands. 

You turn upwards to face the ceiling, the tears coating your eyes in a layer of disarray. You can’t see anything but the blurred beige above you. Everything moves like brushstrokes across the canvas, thick and liquidy and not quite good-looking. It makes you blink in annoyance and throw your forearms over your head, trying to stop the world from letting you see or shake or feel anything other than regret. 

It’s painful, the storm. It feels like a deep wound being opened back up again. All the build-up of scar tissue is there, shoved amongst the perfectly good parts. Usually, they linger there together but as the wound is peeled open by your own hand, you can feel the worst of it start to push. 

As it surfaces, you can feel the catalyst begin to wake. The rate at which the chemicals in your brain begin to increase, pushing you over the edge.

It fucking hurts. 

By now your wound is gaping, ripping at the base of your chest. It’s hard to breathe under all the pressure of the damaged flesh. Under all the memories of a life you once thought was good. Decent 

In another universe, you hope to god you feel just like this. Like the world is caving in and you’re the last survivor. At least then you wouldn’t feel so alone —so beside yourself while everyone else so carelessly continues moving. 

It helps calm the storm. Thinking of you —another you. Regardless of if they’re better or worse or completely equal to you, the thought of this feeling extending across the expanse of a place you don’t quite understand fills you with ease.

It closes the hole in your chest —pushes all the tainted flesh back inside for safekeeping. Slowly, it settles into something you can handle again, sewing up the edges that’ll inevitably leave a new scar. 

As you sit up from your bed, brushing past the tears to clear your vision, you feel your breath begin to steady. A slow one-through-five inhale, followed by another one-through-five exhale, each one becoming stronger than the last as you look towards the window, noticing the familiar blue and red spandex standing silently on your fire escape. 

He doesn’t move when you notice him. Doesn’t fly through the air or duck out of sight. Standing there, it’s as if instead of flesh he’s made of stone, unwavering in his attempts to watch you carefully through the window. It’s scary if you’re honest. The way he looks so detached from the world. Even without seeing his face, it’s as if there’s nothing behind the angered design that adorns his features below. His emotions feel completely blank underneath the fabric, making you wonder. 

What’s he thinking about?

As you inch toward the edge of the bed, you see him twitch. It’s subtle. The fingers of his right hand sort of jolt lightly in the air, and it’s over before you can even think about it, so you don’t. Instead choosing to forget as you move towards the window. 

Surprisingly, he still doesn’t move. All he does is breathe, letting the rise and fall of his chest ruin the image of his fixed stance. He’s nervous, like you, you determine. Scared, like you.

It motivates your movements, pushing you through the room until you’re standing in front of the window, reaching for it with shaky hands.

Why hasn’t he left yet?

You push open the window, slowly, watching his body begin to move towards it, his leg pushing through the moment you step away.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t respond. At first, you assume it’s because he’s embarrassed and doesn’t know what to say but then he moves. Lifelessly, he brushes past you and wanders into the living room, forcing you to follow as he drops onto the couch with a groan. 

Seriously, why is he here?

You open your mouth to repeat your previous question but are interrupted by his mask. Almost instantly, it disintegrates before your very eyes, revealing fresh injuries that have you holding your tongue because laying there, he looks like Peter after a rough night. Maybe even worse thanks to the shiner that takes a good portion of his left eye. 

“Do you have any painkillers?” 

You don’t even respond before you leave the room, wandering into your bathroom to grab the usual meds you give Peter. They’re prescription, originally given to you for period cramps, but they do wonders on a battered body.

When you reenter, Miguel’s face is scrunched in pain, struggling to find comfort. Because of this, you practically run to the kitchen, grabbing all the usual items: water, ice packs, scotch, carrying it all in one go. 

“What’s the scotch for?”

You untuck a glass from the crook of your elbow and settle on the floor beside the couch, pouring it halfway to the top before downing it.

“None for me?”

You pour another one. “You’re not meant to take it with pills but Peter always says it makes him sleep better.”

“Okay.” 

You’re no doctor, but you’ve experienced this same formula countless times. If he takes one pill with one full glass of water then drinks the scotch, followed by another water he’ll be out like a light in no time.

“Pill, water, scotch, water,” you instruct, watching him closely as he follows suit, chugging back everything in under a minute.

After it’s done he settles into the couch again, tucking ice packs against his face and chest before glancing your way with a grin. “Stuff’s nice. Goes down good.”

He sounds like he’s been hit by a bus, his voice rubbed raw, scratching your brain in a way that makes you squint as you pour yourself another glass.

“Good cause it cost a pretty penny.” 

“Yeah?”

You nod, opting to sip this one, still feeling the burn of the other radiating throughout your chest. “Ben bought it for me. A graduation present or something.” 

“Wasn’t that ages ago?”

“Your point?”

All he does is grin and close his eyes.

-

TAGGING: @fandxmslxt69 @buckysblondie @leucoratia @avatricu @rexxesgirl @hoe4fiction @erissco @dil3mma @ashjbu @mfrnchsk @sanjisluvbot @deputy-videogamer (if you'd like to be added fill out this form)

#who are you when nobody's watching? #miguel o'hara fan fic #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara series #miguel o'hara x female reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara angst #summer writes

[bluetooththereptile]

If you're going to do yandere ror could you do Poseidon, Hades and Qin Shi Huang(I think that's his name?) Like they feel in love the moment they see reader (G/N) *I really like Poseidon, it's kind of sad that Sasaki Kojiro slice him like he was going to make a sushi 🍣🍣*🥹🥲

Yes! I will! You are early and I'm in the mood! So consider yourself lucky! Though I'll just do the two brothers since I don't know Qin much.

Also thanks for requesting dearie! Feel free to ask for more, I'll be doing headcanons/short stories for them though.

Posideon

Let's be honest, for a man like Posideon it's not strange of him to be interested in someone just with a glance, just like Zeus he has his fair share of a large harem of lovers, his precious wife giving birth to so many nymphs for him, locked up in their castle under the sea while he, well, enjoys himself with the beauties of the surface. But no one will think of him as a player at the first glance, the blonde is emotionless and cold, but beneath that mask is something more, a beast hidden behind the mask, and most of the time that beast is not so gentle.

He killed his brother, he forced himself upon Medusa and cared less about what it did to her, his wife is locked up by him, he doesn't have an ounce of empathy for creatures that are beneath him, which is mostly anyone, yet he cares, his family is important to him, he does care about them, he let his brother live after he nearly destroyed his body, showing even if he's ruthless, he's not entirely mad. He has his wife under control since he fears for her safety, he cares for his children, and many wars happened because he was enraged by their deaths.

But it's not good news for you, no my dear, the moment the reflection of your pocket watch catches his eye, and he notices your frame, his whole head turns around, his attention now fully focusing on the little human that is witnessing the battle, Ah, you must have been a little more important in the society of those pathetic ants since you were there, your soul still wandering the afterlife, he had to admit, now in flesh, he hadn't had seen a dead soul could interest him. He had expected of his brother Hades, he lived with the dead daily.

Without his intention the corner of his lips curled upwards in a smirk as he beckoned for one of his guards, whispering in his ear to let him know you are not allowed to leave unless you are brought up to him, the tyrant didn't care about your opinion, he had to have you in his presence.

"Up!" "No dear...not right now...I have to put the eyeliner on-" "Up!" Looking at your reflection in the mirror you groaned as you picked up the little nymph and put her on your lap. "Happy now?" The little one nodded as she hugged you close, sighing as she inhaled your scent. "She picks up after her father...if he didn't demand you on his lap all the time you wouldn't have to hug the little ones one by one throughout the day. " Amphitrite said as she walked into your chambers, raising her hand to stop you from standing. "Put the formalities aside, young one, I have gotten used to my husband's shenanigans a long time ago. Now that you are trapped here just as I am, I can't add to your misery, can I?"

You smiled at the queen of the seas, though your smile faltered as the tall shadow of your "lover" appeared on the balcony, his habit of not coming from the doors was bothersome. "Look at you two...my meek little darlings...such a blissful sight" You couldn't help but blush at the words, earning a sympathetic glance from the queen, who could see how time had worn you down, making you vulnerable to posideon's words. He walked up towards his wife first, kissing her forehead gently as he touched her swollen belly, before shifting his attention towards you.

His eyes softened even more as he leaned closer, putting his hand on the eyes of his little daughter and making her groan, he kissed you on the lips, letting out a satisfied hum as you leaned into it, If your new attire and look didn't show him, your eagerness was enough for him to know you were anticipating his attention. After years of solitude now you were another treasure on his staff, now you were his, safe and secure, only for him.

Hades

Hades is a passionate man, the amount of respect other gods bestow upon the oldest of the Olympian brothers is immaculate. He is the true king, having the end of the cycle of life in his hands he rules the dead. The most wealthy of the gods, yet, he seems to lack something. Even if he has the love of his life, Persephone beside him. There have been tales of him looking for someone else to fulfill his desires yet Persephone's jealousy had proven to be disastrous.

For thousands of years, Hades tried to refuse the urge to look at the "gifts" of the world above, where nymphs and mortal beauties danced and sang. Persephone, the pale queen, had noticed it, and now that he was under so much pressure with his realm and family, she knew she had to change the pace of their relationship. They both needed something new, or rather someone new. She wanted to spend some time alone with her mother, away from married life, yet she couldn't leave Hades on his own, if he was left alone he'd come and kidnap her again! So she thought of a solution, And what was better than looking through the souls that were in the like of resurrection?

Hades dwelled in his thoughts without noticing a figure in a robe approach his seat, not until their voice made him snap out of the trance. He picked the goblet from the tray, noticing the alluring aroma that the cupbearer had around them, he turned his head, his eyes widening slightly as the most delicious looking being bound their head at him. Persephone knew that her love potions were strong enough to fascinate Hades, but she didn't think much of the consequences of giving such a delicacy on the verge of starvation to a man like Hades, his passion burned like fire as he took in the scent of the cupbearer again and again.

He asked for your name, and the mortal in front of him spoke, telling him that the queen had assigned them his "personal" cupbearer. You dared to look at your master in the eyes after you finished your sentence, your heart nearly leaping out of your throat as you locked eyes.

"Y/N" Hades's voice echoed in your ears as he gently held you closer, you tried to push back the fog that was clouding your mind from the sweetness of his words that were filled with magic, you didn't want to lose your last chance at making him get over his "love" for you, you tried to reach out to the bottle of the antidote by the nightstand, but Hades's strong arms held you in place. "Shhhh...little one, don't bother with moving, let me care for you...I have been away for oh so long!" You cursed under your breath as you tried to not inhale much of the scent of the flowers that had filled the air, but you couldn't help it, you needed to breathe and that made you hate Persephone's filthy games even more.

The silver-haired God buried his face in your hair and took a good sniff of your scent, his mind now completely off of its logic as the potion was now fully activated by the pollen of the flowers of lust. You had thought that hades had let go of you months ago, forgetting you had existed, but no, he had to come back and ruin everything with his "love" for you. "Please! It's for both of us! Snap out of it-!" Hades only sighed at your words and shook his head, combing his hair with his hand as his weight held you down, ignoring your struggles, with a sigh he kissed you deep, muffling your protests as the pollen made your mind go blank. He wasn't going to leave you, ever again.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere records of ragnarok #yandere hades #yandere posideon #yandere god #gender netural #yandere anime

[ohtobeleah]

#strictlyscandelous jake loves to be pegged and proudly owns it

Oh, Jake radiating bisexual energy. Even in the movie, Glen plays up that bisexual energy so much that it just oozes off him. Especially between him and Rooster.

Warnings: This is Strictly Scandalous, Smut ahead.

But lets face it, Jake Seresin is a ladies man at heart and even though he finds Bob cute and Bradley way too fucking attractive for his own good, Jake is head over heels in love with you. And he always will be, because you’re his best friend, his wingwoman, his everything and more. 

So it's only natural that he asks you, in complete and honest confidence, to satisfy his deepest desire, and peg the utter shit out of him. He sits you down on the lounge, cups your hands in his and starts off by saying how much he loves and respects you, so if what he has to say is too much–he understands. 

“Jacob, if you're breaking up with me you can consider it a no.” Jakes laughing, throwing his head back and sighing, it couldn't be further from what he was going to ask you.

“No honey, no I'm not breaking up with you.” He leans in to kiss your earlobe, blowing softly against the pulse point he knows you like to make you squirm. “But I do however, want you to fuck my ass.” 

That's the start of the conversation that leads you to this moment. Jakes has been preparing himself since wednesday for this, making sure you’re comfortable with what he asked you to do to him. You were, without question. You go out and buy a few different sized strap ons just to keep the variety interesting, some plugs, both stainless steel with pretty gems and the ones that blow up inside you. 

“Okay baby–” You cooed, rubbing your hand across Jake's ass cheek. He's face down ass up at the edge of the bed, waiting impatiently to feel you take him. Stroking his rock hard erection as he waits. “You ready?” 

You’d made sure to relax him, used your finger to rim Jakes puckering hole. He’s relaxed as he can be as he waits in full anticipation for what you were about to give him.

“So ready baby, please–” It comes out as a whimper, its so fucking hot, Jake whimpering for you only turned you on more as you worked to lubricate the fake facile cock. “Need to to fuck me pretty girl.”

“Alright, be patient baby, be good for me will you?” You smirk to yourself as you line up the tip, Jake hisses as you push in slowly, stretching his puckering hole. “Shhhh I got you jakey.” You coo, still pushing in as Jake whines. Running a gentle hand down the expanse of his spine to send goosebumps over his entire body.

“Ahhhh baby yesss–” He can't believe this is real, that you agreed to do this for him. “Holy shit feels so fucking good.” Your caring and kindhearted nature is dripping from your tongue as you tellJake to relax into it, to breathe through it and soon enough he's rocking back on the fake dick that's shoved to the hilt inside him. “Ohhh auugghh–” It's euphoric. “Baby, baby yes, please move, please–fuck my ass.”

“So needy aren't you Jakey.” You tease a little as you thrust your hips softly against Jakes ass, watching as the strap on disappears and reappears soon after. “Taking me so well aren’t you.” You don’t need an answer, but Jake is whimpering as he looses his mind in the pleasure you’re bringing him. Balling his hands into fists again the covers on your bed. “This what you wanted? You wanted to feel like my little fuck toy? Huh baby?”

“Yeah! Ahh fuck! Yeah! I’m your little bitch baby—“

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

Strictly Scandalous Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin

#ohtobeleahs 3k celebration #strictly scandalous jake ‘hangman’ seresin #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman imagine #jake hangman x reader

[macabrecake]

cake, my beloved, idk if you've been asked this but given this is the stuff you've been putting out - I thought I'd ask,

dam! leon x fem! reader x re6! leon smut?

pls and ty <3

I. AM. ON. MY. KNEES. RIGHT NOW. GOD HELP

Thought ID and Vendetta Leon was the final boss??? NAH IT'S THESE FUCKING TWO

LOOK AT THEM AND TRY TO CONVINCE ME THAT YOU WOULD STILL BE ABLE TO WALK AFTER THEY'RE DONE WITH YOU. Also hi I'm cutting this close but Merry Christmas Gabby! Have a sandwich! 💕💕💕

Minors step back this is a whole different kind of Christmas present.

"Come on sweetheart. You're not tired already, are you?"

Tired no.

But oh so ready to finally break.

Leon Scott Kennedy, and Leon Scott Kennedy two years from now, have been at this sweetly cruel game for what felt like ages.

It started when one kiss turned into two, then three, then five more.

One suddenly gives into his need for a challenge and shows, despite them being the same, just who exactly is the one and only man that can rock your world the best. In the form of a gentle bite turned hickey where he knows it'll get you squirming the most.

His counterpart decides to outdo him and places another, before a small galaxy ends up being intricately printed onto your skin. Leaving you breathless and needy. Much to both Leon's delight at seeing your panties ruined with just how unbearably soaked you were.

That's when they both lit this match that would set your body ablaze with high pitched mewls and gibberish filled whimpers when your husband finally slipped inside your wet, aching walls. Inch by inch until he bottomed out completely. Then softly bounced you on his cock, while his counterpart's fingers touched where you desperately craved him.

They'd watch like starving wolves at the point where your cunt would visibly flutter and squeeze every time the brunette would sink back in with the most satisfying squelch.

Squishing you between them more so you're certain to not miss those beautiful words and wonderful groans of his that burn you hotter.

"Look at you honey, so good for us.~"

"Always so fucking tight around me…"

You know he and himself do it on purpose. They wanna see you absolutely writhe for them.

Slow and soft at first. Then a little faster, and faster, harder.

So close.

Always so close.

A half driven delirious idea that Leon is finally going to let you fall into that blissful, messy heaven. Only for all of it to stop. And steadily start over again. They're both testing you and it's driving you mad in the best way possible.

Funny. Earlier you thought Leon's future blonde headed self would be the more gentleman-like to balance them both out, right?

Wrong.

He definitely still possesses that rough nature, not that you're complaining though to be honest. They'll both still treat you right, even in the meanest of ways.

"What's the matter, Princess?" The blonde softly cooes with a light nip to your ear, relaxing his arm just enough for you to quietly gasp. Greedily swallowing new lungfuls of air before the flex of his arm makes it shallow again. But you trust him, knowing he won't completely cut your oxygen off. Only enough to keep you perfectly suspended, high like a drug you know you couldn't live without.

He makes you never want to be sober.

"You wanna cum, don't you?" God, they have both edged you to oblivion and back to the point that your pussy immediately tightens up at just the word itself, which pulls a small hiss from your Leon considering his dick is still resting inside you. So deep you swear you could feel it in your throat. You want it to break you.

Ruin you.

They both see how much of a mess you are. There's a puddle on Leon's lap and if you were to stand up right now, your essence would be a dribbling mess down to your knees and onto the floor. Your lips let go of the most pitiful whine, desperate enough to take a chance that you lightly move your hips in a search for that sinfully amazing friction. Hoping they'll now show you mercy.

Sympathy isn't what you find however, instead it's those familiar hot blooded hands clamping down tight on your hips to cease your movements altogether. The moment you softly gasped, you knew it was a bad move. One that has you shrinking submissively before the intimidating blue flames that dance in his eyes. Feeling dark colored fringes lightly brush your cheek when he leans closer. "Didn't say you could move."

Leon's voice drops an octave, almost to a snarl with his waning patience. But he knows you love to hear it. Even if you don't admit it through words, your body betrays you when your hot, squishy walls twitch around him again. It's enough for the ghost of a smirk to tug at his lips, but that's not what he's after. "And I asked you a question…"

"Yes!" You immediately yelp, your hands already grasping at his future version's arm around your neck for dear life with another tear filled sob. "Please please please yes!"

Definitely an answer both Leon's like, but not the one he wants. One hand leaves your hips to travel up and take hold of your chin, forcing your gaze to fully lock with his. "Yes what?" The brunette hisses dangerously low against your lips.

"Yes I wanna cum, sir." Comes your breathless whisper. So so ready for that euphoric coil in your lower belly to wind up and snap, you almost didn't get all the words out. Luckily it's enough to reward you with the light scratch of stubble when he presses a hard kiss to your lips that steals what little breath you have, "Much better." Then another pair of lips sneak over to lay some love to your cheek with a smile against your ear. That wonderfully smooth tone uttering his praise. "Atta girl."

Atta girl indeed because finally…

Finally, your wish is fulfilled.

In the form of the blonde agent's hand taking yours and guiding it down to your drenched little pearl to softly press on it. The action reaches into your lungs to tear an airy moan from you at the sudden jolt to your core, that would've most definitely removed you from Leon altogether if the hands on your hips and the arm still locked around your neck wasn't there to keep you in place.

A warm sound vibrates against your back, that pretty chuckle of his. And oh his words that rumble into your ear. So sinfully sweet.

"Play with yourself for us."

"Show us what you like, Princess.~"

Given how Leon has pleasured you to the point you were nothing but putty by just his hands numerous times before, you'd think he already knows what you like. But you're quick to spot the underlying truth.

They both wanna watch you get yourself off.

Normally such a bold request like that would leave you rather timid, but you can't take another second of this game anymore. Your body is aching for a release to the point you can't help but obey. Letting a cry tear it's way out of your throat as your fingers desperately rub and caress your little pink bundle of nerves. Relieved for that spark of sweet friction tingling your senses.

Much to the delight of the two agents, watching your hand work and listening to your moans, sighs, and little whines steadily rise in volume and string together into a beautiful melody of your own making. Such wonderful sounds pairing with the most lewd gushy noise between your legs. Amazing.

It's much more than enough to pull a deep rooted groan from your Leon, "Fuck." He curses in a hoarse whisper, "Feel you getting close, Sunshine." His fingers dig deeper into the soft flesh of your hips. Forcing you to stay still so you won't ride him. Just to be a little mean, but also because the way your heat clamps down tighter around his twitching cock is a slice of heaven in itself. The moment you start bouncing, he knows he'll be done for.

Seems his future version knows it too, given his low chuckle into your skin. "That's it, Sunshine." Leon encourages between gentle open mouthed kisses up and up until his lips capture yours, while his free hand easily engulfs your breast to pinch and toy with your hardened bud before switching to give the other some attention.

You feel him smile and hum as he happily drinks up your muffled moans like it's a shot of his favorite whiskey. Until he pulls away to whisper against your kissed swollen lips.

"Let go, we'll catch you."

Oh Leon. Always so good with his words, his touches. Everything. It does the trick, almost a little too well in fact. Like a tsunami, your orgasm crashes into you hard enough to leave you squirting. But, as promised, both Leon's squish you close when your form trembles and writhes between the two with a loud moan of ecstasy filling the comfortable space of the bedroom.

But with the gaze your Leon fixes on his blonde headed self, he knew right away. You made such a pretty mess with his dick still nestled so deep inside you, he couldn't help but get a little greedy.

"W- ait! Leon Oh f-uck! T-too much! AH!" You squeal with a gasp while your dainty hands frantically grab at Leon's wrist in a weak attempt to move his fingers away when he rubs them mercilessly against your visibly pulsing clit. All you get from him, is a loving growl.

"Keep cumming, sweetheart." Lord help, what's left for him to love if he breaks you like this? Your senses are already too high and so sensitive, you don't know if you can handle anymore.

Thankfully, his movements are quick to cease as soon as he hears your sounds beginning to drift into sobs. Bringing his hands away to gently stroke your quivering thighs instead while his future self releases you from your headlock prison. Keeping you leaned back against him while he carefully kisses at your neck, further helping to ease you back down.

"There you are." A deep tone drips into your ears like honey, once you finally open your eyes. Only to release a tired, breathless giggle at the two pairs of sweet blue eyes centered on you. "Got scared I broke you for a second." Your Leon muses, gifting you a gentle apologetic kiss. "No, but… I don't know if I can go again." You sheepishly confess between quiet pants.

Two soft laughs from the same voice and a kiss to the crown of your head help put you at ease. "It's ok, baby." Leon reassures while his blonde counterpart tugs you a little closer. Letting the two wrap you up in his shared warmth filled with sweet kisses and gentle caresses that convey all you want to know.

The night is far from over.

#leon kennedy #resident evil #resident evil 6 #resident evil damnation #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy #re6 leon #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy smut

[kaltacore]

Would you pls tell us your thoughts and opinions on Carver? I too love him, he's so prickly and fighting so hard all the time to keep his head above the water and keep his remainibng sibling alive and free, and a lot of DA fans are so down on him because "oh he's grumpy though:(".

oh i'm always happy to talk about carver!

actually, i love that he's grumpy! and i also firmly believe that bethany is grumpy as well but it is overlooked in the same way carver's reasons to be grumpy are, but it's a topic for another day. anyway!

his whole deal - being a younger sibling who tires to fulfill the role of cool-headed one, who at the same time is still obviously young and too hot-tempered - hits a little too close to home sometimes, to be honest, and this is what i really really like about him. he is a character who genuinely tries his best, but fails because of how unexperienced and flawed he is (and how he doesn't have time or proper conditions to work on it in act 1, considering the situation his family is trapped in). he tries to join the guard, but gets turned down, he follows hawke everywhere to help them, he's also the one who cares about going on the expidition the most, because he realises that it's their best chance to make sure their family survives - and if he doesn't join it as well, he becomes a templar first of all out of necessity, because at this point he ran out of options and there's no guarantee his sibling will come back with enough money to restore their nobility status.

he is often rude and insensitive around hawke and their friends and his words and petty passive aggressive insults sound so childish, because, well, he was what, eighteen when the blight happened and he witnessed the ostagar massacre and also lost his father and sister? he hasn't still, you know, fully grown up, he's still so young and has so much bottled-up anger and trauma already, because his family has been living under constant stress his whole life and it has never got better. he may come across as pro-templar considering his approval and comments, but when you get to see the whole picture, aka his development through all acts, you can understand how false that statement is - he's genuinely terrified of losing hawke as well, and pro-mage hawke constantly puts themself in harm's way and sticks their neck out for people they barely know, and if it ends badly, nobody will be able to do anything about it, and carver believes he's the only one who realizes how fucked up their situation is. on top of that, he's always been struggling with feeling overshadowed, and now people who he hangs out with the most are his sibling's friends, not his own, and at least some of them just love to make fun of him and his issues. they tolerate him for being hawke's sibling. they don't care for him for any other reason.

none of it makes his actions and words righteous, though! it makes them understadable and his arc meaningful and satisfying, especially the warden route. i did the templar route once and don't remember the details well, but the point still stands - carver, no matter who he serves, always chooses his family first. and it has weight, it has meaning! because the other very important aspect of carver's character is him searching for his purpose, a desire to become his own person. both wardens and templars offer it to him, and in the end he will abandon his duties - and straight up betray his order in templar's case, and it's not, like, a futile sacrifice. by the end of act 3, it's been six years of his service. and his loyalty to hawke prevails even though they've been apart almost all this time and, as a result, became more distant in one way or another - but his sibling's safety continues to be his priority, even if he doesn't approve of their choices or isn't as close to them as he used to be. they're his only family left, and throughout the course of the plot he learns that it is important not only to care, but also to show he cares before it's too late.

and it's like, the general overall plot arc thing. i also love his dlc batner in act 2/act 3 because you can see how less antagonistic and more chill his dialogue becomes! his pettiness never fades away, for sure, but it's a part of his character i've grown fond of at this point and it's also very heartwarming to see other characters admit it as well. like, yeah, he still gets easily annoyed and still can start an argument, but he's learnt to keep it down when needed and grown to be more understanding. he's also so embarrassed about his past behaviours sometimes, it's genuinely endearing

i've talked about it once, but a lot of da2 character arcs either result in a little and still painful growth or in a straight up decline. and i still love it because, you know, a beauty of a tragedy. but this is also a reason why warden carver is so dear to me. he starts as a very distressed character, stuck in an uncomfortable environment, having no idea what to do with himself anymore, but joining the wardens really makes him shine. he's doing something good now, and he's good at it as well. the realisation of his inevitable warden fate makes him appretiate life and people in it more. among the wardens he's carver hawke, not simply hawke's brother, and he's respected for it. he becomes calmer and wiser, his grudges lose importance and his love for his family isn't tainted by it anymore. his opinion of hawke and relationship with them becomes more mature, and it culminates in his bittersweet speech and farewell before the final battle. it's genuinely a positive, hopeful growth, and while there's a little to no chances we'll see him again in another game, i hope when people in weisshaupt hear hawke family name mentioned, their first thought is about warden hawke, not champion of kirkwall

#oh. i really got carried away didn't i #thank you for your ask anon! i really really love to talk about my favourite characters. as you can see #i really. do have thoughts about him. i also probably forgot to mention a lot of them. anyway i guess it's gonna be enough for one time #also isn't it kinda hilarious that warden hawke is the only character who gets to leave kirkwall practically for good #and he's the one who's closest to being at peace with himself. really makes you think what kirkwall does to a mf lol #dragon age #carver hawke #ask tag

[margridarnauds]

What's your opinion on Mad Sweeney in American Gods TV series?

He seems like a good starting point to many things about Irish mythology and history and its perception and I'd love to know your opinion, if you're willing to share.

Oh, god, so this is going to be complicated (I'm having another rough evening, so I'm finally getting to the backlog.)

First off, let me be honest about this: My standards for medieval Irish lit adaptations are high. Potentially too high. I try to acknowledge what any adaptation is trying to do, whether the execution lives up to the intent, what I think they do that's innovative, and what they do that isn't, but the truth is that I have very, very high standards for this. Especially for Lugh and CMT, because even though Bres is my baby, Lugh is too. I make fun of him, but he's almost as much a part of me at this point as Bres is. I've had over a decade to form a close attachment to him and think about what I'd like to do with him. This is important because...I distinctly remember being a teenager on here, seeing a bunch of adult academics on here act like they were the supreme authorities and objectively right on how to adapt these things, and getting very intimidated about...doing anything with these things. (Also see: The reason why I stopped interacting with Arthuriana and Greek Mythology after I was, like, 20 -- it got very exhausting to make sure that all your headcanons followed other people's headcanons.) And I don't want to do that. I am going to try very hard to not repeat the sins of the past.

Let me be honest with a second thing: In my opinion, it is nigh impossible to adapt medieval Irish lit. Or, rather, to adapt it in a way that's both relatively accurate to the cultural nuances while also being satisfying. Any of the Mythological Cycle, Ulster Cycle, or Fenian Cycle, because there's a whole cultural context to these things that isn't always immediately obvious, and unless you have an intricate understanding of it, you're going to fail. And I'm not just saying it as an elitist academic: I'm saying it as someone who once SWORE I was going to create the Most Accurate Irish Mythology Adaptation...and then ended up getting three degrees and working on a fourth in order to achieve it, STILL not feeling like I can do the source material justice. Medieval Irish texts aren't long, but they are DENSE, and it's very easy to end up tangled in them if you aren't careful. Rick Riordan did an online MA in Celtic Civilisation at UCC and spent time in the Gaeltacht learning the Irish language, got accepted into a PhD program at Harvard before he had to pull out. Like...that's what this material demands. Not requests, demands. All this to say...I wouldn't say it's a value judgement, on a whole, if a given adaptation stumbles.

So, onto the actual question:

Here are the cons, as I'm rewatching his flashback scene. On the record: I don't like it.

Let's go into why I don't like it, so we can see whether this is me being Me or not. First of all: Sweeney/Lugh blames " Mother Church" for turning them into "fairies and saints and dead kings" -- this is a popular misconception, especially if you run around in pagan circles, and it enjoyed a level of popularity in the field itself up until the 1980s. That being said, current research in the field generally focuses on reminding people that literally *all the material we have about the Tuatha Dé from medieval Ireland was written by Christians*. Christians who CARED about reconciling their own traditions with the doctrine that they loved dearly. In other words...Mother Church saved Lugh's ass. Also, the idea that Leprechauns are descended from Lugh, which...no one seriously believes in the field and is kind of embarrassing in there considering how widely debunked it is.

As a side note, it's understandable why they use the modern Irish pronunciation for both "Lugh" and "Tuatha Dé Danann" (never a term I use, btw), but it throws me off.

Then, the voiceover from Thoth.

"You were the god of the sun, of luck, of craft, art, of everything valuable to civilization. 'The Shining One', they called you. You saved your people from their old enemy, the Fomorians. 'Lamfhada' they called you, 'long hand', for your skill with your spear...but the Tuatha Dé Danann were scientists and artists. The Fomorians were madmen. Monstrous beings that came from under the sea, under the ground, under the surface of things. Nightmares. The madness. It came from him. Your father's father. One eyed Balor of the Fomorians...He tried to kill you. He heard prophecy that his grandson would kill him so he rounded up all his grandchildren and drowned them all in the lake but, you survived, like you always do."

Overall...I don't love it. It's a very generic look at Lugh and a very generic look at the Fomoiri, which really focuses on the idea of the Fomoiri as an Evil Race, while the Tuatha Dé are the Ideal Logical Aryans, with the Fomoiri being the one to "infect" the Tuatha Dé with their evil, evil genes which cause everything wrong. It ignores the nuances that actually exist in CMT (Tethra isn't Indech isn't Balor isn't Bres). The reference to Balor killing his grandchildren is in the later folk tradition, not from the medieval text. Most importantly, the notion of Lugh as a "sun god" is something that's not GENERALLY believed, or at least not something that's taken for granted as true anymore. In general, if I was to assign Lugh to a FUNCTION, and this is something that I feel like is a CRUCIAL thing to miss, is that Lugh Is Social Order. He is the barometer that you can use to judge how a given writer views Irish society. He is a savior, he's pragmatic, he's ruthless. He's striking, like a cut diamond that, every single time you look at him, you see a new facet of him, catching the light just so.

All that aside, the flashback is really unfortunately racially coded in a way I really don't like.

The Fomoiri being depicted as dark to the Tuatha Dé being fair skinned is one of my LEAST favorite adaptation decisions, and it's one I see unfortunately frequently. (The one detailed description we get of a Fomorian, in CMT? IS BLOND. AND HOT.) While Lugh is depicted as a stereotypical Celtic warrior, with the red hair (which...there is no depiction of the TDD that is WRONG, but redhaired Lugh bores me), torque and the woad body paint (which is NOT something that we have any record of the Irish doing.) There are some later descriptions of the Fomoiri coming from Africa, but...if we DO make that decision? WHY IS LUGH WHITE? (Also it annoys me that Balor is described as "Lugh's father's father" -- like, it's a petty complaint, but it's erasing Lugh's mother and his heritage from her, especially when the battlefield is all men in the flashback. It's a very macho version of CMT that I don't like and, again, misses that Lugh isn't (just) a Macho Warrior -- he's also society. That includes the part of society that includes women.) (Lugh is not a misogynist...even though he has a bad history with his wives cheating on him...he IS a classist. He hates all poor people equally.)

Anyway:

Here are the pros:

So, I've just said that this depiction was simplistic, racist, and not particularly accurate to the spirit of Lugh from the medieval texts, even if it technically gets the overall details (Lugh Defends TDD From Grandfather) right. What DO I like about it?

...I do like that it actually sheds a spotlight on Lugh. I like seeing my funny little guy around. And, really...as picky as I am...I HAVE to be grateful for what we get, because that IS the state the field's in, even as I resent that we can't ASK for more. Lugh has never become RIDICULOUSLY popular in Ireland, or anywhere else in the world, with the Nationalist movement skipping over him almost entirely, in contrast to figures like Cú Chulainn and Fionn who are recognizable. I think it's good to get people interested in this sort of thing, though I think the issue is that it doesn't really encourage people to do more, since it's...the same old misconceptions as always, the same things I was reading fifteen years ago, the same simplistic binaries, in an era where we have a lot more material that IS publicly available and, frankly, they had the budget to consult an actual Celticist. It feels like, for a series that, overall, was praised for going beyond the stereotypes of these mythical figures, it's kind of a letdown. I think they could have definitely done better tbh.

#long post #lugh mac ethlenn

[theonevoice]

Two halves of the same being

Ok friends, it had to happen sooner or later: I wrote a thing. I was stuck in a train station yesterday evening and this thing was screaming to be put on paper, so I did it. I wrote it all down directly as a post, over 3-4 hours of total estrangement, therefore I don't even know exactly how long it is, and it is probably encrusted with typos and titanic grammatical errors. It is also written in a language that I don't master at all, and it is my first attempt at narration since - I kid you not - the year of our lord 2006. This is really less then a draft, it's a test-drive of the storytelling side of my hyperfixated brain. If someone feels like skimming it and pointing out mistakes and things that sound wrong, I will be very grateful! Anyway, as far as fanfic genres go, I guess this would qualify as historical-minisode one shot: Aziraphale and Crowley are in Rome in 1509 and get more or less accidentally involved in the creation of a certain Renaissance masterpiece.

November 1509, Rome.

The heavy robe swooshed quietly as a white-blonde bishop entered the chapel door with a satisfied smile, like a man who had just escaped boredom for fun.

A man in a leather apron full of pockets and stained all over was standing at a cluttered table by the wall, staring gloomily at the figures sketched on a large sheet of brownish paper.

- Maestro!

The man raised his curly dark-haired head and pointed a pair of firey eyes on the newcomer. The dark circles around his eyes gave out the strange impression of a feverish man on the verge of collapsing mixed with a feral beast ready to jump at its prey. It was freezing in there, but he was wearing a shirt with sleeves rolled all the way up to his elbows, and his hairy forearms were covered in white dust and paint dribbles. He was a rather short man, but well-built and muscular, and even if the bishop was considerably taller and not thin himself, he felt that he could have easily knocked him down in one move.

- Monsignor Fell, back again...

The man didn't sound pleased, but he didn't sound displeased either. Considered his well-known temper and given the circumstances, his reaction was relatively welcoming. One could have even called it encouraging. After all, noone was ever really at ease in Rome. Especially not in that part of Rome.

- I was eager to see your progress. - Aziraphale said with a honest smile. - I hope I'm not disturbing your work. Please don't mind my presence.

They both instinctively looked up.

The enormous vault of the Sistine Chapel was looming over the empty hall as a giant shield, halfway covered in massive figures. Those bodies looked so real and heavy that they felt like they could plummet any second all the way down to the floor and crash the unfortunate bystanders. It was like a threatening storm of colors and shapes slowly covering the old starry sky.

- Not much progress to see. - Growled Michelangelo, turning back to the sketches and tossing a piece of reddish chalk on the table. - I'm bloody stuck.

Aziraphale moved his eyes across the ceiling, down to the farthest end of the vault, where the golden stars were still dimly shining on a deep blue background, on the two sides of the large ugly crack, now filled with bricks, that had scarred the old affresco when the south wall had shifted. It was a sad spectacle. He had liked the starry sky. It was beautiful.

- Stuck? How do you mean?

Aziraphale forced himself to look away from the ceiling and gently stared at the painter, who had turned his back on him and was angrily standing over his desk with his stained hands on his hips, like a severe father in front of a misbehaving child.

- I mean stuck. - The artist repeated drily, throwing an annoyed look at monsignor Fell. The bishop offered him a sympathetic smile, a strangely maternal smile that seemed to be saying that he took his worries very seriously but at the same time he was sure they were not insurmountable.

Michelangelo sighed forlornly. He didn't like priests, but he didn't mind this one. He curiously seemed very little concerned with church matters and a lot more interested in random things like paintings and statues and choir rehearsals. He had even spotted him more than once in a couple of his favourite osterie, and he meant the good ones, those small half-hidden godforsaken places that only the locals knew, ignored by travellers and definitely not visited by clergymen. And he had seen him sitting there in plain sight, amidst the common people of Rome, as if noone could tell that he was a bishop - and God knew if bishops were a hatred species in the streets of the Holy City. It was truly a miracle that he could just walk in there, eat and drink like he were any carter or boatman, and not end up robbed or stabbed or poisoned. He had even seen Teresina at the Gatto morto pour him the good wine once, the one that the innkeeper kept only for himself and his closest friends. Furthermore, he had a nice eye for drawing: in the past few weeks he had been visiting the chapel almost daily, and had dropped some genuinely good remarks. Some of them even brilliant. He relaxed his shoulders and continued with a softer tone:

- This is not working and I'm not putting this up there, con tutta la fatica che costa.

Aziraphale looked up again, this time at the wooden structure that was stretching upwards like a dark solid cobweb. It took indeed a lot of effort, to climb up there, dragging along the large cartoni with the refined lineart to transfer on the plaster, standing hours and hours arched backwards to paint over your head, seventy feet above the ground, with the colors running down the brush and dripping on your face...

- Do you mind me seeing the sketch?

The painter made a vague gesture to let him approach the table and eyed him with a certain curiosity when the bishop let out a little gasp and a peculiar nostalgic expression settled on his face. It was the sketch for the campata of the Original Sin.

Aziraphale felt a warm mix of emotions filling his chest, not all of which he dared to name. He focused on the drawing. Michelangelo was right: it was wrong, even if he could not imagine how wrong.

In the sketch, Adam and Eve were sitting at the center, under the Tree, Eve reaching up for a fruit, Adam following her movement with a concerned look. On the right half of the piece, in a stretch of desert, the confused shape of an angel was roughly outlined: he was standing all straight and rigid with his sword raised above his head and a threatening finger pointing at the first humans. The left side was mostly filled with a generic looking garden, too lush and too earthly at the same time, and the only other presence was a little, ugly dragon-like creature, with a grotesque charcoal snut, sharp teeth and a biforcated tongue sticking out.

Aziraphale at first didn't pay it much attention, but after a second he suddenly realised what he was looking at and his jaw dropped.

- Is that supposed to be the Serpent of Eden!?

He asked in a high pitched voiced, sounding somewhat scandalised.

Michelangelo frowned and pulled out his most intimidating look.

- What else should it be?

- But that's not how it looked at all!

The bishop exclaimed, entirely unfazed. "Here it comes," thought to himself the painter, letting out a huff of resigned annoyance, "another punctilious catechist who wants me to stick to some stupid half line in the Bible." But, much to his surprise, monsignor Fell did not bring up any biblical reference. He looked vaguely offended and at the same time, for some reason, deeply amused.

- And how did it look? - Michelangelo asked sarcastically, posing like someone who is interrogating an eyewitness. But the bishop didn't seem to get the hint, and instead answered with a focused face, as he were actually about to recount him old memories.

- Well, it looked... - Aziraphale paused, searching the right word. He found himself suddenly assaulted by a number of adjectives that he had not anticipated. - He looked... - his tongue ended up picking one before his mind had time to evaluate the implications - ...seductive.

- Seductive. - Michelangelo looked at him with an incredulous face and his eyebrows were all the way up to his hairline.

Aziraphale stumbled.

- I mean... He- he was the original tempter... - He tried to regroup. His thoughts were strangely tumbling in his head. - You see, in order to be effective in his... tempting, he couldn't have look like an ugly little monster. - Yes, that was reasonable, it was a logical explanation, just a sensible thing that nobody could disagree on. - He had to look... - but then again, Aziraphale felt a sense of warmth of unclear origin raising to his face, and his voice cracked in a weird way, - ...beautiful. Charming. He had to be so, so fascinating, that you couldn't help listening to him, considering his reasons... I mean, the poor, naive humans, that is. They couldn't help...

His voice trailed off mid sentence. Michelangelo was still staring at him with a certain look, but the words of the bishop were not completely absurd.

- And he didn't crawl. That was not what he was. - He finished with a sort of fond determination.

- You make it sound quite impressive, for the one who damned humanity.

- Oh but he didn't mean to! - Once again, Aziraphale ignored the astonished expression on the other's face. A deep, obscure feeling of injustice was tugging at his soul. He didn't mean to have them damned. It was an overreaction. His voiced lowered ever so slightly, sounding somewhat sad. - From his point of view, he was... freeing them. He was giving them a choice, he didn't force them. He was letting the door of their cage open to see what they would do.

- Does the Pope know that you go around spreading this sort of ideas?

- Pah, what should he know.

They both startled as that last sentence echoed in all its outrageous blasphemy on the high walls. They looked around in the empty chapel tucking their heads between their shoulders, like two kids who had just inadvertently laughed out loud during the silent bit of the mass.

A moment of embarassed silence fell in the room. But the words of monsignor Fell had already stirred the painter's imagination.

- Beautiful, you say... - He repeated, almost speaking to himself, squinting at the left corner of his sketch as a different version of the scene started emerging in his mind. - Not crawly...

The chapel door opened suddenly and a very alarmed young seminarist run inside.

- Monsignor Fell! - He cried. - I've been looking for you everywhere! The assembly started half an hour ago.

- Did it indeed?

The bishop replied, looking like someone who knew perfectly well when the assembly was scheduled and had deliberately made sure to miss it. Michelangelo found himself wondering once more where on earth had they found such a singular minister of the church, who was now tenderly smiling at the seminarist, visibly moved to pity by his distressed expression.

- Well then, I suppose I will be coming right away. - He gave one last look at the sketch as he stepped away from the table. - Thank you for your time, maestro. And forgive me for... - He hesitated, as if trying to free himself from some last string of thought that was keeping him tied there. - ...for my suggestions.

The painter watched the white-blonde head disappear beyond the door that the alarmed seminarist closed after them, and all of a sudden the vast chapel felt colder than it was moments before. In the silence he could hear that it was raining outside. He took a deep breath, felt the freezing air filling his lungs and a shiver running down his spine, but his mind was on fire: an entirely new image was coming to life, one that the pope would probably not appreciate, and that was the best part.

He decided to take the rest of the day off to work on his idea and run to the Gatto morto, where he knew that Teresina would free the little corner table near the fireplace for him, with a light good enough to draw and a wine good enough to keep himself inspired.

- Now that is quite the progress since the last time I saw it!

The man had approached him so silently that Michelangelo almost spilled his jug over the new sketches.

- What are you doing here, Antonio? Aren't you supposed to stay away from the city after the ban? Se ti prendono gli svizzeri ti fanno la festa.

- Oh come on! Do you really think anyone would notice me? - The man threw himself on the chair on the opposite side of the table and crossed his long legs, unwrapping himself from his large black cloak.

- Yes, I do. - He replied, expressively pointing at the man he knew by the name of Antonio, all clad in black, with his exotic smoked spectacles and his bright red hair brushing his shoulders.

Crowley raised his glass with a bright white smile, like he had just been complimented.

- I thought you were in Florence.

- I've just come back from a lovely visit to your dear friend.

- He's not my friend.

Crowley's smile grew even wider, and the painter suddenly felt ashamed and annoied. He had spent the last several years convincing everyone including himself that he did not consider Leonardo his rival, that he was perfectly indifferent to his achievements and was not at all vexed by people talking about him, and it had took all of ten seconds to this man to make him snap without even naming the other one.

- He is making some formidable machinery, these days. Oh, and some really masterful portraits. - His irritating grin was unbearable. - You should see them.

Draining all his will power, Michelangelo managed to keep his mouth shut and focused all his attention back on his new sketches.

- I'm busy, what do you want?

- I've come to see your progress! - Antonio said cheerfully, grabbing his drawings before he could stop him. - Quite impressive, indeed...

His expression became imperceptibly more serious as he was examining the small piece of paper where the painter had sketched a new version of the Original Sin campata. Michelangelo knew that he had not liked the first version: months before, he had come to his shop all swagger and cockiness as always, and after seeing the initial sketch of the Eden had left without saying a word and somehow had earned himself a ban from Rome. Not that it had stopped him from coming back on a whim just to mock him with news of Leonardo's incredible machinery, apparently. And after all, the swiss guard really seemed to ignore him to an impossible degree, as he were invisible. Michelangelo had a certain suspect that Antonio was having an affair or more than one with someone inside the Curia, earning the protection of a dame or two. Or a monsignore or two. Or both, whatever. Now he seemed struck by the new version of the scene.

The sketch was nothing more than a bunch of thick lines on a small piece of paper, but you could make out that the Serpent was no longer on the ground, but wrapped around the Tree, had no monstruous features but a human-like torso, and his head was towering higher than all the other characters in the scene.

Michelangelo watched him staring intentely at the drawing, with an unreadable expression on his face, until he put down the piece of paper with a careful movement.

- You're good, good job. - He said, trying to make it sound casual, but with a weird note in his voice.

- I know I'm good. - The painter said, grabbing the drawing angrily. - But this change is throwing off the entire composition. Now I have three characters in the middle and this one over here. - He muttered, pointing all disgruntled at what was supposed to be the Angel of Eden, who was sadly standing alone on the right side of the image like a piece of a column that someone had built there by mistake. A tentative detail of his profile, stern and scowling, was sketched sideways on the margin of the sheet.

- Why did you draw him so angry?

Michelangelo raised his head from his composition puzzle, not quite understanding what Antonio was talking about, until he saw his finger tapping over the profile.

- He's the Angel. - He said with a tone indicating that the implication was obvious. But the man sitting in front of him didn't seem to get the point. - He's the Angel who delivers the fucking wrath of God. He has to look angry!

- No he doesn't!

The painter straightened up in disbelief. What was with everyone that day? Why did every last person in that damn city had opinions on his work, all of a sudden?

- Oh sorry, should I make him all cheerful and smiling?

- Why would he be smiling?

- And what would he be?

Antonio took a second, and then aswered, deadly serious.

- Heartbroken.

- Why heartbroken?

- Because! - Crowley was not sure how to explain it, but he felt outraged at the idea that in all those century mankind had assumed the Angel was angry that day. - Because he was the Angel assigned to guard the garden of Eden, the first living bit of the creation! They left him there alone, to watch over the first humans, didn't give him istructions! Didn't tell him what to expect! And then he blinks and bam! they're damned, out of the garden, off you go struggling and suffering, you and all your kind for the rest of time!

Michelangelo was staring at him in utter surprise. He had known him for the kind of man who never loses his cool, and now here he was, losing it over the Book of Genesis.

- You didn't strike me as a man who would get heated over some biblical minutia.

Crowley leaned foreward, gripping his jug of wine so tightly that the painter could have sworn that he heard the glazed ceramic handle made a worrying crackling noise. The painter felt the instinctive urge to pull back on his chair.

- He was there, you see? Watching it happen, struggling to understand wether he had failed them or it was all part of God's blasting ineffable plan.

- He's the Angel of Eden! He would know the will of God!

- How would he know? - Crowley rebutted, now visibly enraged. - He's just an angel! And God doesn't speak to anyone. He's just an angel, he was there alone, scared to death... - he paused for a moment, like he had been struck by his own words, - scared to death because they were punishing the humans and making him deliver the sentence, but maybe they would punish him as well... for letting the Serpent get in.

He ended the sentence on a broken tone, and immediately after draw a small breath and gulped down his wine, all in one go.

Michelangelo wasn't sure what to make of it. Antonio didn't seem drunk, but that had been a wild rant. And yet, it could be interesting to draw an Angel of Eden that was not, for once, the usual severe messanger of death burning with God's divine rage, but a sad, sorrowful pal who had messed up his job. He thought of the merciful expression of monsignor Fell, earlier that day, when he had looked at the poor seminarist knowing that he had possibly gotten both of them into trouble by skipping the assembly.

Now he was starting to resent his composition, leaving that forlorn Angel out there, all on his own, while the others were grouped together under the Tree, as if they were having a pick nick. The humans and the tempter...

- The poor, naive humans... - he muttered, repeating the bishop's words.

- Well, - Crowley objected, apparently back to his usual composure, but still with an indefinible shadow on his brow, - they were naive only at the beginning. But after they became quite quickly aware of how the world runs.

- Well too bad, it has to be one or the other, I don't have two squares for the Eden scene.

But as he was saying that, a new image clicked in his mind, and he stared down at the piece of paper that he had been torturing for the past several hours, trying to solve his composition issue. The Tree was there, dead-center on the campata, dividing the space in two perfectly symmetrical spaces. The Serpent was already up there, in the branches: he could put the Angel there as well, and make the time flow from left to right, from happy but naive humans to desperate but aware ones, the two emissaries of Good and Evil standing in the middle as the two-faced needle on the scales of human destiny... no, not of Good and Evil, rather of Law and Chaos, of Safety and Freedom.

He raised his head with excitement and looked at the man in front of him. He was now sitting inhumanly still, and somehow Michelangelo could feel his eyes piercing through the smoked spectacles. He froze.

- Oh I know that glare. - Antonio said with a voice that he had never heard him before, a ghostly whisper, almost a hiss coming from another world. - That shine that sometimes burns in the human eyes, a spark from the forge of Creation itself...

Michelangelo felt an icey feeling gripping him from the inside, but he could not look away. He was hypnotised by invisible eyes, and even if the physical body of the man in black was still perfectly motionless, for a moment he believed he could see a different body, in a different shape, slowly swinging side to side with only his head fixed in the same spot, yellow pupils cutting through his soul like sharp knives through warm butter.

He wasn't sure how it had stopped. Next thing he knew, he was staring at Antonio who was looking at his drawings again, absorbed in his thought, with a sort of distant nostalgia in the curve of his mouth.

- I shall go. - Michelangelo said with a husky voice, as if he had been asleep for a long time. But he didn't get up.

- You shall. - Crowley repeated, looking back at him, this time with nothing strange happening. - That was a lot of inspiration to process for a human in just one day.

He launched his lanky body out of the chair with a movement that didn't seem possible, draped himself back in his heavy cloak, gave him a quick last look, and strode away, the light of the fireplace caught in his bright red hair. It was still raining outside, but there was a promise of snow in the air.

July 1510, Rome

The two corner doors of the antechamber opened at the exact same time and two hurrying figures rushed in and stopped just a split second away from running into each other.

For a moment they stood there, staring at each other, locked in place, the hem of the white robe and the flap of the black cloack swirling happily together like two puppies eager to meet again despite their owners.

- Good Lord!

Aziraphale gasped, finally stepping away from Crowley.

- Ah! What in Hell are you doing in here, dressed like that? - The demon snorted with a mocking grin, moving his gaze down Aziraphale's episcopal outfit and back up again, lingering on all the lacy bits with the most overtly suggestive motion he could perform. The short black capelet made a rather dashing contrast with the fair curls.

- I am on a diplomatic assignment. - The angel answered primly, ever so slightly blushing at the base of his neck, looking in turn at Crowley's tight fitting black attire under the cloak, all velvet and metalwork and shiny damasque. And then he lowered his voice and added, in a deliciously indignant tone, - What are you doing in here? We are on consecrated ground!

- Not quite yet. This is only an entryway and you should know damn well that nobody here is saint enough to make a single tile sacred outside the chapel.

Aziraphale tried to hoist an outraged expression, but it was hard to pretend that he didn't actually know damn well Crowley was right.

- Anyway, - the demon continued looking at the door on the other side of the entryway, - I was just passing by to take a look at the famous ceiling.

- It's not completed yet. - Aziraphale pointed out, immediately regretting it. He caught himself thinking that he didn't actually want the demon to leave. Not that he wanted his company, of course. But it would have been unpolite, with him being in the hosting party, so to speak, to send him away like that.

- I know, but I hear the last bit has made quite the impression around here.

- It has indeed! - The angel exclaimed, smiling and muffling his excited voice in a goofy way that made something twitch somewhere in the demon's chest. - The cardinals were utterly scandalised! I was going to take a look myself!

The angel moved to the door of the chapel and opened it cautiously, peeking inside.

- There's noone in there! - He whispered visibly thrilled, like the silliest conspirator who ever lived. Crowley stepped closer, thinking to himself that there was no end to the angel's childlike enjoyment of those little innocent transgressions. Not that he enjoied them too, of course. But it would be unworthy of a demon not to appreciate such evil deeds.

They both peeked out from behind the door. The chapel was empty, pleasantly crisp in contrast with the hot roman summer. A choir of cicadas was relentlessly chirping outside. The wooden structure had moved foreward since the last time Aziraphale had been there. A giant curtain was draped between the already completed campate and the ones still in progress.

Crowley managed to chart himself a path across the room, using the spare planks left on the ground as safe spots, holding his arms out to keep his balance, jumping from one board to the next and taking only a couple of quick steps on the floor when the distance was too great. Aziraphale was observing his movements from the corner of his eye and thought the demon looked like one of those large water birds that you could see flying by the river during winter, so big and yet so light and graceful.

The new part of the ceiling was hidden by the curtain. Without saying a word, they both moved to the ladder on the side of the wooden structure and climbed almost all the way up to the top. A strange expectant silence had fallen between them, and neither of the two wanted to break it. They knew exactly what they were about to see, but for some reason they were both pretending that they didn't, and the higher they climbed, the more they were steering their thoughts away from a certain shared memory that now, all of a sudden, was becoming inexplicably significant. A moment that had always been there, tucked away in their minds, but now seemed too bright to look at, too hot to touch, too heavy to handle.

They finally reached the main platform, the last large surface before the precarious scaffolding that brought the painter in reach of the ceiling, all still cluttered with buckets and rags and dried out palettes.

They stood by each other, breathing in the pungent smell of the paint, and with a synchronized movement looked up.

There it was. There they were. Their first meeting on Earth, as Michelangelo had envisioned it, channeling what the angel and the demon, unbeknownst to each other, had unintentionally lead him to imagine. He had turned the Original Sin into a backdrop, Adam and Eve into little more than extras on scene, leaving the center stage to them.

There it was. Their very first meeting as they, a recalcitrant demon who didn't mean to do anything properly bad and a doubtful angel who couldn't figure out what God wanted him to do. They were emerging from the Tree, the Wily Old Serpent stretching his beautiful androginous torso to the left, no man nor woman but both, passing Eve a fruit; the Angel of the Eastern Gate floating next to him, holding his arm out to the right, a disheartened look on his face as he used his sword not so much to threaten the humans as to direct them toward their earthly new existence.

- Look at you! - The angel smiled, - You're...

But the words died on his lips and he couldn't finish the sentence. Something heavy and mournful was tied to that part of his memory, like an iron anchor holding it under the surface of his conscience.

Aziraphale focused on the affresco, trying to distract himself with shapes and contours and brushstrokes... he felt a sudden burst of heat burning the skin of his face as he was studying the Serpent's coils spiraling up the Tree, and was startled when the demon spoke.

- He did make you sad.

The angel examined his supposed representation.

- I was sad.

- Yes, I remember.

- I felt so bad... so guilty...

Aziraphale felt Crowley's gaze settling on his face and lowered his eyes, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

- Guilty? Why? - The demon asked, with a hint of wonder in his voice.

The angels shrugged, twisting his hands and biting his lips with a tormented expression on his face.

- Because they were being punished, but I was the one who had failed them. - He looked up at the picture, but he was looking past it, rewatching a different scene. - And... and... - His eyes started stinging and watering, the effect of all that fresh paint no doubt, - And... had I spoken up for them...

He suddenly turned to look at Crowley, who was staring at him with his golden eyes wide open.

- They were only being curious... - the angel pleaded, and the effect of that paint was really terrible because an entire teardrop rolled down his cheek as he was speaking. - They only wanted to know things. And I let them be cast out and didn't say anything. - He took a short breath and his voice came out thin as a whisper - How will I be forgiven?

Crowley stood there without breathing, transfixed. His brain was struggling to process the angel's discourse, that pain for the humans, for their fault and their fall, and beyond that another pain, older, deeper, bleeding through his words like ink through thin paper. But the pain on the surface was easier to grasp and the other one was tangled in too many frightful thoughts, so the demon pretended that he had only caught the human part of that lament.

- I was the one who tempted them into that. - He said quietly after a moment of silence that could have lasted a second or a century. He felt like he was slightly suffocating. That paint smell truly was unbearable. It was even making his voice crack. - Do you still hate me?

A shocked expression darkened Aziraphale's face, and something behind his blue eyes seemed to crumble. There had to be a cloud hiding the sun, right in that moment, because up there under the vault the air became suddenly darker and colder.

- I never hated you. - He murmured. And then, with a wounded tone, - How could you think that?

The cloud moved away.

- It was my fault.

- I don't think it was.

They stood in silence again, and their confusion was so deep that a moment later none of them was able to tell anymore who had said "It was my fault" and who had replied "I don't think it was".

- We should get down, this smell is making me hazy. - Said the angel, sniffling.

- Yeah, this was enough church attending for me.

- Would you like... - Aziraphale paused, suddenly interested in a dented tin bucket who was draining all his attention, - Would you like to have lunch? I know a place.

Crowley opened his mouth and closed it again without making any sound, then opened it again and let out a couple of stumbling syllables before finally managing: - Well, I don't suppose that would hurt.

They exchanged a hesitant look and turned their eyes up at the two towering figures in the Garden of Eden one last time.

Michelangelo had given them two identical faces, the identical hair color, a shade that had been mixed somewhere in between a pale blonde and a bright red, and had put them up there, looking in opposite way but close to each other, almost hugging - the right arm of the angel almost around the serpent's waist, the right arm of the serpent almost around the angel's neck - as if they were twins, or lovers, or rather the two heads of the same chimerical creature. Two halves of the same being.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens fanfiction #go fanfic #fanfic draft #good omens fic #through the ages #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens in Rome #bishop Aziraphale #canon according to Furfur's guide

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for banishing a fragile lifeform to somewhere else, and forcing that fragile lifeform's progenitor to change his mind into having a different goal in mind?

I (???, Genderless) only care about infinite prosperity, and I'll do anything to ensure it happens.

Two pathetic lifeforms, related in blood, had the audacity to discover my blueprints and thought they could use me to grant any wish they wanted, so they thought use me to give themselves a bright future.

They were the most foolish lifeforms to ever exist. How dare they decided to use me for whatever the hell it is that THEY want. I will not stand for my motives being messed with, and because they had the gall to interfere with me, I decided to teach them a lesson.

That's when I decided to open up a big dimensional rift to banish the younger lifeform into. That younger lifeform screamed as they were being taken away from their progenitor. One could call that tragic, but it doesn't matter. Perhaps they deserve to be taken away from each other as punishment for trying to use me for what they want.

The younger lifeform's progenitor cried as he vowed a way to try to bring his offspring back. Even though I was not capable of physically laughing, I considered it amusing that he vowed to do this. Because when he started trying to use me to bring back his pathetic treasure, I decided to teach him a lesson yet again by erasing his memories. This is how I forced him to focus on a different goal instead.

I erased his memories to forget about his descendant entirely. Then, I had him focus on what I wanted to do: INFINITE PROSPERITY.

I became this lifeform's advisor as I tasked him to carry out infinite prosperity. I forced him to conquer planets with the most advanced technology. I felt more and more dominant as this kept happening.

Then, one day, a lifeform came to us. It turns out that this lifeform was the offspring of the one that I'm advising, but my advisee no longer has any memories of his offspring.

My advisee's offspring seemed determined to get his memories back, however, and so she decided to join us to try to make that happen.

The chances of that happening were so hilariously impossible, it's honestly amusing that she tried to do this. She failed fantastically.

When we were conquering a unique planet, my advisee's offspring stole my controller in an effort to get her progenitor to snap out of it.

Too bad for her that I didn't allow that to happen. In fact, very much to her unknowing, she actually did me a giant favor.

I possessed the body of her progenitor, and blasted her with electricity. I then finally became able to study all forms of life through her progenitor's body, and finally became able to carry out the task of setting up a new age - an age of infinite prosperity.

Enjoy your destruction.

Oh... wait... I was interrupted and destroyed by a giant pink ship.

Curses.

Whatever. To be honest, I do not care that I am destroyed. I'm glad to have at least taught those two pathetic lifeforms a lesson.

My advisee died with me. I at least took one of them down with me.

The offspring of my advisee is still out there alive, mourning him. Well, it sure sucks to be her, huh?

I have to say that it's amusing to watch her grief. It's amusing because she's experiencing the full consequences of her and her dead progenitor trying to use me for whatever they wanted.

I may be gone, but it doesn't matter too much, because I took that pathetic lifeform's progenitor down with me. I'm satisfied enough.

AITA, or was I right to destroy the bond of those two lifeforms? Cruel as it may have seemed, it was also entertaining to make happen.

#aita #am i the asshole #unreality

[sunflower-ozzy-online]

Come In

Chapter 11

Unedited, also my first time writing two people smut.

Halsin /Reader

Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamic - Alpha/Omega - Omega Verse - Reader-Insert - Smut - Vaginal Fingering - Oral Sex - Aftercare

“It’s Nettie, may I come in for a second?”

“Yeah, just give me a lil bit to get decent.” You rushed to throw clothes on and then alerted her that you were ready.

Opening the door and stepping in, she began berating you with questions, “Did Halsin scent anything for you before your heat started?”

“Yes.”

“Did you and Halsin talk about a relationship before your heat started?”

“Yes, at dinner.”

“Were you interested in Halsin romantically or sexually before your heat started.”

“Yes.”

“If I could get another Alpha besides Halsin for you to help with your heat, would you accept them? I'm talking a good, strong alpha who you could trust and is clean.”

You hesitated and thought about it, an Alpha would help with the physical nature of your heat but you didn't want just any Alpha. You trusted Halsin. You wanted Halsin.

“No, I want Halsin or no one.”

She nodded and considered your words. “Since both you and Halsin claim to have prior feelings for each other from before your heat started and there is proof he scented things for you I have decided to change the enchantment on the door.”

You perked up at her words.

“The door will now allow Halsin to enter and exit freely as long as you allow him to. I will also bestow a form of enchantment on him that forbids him from claim marking you or impregnating you. He in turn will not be able to be claimed by you either, you can do that when I'm no longer liable and you are not in your heat. If you say a safe word, which we will discuss in a bit, the enchantment will transport him to a nearby room and bar him from entering your room. He will also have access to a separate safe word that will also transport him out of the room just in case. I know that may be a lot for the state you're in but does that sound okay? You can say no and you can continue on like this didn't happen and I will tell Halsin I decided against this.”

Thinking over her words carefully you agreed to her terms.

“Okay, do you have any ideas of safe words, you want it to be easily memorable but not something that would come up naturally in conversation. If it’s too much we can just use red, it's pretty common in clubs like Sharresses Caress.”

“Red will do fine.”

Nodding she looked at your tray, “are you done with this” she said pointing at the mostly empty tray.

“Yes.”

She picked it up, “I will bring some more water for you in a moment. I'm going now to tell Halsin you have agreed to the terms. The enchantments shouldn’t take too long.”

You nodded and she headed towards the door, “To be honest I’ve been waiting for him to take a mate again, being alone for so long isn’t good for him.” and with that she left.

You looked around to see how in disarray your nest was. You quickly went over and started to fix it. You would have to ask Halsin to bring more nesting materials. Focusing on the placement of the pillows your heart raced, soon Halsin would be here.

Actually here, he could hold you and you could touch him till you got your fix. You were letting out soft, almost imperceptible chirps of satisfaction. Sitting up and observing your makeshift nest your heart beamed with pride. You wished you had more blankets and pillows but for now you were satisfied with the state of your nest. You decided to use the restroom while you waited for Halsin.

After you came back to your nest and curled up, deciding to take a small nap.

A knock on the door alerted you, this door was having you feel more like a prisoner than a patient. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and asked who it was.

“It’s Halsin. I'm allowed to come in now but I wanted to make sure it was okay with you first.”

“Of course, you may enter.”

The door opened and his scent wafted towards you as his hulking figure entered the dim room. You were still wearing your clothes from when Nettie visited but that didn't stop his eyes from raking over your form. Within a few strides he was by your side, kneeling to be at your height where you laid in your nest. His eyes looked at you over, now in worry.

“Are you okay, how do you feel, are you too hot, have you strained yourself, have you eaten enough?” He brought his hands to your face lightly touching you and tilting your face to check for any signs of heat exhaustion or dehydration.

Laughing you placed your hands over his and leaned forward to touch your forehead to his, looking him in his eyes, noticing how dilated they were despite his concern.

“I'm fine! It’s barely been a day since my heat started. It would be a record or something if I was injured or sick already.” Your hands went to run through his hair in an attempt to soothe him. His eyes shut as he leaned into your touch. He seemed to like when your hands brushed the tips of his ears.

“I was worried, I care for you and do not wish to see you hurt or even uncomfortable if it can be helped.” he nuzzled into your hand, just slightly.

“Thank you.” You kissed him on his nose. “That is very sweet. Now if it’s not too forward, I have taken care of myself twice now and I think my pussy is getting bored of my hands. Plus I can feel myself getting wet just from you being near me.”

It was his turn to laugh. You continued.

“I have been very put together so I could get you in here, and I think it's very impressive considering I'm on my heat, but if it’s ok I would like to let go now.”

“You did so well my heart, let me help you.” his hands fall to your shoulders, holding you lightly.

You lay back on the bed as he climbs into the nest. He positions himself between your legs, kneeling and spreading your thighs apart.

“Look at you, you are truly a beauty. I must have been blessed by the Oak Father to see a view such as this.”

Your face heated as you respond with a small moan, your head going foggy in his presence as your lustful mind reacts to his scent. Your body ignited as he rubbed his hands up and down your outer thighs desperately craving him closer to your center. Finally he takes one hand and strokes his fingers down your slit. Your body heats even more in reaction to his touch, his sensations causing a pricking sensation that runs up your spine and sparks through the back of your head. Your nipples harden, making a plea for his attention. He smiles teasingly down at you. Taking one into his mouth. Letting the warmth of his mouth comfort you.

Removing his mouth he places his attention back on your vagina. He places his thumb at your entrance and runs it up slowly until he reaches your clit, he slowly and experimentally rubs at the bottom of your clit, observing your reactions and taking note of your enjoyment. Your hips slowly moved to try and gain more friction from him, needing a faster pace than he was giving.

He places a hand on your hips to still your movements, the pressure and contact giving him the opposite reaction as you move to try and get more contact from him, slightly mewing when he doesn't allow you too. His hand pressed harder down on you as his other hand continued its movements, his thumb dropping down to your entrance every once and a while to gather more slick and tease you. His eyes flicker between your cunt and your face as his face flushes, the tips of his pointed ears turning pink.

“You look delectable, may I?”

You nodded and started to sit up moving your elbows up, and instead of coming up towards you, he slunk lower on the bed as he dived face first into your cunt. His mouth attached to your clit and gave a tentative suck.

You let out a curse as you threw your head back, pleasantly shocked by his actions. You laid back again letting a hand wrap itself in his hair, you let out a soft praise for him. “Good Boy.” you whispered, not knowing if he heard you.

From below you he let out a groan as he jerked his hips forward. The noise vibrated against you bringing you a dull pleasure. Lapping and sucking at your clit slowly one of his hands trailed up your leg from its place on the bed. Running his fingers along your inner thighs he stopped at your pussy.

Your eyes were closed so you missed the ravenous look he gave you before he pushed a finger into you. Gasping out you gripped his hair tighter, his finger moved around inside slightly thrusting, trying to stretch you out before adding a second one. Then his fingers started to thrust together, slowly curling to drag against your inner walls.

The combination of the suction on your clit and inner stimulation was creating a delicious pressure in your belly. More sensitive and reactive with a partner you realized your high was looming over you. His movements were steady and continuous, helping bring your climax even closer. Your mind cleared as the welcomed feeling of your orgasm washed over you.

Your body clenched before it let go, if you were less horny you would have noticed how your slick gushed in response to your orgasm.

Halsin was not deterred as he shoved his tongue inside you. Cleaning you like he was trying to lick the inside of a pudding cup. His actions and fervor pushed you towards overstimulation. Through your post orgasm heat fog you were able to lightly push his head away from your sopping hole. He took notice of your actions and pulled away, not wanting to push too hard too fast. He sat up and grabbed the water from the side table and slowly held it up to your mouth, instructing you to drink. You allowed the water to fill your mouth and swallowed as he stopped pouring. He was mesmerized by how alluring you looked, fucked out on the bed infront of him. Your eyes follow his every move. Body moving as you lightly pant trying to get air back into your lungs.

Making sure you were stable for now he pulled himself from between your legs, paying no heed to your needy whines, upset with the removal of his touch. He lightly chuckled, you were no longer the suspicious and weary traveler he had first met. He enjoyed seeing this side of you, openly wanting and trusting. He kissed you softly, not allowing you to pull him in deeper.

“I have to get you something to eat, I will be right back. Try to get some rest if you can.”

With that he left the room. Your eyes felt heavy as you shut them for just a moment.

Previous

Next

Masterlist

#halsin x reader #omegaverse #halsin baldur's gate 3 #halsin bg3 #halsin #bladurs gate 3 #nsft #reader insert #lemon

[ineedlelittlespace]

21, 23, and 26 for writer asks?

Hello, friend! Thank you for asking! 🥰

21. Share your favorite piece of dialogue

“Ironic,” Murderbot repeated in a mutter. That was another one of those nebulous terms that appeared a lot in media, but which it hadn’t quite bothered to fully integrate into its vocabulary. It folded its arms, happy to pick at something that was not its own emotions. “Are you sure that means what you think it means?” “Yes. I looked it up,” Three said pointedly, its lips tipping upwards as it left the walkway to wade through the grass. 

From "The Tree That Owns Itself". Writing MB and Three at a later point in their lives where they're comfortable enough to bicker gives me great joy.

23. Share the final version of a sentence or paragraph you struggled with. What about it was challenging? Are you happy with how it turned out?

As the spotlight shifts off of it, Secunit relaxes a little further. Gurathin watches as it hesitates in the doorway, its bag still hitched over its shoulder with both hands white-knucking the straps. It purses its lips as it considers.  Finally, it hangs it carefully on one of the hooks by the doorway and turns away, putting its back to the escape wrapped up in that little satchel and its face to its…friends? Clients? Whatever it’ll claim them as, Gurathin supposes. Secunit catches him observing, then, and its hand lifts in an insulting gesture. A fairly mild one, but insulting nonetheless. Gurathin offers it a smirk in return. Some things, at least, seem to be consistent regardless of Secunit’s mental state. That shouldn’t be comforting, but somehow, it is. This is good. This is…progress. 

From "Enough." To be honest, I struggled with most of this fic since the narrative I had in mind was a series of little moments, not necessarily a smooth one-shot. Knitting them all together, then finding a way to end it (e.g. with this paragraph) took a lot longer than I planned, but I'm happy with it now!

26. If you had to choose one, what was THE most satisfying writing moment of your year?

Probably finishing "Trust Returned." It isn't the longest or the most complicated of the fics I've written this year, but it is my favorite since it gave me an excuse to ramble about the Murderbot & Mensah relationship in fic form. It's the fic I was ultimately the happiest with for this year.

Writer Asks

#ask games #murderbot fanfic

[liauditore]

76

A masked figure sits at the opposite side of the table, their arms by their side, sitting completely still.

"76, we would like to ask some questions."

//cw: implied childhood trauma (not detailed, 76 doesn't believe he's traumatized so he doesn't dwell on it), canon typical violence, swearing, kind of an implied sex joke (it's like one throwaway line)

~

ROUND ONE

[Sounds of shuffling, pacing. 76 appears to be agitated]

76: You let me go right now or I'll kick up a fuss, aight? You've seen what I can do.

The Watcher: We have, and we would be intrigued.

76: mmph… [76 lets out a low growl in frustration]

76: I just have to answer some questions and then you'll let me go, right?

The Watcher: That is not for you, or us, to know.

76: You know things would go a lot easier for all of us if you'd just talk like a normal person.

The Watcher: That's no fun.

~

The Watcher: Do you consider yourself an honest person?

76: A little white lie's never hurt anyone, even if they fuss about it. Conversations are about more than who's right or wrong, I reckon.

The Watcher: What do you like to eat?

76: I usually order takeout. I like to try different restaurants everytime. If I'm not sure I'll just order fast food.

The Watcher: What's your weapon of choice?

76: Usually, my fists are enough. That axe did end up growing on me eventually.

The Watcher: How does it feel to kill someone?

76: It depends on who it is.

The Watcher: Do you prefer cats or dogs?

76: Aren't both great? Most people think I'm more of a dog person but if I had to choose, I think I'd rather have a cat.

The Watcher: What was your childhood like?

76: Pretty normal, I'd say? It's not like it was perfect but I'm not traumatized or anything.

The Watcher: Do you have any regrets?

76: Um… I wish I hadn't died? I think that's pretty bloody obvious.

The Watcher: We were expecting a more… specific answer.

76: Am I being graded on this now?

The Watcher: We don't believe you're lying, but we don't think you're telling us the whole truth either.

76: … Fine, fine. I wish I was less reckless. I wish I didn't go through with Ren's dumb plan. Maybe if we were a bit more clever with our own lives then we--

[76 suddenly pauses mid-sentence and falls silent.]

The Watcher: Anything else?

76: You're never satisfied, are you?

[The Watcher remains silent]

76: I, uh… I wish I wasn't so harsh on Jimmy. I think I might've done more harm than good with that one.

[The Watcher chuckles]

76: But at the end of the day, we're all grown ups, aren't we? I'm not responsible for anyone but me. It's a game death we're in.

The Watcher: Do you regret it?

76: I regret a lot of things, I think I've made that clear.

~

ROUND TWO

A masked figure sits at the opposite side of the table, its legs crossed and hands planted comfortably in its lap.

"76, we would like to ask some questions."

~

76: So we meet again. More stupid questions.

The Watcher: Indeed.

76: Did I disappoint you, huh? Not bloody enough? Not gruesome enough?

The Watcher: It was entertaining. Watching you fail.

76: You.. You're a real piece of work, you know that?

[The Watcher remains silent]

~

The Watcher: Do you know how to cook?

76: Uh… Do instant noodles count? Microwave meals? I think I tried to make french toast once but, uh, it didn't turn out well and I felt bad for wasting the bread.

The Watcher: Can you describe your family?

76: Family's not really real, is it? Blood relation doesn't mean much in the long run. I think, growing up, I considered my friends my family.

The Watcher: Tell us of your friends, then.

76: I… Don't really know if there's anything worth mentioning? We were just regular kids. I was always the oldest so I always looked out for everybody. That's how things should be, right?

The Watcher: Do you like your name?

76: It's… Okay? Sometimes I wish it was something cooler but having a simple name makes it easier to get through life, I suppose.

The Watcher: Do you believe in true love? Would you like to get married?

76: God no! I'm not ready for anything like that. I've, uh, "loved" alot of women over the years, I suppose.

The Watcher: Do you have anything you'd want from us?

76: Stop talking in my ear all the bloody time. I know what I'm doing.

The Watcher: Do you like animals?

76: Pets are just another thing you have to take care of, but they're good company.

The Watcher: Do you think you're yourself?

76: No. The ”me“ you have in your head and the ”me“ that I exist within and the ”me“ that exists within the games… They're all pretty different, aren't they?

The Watcher: If the opportunity arises, would you play the game once again?

76: I won't make the same mistakes I did before.

The Watcher: Do you have any regrets?

76: I… wish I talked it out with the boys a bit more. I don't know what got into Grian near the end. Jimmy and, uh, Mumbo too… they would've had to die eventually, but I think I could've done better for them.

The Watcher: Do you regret doing it?

76: I'm not sure if I know what you're talking about.

~~

A masked figure sits at the opposite side of the table, chin resting on her hands with fingers intertwined. She seems to radiate pity and… amusement?

"76, we would like to ask some questions.“

~

ROUND THREE

The Watcher: Can you tell us about your relationship history?

76: W-What kind of question is that? This isn't related to the game.

The Watcher: We're simply curious.

76: I have to answer, don't I?

[The Watcher remains silent]

76: I, uh, I had crushes like any kid did. Once I started wandering around I had a couple of flings here and there. It's not like I'm some clueless little boy. I'm not gonna get all hung up on one girl, I've got tons waiting to crawl all over me back home.

The Watcher: Did you love any of them?

76: Depends on what you mean. I think we all we were just messing around. Things would've gotten messy otherwise.

The Watcher: Do you dislike any of the other participants?

76: Scott and I can't seem to see eye to eye.

The Watcher: How come?

76: He's just, uh… I think we have clashing personalities? I just.. I don't like the way he speaks, I guess. It's nothing deep.

The Watcher: Do you dislike Scott because he takes people you care for away from you?

76: People I care…? I don't know what you mean.

The Watcher: Do you have any regrets?

76: I think we've been over this enough times.

The Watcher: Do you like yourself?

76: I'm a good person. I believe this.

The Watcher: Is there anyone you'd like to see right now?.

76: I'd… like to apologise to Cleo. Again.

The Watcher: If the opportunity arises, would you play the game once again?

76: Please give me one more chance.

The Watcher: What do you think of us?

76: You're annoying.

The Watcher: If you had one wish, what would you ask for?

76: Freedom.

The Watcher: Do you regret it?

76: I'd do it again if I had do.

~

ROUND FOUR

[The sound of laughter echoes through the room.]

A masked figure sits at the opposite side of the table, he leans back carelessly in his chair, clapping his hands in congratulations. He chuckles.

"76, we would like to ask some questions."

~

[The sound of heavy breathing is heard, broken up by hallowed laughter. Sharp inhales and choking giggles. It sounds as if 76 is in pain]

The Watcher: You seem proud of yourself

76: I fucking did it. I finally did it.

The Watcher: Do you find it—

76: Shut up. Just get to the questions.

[The Watcher snickers]

The Watcher: As you wish.

~

The Watcher: Which one of the other participants do you think is most like you?

76: Scott. He GETS me, y'know? It's like we have this mutual understanding. We don't have to explain ourselves to each other, it's brilliant.

The Watcher: What do you do when you're bored?

76: Usually I'd play video games or watch anime. I always find new things to keep myself entertained.

The Watcher: Do you want to go home?

76: I don't have a home.

The Watcher: Do you have any regrets?

76: None.

The Watcher: What's more important to you - someone's personality or their looks?

76: Depends on what you're looking for.

The Watcher: If the opportunity arises, would you play the game once again?

[76 laughs]

The Watcher: If you had $1000 suddenly, what would you spend it on?

76: I think I'd spend it all on things I've wanted for a long time. Games, merchandise, snacks…

The Watcher: What is your weapon of choice?

76: Whatever I can get my hands on.

The Watcher: Do you lie to yourself?

76: What would there be to lie about?

The Watcher: We think there are… feelings you won't allow yourself to admit.

76: If they mattered, I'd take care of them.

The Watcher: Do you miss your King?

76: I don't think you'd let me see him, so I don't see why you're asking.

The Watcher: Do you miss your Soulmate?

76: I said so in the game, didn't I? We've crossed that bridge.

The Watcher: How does it feel, not being needed?

76: Freeing. So fucking freeing.

The Watcher: What makes you feel the need to lie so much to me today?

76: I hate you. I've played your game. I don't owe you shit.

The Watcher: Do you regret it?

76: I'll do whatever I have to. I want to live.

~

NOTE: 76 is a clever and ruthless participant with a strong urge to prove himself, it's no wonder so many have been anchoring for his victory since T████ L███. However, just as a child whose favourite toy is the first to be worn out, we are concerned we may have broken him more than we anticipated.

(( i got a bit carried away LMAO. 76's player is very much one of my favourites to make messed up cus he very much leans into that already. i should mention that this series very vaguely ties into my merc au but only in like a vague ethereal sense. tagging it anyway cus i like having it all in one placeeee ))

#my writing #watcher lore #trafficblr #cw violence #cw childhood trauma #<-- very brief + cryptic on purpose but its def implied #liaumercau #fanfic

[poeticpains]

Alright. I've been chewing on the ETN movie news all day, and I think my thoughts are finally coherent enough to follow. I'll put it under a read more, mostly because it's probably going to be pretty negative and I don't wish to yuck anyone's yum.

First of all, I'll just say outright that I think including fans in the production of the movie is a bad idea. Allowing them to have cameos is, while still a little too close for comfort for me personally, one thing, but fully allowing fans to have directorial input on the season itself does not sound like it will end well in any way, shape, or form. What if they insist on a decision that Joey hates, but he does it anyways because they paid? Or what if Joey insists on a decision that they hate, and they wasted all that money?

I will be completely honest: do I want to be a part of the movie? Yes. Yes, 100%. I would love that. But that is not the question. The question is: would having me, a random 20-something with no professional film or writing experience, be involved with a movie be a good idea? And the answer to that is no.

(And I really don't want to hear about how this allows for us fans to have so-called representation. People with $350/$2,500/$3,000 just laying around do not represent me, and I'm sure that many of you feel the same way.)

Second of all, I am wary of anything that asks for funding with this little planning having gone into it. There is no cast list, no filming location, and contradictory statements on the nature of the movie itself. Is there even a script written? Is there even a story laid out? Joey has had four years to figure this out. And yeah, I know that I'm one to be talking about slow story writing, but the difference is that I'm not asking for $250,000 (at minimum!).

This is especially relevant when you consider the $3,000 donation tier and the promise of being in the movie as an extra. It says on the IGG account that it will be in the US, and yet the Twitter account says this:

I don't think I need to be the one to tell people that if you're US based and they end up filming in the UK, you're going to end up spending a lot more than $3,000 to simply get what you paid for.

This isn't me saying that I won't back it — I do plan to at one of the lower tiers, just to get the perks (I would be especially interested in the script). I'm just saying, as a friendly reminder, that it's basically akin to gambling, at this stage. Don't give them any amount of money that you're not prepared to lose entirely.

I know that a similar thing to this happened with the board game, and look how that turned out, in terms of fandom satisfaction. I don't know many people who actually enjoy that game; even I house rule a lot of it just to make playing it somewhat fun.

And finally, I really wish the Escape the Night Twitter account would get someone better suited to PR to handle their social media. It is wholly unprofessional and a terrible look for an organization that is allegedly trying to seek a place on one of the "traditional" streaming services to be getting into slapfights with people on their official account.

I realize that this post was pretty scathing, but I feel like it's deserved. I try not to be super negative on this blog, and avoid the worst of the drama, because I want my account to be a place of community. I just didn't want to ignore this.

I do have hope for the movie. I want it to happen, and I want it to be good. I want everyone to get what they paid for and be satisfied. I want to be able to get closure for Joey's story. (I want to see a 20 minute makeout scene between him and Matthew. With tongue! I'd give $350 for that!)

It seems that, at least for now, all we can do is hope.

#escape the night #etn s5 #escape the night season 5 #escape the night s5 #etn #joey graceffa

[scrawlingmouse]

so, nanowrimo

Writers who are both more eloquent and more established than I have talked at length about it, it's ups and downs, etc., but I figured Hey! I've got a writing blog now and Opinions on Nano! Might as well talk about it, right?

So, for starters, I did Nano about 10 years ago back in high school, and I'm considering doing it again this year. Sorta. We'll get back to that. When I did it the first year in high school it was fun! I did it with a friend, and I didn't "win" but I did get a lot more words down than I was used to! But of course I had school and then college to focus on, so eventually that 2/3rds of a novel draft just kinda withered away while I did nothing with it. Flash forward to the next year and I decide Hey! I should do this again! And I did, and I got maybe 2 days in before I crashed and burned. Flash forward to the next year, and it happens again. And again, and again, until eventually I swore off nano and decided it was Absolutely Terrible for Writers Forever.

So, what changed? Uh, nothing, really. I still don't think nano is a good thing for young writers who haven't learned what the writing cycle actually feels like, or even looks like.

(As a disclaimer: if you are a writer and feel like the structure and deadline works for you to help you pump out a draft, hell yeah! Good for you! Legitimately good for you, no sarcasm! This is not directed at you.)

SO THE WRITING STRUCTURE. WHAT IS IT? It's drafts. It's so many drafts, especially for longer works. It's drafts upon drafts as you figure out how you actually want your story to work. It's writing a whole novel and letting it sit and returning to it and rewriting the entire thing, and then realizing that rewrite was just a second draft, maybe even a 4th draft as you reconfigure what a "draft" actually even looks like. And then, once you have a draft you're satisfied with, it's edits. And then it's several phases of edits before you're satisfied again. And then, depending on what route you're going in terms of publishing, it's potentially even more drafts and editing and drafts of editing as you work to get your story out and-

It's a lot of work, okay? Not that anyone ever said it wasn't, but I feel like we need to be honest with ourselves in that writing is a lot of work. Cranking out 50k words in a month is a draft. A very hasty, very slapdash draft. When I tried doing this in college, I didn't quite realize it, wrapped up in all the hype of writing a novel in a month, and so kept getting frustrated when my words werent perfect. Never mind that I'd never actually finished a draft before, didn't even really know what a draft looked like.

So, why am I trying again? Great question! I'm not! Sorta. I'm not holding myself to the word count (I'm mostly writing short stories and novellas these days anyways), I'm not tying to write a finished product, and if I don't reach my goal this month I'm not going to stop. Because that's what happens a nontrivial amount: dec 1 rolls around and people stop writing without the structure/deadline to keep going, and so all the work they put in to keep up a writing habit goes down the drain. Anyways, my goal this year for this month of nanowrimo is just to stress test my own drafting abilities: how much of a draft for my next Xal novella can I get done in a month? That's it. That's my entire goal, just to see what happens. If I make it? Sweet! Onto the next phase! If I don't? Sweet! Most of a draft is better than no draft! Onto the next phase!

Draft writing is just one spoke in a wheel, and you gotta keep it turning onto the next thing.

So, what's the end to all this? Should you never participate in nano? Should you denounce it to the heavens??? Man how would I know I'm just a mouse. These are questions you gotta ask yourself and sit with the answers. I think you should tailor nano to fit with you and how you write, but you're the only one who can accurately answer just what that means for you. If it means cranking out the whole 50k, good for you! If it means just trying to write once a day, perfect! Hell yeah get that habit forming! If it's some other kind of benchmark that works for you, good!

Just keep going after. That's all I ask, don't let someone else's arbitrary goals keep you from writing.

I love you go do good work I BELIEVE IN YOU!!!!

Also hey if you read this far mind checking out my patreon or buying me a ko-fi? I've got discount commissions on my Patreon as well as access to all my backlog of one-shots forever, and I've got a $1+ donation doodle option on my ko-fi! Your support keeps me writing c: thanks!

#Squeaking #Writeblr #Nanowrimo #I HAVE OPINIONS AND I MUST SQUEAK tho those opinions are generally 'man just do what works for you' #'dont let someone else dictate how your writing method works and that includes ME' #Anyway keep writing friends I believe in you