Beth, how do you feel about the tabloids labelling Spider-Man as a 'menace'?

@tangleweave for reference

Happy Anons!  || Always Accepting

While checking her messages mid charting, a mental health break for her, she spies the anonymous one amidst cluster. She ignores some of the words at first to allow a slow and admiring smile to curve her lips, drawing new lines. Etched there by the softness, the sweetness she feels for her Ku'uku'u,  the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. A handful of stolen rooftop moments where they both feed into their own fears and insecurities; his spawning from cheating on the city by giving her his sometimes divided attention, hers coming to light by braving heights and nightfall just to share them with him.

But those other words, the question and intent of the message soon comes trickling back in at the edges. They come as tinder-twigs, and then as logs, building up in layers before they catch fire and begin to burn in the pit of her belly. Mostly because she knows that the tabloids that are mentioned aren't really that. The National Inquisitor, the Weekly World Enquiry, not even the Midnight Star ~three of the biggest tabloids~ they don't care. They don't lambaste him almost on the daily with their publishing. They don't post ridiculous headlines above larger than life images, some of them taken ~and sold, like pieces of tattered bits of soul ~by their dear, mutual friend Peter.

More respectable news papers such as the NY Bulletin, the Times, the Post, even the Wall Street Journal, do not go out of their way to be cruel to any of the number of street-level and even the galactic level heroes that flood the boroughs. They report when there are world changing disasters, but they do so with the impartiality one expects from vetted reporters whose duty, like modern day disciples of Diogenes, is to hold up the lantern of truth, and shine it in the darkest of places.

And what is the truth?

The truth is that the only real crusade undertaken is that of J. Jonah Jameson. Editor and owner of the Daily Bugle, a paper which Beth wouldn't use to line a bird cage any more, Jameson has to know in his heart that he's been printing sheer rubbish for as long as Spider-Man has been swinging himself across the city trying to save it, for little credit and no discernable reward she can see.

At worst, Spider-Man is a vigilante. An unlicensed fighter of crime and unusual violence, but is certainly not a menace. Those who parrot Jameson do so because they are afraid of what they don't understand, and what causes harm. A thing natural to all human beings. Spider-Man fights villains all over the boroughs with no accountability but what if he didn't? The death tolls, the destruction would be unfathomable.

But these people, who decry every act of selfless heroism, are the same reason that the Accords and the Superhuman Registration Act are now matters of law. He is always at the scene where an incident would take place. Jameson paints him in hues of menace no matter who or what is saved due to Spidey's courage. He does so to bolster the purchase of his paper, and his magazines, even his podcasts. People have paranoia about super-powered individuals, and they bask in being proven 'right' for feeling so, even when they have evidence proving contrary truth. She truly believes Jameson doesn't only hate Spider-Man, but fears him, is so jealous of him that he can do nothing but try to mould reality to support his own failings as a man.

Even if she were to play the devil's advocate, she would still have to say Spider-Man tries so hard.

He is terrified of killing his enemies. She knows this. She's had it from his own lips. And while most superheroes figure out how to pull their punches just enough for a given enemy, Spidey always errs on the side of caution. And a secret that she will never share is the fact that his fists likely couldn't take the kind of punishment he might otherwise dish out. He has remarkable strength, stamina, agility. All the physical attributes that might decimate perfectly ordinary people. But his own body is no tougher than any other. He is not bulletproof, and if he were to punch a wall with the force he is capable of, he'd shatter his knuckles, his hands, likely even his radius or ulna.

Most of his opponents tend to wearing armoured suits or have animal-based armored hides. It isn't fair.

So Ku'uku'u has the ability to heft cars or trucks or statuary. And while any of those may be a suitable weapon toward the likes of Rhino or that Kraven guy, it would require Spidey to hold still instead of using his superior speed and dexterity to protect himself. What's more is that he created his webs in place of weapons such as laser guns, or archaic swords or hammers. Tools of warriors. His webs allow him to capture and detain. To leave his enemies alive. She can't name someone else who has that sort of presence of mind.

Whatever else Spider-Man might be, he certainly isn't a menace.

And that has to be where Jameson's loathing comes from, his need to tear down someone with Captain America's heart, her brother's bravery, Tony Stark's intelligence, Thor's sweetness. So many other traits that she sees in part in other people, but not one of them have them in a single package like Spider-Man.

She clicks on the reply button and begins to type her thoughts up more concisely, but with no less the amount of admiration for Spidey, and no less spite for J. Jonah Jameson.

“Dear Nonnymouse....”

Does Beth have/enjoy cake on her birthday? If so, is it adorned with candles? If so, does she make (or has she ever made) a wish? And finally, if so, have any of them come true yet?

Beth doesn’t need the reminder that in nine days and counting down, she’s going to be thirty-three. Officially an old maid, according to the Admiral, and yet another disappointing year for the family. A reminder that she hasn’t really celebrated in years, though at least her friends have done their best to make the day as festive as possible, and what a balming mercy they are.  It isn’t that she isn’t grateful, she is. She tries to express that in all the ways possible. She’s maybe just...bad at it, like she’s bad at so many other things when it comes to social interaction. “I mean, yeah, if someone goes t’rough da trouble of makin’ me one or bringing one to me. Oddahwise I don’ really boddah, especially because well. I don’ really cook very well an’ if I try f’ make one, dere would be so much wrong wi’ it, or I’d likely poison someone.” At least she’s honest. “Candles are also optional, but I know my friends like t’ choose fun ones. Or mebbe even sparklers and stuff. An’ as for wishes...I mean...yeah, I guess. Who doesn’t?” That, though, is a lie. Beth doesn’t see the value in wishes any more. She thought like all children do that wishes were magickal. That they were like a prayer with extra weight, and she would make them with the whole of her heart. But her mother still left. They never got to leave. Andy still took her to the mainland and left. And then he died. Whomever grants wishes doesn’t seem to hear her, no matter how loudly her heart makes them. So she stopped. After all, the {wrong} definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results. She wouldn’t know what to wish for, nowadays, anyway. “As for comin’ true, you don’ really believe dat, do you? We all know dat its like...uh... Santa’s naughty an’ nice list, or da Easter Bunny bringin’ baskets. Only way to make a wish come true is t’ tell someone else, or work hard to get what you want.”

are you fandomless or what? this is the shit people can’t stand about a female oc you make it so convenient to slide in wherever you want and then want credit as though you’re a fucking established canon. but we’re suppose to swallow this mary sue garbage. she’s nice to everyone, she’s gorgeous, she is a genius, she’s a gazillionaire, she’s perfect in every fucking way MISS US WITH THIS TRASH

So. Cool. I was just going to ignore this once the giddiness of receiving anon hate for the first time in 5+ years wore off. Then I was going to just leave a reaction gif and let that speak for itself. But you know I can never leave well enough alone. 1. Yes, she is Marvel/White Wolf leaning, but primarily fandomless because I would like to be able to write with whomever I so wish, without the hassle of having to create a convoluted and ridiculous reason to cross over. 2. You presume a lot about me, it's almost flattering that I live rent free in your head, apparently. 3. Yes, as stated above, going mostly fandomless does allow me to slid into any fandom/verse I so wish, at my convenience. And the two dozen people or so that are my constant and important partners do not seem to care. 4. This is probably going to hurt your feelings, but what credit I care about is writing my own story, with my own character. I am not creatively bankrupt enough to have to take someone else's work, twist it around to suit my identity and politics, and then write that like it's the hottest take on the planet. If I wanted to play easy-mode, I'd have chosen a canon and just cut/pasted their bio from a wiki. 5. Baby-girl, learn basic spelling and grammar rules.

6. Nice? She is. Gorgeous? Your words, not mine and most certainly not hers. Genius? Yes. Independently coloniser-wealthy? Also yes. And how is she literally any different than almost any other comic character? 7. How can I miss you at all, if you won't go away?

Don't know if this applies but T.M.I . for the Mun- What and who influences Beth as a Muse the most? Or did inspiration come from else where?

TMI Tuesday || Always Accepting

I am so sorry you asked this, Nonnymouse, but here we go. First, let me tell you, I've been a writer for a very long time. I was a reader by the age of four, and by the age of eight, I was outlining and writing my first novel. When I was 14, my friends at school introduced me to a tabletop rpg {Advanced Dungeons and Dragons 2nd. Edition: Dragonlance}. Role-play and writing have been lifelong past times and I become very involved in character creation. Fast-forward to 2014 when I saw CA: The Winter Soldier. Now of course I knew pertinent parts of the story from having been a comic book collector for some years, but there was something about the movie and the portrayal of SebStan that hurt my heart. I started to think the boy needed, in no particular order, a bath, a hug, a warm blanket, a kiss on the forehead, and a grilled cheese sandwich cut in half, diagonally. Two of my nearest and dearest suggested that maybe I write some fanfic, so I set about thinking about what kind of person would make a very good friend for Bucky Barnes. The first thing I decided was he would need someone who wouldn't be afraid of him, initially, and maybe someone who could patch up the kinds of wounds he might have after you know, someone dropped the Treskelion on him. Then I decided that she would need the kind of flexibility to drop everything for the sake of our tragic hero if need be, or to provide him with resources that he might need.

I wanted her to not fit into the mainstream. I wanted her to have a connection to the world without overshadowing the canons that already existed. I knew she would be Riley's sister. So she had to be part Irish. It was Beth herself who told me she was that, but more importantly, that she was Polynesian. Hawai'ian to be specific. It took me almost a year to learn about Hawai'i, the people and culture, the food and dress, the struggles of the people, and to teach myself how to read and write the language, and the slang {Pidgin}. It took me even longer to find a face claim for her and for Andy both. Eventually, when we were both happy with her bare bones/history, I decided that I wanted to get a sort of "feel" for her, and that's when Stoat {my roomie extraordinaire over at @morgansmornings} told me about Tumblr and told me maybe I could try her out here.

2016, in September, she made her debut. The first three people who ever befriended me were another OC {@multi-mused}, a John Constantine {I miss you, Nick!}, and a Loki { @lokitheliesmith}, the first and latter whom I still play with! And while I did make Beth for Bucky, she grew and changed and became a little breathing being all of her own. Some of her background stems from my own, some of her personality from my nearest and dearest friend, but like a child you have and raise, she had some fundamentals, but ultimately she created herself, evolved and changed based on her experiences and circumstances, and she's her own person now.

some influences include: 1. The lyrics for this song. 2. This tabletop role playing game, arguably my most favourite. 3. Just how cute and tiny is Kristin Kreuk? 4. And honest to goodness, all of you who have interacted with her, leaving your own marks on her, to which I am grateful for. If that isn't the questions you were asking, then please feel free to ask others, dm me, or hit me up on disco. <3

"Beth, would you ever use Billy in your workings and rituals?"

"I might, if I didn't t'ink I'd have t' gag an' bind him to avoid da screaming an' da movin' around. He doesn't seem like da type dat would volunteer for a lot of it. An' den dere's da clean up aftahward, an' it jus' feels like...so much work. Besides, even if I could entice him wi' da Great Rite in da mos' physical sense... Well, let's jus' say no woman wants to be courted while da oddah person is t'inking about her braddah. Not dat I'm judgin' Billy. It jus'...we're not compatible dat way, you know?"

💚 Anakin

Imagine You and Me || Accepting tagging @mynameisanakin

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away... There was a princess who felt the whole world flowing in and through her. Every blade of grass, every flap of a hawk-wasp's wing, the ceaseless murmur of the hungering dead deep within the Bare Forest. When she was still little she submitted to the duty laid upon her by the General and sailed across the stars to a world called Coruscant. For all the things that lived on the back of this world, it had already died a tragic, avoidable death. The princess did not want to be here, so far away from her fathers, but she was the one chosen, and she could not shirk her duty. What she could not know, however, is that she would soon meet her destiny. The boy was close in age to her, and he too grieved to be here. He was small and lost and was taken from his mother. The other younglings of the clan dismissed the boy, but she did not. She crept toward him and shared her blankets with him, soothing him for the first of oh-so-many nights to come. As they grew older, the boy and the princess ~who now was simply ordinary~ bonded together, became hopelessly entangled with one another through and in the Force, and she realised that no matter what happened to him, she was meant to serve, guard, protect and love the boy. And she did, with every ounce of her being. This is where the rest of the story becomes muddled. Some day the boy was killed by a terrible monster. Some say he lived to become a wise and compassionate ruler. Some say he never lived at all. But Melakeni knows the truth, and the truth is that her za'lali was all of those things and none of them. He was only ever Anakin, her heart and her Doom. ~*~ Shady and I have spent years building this ship brick by brick. Inviting others selectively to share that ship, and that au, but ultimately we hoard it to ourselves hundreds of thousands of words at a time, and are in fact, still telling the story. I will let this one go only when I am dead and one with the Force. {{10000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000/10, and fuck 'Canon'}}

Tell me it was for the hunger & nothing less. For hunger is to give the body what it knows

it cannot keep. That this amber light whittled down by another war is all that pins my hand

to your chest.

A Little Conversation || Accepting!

You, drowning

between my arms —

stay.

You, pushing your body

into the river

only to be left

with yourself —

stay.

🌸 If you get this, answer with 3 random facts about yourself and send it to the last few blogs in your notifications, anonymously or not! Let's get to know the person behind the blog. 🌸

Mahalo! Nonnymouse <3 tagging: Doooooo it.

I. My 30+ year dream is to open a gently used and new bookstore/coffee shop in a brownstone I could live above, somewhere cool and rainy and green. It would be called Poe's, and it would have three residential cats: Edgar, Allan, and Bob. II. I am passionately interested in true crime and murder mysteries. I have quite the collection of books about serial killers, particularly Albert Fish and Jack the Ripper.

III. I am allergic to cold. By that I mean I have a condition called cold urticaria and in temperatures under 40 degrees Fahrenheit {4.4 Celsius}, I break out into rashes of giant, livid welts that itch like crazy, on exposed skin- hands, face, neck, etc.

What's the best thing about having Tabby as a friend?

Anon-aholics || Accepting {{ @tabbyrp  for reasons <3}}

When Beth opens her blog, she sees the notification of a message. And when she reads it, she can’t help but burst into bloom, a smile as wide as the Brooklyn Bridge curving her lips with full teeth and crinkling her nose. It isn’t because of the anonymous message, one of the faceless masses who could be anybody and no one at all. No, it’s because they’re asking about Tabby. At first, when Andy had introduced them, Beth had been reserved. There’d been that particular kind of eye-roll because of course her brother had made a new female friend. Beth was accustomed to those; women who were attracted to her brother for numerous reasons: his good looks, his easy smile, his bank account, his bad-boy image, all the photographs and events and purported lifestyle that comes with being a Riley, the uniform, the wounded warrior aspect. There was a reason for every star in the sky. And eventually, every one of them winked out of existence when they realised the reality didn’t match the advertising. That yes, he was part of the One Percent but that he worked more than he played. That he’d sooner be caught in a dive bar playing guitar instead of rubbing elbows with the rich, young, celebrity elite. That he wasn’t a phone call away from a one night stand, that he spent more time with his sister than anyone else. Most of these women never even bothered to learn Beth’s name, and Beth herself was not too troubled by their sooner-rather-than-later disappearance. But Tabby?  Tabby had been so different from the get go. She gave as good as she got when it came to her brother’s sometimes bitter sarcasm. Tabby called him out on bad behaviour in a gentle way and knew just when to cut him off. More than that, Tabby had chosen not only to acknowledge their bond, but to see Beth as a person in her own right, and not just Andy’s pet or shadow. She opens up a new post, and after adjusting her glasses, she begins to type. “Tabby Mitchell is probably one of the kindest and most generous souls I know. And while that includes sharing whatever material resources she might have, I mean that in an emotional and spiritual way. She can almost always finish my thoughts and seems to know exactly how to make me smile even if I don’t feel like it. And that all sounds so self-centred. I love that we can go days and weeks without talking and pick up right where we left off as if not a moment has passed. I love that she is so fearless and irrepressible. I love that she’s short, like me. “Tabby is so wholly present every moment, gleaming like a star even if you don’t see it right away, and she’s got this energy that I can’t begin to do justice. Sure, she has her own ups and downs, she can be as petulant when she’s hurt. She can be so creatively, offensively rude when she feels it necessary, but… but her heart is so soft, so tender. But if I ever had to narrow it down to one, particular thing?” Beth pauses and considers Tabby from every angle, trying hard to choose one thing. Her first instinct; that she *sees* me, is so selfish and that’s not what the question is about and not the right message she wants to send. “Her zest for life and sense of adventure. I think that Tabby inspires people, certainly me, by unflinchingly staring at the challenges ahead of her and tackling them head on, often with a wit that astonishes me. I just... I love her.”

What do you find romantically appealing about Spider-Man?

Anon-aholics || Accepting {{tagging @wxr-zxne for reference, tagging @tangleweave for relevance}}

Beth is used to interviews derailing at a certain point, it's all old hat. She knew that unless the Bulletin had sent Karen Page to her home to talk about the new animal shelter she was opening up, that sooner or later talk would boil down to glorified gossip. At least the question was mild by journalistic standards, though the interviewer, whose name she already forgot, was neither as poised, as pretty, or as well-spoken as Karen. She makes a mental note to make lunch plans with her soon.

But as she ruminates over the question, Beth can't help the start of a smile. Just thinking about him lifts the sourness in the back of her throat over the question, and she realises it's likely not as titillating as the reporter wants. How do you explain why you love someone when the truth is there’s nothing you don’t, and none of it’s based around his physical presence?

"Off the record? People often say 'oh, there's just something about' and here you can fill in anyone's name, proverbially. Most of the time it's the chemical release of dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin that produces feelings of desire as related to mating instincts, and of course they don't usually recognise it as such. With Spiderman, I suppose it's true, though. There just....is....something about him.

“If you spent any time getting to know him, you’d understand that he has the biggest heart of anyone I know. He worries about hurting other people, including those who would kill someone without a thought. That comes from a place of deep respect for the fundamental right of Life and community. As someone of Pacific Island decent, and a nurse-practitioner, that’s very important to me. “And still, he’s got an amazing sense of humour. I know very few people who could keep up with him, the way a quip can just roll off his tongue but he’s never mean about it. The words he chooses, the kinds of private conversation we tend to have, he lets me see this city and maybe even the world in a different light. To see what is truly good there, what is worth saving, because he sees it that way. That capacity for love is truly humbling. “Even when we might disagree with one another, he never makes it personal and he’s always someone I can listen to, hear out, and I look forward to that. His opinions matter. And sometimes, I just...whenever he’s talking, it makes me smile, even for no reason. When he talks about dreams and hopes, I want him to succeed, and I think he wants the same thing for me. He always knows the right way to encourage me. Our ideals are often well-matched.”

She pauses to take a sip of her coffee. “Still off the record, of course, I’m sure you’re asking for the racier stuff, so I can tell you...it isn’t a sexual attraction but I want to be physically close to him all the time. I like sitting next to him. I like holding his hand while we’re discussing radical politics or what he’s been up to. I like the way his throat bobs when he laughs and it’s the best laugh, or how he sometimes sounds uncertain when he’s doing so. He gets this little nasal tone too. But I suppose you’re not asking about that. Uhm. Oh. His hair, it’s so soft. And a little floppy. It’s entirely possible too that I have a thing for strong jaws and long necks. And believe me when I say from where I’m standing? Everything’s long.” She smiles now and one that is as predatory as it is full. “So that’s what you’re getting. And I did say it’s off the record so if I see a single word of it printed on paper or posted online, I will make it my life’s goal to sue you into non-existence. I have the money, the connections, and my retainer is with Pearson Specter Litt, and Harvey Specter is for all intents and purposes, my god-father. So...Bet.”

Are you sure you're not a siren from the sea?

"I mean... Is entirely possible. She my maddah aftah all." There's a momentary pause as she gazes out over the rolling waves before she looks back and grins. "Or are you jus' implyin' I'm a salty bitch?"

If you could change one pivotal moment in your past, would you, and if so, how would you change it?

"Don' ask."

Is wine actually a pleasant drink or is it simply to most socially acceptable alcohol to relax with?

"Both?" Such a small word but infinitely complex in pronunciation ~for her~ as well as concept.

No one has ever taken her to task for indulging in a modest glass. No one has ever really noticed that sometimes she has that glass for hours, taking delicate sips. Or the fact that the bottle she'd just opened ends up in the trash by the end of the evening.

If ever asked, she's say that it ~wine~ is a healthy alternative to hard liquor. Lowish in calories and carbs. And proven benefits thanks to the high concentrations of antioxidants, particularly resveratrol. Lower bad cholesterol, increase the good, reducing the risk of depression, cancer, diabetes....a plethora, really. But people don't ask. They don't want to be nurse-splained, which is an easy trap to fall into if one isn't careful. "It's sort of an artform, yeah? Between smell an' taste there's so many kine you can get out of it. Fruits, chocolates, ideas like smoke or da tang of metal. Right t'ickness, right soil an' sun an' aging an' oddah kine dat it can taste a lil like blood. An' I don' mind dat so much, you know? Don' hit you as hard as say vodka or gin. Don' curdle ya stomach like beer which really taste only like bread dat made some bad choices in its life." For a moment she looks lost. Like she's not quite old enough to have a drink much less informed opinions on any of it. "An' yeah...Socially, it's more acceptable f' women t' drink wine dan almost any t'ing else. I mean. I mean dat sure, you can drink hard alcohol but usually it's all mix-drinks wi' fruit an' umbrellas or technicolour shades dat have weirdly no kine to do wi' what it's made from. Stereotype dat you don't sip whiskey. You don't slam straight vodka. Wine's classy, d'ough. Wine's elegant. Red, white... blush... it don' maddah. No one looks too close. No one...." No one cares that maybe you've got a problem just like your brother. You just hide it better. "Complains."

Which member of your family (extended or blood) would win in each of the following games: scrabble. poker. putt putt golf. candy land.

Whispers || Always Accepting

Her face scrunches up a little, not because the question is confusing, but because it's competitive. That's one thing they all have in abundance and it shows when any games are played. For instance, she and Martin have turned Monopoly into a full contact sport. Riggs, ~the only time she uses his surname~, tends to hoard houses and hotels in his pockets, his boots, under the questionable cushions of his trailer... and Beth has been known to hide utilities and properties inside of her clothes. More than once there's been a stray bruise or bite marks after a game is abandoned. And to this day, she still has no idea the little pewter canon ever ended up.

"I'm'a hafta say... Andy win at Scrabble. I don' know if ya evah notice but even if he curse like a sailor, man's got an incredible vocabulary an' ya know. He da best at spelling. Also, he no let me use Hawai'ian words on da board."

One down. "Poker...if you nevah count me? Dat gonna be eiddah Gamble or Billy. I mean wi' Brian...it right dere, in his last name, right? An' Billy...he's almost good at math as me, only he a little faster. 'Course, it also depend on which kine of poker an' how much drinkin' was an' is bein' done. Also gonna say it...I t'ink Tabby palms chips sometimes. Playin' kind, not eatin' ones." Two down, and so many people thrown under the bus. "Put-Put is gonna go to Jay. She got a real good eye an' a pretty steady back-swing. I dunno if it counts, howevah, cause usually somewhere 'round da six hole? Someone goddah separate her an' Andy before da clubs get use as weapons." Gospel truth, which is really how Andy bruised his ribs that One Time, and why they got kicked out of the arcade at Coney Island.

"An'...uhm... what is Candy land?"

CARDINAL

...of a Feather || -

Cardinal- how does your muse recover from strong emotions? How do they recuperate?

I would love to answer this in-character as I prefer to do most of my ask replies. There is so much more nuance in showing rather than simply telling. There's also more resonance, a place for her to stretch and grow. Having said that, I also have to say that Beth is incredibly terrible at self care and personal recovery. And I mean that as in... the poor thing doesn't even try. She is the kind of person that tries to bury her feelings so deep that both Jimmy Hoffa and DB Cooper will be found before you can put a finger on what is going on with her, and she absolutely fails....spectacularly.

Her first instinct is to stiffen up. To make herself as small as possible. To become invisible because there's too much for her to process, and she isn't exactly equipped with the tools to do so. Her second instinct is to let the emotion wash over her, whether good or bad or indifferent and her eyes will well up with tears. If she cannot find a way to escape into her own company, to put space between herself and what she's feeling and try to analyse it to death, then she will become borderline hostile, to try to force that required space, and subsequent cool-down period.

But once she does achieve space and time with which to examine the hows and whys of any emotion strong enough to impact her {and we're talking the kind of person who can easily sob over animal shelter adverts but who can keep everything together in the extremely high-stress environment of Emergency Room medicine}? That is where everything starts to fall apart. One thing leads to another and it begins to spiral into a labyrinth of personal guilt, failure, and being unable to understand what she did wrong // what she could have done better // how exactly to blame herself and be eaten alive by it.

The next go-to move is to drink wine and have a hot bath if at all possible, the former not being the healthiest of choices, but certainly not the worst.

She might be willing to take advice or suggestions for alternate coping mechanisms.

⇕ Is your muse a top or a bottom? Both?ღ Does your muse like using toys?⌛️ How long does your muse last in bed?

Sinday Awkward Sinday || Accepting @multi-mused

Beth doesn’t know the stranger, and the questions are beyond inappropriate. “I dunno ya, an’ quite frankly, none of dis is any of ya business. So I t’ink mebbe ya should go find yaself anoddah clinic, an’ anoddah doctah, cause dis no da righ’ place for ya.” But even as she’s making an exit for herself, she can’t help the stir of memories the questions bring up.

She’s always had a submissive streak ten miles long, and it worked with Zarek, who hadn’t ever been the softest thing. From the first time when he’d literally opened her eyes to the possibilities, and invaded her as thoroughly as a foreign country, she only very rarely needed or wanted to take the lead. And the few times it had happened, he’d allowed her to do it, possibly intrigued to see what she was going to do with that freedom, or curious as to what she’d learned.

And while they have so many other problems, that had never been one of them. She craves his voice. She misses him to the core of her being, and it’s taken months to try to find a way to live with everything that’s happened. Her bed and arms are empty without him. The kiss of sharpened steel of his knives against her skin as he flicks little designs across her lips or down over her belly, or on the perfect flesh of her thighs, the even sharper nip of his teeth. The guttural whisper of that dark voice low like the hollows of earth in her ear. The way his hand wraps securely around her throat, the most possessive and safest feeling in the world. She’s almost embarrassed that just thinking about him sends a spike of heat down her spine, to pool molten in other places. She can only hope he doesn’t feel that commingled sense of want and fear making war in her veins. He’s never needed anything but himself to set her alight. Sometimes, he didn’t even need to touch her. There’s a look he gets in his eyes ~beautiful and black like liquid night, pools of moonless water~ that alone eats away at her sense of sanity and decorum.  They can go at it for hours, or it can all be over in minutes. But the thing that his her the hardest is not even any of that. Suddenly her mind floods with other images. The hint of a smile as she traces a fingertip from his brow down the length of his nose, laying mostly atop him, his hand on her waist. The way they don’t make a big deal of how she can be standing between his knees and he’s still a little taller than her, sitting. Watching him read or work on his carvings while she knits. How sometimes, just sometimes, when he allows himself to sleep, that he turns his face into her neck. How he speaks to their son in the softest ways, both in the ancient version of his language and in English. The gentility of his actions when he’s covered in alligator hatchlings. “I need t’ talk t’ my husband. Don’ be heah wen I get back.”