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theproverbialpen · 1 month

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Musings from a Hazbin Fan and Hotel Employee

Yeah, that's right—I'm posting to this blog for the first time in years because I got into Hazbin Hotel of all things. Not only did I get into this cursed fandom, I'm writing fan fiction for it. Fan fiction. I think the last time I wrote fanfiction was...2012? 2013? And I only ever told 3 people about that one. Now here I am posting on main. The brainrot truly is unquantifiable.

If you're one of the few people that survived the purge of those I know IRL, congratulations. Please don't judge me lol. Anyways, actual musings are below the cut!

So I’m writing a fun little fanfic on AO3 and after someone left a comment (if you’re reading this, still genuinely one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me about my craft), it occured to me—as a Hazbin Hotel enjoyer, I have a pretty unique perspective on the series as an IRL hospitality professional. So! Thought it would be some cute bonus content to talk a little bit more about my life at an actual hotel and how it’s impacted my experience with Vivziepop’s hit series.

Please note: this is written purely for shits and giggles. I don’t actually have any issues with the setting of Vivzie’s narrative or how it plays into the stories she and her team want to tell. I fucking love this show, to a potentially unhealthy degree, and I haven’t had this much fun with a series since like…okay well my hyperfixations change like every few months, but still. Point is, this isn’t actually critique, or satire, or anything with negative or critical intentions. TLDR; this post is for funsies, get off my dick.

So Who TF Am I, Anyways?

A little background on myself, for context. I’ve been employed at my hotel for almost a year now, and it’s my first hospitality job. I work in the Sales and Events department and I’ve come to learn that Group Business is actually integral for keeping a hotel up and running. When your average person (read: me before this job) thinks about hotels and traveling, you’d think it’s all about the families, bloggers, and individual travelers when it comes to guests and revenue. But in actuality, most of a hotel’s revenue—at least in the market I work in—will come from contracted room blocks and events.

That’s where folks in my department come in. We work with clients to negotiate contracts and secure occupants for our hotel year round. Simply put, if we don’t do our jobs well, then no one else gets hours. So as much as the anti-capitalist in me will sometimes hate being a cog in the machine, it is really fulfilling to be able to help clients meet their needs while also making sure my coworkers are able to put food on the table.

Speaking of being a cog in the machine, because of my role in Sales, this means that whenever I travel or think about hotels, I’m always thinking about the revenue side of things. I also work more with the Events team, so operations are also on the forefront of my mind. Which leads me to my principal quandary for this little blog post:

How in the Hell does the Hazbin Operate?

I have a laundry list of questions. A laundry list that’s almost as big as the actual pile of dirty laundry that is currently plaguing my bedroom floor. I will summarize (which is a generous word given how fucking verbose I can be) below:

Issue #1: Revenue Generation

Okay listen, I know Charlie is the Princess of Hell. I know she probably has unlimited capital, whatever that looks like in the HelluVerse. And I know the Hazbin is literally there to help rehabilitate people so charging them to stay would be counterproductive.

But my dude…do you understand how much money would be needed to run an operation of this scale?

At the end of Season 1, the new Hazbin is huge. Like it easily looks as big, if not bigger, than the hotel I work at which has nearly 500 rooms. Do you know how much revenue our team has to generate to keep this place running? Do you know how many millions our target goal is set at for each quarter? How many hundreds of thousands my coworkers’ individual quotas are set to? And sunshine in a bottle over here doesn’t charge her residents anything?????

How does she get all those decorations? How does she order food or inventory? We know Hell has an economy, like Angel literally says he needs to save money for drugs in his first appearance. Is she…does she even pay her staff???

It is utterly appalling that Charlie is able to operate a hotel of this scale, both because of how it doesn’t make sense from a business perspective and because there are IRL billionaires that could probably do the same thing and solve homelessness overnight.

Speaking of scale:

Issue #2: The Hazbin’s Systems, Or Lack Thereof

Okay so, yes, there’s only like…one official resident of the hotel, maybe two if Cherri moves in and doesn’t become a staff member (RIP Pentious, you would have loved living with Cherri Bomb). With the staff the way it is, that’s a solid 5:1 ratio, which is beyond ideal. But—and I touch on this in the fic—I feel I must reiterate: the new Hazbin is fucking massive. And you know what that means? It’s going to be able to hold a lot of guests. Guests that will need staff to take care of them. Let’s review:

Charlie is the owner and mostly teaches classes. Vaggie is the co-owner and kind of acts as the Executive Assistant to Charlie’s General Manager. I guess Alastor is the Hotel Manager? I’m gonna be honest, I have no idea what he does, but generally speaking he’s supposed to be the jack of all trades and manage the rest of the staff. Niffty handles Housekeeping and I guess would be the director of that. Husk is the bartender but like canonically only really eats pub food so he definitely can’t be the Food & Beverage head.

Let’s say we scrap the Sales and Revenue Departments because clearly they don’t need income, but we keep a Marketing position so that Charlie can get the word out about the hotel. That leaves us with the need for Engineering, Front Desk, Rooms, and F&B staff. And like, not just one person—that would fucking suck—but proper staff. And given their track record of organization and managing the hotel…let’s just say, I would not be applying to the Hazbin Hotel anytime soon. Honestly, it sounds like that job would qualify to be the new tenth circle of Hell.

What Does the Hazbin Get Right About IRL Hospitality?

So yes, clearly the world of the Hazbin Hotel leans towards the more fanciful—it is a story about Hell after all. However, there have been some moments that have made me chuckle as a hotel employee, things that are relatable for us in the hospitality world. Allow me to highlight them for you below:

Everyone is Bat Shit Crazy

Hospitality professionals are weird. So weird. Before I started my job, I was terrified of the level of professionality I would need to have. When I first got hired, I was given a whole packet on dress code and appropriate conduct. As you can probably tell from my writing style, this was concerning: I can be professional when I need to be, but I cannot maintain that guise for extended periods of time. Call it my toxic trait.

I also already had this impression of poised and put-together hotel staff from my previous experiences with travel. All the Front Desk agents would be in these clean and wrinkle-free clothes with kind yet business-forward attitudes, office workers would be walking around in full suits, and occasionally you’d see the hotel management on the floor if you were looking. Let me tell you now—it is a facade. An act. An incredible stage production unfolding in real time where all the staff do their absolute damndest to make you feel like you are in an organized and professional institution. Not unlike a certain hit animated musical.

My direct supervisor, the literal Director of Catering and Events, once told me that being a liiiiiittle crazy was a prerequisite for working in our department during the hiring process for a new Sales Manager. She was wrong—the prerequisite is not “a little” crazy. The prerequisite is being bat shit insane. And it’s not just our department, oh noooOoooOo, it is every department. Downstairs in our little basement dungeon, we make out of pocket comments, scream at random intervals, and swear way more than we should (that one might be my fault…according to my partner I swear more at work than at home and apparently it’s rubbing off on my colleagues), but that behavior is in no way restricted to just the Sales Team.

I process the checks that are sent to our property and our Director of Rooms makes me say “can I get a WITNESSSS” before she signs off on the drop log (Charlie-core). If I don’t say it high pitched enough or with enough vigor, she makes me do it again. I once watched a guy in Engineering climb a tall step ladder balanced with two legs on a platform and a third leg balanced on a wooden plank his coworker was holding steady. The fourth leg was over the open air. Let me reiterate: the open. Fucking. Air. Tell me you can’t see Angel Dust and Cherri doing that shit.

Speaking of Engineering, you wanna know what dumbass thing happened just this morning? The Regional Director of the department—regional meaning he manages teams all across our area, like top level type shit—told us about this cursed ass Instagram trend he found where allegedly, putting ketchup on a Kit Kat tasted like fudge. So right there and then, him, myself, and two other coworkers decided ‘why the fuck not?’:

I would never seek it out willingly again, but I honestly didn’t hate it.

The point of all of this is to say—the antics the Hazbin crew get up to? Totally realistic. I could see my coworker Robert throwing me into an active battlefield against my will. We have deadass done the role playing thing Angel and Pentious did during our trainings, and it was just as unhinged. Every day some shit happens at this hotel and I’m just like, “Yup. That could happen in Hazbin.”

“Call Now! Or Don’t! I Don’t Care! We Still Don’t Have a Working Phone!”

I would like to preface this section by saying: if you happen to be a Front Desk associate, I’m sorry. This is not directed at you, this is directed at your managers and their communication skills that may or may not exist. If you are somehow a manager reading this, uh—first of all, cringe. Second of all, I hope these next few paragraphs don’t apply to you. If they do and you’re offended: that’s a certified you-problem, babes.

There are three certainties in this life: death, taxes, and miscommunication from your fucking managers. Tell me why in this past week alone I have been in 5 different email threads regarding fuck-ups and complaints from guests about things that we had clearly communicated. Tell me why in these email threads, people were attempting to throw me under the bus or shift the blame to my team. Tell me why I have gone to every single individual office in my department complaining about this. Tell me why this isn’t the first time this has happened.

Another hotel tidbit: across the board, Q1 (Jan-Mar) is supposed to be slow, for all of hospitality. It’s the time to get the metaphorical phone lines working, ya know? Our Q1 was stupidly busy, so I get it, people were slammed and short staffed. But like… we had time. Time to iron out our communication, time to create systems and processes that would ensure we’d be all set when things got busier. Yet here I am at the start of Q2 with an entire fist shoved up my ass being puppeted around to fix other people’s mistakes.

It’s times like these when I go back to rewatch Hazbin for the like 26th time and I watch Charlie and Alastor run the hotel and I’m just like “whyyYyYyYyYyYy”. Like I KNOW Vaggie has had days where she’s like, “what…what am I supposed to be doing right now? Like what is my job, what… What?”

It’s not just Front Desk either. It’s every department, even my own bosses. Like the call is coming from inside the house, sweetie, why did you tell this Sales Manager that I was taking care of all her commissions but you didn’t tell me this. Why am I blocking a room for an Orientation the following Monday at fucking 5:45 PM on a Friday. Why am I JUST finding out about a VIP guest when I have been asking you if you had any notes for me for the whole week.

I touch on it in my fic as well but like…pretty sure Charlie just, decides to host her classes day of. And that drives me insane. Like I…there are processes. Things that need to be done so that everyone is on the same page. You don’t just wing this shit, that’s how you end up with Susan calling your Director to tell her that you’re a useless waste of space not even deserving of the air in your lungs because you didn’t give her her fucking breakfast voucher.

As a character, I love Alastor. If I were ever in the same room as him, I’d probably hate him. But if there’s anything relatable about that Geneva Convention Violation on Legs it’s his absolutely done attitude in Episode 1’s opening commercial.

Charlie Loves Helping People, and So Do We!

Alright, I’ve complained for enough paragraphs, let’s be positive for a second. The thing that is by far the most true to life in Hazbin Hotel is how much joy Charlie gets from taking care of her guests. Like…that’s our bread and butter in the hospitality world. Well, maybe just the butter; we need that bread in the form of cold hard cash (or direct deposits, whatever works best). But as much as I will bitch and moan about the difficulties of working in a hotel, there’s nothing quite as fulfilling as a guest telling you that you made their entire trip better. The butterflies I get reading reviews where my coworkers are mentioned by name and a guest writes about how we completely turned around their bad day are an absolute delight. It just means the world knowing that you can have that kind of impact on someone, even if it’s just in the little things.

In Episode 2, when Charlie and the crew are welcoming Sir Pentious and she just starts vibrating with excitement is exactly how I feel when I get to meet a client that we’ve been working with for months and finally welcome them to our property. When they sing “It Starts With Sorry” and just get to have a moment of empathy and compassion together, it reminds me of the clients and the phone calls I take where I get to ask them about their goals and help them feel like they’re supported and heard. In the grand scheme of things, is a nice phone call or interaction with some hotel employee going to change your life? Probably not. But for those few moments when their burdens seem lighter is why I love my job.

This goes for guests, and for my fellow coworkers. I’ve been very blessed to start my hospitality career in an unusually supportive work culture. Yeah, we can be some right petty bitches sometimes, but overall everyone is so encouraging and so quick to help lighten each other’s loads. Like in Episode 5 (best episode btw, for obvious reasons) when all the Hazbin Crew are working together to prepare the hotel for Lucifer’s arrival, that shit made me so giddy cause like- that’s us! Look at us go! We workin together so hard, we’re so cute! Like when Niffty and Pentious are baking and she looks up at him all excited n’ shit—that’s literally been me working with our Director of Restaurants on new food menus or promotional material.

There’s something about being in an occupation where your whole purpose is to take care of people that really brings out the selflessness in you, and I think that’s what makes the hotel such a great setting for Charlie’s mission of redemption. I didn’t realize that until writing this paragraph tbh, but yeah, it just kinda…works. When your job is to make sure other people have a good time and feel supported and you’re surrounded by people that make you feel the same way, it’s a lot easier to want to choose to do good, to do right by the people around you. So as much as I have some silly little nitpicks…yeah, I can admit—I love that this show is about the Hazbin Hotel specifically.

Anyways, if you made it this far, thanks for reading! Next update for Life is In Redemption will be out in the days to come, just thought this would be a fun addition while I work on some of the content with my friends. This upcoming chapter is going to have a co-author, so get hyyyyyped :)

#hazbin hotel #blog post #text #charlie morningstar #alastor #vaggie #angel dust #cherri bomb #sir pentious #hazbin hotel husk #lucifer morningstar #hazbin lucifer #personal post #life is in redemption #bonus content

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0-amateur-writer-0 · 6 months

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Lines

Characters: Stan Pines, Ford pines.

Tags: Angst, Hurt no comfort, Character study.

Wordcount: 1,810

Summary:

“You really don’t understand why I want this place to be shut down, do you?”

Stan sniffs. “I think I got some ideas.”

Ford narrows his eyes. “Do you?”

He’s home. He’s actually home. Back in his Earth—in Gravity Falls, Oregon.

Hard to believe that a few days ago, he was at the precipice of life and death. About to end things once, and for all with Bill. That’s how it was supposed to be. One way or another, everything was supposed end that day. But now he’s honest to God walking through his house. Opening cupboards, and drawers. Studying every nook, and cranny. Observing how much has changed, and how much has stayed the same.

The house definitely had seen better days. Everything was aged, and weathered. You could even spot some awkward patch jobs here, and there. The ones you do on your own to save money, instead of by someone who actually knew what they were doing.

Indeed, Stan must’ve been a stingy on the upkeep. He could hear a lot of new creaks, and sounds now. But…the house is somewhat neat, and tidy at least.

He supposes he should be thankful if for that. That his home is still here after all this time. Still standing. Still livable. When he already made peace long ago, that his house would be left to rot—reduced to a pile of would-be firewood.

Ford rounded a corner, and stops in his tracks. Any feelings of gratitude he had had quickly went down the drain.

Now this is a change he could really do without.

The house doubles as a hokey tourist trap now. One that’s entire gimmick was based on showcasing a variety of very made-up anomalies.

Being in this room is already starting to royally piss him off. Though for some reason that escapes him, he decided to stay and look around. Making his way the first exhibit that caught his eye.

Ford glares at the taxidermized monstrosity before him. It was obviously meant to resemble sasquatch, or even bigfoot. Brown fur, big feet, and ape-like features, though a striking difference could be seen on how it’s…wearing an underwear.

(Why even? What evolutionary need could it possibly fulfill by wearing one?)

“Sascrotch,” He sneers. “I can’t believe people actually—"

“Yeah, ya don’t like the Shack. We get it. Keep steppin’, and move on already.” A gruff voice piped up from his left.

Ford turns his head to the source of said voice, to find Stan leaning against the counter—counting the money he made off from the last group of tourists.

(Has he always been there?)

“You really don’t understand why I want this place to be shut down, do you?”

Stan sniffs. “I think I got some ideas.”

Ford narrows his eyes. “Do you?” He challenges.

Stan muttered something under his breath, but otherwise did nothing but continue to count the money in his hands. The sound of paper bills being shuffled seemed to fill the empty gift shop. It grated on his nerves. Then again, everything that Stan does seem to grate on his nerves these days.

Ford made his way to the next set of exhibits. The Six Pack O’ Lope. The Cornicorn. He swears some of them looked more like one of Mabel’s arts and crafts projects.

“I have spent most of my life studying the weird. Trying to make sense of the nonsense. Trying to prove their existence to the scientific community.”

“I had to take on twelve PhDs to get people to take me seriously. Twelve. And that wasn’t even accounting the number of favors, and good standing I had to build up just so I could get my grant approved by the committee.”

Of course, I could’ve avoided all that if I had gone to West Coast Tech instead. He almost wanted to say, but quickly bit his tongue.

“Well, that’s kinda’ dumb.” Stan comments.

(If his ears weren’t mistaken, Ford could’ve sworn there was a note of genuine sympathy in Stan’s voice.)

Ford just shook his head. “The committee didn’t see my want to research anomalies as top priority. Especially when compared to things like researching the cure for cancer, or alternative energy, or artificial intelligence and whatnot.”

“But one way, or another. I managed to show them my worth. I gave them reason, after reason as to how my research could be beneficial. And eventually, they decided to give me a chance.”

Ford wrinkled his nose when he passes by some shelves filled with tacky souvenirs. One lined with snow globes, another with Mr. Mystery bobbleheads, and another filled with…ugh, those horrific Burpin’ Stanford Pines figurines. Though he stops when he comes across a nearly empty shelf lined with empty glass jars. A sign nearby tells him that these are ‘invisible fairy companions! Only $35!’.

His attention wasn’t on the obvious scam in front of him. Instead, Ford watches his face being reflected on the glass jars.

“I thought,” he says. “If I did all of that, then…maybe I could finally change the way people view them.”

“I wasn’t hoping to change everyone’s minds, but if I could get a few people to stop looking at them like something to be afraid of. Like something to be pointed, and gawked at…” He pauses, and then turns to look at Stan. “Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Stan just stares at him with a blank expression on his face.

(Dear Tesla, does he really have to spell this out?)

Ford took a deep calming breath, before saying: “What you’re doing here with the Mystery Shack. Not only is it a mockery of my life’s work, it’s a mockery of me.”

Stan narrows his eyes. “What are you talkin’ about?”

Ford could feel the threads of his self-control being cut. “Do you really not realize what you’re doing here!? You’re bringing all sorts of people in here, and teaching them it’s okay to point, and laugh at things they don’t understand. You’re teaching them to point, and laugh at things like me!”

Ford clicked his tongue. Whether Stan’s earlier confusion was genuine, or an act mattered little to him at the moment. The damage was done. To his house. To his reputation. To his life’s work.

--You’re a six-fingered freak!

And they would be right. That’s all he is. All he will ever be.

He’d lost the chance to ever prove them wrong.

“Be honest,” Ford demanded. “All those times you told me that I wasn’t a freak was a lie, wasn’t it?” He gestures towards the various exhibits in the Shack. “This is how you actually feel about me.”

“Do you also have stuffed six-fingered hand lying around? I’m surprised I haven’t seen it yet. An exhibit like that will surely—"

“You think I’d do that?” Stan asks.

Ford pauses, and then turns to Stan. And once his eyes landed on his brother, the red mist that clouded his vision seemed to dissipate at that moment.

Stan was staring at him, and though his expression was blank—there was a gamut of emotions swirling in the depths of his brother’s eyes. Raw and honest emotions that Ford didn’t want to look too closely into.

“You really think I’d do that to you?” Stan asks again. His voice quiet.

Ford opens his mouth, but he quickly finds that no words could come out. Something in Stan’s eyes. Something in the way his brother spoke, seemed to sap all the remaining fight and anger in him.

“I used to beat up every single punk who bad-mouthed you when we were kids. And ya really think that I’m gonna’ turn around, and start doin’ all that crap they did to you?” A pause. “You really think that I’m no better than guys like Crampelter?”

Ford’s looks down—suddenly finding it hard to look Stan in the eyes. “That isn’t what I…”

He tries to find something to defend himself with, but nothing kept coming up. After all, that was essentially what he had just implied wasn’t it?

The silence hung between them until Stan took several steps forward, only stopping when he’s at an arms-length in front of Ford.

“…Y’know,” Stan says. “I got a lotta reasons for starting the Mystery Shack. And that thing you just said… You think that folks come through here to point and laugh at all these arts and crafts rejects. But the only thing being pointed and laughed at in here…is me.”

“Cause you wanna’ know something?” He jabbed a finger onto Ford’s chest. “Just because you got no problems callin’ me worthless, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna’ stoop to your level and start callin’ you a…”

It took everything in him to not look away—to return Stan’s glare head on. On the outside, one might mistake him for being the picture of indifference. The only thing anyone could see was a mask of cold, hard disapproval plastered on his face

But on the inside, in the deepest parts of him where no one was privy to—part of him dreaded of what’s to come. The part of him that used to go on adventures with Stan on the beach. The part of him that used to spend whatever free time available, to work on an old derelict sailboat. The part of him that used stay up to the late hours of the night talking, and planning about the places they’d sail away to one day.

That part of him was terrified of his twin brother calling him that word.

But he knew it was coming. It’s only a matter of time. He braces himself and…

…nothing happened.

Stan just looks down, his hand falling limply back to his side. And Ford found himself letting out a breath he didn’t even knew he was holding.

Both men stood at the middle of the empty gift shop. Stan kept looking down at the floor, and Ford couldn’t seem to peel his eyes away from his brother—at how tired, and defeated he looked. His right-hand twitches, and then starts to lift and inch itself closer towards Stan.

He didn’t really know what he was trying to do. He just…has a sudden urge to reach out. But before he could make any contact, Stan took a step back from him.

“Believe it or not, I actually got lines I ain’t never gonna’ cross.” Was all Stan said to him, before he made his way outside.

The front door slammed shut.

Ford watches the door for a moment. Before his gaze, inexplicably, wanders back to the shelf lined with those Burpin’ Stanford Pines toys. It was an insult. It was his name being printed on those boxes, but looking at those figurines again—at how it was wearing a bright red fez, and a black tuxedo…the similarities that he somehow hadn’t seen before became so clear.

It was Stan.

Ford pinches the bridge of his nose. “What the hell am I doing?”

#gravity falls #stanford pines #stanley pines #angst #stangst #fanfic #a character study I wanted to do for a while

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aparticularbandit · 1 month

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Of An Endless Infinity: Remnants (III)

Summary: What does it mean to be the Ultimate Hope?

Is it only hope on the big scale? That the world is not so dark and depressing and destructive as the villain in front of you says it is? That you can win, even when everything else says that you can’t? That maybe it is better to live your life, even afraid, than it is to keep yourself sequestered away, alone?

Does it not also mean hope on the small scale?

Or: Makoto sacrifices himself in the hope that the other survivors might be able to help Junko. It remains to be seen whether this will actually succeed.

Chapter Rating: T. Fic Rating: M for Danganronpa reasons.

AO3

previous chapter | next chapter

Elsewhere….

“I knew ya’d come ta see me soon!”

His teeth are still filed into points. He’s not the sort to eat people – that’s Teruteru’s specialty, something he makes explicit note of saying has more than one meaning – but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still bite them or shred their skin with his teeth if attacked. Most people don’t get that close to him, though; he’s got more than enough machine guns fixated everywhere to kill them if—

Well.

He is the one who put the guns on top of the school in the first place, isn’t he? The one who helped craft all of the mechanics in those executions her beloved put on during the show?

If your most qualified Future Foundation member couldn’t get to the school, then they couldn’t get to him either.

The only reason she and that hope-obsessed fool can get through is because she alerted him to their coming, using the same messenger he’d created for them all when her beloved first started this whole thing, when she’d first chosen to live undercover with her classmates rather than stay with her horrors.

She’d hidden, and he’d given them a way to keep in contact no matter where in the world they were: a small plush bear like Monokuma, designed after the first one her beloved created. He’d modified that one, too, of course, after her beloved gave him permission to do it, but that one had gone dark after the last Trial.

Her beloved told them not to contact her during the Game. She couldn’t afford any distractions.

She’d tried to contact her so many times since then, but there’s nothing.

No response.

She can only imagine what her beloved’s old classmates might be doing to her to prevent her from—

“We need your help, Kaz.” She tugs on the chain wrapped around the fool’s neck, grins when he stumbles, when Kaz laughs, loud, at him. It’s a form of appeasement, at least. “We’re trying to get to her.”

Kaz’s once pink eyes darken, that sharp, sharp maroon a reflection of who he is now, the same that the once faded bruise of her own eyes now holds the tint of something redder, fresher. “You saying ya want me ta shut off my guns? I can’t do that. She told me ta—”

“Now, now, Kaz,” the fool chides. “She said no such thing.”

“Shut your mouth!”

Kaz jumps down from his pile of – it’s probably a bunch of half-finished projects, or completely finished ones that he’s still tinkering with, but mostly it looks like a throne of trash to her – and shoves his hands into his pockets as he stalks towards the fool. “You’re trying to get to her, which means ya gotta go through my guns, which means you’re going ta get shot, which means you’re only here to get me ta shut ‘em off. And she told me ta—”

She places a hand on his arm, and he stills. “You’re so much smarter than that, Kaz,” she purrs. “I’m sure you can think of some way to get us through without turning them off. Can’t you?” She leans in close, smells the putrid copper on his breath, and whispers, “If you do, I’ll tell Sonia you helped us. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Sonia hasn’t talked to him since the Game began. She’s complained about it with her. Kaz kept trumpeting about how much he helped her beloved, as though it was about him instead of about her. (She would have been just as frustrated as Sonia was, if she’d heard it from him, but she would have responded in a much more…physical way.)

Once, she told her beloved that maybe someone should tell him to stop pining for Sonia, as it obviously made both of them uncomfortable. But her beloved said that his constant hope that something might happen was also a source of constant despair for him, that Sonia’s constant hope that he would stop was a constant source of despair for her.

It was only then that she understood.

This, too, is a gift.

One that Kaz gave to Sonia; one that she gave right back to him.

And yet Kaz still shivers at her words, which is how she knows that she has him. He leans back, shoves a hand through his spiked pink hair, a brighter color than her beloved’s has ever been, and shoves his other hand deeper into his pocket. “Well, I can get ya through the guns; that’s for sure. But even if ya get through the guns, ya gotta get through the door, and I can’t do nothing about that thing.”

“You can’t?” she asks with a hum. “Just imagine how proud Miss Sonia would be of you, if you helped us save—”

“I got an idea!”

Kaz grins, hands clenched into fists, his tongue stuck out in his excitement. His eyes sparkle, gleam, bright as stars in the sky. (Bright as they used to be, anyway.) He leans forward, right into her face. “I just got one question for ya.”

She raises a brow and tries not to recoil at his breath. “What’s that, Kaz?”

“How much of a ruckus we causing here?”

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wyrmfedgrave · 3 months

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Pics: Great Pulp Interior Art, mostly.

1. The 1st piece reminds me of a much later HPL revision tale that was about soul stealing mosquitoes¹!!

I kid you not!

2. But, the 2nd seems to illustrate the dangers of 'outside' mental influences on mere human sanity²...

3. This bit of line work seems to be a modern imitation of the early pulp aesthetic.

Still a great bit of art. Very close to Lovecraft's original description of the Deep Ones³.

4. The secret origin of Aquaman's telepathic circle/thoughts?

Hardly.

It seems to be some type of torture device - which were in heavy demand in the early pulps & Wonder Woman comics!

Or, it could be that she's a spy - using a telephone type device.

Or...

5. What a great piece! This is truly 1 of the best pulp illustrations that I've ever seen!!

It's a busy little picture depicting rather obvious Egyptian Gods in a royal tomb - &, they don't look happy...

Would go best with Howard's ghost written tale of Egyptian horror⁴ - done for Harry Houdini⁵!!

Now that's a story that I'd like to see adapted to the big screen...

But, all of that is coming sometime in my future. So, let's drop the heavy hints for later...

1914: Poetic Output.

Intro: At this time, HPL is still writing poems - as Sarah (his mom) expected him to become a great poet...

"Gaudeamus⁶" is originally thought to have been written around 1914.

It was revised in 1922, for use in "The Tomb."

The existing version comes from a 1928 letter to (it's now known) Zealia Bishop.

She was 1 of Lovecraft's revision clients & later claimed to have solely written some of Howard's work⁷ for her...

But, more about that in its proper time...

The poem itself is a boisterous party piece - hardly what you'd expect from the future master of Cosmic Horror...

But, there's a morbid streak running thru it.

Work: Gaudeamus starts off with a rather friendly greeting -

"Come (nearer), my lads, with your tankards of ale⁸, And drink to the present before it shall fail⁹."

The poem continues in a good mood -

"Pile... on your platter a mountain of beef, For (it's) eating & drinking that brings us relief."

Now the fun & games turn serious -

"So fill up your glass, For life will soon pass; When you're (all) dead (you'll not) drink to your king nor your lass!"

Then, we have a small silly mention of Anacreon's¹⁰ red nose!

But, HPL makes things creepy with -

"God split me¹¹! I'd rather be red¹² while I'm (still) here, Than white as a lily¹³ & dead half a year!"

This is followed by the (as yet virginial) writer's attempt at writing drunken 'love craft' (Sorry couldn't resist!!) -

"... Betty, my miss, ...Give me a kiss; In Hell there's no inn keeper's daughter like this!"

Then, the funniest bit comes around -

"Young Harry, propped up... as straight as he's able, Will soon lose his wig¹⁴ & slip under the table."

Now, it's back to the (nightly?) party, mixed up with a bit of creepiness -

"But fill up your goblets & pass them around - Better under the table than under the ground!"

The party/creepiness pattern seems to be the dominant one thruout -

"So revel & chaff¹⁵; As you thirstily quaff¹⁶; (For) under 6 feet of dirt (it's) less easy to laugh!"

Then, Lovecraft (ever the teetotaler¹⁷) goes in for some comedic, drunken side effects -

"... Fiend¹⁸ strike me blue¹⁹! I'm (hardly) able to walk, ...Damn me if I can stand upright or talk!"

Now, the drunk asks "Betty to summon²⁰ a chair", though he wants to go home - since his "wife is not there!"

Oh, Howard. If only you knew how prophetic you were being...

Gaudeamus ends with a last mix of drunken weakness & creepiness -

"... Lend me a hand; (As) I'm not able to stand, But I'm (happy while) I linger on top of the land!"

Explanatory notes will follow with the next posting...

(HPL's works are getting longer... &, more complicated. When he returns to writing his stories, I'll be forced to return to quotations & smaller plot descriptions.)

#hpl bio #poetry #history #adult hpl

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impossiblerebelblaze · 6 months

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Finally wrote another Chaos Gods fic like I said I would! @oatmealoatmealoatmealoatmealoatm and @azorith wanted to see it!

— Five Year Anniversary party prep! The ship is Elijah Kamski (dbh) / me, it got really popular on my blog and it’s still a bit of a guilty pleasure for me to write occasionally!

“Look, I know it’s supposed to be a party. How many decorations do you possibly need?” Eli looks up at me from the floor, arms crossed.

“It’s a party, you said it! If it’s gonna be the holiday party and our five-year anniversary, of course I’m gonna decorate.” I look down from my perch on the ladder, shaking tinsel off a tree branch down onto him. He waves his hands, trying to shake it off, unsuccessfully. He groans in disgust, making his way over to the couch in the lounge where he curls up like a disgruntled cat. He pulls his knees up to his chin, looking at his phone. I smile to myself, he still has some glitter caught in his hair. I turn back to my decorations, feeling awfully proud of myself for finally convincing him to let me get and decorate such a big tree. He called it gaudy and unnecessary, and I called him a grinch. Maybe if he didn’t want me to get such a big tree, he shouldn’t have had a two-floor open plan lounge.

—

The tree’s the last piece of decoration I had, and I step back to admire my work. The whole lounge and dining area is lit warmly with strings of glass bulbs and baubles, turning the whole ceiling into a shining, glimmering spectacle. Ornaments hang in strings along the walls, and an old record player I found plays some soft carols. The tree itself sits proudly in a corner, gifts piled underneath.

“Oh, Eli, come on. It looks so warm and cozy in here, it’s.. nice.” I wander over to the couch where he’s sat, taking a sip from his mug of hot chocolate and placing it back onto the little reindeer coaster. “It’s so festive, it’s so homely!” I lean over the back of the couch, pulling him into a small hug. “I saved the star on the tree for you, I’ll hold the ladder.”

Eli tilts his head back, looking at me. “You’re the only person I know who gets this excited about the holidays, you know that?”

“Oh, bull. The Chloes do, too.”

“Only because you taught them.”

“That still counts!”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “So you saved the star on top for me?”

“I did,” I hum, smiling. “I wanted you to be included, even though I know you don’t like all the cheer and joy of the season.” I poke him, laughing.

“Hey, come on! I’m not that much of a stick in the mud!” He pushes me away a bit, also laughing. “Fine, I’ll put the star up.” He leans forward out of my arms, standing up. He wanders around a little, looking at all the work that me and the Chloes did. “All right, I admit it does look nice.” He looks up at the tree. “I’m still surprised you fit that thing in here.”

“I had to take the back sliding door off its track,” I admit.

“What?”

“I didn’t wanna break the glass! I put it back on, and it’s finally oiled properly so it doesn’t squeal anymore!”

Eli puts a hand over his eyes, sighing. “And is that how you’ll take it back out?”

“Probably. Why?”

“Nothing. You’re nothing if not committed, I’ll admit that.”

I smile. “Thank you. Now come on, get up there and star that tree.” I hand him the box that holds the star.

He rolls his eyes, opening it up. He pauses, looking at it.

“Do you like it?”

“I.. do, I do like it.” He pulls it out, it’s a simple star, crafted the way he stars important passages in his notes. It’s not much, but it’s one of the few times his personality shows through in his work.

“I think it’ll look nice up there.”

“I do, too.” He glances at me, a soft, genuine smile on his face. He heads to the ladder, pausing as I follow and hold onto the rungs, steadying it for him. He tucks the box under one arm, making his way up. He gets to the top, balancing the box and pulling out the star, carefully winding it onto the top of the tree. He pauses, admiring his work, then heads back down.

I nod. “Perfect.”

He nods as well. “It does look nice in here, I’m sorry for saying otherwise.”

I laugh, pulling him into a hug. “It’s okay, I get it. I can tell when you like things, I’ve seen you watching me all day. I know the holidays aren’t your favourite, but I’m glad you don’t mind letting me decorate.”

“As long as I get to spend the time with you, I’m as happy as can be.”

“Hope that holds true for the party.”

“God. How many people are we inviting?”

“Aallll of your other CEO friends, and their other important friends. Gotta keep up positive publicity!”

“God, just kill me now.”

“But you have such a good face with the public! You’re such a kind and generous man, beloved by all!”

He scoffs. “And then we mock them all behind their backs.”

“Come on, some of them deserve it for dressing the way they do. You remember Lestrade last year?”

“The fucking bright purple and orange suit?”

“And the green one on Easter.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

#rowan speaks #Rowan writes #I think?? I don’t remember my writing tag #sorry it looked longer in my notes app #if this gets like 2 notes I’ll post another chapter or something idk

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mappsiemakesthings · 1 year

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I posted 47 times in 2022

That's 19 more posts than 2021!

40 posts created (85%)

7 posts reblogged (15%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@mappsiemakesthings

@mapplestrudel

@thelodestardirective

@knottybliss

I tagged 45 of my posts in 2022

Only 4% of my posts had no tags

#mappsie spins - 23 posts

#drop spindle - 20 posts

#hand spinning - 19 posts

#handspinning - 16 posts

#finished 2022 - 9 posts

#tdf 2022 - 8 posts

#malabrigo nube persia fluff - 8 posts

#tour de fleece 2022 - 8 posts

#started 2022 - 8 posts

#mappsie crochets - 6 posts

Longest Tag: 98 characters

#anyway i'm still proud bc it turned out a recognizable shape and it encompasses actually two holes

My Top Posts in 2022:

I stumbled over an awesome resource page about nalbinding!

It has so! many different stitches with descriptions and sample pictures, also instructions on how to nalbind with your left hand, many links to other resources and tutorials....

So glad I found it!

76 notes - Posted February 17, 2022

I AM KNITTING!!! 😁😁😁

And I am knitting with *Bill Wurtz jingle*

💙🎉💖💙 selfspun yarn 💙💖🎉💙

And it is the one I dubbed "Paz Yarn", because that's just the kind of fangirl I am. Fandom fuels my crafts xD

So we've got these nice blues and browns going on that fit the Vizsla's colour scheme. And also the yarn itself turned out to be a Big Boi because after I plied it the usual way from two balls, I found it too thin for my liking, and then proceeded to chainply the whole thing because I lack the patience ("Pazience") for thin yarn, sooo... that's fitting too xD

I'm thinking that a yellow pompom might be the perfect finishing touch, and may actually have the perfect colour for it in my stash... Ha!

I am excited, and fangirling hard at my own creation 😌😌😌😂😂😂💙💙💙

82 notes - Posted March 12, 2022

More playground spinning!

This is the Ashford Merino/Silk fluff my ex-colleague gifted me.

97 notes - Posted May 2, 2022

So I ordered some icelandic lopi fluff bc i want to try to spin different kinds of fibers.

It's very rustic, definitely not as fine as the merinos I've encountered, but not really scratchy, rather has a "homely touch" to it ... and it got me excited.

Weighted the whole thing, made 3 ~50g piles - and I started spinning... juuust a little, to get a feel for it.

See the full post

139 notes - Posted January 22, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

We've had a nice autumn day and i took my spindle to the playground ^_^

153 notes - Posted October 26, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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nationspot51 · 2 years

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Minecraft Is Totally Wonderful And Here Is Why

A wide range of people have got now played Minecraft, it is a new great game and people like to be able to create, fight, mine and also craft upon it, but why do people actually like the video game? People love Minecraft as a result of three basic things, ownership, replayability and ease of use. These may seem like crazy tips to think of although it is correct that the main factors people love Minecraft is because of how it allows them have some sort of part of a world which is truly theirs (ownership). Players can play time and time once more (replayability). Finally it is so very simple to start that will anyone can enjoy it and possess entertaining without needing in order to delve into the much deeper aspects of Minecraft. Minecraft can be quite a nice add-on to life or not. Although that is fun people will have to be vigilant in how often these kinds of are going on it. Minecraft is normally a fantastic experience that players are ready to get the load of advantages through, by crafting or mining funnily enough. So there's scarcely any shock that will various companies will be making lots of dollars from Minecraft. Going on digital games is a fantastic hobby to help gamers to de-stress and improve after a day of the week. Players could experience stacks regarding superb experiences after getting online throughout your afternoon. Title Being able to own part regarding your own area or your whole world is the big deal intended for Minecraft players. Several gamers have been planning to try in addition to get their individual piece of land inside current enormously multiplayer games and even have failed. Eventually Minecraft allows people to do this which is really great. I understand players can totally adore the overall game when these people commence playing that. This is crucial as it makes the gamer think important, like they will are having a real responsibility within how the world evolves. Replayability Allowing men and women to socialize together with people via Minecraft is a true benefit. Getting massive levels of other avid gamers online means men and women will share their creations and thus maintain replaying the game to be able to be able to show off their particular creations. Try to make an effort to develop your own own number of individuals on the net. Having friends may increase the number of entertainment you get out of Minecraft. Ease Of Use Plenty of games will bombard you with various handles, tutorials, how to guides and also beginner guides merely to get started with playing the particular game. On Minecraft I think you may have 7 controls, WASD for movement, Electronic for inventory, still left click and right click. By being thus simple, Minecraft enables you to get playing and commence enjoying quicker as compared to other games. A really cool element of the game of which the majority associated with players like is usually the amazing figures, for example Stevie! If you believe about it there are not many game titles to be found that can compare with it. Numerous games rely upon graphics, but this kind of is not actually the big purchase of Minecraft. You can start on the video game straight away if an individual want to. The particular game is amazingly straight forward to be able to commence playing. Sites have piles involving tips that individuals should be able to embrace when players become stuck. Almost all difficulties have to be answered simply by digging around on sites. Fan websites are great and even you should absolutely get involved. Finding tips regarding Minecraft can be a great way to get started playing. As https://anchoragelectronicslimited.com of final note in the event that you are contemplating playing Minecraft then I highly recommend it. This is a fantastic video game which has a lot regarding great features to help keep you playing.

#Gaming Computer

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dickwheelie · 3 years

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sooooooo I wrote a sequel to that love entities jmart post that got pretty popular. all you really need to know is that post mag 200 jon becomes a local cryptid and listens to people's stories about encounters with the entities to help unburden them of some of their fear. please enjoy!

_____________

Just inside the entryway of Old Fishmarket Close, hidden just out of sight of the street, there stands a shrine. It is not an old shrine of weathered stone, nor is it carefully crafted with intricate religious symbols, nor is it static, weighed down by years of collected dust. It is in many ways a living shrine; flowers bloom and wilt at its feet, while above it, against the wall of the Close, piles of paper, photographs, and keepsakes are haphazardly stacked and stuck. The shrine seems to breathe as each day passes, as innumerable and unsung hands replace its flowers and let their offerings crawl up its wall like vines.

The shrine is not marked, but everyone who looks for it, in the shadows of the entryway, knows precisely who it is for.

You arrive that day with only a piece of notebook paper in your hand. Upon it is written a short message, and not an uncommon one to see at the shrine: Thank You. A substitute, of sorts, for the flowers and other gifts that people often leave. You, like many others, are not well off, and you hope that a small note can make up for your lack of material offerings.

As you approach the shrine, a gust of wind whistles through the alleyway and rustles the pages plastered across the length of the wall. You’ve brought no adhesive, so you slip the piece of paper partially beneath a bouquet lying on the stone walkway. It’s relatively fresh, so you hope it won’t be moved anytime soon. You’ve no idea who replaces the flowers, but you suspect it’s never the same person twice. The locals all know about the shrine and the person it’s meant for, and they’ve grown protective of them both.

Dozens of other people have had the same idea before you; the ground is littered with short notes of gratitude. Thank you for listening, says one, transcribed in loving calligraphy, the i’s dotted with hearts. Thank You For Finding Me, Whoever You Are, says another. I rely lik yor hat, says one written in crayon. Another says, You’ll probably never read this, but thank you for hearing my story. There must be hundreds of them, and there are more each time you visit.

You had spent the better part of the morning trying to come up with something more eloquent to write, but you’ve never been great with words. Telling the mysterious person your story had been the only time you’d ever felt as though your words matched your thoughts, that what came out of your mouth was exactly how you felt, and that the person you were talking to understood you fully.

You suppose a thank you is better than nothing, and after one last fond look at the shrine, you turn to go.

A footstep that is not your own echoes down the alleyway. You turn, half-alarmed, but relax at once when you see who it is.

You have only ever seen him once before, about a month ago when you told him your story, but he is difficult to forget; his figure tall and thin, his posture horrendous, his features hidden entirely by a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He stands now at the far end of the alleyway, hands clutched before his hunched torso, giving you the distinct impression he’s staring directly at you.

“Um, hello,” you say, haltingly. You’re not quite sure how to address him, but you figure a polite greeting is universal. You gesture at the shrine. “I don’t have, uh, another story or anything. I was just leaving a note for you.”

His hat tips curiously to the side, and he shuffles forward with his cautious gait, peering closer at the shrine. The dark brim of his hat swivels towards you, as though asking a question.

“The shrine,” you say. “I just left a short note. It’s no big thing, I just—I wanted to leave something.”

The words seem to mean nothing to him. He looks at the shrine, then at you, then back at the shrine. He steps a bit closer to it, and reaches out a long-fingered, gloved hand to touch the petals from a bouquet of daffodils. After the briefest of moments, he pulls away again, hands resuming their wringing.

A thought occurs to you. “Do you . . . do you not know what this is?”

He shakes the hat once.

“This is . . . this is for you,” you say, spreading your arms to encompass the garden on the ground and the sea of pages above. “The flowers, the little trinkets, the thank-you letters—it’s for you. From . . . from all of us, who’ve told you our stories. You’ve helped us so much, we wanted to let you know how much we appreciated it. How grateful we are.”

He doesn’t react, and so you reach out and pick out a card, one that says, Talking to you about how scared I was of the dark made me less afraid of it. I sleep better at night because of what you did for me. Thank you, mysterious stranger. Much love, E.M.

“Here,” you say, handing it to him, and he takes it with a shaky glove. The brim of his hat lowers as he reads. "That’s just one of them. There are loads more just like that.” You survey the pile and pick out another. “This one’s from a kid, thanking you for helping their mom . . . And this one’s just a simple thank you note but they did cover it in glitter glue, so, there’s that . . . And this person wanted you to know that their anxiety improved after talking to you . . .”

He takes note after note from you, reading them all, silent and unexpressive as always, but there’s something in his posture that is unbearably human. Somehow it reminds you of how people stand when they hold a baby chick in their hands.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” you say, not unkindly. You’re both sitting on the ground now, amidst the bouquets and piles of thank-yous. “Who else would this all be for?”

As he picks up yet another note, a tremor runs through his body. He raises a gloved hand to the shadows beneath the hat, and you watch as two drops of water stain the page in his hand. His chest convulses as more tears fall, his hand moving under the hat to wipe them away, but they keep coming. Still he makes no sound.

You didn’t know he could cry. You don’t know why you’re surprised; he’s strange, certainly, and perhaps not entirely human . . . but he has heard so many horrible things, and human or not, he deserves a chance to cry.

“Are you—are you okay?” you say, not sure what to do.

The hat nods once, and then shakes.

“I . . . I know it’s probably a lot, all at once,” you say, and you reach out to touch his arm. The movement comes naturally, without much thought; you would have done the same for a friend.

He flinches at your touch, and you immediately pull away, but then he relaxes again, and nods. Tears are still falling from the shadows down onto his coat.

You touch his arm again, gently, and he doesn’t move away. “I’m sorry if it’s overwhelming. But we really are grateful, and you have a bad habit of not accepting thanks. This was one of the only ways we could think to . . . to show you.” You take a deep breath, and gaze into the shadows of where his face might be, doing your best to look him in the eye. “We don’t really know who you are, or why you came here, or why you choose to listen to us. But somehow, we know you mean well. I think everyone who’s told their story knows that, me included. That you’re trying to help us, that you want to do good. And you do. We . . . we want you to know that you’ve done good.”

His chest rises and falls shakily, and though he still makes no sound you swear you can hear a sob. He reaches out and grasps your arm in turn, and suddenly you realize what he needs.

“Can I give you a hug?” you ask.

The hat nods, again and again, and you open your arms, and he falls forward. You would have done the same for a friend.

You almost expect the hug to be gentle, but it is not; it is tight and desperate, and feels so human you do not think twice about hugging him back just as tightly. He is not terribly warm, but you can feel a heart beating beneath his coat. A few tears fall on the back of your jacket. You know that if you just looked up, you would be able to see his face beneath the hat, but you keep your eyes shut tight.

When you move apart, a few moments later, he seems a little more composed, and no more tears fall from beneath the hat. He straightens his back a bit, growing taller even in a sitting position, and you can see just the barest hint of a mouth, which is smiling a delicate, wobbly sort of smile. He brings a gloved hand up to his chin, placing his fingertips against it, and moves them towards you, once, twice.

You are by no means fluent in sign language, but you recognize the sign for Thank you when you see it.

You smile back at him. “You’re welcome,” you say.

He looks back at the shrine, at the piles and piles of notes he has yet to read. You watch as he picks up a handful more, seemingly at random, shuffling them in his hands and pressing them close to his chest. After a pause, he reaches out and slowly picks up one of the bouquets, overflowing with small blue flowers. You’re not entirely sure, but you think they might be forget-me-nots. He pulls a single flower from the bunch and tucks it, carefully, into the collar of his coat, as though for safekeeping.

He nods once, satisfactorily, and stands slowly, giving a small bow in your direction before he turns and shuffles back down the alleyway, the bushel of blue flowers peeking over his shoulder, rustling in the breeze.

Just before he is swallowed by the shadows at the far end of the Close, you call out, “Thank you! Again. For . . . for everything.”

It’s certainly just a trick of the light, but when he turns back to look at you, just before the shadows overtake him, you swear you can see the light catch on a single, twinkling eye, crinkled in one corner by what must be a smile.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #gwyneth writes

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xx-thedarklord-xx · 4 years

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Curiosity Killed Everything

Harry almost didn’t open it.

After the war love letters flooded in, and quite frankly, he was sick of it. Part of him thought it was sweet, but the rest was annoyed. Where were the love letters before? Why wait until after? Obviously it had to do with who he was as a namesake and not personally.

But as he sat at the Gryffindor table, the ripped envelope drew his attention—almost as if the sender hadn’t bothered to care about its appearance. That and it was addressed to ‘idiot’.

Curiosity was the only reason he opened it.

‘I can’t stand you.’

That was it.

Harry frowned as he turned it over, expecting more on the back. Nothing. He re-opened the envelope, trying to see if maybe there was something else included. No, it was empty.

I can’t stand you. Nothing more.

He couldn’t help it, Harry snorted.

Someone took time out of their day to send a hate letter. One so short. It intrigued Harry more than offended him. He was sure a lot of people didn’t like him, but not many were vocal about it.

He should throw it away. What was the point of keeping it? But there was something funny about the whole situation.

Curiosity was the only reason he pocketed the letter.

———————————-

The longer he stayed at Hogwarts the more he realized Ron was right and that he shouldn’t have come back for a final year. Sure, Hermione did, but she liked schoolwork.

Without Ron by his side, Hogwarts was pretty boring.

The sound of hundreds of birds swooping in signaled mail call. A glance up brought in a new ripped envelope and his lips were already twitching.

Well… maybe not as boring as he thought.

With zero patience, Harry ripped open the envelope, barely paying attention to the owl.

‘Do you even own a hairbrush?’

Without realizing it, his hand ran through his hair absentmindedly. He scowled at the note. Of course he did. It was just that it didn’t matter how many times he combed it, his hair had a mind of its own.

He glared at the note, but yet, still didn’t throw it away.

Curiosity was to blame, probably.

—————————

Mail time was beginning to become his favourite part of the day, and Harry wasn’t sure what that said about him. His secret hater amused him.

‘Your glasses are hideous. They were too big for you at eleven and you’ve still yet to grow into them.’

‘Your pension for danger is appalling, but perhaps Karma for making me have to put up with your existence.’

‘Your not as good at magic as people think you are.’

‘Everytime you open your mouth, I lose brain cells.’

For reasons that were definitely not due to curiosity, Harry had kept all of the notes. Weeks of daily insults were kept in a safe space inside his nightstand. He wasn’t sure what he could blame that on, but whatever it was, he wasn’t going to blame himself.

—————————-

‘You look like a cross between doxy droppings and a passable excuse for a human.’

Harry had barely stopped laughing when Hermione sat next to him for breakfast for the first time in weeks.

“What’s got you in a good mood today?”

“Nothing.”

He tried to move the letter away but was too slow. Quick hands snatched it off the table.

“Harry,” Hermione began with pursed lips and an angry merging of her brows. “What is this?”

“I reckon I’ve got a secret admirer,” Harry said, not able to keep a straight face at all.

Hermione arched her brows over the top of the letter. “They think you look like doxy shit.”

“Perhaps admirer was too strong of a word.”

“Some people are so pathetic,” said Hermione as she shook her head and glared at the note. “What a waste of time.”

“Wait,” Harry said far too loudly when it looked like she was going to crumple it. “I want to keep that.”

“Keep it?” Her tone wasn’t quite flabbergasted, but it was close. “Why on Earth would you want to keep it?”

Harry shrugged as he pulled the note from her hands. “I find them charming, kind of.”

“Doxy shit,” Hermione reminded him slowly. “What is charming about that?”

It was hard to explain his thoughts, so Harry didn’t try. He wasn’t sure himself why he kept them. The letters weren’t exactly nice—okay not nice at all—but they were becoming a constant in his daily routine. Whoever sent them had strong opinions, and a lot of it came off as teasing in a way. Or at least familiar. Whoever it was, knew him, and knew him well.

They could be nicer, but the chances of that were pretty slim.

For whatever reason, he liked the notes, rudeness and all.

————————-

The only other thing that brought enjoyment to his days was Potions class. Oh, he still sucked at it, but that was part of the fun.

“Are you even trying?” Snarled Malfoy, who unfortunately was assigned as his partner for the year. “I don’t even know what this is supposed to be.”

“Erm,” Harry peered into the cauldron. “I think it’s a cheering charm.”

“You think,” deadpanned Malfoy. “A cheering charm isn’t supposed to be the consistency of clay.”

Clay. Harry raised a finger to feel it for himself but before he could his hand was slapped away.

“What are you doing?” Huffed Malfoy, eyes wide. “Whatever you made could be dangerous.”

“You do care,” Harry said as he placed a hand on his chest and batted his lashes.

Malfoy looked seconds away from hexing him, and Harry kinda wanted to push him to that point.

“Lose a limb for all I care,” Malfoy said haughtily before storming off to the supply closet. “Not as if having them did anything for you in the first place.”

Harry refused snort, not wanting to give Malfoy the satisfaction. Instead, he focussed on poking the potion. Clay was a pretty accurate descriptor. Whatever it had started out as, it was not a potion anymore.

“You think I could craft something out of this?” Asked Harry when Malfoy returned and began the potion all over again. “I reckon I’ve got some creativity somewhere inside me.”

Malfoy took a deep breath, one that made Harry think he was trying to calm down.

“You know, I truly lose brain cells whenever you speak.”

Harry froze, the familiar words causing his brain to work in overdrive before blanking completely.

No. There’s no way...

When Harry didn’t respond Malfoy looked at him curiously. “Finally, you’ve been rendered speechless. Maybe I can accomplish something today. Not that you’d know what that’s like, Merlin knows how incompetent you are.”

Well, on second thought.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur, Harry’s mind too distracted to focus on anything else.

Was his secret hater really Malfoy?

It would make sense. Who else insulted him on a daily basis? Why not add it in other forms as well?

But why?

Why bother sending anything at all. It wasn’t like Malfoy ever passed up an opportunity to insult him. And daily? That took dedication.

Was Harry really on Malfoy’s mind like that?

———————

‘You would look a lot better in some decent robes. You have the fashion sense of an old Muggle a breath away from keeling over.’ That one was almost kind. When Harry looked toward the Slytherin table, he was surprised to see Malfoy already staring at him. They locked eyes—briefly—before Malfoy glanced away, cheeks rosy. Huh. That was new. Harry traced the note with his fingers, still unsure why he kept the stupid things. They intrigued him, but was that all that did? Another glance toward Malfoy had him unable to lie to himself. Malfoy intrigued him too, always had. Perhaps it was curiosity’s fault after all.

——————

Draco pushed his vegetables across the plate, mind focused on the pile of Charms homework that he still had to do. Flitwick didn’t have to assign that much, the prick.

It wasn’t until the normal chatter of other students talking disappeared that he realized something was wrong.

When he glanced up, Draco jerked a little at the sight of Potter standing on the other side of the table.

“You lost little Gryffindor?”

Potter rolled his eyes before extending a hand.

Draco took a shaky breath when he realized it was a note, the same size that he sent every morning. With equally shaky fingers, Draco took the parchment and flipped it over.

‘I can’t stand you either.’

There was a tiny smile on Potter’s face that didn’t match the sentiment. But Draco believed him.

“How much?” Draco asked, unable to quash the rising curiosity.

“I’m not sure,” Potter shrugged. “But I imagine we can figure out together.”

That wasn’t a good idea, but Draco’s life was a series of bad ideas.

What could one more hurt?

#Drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #hate notes #Lmaoo

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walkuntilthedaylight · 3 years

Text

The people have spoken! How can I not give them what they want?

I'm gonna put this all under a cut, since it's a bit long, and also because it's highly interpretative/speculative and not everyone likes those kinds of posts as they can be rather subjective and, I suppose, invasive. I want to give two major caveats to my thoughts below: first is that I tend not to buy the idea that Paul was the "stable/normal" Beatle, mostly b/c I view marijuana dependency and workaholism as addictions and I take them pretty seriously. Second is that I really do love this kind of tabloid/gossip/personal account shit; I think it should be taken with a handful of salt, but I don't think it should be entirely dismissed out of hand either. I read this stuff like I'm piling up sheets of stained glass: I'm intrigued by the places where the colours blend and overlap, and ignore things that fall outside the prism. Anyway, let's dig in:

Okay, so what I found fascinating about 'Body Count' is that it's one of the only sources which observes Paul McCartney's mental health during the period between the India trip and when the band breakup really got rolling. I think it's overall a fairly self-absorbed text that definitely has some lies and exaggerations peppered in there to make things spicier and more dramatic, but its broad characterization - as I mentioned in my first post - isn't exactly libelous or out of left field. Some elements that make me think it's generally if not wholly authentic are: Paul's simultaneously forceful and dorky seduction style, his terrible Liverpool diet and poor housekeeping, the bouts of thrill-seeking recklessness, avoidant adventure crafting, dark moods when drinking non-socially, the occasional hot and cold bouts with the Apple Scuffs camped out at his gate, and the way in which he underplays his drug habit, which is SO "in truthfulness we spent most of the filming of Help! slightly stoned":

These details are so bizarrely specific and have significant overlap with both sympathetic and spurned personal accounts of Paul I've read in the past, so I believe Francie is just telling "Her Version Of The Truth" here rather than crafting a piece of pure fiction. The most important and revealing anecdote in the book is this one.

There's no reason not to believe this is a fairly accurate representation of something that actually happened, imo, since we know that anxious purse strings were an ongoing issue in the unusual turnover rate within the band Wings, and there are plenty of confirmed and rumoured cases alike of extended family members feeling entitled to a "piece of the pie"; this is just like, the kind of thing that happens to working class people who get catapulted into fame and fortune. And Paul in particular already had deep-seated financial anxiety for whatever reasons he'll never fully admit (as is his right, but I think his offhand claim that he "once heard some adults arguing about money and that's why" might actually be alluding to having heard some adults - y'know, like his parents - arguing over money fairly frequently). What esp interests me about the anecdote is the way Paul seems to connect the conflict b/t his dual "identities" with these financial expectations. Perhaps the CAPSLOCK emotional hysteria related in the book is puffed up for drama, but it does bring to mind one of the most revealing comments Linda ever made about their relationship, which is that Paul needed to be told he would still be loved when the cameras weren't rolling. And that's the thing: Francie caught Paul at the exact moment that the pillars of his Smile-For-The-Camera "Beatle" identity were collapsing; the dissolution of his relationships with John and Jane.

Whatever all this could possibly mean re: the breakup of the Lennon-McCartney partnership is a post for another time. What I wanna do instead is apply the level of speculation we usually reserve for that relationship to the endpoint of Paul and Jane's courtship.

So like, Paul and Jane: I know people are resistant to this specific POV, but I honestly just don't... think it was that deep? "Not deep", mind you, doesn't mean "not significant". Paul was obviously Jane's first love (u never forget), but the feeling I get from Paul's side (as a subconscious process I mean) is that Jane's importance was primarily as a lynchpin in his London Socialite persona. He loved her family, he loved the friend group, the artistic scene dating her gave him access to, as well as the leg up he got in the class system, etc. He liked to be the kind of guy who was dating Jane Asher. But I don't know that he was the guy who was dating Jane Asher, you get me? When people describe their "great love" they accidentally tell on them (Cynthia innocently describing Paul as being pleased to have her on his arm like a trophy; John: "it was an ordinary love scene"; Alistair Taylor noting that Paul was humiliated by the breakup). Paul's a serial monogamist who U-Hauls like a lesbian, of course, so he definitely took the relationship VERY seriously, but it's telling that all of his love songs to her were either about hitting a brick wall in arguments (certainly not dreamy, fond, yearning of "sunday morning fights about saturday night"; and occasionally expressing hints of class tension too), or completely non-descript Guy With A Guitar Trying To Get Laid shit. I could extrapolate a lot about Linda just from listening to McCartney I/RAM and the Wings discography, but 'And I Love Her' doesn't tell me a single thing about Jane besides that she's pretty. It could be about literally anyone the same way 'My Love' or 'Maybe I'm Amazed' could only be about his dynamic with Linda. Some of this is obviously the natural result of getting older and gaining emotional maturity; what I'm saying is that Paul's behaviour and self-expression in this relationship does not suggest to me that it was one in which his emotional maturity was able to develop or flourish.

I want to stress again that I don't think this belittles the significance of the relationship or makes it "bad" or "fake". Like, sometimes hot people just date for a while in their teens and twenties and love each other without necessarily unlocking their inner emotional cores, usually because they don't know how to. It's, like, fine. You need to experience relationships like that as stepping stones. I simply believe that this sort of front-facing social importance being prime in the romance is a major factor in why it ultimately didn't work (and probably in Linda's reported lingering jealousy of Jane, who wasn't just an ex, but also a symbol of the life Paul ditched to build a new identity w/ her, and sometimes still pined for). With Jane, Paul was dating the "right" kind of girl (didn't put out on the first date, erudite and middle class, as serious about her career as he was, a good "celebrity" match), but the relationship often wasn't doing what he wanted it to do. Francie's observation is that by 1968 it also wasn't doing what he needed it to do either. This is the overwhelming "mood" in her affair with Paul McCartney: that he needed something very badly from a romantic partner that he just was NOT getting, and Francie couldn't figure out what it was either:

(note that she means "queer" as in "mad", not "gay")

This was an EXTREMELY roundabout way of asking: well, what WAS it that Paul needed a relationship to do for him? And I think this is Francie's big, accidental insight. The most scandalous claim in 'Body Count' is that Paul told Francie that he hit Jane and it "turned her on".

I personally think this is p. absurd absent any real proof to back it up, but like, what is Francie actually saying HE'S saying here? If she's exaggerating or lying, she's trying to make it believable within the psychological parameters laid out, right? It's not an expression of some secret desire to dominate women she's accusing him of, but emotional disturbance and confusion at the idea that the woman he was with might like that sort of forceful, masculine violence more than his softer, feminine side, which he was - yeah, we all know it - deeply insecure about.

Regardless of whether specific details are true or false (and I think there's both in this story, all hyper-magnified to make it, y'know, a ~STORY~), I think what might be true is the emotional undertow of the retelling, that this all taken together is actually representative of the side of Paul McCartney she was exposed to, at a time when his public and private facades had both become unbearable to the point of cracking and the drug-fueled optimism of the Summer of Love was getting scrubbed off of everyone and everything. It's the Paul McCartney who eviscerated frogs because he was worried he was too "soft" for compulsory military service. The Paul who modelled his masculine teen behaviour off John Lennon's fake "Marlon Brando" swagger, but was actually more fond of the velvet "Oscar Wilde" interior.

What's SO FASCINATING about all this to me, is I deeply believe that one of the key factors in what makes The Beatles music so unique and compelling is that both the songwriters experienced psychological strain from the tension b/t their parochial socially-defensive "masculine" pride, and their sensitive "feminine" core, the latter of which they were able to express in the unburdened emotionality of their music. The reason I care about doing these totally unhinged psych analyses is because I do think it reveals something about the underpinnings of the music, as well as the reasons why the band was such a hysteria-inducing phenomenon (the rise of psychology, imo, is almost as important as the rise of industrialization as a defining factor of the modern and postmodern eras; mass psychology can be understood and wielded in precise ways, and The Beatles were one of the first empires built on that). The subconscious drives caused by this tension have been ENDLESSLY picked apart re: John's psyche, but Paul's "mirrored" issues are very under-discussed (mostly b/c he's still alive so people are a little more leery about putting him on the "couch" as a historical figure). 'Body Count', intentionally or not, painted a portrait to me of someone who was drowning in their own ill-fitting celebrity "suit", collapsing under the weight of "Being" "Paul McCartney". A guy who desperately needed some sort of space to be vulnerable without feeling emasculated for doing it. By 1968, there was no one in his life anymore - and maybe there hadn't been for a while, or ever - who was giving him this space.

In other words: the thing he needed to avoid going "stark raving queer and killing himself" was simply someone who would love him 'after the ball'.

EDIT: read the comments for further clarification and discussion! ;)

#/#//#///#////#/////#the beatles #mccharmley #analysis #long post #Talking About Paul The Way I Talk About John lmfao #Taking Tabloid Bullshit Seriously #(if not literally)#*gets out my fake spectacles and jumps into the psychiatry armchair*#idk if i laid out my thoughts v well here but i hope it satisfied all the people who asked #i also tried to warn what genre of post it was for those who hate this kinda thing lol #i feel like i have more to say re: how toxic 'The Beatle' facade got for all of them by this point #and paul and john's mirrored post-india breakdowns #but francie's perspective is specifically on how it felt to be the girl he used to divebomb his relationship with jane asher SO

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cloudywriter · 3 years

Text

the lost princess of terrasen

rowaelin month - september 7th

prompt: fairytale au - (an anastasia au in this case)

important: okay y’all so i went way overboard with this entire au and it got out of hand so now this might just be a full-blown thing. however, with that whole releation and me going crazy with outlining and writing i could really only have this much of the story out and ready for today but i plan on continuing it!! hopefully after rowaelin month. enjoy this little introduction :)

(cw: brief descriptions of violence)

masterlist, AO3

~~~

At freshly 18, Celaena Sardothien was free. She’d aged out of the orphanage and was finally released to go live her own life, no longer held down in the outskirts of Rifthold. Celaena didn’t want to wait a second longer, the need to leave the horrid place she’d lived the last ten years was ingrained in her bones.

The woman who ran the orphanage, Clarisse, was cruel. From a young age, she poked at Celaena, commenting constantly on her weight or how she didn’t act like a proper young lady. Her entire life up until this point was spent at the mercy of Clarisse and her stern ways. All the girls in the orphanage were treated as maids and dolls for Clarisse to manipulate. But, Celaena made it, counting down the days until her birthday.

Now, here she was, stuck out in the cold. She’d imagined her freedom to be more alluring than this instead she was shaking as she wandered through side streets that led to the heart of Rifthold. She carried with her a backpack barely full of her meager belongings and the too-thin coat on her back. Clarisse didn’t even spare her a hat to keep out the cold so she moved her hair to shield her freezing ears the best she could and waddled along the snowy pavement.

She still had her kingsflame necklace around her neck, though, and that’s all that mattered. Where she had gotten it from she hadn’t a clue. The first memory she possessed was waking up in the very orphanage that would become her prison. Clarisse explained to her that she’d hit her head and a nice man named Arobynn had brought Celaena to Clarisse to be cared for. Clarisse questioned her about her family and upbringing relentlessly but Celaena could not recall a thing. Her mind was blank. For many nights as a young girl, she’d sit upright in the creaky, lumpy bed she occupied and willed herself to remember. She’d cry and scream, banging her fists into her head in frustration when nothing ever surfaced.

The only connection she had to whatever life she lived before was her kingsflame necklace. And she’d follow that kingsflame to the ends of the continent if it meant she’d one day solve the mystery of her existence.

Which led her to the first stop on her journey of discovery, Terrasen. Once Celaena had accepted that her memories weren’t coming back and this was the life she’d have to lead she adjusted. She served Clarisse and went to the small, dilapidated school down the street with the other orphans. There she discovered her love of books and the meager library the school offered became her sanctuary. It was there while she read a book on the kingdoms on Erilea, hoping something would strike her familiar she learned that kingsflame flowers only bloomed in one place, the capital of Terrasen, Orynth.

As a child that discovery was a revelation. Terrasen. Maybe she was from Terrasen.

As Celaena walked she felt her toes growing increasingly numb, Adarlan’s winters were bitter and she was not equipped with the proper wear. Her teeth chattered but she pushed forward, she needed to get passage to Terrasen.

She drew the map out of the pocket of her coat once again and checked the status of her journey. Only a little longer until she was at Rifthold’s main dock station.

The city of Rifthold was big and Celaena felt out of her depth as groups of people swarmed the streets walking to and from their different destinations. It was overwhelming, the smells, the tall buildings, the weather, the noise, the sheer number of people, everything.

Eventually, she saw the lights of the station and she blew a sigh of relief, she hadn’t been very confident in her ability to read a map. She approached a man sitting in a booth behind a sheet of glass, smoking a cigarette.

Celaena stepped up to the counter.

“Hello, sir, I’d like to buy a ticket to Orynth,” she gave him a smirk, leaning casually on the box. She’d learned from many years of coexisting with Clarisse and a revolving door of people that to make it through life you needed a mask. Celaena had crafted her mask carefully and had perfected her act after so many years. She exuded arrogance and confidence so that another soul would never see the scared, lost little girl she truly was.

The man grunted, blowing a puff of smoke from between his cracked lips. “Do you have your papers, girl?”

Her brain stalled. Papers? She cleared her throat, “papers?”

“Yes,” his scratchy voice replied, “you need papers to cross the border.”

Celaena’s heart sank but she kept her expression neutral. “Well, I-”

“Listen, girl, I’m not going to sit here and waste your time so don’t sit here and waste mine. If you don’t have the right documents then I can’t sell you a ticket, simple as that,” he held the cigarette between his teeth.

She searched for some way to turn this situation around, chewing on her bottom lip.

From the shadows a little ways into the dark alley adjacent to the docks, she heard a hissed whisper. “You, blondie,” an old woman emerged slightly from the shadows, beckoning Celaena forward with her index finger.

Celaena looked around, the man in the booth was already back to ignoring her, his nose stuck in a newspaper so she decided to approach the woman. She didn’t have much to lose and Celaena thought if it went south she could take her.

Celaena crept closer, tightening her grip on the strap of her backpack.

“You need papers?” Her voice was hoarse as if her throat was made of sandpaper. Celaena nodded her head keeping her guard up, watching her surroundings out of her peripheral.

“I know who can get you some,” her face morphed into a slight smile that unsettled Celaena more than anything. Celaena furrowed her brows, “who?” The woman tsked at her, her hot breath forming a cloud in front of her face.

“That kind of information isn’t free, my dear.” Celaena had to resist the urge to roll her eyes, everything came with a price in this world.

Celaena reached around to the side pocket of her backpack, fishing out a few coins she had to spare. She’d saved just enough from doing odd jobs to pay her fare to Terrasen. She deposited the coins into the palm of the old woman’s hand, her knobby fingers running along their smooth edges.

“Go a few streets north and into the red brick warehouse with the large windows, you can’t miss it. Ask for a Mr. Rowan Whitethorn, he’ll get you the papers,” she instructed, hoarding the scant sum of money she was given as though they were priceless heirlooms. Celaena turned her head in the direction the woman directed as if she could spot the warehouse from here and by the time she rounded back the woman had disappeared once again.

Celaena huffed and shot another glance at the ticket man, he was still paying no attention, tapping his cigarette out with his finger. She didn’t necessarily want to go on a wild goose chase to obtain these papers but she had no other way of getting them so she breathed deeply and shoved her hands into her pockets and twisted north.

The woman was right about not being able to miss the warehouse. It was a large, old, imposing structure, clearly, it had not been in use for some time now. Celaena crept closer peering into the foggy windows as she passed the front of the building. She couldn’t see anything and was unconvinced she’d find the elusive ‘Rowan Whitethorn’ inside.

Nonetheless, she approached a rusting metal door on the side and pushed it open with her gloved hand. The door protested but it miraculously opened revealing a wide area stacked high with boxes along the walls and corners.

She ventured further into the space, dust and broken glass crunching beneath her boots. She didn’t see any signs of life besides maybe some rats. As she neared the opposite corner what could’ve been a makeshift sitting area came into view, blocked from view initially by a stack of boxes. She approached noting the circle of crates, a dusty blanket, and a few books piled on the side.

She peered at the title of the book on the top of the stack.

The Royal Family of Terrasen. Mixed emotions surged through her body.

“Who’s in here?” A male voice boomed nearly rattling the windows. Celaena shuttered, letting her bravo fill her bones as she heard a set of footsteps enter the space.

+++

Rowan Whitethorn’s life since the fall of Terrasen and the reign of the Valg had been a hell-hole, to put it bluntly. His family fell out of status, his parents were slain in the ambush on Orynth’s castle, and Rowan was left in an unfamiliar land at twelve years old.

A sect of the Whitethorn house had been visiting Terrasen’s court for the holidays when Maeve made her move against the continent. Doranelle crumpled first to her rule and Terrasen followed, the army of Valg she’d amassed was too large to stand against. Adarlan only survived because King Dorian bowed down to Maeve.

Even now at twenty-two, he has nightmares about that evening. The terror he felt as Valg poured into the ballroom and slaughtered the royals. The terror he saw in the princess of Terrasen’s eyes as she was shoved into the kitchens by her nursemaid where Rowan had happened to take shelter as well. He was scared too, running as soon as his father screamed at him to as the Valg slit his throat. He regretted it deeply, leaving like a coward when the palace was invaded. He regretted the cowering he did in the kitchens as well but when the young princess had burst in the doors, tears flowing freely down her cheeks something had come over him. He had pushed her out into the snow yelling at her to run and she did, scrambling to find her footing.

The rest was a blur, the Vlag hurried into the kitchens soon after but somehow Rowan made it out with his life. The same could not be said for many people in the castle that night.

Now, Rowan lived in Rifthold as a thief and doer of other’s dirty work. He longed for the day he could get out of this city of nightmares crawling with Valg. One day, he promised himself, one day he’d have to funds to make it back to Wendlyn and witness what had become of his home.

There was an opportunity, though, that’d heard about from whispers on the streets. Aedion Ashryver. One of the few survivors from Terrasen’s downfall. He chosen to stay in Terrasen’s territory afterward, the country had no real structured ruling now. The old King-Consort Darrow was the closest thing there was to a king but from what he’d gathered the man is old and weak, not the same after the death of his husband, King Orlon. Terrasen had virtually crumbled.

Somehow, Aedion had built up the Bane and gained standing for himself. A standing he was using to campaign to find his long-lost cousin. How Maeve hadn’t gotten wind of Aedion and his plotting and squashed him, Rowan wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, Aedion was offering a hefty reward for the return of his dear Aelin, the nation’s true queen, convinced she was still alive.

Rowan thought the operation was useless. Her body was never found, that was true, but he imagined she’d likely fled into the Oakwald forest and perished from hypothermia not long after. If he could make a pretty penny from returning the ‘princess’ to Aedion, though, he wasn’t above doing so.

All Rowan needed was a young, blonde, and blue-eyed woman he could convince to join his cause and he could coach her to be the perfect replacement for Aelin. Truthfully, he wasn’t convinced this could ever be achieved but it was something he’d contemplated.

Rowan was making his way back to the warehouse he liked to operate his more shady business out of, the biting cold seeping into his clothes. The looming, muddy red-brick building came into view and he pushed the frosted metal door open. Immediately, he was aware that someone had invaded his space.

Small footsteps had disrupted the layer of dusk along the floor. His hand flew to the dagger strapped to his chest as he prowled further inside.

“Who’s in here?” he called out, gripping the dagger tightly by its handle. Once he got far enough into the space he could see a young woman was standing near his makeshift seats.

The first thing he noticed was she was beautiful. Long, golden blonde hair flowed down her shoulders, her skin was pale and her lips had a blue tint to them. Rowan pushed aside all those unsavory thoughts, she was an intruder after all. However, he couldn’t help but study her, she was dressed far too light for the dead of winter, not even a hat on her head.

She looked right back at him, accessing him as he was her. She didn’t look scared to have been caught trespassing, no, honestly, she looked annoyed as if he was interrupting her.

“Who the hell are you?”

~~~

let me know if y’all like it so far and would like to see more, xoxo

#rowaelin fanfic #aelin x rowan #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin ashryver galathynius #aedion ashryver #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #rowaelin month #rowaelin au #rowaelin fanfiction

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messwriting · 3 years

Text

Written for The Smut Pile Collab: Western AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

(i'm gonna make you) feel it

a.k.a. ✨ MAKKI’S ADVENTURE TIME ✨

Hanamaki “Big Tease” Takahiro x Female Reader

Rating: E for explicit | Don’t read this if under eighteen.

Warnings: Porn With Plot. Corruption Kink. Reader’s engaged to be married - a bride. Cheating. Highly inappropriate touching and dancing moves (that’s their job tho). Alcohol. Completely unresearched strippers industry. Lowkey exhibitionism. Fucking in a public space (private room). Fingering. Oral sex. SMUT: Doggy style over a sofa. Makki’s a little shit. Overuse of the word “cute” (for real, so many times omg).

Word count: ~7.3k

Note: Saint Dymphna and poor little me would like to introduce you all to the: 🤠 LAWBREAKERS MULTIVERSE 🤠

So, @dymphnasprose basically came at me with: “what about we take cowboys and make them skskskskskssk like magic mike style strippers” and thus was born the wicked duo newest adventure. We had a lot of fun (and a lot of panic) but here it is! Anyone asks why I’m doing two once again it’s also dymph’s fault and my sheer love for Iwaizumi. Also, dymph I love u and I’ve had lots of fun doing this little group project together🥺💕

That being said I’d also like to thanks @mixedhell who once again is a mage of dialogue and helped me several times; Tay, my love @deathcab4daddy, who helped beta part of this and also @xmyshya who was kind enough to beta this too <3

Makki’s songs: Cowboy Casanova (dymph’s courtesy) + Feel it

You can also read: IWAIZUMI | MATTSUN

Hanamaki is focused.

He surveys the screaming crowd inside the packed nightclub, sees the different groups occupying the big booths, the pretty decorations that never fail to distinguish his targets inside the dimly lit room.

Makki likes the meaning behind the different outfits and colors; the details merging into the allegory of remarkability, crafting the idea of uniqueness in their special day where screams of freedom swimming inside intoxicated heads build a tendency into wildness. In building lasting memories of a singlehood that doesn’t really exist anymore, into falling prey of sexy, large men who could take them into a one-time intoxicating memory that they can savor into the end of times.

Marriages can end, Makki thinks, but memories like the ones he makes are forever.

And tonight he has already found the one.

You must be the prettiest little thing he has seen in months, all beautifully clad in a sparkling white party dress, a sexy slit that shows the classical frilly garter adorning your thigh, with a golden black banner that announces for the whole world that you’re taken, soon to be married and enjoying your bachelorette party. It’s almost a challenge, really.

Great. That’s exactly how he likes it.

A brilliant and ridiculous white cowboy hat decorated to leave a tacky gown falling from your head is perched on the table where your small group sits, about eight women dressed in black and a beautiful entourage of bridesmaids if he ever saw one, but it’s you; cute, happy little you who blushed at the very first look at his partially naked torso when all Hanamaki did was pass by your table in his low cut jeans and open flannel shirt, a tilt of his cowboy hat made with half a mind to compliment the ladies until his eyes laid on you.

Your bright eyes had shined with embarrassment at your interest, chest filling with a renewed pull of air at the mere sight of him, a burning in your face that he could notice even in the poorly lit room, flashing lights giving him just the best of peeks -- your plush lips punished by the row of white teeth that closed around the soft muscle and pulled.

That was all he needed, the smallest of sights and still, the biggest of hints.

You were going to be his tonight. He’ll taint that pristine white and you’ll beg for his every move, he knows it just as he knows the women will scream for him as soon as he steps on the stage.

And, in fact, that will be sooner rather than later.

He’ll make sure of it.

The loud music is pulsing through his body, like waves crashing against his skin, his heart seemingly beating alongside the bass in deep, sexy strokes of the R&B music echoing through the club. The youngsters are doing their dance, a coordinated thing between the six newbies of the Club, while Makki and Mattsun wait by the side of the backdoor of the stage, ready to take their places in the next performance.

“Anyone in your sights yet?” Issei asks him as he passes him the bottle of water, which Takahiro puts on top of one of the structures before sending a small grin at the dark-haired man. They’ve been here for four years now, and they have joined the place together, looking to make a good buck while going to College. Stripping is fun, easy, and profitable when you’re young and hot and Matsukawa and Hanamaki are nothing else but.

“The one by the left, the table with the tacky cowboy hat and the golden balloons.”

“A fan of the work, I see.” Matsukawa pulls the curtain to the side just an inch, his eyes quickly surveying the space and centering on the acquired target. Makki knows exactly what he’s seeing, a table filled with a group of beautiful women and you in white shining over them all, the balloons above the wall seeming way more ridiculous once he knows about Makki’s plan of action.

One dick for life. Ha.

“Poor little thing doesn’t know what she’s in for tonight.” Mattsun’s grin is mischievous and all-knowing. Hanamaki has a type, it’s a running joke, but every good joke starts from a glimmer of truth. And in Makki’s case, it may as well be the truth itself.

“And that’s a sexy little group.”

“Yeah, it is. But you already have plans for tonight, don’t you. I’ve heard about it from Oikawa.”

Mattsun doesn’t answer, only a chuckle and a lopsided grin marking his face as he keeps studying the crowd.

The group performance wraps up quickly, being one without public interaction and soon enough Oikawa is making a show, threading between the public with his mic, hyping the crew out with just the right few words.

The lights start going down, softly casting the audience in shadows while the stage is tinged in bright colors before becoming red and by the time people’s eyes are focusing at the center again, Hanamaki and Matsukawa have taken their places.

The music starts to play, soft and calm, pulsing through the bodies of everyone as their eyes focus on the attractive duo in center stage. They’re not supposed to end up naked yet, that’s saved for the end, but as the choreography flows, sharp hip movements, thrusting motions like ocean waves crashing on rocky shores, still get women screaming at the top of their lungs enough for it all to merge with the song as if it’s part of the original bass.

Makki’s wearing a half-opened plaid flannel shirt with nothing under it, and he pops every remaining button open along to the song, the screams getting louder. His jeans are tight enough that every plane of muscle is noticeable, and his belt is black and striking, with a big, bull-shaped buckle. Later he’ll change his outfit to leather chaps and a vest, but right now, he’s more laid back. He looks good, he knows it, but the appreciation in your eyes as you coily drink his from from across the room is like a fucking golden star on his pride.

On top of his head, locked tight, it’s his pinched front cowboy hat. As Makki throws it in the air and catches in the middle of dancing, the screams engulf him from all sides.

But everything else is fading to the back of his mind as his eyes find yours in the dark, the appreciative, enthralled shine in them not lost to Makki. Could never be lost to Makki, who holds onto it as if it’s a life-line; You’re interested.

Ok, that’s good. But it’s also the basics.

Makki twirls and fall on the floor, hips fucking into nothing as the crowd goes insane. He kneels on stage, his shirt flying to the spectators; two women take hold of it, pulling in contrary directions until it rips.

Makki throws you a wink, every woman in that direction claiming it as theirs. You, however, shrug into yourself, eyes looking away as your hands tight their hold around the champagne glass they’re holding. You’re so cute, hands in front of your face as if that would keep you from staring. Makki feels himself glowing, growing excited at the mere sight of your scurrying eyes as they choose the floor instead of his body.

So fucking pure.

Takahiro wants to force you to look up and revel in the guilty desire he’s bound to find there. There’s no need to avoid him if he doesn’t charm you, that’s the beauty of soon-to-be brides. There’s such a deep will inside them to be faithful to the allegory of a husband they do not have yet, lost in a daydream of happiness in finding the one when they haven’t even tasted anything but. Makki eyes the golden balloons floating around the table while he dances -- one dick forever.

Poor little thing. He can’t let that happen, can he?

When Makki hops off the stage and walks over to your table between deafening screamings and pleads for him to take them, instead, his hand closes around your dainty little one, adorned with pretty french nails and just a single golden ring and even the soft, smooth skin of your hand against his rugged palm is a thrill inside his veins.

Your eyes are shining, nervousness sweeping from them as they lock with his. Hanamaki tries to be lowkey, giving you a reassuring smile supposed to be nice, to be trusting -- a complete disconnect of the way his guts stirs in the excitement of your touch.

He lowers his lips to your ears, pretends the way his nose runs over the shell is a mere accident. “Let’s go for a ride, sweetheart.”

Your lips fall open by the side of his face and Makki can feel the way you suck a breath, a little gasp ruining your efforts when he lets his lips brush against your jaw. Another accident, whoops. He’s such a careless boy, isn’t he?

Your teeth punish your bottom lip as your eyes seem to look anywhere but him, trembling hands as you seem half-way into telling him no. Makki can't have that, though. He brings his face to look deep in your eyes, a lopsided smile he can manoeuvre into being just the right amount of kind by now.

"You're not gonna let me go up there alone, will you?" He almost pouts, big hands finding their way on your arms in up and down motions that drag just the right amount of trembles from you for him to know he's winning. "There's no fun without you, sweet girl."

He dips his lips onto the shell of your ear once again, just in time to hide his mischief. "You're the star of the show. I'm just your ride."

That seems to make you giggle and Makki uses that to bring his grin into your view, palms sliding down your arms to clasp your hands and - finally - guide you up with him.

One thing Makki knows is that he likes his brides sweet.

Pliant.

And as you get up and follow him quietly and sheepish, clumsy tripping over yourself when some of your bridesmaids erupt in cheers, he knows he is right once again -- you’re just his type.

Thing is, Makki doesn’t waste time. He makes you twirl in your high heels just to have you falling in his arms, he picks you up without effort, a little gasp breaching your lips as your hands plant against his chest.

Makki just has to grin at the way in which you close your palms and retreat them back to yourself, quick, burning up in a beautiful, delicious expression of shame. Fuck, he wants to make you beg.

When he’s at the stage, he drops you on your feet with enough aggression to get you to slide straight to the floor, unsteady knees opening under you until your ass is planted on the stage.

Makki thinks your open mouthed expression, little breaths breaking through your lips as your anxious eyes stare up at him, have to be the best thing he’s seen in a while. And he’s just starting.

He bends at the waist, his hands to reach your knees and push them open, your bright little white dress sliding up so much he can steal a peek at your fancy underwear.

Such a vixen, aren’t you? All wrapped in lace.

Makki lets himself fall on top of you and you gasp, even as he stays holding himself in a plank, not one bit of skin touching yours. The song is pumping, slow and sexy even if the screams sound louder in the close space. He twists his hips, the rolling motion has them right between your juicy thighs. You’re forced to keep them wide open and the way in which you look mortified just may be what ends him.

Makki drops his knees in the ground, lets the screams wash over him as he drags his hips against your center, soft, then hard. His hands by the side of your head, his toned chest right in front of your face. He knows by the way his skin burns that you’re staring at him -- good, he wants to be the center of all your attention tonight.

Your hands are in front of yourself as if you’re afraid at your own excitement, eager eyes looking for his in a wirlwind of emotions and it makes his fucking skin erupt with goosebumps that the most noticiable one is desire.

Oh, Makki’s going to wreck you. The song turns frantic just as he comes to slide over your body, nose trailing along your collarbone and chest, teeth nipping at your clothes as if he would prefer to be doing it to your skin instead, and he feels the way your shame almost consumes you, body shaking as he finally reaches destination: right above your beautiful open thighs, so close he can almost taste you.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last. And Makki is forced by the choreography to climb back up your body even as he lets his hands linger a bit too close to your clothed center, every woman around screaming as if they can read his mind.

He gets back up and kneels between your open legs, thrusting in time with the music as if he’s actually still thinking about choreography and not in doing this to you later. You’re growing more embarrassed by the moment, your whole body burning and tense, but responsive to his movements and, better yet, his smiles.

His body is used to the motions, to swirling and grinding and thrusting in a wave motion, crashing over your hips time and time again until your lips fall open, and he knows he hit the jackpot.

Makki holds himself in a plank again, his skin turning clammy with the exertion, but he angles his crotch just right and has you singing a groan for him again -- then turning bright with shame in sequence.

Such a precious little thing indeed.

The ground choreo ends way too soon for Makki’s wishes, but he’s soothed by the way in which you let yourself be picked up, hands clinging to his shoulders with such a fierce hold he almost wants to test it out. He throws you up for a moment, relishes in your nails at his back, and his forearms hold you by the underside of your knee, closing on your hips.

And that makes your pretty little clothed cunt roll right against his semi-hard on. There’s a ripping sound, probably your slit getting wider to acomodate your open legs and thus, him.

Lovely.

Makki rolls his hips, right against your center once, and the crowd erupts in screams just as he starts mimicking fucking you standing. A beautiful option he saves in the back of his mind for later.

You let out a yelp, then proceed to try and hide your head against his neck, your pretty mouth gliding against his skin gives him such a high he almost loses the tempo of the song. He tells you to hold on and plants his hands on your bare ass, lifting you until he can have you in front of his face, a bit uncomfortable move but one that has every single woman in the club wet -- it’s in the air by now, and he can smell it. The idea makes his skin prickle, your hands holding his hair for dear life as if you’re afraid to fall, but your clothed cunt is right there, and he can’t pass the opportunity to steal a little touch as he pretends your hold is what pushes his head flush against your pussy.

You let out a beautiful sound almost in time with the song, and he is letting you fall once again on his arms, the smile on his lips the last nail on your pure coffin.

And unfortunately that means time’s up.

Makki lets your legs fall but holds you by your waist, depositing you on your own two feet at the stage and snickering at how your legs falter to hold you up on the high heels. So, as a gentleman, he takes your hand in his, helps you down the few steps on the stage, almost groans at how your hand seems to not want to let him go.

Before he leaves you, he pulls your hand into his lips, absolutely glowing at how breathless you look from the little action after he literally ravished you on stage. It physically pains him that he needs to pick up another bride into his show.

“See you later, pretty one.”

Under you, your legs are faltering, knees trembling like a newborn deer as you’re left alone to fend for yourself in the long path back to your table. Women congratulate you, screaming on your sides at the men who was almost fucking you dumb on stage and his friend, as they continue their show.

Your heart is beating in your ears, leaving you stupid and lost as you’re finally - finally - rescued by your friend, who brings you back to the table with loud congratulations and happy cheers. You feel your body sweating and throbbing, weirdly pulsating for something you can’t name.

Recognizing it would make it real and you cannot believe that after five years in a nice relationship with your only boyfriend and soon-to-be-husband, this is the first time you feel this wet.

You plop down on the closest seat, hands pressing to your chest as you try to both fan yourself and hide behind them. It proves, as expected, a hard task.

Your childhood friend has arrived and you hug her sideways, the short conversation you two exchange somehow lost to your poor heated brain as your eyes keep sliding to center once again at the stage.

The way he dances on stage feels overwhelming, this bride-to-be suffering way less touching and grinding than you, as “Big Tease Makki” stays standing up, his hands groping everywhere in his sculpted body as he dances to the sensual song, including the considerable bulge in his pants.

Something flashes and he turns his head your way so sharply you feel the need to melt further on the sofa, poorly hiding away as everyone around you cheers once again.

His eyes on you were burning a hot trail that slithers over your warm skin even in the dark, the ghost of a feeling of touch, erupting goosebumps along their way as they circle your neck and dip down your side, strutting over your chest to end by your face. Even in the distance, you swear you can feel the way those lips slip into an easy grin, satisfied at the way they have you breathless and weak by thought alone.

The idle chatting of your friends, excited and drunk are dulled by the pounding of your heart inside your chest, and you feel constricted by their presence on your sides at the booth, both ways filled with testimony to your inner turmoils-- can they see your sinful thoughts while they stay that close to you? Can the pounding of your heart and the heat in your face be felt at such a short distance?

The mere idea that they can pry inside your skull and discover the sinful dreams unfolding is too much for you right now, your spine shooting up while you balance yourself in your pretty heels and ask in a meek, nervous voice for the girls to let you pass. Some ask if you need help or if you’re going to the bathroom, and in both options it feels like you’re going to be flanked immediately, so you deny it and say you have to make a quick phone call about something you forgot to confirm and they all nod away, drunkenly squealing for you to be quick.

You’re almost free when one of your bridesmaids, your childhood friend, looks up at you with puzzled eyes.

“Hey, everything's okay?” She’s not drunk, only happily buzzed with sparkling wine, but her eyes are attentive when they lay on your face, worry etched in her brow as she looks for hints hidden in your dolled up face.

“Yeah, just need to take a breather.” You give her what you hope is a reassuring smile even as sweat drips down your back, but the place is dark and loud and she lets you go without much prodding. The place is full and swarming with women, groups of men present but fewer, waiters clad in skimpy clothing as they work the tables full of drinks, shots and champagne. Some are flirtatious, charming smiles along with muscles as they sweep women off their feet and leave their wallets thinner; others are pretty serious, and the mysterious aura has their pull, the ecstasy of conquest working as an aphrodisiac.

You pull past the bodies, feeling a bit light headed as your chest pounds and the booze traverse your body, clumsy steps on too-high-heels you’re not used to, but your bridesmaids had pushed you to wear along with screams to live a little and say hello to the last night before you’re a proper married lady. You’ve never really felt the weight of those words as the last two days, tasting for the first time the sweetness of night as you’ve never before.

If brown, bored eyes make a appearance in your mind as you flee to the corridor leading to the private rooms and women’s bathroom, you’re quick to stop the train of thought before it leads down a muscular torso clad in a tight jeans with a firm ass and a hot, big cock that humped against you in every opportunity while he took you to the stage.

A drop makes it way past your cunt lips to stain your fancy underwear and you groan, ashamed. You’ve never felt this unbecoming need before, the arousal so thick your breasts seem to be heavy against your ribcage, dress feeling too tight on your heated, oversensitive skin.

You’re reaching the curve left that will take you to the bathroom when big hands engulf your frame, palm over your mouth and you’re pulled inside one of the private rooms, too breathless to even make a sound.

“Howdy,” his voice sounds right by your ear, as you’re caged against a burly body and the closed, probably sound-proof door. “Got a fugitive here.”

“Uhh, sir, I--”

“Sir?” He laughs, head thrown back prettily as you drink the arch of his throat. “Oh my god, call me Makki, pretty one.”

The petname makes you flush, tongue heavy and clumsy in your mouth around words. “Uh… Makki, I’m sorry but I, ah…” You fumble with your hands, avoiding touching him, eyes downcast as you try to also avoid even looking at him. It’s too much, he seems everywhere.

“You’re engaged? I can see that, love. You have a banner right there.” He sounds so nice, mischief and boyish glee as he stands way too close to you.

“Then you understand…”

“I understand this is your last night of freedom, right? The last chance for you to be bad,” He breathes against your jaw as he noses along your skin to your ear, his cowboy hat gliding softly against the side of your face, “To be wild.”

Your mouth opens and closes but not a single sound comes out, your brain completely lost to the science of mixing letters into words. All you can think about is how your blood seems to be galloping in your veins, the pounding of your heart so oppressingly loud the beat of the song seems to mimic it and not the contrary.

You are lost to everything but the unbelievable feeling of painful arousal, so sharp and deep your bones seem to be melting out of their places and dripping into the outside by your cunt.

“But,” Leaves your lips dumbly and Makki’s fingers silence you, his lips so close you can taste his every exhale, the flap of his hat managing to blind your vision to anything past his face.

“You’re going to be married to the exact same man forever, sweetheart. You can let go one night. One night for you to feel good.” Makki licks at your throat and your lips fall open with a shameless moan as you burn with shame. “Has he ever made you feel this hot, sweetie? Hm? Have you ever even felt like this? It’s your last chance tonight, right? Don’t lose it.”

Makki’s hands massage their way down your sides, grabbing at the flesh of your hips, brushing your ass, and you’re dead silent as you drool away in your panties. Unable to think, unable to speak, embarrassment clogging your throat together with an impossible, unacceptable yes.

“C’mon, sweetie, let me take care of you.” It’s a plea, and he knows your chest will hurt with the same need that is in his tone. “Just this one time, so you can know what it feels like… how great it can be.”

“One time.” He promises you, earnest eyes boring into yours and, dumbly, enchanted, you nod… and agree.

Well, Makki ain’t waiting around for you to change your mind.

His hands loop around your thighs immediately, pressing you against the door until he can press his body between your open legs. The slit of your dress gives in just the little bit needed to allow his hips to make their way against your core, his lips busying themselves with planting kisses along the arch of your neck, teeth nibbling at the lobe of your ear, tongue gliding over the shell.

His breathing is soft, but so close it feels like it engulfs the room, slithering inside your head and scrambling your thoughts. His crotch presses against your center enough to hold you high and open, one of his hands relieved of their place as it climbs your side and closes around your jaw, angling your head back until you’re trapped between his face and his chest.

You shudder, eyes fluttering closed as if you cannot hold them open, and Makki feels his skin prickling, warmth spreading from his limbs to his chest and down his hips to center themselves at his burning length. You’re such a little vixen, all big eyes and open mouthed staring at him while he has hardly done anything.

He can barely wait to see how you’ll burn when he buries his face in your pussy.

Right now, though, Makki reigns in his excitement, fingers caressing your cheeks until your pretty eyes open up again, dazed. There’s just something about getting pretty little things like you to yield, to breathe out as his lips plant themselves carefully, softly, against your cheek, then the line of your jaw, your chin and your nose.

Every little kiss has you getting restless, trembling in his arms while your hands close around his shoulders, painful little welts that he loves to see. Such desperation.

It’s really the best.

His lips press against the corner of your wobbling plush lips and you shudder, but they push it back, and when Makki finally decides to kiss you, you’re opening your mouth in your eagerness, tongue lapping awkwardly at his lips as he chuckles and decides it’s time to stop playing.

When he kisses you then, you gasp, precious little sound leaving you as if you had no idea you could even make it, and then you’re melting against him, pressing against his chest as his mouth works its wonders on yours, tongue circling, searching, sucking. He nips at your lips, steals all the short bits of breath from your lungs until you’re writing against him, pressing sinful hips against his crotch in such a desperate way it’s endearing.

The hand on your thigh dips further under your dress, finds the plush meat of your ass and engulf it in its palm, delighted at how inexistent is the small little thing you’re wearing and how fucking delicious it feels. His fingers dig into your bottom until you break the kiss to gasp at how easily he can slip his long indicator from your ass to your pussy.

It’s his time to lose his air at how fucking wet you are, ruined fancy panties and moist thighs.

“Oh god, look at that. Little bride is so wet for this cowboy.”

You make a face, lips pursing in an awkward turn and coily shifting to look down, appraising looks on his chiseled chest. “Okay this one was bad!” Makki offers with an easy smile, the hand on your neck dipping into your breasts, palms pressing on your chest as he turns his focus on circling the hard nipple through your clothes, closing around the plush meat until your offending honest little lips part once again to him. He can see in the turbilion of your eyes how you’re still swirling against guilt, holding back from him.

“But can you blame me? Look at me.” He makes a mention with his head towards the big bulge straining his tight jeans, which have you unconsciously looking down, his hand sliding over your jaw to tilt your head up to meet his eyes, charming, easy-going smile in his lips. “Look at you.”

He rolls his hips once against your sex, feels the blistering heat even through layers of clothes but he’s done this enough to know exactly where to aim, having a moan escaping through the tight cage of your lips before you can hold everything else in by the lock of your teeth.

He can’t have that, though. He thrives on applause after all.

“Now, beautiful, I’ll need you to stop that right there.” His fingers dip under you to slide against the soiled fabric clinging to your folds and you all but tense, melting after as if you cannot conceive how good is his mere touch. “I want to hear you, c’mon.” Your eyes drop on his in hurt, but you free your bottom lip, mouth imediatelly falling open around a groan as Makki presses aimless around the entrance of your sex. Damn, Makki likes this.

“Yes, like that. You’re such a good girl, aren’t you?” His cock is straining against his boxers already, length rolling in perfect aimed strokes over the apex of your sex as his fingers thread on the outline of your beautiful cunt and when he dips inside a single fingertip, your sex and hands cling to him, all the beautiful curves of your body against his and he just-- He wants to see.

“Ok, dinner time!” Makki chuckles as he brings his hands once again to hold you firmly by your thighs, fingers spread enough to keep rolling against the edges of your cunt.

“Wha-What?” You give a charming yelp at the way he holds you effortlessly while abandoning the door to walk over to the couch. It’s just a cheap upholstered thing in front of the circular stage with the pole hanging from the ceiling, but it’s just the perfect length for what he needs.

He lets you fall, open and disheveled over it, legs spread to show the lace he saw earlier, stained and soiled after just a bit of makeout.

“You’re so cute.” It’s mockingly, really; meant to be a jab at how you’re so hazed and undone by just a few moves of his, but the way in which your doe eyes thread up to him, shiny and unfocussed; your hands closing around your frame as a hand plants in front of your breasts is just… cute. There’s no other word. You’re just a cute little thing and he wants your demise.

Makki groans and pulls you to the edge of the sofa by your legs, easily dropping between your thighs in a wave move, face planting itself on your breasts to suck at sweaty clothes, teeth pulling the fabric down until your nipples peek through and he sucks them inside his mouth, too.

You tremble so easily, even worse when he abandons it to nose his way down your body tightly clad in the white dress, kisses over your belly until he’s nosing at your clothed cunt, open mouth kisses adding to the moistness in your poor underwear.

“Delicious.” Makki says for no reason other than to state his thoughts, tongue rolling over the clothed slit as if its skin, reveling in how your poor legs start to shake, needing the aid from his hands spreading them to finally stop. “Tell me, honey, have your fiancé ever fucked you good? Hm?”

The mention makes you stiff, head pressing to the side of the sofa as if you’re fighting a battle inside your own mind, triggered by the piece of trivia question.

“I bet he hasn’t,” Makki laughs, nosing at your pussy with such pressure his whole face gets smeared in your juices. “Is he your first boyfriend? Tell me more.”

“I--how do you--” You stutter through bitten lips, truth tipping out once he easily spreads you open with his thumbs on each side. “Yes.”

“What a waste, such a wet fucking pussy and not one single effort from your hubby to-” Makki pulls your underwear aside, tongue lolling out to lick a long strip from your entrance to your clit, “lick”, once, it”, twice, “clean.” and thrice.

You let out a cute little noise and he gets impatient, pulling the lace at the side with enough force it rips easily under his hand. Your indignant noise doesn’t even sound right, lost in a moan at the way he closes his lips around your clit and brings his tongue to play with it fast. His hand presses harder on the skin of your thighs, leaving you open as a present, ripe and wide.

If Makki says he eats pussy as a fucking meal, it’s not out of vanity. He doesn’t like to stroke his own ego, it’s just the plain truth. He works his tongue around your cunt, licks at your puffy lips, slither his way over the labia, gathers all the dripping …. and lets it drip over your pussy, just to suck it up and spit on it, after all he never understood the whole don’t spit on the plate you eat. If it’s pussy, he’s sure it’s the fucking other way around.

You’re writhing and moving around, a symphony of gasps and moans fighting their way past your tight lips. Makki doesn’t mind. As he brings his thumbs to stroke up and down the sides of your cunt, he knows you’ll be screaming in no time. It’s just too much. It’s clear you’ve never had anything like this just by the frantic way you’re humping his face, hands grabbing at anything and everything they can, unable to hold on. His only shame is how busy his mouth is, unable to tease his way into the pure debauchery you’re demonstrating.

He pauses a bit to angle himself back, eyes trained at your pussy, dripping fucking wet all over the dress and the sofa. His thumbs spread at the sides of your entrance, pull it open just to see it blink and gap, begging for his cock without a word leaving your lips. Shit. His cock is straining against the tight jeans in such a painful way he has to let one hand go, open his button and fly, let the poor warrior fight its way past the band of his calvin kleins.

Then he’s back at his work, one thumb keeping you open as his hand returns to plunge his indicator inside slowly. Makki’s mouth almost falls open at the bewitching way your walls give in, letting him sink inside the velvety wet inside with ease. You’re clenching around him, groaning above and begging below, so he lets a second one inside at the retreat and advance of his wrist.

“Have your little husband ever made you feel like this, huh? Have he eaten this little pussy so good you make a mess?”

“Jesus Christ!” You moan above and Makki laughs. He loves this. Loves the little religious bout he gets from tight little brides when they actually taste heaven amidst sin. You try to ride his fingers, but he presses the back of your knees higher, and you let out a breathless “God!” at the new angle.

Then he starts the real game, fingers moving around your heat in search of a specific spot he finds with little prodding and then abuses until you’re begging.

“Oh my god! I, fuck--Jesus!”

“Yes, just like that sweetheart. If you beg for me real pretty I’ll give you what you want.” He says as his fingers keep plunging in and out of your heat in an upwards motion, strong but slow, dragging the feeling of his thick digits inside your walls. It’s close, he can feel it in the way you’re swelling around him, restless kicking out legs and praying for God as if it isn’t Makki who’s giving you all this.

“My name, sweetie. Beg for it, c’mon. Say it out very loud, how you want my cock to fuck you nice and hard as you’ve never had before, huh? Just--”

“Fuck!”

“Just tell me more how you had no idea it could be so good and how you need me to show you how fucking good a man can actually fuck.”

“Oh my god,” you all but yelp, but then sighs a, “yes, please.”

“Hmmm? Couldn’t hear you.”

“Oh fuck, Makki please fuck me!” There’s a breathless, outstandly maniac laugh breaching your lips after that, a flow of quick words falling from your lips as a train of thought, “Jesus I’ve never felt like this, oh my god I think I’ll actually die without--”

“There we go!” Makki laughs, voice loud as he stops everything to get up and once again bends down to pick you up.

“Wha--Wait!” You squeak, body tense and trembling at the loss as Makki only kisses around your tearstained face and makes his way around the upholstered couch. “Makki!” That has to be the needier, whinier tone he has ever heard his name in.

And he loves it.

He lets you slide through his hands, bends you over the back of the couch, your ripped panties sliding to the floor by one of your legs. One of Makki’s hands descends hard on your ass with a loud slap, your lips opening around a beautiful moan. The other does the same, both circling and massing the plump flesh as your ass and pussy blinks seductively at him.

That does it. Makki curses as he pulls his pants and underwear down, his hard, bloody-red cock slapping up against his navel; he closes his hand around it to slap it between the crack of your pretty behind and feels everything in him tingling at how wanton you sound in your moan, angling your back so that your ass can climb higher, head against the seat cushions.

“Yes, baby, just like that.” Makki praises you as he tilts his cockhead on your slit, up and down, up and down against your clit, labia and entrance. It’s absolutely delicious how you clench to try and hold his cockhead, but it slips up to bob against your ass. “Ops, let’s try again.”

He does the same thing a second time but then you groan and whine once again, “Makki, please!”

Well, fuck, who’s he to deny you, right?

He pats your ass and supports his weight at the back of his feet, cockhead right against the beautiful hole weeping for him and, carefully, slowly, deliciously starts dipping inside. Your pussy sucks him in as a vice, muscle clenching and releasing; loud, satisfacted moans in your lips. It’s almost choking to him that the loud noise in the room comes from him, too, mouth falling open in a growl.

When his hips are nested against your ass, Makki has the urge to kiss you but squatches it down in favor of holding you strongly and fucking you throughly. Motioning himself in waves as he had on the stage, his cock slides in and out of you with such delicious, timed precision he thinks you’ll come twice on him before he’s done.

Your tight heat is velvety wet around him, squelching sounds sinful in the room as he grinds his hips against your ass, cockhead nestled against the firm pressure of your cervix. There’s babbles tipping from your lips, as if your mind has broken and you have to pronounce your mess of thoughts out loud. It’s cute.

Maybe he'd appreciate it more if his mind wasn't falling him also; his whole body feels constricted, strained, hips rolling in long, deep, strong strokes that make his cock into a pleasure antena, broadcasting to his whole being, blistering heat spreading through his veins and turning sharp at his spine and to start pooling at his balls.

He is about to dip his hand to your clit and end you when your body seizes, legs kicking while dangling from the backrest of the couch and your pussy starts creaming hard like a vice around his cock.

“Fuck!” He groans, tensing his whole body before you bring him over with you, hand slithering to hold the base of his cock, hard. Then he laughs, no breath to spare. “Wow, baby, no heads up? Now you gonna have to give me one more, I’m not done with you yet.”

You let out an indignant groan, but rest boneless under him. Makki retreats his hips from your snug grip and starts pistoning his way inside your heat, unforgiving even as you yelp and whine, oversensitivity probably making you burn. Makki lets one of his hands let go of your hips and fall hard on your ass, in time to feel the way your pussy grips at him, yelp turning into a moan. Makki lets his hands slide down the side and curve his wrist so your fingers can find your clit, rubbing him frantically as he angles his hips just right, every wave of his body aimed against your precious spot.

“Yup,” Makki groans, growing exhausted. “Just like this.”

Your eyes snap open, hands frantically reaching to hold on anything by them as you look back at Makki with shiny, big, dazed eyes in absolute terror at the fact you are, indeed, going to keep cumming on his dick, second orgasm hitting you so hard and fast Makki actually tips over with you, the pressure in his balls releasing in one blissful climax at the incessant contracting of your cunt and the wave of your orgasm gushing out of your pussy in the closest thing to a squirt he could pull out of you amidst a unending orgasm.

Makki stays inside you as he rides his high, grinding his hips even as you cry from the oversensitivity. When he pulls out, he’s careful with the condom and also has half a mind to hold your body, throwing the used thing somewhere to be cleaned after. Almost as if perceiving the breach, his cellphone starts ringing somewhere, loud as fuck in the closed room.

“Damn, fuck,” Makki scrambles to the sound, his legs almost giving out under him and his fingers so numb it takes three tries to actually accept the call. Which he didn’t read who from.

“MAKKI! WHERE ARE YOU, WE’RE STARTING IN FIVE.” Iwaizumi nags at him, stern and loud, piercing through his haze enough to make his brain drop some adrenaline into his bloodstream, suddenly alert and kicking, muscles straining but holding as he pulls his underwear and jeans quick over his ass and searches for his cowboy hat in time to dip and run to the presentation.

“Sorry baby, gotta go.” He saunters to you, plants a kiss on your sweaty head and another at your swollen lips and smiles the same sinful smile that ended up bringing you here, along with a tilt of his cowboy hat. “Duty calls.”

#hanamaki x reader #hanamaki smut #hanamaki takahiro smut #haikyuu smut #thesmutpilecollab

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nevertheless-moving · 3 years

Text

thanks again to @dykerory and @willowcrowned for this genius au. this is an incomplete collection of very specific set of headcanons/daydreams i had about a tangential version of your au that made me emotional in the middle of the woods. whenever you feel the time is right, i’m very eager to hear your og version on the ‘but obi-wan, tho!’, because i admittedly pushed this one’s resolution really far chronologically because i wanted batman to be involved.

continuation from here

note: my understanding of dcu is as sporadically informed as my understanding of the gffa.

newly graduated clark kent gets his first journalism job and starts settling more and more into the superman thing. the rest of the justice league has been around but his entrance onto the scene is the one that really inspires the various heroes to actually start coordinating to deal with the weirdness magnet that is dcu Earth. Clark is in his early 20s. Anakin is in his late 30s.

He’s been living on Earth, without the force, for nearly 2/3rds of his life. He has a close knit circle of friends who were kind to him even when they thought he was just a weird and crazy emo cult victim (the gradual increase of public encounters with aliens and superpowers sparks some awkward apologies, Anakin at 38 just waves his friends off, smiling and changing the subject, neither confirming nor denying his high school ramblings of spaceships and magic. it doesn’t really change anything).

He lives an hour’s drive from smallville, and runs a successful auto shop. people travel from pretty far to check out some of his more wild and specialized motorcycle abominations. makes enough money selling them to rich idiots to fund his free auto-class and auto-repair programs for impoverished communities.

It took a while but he eventually came around to the idea of helping people without physical force (ironically, this is happening around the same time Clark is coming to the realization that he can help people with physical force). Generally respected as a pillar of the community. When people start to realize how profoundly weird he is as a person in a number of inexplicable ways, someone will generally pull them aside and quietly whisper that he was in a cult at a child, no one really knows much about it except that it’s what inspired his anti-modern-slavery work, which is a little telling. Not married. Was in a long-term relationship for like 9 years. It didn’t end well but no-one knows the details.

Has several cats.

He’s- wistful but settled. He’s been through a lot of therapy. He meditates every morning and night, clearing his mind and examining his emotions in the way Obi-Wan taught him. He thinks Obi-Wan would be proud of him. He know his Mom would be.

Once he gets used to the idea, he never really stops loving the concept of learning just because. Duel bachelors degree in in african american history and american literature, masters in engineering, masters in astrophysics a phd in theoretical physics, another phd in medieval folklore. He’s worked a lot of jobs.

He was already pretty well versed in astronavigation back at the temple. Over the course of his time on earth, he gets more educated in earth astronomy and physics. With is increased knowledge, his theory for ‘how did i get here’ shifts from slight hyperdrive miscalculation, to big hyperdrive miscalculation, to some sort of hyperlane incident. he realizes that none of the stars he knows are familiar in any NASA database. He must be beyond wildspace, which helps him let go of the last bit of hurt he felt that Obi-Wan never found him.

Then he really learns physics- and- light doesn’t exactly work like that right? He thought it was just primitive Earth understanding but... he gets a phd more or less accidentally, trying and failing to disprove that the speed of life is constant constant.

Get’s another even more accidentally, explaining how alternate universes might form if we assume slightly different universal constants. He publishes his thesis anonymously around the same time metas are becoming a household term, and at least one science journalist speculates on it and how alternate universes might explain the increasing prevalence of wildly different superpowers. He doesn’t claim credit for the honorary diploma awarded to the unknown theorist- he doesn’t want to risk drawing any attention to him and by extension Clark, who’s alien differences are far more of the ‘military experiment interesting’ variety then his.

He stops tinkering with Clark’s ship. He finally gets how it works. Now that he realizes how FTL travel has to work in this universe, tinkering with the mechanical generation and harnessing of the massive quantities of energy necessary to do is startlingly familiar. But it doesn’t matter. No matter how far and fast he travels, he’s never going to be able to get back to the life he used to know.

Perhaps this is what being the chosen one actually means- he’s meant to live a life without the force, so that when he returns to it in death he’ll be able to somehow...educate? the force? maybe?

Ok, he’s not great at the metaphysical spiritual side of things, but he does accept that going back is out of his control, and he’s doing good here, even if it’s not galaxy altering.

Despite all the therapy, he never doubts that his early life was real. He has his saber and deep, deep down he can feel a spark in the kyber. He can’t do anything with it, but it’s there. There’s also pieces of the utter wreck that was his ship in the cellar, next to the sleek unblemished pod that Clark arrived in. Shortly before Clark becomes Superman, he asks for his help in melting down his old ship to make unearthly alloys.

He’s not surprised when Clark tells him he met a ‘real’ ‘magic’ user- it stands to reason that considering how relatively easy it is to convert energy from one form to another in this universe (Clark can fly), at least one kind would bend to sentient willpower in a similar way as the force does.

It’s still a little nervewracking showing his lightsaber to someone new for the first time in a decade. Zantana scrutinizes, bewildered.

“There is some sort of power locked within, but it’s unfamiliar to me,” she admits finally. “I could probably brute force it and force the energy to release itself, but it would likely destroy the container.” Anakin politely refuses.

Later, after the justice league’s formation, Clark mentions to J’onn that he has a friend who might be able to work on his ship. J’onn is extremely doubtful when he’s brought to a bizarre autoshop in the midwest that looks half-like a roadside attraction. Anakin sighs and digs his hands into the guts of the craft, muttering incomprehensibly and yelling at clark to melt down some pieces from the special scrap pile. A few days later he explains the patches he’s done to an impressed J’onn. When he asks how a human came to learn such things, he’s absently informed that,

“I used to work in a junkshop in Tatooine. All sorts of ship parts came through.”

“I’m unfamiliar with this world.”

“Tell you what, if you ever meet anyone who’s heard it of it, send them my way, and I’ll make your next repair free.”

“Oh! I’m afraid I don’t have any earth money...”

“Ugh, of course you don’t. it’s cool, capitalism sucks anyway and everyone’s entitled to free transportation, regardless of the area they happen to live. I do ask that if you can’t pay for the repairs that you spend an equivalent number of hours either attending one of my free auto classes, or volunteer at a community-led charities of your choice, here I’ll get you a pamphlet-”

So the Martian Manhunter becomes a weekly volunteer at a Midwestern Food Waste Reclamation Facility. J’onn J’onzz ends up becoming Anakin Skywalker’s friend well before he becomes comes truly comfortable around Kal-El. For a telepath, 39 year old Anakin’s Jedi orderly mind is a soothing relief.

(again, Anakin has spent far more time meditating on Earth then he ever did at the temple. Before all this, spent five years dutifully memorizing the Jedi way even as he struggled to live up it’s basic practices. For the first few years on earth, religiously practicing every meditation technique Obi-Wan ever taught him, thinking obsessively about the philosophies he never had time to really process, is just a desperate attempt to reconnect with the force, prove himself worthy of it. But even after he gives up on ever touching the force again, he keeps up the practice, he can’t release his emotions exactly, but he does find peace. The tendency to stop mid-rant to earnestly pronounce made up zen bullshit and then sit quietly for an hour before picking up on his tirade again as though there was no interruption is one of the things many things people find profoundly weird about him)

Kal-El doesn’t stop asking new aliens and dimensional travelers if they’ve ever heard of Coruscant, or Hutts, or the Jedi Order. Anakin might have given up, but Superman remembers his older brother scrubbing away his own tears to focus on helping Clark calm down enough to touch the floor again. The more the Kryptonian’s powers developed in alarming ways, the more Anakin set aside talk of missing his home galaxy. Anakin might have claimed it wasn’t like that, but Clark was determined to take every chance his increasingly weird life threw at him, no matter how vanishingly small.

In the middle of his first battle with Braniac, Clark starts insulting his incomplete database. The world collector pauses, demanding a more precise explanation. Clark complies, giving his best technical description of Coruscant’s cityscape, Tatooine’s binary star system, and so on. Braniac is so distracted that Superman recovers completely from his kryptonite poisoning and easily saves the day.

Neither the lantern corp or the denizens of the neutral zone have the answers. Superman doesn’t mention it it Anakin, but he never stops looking and listening.

“How did you even meet that guy?” Flash asks curiously after stopping to say hello on one of their after work laps of the country.

“Aliens among us support group,” Kal-El responds deadpan.

“Oh. Wait, what? He’s an alien? I thought he was from the future or something! You’re messing with me. No way that’s a thing. How many people are in the support group? This is a joke, right?”

“Sorry, most of them aren’t out and I don’t want to violate their privacy- a lot of them have high profile jobs. How do you think I met J’onn?”

“SUPES I’M FREAKING OUT RIGHT NOW YOU’VE GOTTA STOP”

Anakin is just sort of vaguely known by a solid chunk of the super community as ‘that one midwestern zen space mechanic’ and no one really questions it because everyone’s life has just gotten so goddamn weird. A few of them know he used to be a space wizard of some kind. Space wizards now being a regular hazard of life on earth, no one has reason to doubt this, and it’s as good an explanation as any for Anakin’s general vibe.

well. almost no one doubts this. Batman does not simply accept Anakin’s general bullshittery without carefully investigating and drawing his own conclusions. He does not share these with anyone.

But one day Clark- this is well after Superman became Kal-El to him, and not long after Kal-El tells him to call him Clark- comes up to him and asks for his help finding about an alternate universe. Knowing and dreading where this is going, Batman stalls,

“Shouldn’t you be asking one of the league members who regularly travels between universes?”

“I have, over the years,” Clark admits, awkwardly scuffing a boot on the floor of the cave. “But no one’s familiar with the exact one I’m looking for, and I thought since you’re a detective, and also one of the smartest people I know, you might be able to help me...”

“You’re an investigator yourself, and you can survive the vacuum of space,” Bruce shoots back flatly. “I’ve told you before Gotham is my priority, and this has ‘personal project’ all over it.”

“Come on, B, please,” Superman pleads, trailing Batman around the cave like an overgrown puppy. “In a few months it will have been 30 years! He’s my brother! Just let me see the research you’ve already done!”

“Who says I’ve already done research on your brother?”

Clark shoots him a look. And Bruce concedes the point with a grunt.

“I’ll need need to talk with him first,” Bruce finally concedes. “Bring him by the cave. Take the-”

“Take the tunnel entrance, I know, I know,” Clark agrees with a grin. “This doesn’t mean he’s authorized to know your secret identity. Thanks Bruce, this means a lot. I’ll ask him tomorrow about his schedule.”

Superman flies off and Batman scrubs his face with a gloved hand. After a moment he pulls up Anakin’s file on the main monitor. Bruce honestly respects and likes the man, as much as he respects and likes anyone who’s not family. He admires his sense his style, appreciates his upgrades to the batmobile, and is impressed by both this civil rights work and his additions to the scientific community.

That doesn’t mean he’s not convinced that Anakin’s brother is a bit insane. Again, he’s not judging! He dresses like a bat to scare random henchmen and beat up actual demigods! He wishes his rogues gallery was as capable of directing their ptsd-inspired delusions and staggering intellects towards such productive pursuits!

Bruce was already in quiet awe of the Kent’s ability to raise an outrageously superpowered being without blowing up a chunk of the country; their success in derailing a supervillian origin story just puts him over the edge. He stares at the three most likely profiles he’s pulled together. Christen Jones, from a negligent family, death certificate filled out suspicously sloppily at age 3. Earl Lucas, went missing at age 9, both parents dead in a violent assault. And Jake Hayden, who at age 5 disappeared along with the rest of his family in a seismic accident later linked to Luthercorp.

Anyone of them could have suffered on the streets for years and coped by establishing an elaborate fantasy world, aided by self medication, only to eventually be picked up by the Kent’s and start healing. Certainly Anakin had the intellect to create worlds in his mind. All his rogues were smart enough to create their own little realities in their heads- it doesn’t mean they were actually reachable.

Unfortunately Anakin had a Kryptonian younger brother who was determined to actually find the space wizard knight homeworld, even as the 'Jedi’ in question had slowly moved away his reliance on the delusion as an adult. Batman really didn’t see any way bringing up his conclusions to Anakin or Clark could possibly be helpful, and so many alien allies had a ‘If you find about the Jedi please contact Kal-El of Krypton on Earth’ pamphlet that it would be excruciatingly awkward to try and discretely correct anyone.

Bruce was not looking forward to this conversation.

#star wars #star wars au #dc #crossover #batman #anakin skywalker #corn boy anakin au

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