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after-witch · 2 months

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Fever Pitch [Yandere Geto Suguru x Reader]

Title: Fever Pitch [Yandere Geto x Reader]

Synopsis: Geto’s been hit by a lust curse, and you take what little control you have to avoid him snapping. Follow-up to Bus Stop.

Word Count: 3200ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, dubcon, sex, some mentions of past degradation

It’s funny, the way you can get used to anything. When you were first taken, you would have sworn--on your heart, your soul, on blood from a cut on your palm--that you would fight, hiss, and spit at Geto until the day you died.

And now here you are, nestled on a seat cushion in his sitting room, quietly reading a book while he’s off collecting curses and doing favors that aren’t really true favors at all. The person assigned to you today is a familiar face, someone you don’t entirely detest, if only because they are content to keep an eye on you without emanating visible hatred towards your existence at every second.

They were even kind--or what classifies as “kind” here--enough to lend you their scissors a few weeks ago, when someone stuck a wad of sticky bubble gum in your hair as they passed you in a hallway. Sure, they kept an eye on you the entire time in order to make sure you weren’t trying to stab yourself (or anyone else); but they said nothing as you hacked at your own hair, eventually giving yourself a passable pixie cut.

Geto had raised his eyebrows when he came back that day, and had a quiet word with your keeper. But you didn’t get punished, so that was that. Cutting off your hair felt good, even. Like you were cutting out whatever part of yourself was still simmering in pointless anger at your situation. Why be angry, why be in despair, when nothing you did mattered? You ran once. He found you. If you bothered to run again--not that you’d get the chance--he would find you again. And again.

It was better to find something like enjoyment instead of wallowing.

Wasn’t it?

Besides, even Geto had been different since the day he found you. He seemed content for you to be a quiet pet again. He no longer visited you in the night, touching you, forcing pleasures and sounds you didn’t want to experience from his fingers, even as he commanded you to always keep your arms away from him. He was allowed to touch--but you weren’t allowed to touch him. You hated it.

But he hadn’t touched you in the slightest intimate way since that day. Unless you counted the condescending head pats as intimate, which you certainly did not.

You hear Geto’s footsteps, and your muscles tense in preparation. You carefully set a bookmark in your book and set it aside; he didn’t like it when you paid attention to a book instead of him. Especially when he’d been gone for most of the day.

But something’s wrong. Something’s different.

These are not the orderly footsteps of Geto returning to his rooms at the end of a (horribly) productive day. These steps are staggered--hesitant.

Strange.

Your current keeper stands when Geto enters, but he simply dismisses them with a wave of his hand and an unusually curt: “Leave.”

They hazard a glance at you--it almost feels kind--before swiftly grabbing their bag and walking away, hurried steps echoing in the hallway that leads to his suite of rooms.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Geto begins to shed his clothing. Now this wasn’t unusual. He preferred to wear only a casual outfit around you, some trousers and a light top most of the time. What was unusual was the undignified manner in which he did it, simply peeling away his layers and tossing them on the ground, all the while his breath seemed to come in quiet, stuttering pants.

It’s enough to make you break your gaze from the floor and look at him.

Geto looks… ill. His cheeks are flushed and yes, his chest is heaving a little as he takes in short, frenzied breaths. Even the skin of his neck and collar had a slight glow to it, like he’d been exercising vigorously or done something terribly embarrassing.

“Geto?” You ask, hesitantly. You flick your eyes back down to the floor, where you’re told they belong until he says otherwise.

He doesn’t answer. The final layers of his robes drop to the floor.

Normally, he would approach you now, calmly. He might tilt your chin up with his hand and ask what you did today--if you were good, if you behaved.

Instead he staggers away, catching himself on the corner of a table.

“Geto?” You try again, voice higher, more concerned.

You look up to see him with both palms splayed on the table, breaths coming in deeper huffs. His skin is still flushed--it’s so strange--and you swear the room feels warmer than it did a few moments ago.

His fingers curl against the table into a tight fist, then release, then curl again. His breath comes in more ragged by the moment. There’s an unmistakable soft groan--in pain? Discomfort?

“Are you… all right?” You ask, and do the boldest thing possible in your present situation, which happens to be standing up on shaky legs and taking a step towards him.

“Don’t.” The word is practically growled out, and your muscles freeze for the moment, keeping you in place.

He turns to look at you, but instead of looking angry, he looks… desperate. His eyes roam over you and his lips part, and you see the edge of his tongue reach out to lick a dry patch as he struggles to regain control over his breath.

The expression hits you and it’s oh-so familiar and you don’t like it at all.

Geto isn’t sick.

He’s aroused.

You reach up to clutch at your shirt, fidgeting with the fabric like it might actually provide comfort in this unsure situation.

“What… happened?”

He doesn’t answer at first. His mouth twists into something like a grin, but it’s twitchy, uncontrolled. He chuckles slowly.

“A curse. I should have taken a closer look, but--” He lets out a pained sigh and squeezes his eyes shut. “I was distracted. Foolish. Stupid.”

You--perhaps foolish, stupid--take a step forward. Little pieces find themselves fitting together in your brain, trying to create a plan for what will come ahead. It’s how you’ve managed to survive so far, isn’t it? Taking in everything about your situation and acting accordingly to preserve your health and sanity?

“What… kind of curse?” You ask, and take more steps, until you’re close enough that you can feel some of the unnatural warmth from his body.

He looks at you slowly, his eyes almost rolling in a way that makes your stomach turn. You perhaps don’t need to actually hear the answer. It’s become clear, with the way he’s panting, the way his skin is flushed, the awful warmth from being so close to him. But it’s best for him to admit it, anyway, and confirm it to your whirring brain.

“Lust.”

Something seems to roil through him and he leans down, groaning in an uninhibited way that makes cold fear crawl up your arms, despite the warmth from Geto’s body. This close, you can see the sweat beading on his forehead, and when you glance down, his hardness is evident through his trousers.

Oh, you’re going to be fucked by the end of the night. You know it. It’s an inevitability.

What if it’s like before? When he would be rough and fast, and it would feel good and terrible all at the same time? When you felt like you had no control over what was done to you, and what you were made to do? The shame that would spread through your body afterward was nearly unbearable.

No… it was better to take charge yourself, wasn’t it? The only other option was to wait for him to snap. And if he was influenced by some lust-filled curse, there’s no telling what he might do.

So you’ll take care of him before he can reach that breaking point.

“Geto,” you say, and your hand reaches out slowly, like he’s a wild dog (perhaps he is) until it rests just above his back. Close enough for him to sense you. Although attempting to touch him without permission would normally have earned you a slap on the wrist and a reprimand, Geto leans into your palm, letting out a soft, pleased noise, as if your palm resting on his back was something far more wonderful.

“Let me… take care of you,” you manage, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth before you force it loose to say the words. He doesn’t answer, breath still coming out in a pant.

“Let’s go to the bedroom.” You speak louder, more firmly. More sure of yourself, even if a large part of you is wondering if this is a terrible idea after all. But it’s better to get it over with; to do this on your terms, or as much of your terms as you can manage. You can at least admit that.

Geto doesn’t answer, and you’re about to say something else when he grabs your wrist--it’s too tight, his palm is sweaty--and begins to pull you towards the bedroom. Your house slippers scuff on the floor from the unsteady force of his grip, but you manage not to fall.

Later, you will wonder--if you did trip in that moment, would he have simply taken you on the floor? It was a distinct possibility.

But you don’t fall. You make it to the bedroom and he lets go of you, stripping off his clothes with a frenzy that is completely unlike him. You don’t wait for an order to remove your own clothing. He might not have even been in the right frame of mind to remember that you’re normally supposed to wait for his order on everything. Or perhaps it has been so long since he’d touched you this way, he didn’t even think of giving it in the first place.

When he turns around, both of you are naked. His hardness is evident, erect and pressing against his flushed body. You can see wetness around his tip and something between your leg twinges in both pleasant anticipation and worry at what this curse-induced arousal might mean for the both of you.

“Well?” He says, voice thick and low.

You swallow against your throat, against the worries that normally come with seeing Geto naked. You remind yourself that this is different. That you’re taking control, as much as you can get, with him so afflicted. It won’t be like before, surely, when he would use you and leave you alone like the toy that you were afterward.

“Lay on the bed,” you command. Your body flinches instinctively at the audacity of it. “Please,” you add, but he doesn’t seem to mind your forwardness in this moment. He crawls on the bed and leans back against the pillows, keeping himself half-upright as he watches you.

You glance down at his cock. It twitches, ever so slightly, and you feel yourself twitch between your legs to match it. Was it because it had been so long? Or because you were the one telling him what to do? Or some awful mixture of both, and more besides?

It was hard to tell what was normal and what wasn’t in the fucked up state of your existence.

“Get on the bed.” It’s his turn to give a command, and you’re quick to obey it. For as much as you’re taking the initiative, you can’t let yourself forget who owns you, perhaps literally. Even if he’s currently flushed and woozy and subject to the demands of the arousal forced upon him by some wayward curse.

You climb on the bed and crawl until you’re positioned with your knees on either side of his hips. It’s the first time you’ve been above him. It would be out of the question, you think, before. He liked to remind you where you belonged in the literal sense, and that had extended to sexual positions.

Instinctively, your hands go behind your back, folding primly. You’re not supposed to touch him during sex. You know that. It’s been the rule; it was one of the first things he drilled into your head when he began fucking you. He was allowed to touch you in any way he wanted; stroking and pinching and whatever else fell within his whims. But you? You keep your filthy hands to yourself.

And so, it’s with your hands behind your back that you carefully begin to lower yourself onto his erect cock.

He gasps and groans, and you do, too. Your twinges were not enough to get you properly wet, and it hurts as you lower yourself down. But the flush on his face and the feeling of being full after so long begins to grant you the warmth necessary to produce your own slickness, easing the passage just a little as you take all of him in. Not enough for it to be painless. But it’s not like that ever mattered before.

“Fuck,” he spits out, throwing his head back from there mere sensation of your pussy taking in his erection. You feel yourself clench him and he hisses in delight. It makes you feel a bit giddy, to affect him like this, with so little.

Your fists clench behind your back as he bottoms out inside you, and your own groan joins his as you steady yourself, keeping your balance as you sit on top of him. His cock twitches inside you and you let out a sigh, leaning forward. Your hair tickles your ears.

He’s looking up at you, hips writhing in a way that makes you gasp.

“Touch me.”

You think you must have misheard him.

“I said touch me,” he says, more forceful, the arousal pulsing through him giving his voice a thick tinge. He thrusts his hips and you bump upwards, in discomfort yes, but also a growing sense of your own arousal at the fullness and friction inside you.

“All--” You gasp when he thrusts again, and perhaps the idea of taking too much control was an illusion. “All right!” Your hands slowly come out from behind your back and with a hesitation that comes from months of being trained otherwise, you slowly lower your hands to rest on his hips.

Slowly, you trail your hands up to his chest, eyeing his nipples. How long had they been erect? Was it before or after you lowered yourself on him? It doesn’t matter. You begin to pull yourself up, timing your own movements with his now-shallow thrusting. As you do, your hands rest on his nipples, rubbing them slowly with your palm--the way he sometimes does to you, if he’s not pinching them harshly to make you squeal.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “Just… just like that. Good pet.”

And there again, the sight of his pleasure from your touch, his raise, makes you clench… which makes him hiss in pleasure, which makes you giddy.

It’s a wonderful cycle, and so different from all of the other times he’s fucked you. This is almost nice, in its own way. To be above him, mostly in control of how fast you move, how much of him you take in and out as you lift yourself up and down on his cock.

“Faster,” he says, and you don’t mind obeying. One of your hands still toys with his nipple while the other reaches between your own legs and thumbs at your clit. It’s audacious, really--you’re not supposed to pleasure yourself without his permission.

But he doesn’t tell you to stop. Instead he simply watches the way your thumb rubs against your clit; does he enjoy the sight of his cock inside you, the way your pussy takes him as you use your leg muscles to thrust up and down?

He must, because you can feel your own arousal mixing with his, see the way his chest rises faster. Tell-tale signs that he’s getting close.

“Stop,” he orders suddenly. “Get off me.” His voice is still low, still filled with lust, but there’s something else in it. Something more familiar.

“Geto?” You ask, confused, your own voice coated with arousal that’s just about to reach its peak. It’s disappointing to stop now, but you know better than to disobey. Even right now, or perhaps, especially right now.

He seems to regain a stronger semblance of himself. “Get off,,” he commands, and you do.

It doesn’t take long to realize why he gave the order. He swiftly grips your arms and flips you on the bed, your back pressing against the sheets that are warm with his own unmistakable body heat.

Now this is familiar. Geto above you, naked, flushed, aroused. And you, beneath him. But this time your arousal was of your own making, and there’s a sort of power in that, you think.

He’s back inside you and by this time you’re wet enough that it simply feels good to be filled again. His wrists keep your own pinned and you murmur a plea, you were so close, Geto--and to your surprise, one of his hands leaves your wrist to begin playing with your clit.

Arousal builds quickly this time, and you come without ceremony, your muscles clenching around him and legs kicking helplessly on the bed as he continues to touch you through your orgasm.

Familiar patterns set in, and as your own orgasm begins to fade out, you know what will happen now. He’ll fuck you faster and pull out as he comes–he refuses to finish inside you–and then leave you to yourself.. Maybe he’ll have to go another round to deal with the effects of this curse, but whatever change had been over him before, allowing you greater freedom, was surely gone.

Only… maybe not.

Because as you feel the familiar sensation of Geto pushing inside you harder and faster as he nears his release, something new happens. Something different. Something that makes butterflies and battery acid flutter in your stomach all at the same time.

He leans down and presses his lips against yours, tentatively at first, then harder, until you open up your mouth and let his tongue inside.

Geto kisses you. It’s a surprisingly passionate kiss, and you let out a yelp of surprise when he grips your chin and kisses you through his own orgasm.

He doesn’t even pull out. You feel his seed inside you for the first time, a liquid warmth. It’s uncomfortable and strange and you wonder how angry he’ll be, later on, that he did this.

He doesn’t stop kissing you until you’re breathing heavily through your nose, and when he pulls away you take in a gulp of air.

He stares down at you with something that looks like wonder. At himself… or you?

“Good pet,” he murmurs. But there’s no condescension in it today.

There’s an awful, naked vulnerability that washes over you.

Geto let you touch him. Geto kissed you.

Geto, Geto, Geto…

Was he going to be mad when this curse effect wore off? Would he get rid of you for making him violate so many of his own rules?

You don’t have time to think about it, because you realize he’s still hard, and he begins to thrust shallowly inside your overstimulated pussy.

He’ll have to go another round.

Afterward, sleep came without warning. You had simply closed your eyes when Geto finally pulled out and that was that.

You don’t know how much time has passed when you open your eyes, blinking away the grogginess of an unexpected nap.

There’s a soreness between your legs, which you expected. There’s the feeling of your body being used, a low openness that combines vulnerability and humiliation in a bittersweet mixture; which you expected.

You don’t expect to blink and see Geto sleeping beside you, his arm slung around your waist, keeping you in place.

Geto never slept with you like this. He would fuck you and use you and sometimes tell you that you were a good pet if he was in a jovial mood--and he would leave.

You’re afraid to move. If you wake him, will he be angry? Will he be annoyed that he let himself fall asleep beside you? Annoyed with himself for allowing it, or annoyed with you for being there?

You don’t move, but it doesn’t matter. His eyes flutter open and you feel the warmth of his breath on your face as he takes in the sight before him, as you just did.

He doesn’t furrow his eyebrows in irritation or fling himself out of bed or reprimand you for existing like this in his space. Instead he pulls you closer, until your face is pressed closer to his chest. It makes you feel something--warmth? Affection? Relief that you weren’t being yelled at for being bad?--and your hand slowly leaves your side to curl up against his chest.

He allows it.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs.

And you obey.

#yandere geto #yandere geto suguru #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #yandere #afterwitch writes

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writingwithcolor · 4 months

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Author with cultural disconnect: How do I write without making it seem as if I hate my own heritage?

Anonymous asked:

I’m a white-passing Asian author, and I’ve never felt all that connected with my heritage. My current story centers on a fairy (re: fantasy-world POC) child and ends with her realizing that her parents are toxic af and her human best friend’s family takes her in. This is the perfect opportunity to sort through my own issues with my heritage and finally convince my monkey-brain that it’s okay to not know how to cook Vietnamese food or celebrate tet or speak Vietnamese… But I also realize that if I’m not careful, this could easily slip into “Hey, I hate my heritage and so should you!” So how can I stop that from happening?

Writing for yourself first, not an audience

I ask you a simple question: why put pressure on yourself to have any sort of non-offensive messaging for a story that hasn’t been drafted yet and is to convince your monkey brain it’s okay to exist as yourself?

That seems like the fastest way to stop the story from being actually cathartic and instead a performance art piece when you already feel hung up on performing as “properly” part of your culture.

As I said in Working Through Identity Issues and Other Pitfalls of Representation, not all stories you write need to be for public consumption. Especially stories you’re using for your own self-processing and therapy, because you’re trying to get a cathartic moment that is rewriting your own story.

At what point does the public need to be involved in that?

I do understand the compulsion to want to post—I have definitely posted some Questionable™ material in my drive to get validation for feeling the way I do, wanting people to witness me and say “same.” It’s a powerful urge. Sometimes it’s worked, but most of the time it’s just made me feel horrifically exposed.

But you really do not have to post in public to get any sort of validation. Set up a groupchat with friends if you want the cheerleading and witnessing—people who will know your story and give you good-faith interpretations and won’t accuse you of anything. Honestly I’d suggest setting up this groupchat anyway; as someone who just got one again after quite a few years without it, my productivity has skyrocketed from being around supportive people.

Let the monkey brain have its monkey brain moment and shut off the concept the story is for the public. Shut off the concept of performing for an unknown audience. It’s for you. Be authentic, no matter how bad it would look to outsiders. They’re not reading it. Part of getting catharsis, sometimes, is being the worst version of yourself, somewhere nobody else can see it.

Deciding to publish the work

If, after you do write it, you find that you actually do want to polish it up and put it somewhere… edit it. Rewrite it entirely if that’s what it takes. Take the story through the same drafting process every story needs to go through, ripping out the unfortunate implications as you go.

Editing can be its own form of healing, as you try to figure out what this character would need to not be hateful. As you realize, once this longform journal entry is out of your head, what was bothering you now that you can see it pinned down on a page. But you absolutely do not need to write with the intention of editing in that healing. When I’ve tried, it’s fallen flat.

The healing will come from being yourself, no public involved, and writing about your feelings in their rawest form. Anything else is extra.

There’s no point in trying to put guard rails on the drafting process, not for a deeply personal piece. And by the time that drafting process is done, you’ll likely have specific scenarios and contexts that you can ask about, and you might even have ideas on how to fix it yourself once the story has a shape to it.

This is 100% a situation where there’s no real sense in idea workshopping something in the plotting stage. You’re doing something for you. Decide if it’s for public consumption later (while acknowledging “no” is a perfectly valid answer), and only figure out how to make the story not overtly harmful if you decide to put it out into the public.

~ Leigh

#culture #cultural disconnect #creator responsibility #writing #authors of color #asks

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popponn · 2 months

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from the outsider's view. [itoshi sae x reader]

notes: admittedly, no braincell here only "sae unconditionally lovey dovey" thought (ft. kaiser). i miss sae. and i want him to be happy for a bit. this guy seems like when he is committed he will become the commitment itself despite everything. cute in the way the sort of type who will put in the effort and worth the effort when he is the right person. also, happy cny ❤ warnings: cursings (it's kaiser). fluff. kaiser's pov aka outsider's pov, sae & you being lovey dovey, established relationship, reader's gender unspecified, post canon au, heavy hc that sae & kaiser doesn't get along (outside of the field esp). please don't look to closely into this. @doobea thank u for betaing beloved ♡❀

By any means, it is not as if Kaiser actively tries to murder Sae every time they meet.

But it also doesn’t mean he is buddy-buddy with him either. Honestly, Kaiser hates a lot of people’s guts—Yoichi and Noa currently contending for the #1 spot, sure, but Sae is pretty close up there if he has to list them down. The reason is not particularly complicated for this one, as anyone who has met Sae would agree he is a natural at making enemies. That mid-fielder is one of those people who will do better as a human being if they shut up and not pick up a fight with each breath they take.

So, imagine his surprise to meet the redhead—with you by his side, hand in hand—during a casual outing for some convenience store snack in broad daylight.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Kaiser doesn’t waste a second to ask the moment their eyes meet each other. Kaiser really doesn’t want to have a jerk greeting him the moment he tries to get into an aisle yet here he is.

Sae squints at him in a more offensive manner than usual and then subtly—but very obvious to Kaiser’s eye—pushes you slightly behind his back as if Kaiser might do something to you. Which is wrong—even if Kaiser is very aware he is not the shining beacon of goodness. “Shopping, clearly. What else?”

“Someone you know, Sae?” your voice asks from behind your assumed-boyfriend. Kaiser glances slightly at the blatantly color-coordinated casual clothes. Disgusting. Definitely a boyfriend then. “Oh! Is that Michael Kaiser?”

Kaiser raises an eyebrow as he meets your gleaming eyes. He certainly didn’t expect Itoshi Fucking Sae’s partner to acknowledge him with such enthusiasm. He expected someone who is more or less as bitchy as bitchy as the guy. A smile that has been trained for PR events forms itself on Kaiser’s face, “Why, hello—”

“It’s not,” Sae quickly cuts in. “Just some bugs. Let’s just get the drink and go.”

Fucking Sae.

“Now, now,” Kaiser sneers, his grin widening into an irritated smirk as he approaches closer towards Sae. Said dickhead responds by tugging you closer to him. Sae better be one of those types of unreasonably cutesy protective boyfriends or Kaiser might actually start taking offenses and maim him for real. “Is that a way to greet ‘a friend’, Sae? And—” Kaiser moves on to you, “—hello there.”

The quotation mark hangs heavily in the air. Sae scoffs while you finally get the chance to address Kaiser’s existence politely and introduce yourself, “Hello! Nice to meet you!”

How the fuck did someone who knows basic manners end up with Sae? Kaiser genuinely wants to know if you got paid for this or something. He will ask if it’s not for the fact Sae seems to be itching to claw the hell out of his face. Kaiser really doesn’t want to get lectured for a public incident if he actually gives in to the urge to sock Sae’s resting bitch face. So, instead, he keeps his focus on you even while keeping his sentence directed to you both, “I didn’t expect to see you here. Thought Sae is allergic to store-bought products.”

You laugh at that, whilst Sae sends you a sharp glare—that has a hint of besotted lovesick gaze in it what the fuck—that you promptly ignore in favor of answering Kaiser instead. “Yeah, he is a bit nosy sometimes, huh?” you muse fondly, “But he is open to some products, thankfully.”

Sae pipes in, “Hey.”

“Come on, it’s true,” you reply shortly. As your eyes meet Sae, the besotted lovesick gaze returns, this time reciprocated by your equally lovelorn affectionate one. Kaiser really doesn’t want to see this.

“Hmph,” Sae breathes out like some grumpy mangy cat. Then, as if he truly is some kitty raising up its fur and tail, Sae returns his glare to Kaiser. The way one of Sae’s hand wrap around your shoulder to press you close doesn’t escape Kaiser’s eyes. And the most annoying thing is perhaps the way that it evidently isn’t like Sae deliberately shows it to him like some territorial jealous dickhead. It’s like watching someone taking in a breath and that breath is some lovey-dovey fuckery. “We are going. Let’s go.”

As much as Kaiser wants to make Sae suffer a little bit more via playfully flirting with you or something, being a third wheel to the elder Itoshi sounds so awful it’s not even worth trying. Next time the two Itoshis duke it out by being on the opposite team, Kaiser genuinely considers rooting for the younger one just so he can see Sae fail. And also out of some twisted camaraderie because imagining being a witness to this frequently—one really either builds up some immunity or turns insane.

The sort of guy who casually must touch his lover all the time is unbearable to watch.

So, good fucking riddance.

“Shoo,” Kaiser waves Sae away. And the way you look at Sae like the redhead is the most wonderful man alive lowers Kaiser’s opinion of you enough for that wave to be directed at you too. Get a better taste.

You laugh nervously at their brief exchange as Sae drags you away. Kaiser too shifts his attention away from you. Unfortunately, turns out—fuck him—it isn’t enough to escape the barely audible whispers Sae shares with you as the two of you walk away from the aisle.

“You should be nicer. He is still someone you know.”

“He touched Isagi’s chin on their first meeting to fuck around—I’m not taking chances with that shithole.”

“Aw. I don’t think he will—he seems very aware I’m with you.”

“That guy is insane and it’s better to be ready to kick his dick when you have to. Don’t be too friendly with him next time.”

God. Kaiser wishes for a match with Sae soon just so he can duke it out with him without any repercussions.

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cassandraclare · 2 months

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*sighs a bit* Okay. Guys. I have been asked this question a lot, and answered it a lot. I don't know how to give a better answer — Dru & Ty&Kit share significance as main characters — so I guess I'll talk a little about comparison and structures.

First, all series have different structures. I don't think it's super useful or predictive to try to map an upcoming, unknown book series onto an existing series. In TLH the main character was Cordelia, everyone else was secondary to her, and people's roles and the significance of them altered from book to book. It was a big ensemble cast and they mostly stayed put in London especially in book 1.

TWP focuses on a smaller group of people. It also has a very different structure. In book one, Dru is not with Kit and Ty. They are in different places, both of which have their own stories that are significant to the plot. There is no way to see Place One without following Dru. There is no way to see Place Two without following Kit and Ty.

I know that TWP is a long way off. I know there are people who are very angry with me that there's such a gap, but there isn't anything currently I can do about that, or about the fact that I don't yet have the schedule for my upcoming books. That rests in the hands of several different publishers who must coordinate the release times and production schedules for four different series. I am not withholding any information about when these books come out. I simply don't know it yet.

I understand that TWP being a long way off makes for anxiety, and that those who are worried Kit and Ty will somehow be secondary are looking for tiny clues in microscopic details — micro-reading the of placement of the word "and" in my newsletter and such — that are meaningless, but I get that it all comes from anxiety. (FTR, those worried Dru will be secondary are equally anxious.)

I think there is only so much I can say. Because there's a big gap between TLH and TWP everything I do say or every image or hint about it is freighted with a weight of assumption it can't really support. Anxiety is always going to trump reassurance. And truly, at the end of the day, if you only care about Kit and Ty and find the idea of a Dru story tiresome, you will feel like they got shafted because when you absolutely hate a plotline, you will always feel like it's taking up way too much space. That's just how our minds work.

I've been doing this long enough that I know no book can survive a hostile reading. I know that Book Three of a trilogy is the one people hate until they don't. (When Clockwork Princess came out people hated it so much I considered quitting writing!) I know that it's wonderful to love a character but can also be a problem for people when I put out books that aren't about that particular character or dynamic. I know that for a lot of people, Sword Catcher and Ragpicker King are just tiresome things that have no business on my schedule because they're not Shadowhunter books. And I get it. But I also have to block it out, because I've been writing a long time, and I've gotten to a point where I know that I have to write the thing I want to be writing, because if I don't, if I sit down and try to force myself to write something I'm not feeling like writing at that time, I'll be making myself physically and mentally sick. And that's no good for anyone, really.

I suppose the positive thing is that, while this would not have been true five years ago, I am at the place where I want very much to be writing Wicked Powers. I missed these characters and am glad to be back with them. I consider this a story in which there are three main characters. And that is all I can say right now because it's all that I know.

(And this was much more of a general response to a lot of things than a specific response to this question, but I did feel like it was stuff that I needed to say. Creators are at the end of the day, just people. Sometimes we are powerless to reassure. Sometimes we are tired. Sometimes we are wrong. Sometimes we try things and they don't work. Sometimes we can't explain to you what our story is going to make you feel, because only reading it is going to tell you that. This may be one of those times.)

#the wicked powers

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purplealmonds · 4 months

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Currently, Sky: Children of the Light and Mononoke are my two favorite things and I so very badly want to will this collaboration into existence. 🕯⚖️

Process GIF & artist commentary below the cut!

This began as a self-indulgent costume design project: aMononoke-inspired Sky cosmetic. It was supposed to be a quick-and-dirty mockup that would not be shared outside of private Discord servers, but I got...carried away.

It came out a lot nicer than anticipated. A bit rough around the edges, but when zoomed out clean enough to look like a legit Sky cosmetic. I extracted the high-res Sky and Mononoke logos from their respective websites. I custom-made the handhold collaboration icon. Then I slapped it on top of the costume design. It looked neat!

But then I started having second thoughts. The outfit was quite complex, and it didn't feel right to have it sit in a sterile, empty space like that. It looked half-baked, incomplete. So I used the Mononoke movie poster as inspiration for set dressing and color palette:

There are vestiges of the project's origins scattered throughout this piece - namely that a lot of the visuals were built upon screenshots from Sky. Since it was a costume design project, I didn't feel the need to draw from scratch. They were completely painted over in the final product, but using this technique sped up my process quite significantly!

I went to the Sky Wiki for references. I cobbled together some Season of Revival's kimono cosmetic as a starting point for the outfit. The eyeliner detail Days of Style mask looked similar to the Medicine Seller's face markings, so did a quick photoshoot in the Office to match the camera angle of the previous image.

For the lantern, I made a shared memory in the green room to get the ideal camera angles for each of them:

The grave markers I referenced from a photoshoot in the Hidden Forest's hub:

And the bridge I took from the Sunny Forest:

The butterflies were a last-minute addition - I wanted something to make the composition more sparkly! Then I remembered the end credits of Mononoke had a butterfly too! I figured since I went with the Medicine Seller's new design, this would be a nice homage to his classic look.

#モノノ怪 #mononoke 2024 #mononoke 2007 #kusuriuri #medicine seller #thatskygame #sky cotl #sky children of the light #thatgamecompany #thatskygame fanart #sky cotl fanart #crossover #purplealmonds #2023

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goldustwomun · 18 days

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pacifier (s.b.)

pairing: sirius black x younger potter! reader

summary: something about your relationship with sirius black had never sit quite right with you, and now that he's back after two years of travelling the world, you're beginning to think that you'll soon find out what'll happens if the two of you finally fall over the edge of whatever precipice you've been teetering close to all these years. plus, you've got to work with him all summer, so what's the worst that could happen?

warnings: allusions to sex (minors dni!!!), swearing, cocky sirius and like kind of an annoying younger sister reader (but also that's literally me lol), bad transitions between light hearted banter and angst but i'm trying my best RIP, i imagine sirius to be mid-20s and reader only 3/4 years younger (but everyone is OF AGE), mommy issues if you squint

wc: 5.4k+

note: soooo i'm back :D again :D i'm almost done with second year and actually somewhat ahead with all my papers (with very minimal finals; def recommend being a history major x) and i've just been missing the community so enjoy this! i had this first chapter posted a while back (like maybe a year) but it was actually ass so i've redone it a little :)))) as always, reblogs and comments are MUCH appreciated and i can't wait to interact w/ y'all over this because i have been DAYDREAMING about brother's bf sirius :')

“What do you mean he’s working at the shop as well?!” you screeched, chasing your Mother around the kitchen, feeling a lot like the pesky youngest child you were.��

“He needs some help so we offered to give him a job. Honestly sweetheart, aren’t you too old for this childish feud?”

“Too old? Shouldn’t you be saying that to him? He’s like– thirty or something, and still continues to be the bane of my existence. Fucking Bla–”

Your Mother whirled on you abruptly, brandishing the wooden spoon she was about to stir the boiling pot with right in your face. “Language, missy! I would tell him the same thing, but unluckily for you, you’re my daughter and currently living under my roof, so you get to hear it first.” She gave you a saccharine sweet smile, the kind that had you biting back the urge to stomp your feet and pout at her until she gave in. Unfortunately for you, that hadn’t worked since you were about six years old.

“--now, he’s been gone for such a long time, and we’re all very excited to see him, so don’t ruin this reunion with any more of your tantrums.”

You opened your mouth, intent on not letting the argument die there, but your Father bounded into the kitchen at the same moment, ruffling up your hair with a “Hey there, kiddo,” before promptly moving on to snake his hands around your Mother’s waist. “Looking as beautiful as always, my dear,” he cooed into her ear. She let out an uncharacteristic giggle that had you bolting from the kitchen before you were scarred any further.

Your parents’ tooth-aching affections for each other were just that: sweet, but sickly all the same. Deep down, you knew you yearned for a romance like theirs, something genuine but passionate, able to withstand the test of time (and your ever-dwindling patience). James, your older brother, had found it with Lily, their son Harry being a product of their young but no less intense love.

And you loved that kid like he was your own. Would beg James to let you come over, play with the babbling toddler for a few hours, would even offer up your weekends, encouraging the young couple to “go out, live a little!”. But they were about as infatuated with their own child as you were, and had a never-ending supply of friends who were equally as eager to help out.

Speaking of, one of those eager friends was currently pounding his stupid fist against your stupid front door, and you were already riled up from the news that you couldn’t take seeing his face physically in front of you, as well.

You shoved past James, knocking him back a step as his hand reached for the door to let his best mate in. You caught a glimpse of him on the doorstep, the first in almost two years– hair unruly like he’d just rolled out of bed, long, black strands; newly tanned skin blushing under the heat of the sun; those thick, brooding eyebrows that raised up in your direction – eughh.

“What’s got your knickers in a bunch?” James called at your retreating figure, shouting loud enough to be heard over your heavy footsteps despite the carpeted floor.

“Ask your best mate over there!” you answered back with a bite, slamming your room door shut.

“Fuck,” he sighed, defeated, yanking his confused friend in and a chucking a thumb towards the stairs. “How’ve you managed to piss her off before you even got here?” he asked incredulously. “Peace– we had peace in this house for the past two years since you’ve been off travelling, and now look–! It’s a bloody riot!”

“Oi– I’ve done nothing,” he moaned indignantly, hanging his coat and scarf on the gold-crested hooks by the door. “--I think,” he added for good measure after a beat.

He never understood why the two of you struggled to get along. You’d grown up together, spent every waking moment in each other’s presence when he was at the Potter residence (which happened to be just about always given his own family situation). In theory, he should be like some sort of older brother figure– someone to loan out advice and shoulders to cry on and all that jazz.

But no. Something about you and your irritatingly know-it-all personality, or shrill voice when indignant (which was rather often around him), or your need to always be right – something about you made it so he just had to tease you endlessly until you were yelling, voice all pitchy, nostrils flared, breath heavy and face blotchy. When things would begin to die down, he’d find something else to point out, argue back, hit the nail on your specific head– something to really push you that little bit over the edge.

It was a little too fun to not try to get a rise out of you every time you were together. And as much as Sirius was aware that the jabs each of you threw had gotten a little more out of hand and a little less appropriate for your relationship– he just couldn’t stop.

The rest of the Potter family didn’t share your sentiments about Sirius, and rather adored him immeasurably. Had since he’d taken to hiding out in their house after a particularly brutal fight at home when he was only eleven. Heck, he’d even attended every Potter-family gathering, dinner, birthday, you name it, since then. It was why he came over every Sunday for a roast, pudding and some chat – he could never put into words what your family had done for him, the safety, security, home, even, they'd given him when he’d been lost and entirely clueless of what a real family looked like.

So he made the thirty-minute drive, every Sunday, much to your irritation. He plastered on the biggest smile for your Mum, complimenting every minute detail of the meal she cooked for the family, drank a glass of whiskey and smoked a cigar with your Dad; he was even Harry’s favourite, always humming quiet melodies into the youngest Potter’s ear.

With him travelling the world for the past almost-two-years, he’d missed out on the family time he usually looked forward to every weekend. Mondays seemed a lot less dreadful after having a belly-full of Mrs Potter’s food. Still, he’d sent postcards and printed pictures of everywhere he went, the sights he’d seen, people he’d met. It wasn’t the same, not without the lot of you to pester him (maybe you especially) but he’d needed some time to find himself.

He still wasn’t sure if he’d found what he was looking for, but the money had to have run out eventually so he was back home, ready to work and settle down in his life for once after graduating Hogwarts.

Sirius followed James into the living room where he found Lily, sipping on a glass of red, sitting by the empty fireplace. Instead, a window had been cracked in to let the temperate wind in.

She perked up as they entered, waving with that soul-wrenching smile of hers that could persuade even the most strong-willed of men into submission.

“Pads, you’re back!” she called from her seat. "And you've grown a moustache-- interesting choice of facial hair." Sirius, however, raised an eyebrow at her questioningly, ignoring her greeting-slash-judgement as he peered into the empty crib by her side, even going as far as to search under it as if the toddler might have escaped.

“Harry’s gone to bed in the guest room. There was a bit of a shouting match before you arrived,” James explained, sinking into the space beside his wife and pulling her into his side. “Actually, now that I think about it, there was a lot of shouting after you arrived as well!”

Lily snorted, snuggling into her husband without hesitation, and Sirius couldn’t help but avert his eyes, feeling entirely like he was imposing on an intimate moment as the two of them whispered in the other’s ear.

“Well, don’t mind me. Sitting here, all by my lonesome, no company or polite chatter to partake in, not even my dashing god son to entertain me” he sighed, dramatically, to no one in particular. James rolled his eyes at his best friend’s antics, chucking a frilly throw-pillow at his face (that’s what they’re for, right?) which he just as easily caught.

“Har-Har! Ever the clown, Paddy,” James mocked, flipping him off just in time for his Mum to walk in and see.

“James! Don’t aim such crude displays at my son,” she scolded, wrapping her wrinkled arms around Sirius’ shoulders from behind his chair. She leaned down, kissing the top of his head affectionately. Sirius only whimpered in agreement, leaning into her motherly touch and whining on and on about how James was being a right bully.

“My sweet child, I’ve missed you!” She beamed down at him, and that longing Sirius sometimes felt for his own Mother’s approval, her devotion or fondness, it lessened.

“But you didn’t– He was just!-- You missed– arghh!” James groaned defeatedly, head flailed back to rest against the sofa, receiving no sympathies from his giggling wife and glaring Mother. “I’m starting to understand why she hates you.”

Sirius’ eyes flashed at that– did you really hate him? Had it gotten to that point?

At the mention of your name but current absence, Mrs Potter ordered, “Go call your sister for dinner, I’ve set the table.”

He began to protest, failing to come up with a half-decent reason why he can’t walk up the two flights of stairs and pull your petulant frame from your bed– but Sirius interrupted in time, before James could make any more of a fool himself in front of his own Mother. “I’ll go get her. Got to figure out what I did this time,” he offered coolly.

Euphemia, that is, Mrs Potter, had a strict no-apparting rule in her house, had lost too many expensive vases from James and Sirius’ apparition-sprees the second they’d turned seventeen. You already had your licence, having been of legal age for some time, and had, since graduating (top of the class, as you tended to point out, much to your Ravenclaw friends’ dismay) from Hogwarts, found a job at a school in the muggle world, teaching children English Literature in preparation of some exam. O Levels, you’d called them.

Sirius thought it to be some sort of torture device - these O Levels – but you’d smacked him across the head in admonishment with the book in your hand – you were always carrying one, though he designated them to be a weapon, at least when in your possession – before he could say much else. Having a family-run bookshop made it so that the books, or the weapons, really, were in endless supply for you, much to Sirius’ chagrin.

Your love for reading had come from him, your Father, from when he’d stay up till the late hours of the night, hushed whispers under your bed sheet so your Mother wouldn’t hear, as he read you the Classics in animated voices that had you completely enchanted. He made sparks fly from the tip of his wand, bright colours that your little eyes couldn’t quite get enough of.

You loved being a wizard, were eternally grateful for the world you lived in and the undeniable awe of it all. But words, books, literature – they were enough magic for you, took you to places you could only ever dream to visit, and had you feeling such all-consuming emotions that sometimes, you wondered if you’d ever make it to the end of the page, or chapter, or book.

“Oi– your Mum’s put out dinner, she’s calling you downstairs,” he called through the thick wood of your door.

Sirius didn’t know why he was nervous. It was you, the little girl he’d watched grow up and had grown up with. But if the short glance he’d gotten of your stomping person as you huffed up the stairs was any indicated, you were by no means little anymore.

Funny what a few years can do to a person, huh.

He nudged it open when you didn’t respond, only to find you slumped across your bed, glaring, silently, at the ceiling and the pale-orange light emanating from the lamp on your bedside table.

You certainly looked different– older, possibly? He couldn’t quite place what had changed, only that he knew something had. In the way you dressed, styled your hair, held yourself. Even the look of your room– no longer plastered in butterflies and pink roses, but instead painted a burnt umber and with tapestries and muggle band posters hanging across every wall. A stack of vinyls were shoved into one side of your room, along with piles and piles of books, some old and missing a few pages, while others were untouched.

You heard the door click open, sitting up on your elbows to see a smirking Sirius, oozing an annoying amount of confidence, and leaning against your doorframe.

Something in your chest stumbled almost immediately. He looked the same, behaved the same as well. Still the Sirius that had left to see the world, leaving the rest of you behind. Though, he might’ve managed to actually tan, now that you really looked at him, imagining the broad planes of his shoulders, hidden by a thin linen button up, were more sun-kissed than milky-pale now.

Except you refused to even entertain the thought. You were not thinking of him or his skin or his bare chest or--

“What’s with the face?” you asked, already knowing you’ll regret the answer.

“Was that meant to be a greeting?” His eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Hi Sirius-- what’s with the face?” you answered, again, between clenched teeth.

“Nice pair of panties you got on there, bright pink, are they?” he nodded at your thighs, only just clocking that maybe having your legs spread so far apart when you’re wearing a skirt wasn’t the best idea.

Your thighs snapped shut just as Sirius was snickering behind his fist. “So, dinner?” he asked again, stepping into your room and letting the door shut behind him.

“Go to hell.”

“See, that sounds a little inconvenient, and a lot hot– humidity isn’t great for the hair, or skin. Anyway, I’ve just been around the world and found no place called Hell so not sure what to say, little Potter.” You hadn’t missed his sarcastic rambles, even though you were already struggling to hide the smile taking over your face as you looked anywhere but at him. “I tried, I really did, just for you.”

Your stomach dipped at that, a wave pulling you under-- for you.

“Buuuut– you know what I absolutely adore? Your mother’s cooking, and I haven’t had it in a while, so up ya’ get,” he insisted, tugging you up by your forearms until you were pressed against his front, not a sliver of space between the two of you.

Your breath caught in your throat. You could feel him everywhere. Hot skin against your bare arms, the itchy wool of his jumper, if you concentrated a little more, the hard expanse of his chest against yours. He must have felt it too because he released you like you were fire and he a mere mortal, brows pinching in confusion and something else, looking at you like you were a question he couldn’t quite find the answer to.

It was entirely foreign, the heat gathering in the pit of your stomach– it surely hadn’t been there before he’d left. You looked, or gawked, more like, at the very man you detested with every ounce of your being, but also the very man you were about to spend almost every hour of every day, for the rest of the Summer, with.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, as if realising the same thing as you now that you were stood in front of him. Suddenly, he understood what the whole shouting match must have been about, and up until a few moments ago, he might have disagreed with you entirely.

Now, though? He wasn’t sure what he felt.

“Ditto,” you breathed back. You pushed past him after staring for a second too long, hurrying on socked feet to the dining room downstairs, and not bothering to check if he was following.

The quiet jingle of the bell tickled your ears as you opened the door to the bookshop, dust immediately invading your senses as you fought back a harsh cough. Your Dad pushed in front of you, forcing the door to stay open by propping a stack of intimidatingly large books in front of it. You laughed silently to yourself, noting how they were all Dickens (he hated Dickens, said his novels were disturbingly boring and unnecessarily detailed).

You could only agree, never having had the courage to pick up any of those enormous beasts yourself.

“So, you can dust a little, and sweep the floor, before we open. Count the money in the till, as well, that’s very important,” he noted off, and you suddenly wish you had a pen and a pad of paper to write it all down. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been helping out at the shop since when you were younger, but this was the first time you’d been granted the responsibility of having it all to yourself (minus the inconvenience that was Sirius Black).

You were an adult now (barely, but that was a technicality)– loved to point it out any chance you got, and it meant that your Dad trusted you enough to not hover over your shoulder every time you took a shift. He was working fewer hours, though now, none, as he wanted to finish the novel he’d been writing for the past decade after melodramatically announcing at the dinner table that “It’s time!”

You weren’t sure what that exactly meant, but you weren’t about to argue with the man paying you an overly generous ten pounds an hour.

You didn’t need the money for yourself, what with still living at your parent’s house, but you wanted to contribute to the house and expenses and what no, even if it was a minuscule sum.

“Another thing,” he added, stopping, rather abruptly, in front of you, voice worryingly grave as he placed his large palms over either of your shoulders. “Please,” he begged, brows dipping, “don’t fight with Sirius in front of the customers.”

“I haven’t even done anything and you’re already after me,” you objected, pulling back from his usually comforting hold and pulling the broom out from behind the counter. His hands fell defeatedly against his sides as he sighed, standing in your way before you could mope yourself into a tizzy before the work day had even started.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he ensured, pulling you in for a tight embrace. “You know you’re my number one, sweetheart. Just don’t like seeing you so upset.”

James always teased you for being your Father’s favourite, and you’d never argue, relishing in his pointed fingers and sneering words, because it was true– there was something between you and your Father, an understanding that no one else had clued in on. He eased your worries like no one else could, smoothed irked creases across your face, replacing them with belly-hurting laughter lines and a grin so wide, you were worried it would fall off your face.

Anyway, James was the same with your Mum. You found her difficult to communicate with, what with her being as hot-heated as you were, so as much as you and your Dad got along, you butted heads with your Mum just as much. “It’s ‘cause you two are so similar, like twins, I tell you!” But it did little to calm your nerves around her, or stoke the flames of anger you so often felt.

You were about to respond, ready to tell your Dad just how much you loved him, when someone crashed through the door, slamming into the counter you were standing behind. You turned, eyes connecting with your (late) colleague. He looked utterly windswept, as if he’d run – or been chased – the whole way there.

“You okay, son?” your Dad asked, worry shifting from you to the panting, bent-over Sirius.

“Me? Oh– peachy, just– peachy,” he answered between heavy breaths, waving off his doting hands. “Sorry I’m late, got a little carried away with something and lost track of time.”

You were conscious of how your Dad didn’t offer Sirius the same advice, to not pick a fight or argue or whatever it was the two of you did, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at how he had everyone charmed. So you busied yourself behind the till, doing as you were instructed and counting the money, writing down the number of each of the bills on a notepad you pulled from the drawer at your waist.

Your Dad left soon after, turning the closed sign out front to open as he wished you, and Sirius, good luck.

“Guess it’s just the two of us, little Potter,” Sirius pointed out, already sounding bored as he fell into a stool at your side. He leaned his head against his arm, stretching it from side to side as he groaned at his tense muscles.

You didn’t mean to stare, swore it wasn’t something you’d let become a habit, but your gaze immediately travelled to the exposed skin of his neck, zeroing in on the trail of newly-formed purple bruises down the side. You snorted, shaking your head at him, slamming the money compartment shut a little too aggressively so that it caught Sirius’ attention. He recognised your expression to be something close to amusement, jabbing you in your side until you were scowling and slapping his fingers away.

“What’s wrong with you– you’re acting like a fucking child,” you admonished, moving out of reach and resting a hand on your hip.

“Why’d you make that face?” he asked instead of answering your question, nodding at you like it was you who had started it.

“It’s nothing,” you went with, hearing your Father’s words echoing in your mind from just moments ago. You needed to diffuse the situation before you really got mad, because past that point, you weren’t responsible for what you said– or did.

So you ventured into the aisles of books, a curious Sirius on your heels, following you like a lost, yapping puppy. “If it’s nothing then why are you running away?” he pushed back.

You ignored him pointedly, stopping to stack a few books and dust along the shelves. No one had come in yet, still too early in the morning for any tourists to stumble upon your admittedly quaint but bursting shop.

The sunlight barely filtered past the dense collection of books and mahogany shelves that lined the walls, but the windows stretched to the tall ceilings, and if you went up the spiralling staircase at the centre of the store, you’d find yourself in a cosy loft space, bathed in gold and stuffed with arm chairs and sofas for people to sit and read in.

It was your favourite part of the store, and you were seriously debating hiding up there on your first day, just to get away from the walking-plague that followed you.

“Come on– tell me,” he whined, standing too close for your liking. You side-stepped away, brushing a cloth against the worn covers of the Mystery section. He followed suit, returning to his previous position, and this time, you had no way out with the wall of books you’d met.

You turned, facing him and finally acknowledged his presence. “You lied,” you stated matter-of-factly, loving that you actually had the upper-hand with him. As much as you prided yourself with being quick-witted, Sirius always seemed to find a way to stay on-top.

“Gonna have to give me something more than that, darling. Lied about what?” he countered, raising an eyebrow at you.

It took everything in you to ignore the pet name, something more endearing hidden under it that you had never noticed before, and those pesky butterflies returned to bug about in your gut.

Fucking moths, you groaned internally.

“You said you were busy and lost track of time. But those bites across your neck say otherwise,” you stared pointedly at the affected area now, though it was covered by his hair in this position. His hand flew to his neck, as if only just realising they were on display.

“That’s none of your business Potter,” he countered, now irritated and still trying to hide the hickies on his neck with only his palm.

“It actually is my business when you’re both late to your job and lying to my Father,” you threw back, shoving forward and relishing in his slight stumble back– as if he hadn’t yet noticed the two of you were so so close.

“You can’t–” his eyes were wide, worried, as he grabbed your elbow, forcing you to meet his gaze, “You can’t tell him. He’ll be so disappointed and I can’t–”

Now it was your turn to frown over the devastation so wrought over his face. And if you two were anyone else, you might’ve let it go. Might’ve–

“Well tough shit, Black. You’re an adult, now. This is the real world we’re talking about. Not whatever fantasy you’ve been away in for the past two years. And here, in the real world–” you gestured around yourself, “--actions have consequences. You slutting it up on the night before your first day at your new job isn’t much of an excuse, now is it?”

And really, you deserved it, now that you thought back. His anger was reasonable and your need to poke straight through his ribcage, wrap your fist around his heart and squeeze tight, was not.

“Oh, fuck you, Potter!” he bit out. “You’re accusing me of not acting like an adult when you literally still live at home! Not to mention you can’t have a decent conversation with anyone without throwing the most childish temper tantrum known to man. I might be slutting it up, as you’ve put it, but at least I’m getting some,” he was breathing hard now, and the more he spoke the more the anger burned away, but his words wouldn’t stop. In fact, you think you could see him cringe, in pain or guilt or some nervous tick, as he delivered the final blow.

“Maybe if you weren’t so miserable to be around all the time, someone might actually give it to you too.”

It didn’t take long for you to react. Nor did it take long for your hand to fly up and connect with his cheek, hard and final. He wasn’t even surprised, had seen it coming a mile way, maybe even from his first “fuck you”. Because he knew he deserved it and he remembered now why he had left two years ago. Sure, it wasn’t all you. There’d been others who had irked him to the point of wanting a fresh start. And even then, it wasn’t that you were one of those people– you just would get him so riled up, to the point where he could no longer trust the words coming out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered then, fighting the urge to look away from your glassy stare. “I’m sorry, Potter. You know I don’t mean it.”

And deep down inside, you did know. You knew you both brought out the worst in each other. Only, you could never figure out why that was. Why you wanted to hurl insults and slap him silly for every comment or look or stupid way he’d string together the most perfect sentence and his irritating eyes and mouth and–

“Excuse me? Is anyone here?”

You inhaled, all sudden, as if only just realising what you had done (or what you had thought). You brushed past him without a word, needing, more than ever, to put some space between the two of you. If not for your anger then for whatever pesky emotion was seeping through your cracks.

You were (reluctantly) pulled from wherever your thoughts had been racing to as you called into the store, “Just one moment!”

You didn’t see it, not then – too focused on keeping one foot in front of the other as you made your way back, escaping to the front of the shop, faking a polite smile as you greeted the awaiting customer– but Sirius collapsed, defeated, into the wall the moment you walked away.

Something was telling him that if he hadn’t just torn your heart to shreds with a string of insults then he might have done it some other way– some other way that might have left him in trouble with James, Lily and your parents for an entirely different set of reasons.

‘Cause Jesus Christ– he wanted to be the one to give you what you needed. Or rather, he needed to, desperately. And two years away hadn’t altered the line between the two of you from enemies to something more.

And Sirius truly debated if this was the moment for him to get back onto a train to anywhere you were not. It didn’t matter if he had no money or nowhere to be, but if it meant he could avoid killing you with words or kissing your face off– he couldn’t quite see a way out of his predicament.

James would kill him. As would your parents. And Lily– God, you prayed Lily never found out. She’d serve his head up on a platter and laugh while she did it. She was awfully protective of you, always on your side when you bickered with him. If anything, you loved her even more for it, having always noticed how you frowned a little deeper, detached a little more from yourself, whenever your parents favoured him in an argument.

“Sirius!” you shouted again, no longer faking your emotions but rather genuinely just exasperated by him once more.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” He managed to not get lost in the labyrinth of books, and found you by the travel section, chatting good-naturedly with a blonde in a tight dress.

“How can I help, doll?” he asked the blonde in question. His one tactic for almost every conundrum he’d ended up in was avoidance. And bloody hell was he good at it.

He smiled at her, the customer, doing little to hide his admiration for the legs she had on display. She flushed a pretty pink, averting her gaze, lip between her teeth. Bingo!

“Christ, you’re disgusting,” you muttered, mouth pouting and quiet enough that only he could hear.

“Only for you, sweetheart, only for you,” he bit back, not wanting the currently oblivious customer clue in on their conversation. “So, how can I help?”

“She needs that book–” you pointed to the top shelf, well out of reach. “--the green spine that says Amsterdam, but I can’t reach it and the step ladder is too heavy.”

“Alas! Only ever needed for my body, it seems,” he moaned with an irritating amount of flourish.

“Whatever it takes to get the book down– do what you must, Black.” You patted his chest reassuringly, taking your spot, once again, behind the cash register.

“So– planning a trip are you?” Sirius asked in between excessive displays of strength as he hauled the bulky ladder with a single hand. You glared at the girl as she swooned at him, wanting, rather unreasonably, for her to combust right where she stood.

But that was a ridiculous thought to begin with. You could barely stand to be even within a metre’s distance of the guy, let alone on the receiving end of his affections. You were tired, emotional and dehydrated. Must be. Though a glance at the clock had you realising it had barely been an hour since your day had started.

So, maybe just emotional and dehydrated.

“I’m going to get a coffee from across the street,” you announced, slugging your tote bag onto your shoulder as you walked past the preoccupied pair. Not waiting for a response, you stepped out into the early morning sun, frowning, for once, at the glare in your eyes and not the irritant you’d left behind.

It was easier to refer to him as something pesky, infectious, fungus-like even, rather than the only person who knew how to break your heart (and despite your somewhat impenetrable facade, you let him do just that every time).

please please PLEASE reblog & leave some feedback <3 i'll boop you if you do x

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x f!reader #sirius black fanfiction #marauders #the marauders #marauders fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfic #sirius black angst #sirius black smut #sirius black x fem!reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n

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larkingame · 10 days

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hello all! been a moment since we last discussed some things, so I'm coming online to discuss the progress of Larkin's development and make a few announcements :)

over the last ten months, larkin has gone through a lot of changes, some of which I've documented here--but most of it I've kept pretty private. I realized that over the few short years I've been developing the game, I sort of grew an unhealthy dependence on my presence within the 'interactive fiction' community that I really, really needed to take a step back from and break, all in order to ensure that I could enjoy working on what originally started out as a passion project for me.

since july of last year, I've completely reshaped and rewritten how larkin exists as a project, shifted it's genre and started collaborating with a few others to ensure it can be of the highest quality it can possibly be. uptop, i'd like to mention @tapeworrmart who's taken on the immense task of putting together most of the game art for me, @khiita and @ann1a-1 who have both taken on the roles of my editors (and also sounding boards for when I am being absolutely insane) and my production manager phillip, who without his assistance, larkin would barely exist. with that, let's do a progress report. the intended demo of larkin, or what i've taken to calling 'episode one' (yes, i said, 'episode,' more on that in a minute) has stretched to just over 200k words worth of content. it stretches all the way from the earliest versions of larkin's original prologue, to the end of the original chapter two. so far, we've completed 3 out of the intended 20 character portraits, as well as some more art that's slowly been in development.

now, on to the announcements. probably the biggest, and the one I am most ashamed of is--due to the fact that I've been slammed with graduate school work and some other external factors, Larkin as it currently exists is not the best that I think it can be. I'm deeply sorry for this, but I want to ensure that you all are getting the highest quality game you could get from me--and right now, I know it's just not that. Which is why I am unfortunately, pushing the release of the demo back until Friday, June 14th, 2024. Patrons will be granted access to the most recent edit of the demo two weeks earlier on Friday, May 31st 2024. In the meantime, I will be working day and night (quite literally) to get what I'm dropping on you up to par and something that I'm happy with.

To make up for this disappointment, I'm planning on repopulating the blog with a lot of content over the coming months, rewriting new versions of old asks, posting art and short stories.

Next on the agenda and also an equally important announcement. I'm changing the rating of Larkin to Mature or 18+ As I've been writing these past few months, working through a lot of themes and figuring out the story I want to tell, I've found that I think the change in rating is entirely necessary. While I don't think I've ever had that big of a minor fanbase--I think that this is just what I am most comfortable doing. There has consistently grown a little bit more of gore, and trauma exploration, which is the main reason for this change in rating, but, this does allow for the inclusion of something that I've been toying with since the intial release of the game. There is going to be explicit sex scenes in this new version of Larkin--all of which, you the player are able to opt out of, or completely avoid if that's something you want--but I just thought a little announcement would be warranted. This does not mean however, I am comfortable with answering thoroughly explicit asks or getting unsolicited sexual messages. The goal is to keep this game blog mainly tame.

Please respect this boundary of mine.

Third thing to be announced. I've also changed the format in which Larkin will be released. Rather than around the twenty-five chapters in one of a series of 'Books'/'Games', Larkin will be released episodically over four 'seasons' with eight-ten episodes of around 200k-250k words each (though, this is just an early estimate--they could grow longer, as I'm basing this purely off the demo/Episode One)

Finally and a little bit of a fun note: there are now twelve romance options throughout larkin, five male, three female, one non-binary and three gender-selectable. With those upcoming asks, you'll hear more about each in the coming days :)

With all that being said, I wanted to lastly thank all of you for supporting me over the years and putting faith and your interest in this project. truly, the support of all of you means the world to me and I can't wait to share more of larkin with you all.

thank you 💖

#larkin game #larkin if #larkin #announcement #game announcement #blog update #interactive fiction #if #cyoa #cyoa game #twine interactive fiction #twine #twine game #sugarcube twine

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being-addie · 11 months

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Little Ways to Love Your Life

I love performing little rituals to enhance my life. It's infinitely satisfying and it reminds me why living is so beautiful, on days when I start viewing the world through a pessimistic lens. This is your reminder that there's so much beauty in the mundane, just start looking for it :)

Here's some things I do that make me love my life just a little bit more:

Wake with the sun:

There is nothing better than opening your eyes to golden sunshine on your face. The golden hour has this quality that makes you feel like royalty.

Move your body:

Give your body a dose of endorphins by doing some exercise! Go for a hot girl walk, hit the gym for a sweaty HIIT sesh, or just groove to some Just Dance. I promise it will make you feel like you can conquer the world.

Smell sweet:

Put on a playlist and sing as you shower. Lather yourself up with sweet-smelling soap, and after you step out of the bath, slick on some vanilla scented moisturizer, and perfume. Don't forget deodorant! Make sure to stick with organic products because chemicals can irritate your skin.

Food = love:

A full stomach is a happy person. Make yourself a cup of coffee, and a hearty breakfast. Take note of the way milk swirls into the dark coffee, how the egg sizzles in the pan. Allow yourself to just exist in the moment, where you are taking care of your mind and body.

Self-love:

While I eat healthy 90% of the time, on days I really need to feel excited, I go buy a pain au chocolat from my nearest artisan bakery. It's one of my favourite foods to indulge in and it always makes me smile. Likewise, buy yourself something nice. It could be a new shirt, a bouquet of flowers, or designer chocolates. Indulge in yourself. You deserve it.

Look at beautiful things:

I don't mean window shopping or aesthetic Instagram pictures. Go out and observe. Look at the shape of the clouds, and how the trees dance in the wind. Pet that cute dog. Smell the wildflowers. Disconnect from the online world, even if it's for half an hour. Give yourself that much time.

Take pictures:

Screw retail therapy, taking aesthetic pictures is my new thing. Take so many pictures. The way sunlight filters in through your window, a cat stretching, a close-up of a flower, your Starbucks mocha latte. Unleash your inner photographer.

Pursue your hobbies:

When I'm down I play the piano or whip out my glue gun and craft my worries away. Doing something you love instantly puts your brain in a good mood. It could be tennis, gardening, quilling, birdwatching. Whatever you love. Do it.

Restrict your social media:

I was unknowingly comparing myself to all the girls I saw on Instagram and it was so detrimental to my self-esteem. I ended up deleting the app. I'm currently planning on reinstalling it by July next year. Delete the apps that do not make you feel good. You will have more time to dedicate to work, hobbies, family and relationships.

Finding joy in the mundane is the most healing thing you can do. Make your routine special, and switch it up once in a while. Don't shy away from your dream life, because you DESERVE it. You deserve EVERYTHING you ever want, okay? Now go get it. xoxo

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transdimensional-void · 6 months

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"ascendance of a bookworm" and the centrality of education

something "bookworm" recognizes that i think a lot of other isekai miss is that myne's greatest advantage from her past life isn't her knowledge of certain technologies or products. it's her education.

this is obviously true in the lower city, where most of the people around her have received zero formal education; but it is even true among the highest levels of nobility, where the standard amount of formal education is six terms at the royal academy. that's three months of the year for six years, and nobles intentionally budget their time at the academy to spend more of it on socializing than they do on education. outside of the academy, many nobles receive some form of private tutoring, but the quality, quantity, and consistency vary widely from person to person.

compare that to urano's university-level education in modern-day japan. she spent a minimum of sixteen years attending school for most of the day for most of the year. and it shows.

one of the moments from the series that has really stuck with me is the scene where ferdinand reads myne's memories and experiences, from her point of view, what her education was like: year after year, across her entire childhood, with many different teachers, in many different subjects, in many different classrooms, surrounded by other children her age. the way seeing that allows him to finally grasp why she seems so uniquely capable of being taught compared to other people he knows. it's not that she's some sort of unparalleled genius. it's merely that she's been conditioned to perform academically and that she's been taught how to learn.

and each time myne "ascends" within jurgenschmidt society and is forced to perform in a new environment with minimal time to learn its ways, this conditioning serves her well. she knows how to sit down at a desk, crack open the books, and study until she's got it. equally, having received a comprehensive education puts her far ahead of the average jurgenschmidt citizen in terms of being able to synthesize information from a variety of sources and see how disparate phenomena are interrelated. when she arrives, she may not know anything about jurgenschmidt's economy, government, social structure, etc., but she knows that they exist, are worth learning about, are having a huge effect on her own life, and can be manipulated to her own ends.

what's more, her belief in the fundamentality of education is the single force driving the greatest amount of change within jurgenschmidt. yes, the printing press is the most revolutionary technology she introduces, but her educational reforms will have more immediate and farther-reaching effects.

by the point in the story we're currently at in the english translation (p5v7), she has improved educational access and outcomes for the following:

specific people in the lower city of ehrenfest (lutz, tuuli, kamil, those wealthy enough to purchase her picture books and toys)

those in the ehrenfest temple orphanage (said to receive a level of education equivalent to the average mednoble)

members of some farming villages of ehrenfest (those who have been visited by gray priests over winter hibernation)

all noble children of ehrenfest (through the winter playroom and better grades committee, as well as her educational materials)

some nobles in other duchies (those who have gained access to her picture books and educational toys, and those who have been personally influenced by her, such as hannelore and hildebrand)

commoners with the devouring in ehrenfest like dirk, who can receive funding from the aub to receive a noble education

no, she hasn't yet introduced mandatory, free public education, but she's laid the foundation for it. she has introduced educational reform at multiple levels of society and, more importantly, impressed its importance upon key authority figures, such as sylvester, charlotte, and melchior. that ensures that her reforms have staying power.

this is one of the things i adore about this series: the realism of the societal changes myne brings about. a lesser story would have shown her introducing free, compulsory education for all commoners within the space of a few years. that would have been nice, but it wouldn't have felt real. instead, myne has achieved every small reform through sheer bull-headedness, with blood, sweat, and tears, with immense effort. and that makes her accomplishments feel meaningful in a way an easy win would not. and yet we see widespread change, inertia that we can envision snowballing into the kind of education system urano enjoyed in japan somewhere in the not-to-distant future.

myne's societal reforms feel earned, and it all begins with the story's recognition of the immeasurable value of the education she received back in japan.

#ascendance of a bookworm #ranting again about the things i love in this series

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madseance · 1 year

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No, Adobe and Pantone don't "think they can own colors and charge you to use them". No, Stuart Semple's "liberated colours" don't solve any problem. No, Adobe isn't going to lock you out of your files if they happen to have any colors in them that are in Pantone's books. That's not how any of this works.

Pantone doesn't own colors. They own the Pantone Matching System, which is a system for designers and the people who turn those designs into end products to all be on the same page about what color something should be. It's essentially a more complex and extensive version of what happens when you pick out a paint swatch and someone mixes up that color for you.

There's nothing new about Pantone charging exorbitant amounts for their products. Pantone's color books—which are essential because knowing what the color will look like in physical form is the whole point—infamously cost hundreds of dollars. They can charge that because Pantone is the color matching standard agreed upon by multiple industries, from print publishing to fashion. Everyone uses it, because everyone else uses it, and because it works.

Yes, that unfortunately means that a lot of people have locked themselves into using something owned by a single corporation, and if they ever decide they want out, it would be massively inconvenient at best. That's a huge problem that isn't limited to this situation (see also: Adobe) and doesn't have a simple solution.

Stuart Semple's "liberated colours" palette, that he's hyping as Pantone colors but free, doesn't address this problem at all. Nor does it solve the immediate problem facing people who actually professionally use Adobe's existing features for incorporating Pantone compatibility into design files.

Because that is the actual issue here: Currently, you can specify your colors in e.g. InDesign as specific Pantone colors, and that information can be used when your file is turned into a physical product to get the exact colors you asked for. This works only because, again, you and the printer are both using Pantone's system, which tells you what the color will look like and tells them how to make it look like that.

Adobe removing those palettes doesn't mean you can't use any Pantone colors. It means you can't automatically specify them as Pantone colors in your file. And that means, when someone produces your designs, they don't have the Pantone system to tell them exactly what physical colors to use. That's it.

Semple's palette doesn't fix this problem, because it's just a palette. It's not part of any larger system that ensures colors are faithfully reproduced in the end products. It's just a set of colors that are similar to some of Pantone's colors. It's no different than using the color picker, or a palette you downloaded somewhere else. It doesn't have any effect on what gets printed, which is the whole reason anyone uses Pantone at all.

I know people love the story of Semple and the other guy and the black paint, and/or the other side of the story where he's actually the villain, but none of that matters except for this context: Semple's whole brand is "liberating" colors from these evil millionaires and corporations who want to control them, etc. I like to think that he has a basic grasp of what Pantone is used for, and if so, he knows his palette doesn't solve the problem. It's just a promotional stunt. It's not inherently a scam or anything; but the idea that he's giving you back something Adobe and Pantone took from you is complete nonsense.

#stuart semple #adobe #pantone #fynn posts

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bettsfic · 5 days

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Venting-

When I hear people give the advice that writing is never a waste of time if you’re having fun or you should never feel like a story was a waste of time, you should enjoy the process. This advice I believe is real and true and works for some writers. But at the same time, there are writers who are very stressed when writing and feel better about their work when it’s finished. Not the “I enjoy having written.” But the “I have crippling anxiety and can only tell if my time, effort, and semi-breakdowns were worth something if I complete what I set out to do.”

Not to diminish anyone who agrees or resonates with the first statement, I admire those people a lot and wish I was calm enough to feel the same.

in my years of teaching and coaching, i've noticed there are two kinds of writers: "process" writers and "product" writers. rather, there exists a spectrum from one to the other.

on the process side, you have writers who reach a flow state fairly easily, who can become immersed in a world or idea of their own invention, and they write in large part to seek that immersive state. the end of a project seems more like a tragedy than an achievement because it marks the loss of the immersive state, and it will take energy and discipline and happenstance to find the next. i've also noticed that it becomes harder rather than easier to find that state over time; the more projects you finish, the fewer ideas appeal to you in the same way.

conversely, product writers get to feel that sense of achievement upon completing a project that process writers may lack, and that pleasure is worth the pain and turmoil of the act of creating something. product writing takes a lot of strength, patience, and discipline i think, to do something hard for the reward of having done it. it's the difference between an athlete and a surgeon. a person becomes an athlete for love of the sport, the act of playing. winning is important, but they wouldn't be able to win without first finding joy in the game. a surgeon, on the other hand, probably doesn't get into the job for the fun of operating. the fulfillment is in the operation's success; it's hard work with high risk. but the reward of saving or improving lives is worth it.

admittedly as a process writer it's always been hard for me to wrap my head around product writers. not only do i not have the patience to seek a sense of achievement, i think i'm mostly incapable of relishing any reward at all unless the reward is in the pursuit itself. looking back, i can't think of any single moment i've ever felt a sense of success. but also i've always struggled with concepts like ambition and competition. i've never had any drive to win anything, but also i've never felt much when i lose or fail. sometimes i wish those things mattered more to me, because then i would be a more driven and decisive person, and i'd be more successful in my career.

i know i'm on the extreme end of the process-product divide, and that colors a lot of my perspective of teaching and mentoring. but i think writers can shift on the spectrum depending on where they're at in their writing life or even with whatever project they're working on. i've been trying to have a more product-based mentality recently to at least develop the skill of shifting to the other side when i need to, so that i can get the patience and focus to write a novel that is not just me plopping my heart onto the page and hoping somebody out there cares. product writers have an easier time convincing other people of the value of their story, because the value of the story is a big reason why they write it. a purely product writer, like the surgeon, writes something because they feel that thing needs to exist in the world. meanwhile the only way for a purely process writer to be professionally successful is to happen by sheer coincidence to find an immersive state that also crosses with the interests of the current market. like the athlete, success involves training, hard work, and being at the right place at the right time. sure, churning out 100k words in a couple months and having a blast while doing it is great, but it comes from this wild inner place that can't really be controlled; meanwhile product writers can take that wildness and intentionally shape it into something. when you're feeling jealous of the other side, though, it's important to remember that both the meadow and the garden are equally beautiful.

#writing advice #process #product

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inchidentally · 5 months

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because apparently I can't stop being weird ! 🫠

(this is completely shipping goggles off btw and with the assumption that there's no point theorizing about these men's actual sexualities since a)male sports and b)required travel to countries where the penalty for homosexuality is death/imprisonment.)

I kind of love that we're all picking up on something new and indefinable with Lando and Oscar and it makes our hearts do a little squeeze without fully knowing why. I'm basically finding myself repeating everyone else's tags on landoscar gifsets. and it made me think about why and how Lando has had two main support systems in terms of friendships up til now. there's the F1 alphas/extroverts and then there are his childhood besties.

so like every guy or group of guys I've seen with Carlos somehow admit he's in the alpha position and rotate around him as the leader. it's very much like Daniel even though Carlos and Daniel aren't much alike outside of that (Daniel makes noise to be the leader, Carlos just exists as a leader). for an ambivert like Lando, Carlos and Daniel are great places to be when he's getting pulled under. they're typical straight alpha types who don't believe in getting stuck in their heads or feelings (Carlos' 'mental health' ad basically being go to the gym and stay productive to not feel sad lol) and they exist in a kind of nonstop monologue. so little Lando can just bob along in the current and know that he'll laugh and forget whatever ails him. very much like what he needed Carlos for after the Mexico race when he looked so drained and ended up magically chipper again in Brazil (in reality bc of friendship and not a solid dicking down as I have tagged in a lot of places). or that private plane ride with Daniel where Lando looked twelve years old and so happy. Lando clearly needs to feel small again sometimes and these are the guys who can do that.

Childhood

Max F obviously has that role of truth-telling and soul-baring that honestly I could see Lando not being able to live without. the friend/soulmate you can't hide anything from. I'm absolutely projecting at this point as someone who feels verrrry simpatico with Lando's personality (as we're allowed to see it) but having that person who can love you while being honest and real with you is so SO SO needed. but! there are times when it's too much and they know that you need to just float for a while. I feel like there's that core group of guys in the Max F circle who are all to different degrees like this with Lando. they're much more his equals in power dynamic too.

Oscah??

I think this is where Oscar exists in like a third, unexplored space. he's been caught in 4K as a Lando fanboy but he's also got sleepy cat personality so you can only tell from the internet evidence and from the way his eyes track Lando every time they're in the same rough vicinity that he's still fairly starstruck.

to me it's like Oscar hasn't quite shaken the norm of watching Lando on his phone screen and he almost forgets that he's supposed to be the one interacting with Lando in the challenges etc.

now if you've watched the Prema content on YT you'll know that Oscar, while still sleepy and placid, absolutely knew how to play up for social media content. sure the pressure wasn't that high and he'd known some of those boys for years by then. but his timing was solid and he adopted a sarcastic voice-of-reason role to bounce off the other guys. but what's so endearing about the McLaren content is that Oscar has basically positioned himself as guest star in the Lando Show. it's like he's so relieved at how good Lando is at media content that he spends a lot of his role in it watching what Lando is doing. I'm serious when I say it seems like he forgets he's not watching Lando on a screen like he always used to.

I do however think it's a confident and conscious decision that he made to not even bother trying to be another Carlos or Daniel - or to try and copy paste a little of the banter he'll have seen Lando have in Quadrant videos. I really love that Oscar's said you know what I'm being me and it so happens I'm nothing like those other people in Lando's content.

but !! you know who's personality and sense of humor Oscar most resembles? Max F. dry humor, sleepy but can get riled up and fun when they're feeling it. sort of fondly exasperated with Lando a lot of the time. I loved the stream of Max watching the Most Likely To with Lando and Oscar because he sided with Oscar so many times and appreciated Oscar bringing up the birthday issue.

and I think that's where for Lando he's still pretty damn thrown by Oscar - not in a bad way, just still uncertain. Oscar doesn't fit with Lando's extroverted F1 world. Oscar's plenty friendly with the rest of the grid (and obv Logan) but he's choosing to largely go under the radar and he runs his social media very lowkey even during some of the major highs he's had his rookie season. he's there to race F1 cars and when that's over he's got a very good brain in his head and plenty of options. he doesn't have the same insecurities that a lot of the drivers admit to having. Lando can't rely on Oscar being a typical F1 driver to understand him.

to finally come around to some kind of point I think what we're seeing is Lando and Oscar tiptoeing around a friendship that would probably develop very fast and easily if it weren't for the F1 pressure and expectations. we're seeing Lando unusually flustered by how easy he gets Oscar's attention and how he seemingly can't annoy or inadvertently piss off Oscar even if he tries to wind him up in videos or if he gets lost in admiration for his own trophy while Oscar shrugs off his own P14 finish and smiles at Lando. I genuinely think that level of undemanding affection has Lando sort of squirmy in an adorable way.

and Oscar clearly went into the personal side of his relationship to Lando of just enjoying whatever he gets and not trying to be someone he isn't. rookie seasons are already so pressure packed and the drama with Alpine followed by the rough start McLaren had won't have helped. he's just trying to do his job and prove his place and honestly isn't bothering to hide that he's baffled and flustered at finding himself interacting with Lando Norris the way Carlos Sainz and Daniel Ricciardo were. it's easier to just let people see that Lando can wrap him around his finger.

when all the time, if they'd met via Max F or mutual non-F1 friends, Oscar would fold right into Lando's group like butter on toast. I think that's what we pick up on with either or both of them getting shy and crushing on each other like new best friends at school. F1 has picked them up and put a camera on them and we're watching them slowly learn if it's okay to put an arm around each other or sit very close or touch the other person's hair. because they know this is very Real FriendTM friend potential and they don't want to spook each other and their feelings could so easily be hurt if they thought the other person didn't want to be friends as much or if they'd turn their back on them in front of their other friends.

they're not interacting as Typical Blokes by horseplay or teasing or being loud and they're not Just Guys Bein Dudes using humor and sarcasm to figure out the pecking order.

most of the time they're so shy or Lando's in a mood and Oscar finds it adorable and they're watching each other so closely the whole time like this and aauuuuhhggggg it's so vulnerable and sweet.

that's how it feels to me anyway and why I'm so ???!!! watching them interact. and sidenote I'm so so glad Oscar is so steady and can celebrate Lando no matter what. bc Lando admits he struggles with that in turn and after the many times it's been tested it's clearly never going to be something that breaks them before they can continue to get closer <3

#landoscar #twinkodium #(I figured you might like this <3)#gonna tag this for anyone interested but pls know this is just me being dumb #apparently writing stuff like this is my main contribution ig #mine #inchidentallyanessay #inch gets weird

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xiefuyu · 7 months

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Brother, I'm here.

-- Kurokawa Izana x little sister reader

🖤 — Tokyo Revengers

📝 — spoilers from manga (around tenjiku arc), angst, brief implication of domestic abuse, mention of blood, mention of murder

:a/n — surprise ! my ass was productive today and managed to sneak in writing the next part for B,IH so here it is. will we be getting a happy ending based on how this is currently going? we shall see hehe.

— PT. 1 / PT. 2/PT.3/PT.4/PT.5

Kurokawa Izana only wanted one thing.

Family.

Maybe two things.

Family and to get rid of Sano Manjiro who stole Shinichiro from him. He’s just a simple boy with burning desire and jealousy seeping in his bones for his wants. His needs. And if getting them came as a form of violence, mistakes, and wrongdoings, then so be it.

He already knew that he’s beyond saving. Already knows that his brain had given up on thinking rationally and logically when it comes to decision-making. But there’s a feeble part of him that wants to go back to the times when he’s just riding Shinichiro’s motorcycle, back to when he and Kakucho are just little boys with dreams too big to be concealed in their little rough palms due to fighting.

But he also knows that it’s just another feeble thing to dream. He wasn’t bestowed by the Gods with the gift of turning back time.

You're beyond saving, a voice in his head says and it sounded like a broken him.

So with a smile, he agrees with Kisaki’s outright sick plan of killing his little sister, Emma, who he promised that they will see again.

Kakucho tried to stop him but just like any other royalty hierarchy, he’s just a peasant whose opinions don't matter. He wants to stop his king. He wants to make him come down from his throne and act like dirt on the ground like how he’s treating them. Just for once.

He wants Izana to be normal just for once. For his mind to not be clouded, for his being to not shelter a monster whose head rises with its green flames, engulfing everything, inside out.

So he seeks you out again. Hoping, praying, desiring, dumping a responsibility, a duty for you to stop his king.

You breathe in deeply, closing your eyes at the new information suddenly thrown to you. Apparently, your brother whose name is Izana- it’s such a pretty name, you think- is thinking of killing someone.

Killing.

His little sister at that.

“Please stop him.” Kakucho, whose name you learned yesterday, pleads. You look at him as if he had grown two heads. You think it’s ridiculous. If your brother is capable of killing someone whose existence is known to him, what will that do for you? If he’s capable of killing his little sister who he knows, then what about you?

Will he…kill you, too? Hurt you without hesitance?

You shudder at the thought, unconsciously curling into yourself, the thought of getting hurt again by someone you know, by a family, makes you sick.

But you found yourself nodding.

“Okay…” you whisper in a hush tone, expression further softening at Kakucho’s hopeful smile.

You stood outside a cemetery, blinking. Kakucho wasn’t able to accompany you but you saw a silver-haired head and your breath hitches. His tan skin, silver-haired head, and eyes that you just somehow know are painted in lilac like yours, it was all so familiar. He doesn’t notice you but you notice him.

He was talking to a boy, his hair is long and blonde and a girl whose hair is a different shade of blonde, standing behind him and besides another blonde boy.

Wow, they’re all blonde, aren’t they?

You caress your black hair unconsciously. Well, should you colour it silver like your brother? So you both match? Why not, you think. You already love him, after all. You’re willing to sacrifice the health of your hair for him.

“Visiting the grave with your sister? How sweet.” you hear your brother say. “Takemichi, take Emma away.”

Now you’re aware of their names. Takemichi takes Emma away and before you know it, you walk away a little to give them space. You watch them as Emma says something, “that’s my brother, Izana, isn’t he?”

Your breath hitches. She is the sister that your brother wants to kill.

With a strained breath, you listen as she talks, how she wants to help someone named Mikey, the long-haired one, you assume, and smiles at how sweet she was. Without knowing it, your feet took you to them when they bought drinks. You look like someone close to them but they didn’t mind your presence.

Emma being busy with her drink and Takemichi looking like he’s figuring something out. Out of nowhere, the three of you hear the roar of an engine. As if one organism, all of you look at the direction of the source. You see two guys on a motorcycle, one having a bat in his hand, ready to swing.

And for one moment, it all slowed down for you. You see Emma freezing and see Takemichi shielding himself.

And for one moment, you found yourself hugging Emma, shielding her, your arms wrapping themselves around her head while yours remained vulnerable, and turning the both of you away just a bit late from the bat coming for the both of you. But that was enough. It was enough to get Emma out of the harm’s way as you feel the bat coming in contact with your head instead.

The both of you fall to the ground with a thud and you feel yourself coming in and out of drowsiness. You hear someone curse, asking you who you are- the one with the bat, you assume- and you hear someone telling you to stay awake, apologising and thanking you for protecting her.

She was so sweet that you can’t wrap your head around your brother’s decision of killing her.

“I’m okay..” you manage to say as you forcibly sit up with the help of Emma, letting you lean on her. You see her and Takemichi staring at your eyes and you smile. “Are they familiar?” you weakly asked and Takemichi nodded.

“This wasn’t the way I imagined meeting my brother’s sister, my sister, too, I guess, but hi. I’m Y/N, Kurokawa Y/N.” you greet, smiling weakly as if you’re not bleeding in the head. “I apologise, Emma-san…my brother…I heard Kuya Izana wanted to kill you…” you feel her stiffness under you.

“I don’t know why…I just got here in Japan not even a week ago,” your eyes are slowly closing, breathing stuttering, “he doesn’t even know I exist.” you finished.

“Y/N-chan, stay awake! Please!” Emma pleads, sobbing, and you can’t help but think that she’s such an angel, crying for a stranger. You hear footsteps and see blonde long hair. “Mikey! Mikey, hurry!” Emma says, wanting his brother to carry you.

“What happened? Who is she?”

Their conversation was drowned when you see your brother behind Mikey, a few feet away. Your eyes met his and all you could think was a future where the two of you are happy and bonding with uncontrolled laugh stumbling out of your mouths.

Your eyes meet his and your heart breaks when he looks away with a frown as if he’s disappointed that it wasn’t Emma who was bleeding on the ground.

“Izana, you asshole! Are you going to walk away from your sister?!” you hear Takemichi shout and oh, he was also sobbing. You feel yourself getting lifted and warmth spread through your chest as you’re now being carried by Mikey.

You briefly notice Izana stopping before he is out of sight as Mikey turns around, carrying you to the hospital.

“Y/N-chin, right? Hi, I’m Mikey. I’m Emma’s and Izana’s half-brother which means I am also your half-brother. Stay awake, yeah?”

You’re baffled at how shaky he sounds, at how his body trembles as he carries you. He’s worried, you figured, and that made you happy. “Oh…hello, Kuya Mikey.” you say and chuckles when he lets out a sound of confusion. “Kuya means older brother in Tagalog.” you explain.

You're not even sure if he's older or younger than you but calling him Kuya, an older brother, felt right.

“I see.” he was smiling, you can tell. “Don’t close your eyes, Y/N-chin. We still need to go to Izana and hit him in the head for not taking his time and checking up on you. He probably didn’t recognize you with all of us surrounding you, don’t worry.” you just hum, grateful that he’s trying to make you feel better.

“Kuya…”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what, hm?” Mikey asks, ignoring the fact that your arms lost their grip around him. “I should be the one thanking you, silly. You saved Emma, didn’t you? She told me you protected her.”

Silence answered him.

But he carries on.

He carries on because he could hear you faintly breathing and he could feel your weak heartbeat against his back.

“When you wake up, we’ll be introducing ourselves again, yeah? I’ll introduce you to gramps and to Ken-chin. Maybe not Toman yet.” he smiles, grip on you tightening. “So…you better wake up, Y/N.”

And with that, he hesitantly lets go of you as you get taken away by the nurses.

A few metres away from the entrance of the emergency area stood a silver-haired boy, fist clenching as a wave of emotions, ones that he thought he wasn’t capable of feeling anymore, surged through him.

And for the first time in a long time, the king falls from his throne and onto his knees as his mind goes blank at the memory of him looking back at the same set of eyes similar to his.

Eyes that were dim yet shining in hope before he turned away, unaware of how it completely dulled.

A/N: I don't know if anyone will see this but hey, love, feel free to request scenes for tokyo rev and dc <3

#tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers platonic #kurokawa izana x y/n #kurokawa izana x sister reader #sano manjiro x sister reader #xiefuyu's

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wallfl0wer-babe · 9 months

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Crazy In Love (RZMichael Myers x AFABReader)18+

18+ CONTENT MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Content Warning- Unprotected sex, knife play, blood play, rough sex, breeding, cunnilingus, size-kink, stomach bulge, creampie, squirting, nipple/boob play, overstimulation, fingering

Trigger Warning- Violence and gore, sexual assault, attempted r*pe, mental illness, suicide, abuse

Synopsis: You and Michael had grown up together at Smith's Grove Sanitarium and despite Michaels lack of speech it's blatantly obvious that he cares for you, in his own twisted way. One night the new janitors make the fatal mistake of using you to provoke him only to awaken the monster inside him, sending him on a murderous rampage and a mission to claim you as his and his alone.

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"Hey there big guy, how's your mask making going today?" Michael only grunted, not looking up from the newest addition to his collection he was currently in the process of putting together, a typical response from the 6'7 man you considered a friend. "Talkative as always, I see." You teased, something unfathomable to outsiders but a typical daily ritual to you. Your casual demeanor towards the crazed killer could be acquitted to the fact that the two of you had both been admitted to Smith's Grove as children and as a result had grown up in the Sanitarium together.

You had been admitted a year after Michael for the murder of your father. When you first arrived you refused to open up to any of the medical professionals who treated you as if you were nothing more than a mind needing to be dissected. It wasn't long before Dr. Loomis introduced you and Michael in hopes that the two of you would help advance each others study and treatment. To his delight you and Michaels similar circumstances didn't take long to cause attachment, however, this quickly turned to dismay when he learned about your reasoning for brutally killing your father through bugs he planted in Michaels room. It was a conversation you remember well, not fondly you might add. "(y/n) I want you to understand that I did this in hopes of helping you-" Despite your cold icy stare he continued "I listened in on you talking to Michael and I now know why you murdered your father." Your stare grew icier at his statement. "If you know then what do you hope to achieve by talking to me?" You spat, bouncing your leg. "I wish only to help you (y/n), that's what I'm here for. I know what your father did to you and your mother was unforgivable, but surely you feel some sort of remorse for killing someone so brutally." Remorse? how could he expect you to feel remorse for a man who made your existence hell. A man who made your mother resent you and take her own life in front of you. He calls what you did brutal, when he knew you had killed this man in hopes of escaping the abuse he inflicted on you. When this man was in the act of defiling you in the same room your mother had slit her throat in, yet he dared to call you the brutal one? "You're right Dr. I do feel remorse." Your voice was soft and broken. "I know you do, now-" Your voice suddenly grew crazed and full of rage. "I feel remorse for not ending his filthy life sooner. For not torturing him more before I did. And most of all I feel remorse that I am this way because I'm a product of his rotten seed!" To Dr. Loomis's horror an eery calm and silence replaced your seething rage as soon as the last word had been spat from your lips. Your icy stare was long gone, replaced with a distant and hollow gaze.

Since that day you hadn't spoken a word to Dr. Loomis, and though you did occasionally speak to one of the sanitariums staff it was only to ask for something and always without a trace of emotion. Conversations and emotion were things that only seemed to make an appearance when in the presence of Michael, not that he minded, to say he disliked the idea of sharing you with others would be an understatement.

Michael admired your features while you flipped through a magazine across from him, failing to resist the urge to let his eyes travel down to your breasts that were currently resting on top of the table. "I can feel you staring Michael." Your words caused Michael to jump and immediately avert his gaze, earning a small laugh from you. Despite the many years the two of you had spent at Smith's Grove together he had never tired at the sound of your voice and laughter, if anything he had only grown to adore them, like the rest of you.

Though unbeknownst to you this adoration was anything but pure natured. He had spent countless nights since the time he was a teenager fucking his fist to thought of you. His lustful desire had only grown worse as your body matured into that of voluptuous woman's. The only thing that prevented him from tearing off your clothes and pumping your womb full of his seed was the possibility that you would go cold on him like you had everyone else. Michael found the idea of losing the one person who not just accepted, but understood the evil that festered inside of him maddening. He refused to risk losing you just so he could satisfy his sexual urges, no matter how strong they may be.

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The patients had been locked in their rooms for the night, but once again you found yourself unable to sleep. You felt your heart flutter as you thought back to Michael and how he had reacted to you catching him staring. Coming to your senses you shook the thought away, letting out a sigh as the feelings remained. 'Here I am, a grown fucking woman still acting like a teenager with some schoolgirl crush.' You had loved Michael for years and still could never seem to chase away the feelings you knew would forever remain unrequited. Perhaps it was the lack of care and love you received from your parents, but the moment you felt a connection with Michael you couldn't help but latch onto him. Maybe your mother was right and you were just a parasite. It was the sound of male voices in the hall and the unmistakable jingle of keys and turning of the lock on your door that ripped you from your thoughts. Before you could fully register what was happening the door of your room was thrown open by the new security guard accompanied by another unfamiliar man, both wearing sickening smiles.

Michael was busy working on another one of his masks as he usually did when he found himself unable to sleep. When he heard the sound of his door being opened and the security guard taunting him he didn't even bother turning around, just continued to construct the mask. That is until he heard your broken shriek.

"She's a pretty one ain't she?" The security guard said, groping you in a way that made bile rise in your throat. Your body remained frozen no matter how much you urged it to fight back. It wasn't until you were thrown onto the bed and met with the familiar view of long blonde locks and a broad back that a small wave of relief washed over you, only for it to quickly disappear as the two men pulled at your clothes and groped your body more aggressively.Thankfully Michaels presence finally broke the spell you were under allowing you to shriek out "Michael!"

At the sound of your voice Michael quickly stood up and turned around to face you and the two men. "Don't worry freak we'll let you play with the leftover-" Michael smashed the man into the wall, choking him. The security guard scrambled off you to try and help his friend only for Michael to throw the other man to the side and turn his murderous intent on him.

While Michael dealt with the security guard you quickly went over to the other man. He cried out in pain as you roughly dug your knee into his back smashing his face repeatedly into the hard floor until it was a mess of bone, tissue, and cartilage. Finally letting go of the mans mangled head you started to laugh only for the laughs to quickly turn into strong sobs until black dotted your vision and you passed out.

After easily killing the security guard Michael went back to finish off the other guy only to be met with his already mangled corpse and your limp form. Panic quickly overtook him as he cradled your body in his arms, frantically searching for any sign of life. At the sight of your body steadily breathing he relaxed, making his way out of the hospital as he held you against his chest, prepared to end the life of anyone who got in his way.

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You woke up with a jolt, soaked in cold sweat and breathing erratically. Two large and rough hands you quickly recognized as Michaels held your face to make you look at him. Despite the fact he was now wearing a different mask you knew it was him and your breathing started to slow. "The mask looks nice. It suits you." Mimicking him you placed your considerably smaller hands on the sides of his mask covered face. "Where are we?" You asked, your eyes scanning the old dim-lit room as much as his hands holding your head in place would allow. Michael simply retracted one of his hands and pointed it at himself before placing it on your waist. "Your house, huh?" He nodded and a tension filled silence filled the air.

The two of you just sat there for a few long tense minutes before you came to the realization that you were currently and had been straddling his lap. "Shit, sorry Michael" You tried to get off of him only for his other hand to shoot to your waist and keep you trapped with his tight grip. "Michael?" His hands traced higher, dipping under your tank top. You let out a gasp when he pushed up your bra and roughly grabbed your breasts, the roughness of his large hands rubbing against your sensitive nipples causing you to arch your back into him, only for him to quickly retract from you at the sound of your gasp, as if he had woken from a trance.

Refusing to look at you he gently placed you on the wood floor and started to walk away. He had let his desires take control over him. If you hadn't gasped he had no idea how far he would've gone with you. He couldn't stand that the image of those two filthy men groping you had unlocked some primal need to claim you inside him and Michael knew that if he didn't get away from you soon he'd do just that.

Just as he was about to leave he felt you grip onto the back of his jumpsuit. "Please...I need you...so please...don't leave." Your desperate words made Michaels already fraying string of restraint snap. He waisted no time picking you up by the hips and carrying you over to a pile of old dusty blankets. His inhuman strength allowed him to tear off your clothes with ease. The sight of nude form made his cock throb, begging to be buried inside your tight heat. You let out a whimper of pleasure as he once again enveloped your breasts in his large hands. Michael led out a load groan at the sight of the fat of your breasts spilling through his thick fingers.

"Michael..." you breathed out, taking his face in your hands and pulling it down to your own. He could feel the violent beating of your heart as you caressed the lips of his mask. "I love you Michael" You finally managed to choke out, worry and fear written all over your face as the words left your lips. The same words that tore a groan from Michaels throat as he ripped the mask over his head.

He didn't give you a chance to admire his handsome features before he devoured your lips with an insatiable hunger. You quickly submitted to the kiss, pulling on his long blonde locks with a yelp as two of his thick fingers were shoved inside your small pussy and began to messily pump into you at an intense speed, roughly massaging your breast and nipple with his other hand. The sudden feeling of his thumb rubbing against your sensitive clit had you throwing your head back as shockwaves of pleasure raked through your body and your release soaked Michaels hand and fingers.

For a few moments he just stared at the way your juices dripped down his hand mesmerized before sticking his fingers into his mouth with a groan. With a starved look in his eyes he turned his attention to your slick coated thighs and pussy before forcefully grabbing your hips and pulling your drooling cunt down onto his mouth. "Michaaeell~" You whined, your eyes rolling back into your head as he greedily feasted on cunt like it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. It didn't take long before your pussy, already sensitive from your previous orgasm, gushed on Michaels face and into his mouth, to Michaels delight. Your legs quivered and you let out pants and whines as he obscenely slurped up your release like a man starved.

He finally released your puffy cunt with a sloppy 'pop' only to shove his slick covered tongue into you mouth, tangling it with yours so you too could taste the sweet nectar he had so eagerly feasted on.

Your exhausted and overstimulated form perked up at the feeling of Michael's hard bulge poking your stomach. You pulled away from the kiss earning a small scowl from Michael, that quickly turned into a grunt at the feeling of your small hand squeezing his angry cock through his jumpsuit. "Need some help big guy?" He simply nuzzled into your neck, letting out a gruff sigh as you unzipped his jumpsuit and crawled between his legs, giving a kiss to his large bulge over his boxers.

The sigh was quickly replaced by a loud grunt as you pulled down his boxers only for his cock to smack you in the face. Your pussy clenched at the sinful sight, Michaels cock, like the rest of him was best described as monstrous. It was long and incredibly girthy with thick veins running across the shaft and a bulbous tip that heavily weeped pre-cum. You couldn't help rub your legs together at the sight of it, letting out a small whimper at the thought of Michael splitting you open on his beast of a member.

You began twirling your tongue around the head of his dick only for Michael to grab a handful of your hair and roughly rip you away from it with another grunt. As appealing as the image of seeing you struggle to fit his length down your throat was, Michael had waited far too long already to feel the velvety walls of your cunt wrap around his cock.

Michael gently layed you back on to the pile of blankets, throwing your legs over his bulky shoulders. As he rested his tip at your drooling entrance you saw hesitation briefly flash in his eyes. The fact that he was holding back out of concern for you despite being obviously pent-up and filled with sexual frustration made your heart swell. "I'm all yours Michael, I always will be." You said, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips, hoping your words were enough to assure him.

They did more than assure him, as the moment your lips left his he sheathed himself inside you with a roar-like groan, fucking into you with a ferocity that had you clawing at his back. The way your pussy clung to his massive cock, your plush walls wrapping around it like a vice had him never wanting to leave. He fucked you like a wild beast, harshly nipping at the flesh of your neck and chest to mark you as his. The sight of your breasts jiggling from his harsh thrusts made his cock twitch inside you. The way his meaty cock rubbed against your plush walls stimulating all the sensitive and sweet spots inside you in addition to its bulbous tip repeatedly hammering into your cervix had you writhing and digging your nails further into Michaels broad back.

The feeling of his large and rough thumb massaging your clit sent a shockwave down your spine and made your back arch. You couldn't contain the string of moans and whines that left your lips as you felt your climax approaching. Michael looked down at your stomach, fascinated by the large bulge that appeared in your lower stomach with every powerful pump of his cock. Out of curiosity he pressed down on it with the large palm of his hand. With this you were finally put over the edge, violently squirting on Michaels dick with a squeal that you muffled by harshly burying your teeth into his shoulder as your eyes rolled back in your skull and your body tensed up in ecstasy.

Continuing to abuse your cunt with his monster cock Michael admired your fucked out expression. Seeing you end up in such a state because of him made him go feral. His mind filled only with filling you with his cum and sinful thoughts of the way your body that was so small and fragile compared to is own took his cock so well. He brutally thrusted his cock head into your cervix with intense fervor, desperate to spill his cum into your womb, to claim you as his own.

As he used you like a flesh-light you lapped at the deep bite mark you had left on his neck, leaving feathery kisses along his firm chest. Your delicate affections had Michael's cock throbbing, and his thrusts growing sloppy. He pressed down on the bulge his cock made in your lower stomach, letting out a loud groan and burying himself inside you at the feeling of you cunt tightly clenching around him and the sound of your little whines. He captured you tasty looking lips in a passionate kiss, the two of you groaning and moaning into each others mouths at the sensation of Michaels cum being pumped into your cunt, making your stomach bloat from the copious amount that overflowed from your stuffed pussy.

Michael grunted at the way your cunt continued to desperately milk his twitching cock even after he had completely emptied himself inside you. Keeping you stuffed full of his cock and cum, he grabbed the knife he had retrieved earlier and began lightly running it over your plush flesh as he struggled against the temptation to carve his mark into you. Shock filling him as you directed his hand over to your chest, pleading him to leave his mark with your eyes. Watching your face as he pierced the flesh above your breasts with the blade only to be met with a look of tender assurance, his eyes flickered down to your chest which already had a small droplet of blood running down it. He carefully carved his initials into your soft flesh, slicing it deep enough that it would scar without causing any severe damage. Once he had finished you took the blade from his hand and flicked your tongue over the it. The sight of you cleaning your own blood off the blade sent a shudder through Michaels body. Enveloping your hand that gripped the blade into his own he maneuvered your the tip of the knife so it pressed into the firm flesh of his peck, encouraging you to mar his flesh with your claim, just as he had dgown. You pressed a tender kiss onto the flesh before digging the knife into it. You managed to cleanly carve your initials into his peck despite the fact that the feeling of his monstrous cock once again hardening inside you had left your mind clouded. Just as you had done he ran his large tongue over the blade of the knife, tasting the crimson that dripped from it with a loud groan.

He began to roughly fuck into your sensitive and sore pussy once again, uncaring that it was already overstuffed with his cum that sloshed and spilled out with every violent thrust. He greedily lapped at the wound he had carved into you with obscene slurps, sucking on the droplets that ran down to the swell of your plump breasts with a groan. The room was filled with the filthy sound of moans, grunts and the lewd squelches of your cunt being battered by Michaels girth.

You were exhausted, lost in the immense pleasure and pain Michael was causing you as he used your limp form like a cock sleeve. With a final harsh thrust Michael forced more seed into your aching core with a loud drawn out grunt that drowned out your whines as you squirted around his cock before passing out from overstimulation.

After every drop of his cum had been drained inside you Michael pulled your sweat-soaked form on top of his, still impaled on his cock so to keep you plugged full of his cum, and wrapped his arms around you in a protective embrace. He soon joined you in a peaceful slumber as a way to pass the time until you would awaken and he could claim you again.

#+18 content #fanfiction #no minors allowed #reader insert #smut #michael myers #Michael Myers x reader #fem reader #Halloween #rob zombie #minors do not interact #rob zombie halloween #rob zombie michael myers

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ilgaksu · 2 months

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i will now be referring to this situation as weimargate, because i must laugh or i will dissolve into the void.

aka i have had a VERY weird experience of it in fandom lately, and it has escalated to memes in lieu of interpretative dance*, but also i want to talk about it because i think, in more general terms, it's relevant for discussion about how fandom is evolving.

(*as illustrated by @difeisheng because i am personally intimidated by photoshop. interpretative dance would've only had me to blame.)

so. hi! if you don't know me, i am an ao3 writer who goes by the pen name ilgaksu. i have 179 fics on my ao3 account, and of those, 46 of these are for DMBJ or grave robber's chronicles. i've been writing in this fandom for roughly three years, which means according to the laws of mathematics and my own inability to stop posting about my favourite blorbos, that's a new fic every 3.39 weeks. i have not counted chapter updates in this count, but given several have multiple chapters, i think we can see there's....a lot. one ongoing series is currently sitting at about 200k, word-count wise. i like to write, overall, about disability, reclamation, legacy and memory. i also overuse semi-colons.

i am also a very private person at this point in my fandom career. this will be the first post i've made in a while talking about myself where i have allowed there to be reblogs on it. this isn't intended as an affront to anyone else in fandom. my ask box is open, sans anon, and in the last few years, i chose to reply to every comment i could to make sure i still get to engage about the characters i love without compromising my own desire for privacy about my personal life. i choose to work under an explicit persona - because we all do on the internet but i have made mine obvious and enunciated and almost a brand - because i think there is something freeing about allowing myself that experience. it's allowed me to write work that i relate to deeply without having to divulge my life to be analysed by strangers on the internet. generally, i like to post my silly little stories, talk to people about them, and then go about my day offline.

anyway, so this week, i seriously considered walking away wholesale from my current fandom, and i'd actually like to talk about why, and talk about me as a person as opposed to the narrative of persona that i've crafted.

because the reality of a persona is that a real, living person is required to animate it. if i am the person who is small and human and anxious to even speak about this, then i am also the reason the operation is running. it's a one-man show. as much as i want my work to speak for itself without my need to justify its meaning or worth, without my experiences, research and choices about my time, the work would not exist. that's just fact. it's fact for every writer and artist and podficcer and person who labours out of love you see. i also deliberately consider myself a writer as opposed to a content creator, because i believe that label mimics a wider culture i have no interest in - that of someone creating a consumable, ownable object. my fanfiction is a hobby. it cannot be owned by other people. unlike my original work, where it can be bought, there is no formal, explicit contract between me and the reader. there is, however, in fandom, an implicit social contract of equality and collaboration, where we are all equals. i am fundamentally no better than someone who never writes fic and never wants to and never will. i reject the idea of superiority among fans because i do not engage in subculture to mimic the dominant culture, the one that tells me stories are something only certain people are allowed to see themselves in, or even tell to others; that production is the only means of social capital and intrinsic worth.

i am aware, also, that by being private the way i am, i end up sacrificing some experiences that i could have by being more accessible, but i want to reiterate that i have never gone out of my way to conceal my tumblr, nor ignored people who contacted me directly to talk about my fic. in fact, if you show up to talk about my fic, i will probably be so thrilled i'll never let you leave - especially since, when it comes to a majority of it - i spend a lot of time on research, something i enjoy, and deliberately cite my research in the notes because i want to share it as part of the experience of my writing. clearly, i want ideas i have come up with to be enjoyed and loved and shared, because otherwise why would i take the risk of putting them out online, where i then cannot control how they're received or transformed?

however, since about a year ago, i've maintained a policy of works based on my own that i've had outlined clearly in my profile on ao3 here:

as someone who is playing in someone else's sandbox for free myself, my only request is if when you use an idea, usually a headcanon, which is one i created, which you can as much and in whatever way you want because that is the nature of collaborative fandom and the reason i love it so much, you cite that i was the originator of the idea. and secondly, that you let me know. this is a personal request based on how writing can be a very lonely project, even in fandom. you put your work out into the world, with no sense of who it will reach and if it will mean anything to them, and you have to work on the faith that even if it doesn't, the work itself was worthwhile. but you hope it will, because everyone hopes it will.

all of this is outlining so it's understandable to people that read this how i was completely off my face bewildered when i found out a headcanon of mine had reached the level of fanon popularity where it's been mistaken for canon, and has been for over a year at the very least, and i had literally no idea this had happened.

which, frankly, was both hilarious, in a very bizarre way, and completely, deeply sucked.

i know this is my idea because of how distinctive it is, and how much it contravenes canon - namely, that a character, hei xiazi, was a medical student in berlin during the weimar republic. i know it's mine because the timeline with the canon we're told by the actual writer of the source material doesn't match up, which i was aware of and chose to retcon. it was designed and fitted to a personal interpretation of canon material i had been working on for years, and involved a lot of time and research and intense love for the era, the character, and the ways a story about being alone in a foreign country had intertwined with my own personal life. ever since i wrote it, i assumed that the one or two people who had used it with credit were the only ones who had, and because they had honoured my request i was honestly completely thrilled. i still am that those fics exist. that's because it was collaborative.

i want to be clear: nothing about the situation as it stands has been collaborative. a writer being the last to know about the commonality of their own idea in a small fandom is not collaborative. and while it might not bother everyone, it's bothered me to the point i've had serious consideration for several days about whether i should walk away from the fandom.

but ilgaksu, surely you should be flattered that people liked the idea so much?

yes. this was never about the use of the idea. it's about the way this idea has been isolated and used with an assumption that i would have no interest in knowing, or that i would even need to know. i'm not sure what has caused this - whether the persona element of my work has led people to believe i would not have any emotions about finding this out, but i am not, actually, a persona. i am the person who uses it. and as the person who uses it, this is how it felt to find this out. it felt, and still feels uncomfortable, hurtful and isolating to find out your idea has been so beloved but that nobody considered whether you would like to know. it feels like the collaborative element of fandom has been severed from you, specifically, and that your fanwork has been treated as entirely other from you as a fan. i hope nobody else making work feels like this, and i've been told this situation is so strange as to ensure that's hopefully not the case, but i think this is an ongoing issue more widely - the idea that writers are separate from fan culture, and their works are products as opposed to the shared results of a hobby.

do i think this was deliberate? not at all. do i think this was intended to be hurtful? not even in the slightest. but i want to be clear how personal this feels.

i don't have an answer for this situation. the cat is out of the bag, ilgaksu knows about the fanon, and hei xiazi is, despite all canon, going to medical school in 1920s germany. expressing my discomfort with how this has gone down feels important to me anyway, and it's also important to me that i do it in this very detailed way so that people who were unaware do not feel personally at fault, or feel like by me expressing this i am taking this idea back from them. i always wanted this idea to be loved and to be shared.

i also always hoped this idea would find people who wanted and needed a story about someone a long way from home following an ambition, and how much fear and hope and desire goes into the decision to do something like that, and what it means to be a disabled person in a foreign country, and what it means to be queer in a foreign country, and overall what it means to be a stranger in a strange land. i want to be clear that while i wrote this for me, i also wrote it for everyone who has also lived that. i want my work to feel like someone is holding your hand, not that they're at a distance and disregarding you, the reader, and the relationship we have together during the time you read my work.

i hope in future that if you use my headcanons and are aware of that being the case, you let me know. i don't have to read the work itself if you find that intimidating. i will not go out of my way to find it. whatever you've done with the idea, i will fundamentally see it as a compliment and evidence of an exchange between us as a fandom. but i want to know because otherwise, all i see is you taking something i loved and wanted to share and enjoying it with a door firmly shut between us. i am too old to care if i'm not invited to a party, but if the party is themed around a concept i put so much thought and love - for the source material, the people who were going to read it and myself - i can't help but care. it's hard to feel like a vending machine, even if the process of making the fic is so joyful for me that i won't stop until the joy is gone. it hasn't gone yet, but this week it's been dented a bit.

anyway - if you got to the end of this, thank you. please be considerate of how much this has taken for me to express, regardless of your own feelings on it, and how unusual it is for me to make a post that is able to be shared. if you use the idea in future, you do so with my blessing, which was always there. if you want primary sources, places to start, or anything like that - fashion, language, visuals - i want to be clear you can ask me and i will be beyond thrilled to help. i always have been and i'm concerned that because of this that hasn't been clear. but i also feel like if i don't state this experience in this way at this time, and how it was experienced by me, odds are i will now forever look over my shoulder and wonder if this will happen again, and i love writing for this fandom so much that i will not allow something like that to dim that love. i know you love these characters so much too - it's why you're here. i actually used to make a lot more meta posts like this, about fan culture, and i've been considering if i will again - just less personal and less anxiety-inducing to post next time. until and beyond then, i just hope we can all consider things like this in future - that i can treat you with the same grace - and understand the pressures and anxieties of writers in fandom at this point in time especially. a lot of us have hearts far more made of glass about the things we love, like our work, than can be immediately apparent.

anyway, i'm going back into hiding now.

your friendly local cryptid fanwriter,

ao3 user ilgaksu <3

#personal #fandom #okay to reblog

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