“make the princess speak and you will have the crown of kings.”
my knees hurt, as usual, from scrubbing. technically i’m too high of Maid Station to help out with these things, but i like seeing what happens when you clean. the development of things. how a lot of effort can make something. i like learning and trying and working hard to get towards something.
and i’ve seen them, from the back of pillars, from behind cracked doors, from beside her (on the best days) the way they talk to her. oh beautiful won’t you just look at me. oh darling. if you speak i’ll be your prince. if you speak i’ll be your king.
the princess, i know, finds the lines of suitors boring. it’s in the way her hands are always moving. she hides yawns, leaves early, we make her apologies. once, a man comes and tries to startle her into screaming. she rolls her eyes and looks directly at me. i have to hide my smile behind my sleeve. he is taken away while still screaming.
by accident, i find her once, crying. when we imagine princesses, they always cry daintily. hers is hoarse, angry, and something in it breaks me. in my station i should apologize and bow and leave. instead i am frozen, watching her shoulders heaving.
she looks up and spots me, her cheeks ruddy. i know i should go but instead i make a big show. i act as one of her princes. i make grand gestures and speak in deep voices. i frantically offer her handkerchiefs and trip over my own two feet. a smile crawls up over her, slowly. i dab my sweat away and offer her the used rag. i feign a fluster, turn a terrible cartwheel, make shadow puppets. the sound of her laugh, raw and rusty, sends shivers through me.
for a while, i do not see her after this. but then i am called to her chambers. she is crying again. i offer silly gifts, pebbles and dusting rags and a candlestick from her own kitchen, pretend to steal it, use it as a hat, rock it as a babe. she laughs more easily this time, gladly, and when she laughs i am taken by more important maids, thereby officially Excused.
it goes like this for months. the winter comes. i rarely see her. i spend my week thinking about ways to please her. i knick interesting cookies, show her shiny buttons, learn to cartwheel in a full skirt, and then promptly how to make it look foolish again. i learn how to juggle hot bread and dance as a man would, i learn how to balance on a ball and how to fall down without hurting myself, how to fake a fight with my own body, which colors she likes and which don’t please her.
i show up on a cold eve with a knotted line of scarves hidden down my sleeve, worried and breathless, wondering why she’s been crying. the door opens and she is sitting there, happy. at first i’m confused, but she waves me in. next to her is her small dessert, in two containers. i’m not sure how to respond, so i fake a fall to hear her laugh, and then sit at her feet. she gives me ice cream - so rare a treat. i know what went into making it - the hours of shaking. it’s smooth and tasty. i don’t feign my reaction, but she laughs anyway, kindly.
it goes like this. i see her more frequently. she likes giving me new things, watching me discover i hate kiwi and love oranges and would die if it made her laugh breathlessly. i’ve made her keel over with cackling and she’s put a fire in me. sometimes we just sit there, quietly, enjoying each other’s company.
it’s in her hands, always moving. little things i thought were just her, fidgeting. here’s how she says she’s thirsty, this is what her hands do when she needs a second to think, here’s how she shows she’s happy. this is how i learn to speak back to her. around her i spend much of my time smiling. i feel every visit is a gift. a new part to unravel. i find out she doesn’t respond to spoken things, that she needs to be looking in order to know you were speaking. sometimes she has me talk and she holds her hands to the base of my throat, her eyes wide and wondering. sometimes she just looks at me and i forget that i’m her jester in chief. i get caught up in her eyes, in how expressive they are when she’s happy, in how when she’s sad i feel like i’m drowning.
i never see the king or queen, but i know when she’s had a visit with them, because she never comes back happy. two winters i have known her, two winters and now we dine frequently. i am often called to stand beside her, to whisper translations of her desires into the ears of someone more important than i, someone who gets to be the voice of royalty. i can’t decide if i’m her friend or her plaything, but i don’t know i care much of the distinction. every moment i’m near her is a moment free of friction. i take stock of suitors and curtsy to them in daylight only to mock them in the candle’s eye later.
she asks me one night to stay. it has been a bad day. it’s completely not okay. i cannot say no but i cannot, by my station, stay. but she begs with her eyes and her hands and i know i’ll take the punishment.
we lie beside each other. i make sure to turn to her when i speak. in the dark she can’t see me, so i move my hands in the way i’m learning. she asks if i am ever lonely. i cannot tell her that i am always lonely without her beside me, so instead i say i think all people are very lonely and just are pretending. she laughs a little at that and says she thinks her parents are the two most lonely people that ever met. her mother was like her; broke a fairy curse and talked, just once, although nobody knows what she said. well, excepting her father, who was the only one around, and who won her hand in marriage.
from her mother she learned the art of hands, of speaking without words - from her father she learned that who she was included a curse. that she just wanted someone who would make her open like a rose - someone who could fix her. how she stared out into the royal garden and wished on flowers to be what her kingdom needs.
she fell asleep pressed against me. i couldn’t breathe. i was still awake in the morning.
the punishment never came. we spent nights like this. the handmaidens had grown to know me. whenever their princess was stubborn, i worked magic and made her lovely.
it was a terrible thing. i did too good a job, i think. the princess glowed too much or shone too brightly - or at least, i saw it that way, so who knows what the truth is. every day it felt like we were being rushed with princes.
her father’s temper at hosting failed. it was the day before her twenty-first birthday and first time i’d ever seen him. he stormed in at the end of the session. “just speak!” he said, “it’s not that hard! do for others what your mother did!”
“tomorrow is your last day of this,” he warned her, “either you pick a prince or i pick for you. i’m done with it.”
he stormed off. she was left shellshocked and trembling. that night she didn’t ask me to come, but i waited outside, just in case she changed her mind. i understood why she needed space. either she’d speak and be married tomorrow or she’d be married shortly. i heard her crying and it took everything in my power not to rush in and hold her, cradle her gently. but i cannot come into a room of a royal person without being invited. i stayed there, tears in my own eyes, thinking of treason.
the next day was a huge festival. what had been a birthday celebration was turned into a day about princes. i watched her shake her head. i tried to cheer her up. i tried everything. i frequently came inches from causing public humiliation, toed the line of mocking and failing to acknowledge my station. she wouldn’t smile. not once. not even for anything.
the day was long. the bonfire wore down. i watched her crumple into herself. i was out of ideas. i knelt at her feet. her eyes barely looked at me. just wait, i said to her with my hands, i’ll be right back. i took off running.
the price of stealing is losing my hands. these things that i spoke to her with. these things that mattered so much to me, that helped with my comedy and cleaning.
i didn’t think of them. i bloodied my fingers when i ripped the royal roses from their stems. and then i ran, as fast as i could, back to her feet. i picked them to show you, i said, as she gasped, looking at my treason, they’re beautiful and nobody told them to open to reveal their secrets to the bees. they are unbroken. as you are. as you always will be.
she fell off her throne and for a second i was beyond speaking, worried something had happened, or she’d fainted, or i’d said the wrong thing. but then she was on her knees, her arms around me, and i heard it. i heard the soft croak of her speaking. just one word, and it sent shivers down me. my name, in her voice, awkward and unwieldy, but full of love and passion, burning fire through me.
i felt a hand on my shoulder. i was pulled away from her. they already had me in handcuffs while i struggled to get back to her, to tell her i loved her, to beg her to run off with me or maybe just hold me around her, maybe just have her for a moment, because i couldn’t live without her for a moment longer.
they put me in the cells. i rotted in there, for a while or for no time at all, i’m not sure. the thorns scarred my palms. i watched the scabs build up and flake off. every time someone came down, i flinched, wondering if i would be the next to be taken and chopped into bits.
but one day the light was different. not the smoky torch of the jailer, instead a bright light in a lantern. at first when i saw her, my breath caught in my throat, mistaking her for my princess.
but she was my queen. at first we stood in silence. and slowly, i moved my hands to speak. is she married? is what came out, even though i should be more worried about me myself and me.
she is not. she bit her father on the arm when he tried to make her. then she fought him. and then ran away. it took us a bit to find her, i’m afraid. she threatened her own life and the life of everyone in this place. the queen was smiling. i was told there was a young woman who could make the princess speak, whom she would die to save, who brought roses to her feet. someone in a cell, rotting. are you her?
the memory of her voice rang through me. i’m she.
yes, her hands said, for even now, aren’t you speaking to the silent Queen?
she opened the door. come, she said, let’s get you cleaned up for the ceremony.
the crown of kings. when she wraps her arms around my neck and laughs next to me, i am royalty. when she smiles or makes a joke or asks to see my cartwheel again, i’m lost in her. i kiss her whenever i can, which is often. we have roses in a vase at the base of our bed, and for all of the kingdom, i’d give my hands if it would keep her laughing.
the next time she spoke was just once, at our wedding, where she said the two words i do to bind us for eternity. she had learned from me, from holding her hands over my voicebox, the way i learned from her how to use hands to speak. sometimes at night she says my name, just because she likes what it does to me.
i’m more blessed than a king. every day i spend with her is a day i spend happily.
Fave thing learned about characters and any difficulties with voicing
Josh learned in season 2 that Shiro can loose his cool, loved finding that out about him. With 2 young kids, that voice kinda comes naturally. Loves Shiro’s dark sense of humour when he’s poking fun at his grave injuries
Jeremy: for Lance usually lines are kinda there to lighten mood or make people laugh and Jeremy just tries making people in booth laugh and if he’s done that he knows he’s good, like playing off people around
Kim: for Allura, didn’t have an accent before and added it to differentiate her from earthlings. trying to find different sound for Allura. Struggles a little, especially with big paragraphs
What goes through mind when playing off inner demons like Allura and Keith with Galra, Lance being 7th wheel, Shiro trying to be civil with Slav
Jeremy: trying to make it as real as possible, think of something similar that’s happened to you but usually it’s there in the script how characters are feeling. A lot of them are still teenagers so still trying to find place and what is my thing and where I fit.
Kim: for Allura, it can get pretty boring to be a princess, but it’s great she has this mission but also this struggle, love that not just typical princess like in last ep where she’s fighting haggar, has a lot of duality
Josh: basically just try to make it real for myself, has to take himself to certain people he knows who are like that. Has a lot in common with Shiro and for the rest just rely on writing and what else he’s seen in show
For Allura, bigger arc in second season, internal motivation, conflict
Kim: when recorded it, she’s ignoring Keith, acting like a teenager, has moment off screen where she realizes it and that she hasn’t been being better self. Kim was surprised to see comments online about people upset she forgave Keith because “she has right to feel that way” because she never saw it that way
Josh: how cool though that an animated show can take an issue like that and make discussions happen
What are you excited to see with characters and explore in future
Everyone: want Shiro back
Jeremy: most excited for Lance to step up into leadership role and be more serious and responsible (at times, cause he’ll always also be Lance). Fun to see people get opportunities to be more mature. Pleasantly surprised when certain characters get to step up and be more serious
Fave s2 scenes
Josh: chase on cow
Kim: Hunk’s slow mo run away from Vrepit Sal’s, Pidge learning Altean with the bear, Coran looking for a mouse for no reason, little precious moments
Jeremy: Coran deaging
Kim: a lot of good fight scenes, like BoM
Kim gets scripts and cannot stop reading, says it’s so fun to be a part of
Annabeth: The giant wreck friend. She’s constantly stressing about something.She’s working on four projects, none of which she’s finished. She’s set fire to at least two (2) notebooks and her diet mainly consists of bagels, coffee, and her own tears.
Percy: The protective friend. He’s a sarcastic shit and you can’t always tell if he’s being sincere, but you once saw him break a guy’s nose for insulting his brother and you know he’ll do the same for you. He has approximately twelve (12) bandaids on at all times and he’ll spot you money without ever asking for it back
Jason: The dad friend. He somehow always has water bottles for if you’re thirsty. He’s seen you cry over twenty times but he never brings it up because he’s just too good of a guy. His catchphrase is “I don’t know…” right before talking you out of doing something stupid
Leo: The dying friend. He mostly consists of jokes and witty comebacks. You’re 90% sure he’s dying inside and just uses acronyms and puns to hide it but you don’t say anything because you’re pretty sure he’d rather crawl into a hole than talk about it. He gives oddly good advice and he never fails to make you laugh.
Hazel: The you think she’s innocent friend. She’s somehow convinced everyone she’s naive and innocent when really she’s probably way more experienced in life than you are. She blushes like a maniac and uses “darn” in her everyday vocabulary. She’s an angel until you piss her off.
Frank: The actually innocent friend. He never swears and instead uses bizarre substitutes that are sometimes worse than the actual swear word. He gives gentle high fives and he awkwardly pats your shoulder when you’re upset. He gives the best hugs.
Piper: The cool friend. You have no idea how you managed to get her as a friend. She messed up so much in her past that she’s now grown and learned beyond her years. She’s the epitome of doesn’t give a fuck. She wears leather jackets that intimidate you and she likes to flip people off. Everyone is secretly in love with her.
Summary: As he previously promised, Bucky helps you work out all those
irritating little kinks in your pool
game. Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: Absolutely NSFW. It’s all sex and pool tables folks, please walk
away unless you’re over 18.
A/N: Decided to write a follow-up to ‘Pool balls and underpants’, because
I just couldn’t move on without a smutty sequel. This can read as a
stand-alone story, but it will make more sense why Bucky’s wearing Steve’s underwear if you read the first part. And besides, who doesn’t
love reading sassy sexual innuendos from Bucky Barnes?
I meant this to be short, and once again my imagination spiralled out
of control, and here we are. I
Hey all! I’m sure you’ve heard of this new webcomic called 17776, as it’s been spreading around like a wildfire due to its Homestuck-reminiscent style and tone thus far, and that’s what i’m here to talk about today.
More specifically, I’m here to talk about Nancy McGunnel.
Nancy McGunnel is introduced to us readers in the first chapter of 17776, when we first begin following the football game # 3887. She is introduced via a small group of reporters who are trying to follow the game and talk to each other about (relatively) recent events, getting us readers used to the setting, and we witness Nancy running full-tilt, football in hand, into a tornado and up into the air as a tactical play in the game. Before she actually goes up into the tornado, though, the webpage hands us some of her game stats.
This stat board tells us her height, weight, etc., and goes on to tell us she started playing in 16003 for Milwaukee, and from then to 16016 she does rather well before retiring for 1744 years to help her daughter run a general store. In 17760, she un-retires to rejoin ‘country football’ and now plays for Wyoming, and she doesn’t appear to be playing as well as she had for Milwaukee.
The next page, Pioneer 10 explains to Pioneer 9 that on April 7th, 2026, the human population count utterly stagnated - people stopped being born, dying, and aging. This tells us that everyone on Earth, barring probably new scars, lost limbs, weight loss/gain, change in muscle mass, and other such forced physical change, is exactly as they were the day of April 7th, 2026. People in the prime of their life still are now, people in the range of having “midlife crises” , people who were babies at the time still are(which raises one heck of a question about mental aging that I’m not getting into today), et cetera.
The aforementioned stat board also tells us that Nancy was born 5/2/1953. Since this in-story info is based in America, land of silly nonsense and stubborn asshats like myself, we can probably assume that America has not changed its ways in how it treats dates, and thus 5/2/1953 means May 2nd, 1953. (I realize this is semantics, but hey, in for a dime, in for a dollar.)
Nancy is nearly seventy-three years old.
I’ll say it again: Nancy is nearly seventy-three years old.
Now, knowing this information, go back to where we read the stat board, and imagine. Imagine this elderly woman, truckin’ it toward the goal line. Imagine her making all of those attempts, probably regularly getting into legendary dogpiles, to get the ball, or to keep it. Imagine her squirreling it away from her shocked opponents, dumbfounded that a lady her age had just snatched victory from the tips of their fingers and is now running across the country to make her hundredth touchdown. Imagine it when we witness her hoofing it, beaten-up and abused football clutched in her wrinkled hands, straight toward a tornado that has clearly already picked up some person’s house and is flinging it in circles and will have absolutely no problem doing the same to her.
But Nancy doesn’t care. Why would she? She’s not gonna die, and she has glory to re-attain from having lost it since her last game!
hey everyone thanks! first of all, i’m flattered you’re asking me of all people questions about process and stuff. second of all, i hope this stuff will be helpful to you. but i get the impression that everyone’s process is different because people are different in terms of how we visualize the world around us or the images in our heads. for example, i sincerely hate doing linework and i will avoid it to my death because i visualize images in color blocks, not lines. other people love linework and emphasize that part of the process the most.
Summary You and Bucky are in a relationship and though the sex is wonderful, you want something more.
WarningsSMUT, oral sex (male receiving), unprotected sex (WRAP IT UP. oh and always pee after sex. It’ll help you avoid UTIs), rough sex, dirty talk, bossy Bucky, hair pulling, ass slapping, swear words, drinking mimosas, Natasha getting hurt, uhhh… I think that’s it?
You were laying in bed, basking in post-coital bliss. Bucky was stroking your cheek with his thumb while his other hand rest lazily on your hip. You couldn’t help but smile up at him, rubbing your nose against his.
He sighed happily, “If I could spend every moment with you, like this, I’d die a happy man,” he declared.
You giggled, smacking him in the chest. “Oh, stop it,” you teased.
Leaning in for a kiss, you were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Bucky, you’ve got two minutes to get your ass out here or I’m coming in there. And I really don’t want to see you or Y/N in your birthday suits!” hollered Steve.
Rolling your eyes, you got up and threw on some clothes. Bucky did the same.
“10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1!” The door flew open.
You let out a shriek of surprise. Steve was standing there with his hands covering his eyes. “I warned you guys!”
“Jesus, Steve, what the fuck?” snapped Bucky. “We’re dressed!”
“Oh,” he replied, having the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry about the door.”
You stood there with your mouth open. “How am I supposed to sleep like that?!”
“Uh…sleep in Bucky’s room until we get back.” He put on his Captain America face, “Bucky, let’s go. The others are waiting.” He began walking away and turned back, sheepishly, “I really am sorry about the door.”
You sighed as Bucky wrapped his arms around you.
“I’ll be back in a few days,” he reminded you, giving you a gentle kiss goodbye.
You entered into your room to pack a bag to take with you. Trudging your way to Bucky’s room, you unpacked and made yourself as comfortable as you could. It was late and you were calling it a night. You snuggled under the blankets and smiled, they smelled like him.