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cyberlights · 2 months

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Amulet Rant Time

Okie dokie Waverider is out and thus has concluded the series…so it’s time for a little…bonfire, we’ll call it.

Now don’t get me wrong. I still love this series and always will. I’ve been in the fandom since about Prince of the Elves. I literally have grown up with this series in my backpack from the moment I checked it out of my school’s library. I spent my first summer job paycheck buying all the books out at the time. This series holds a very special place for me.

I also understand that after Book 5(? I’m typing this out on mobile so I can’t verify), Kazu got very sick and lost a lot of his memories, which affected how he wrote Amulet and thus the rest of the story, so I’m not going to say he was a trash author.

There are just certain things that just…have not worked out post Escape from Lucien. And honestly, this is going to be more of a venting ramble than anything, so for the new readers coming in, take it with a grain of salt. You can still enjoy the series, fall in love with the characters, etc. That’s why we enjoy it.

Now I’m gonna do everything else under read-more so spoilers ahead.

We good? Okay, good.

I already stated that I give Waverider a 1/10. It actually is not my least favorite book, to be honest. (That “honor” goes to Supernova)

Trellis leaving the throne?

As others have pointed out, after Escape from Lucien it made no sense for him to just up and skedaddle. That boy was adamant he was going to lead his people. That’s what his whole plot was in the book, and him accepting more of that role in Firebird/the beginning of Supernova. Heck, they even pointed out that Gabilan, even though… voted in(?) as the new king was not doing a good job of it. Gabilan himself fully expected Trellis to take back the throne (albeit by force which is not really Trellis’ style). It felt very much like unnecessary step back from three books worth of development.

I can’t say much about Gabilan because while he did establish in The Cloud Searchers he wanted to be king, it didn’t feel right. Like there was nothing driven past that, that would say he wanted to be king. Honestly besides a tiny bit in Firebird he didn’t get as much character development as he should have, if at all. Which is why, if he was planned to take over from a while ago, probably should have had happened sooner.

Ronin and her Students

Speaking of introducing sooner, this is where I feel having a whole ‘nother two books would have helped the story, because this was just…so terribly executed.

I can’t tell you a single thing about her students except one turned into a turtle and another Cthulhu. I can’t even tell you anything about Ronin beyond her “I was right” mentality (and the mask, not sure why she was wearing a mask).

They all felt very shoe-horned in. I have no attachment to these characters, no real interest in seeing them succeed. They were brought in to fill a plot hole, while simultaneously making another plot hole in their wake.

Overall Problems with the Series

Genre Confusion

I think we’ve already established that Amulet would have been better off as a fantasy series than sci-fi. That is honestly my biggest problem with Supernova, was that was a giant Sci fi wedge in what was predominantly a fantasy series (I know we started more in Escape from Lucien and Firebird, but this is where I feel we veered too off course)

We honestly could have completely cut the sci-fi bit, changed a few things around between Escape from Lucien and Firebird, cut out most of Supernova -which yes, would have wrecked Navin’s sideplot, but there was different options that could have happened.

We don’t need the additional aliens/planets. Those characters could have easily just been Alledian on different parts of Alledia and we would have never known. We don’t even know what most of Alledia looks like because we’ve only been to a handful of places that predominantly look the same.

Which brings me to

Ikol and his Masters

I was so confused by the end of their story. They’re aliens but not. They were created by Silas but they have been around for eons. Everything was Made by Silas to Protect his Family. I just…*sigh*

It felt like they were beating the already dead piñata (pun partially intended).

Silas died in the first book. The consequences of his actions were established to be that he got a bunch of students killed and he ended up passing a huge burden onto Emily that should have gone to her mother. I don’t know why he had to be brought out as this.

Ikol could have very much remained a Chaotic Entity that thrived on the turmoil, his “masters” being a lie to convince Emily that he too was not in total control of the situation so he could slip her more into his control. We already know he likes collecting powerful stonekeepers who are vulnerable enough to fall sway to his side.

Heck, he comes back every 500 years to wage war with the elves and probably (should he have remained the entity) thought of it as one big game.

Having him turn into a somewhat malevolent AI that was just following orders to a T just…does not make sense to me. Especially if he was causing havoc with the elves for so long as implied.

Time-Travel

Okay honestly this is my biggest gripe with the later books.

We established, Books 4 and 5, time-travel was not possible.

All it does is send them back to interact with their memories. They don’t actually change anything about their lives outside the Void.

So having Future Emily and her son come back and save Present Emily throws all of the continuity out the window. And Future Emily’s little interaction with Ikol where it’s implied that they’ve done this over and over? Felt so weird after they actually dealt with Ikol. It felt like a useless little tag on that we ended up not actually needing. (Again, Supernova is my least favorite book for a lot of reasons)

Stonekeepers Good but Bad

*sighs again* Yes. This part would feed into the Problem of Too Many Characters Amulet has going on. But. We were not shown examples beyond our current group (Meaning Emily Trellis and somewhat Vigo) of good stonekeepers.

The Guardian Council that ruled over most of Alledia for centuries? Corrupt.

Silas? Self serving. (Despite being called hero numerous times, we were not actually shown anything he did besides stopping the rampaging stonekeepers back in The Stonekeepers Curse, and even then we weren’t actually shown, just told he did it.)

The Elfking(s)? Corrupted by their stones.

Most of Alledia in the early books respect Stonekeepers enough to kinda hold them in reverence. But we’re not shown anyone (beyond a couple panels of someone building stuff) notable enough to say Yes. Stonekeepers good. Anyone else who is mentioned is “Yeah, they were good, but they listened to their stone and turned into a rampaging monster” (Honestly Gabilan has more of a point here)

I get that’s why Ronin and hers were introduced, but they were introduced way too late into the series for it to feel that there could be some sort of balance.

Emily is one big outlier too here. She’s good but because she feels she has to be and has been told she has to be. Firebird honestly put a nice spin in this because we do see her fall. But Supernova kinda nixed that development sooooo.

*cough*ThisiswhatOCsarefor*cough*

Conclusion

Now those are the biggest ones that have bugged me for a while in addition to the new stuff from the new book. @motherstone has already touched upon multiple times some of the other issues that I tend agree with (go check them out, their art is amazing and I love their ideas. Also looking forward to their rewrite!)

Is there some technical issues with the books as well that bug me? Yes. (The later books are very over saturated in comparison to the older ones and it kinda shows, and I believe that Motherstone already touched upon the “smoothification” that started taking place about book 4/5, and there were quiet a few panels that felt very unfinished in the later two books)

Am I sad to see the series end? Yes. But Kazu at least finished as best he could to the end instead of half assing it or completely dropping the series altogether, and I can respect that.

Do I already have my own post-book 6 AU that I’m willing to ramble about at the drop of a hat? Also Yes. (May also heavily be influenced by some OCs)

Overall, I enjoyed Amulet enough to see it through the end. Books 3-5 will remain my favorites. I still will cherish the characters that we got. Amulet is probably the first thing that actually got me into interacting with Fanart and Fandom, so I’d say it’s a pretty big part of what developed me. And for the newbies. Hi! I see you! I look forward to seeing what you do with the series!

See y’all around!

(And btw, if you drop something in my ask box, I’ll apologize in advance if I don’t get to it. I tend to forget I have one)

#amulet series #amulet spoilers #waverider spoilers #wow it’s really been ten years since I joined this fandom #😧#Good news is that it’s kicked up the ol brain bunnies #i have been Having Thoughts #some old art may see an upgrade #Some old ocs may or may not appear

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darqx · 7 months

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Hi I understand if you don't reply, but I was wondering if you have any advice to beginners who want to start making their ocs a reality? (Like in the sense of having Charecters that have been in your thoughts for a while, but it's hard to encapsulate them into physical form?) As I have some that id like to make either into a game or comic but I'm a little stuck..

Also I'm curious if there will be any other content with the best boy himself rire?? : 0

Hullo! Ah, (physically) designing characters, how fun ❤️ - there is part of a reason why I only have a handful of them lol XD; ANYWAY here are three things that help me, so hopefully they can help you as well :)

(I'll use Demon!Rire as an example as unless you are an old guard of mine, he will probably be the most recognisable of my characs.)

--------------

❓What do you know about them?

First of all since you already have your character in mind, congratulations you are most of the way there already! It's helpful to know the general vibe of them. And I don't mean the super detailed things that may arise from like..."Get to know your OC" quizzes - we are more looking for the core feeling of a character here. If you dumped this character into different AUs what things are going to stay the same/similar? Some things you should consider are:

What is their personality like? Why do they do the things they do?

Do I already have any physical traits for them in mind? Hair/eye/skin colour? Body type? Age? Name??

📝 Write a simple paragraph or some dot points about your character with these things in mind.

---EXAMPLE---

Sophisticated and charming, Rire outputs an aura of power and elegance. His pleasing physical appearance and gentlemanly demeanour usually enchants or commands people. Realistically, he is extremely manipulative and sadistic, and finds entertainment in the reactions of others.

---/EXAMPLE---

🤔 Make informed choices

Ok cool, you know something about your charac! Now build upon what you know to make them real - it is important here to try and match your design choices with the characterisation and "why"s of the character, and less with what you personally think will be cool/cute/whatever. What I mean by this is just pretend they are a person you are describing to a forensic sketch artist - you are giving "facts" as to what you think they look like not making stuff up (eg you would NOT be like "oh yeh she was totally a punk rocker however i'm going to say she wore a long flowing gown cos I think she'd look prettier in it?"*)

*Note that designing a character with opposites in mind can work out if you can at least answer the cursory "why" of it being a part of the character design. For eg maybe the punk rocker is secretly the alter ego of a socialite - flowing gowns and high fashion by day, grunge by night. Like Batman.

📝 Feel free to use dress up doll games and image searches for particular types of clothes/hairstyles/etc if you need inspiration. Thumbnail a bunch of different designs and see what works.

---EXAMPLE---

In my prev example paragraph I highlighted a few things in red. Here I'll break down how they can help craft a physical appearance:

Sophisticated and charming / elegance - to me, these combined make me think of ballrooms and black tie functions and nice suits. A well tailored outfit and someone who knows how to wear them.

Gentlemanly demeanour (well to some degree lol) - since I already know he's hundreds of years old (973 to be exact) I decided that an aristocratic Victorian-esque aesthetic would suit him. Somewhere in between a modern look and something with a bit more fantasy steampunk flair. He smiles quite genially until he's doing it with all his teeth.

Aura of power - he's got to be a bit of an imposing character so he's quite tall (or at least taller than all of my other characs) and carries himself confidently. Hooray for the ability to loom. Dark colours for this character, to cut an impressive figure.

Pleasing physical appearance - kinda stereotypical type of good looks that aesthetically most people would be like "yeh he's pretty". Athletic build - muscular but not bulky, broad shoulders, tapered waist etc etc.

Extremely manipulative - first of all, he looks rather human, for a demon - his entire species is designed very particularly like that. Then there's the sunglasses. The "why" [does he wear them] is they function to hide his eyes (one of the main parts of him that give away his demon-ness), but also as a bit of a red flag to the audience that something isn't quite right with him. I mean, look past his charm and he wears them all the time. The black and yellow colour scheme also ties in as warning colours ⚠️

Put them all together and this was one of my first sketches of Demon!Rire.

*Note that I already more or less knew how he looked other than his outfit; you will probably have a lot more sketch duds as you figure out what your character looks like.

---/EXAMPLE---

🔐 Don't lock yourself in

Despite the fact I've just said "pretend your character is a person", remember you're still their creator so obviously you have final say over them. Sometimes you'll find that they grow and change from what you initially thought of them (or you just evolve in how you draw them). Don't be afraid to make the tweaks and changes that enhance these - whether they be physical or core characteristics - and you'll get closer to the true character you always had in mind.

---EXAMPLE--

I now draw Rire with a more pronounced V-shape, longer, wavier hair, and somehow he ended up with way more pronounced eyelashes than I usually draw on my male characs. Which works out quite well considering how I tend to draw his eyes. Anyway the point of this is that these things developed over time as I kept drawing him.

---/EXAMPLE---

🍀 Try it out with your own characs! Have fun and don't force yourself to try and get it "right" on the first go.

#prettyboysmakegravezz #character design #ref #character design tips #hope this is kinda helpful!#also honestly have fun aye #long post #also as for other content with rire there kinda is but he's not really the main charac lol #also who knows when that will come out im a bit pedantic planning a webcomic #sz

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ganondoodle · 6 months

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so, inspired by the warm welcome the captain received with that rough doodle i posted, i made an updated design for Ki'ita as well (basic and with clothes)

i removed the piercings she had bc considering that they spend the majority of their time in arctic waters i think having metal directly in your skin is a bad idea, no matter how thick your blubber is; i also gave her typical white markings a green hue bc ... i liked how it looked and makes them stand out a little more

(i will not repeat what i wrote on the post about the captain but wanted to add a bit of more info about Ki'ita herself)

(i dont have ALL of their backstory done yet but) the captain and Ki'ita worked together in another organization, one in which the father of the captains child also worked at, before being betrayed and barely managing to escape, after which the both of them founded their pirate crew (possible name is the Solar Pirates bc of their solar powered boat stuff); since the captain had her daughter shortly afterwards Ki'ita managed most of the organisational matters at first, including the construction of their base on an abandoned island they had initially fled to

over the years they invented the solar powered ships that allowed them to gain control over a large part of an important trade route, leaving normal ships (mostly) alone but attacking those of hunters and similar, rescuing demons and mutants, even some humans from them, most of which also join the crew and it quickly lead to them becoming their own little community

Ki'ita does not like to spend alot of time among large groups of people, no matter how much she cares about them, and her originally being from norther lands gave her the idea to explore, and if viable, do underground missions in those norther areas to disrupt the infrastructure the hunters had built in recent years and overall keep the crew informed about things that may otherwise stay hidden; with each of their travels her time absent from the base increased but the patience of the captain is wearing thin so its likely a serious talk is underway on Ki'itas third solo mission she nearly died due to entanglement in abandoned nets made by hunters from an unknown material that she could not break, the massive scars on her tail especially come from that, only surviving bc the date they were supposed to return to the crew had passed and the captain grew to worried about her and made the entire crew rush into an emergency search, including the captain herself and her toddler, who were not suited for the cold climate just like the rest of crew, taking a huge risk that Ki'ita still feels ashamed of for causing; they stayed within the base for a whole year afterwards, not just to recover but also as a silent apology, taking time preparing herself to ensure theyd not get into a situation like that again

(before departing on their next mission the captain gifted her a sword with the blade made from the material of the net, a wooden handle, bc of the cold, and a blue wrap around it reminiscent of the captains striking blue teeth; a reminder of what had happened, a means to defend herself when their strength and teeth are not enough, and also a promise to always return again)

the oldest members of the crew know Ki'ita well and treat her like an old friend, among the newer members she has more of a .. cryptic status, the mysteriously absent vice-captain who only appears every few months or so out of thin air, throws a big party, sleeps for a few days and then vanishes again, the only hint to when they will return soon again being the captain getting noticably grumpier

(OC art, Ki'ita, she/they)

#ganondoodles #art #oc #original art #artists on tumblr #original character #character design #monster #man why do i keep writing such long texts #its not even that much i wrote here!!#sorry for the long post #idk if its good to write more about my ocs maybe i shouldnt? might make the post less rebloggable with so much text on it idk #right now im thinking about them actually having a kid together later on but i havent decided yet #their relationship is kinda out of the norm i guess #neither ever said they were in a relationship and neither does the crew know #and they are not overtly like a typical pair in love kinda thing #its hard to explain #they do love each other but its like super private while also not??#like they never say publicly that they love each other nor kiss #but when youd hear the news that the captains having another child and its from kiita youd be like yup that makes sense #(also her nickname is Kiki but only the captain knows that)#ANYWAY #sorry for this sudden disconnected oc spam #i love these lads #and im so happy i got their design down more coherently #i spent over and hour writing all this argh i wanted to get more sleep for once damn it #just now noticed i fked up kiitas arm there #man #dont draw when you are tired and need to sleep kids

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mangowillow · 23 days

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last to know | ch. 2: as always, even now

pairing: jungkook x (f) reader / kim woosung x (f) reader

summary: you and jeongguk got together at 16 years old, married at 20, and divorced at 21. what was once love ever after turned into nothing but pain and unfulfilled dreams. you keep going despite the pain in your heart that never really went away, until one day, jungkook comes back— to seoul and in your life.

general story tags: divorce au, childhood friends, angst, hurt & eventual comfort, kind of a slow burn, OC is an adopted child in this fic, a lot of flashbacks later on because context is important; and the others that a lot of people seem to dislike: a love triangle and a LOT of miscommunication. look away if this isn't your thing. tags and warnings will be updated as we go along with each chapter!

warnings: mentions of weight loss and a hospital, jeongguk has a panic attack (semi-detailed), problematic parent-child dynamics. let me know if i miss anything and please be kind!

word count: 5.3k

author's note: *peeks into the void* why hello there! let's pretend i didn't disappear off the face of the earth. earlier this year i went to see The Rose live for their dawn to dusk tour and it was so much fun! there's just a lot of things that have happened and continue to do so; please accept my sincerest apologies for being inconsistent! BUT. know that i haven't forgotten about this story. heh.

also a few more things: ♡ to put things into perspective: jeongguk, OC/reader, and woosung are all the same age; that also means they're as old as seokjin and yoongi in this fic. all the other members maintain their age. honorifics may or may not appear at times. if that bothers you, well, can't please everybody! ♡ this fic isn't beta'd nor proofread by anyone. we go rogue, always.

tags for interested readers will be open for as long as this fic is ongoing! let me know in the comments or message me, whatever fits your preference!

fic masterlist

Woosung plants a big, sloppy kiss on your cheek and giggles.

Looking at him, you ask, “What was that for?”

“Do I need a reason?” Woosung teases as he chews on his jjajangmyeon. You chuckle at his candidness and reach out to wipe the sauce that landed on the corner of his lip. The both of you resorted to sitting on the floor, surrounded by boxes, using one of them as a makeshift table to place the food.

“I’m really happy you got to come today,” you muse, enjoying Woosung’s calming presence as he delicately places a piece of chicken karaage on your noodle bowl before setting his own down. You haven’t seen him for a few days because he needed to get some new music done in preparation for his application to a recording agency as a performer and a producer. You were more than happy to support him in any way you could, including giving him his space to figure things out. It was also who Woosung was— a quiet soul who liked working in solitude.

You and Woosung are so much alike.

“Why? Did you think I’d forget?” Woosung teases, a smirk playing on his lips.

“No, I just thought… maybe you needed more time to prepare for your application. That’s important.”

Woosung gently shakes his head, ready to disagree— “Nothing will ever be as important to me as you.”

A slight pink dusted your cheeks. You didn’t expect him to be this cheesy so early in the morning so you smile and cast your eyes back down to your meal.

“... I do have news for you, babe.” Woosung starts. He turns his body to face you. Giving your hundred percent attention, you cut the noodles with your teeth and place the bowl down. Wiping your mouth with a napkin, you hum at his statement, “What is it?”

Woosung smiles and looks at you lovingly. You feel a bit self-conscious every time he stares at you so intensely and like clockwork, you feel your cheeks heat up.

“I got the job, sweetheart.”

Hearing the news leave his lips leaves you surprised— your hands fly to your mouth and your eyes start to water. “R-really?” Woosung nods and chuckles through his own teary eyes, you throw yourself at him to give him a tight hug. “Woosung, oh my god— this is— “ you hold him by the shoulders, explore every inch of his face, elation in both of your hearts— “this is great, oh gosh I am so happy for you,” you hug him again.

You feel Woosung’s body relax instantly in your hold; it has been a journey, walking with Woosung through his own painful moments struggling with his art and passion. Two years ago, he came to Seoul desperately needing a break from life and music after many unsuccessful attempts to make it into the music industry back home in the United States. Although he and his bandmates have put out several songs in the past, they never really gained as much traction with an audience as they had hoped. Going back home to his roots in South Korea also meant leaving his bandmates behind— they have been nothing but supportive of him and his time as they also needed to re-assess their own lives and figure out what they truly wanted.

Two years ago, Woosung also met you. Both your lives changed ever since.

“Thank you for all your support, ____… you know I wouldn’t have been able to get through all this if it weren’t for you.” Woosung whispers, tightening his hold on your waist. You feel this, you feel everything when it comes to him— so you wrap your arms tighter around him, too. “This is all you, babe. This is all your hard work.”

You both stay that way for a while. Unspoken words are left hanging, as well. You both know well what might become of all this as you always try to communicate. You believe it is what has sustained your relationship for so long.

Both of you know that Woosung will always belong to music— it’s his dream and the reason why he took so many risks along the way. It was only a matter of when. The possibilities have always been there— should there be a moment where Woosung would return to his career, to his band, to becoming a global star. The fears that come along with those possibilities were also ever-present: what you and Woosung’s future would look like.

All of these thoughts come rushing to the both of you, but neither of you said anything.

For now, the both of you are happy. And that is enough.

When you parted from each other, you pushed away some of the hair that fell over Woosung’s eyes. “When do you start?”

Woosung takes a deep breath, “As soon as the higher-ups get settled in. I’ve been told they’ve recently landed in Seoul so it shouldn’t be too long now. I’ll be meeting with the owners and one of them is the lead producer. I heard he was a genius, but also a bit scary. They’ve also given me a signing bonus and a potential collaboration with him… that was new… he said they liked my work so much…”

“Wow, that… that sounds so exciting, baby. How are you feeling about all of this?”

“I’m nervous, for the most part,” Woosung murmurs, readjusting the collar of his shirt. It’s been a while since I talked to someone else about music professionally and… this company— I’ve heard so many wonderful things about it. For one, it was built by musicians, too. So I’m hoping they’re not just doing all of it for the business.”

You smile warmly at Woosung and hold his hands. “You’re going to do great, you know that, right?”

Woosung draws in a breath and nods before meeting your eyes.

That night, Woosung couldn’t sleep. He watches over you as you dream and when a strand of your hair falls on your face after moving a bit, he tucks it behind your ear. His fingers lightly dance while grazing the side of your face. Woosung sighs as a feeling of anxiety starts to creep into his heart. He loves change, but he cannot help but feel somewhat scared about it anyway. He gets so lost in his thoughts about you that he doesn’t notice you wake up.

“Baby, hey… you’re still awake.”

Your voice brings Woosung back to the present. Seeing your sleepy eyes under the sliver of moonlight that passes through your window makes his heart do a mini somersault— it always does.

“Hmm… I couldn’t sleep,” Woosung says. You scoot closer to him, his arm going under your shoulders to support your body in an embrace.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” you whisper, eyes closed, inhaling his scent— him.

“Just… things. I’m not sure how to articulate them yet…”

You hum, “Then I’ll just stay like this with you to keep you warm… warmth helps you sleep, right?”

Woosung nods, bringing your body closer to his. “Hm… especially your warmth.” Seconds later, he feels you breathe deeper, letting him know that you’re about to let yourself succumb to sleep once more. “I love you.”

When no response came from you, Woosung closed his eyes. Then suddenly, in the stillness of the night, he feels your hand squeeze his ever so lightly.

“I love you, too.”

“Hyung, I think that’s the salt—” Jimin starts.

Seokjin snorts, stopping with the shaker in his hand mid-air, “What do you mean, Jimin-ah, I think I know the difference between salt and sugar.” He was about to potentially put salt on the croffle in front of him, leaving Jimin feeling both very nervous and distressed.

“Last time, I remember you put the sugar in a different container because a customer accidentally broke the original shaker. The color of the cap was blue, not red. This—” he pointed at the shaker Seokjin was holding, “— is obviously not blue.”

“Yah, that happened last week, but I already switched them out two days ago—” Seokjin tries to argue.

They didn’t notice Woosung enter the cafe until he spoke, “Why don’t you just taste it?”

“Oh hey, Woosung-hyung,” Jimin greets.

“Hey, Jimin. Good to see you,” Woosung replies as Jimin nods, his eyes turning into crescents as soon as he smiles.

Seokjin scoffs once more before greeting Woosung, but he relents and tastes whatever is inside the shaker. When he makes a funny face, Jimin and Woosung chuckle.

“Told ya, hyung. Tell us I saved your life.”

“I can’t believe this is salt, I knew I already switched it out—”

With possible disaster averted, Jimin doesn’t listen to Seokjin’s monologue anymore, “You’re here early today, hyung. Would you like to order the usual?”

“Actually, I am here to buy a mango parfait… ____’s fridge is crazy cold and the frozen mangoes are, well, too frozen. I might actually break the blender. I also forgot to make her usual overnight oats. We had to move a lot of things very quickly yesterday so she could have a bed to sleep on.”

“I got you, hyung. We just finished making a fresh batch of parfaits. Do you want one, too?” Jimin asks.

“Are there other flavors?”

“Blueberry and strawberry,” Seokjin adds.

“I’ll take one blueberry, then. Thanks.” Woosung gets ready to pay, but Seokjin waves him away. “It’s on the house.”

“You always give us free stuff, Seokjin—” Woosung tries to argue, but Seokjin shakes his head immediately.

“Taking care of my sister is more than enough, Woosung-ah.”

Woosung gives Seokjin a tight smile and nods. Seokjin then asks, albeit softer, “How is she doing lately?”

“She’s doing better,” Woosung reassures. “She has been painting more recently; not just because of her job at the university, but also at home. We’re going to set up her studio today so it should be fun.”

“That’s good to hear, right hyung?” Jimin turns to Seokjin, who nods. Jimin hands Woosung a paper bag with the parfaits. “I put some new desserts we’re experimenting with. Please give them a try.”

Woosung peeks at the paper bag and sees croissants and greenish muffins, presumably matcha-flavored. “Oh wow, thank you Jimin… I won’t take up too much of your time, guys. ____ is still sleeping and I need to clean up the mango disaster I left on her kitchen counter before she wakes up.”

Seokjin chuckles, “You really came all the way here for parfaits when you could have bought these anywhere near ____’s apartment.”

“Ah, but nothing beats your parfaits, Seokjin. A wise man once told me that,” Woosung smiles. He and Seokjin instantly formed a bond the moment they met two years ago, much to your relief. You’ve always been nervous to tell your brother anything remotely new about your love life— and you understand where he is coming from.

“Well whoever that wise man is must be pretty smart,” Seokjin replies. His eyes soften right afterward. “Go. Let’s have a drink sometime, yeah?”

“Sure thing,” Woosung waves goodbye to Seokjin and Jimin.

Jeongguk walks the hallway of the recording studio, still groggy from sleep. Hands in his pockets, he stood outside Yoongi’s door, staring at his peculiar mat: a cat with its middle finger raised, the words ‘fuck off’ glaring at him. Figures, he thought. A doormat won’t stop him from ringing Yoongi’s doorbell, though.

“Who is it?” he hears Yoongi call out.

“It’s your favorite person in the whole wide world,” Jeongguk says, sarcasm lacing his voice. He pinched the bridge of his nose; a habit he developed in college whenever he felt the exhaustion seep out of him. He hears scuffling from the other side of the door until the sound of the door’s automatic lock rings. Jeongguk sees Yoongi clad in a plaid shirt, ripped jeans, and a gray beanie— his signature style.

“Dumbass,” Yoongi mutters under his breath before turning his back to return to his equipment. “Good morning to you too,” Jeongguk teases as he closes the door behind him.

“How are you already set up? It’s barely a day since we arrived!”

Yoongi chooses not to respond.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Jeongguk asks in disbelief. “Please tell me you at least went home to get your shit sorted? Or maybe sleep like normal human beings do?”

“I did… for a brief moment, maybe?” Yoongi starts.

Jeongguk shakes his head, “You have to stop spreading yourself thin, Yoongi. It’ll be the death of you.”

Yoongi fiddles with a few knobs on the synthesizer before muttering, “That doesn’t seem so bad— spreading myself too thin, that is.”

Jeongguk throws his hands up in surrender and rolls his eyes.

“Have I succeeded in frustrating you to hell and back, yet?” Yoongi smirks while continuing to flit his eyes through the numerous screens in front of him.

Jeongguk was about to say something but then the door alarm clicked. Kim Namjoon’s head peeks out from behind the door.

“I came to say my welcome remarks,” Namjoon says as he lets himself in. Jeongguk’s mouth falls open because he couldn’t believe Namjoon could just easily waltz in without any resistance. What’s even more astounding was that he knew Yoongi’s passcode— while he, on the other hand, had to ring the fucking doorbell.

“Oh, great. So your boyfriend knows your passcode and I don’t?” Jeongguk asks.

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Yoongi states, matter-of-factly. Jeongguk couldn’t help but glance at Namjoon’s way, who seemed unfazed.

“Right, and I’m Neil Armstrong,” Jeongguk plops down on the couch.

“You’re the CEO, Jeongguk, of course, you should know the passcode… right, Yoongi?” says Namjoon, ever the oblivious one.

Yoongi continues to do work on his computer, his fingers deftly flying across his keyboard, “Don’t encourage him, Namjoon.”

Namjoon looks back at Jeongguk who has now taken an interest in the plant beside the couch. When they met each other’s eyes, Namjoon just shrugged, his dimples showing.

“How was your flight, you guys? I hope everything was easy peasy.”

“Easy peasy lemon squeezy,” Jeongguk responds. “Not sure about Yoongi here though. He looked like he was about to puke.”

“Shut up,” Yoongi retaliates.

“I can’t imagine the both of you tolerating each other while in another country. It’s a miracle this production company is still standing upright,” Namjoon says chuckling.

Namjoon met Jeongguk first in university while they studied in New York. Although Jeongguk was a business student and Namjoon double majored in music theory and composition, they ran into each other at a frat party-— with Jeongguk being drunk off his ass. He was about to fall into the pool full of piss (which the other frat members thought was funny) when Namjoon saved him in the nick of time.

Apart from Yoongi, Namjoon also served as Jeongguk’s confidant, especially after things went south between you and Jeongguk. When the dust settled and Jeongguk was sober enough to realize the gravity of his mistakes, Namjoon helped Yoongi pick up the pieces of Jeongguk’s brokenness. As with time passing by, Namjoon and Yoongi started to develop into something more, too. Much to Jeongguk’s delight and envy.

However, neither Yoongi nor Namjoon has admitted their feelings to the other. And truth be told, Jeongguk is sick of them dancing around each other.

But he also knows it’s none of his business.

“Hey, Jeongguk, is that family dinner of yours still happening tonight?” Yoongi decides to ask. Also probably to change the subject.

Jeongguk lets out a deep sigh. “Yes, it is.”

“Ouch. Will you be alright?” Namjoon asks out of genuine concern.

“I don’t really have a choice.”

“You always have a choice, Jeongguk-ah,” Yoongi inserts. “You just need to work on making the right ones.”

Jeongguk slacks his jaw and runs his tongue across his lip ring. He doesn’t really have an answer to that.

Because once again, Yoongi was right. Not just about the damn family dinner; Jeongguk also knows his best friend’s words run deeper and imply a whole lot more than just feeling forced to sit down with his parents over steak and champagne.

“See you on the other side, then,” Namjoon says as he pats Jeongguk on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Jeongguk mulled over bringing flowers to the family dinner but decided against it.

He knows that the house would be filled with them, anyway. And his efforts won’t matter, either.

As he got out of his car, a chauffeur was already by his side ready to take his keys for him. When the car drove off, Jeongguk took a moment to look at the house he hadn’t lived in for years. It feels odd to come home; it feels even odder to feel numb about all of it.

It took Jeongguk a few seconds to ring the doorbell; for god’s sake, it was his house too, he thought. Ringing the doorbell meant he was a stranger— which he felt was appropriate.

He was greeted by a new housekeeper. He gave her a nod before stepping inside. Almost instantly, his mother appeared at the top of the staircase. They look at one another for a moment, before his mother breaks the silence.

“You finally decide to show yourself.”

Jeongguk doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond, either. He was prepared for a stare-off match with his mother, but that was until his father showed up from the kitchen. With a dish towel in hand, Jeongguk’s father smiled at him as he placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“It’s so good to see you, son.”

Jeongguk, once more, doesn’t have it in him to respond.

At the dinner table, the silence was so loud, that Jeongguk thought it could break glass.

“Did you settle in fine, Jeongguk?” his father asks.

“Yes, father, I did.”

“You should have chosen a place that was nearer to us, Jeongguk,” his mother chides.

“Honey…” Jeongguk’s father tries to put out a fire that is about to ignite. Jeongguk, on the other hand, was so tired from the flight and emotionally, that he felt a need to retaliate.

Because why not? Whether he speaks up or not wasn’t really up to him. Between him and his mother, he has nothing to lose.

“I don’t know, mother, I chose that place because I wanted to get away from here as much as possible.” Jeongguk remarks. He knows he hit a nerve because his mother downed her champagne rather than respond.

“How is the company going, son? Everything doing alright?” his father asks, trying to mitigate a conflict that neither of them could recover from.

“I guess. Yoongi and I haven’t managed to burn anything so that’s nice,” Jeongguk eats a spoonful of mashed potato. He knows he really needs to shut up and regulate his emotions, but he just can’t help but be sarcastic.

Once more, the silence won. However, Jeongguk’s mother is the type to not back down.

“You should think about getting married soon, Jeongguk—” she starts. Jeongguk feels himself grow cold as if on instinct.

“—and this time, we want you to marry someone your level,” she finishes. Jeongguk felt his heart twisting so painfully that he didn’t notice how tight he held on to his cutlery.

Jeongguk swallows the once-repressed pain that used to consume him whole. He knows this is futile because he never dares to face his regrets square in the face. Instead, he allows the pain to make him angry. He allows his resentment to consume him in ways he doesn’t know how to handle and in a pained effort to avoid causing further damage, he remains quiet. Unresponsive. Cold. Withdrawn.

But his own mother is even more cold-hearted than he is. She is the one who made him like this.

It’s her fault.

“You need to marry a good woman who can keep up with your social status. Remember you’re not just anyone, Jeongguk. You’re a Jeon. And you have a legacy to uphold,” his mother condescends.

Tears start to sting Jeongguk’s eyes, but he doesn’t want to let his mother win. So he keeps still.

“I have a few prospects for you, dear. We should set dates for them, don’t you think so? I chose the most refined and educated—” Jeongguk hates how his mother knows how to push his buttons and hurt him.

He knows that his mother knows his ultimate weakness.

You.

And because his mother cannot contain her insecurities and prejudice, she projects it all on her son. But most especially, you— whether you were in the room or not.

Jeongguk’s mother continues her monologue. His father miserably fails to become the referee (he always does). Heat starts to rise Jeongguk’s neck and he swears he could hear his own blood pumping through his ears. What almost immediately follows is the high-pitched ringing that only he can hear.

Jeongguk starts to feel dizzy; like he’s about to lose control.

But instead of releasing, instead of crying, instead of getting angry— he does none of them.

He finds himself standing up, his hands dragging the plate full of food to the ground. With all his might, Jeongguk tries to breathe deeply.

“That’s enough, mom.” Jeongguk croaks. A tear escapes his eye. “Please.”

Jeongguk rarely addresses her as “mom”. But in times of vulnerability and helplessness, it’s the term he ends up using.

“As I expected… you are still weak, Jeongguk.” his mother states with absolutely no remorse.

Jeongguk feels like he is about to throw up. To save himself, he drags his legs to leave the dining area. Housekeepers try to help him, but he brushes them aside. Security guards around the house up until the gate tried to support him, but Jeongguk just waved them all off.

He just needed to get away before his vision completely blurred. He needed to get out of this godforsaken house.

It was a miracle that Jeongguk got far away from the house as he had. But in doing so, he felt physically weaker and weaker. His mind isn’t done with him yet as thoughts of you start to resurface. His chest starts to tighten again. He feels cold and afraid and tired.

Jeongguk falls to his knees on the side of the road; he allows his body to go limp and fall to the ground.

He barely remembers what happened next.

When Jeongguk opens his eyes, bright, stale lights greet him.

He hears beeping, faint footsteps, a voice over an intercom.

He feels something brushing his leg so gently that it takes him a while before realizing that someone is standing over him, wiping the edge of his slacks.

Jeongguk squints his eyes to get a better look at the person touching his leg. When he tries to elevate his upper body, the person in front of him feels him moving.

Jeongguk couldn’t believe who he was seeing. His panic attack must still be happening because it was impossible.

It was you.

“Oh… hi,” you start. Jeongguk is at a loss for words so he continues to stare at you.

You immediately feel self-conscious so you start to wrangle the damp cloth you were holding.

“Are you okay? Hang on, I’ll call the nurse—”

You start to leave, but Jeongguk catches your wrist. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. You look at his hand on your wrist before Jeongguk lets go of it.

“W-what happened?”

“You’re at the hospital… um, I– I got a call from them saying you were here,” you say.

Jeongguk’s eyebrows met. He is still confused as to how or why the hospital would call you. As he looks at you, in the flesh, in front of him, the familiar ache in his chest threatens to overwhelm him again.

You look as beautiful as ever, even more so than the last time he saw you. The last time he did, you were crying to him. He did that to you. That was his fault.

“Are you hurt, anywhere, Jeongguk? I think I need to call your doctor, just give me a second—”

“No… please. I’m okay. I don’t feel any pain.” Except for my broken heart.

“Oh… okay.”

Jeongguk observes you, more particularly your hands. You still have that habit of fiddling with your fingers when you didn’t know what to do, he thinks.

“H-how did the hospital call you? You didn’t change your number?” Jeongguk is a hundred percent sure his choice of questions was dumb, but he doesn’t have any idea as to why you’re here.

“The hospital told me I was your emergency contact… they uh– they only found your wallet on you and found this,” you explain as you handed him his wallet. Inside was an old piece of paper with your emergency contact number and e-mail address.

“The e-mail address is now defunct, but my number is still the same because I had it reactivated when I came back here…”

When I came back here, Jeongguk repeated to himself.

Jeongguk wanted to ask you a million questions, but his throat feels dry and he is unable to speak.

“I um, I also called Yoongi. He should be here any minute,” you continue. When Jeongguk looks at you funny, you give him a small smile— the first one you’ve given him since he woke up. “We talk sometimes.”

There is a lot of information that Jeongguk needs to process but his head hurts a lot and he makes a mental note to interrogate his friend later.

You move to grab and open the plastic bag that is on the bedside table. You pull out a pair of black socks. Jeongguk sees you hesitate a bit before speaking again.

“I got these across the street… your socks got wet from the rain.”

“Oh.” Jeongguk feels really dumb.

“May I?” you tentatively ask. “Your feet will get cold if we don’t—and you have the IV on so you won’t be able to use your hands—”

“It’s okay…” Jeongguk’s response startles you. “Thank you.”

You nod and sit by his feet to put on the new socks. Jeongguk feels the tears again but he tries to hold them back as he feels your touch and your warm fingers graze his bare, cold skin. When you’re done putting them on him, you smile to yourself.

“Does that feel better?” you ask.

Jeongguk nods and hums. He took his time to look at you and to his mild surprise, you reciprocated. A sense of stillness seemed to occur like time stopped just so Jeongguk could fully take in the sight of you.

He hurriedly tries his best to memorize all your features—old and new. Your face is smaller, your cheekbones higher; both indicative of you losing a bit of weight since he saw you last. Your eyes are softer, but also more tired. You also grew out your hair.

To Jeongguk, you are still so beautiful.

And he missed you so much that his heart hurt again at the thought of losing you.

“How are y—” Jeongguk tries to ask, but the door to his hospital room slid open, revealing a disheveled Yoongi.

“Jeongguk, are you okay? What happened?”

Jeongguk notices you quickly moving aside to give Yoongi room.

“I’m fine, Yoongi. I guess I just passed out and—”

“You had another panic attack, Jeongguk. That’s the second time this week. Have you taken your medication?”

Yoongi’s string of questions had Jeongguk feeling anxious. He just had the unexpected chance of seeing you again but under the most dire circumstances. Surely, it wasn’t the time for you to hear about his mental health issues.

“Yoongi, can we—” Jeongguk tried to save face, but Yoongi was faster.

Yoongi turns to you and hugs you. “I’m sorry, ____, you must have been so confused.”

“No, not at all, I’m… I’m glad I could be of help,” you reassure. More so for Jeongguk because you know this must be very awkward for him.

A bit of awkwardness did happen because none of you spoke for a bit. Your phone ringing was the only saving grace.

“Hello? Oh, okay. I’ll be right out,” you answer the other person on the line. Hanging up, you say, “Um… I should get going.”

“Is someone picking you up?” Yoongi asks.

“Yes, Taehyung’s just a few minutes away,” you answer.

Yoongi nods and pulls you in for another hug. He whispers his thanks and you respond by hugging him tighter.

You also approach Jeongguk a little closer. “Take care of yourself, Jeongguk.” You see the pain in his eyes, but you refuse to acknowledge it to yourself, even if Jeongguk’s eyes were brimming with unshed tears and his nose was already pink.

Jeongguk doesn’t want you to go. But again, he has no choice but to let you.

“You too, ____.”

As soon as you close the door, Jeongguk allows his tears to fall.

As soon as you get into the car, Taehyung asks his questions.

“Why the hell did you just come out of a hospital?”

“Tae—”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere? You’re the only one there? What happened?” You can feel the panic rising in Taehyung as he inspects you, but you just chuckle.

“Yah—you laugh?”

“I’m fine, Taehyung,” you tell him but he doesn’t look convinced. “I really am.”

“Then why were you in there?”

“I saw Jeongguk again, Tae,” you calmly respond.

Taehyung freezes. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not,” you answer.

“And you’re… are you okay?”

“I am.”

Taehyung knows you better than that but he gives you a pass because he could also tell you were tired and your short answers mean that you didn’t want to talk just yet.

“Do you want to talk about it over ice cream and fries?”

For a second, you felt tempted, but you just also wanted to go home. “Maybe some other time, Taehyung.”

Taehyung understands immediately and nods. “Should I take you to Woosung hyung or do I take you home?”

You do want to see Woosung because you know he is what you need, but you also don’t want to burden him with a bombshell of an event so you opt to be alone for the night. “Take me home, please.”

“Okay, ____,” Taehyung answers.

The rest of the car ride was a quiet one.

The short walk in the hallway leading to your home is a heavy one. As you punch in your passcode, you deeply sigh. You want nothing more than to collapse on the bed and ruminate on what just happened over the past few hours.

However, the moment you open the door, a wave of delicious scents welcomes you home. As you take off your shoes, you see a familiar pair. You smile to yourself as you place yours beside it.

You enter your home further and see Woosung with his back to you, working his way in the kitchen. As if on cue, Woosung turns around and walks toward you.

“Hey you,” you say with a smile.

“Hi,” Woosung responds, gathering you in his arms and pulling you into a tight embrace. “Did you have a good day, today?”

You feel yourself swallow once before nodding. Woosung, ever the sensitive boyfriend, holds you tighter.

You know you can’t hide from him. So you hold on to him tighter, too.

And you allow yourself to break down and cry.

Woosung feels your body shake and he runs his hand across your back to soothe you.

He may not know what’s going on right now, but he also knows you will talk to him when you’re ready. So he continues to embrace you; kissing the side of your head after a while.

Woosung whispers against your ear, “You’re safe with me, sweetheart.”

taglist: @whoa-jo @nays2112 @junecat18 @jk97bam @butterymin @smdnai

tags for interested readers will be open for as long as this fic is ongoing! let me know in the comments or message me, whatever fits your preference!

#jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook scenarios #bts au #bts au fanfic #woosung x reader #jungkook divorce au #divorce au

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colddelusionsheep · 6 months

Text

So, this is my start of yandere hunger games, and before y'all read this. There are some things to take note of.

Everyone romantic (and y/n) is 18 or older. I am not going to mention age unless the story requires it.

This is going to be ocs x reader, and it will be based on the hunger games(with some differences.

The reader will also be fem.

And that is it! I hope you enjoy, and if you do, feel free to like and reblog(dni if you are under 18 tho)

2nd Part

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The reaping

Humming softly, you buttoned up the last two buttons on your dress. The light green was worn with a few stitched up parts where the fabric use to be ripped. It was old and has seen better days, but even with those details, it still was the nicest thing you owned.

You hoped you could wear it again someday. A wish that you had each year during the reaping, and so far it came true each time. People would comment on how lucky you were to avoid the reaping each time. Weeping love ones of the reaped would curse your name and say you somehow cheated to save your own skin.

You don't blame them. With how many times you have sold your name to this game that is hell. You should of been reaped a long time ago.

Even you didn't know how your name wasn't pulled. The suppose luck that people would attribute to your was no where to been seen on any other day of the year. It was only on this one. However, if it was seen on any other day then maybe you wouldn't be so closed to starving each day.

Reaching down, you pulled your worn socks to your knees. Patches were half hazerdly stitched onto them. Soon you would need new socks and shoes for the winter. You would have to decide on which. Shoes seemed to be the priority in your mind. What good were socks without shoes anyway.

Giving one last look in your mirror. You let out a deep sigh. All you had to do is survive one more time. Then you would be forever free of this life. Once you were free from the reaping, maybe you would finally be accepted in district 12.

The walk to the town square was always a silent one. Each person was getting ready to die. You always thought that the suspense was the worst thing about this. The knowledge that it could be you was nerve wracking to say the least.

Passing by one of your neighbors, you could Hear them mutter under their breath. "I hope it's you."

The rumors you got use to, it was just part of your everyday life by now. Being the outcast was a role you took with stride. What you didn't get use to was the fact that many of those that live close to you wished you dead.

Just like they wished your parents dead, and it was a wish they got. Maybe they would get this wish also.

The check ins went by like a blur. A yearly routine that you would never have to do again. There was peace in that thought, and that peace would surely give you the strength to make it through this. No matter how false it may be.

Taking place behind Susie Mack, you took note of how nice her dress was. The blue color complemented her bright red hair. She even had matching blue ribbons in her two braids.

Late at night, you liked to imagine what it was like to be her, to be Susie Mack. Almost everyone loved her. She was bright and cheerful. You supposed it was easy to be bright and cheerful when you had a full stomach and a loving family. What you would give to be her. To be loved and beautiful. To not have to worry on whether you would have shoes for the winter or food in your stomach.

You hoped that she wouldn't be reaped, simply for the fact that you knew if she was. Then the entire district would come for you. You don't want to imagine how they would punish you this time.

The escort of the Capital made his appearance, and just like every year. His fashion sense was..... lacking.

A mix of fine fabrics made up his outfit, along with a mix of patterns. You were sure that his clothes had every color known to man. Diamonds littered his neck on their choker that they wore.

You couldn't imagine that he were comfortable. Tight and stiff silhouettes seemed to be the main trend in the Capital this year.

As the escort made the same speech that they did every year. You could feel the anxiety of the crowd. It was getting close to the pulling of the names.

You could practically feel the heart beating of each person here. Looking around, you could even see some of the younger ones silently crying.

The two large crystal vessels were brought out. Each full of names. If you did your math right, yours should be in there 80 times.

"Now, as always, ladies first." You never noticed how gentle his voice was. It reminded of the stream your parents use to take you too. The sound of the water would always make sooth you matter how upset you may of been. It was just too bad that that stream turned into a raging river.

"Our female tribute is." He, as always, paused for dramatic effect. " --/n"

Ringing, that's all you could hear, it wasn't till someone shook you that you could fully understand what was said. It wasn't till the peacekeepers roughly pulled you out of your spot that you understood that your wish was finally ignored. It wasn't till the dammed Capital escort kissed your cheek, and spoke of how lucky you were that you understood that luck was just a lie. That the odds were and would never be in your favor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And the 1st part of the yandere hunger games is done! Hopefully I will have the next part soon. I did write this part very late at night so the are probably mistakes but that is okay.

Also, sorry I was gone so long, school really took everything happy that was in me away. Good news tho, I am graduated!. My blog is going to be open to asks and all, but for right now requests are going to be closed untill I feel more confident in my writing. It should be a lot more active now however!

That's all for right now! Love y'all <3

#yandere hunger games #yandere writing #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere idea #yandere story #platonic yandere #yandere harem #yanderes #x reader

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strangersteddierthings · 6 months

Text

No Regrets - Part Two

TW: OC Character Death (dude doesn't even get a name). Steve reflects on killing both demo-creatures and humans with detachment. Mentions of Major Character Deaths but as a reminder, they don't stay dead! (Well, Chrissy and Fred do)

Part One🦇 Part Two🦇Part Three🦇Part Four🦇Part Five🦇Part Six

Maybe he should feel bad about watching Robin grow smaller in the rear-view mirror, her face a mixture of disbelief and anger. Maybe he should feel regret for his actions, for the betrayal Robin probably feels right now.

He doesn't.

Looking at the bigger picture, at the regrets he actually does have in the waking world, this is small potatoes. A non-issue. Robin will forgive him in the end.

War Zone is like a ghost town compared to the first time Steve was here. Though, that should have been expected. The panic hasn't swept through town yet. So far, it's just one dead girl. Fred'll join her sometime this afternoon. Evening? Sometime later today.

Nineteen-year-old Steve would hate himself for not trying to help. For not doing his best to save Fred.

But.

Well, Fred dying will help Dustin, in the long run. Will help Eddie. And that's more important. That's the goal. The dream, if he's allowing himself to be cheeky in his own mind.

Steve's not heartless, or anything like that. Robin, his Robin in the waking world, still calls him a softy and worries his kindness will get him killed on the daily. He always puts the safety of the group above himself. The first to volunteer on supply runs or for scouting or taking watch through the night. He knows he can run on empty for much longer than anyone else he knows.

The end of the world has a way of skewing what kindness and softness are, though. Those first few months were the hardest. Steve wanted to save everyone they came across. Help as many people as possible, but rations run dangerously low that way. Clean water can become contaminated quickly by ignorant people. Not everyone handled the apocalypse with grace.

The first harsh lesson Steve had learned was two months into the end of the world. They'd ventured to Indy to find supplies. Medicines. Try and stock up on things they didn't need yet but wanted around for the just in case of it all. They'd found some survivors, which wasn't surprising in itself. The surprising bit was that these guys had made it on complete luck it seemed. They were loud. Jumpy. Panicky.

When Lucas and Mike, on scout duty, had reported back demogorgon activities nearby, one guy started to panic. Got loud and couldn't bring himself back down. Steve was closest, tried to shush him but he wouldn't be quiet.

"Move," Murray (may he rest in peace) whispered, seeming to have appeared from nowhere, shoving Steve away, nudging him out of the way. Murray stepped behind the guy, one hand covering his nose and mouth, the other arm around his neck. It made the guy panic more, fighting Murray and then Murray just-

Steve remembers he flinched at the noise, turning away to cover his mouth and calm his own panic. The noises stopped though. Steve had shot a horrified look to Hopper, but Hopper wasn't looking at Steve. He was looking beyond, at Murray and what he'd done, nodding his approval.

The demogorgons didn't find them that day.

"You can't help everyone, Steve," Murray said, once they'd started the trek back to Hawkins. "The safety of the group comes first, over just one person."

Lesson heard. Lesson learned. Lesson put to use four months later.

So. Fred must die, for the good of the group. Patrick, too, if Steve can't get to Vecna in time. He should be able to. Vecna will try and take Max first, tomorrow. Patrick the day after. If everything stays the same.

The clerk doesn't even blink at what Steve buys, or the quantity of what he buys, but his eyebrows do go up a little at the total.

Steve hesitates just a bit over the checkbook his parents gave him the first time they'd left him home alone at fourteen. For emergencies only, Steven. It's been sitting in his glove box, unused, since he turned sixteen. He's never wanted to have to explain what he'd used it for. Nothing had ever seemed like enough of an emergency to warrant explaining it to Richard Harrington.

He does find it a little odd that his mind is conjuring up the concept of money. Of all the little things to think about while he sleeps, he really didn't think his subconscious would bring capitalism back.

Steve rips the little check out of the booklet and hands it over. The clerk looks it over before giving a nod and finishing the cash out. Steve takes the receipt when it's offered, shoving it into the checkbook before shoving that into his back pocket.

The parking lot has one other person in it, who Steve is aware of the entire time he's loading the trunk of his car with gallons of lighter fluid, weapons, and padded camouflage. It's only after Steve's slammed the trunk closed and shoved the cart back towards the front of the store that the guy watching him speaks.

"Must be some bonfire you're planning."

Steve rounds his car and opens the door before answering. "It's spring break, man." He slides in, the door falling closed after him. He buckles up, starts the car, and heads home. The house will be empty, he knows.

He works in silence, unloading the car and organizing his haul in the dining room, eyes flicking to the clock. There's still a couple of hours before dark. Before he should go check if Eddie's still in the boathouse, or if the police did go find him.

He sets the timer on the stove for an hour and flops onto his couch and sighs. Just as comfy as he remembers. He can have a nap before making sure Eddie's in jail. Surely his dream will allow him that?

"Mmhm," Steve mumbles as his neck protests movement. He's slow to wake. His head feels like white noise. He thinks he was dreaming but he can't quite grasp at what it was... oh. Family Video and War Zone. Reliving a memory. He wonders if Robin is still mad at him for that day, ditching her with Dustin and Max. It'd been for a good reason and- Steve wrinkles his nose as he sits up, head still static-y. Was it for a good reason? He can't remember what else happened after that....

"He rises," Robin whispers next to him, spooking him. She comes into focus as he sits up straight, leaning out of her space to look at her. She gives him a smile, judging by the crinkle around her eyes and her cheeks rounding. The gas mask prevents him seeing her real smile and he misses it. He thinks about his dream, and getting to see all of Robin's face again.

Dreaming is bittersweet.

"I miss anything?" He asks, because it's a safe question.

"Scouts radioed. The way should be clear in another," Robin grabs his wrist and twists so she can see the time on his watch, "another twenty minutes or so."

The mention of the radio makes him think of Dustin, and how much he misses him. And thinking of Dustin makes him think of Eddie. Steve knows it's irrational for him to miss someone he never knew but that doesn't stop the ache. The almost of it all sits heavy in his chest.

"Right," Steve says. "Want to see how many rounds of Rock, Paper, Scissors we can get through in twenty minutes?"

Robin shuffles sideways to be facing him and holds her hands up. "You always lose but okay."

They get about twelve rounds into it before Steve finds himself asking, "Hey Robbie. Do you remember Spring Break?"

Her hands freeze in the air, an aborted motion to make paper to beat Steve's rock. She locks eyes with him for a moment and he can see the worry there. "I- Steve. Is it- did you take a hit? Is it your head? Should I not have let you nap?"

No. No, he doesn't think he got hurt on this run. Well, his shoulder hurts from when he stumbled and slammed into wall during the last loading of the truck, but he hadn't hit his head. He thinks. "I don't know... I hit the wall hard, shoulder hurts, but I didn't hit my head. I don't remember hitting my head."

Robin stands immediately and begins jabbing her fingers around his skull. "Anything tender?"

"Nope. Just a messed up hairdo," Steve swats her hands away.

"Well, you can never be too sure. You are precious cargo. Why did you ask about the start of the apocalypse?"

Steve shrugs. What can he say? That he's forgetting the start of all their horrors? He can't say that, not without coming across like he's either crazy or bragging. Remember the week that ruined our lives and gave us all enough trauma to fill an ocean? Yeah, well, I don't so ha!

He can't be sure but he thinks Robin frowns beneath her mask. "We'll have to have someone look you over when we get back. Steve, if you're losing your memories..."

"I'm not losing memories," Steve lies. Head trauma is serious and he knows he can't take one more hit to the head. He won't be able to continue helping with supply runs or patrols if he is getting worse. If he starts getting migraines, they'll reassign him for sure. Something that doesn't let him leave the safety of their home base at the high school.

"Steve," she warns. He knows it's a warning.

He shakes his head. "I just. I had a dream about Saturday. Very vivid. Just made me think about it, is all."

Robin softens, sinking back down to sit beside him. She finally answers, "yeah. I remember Spring Break."

"I miss everyone," he confesses, because it's true. Because it's safe.

"Me too," Robin says, leaning her mask against his.

They wait in silence until the scouts call the all clear and they can head back home.

They make it back to Hawkins before night falls but just barely. The gates get rolled shut behind them and the unpacking gets started. The whole community has gathered for their return. This is their longest run to date with how far they had to go this time and Steve doesn't blame anyone for needing to see their loved ones as soon as possible.

"Robin!"

Steve turns just in time to watch Vickie launch herself at Robin. Robin must have seen her running, though, because she's already braced for impact and catches Vickie easily, arms grabbing at Vickie's thighs to support her weight as she wraps them around Robin's waist. Vickie places her forehead to Robin's as their excitement switches to tenderness and Steve averts his eyes to give them privacy in this moment.

"Steve, here," Ted Wheeler offers up a box to Steve, who takes it without question. "For the Daycare."

"You got it."

The Daycare is actually a wing of the school that used to be where the language arts classes were held. Daycare doesn't quite sum up what they use the area for, but calling it the Orphanage was too dark. Steve waits through the decontamination process. Once through, he takes the time to pull his mask off and enjoy the feeling of an artificial breeze on his face before heading to the Daycare.

"Please tell me there's something useful in that box," Annie Click says when Steve pushes his way into one of the rooms they use for school. Another room is dedicated to being a daycare, kids too little for learning, another is schooling for kids who would be in middle school, and the last room is lines with beds.

"Sorry, Mrs. Click, but I didn't pack it," Steve says apologetically.

"My problem to sort out then," she stands and Steve can see the determination in her through the weariness. She'd been a bitter old lady as his teacher but the world ending must have shifted her priorities. There's no one better suited to look after the kids than her, here.

Except maybe Joyce, but she's got bigger things to deal with.

He heads for the door when Annie calls out to him, "Since you're here, would you mind checking on the kids for me? Holly's supervising bedtime but she's lenient with her friends."

"Will do."

He heads across the hall and down a door to the sleeping room. The lights are dimmed and peeking in he sees a lot of kids sleeping, or pretending their best to be. Holly is sitting in a rolling chair near the door, one leg bend and pulled up on the seat as she rests her head on it.

Steve clears his throat to get her attention. She must have heard his footsteps because she doesn't spook. Just uses the foot on the ground to spin the chair to face the door. "Oh. Hi Steve."

"All good here?" He whispers.

"Yeah. Everyone's asleep."

"You can probably head home now. Your dad's back."

Holly shrugs one shoulder at him, spinning the chair back away. "Maybe later."

Steve takes the hint and backs away. His chest aches for Holly. All the kids had to grow up fast, given the state of the world, but Holly's hurts him most. He knew her in the Before, and she was there when Karen... Well, she's got a lot of weight on her shoulders at barely eleven years old.

To think. If they'd have been faster on that Spring Break. More diligent, thorough. Holly might have never known about the Upside Down at all.

More regret he can carry, he thinks, as he shoves his mask back on and heads back to the truck. There's more to be unloaded, and always work around to keep him so busy he doesn't have to think of the regrets.

He works so late into the night that once he gets back to his cot and collapses into it, there are no thoughts let in his mind as sleep claims him.

@i-less-than-three-you @nburkhardt @afewproblems @skepsiss @music9009 @apomaro-mellow @soaringornithopter @reighnofdreams @eddie-munsons-lunchbox @sirsnacksalot @livelifeliketheresnotomorow @sageclipse @schnukiputz @mbloggotdeletedsothisismybackup @lumoschildextra @juleswashere3 @yet-still-more-banched @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @yearningagain @starlight-archer @andrew-mini-ard @chaosgremlinmunson @aol19 @goodolefashionedloverboi @gutterflower77 @moomkin77

#steddie #my fic #time travel au #apocalypse au #it's both #is steve dreaming? time traveling while he sleeps? will his changes matter?#i mean im pretty sure we all know the answers to that but im pretending i can be cheeky about it all #also if u think i made a mistake in my plot or that ive forgotten my own lore just know... that maybe that was on purpose #butterfly effect AU might be a better thing to call this

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peonycats · 6 months

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You might have noticed that i havent been posting art that much recently, which has been caused by a variety of reasons, but one of which is that I've been hunkered down and working on this series about my Siberian OCs!!! Really proud of how these turned out, esp the embroidery and patterns, even if i did fry my hand a bit in the process LOL

Click the read more for icons and personality descriptions written by @irithnova, who I share many of these OCs with :3c

Yukagir: Resident old lady surrounded by (who she sometimes considers annoying) youngins, sweet demeanour and pleasant to talk to, though she isn't immune to giving a good scolding when a younger Siberian is annoying her. Lots of knowledge from her many years when it comes to practical stuff so is good with her hands, though she finds other things difficult to remember… Sakha: Approachable and outgoing, hardheaded and unafraid to speak his mind. Big organiser of events and knows who everyone is - is always trying to extend his reach, even outside of Siberia. Smokes like there's no tomorrow. Was kind of a menace in his youth - his neighbours don't let him forget. Is artistic at heart, has sketchbooks full of illustrations and is pretty crafty. Saul Goodman who? Evenia: Easy going but usually keeps to himself, often mistaken for Evenkia much to his chagrin. Somewhat playful, loves some good banter. Excellent storyteller and has a million random tips and tricks stored in his head. Sporty, loves to challenge people to a race.

Dolgan: Similar to Sakha, she is also hard headed and unafraid to speak her mind, seeing as he raised her. Very studious and serious about her research, calculative about a lot of her actions. Seems timid on the surface because of her appearance, but she's managed to wield a lot of influence. Usually decked out in pretty clothing and jewellery from Sakha. Evenkia: Likes to take on a mentor role to those younger than him, like he did with Sakha. Very knowledgeable and enjoys problem solving. Has a bit of a reputation for dumping children of his onto others, though you would never guess this through his appearance alone. Enjoys collecting things, nerdy. Ket: Serious faced mostly and protective of himself, quite reserved, so it means a lot when he lets his guard down. Very particular about his routines, though this has made him quite good at planning and organising. Caught up in his own thoughts a lot - makes sense seeing as he's the last survivor of the Yenisein family.

Chukotka: Social butterfly and very outgoing. Likes to be sort of a big sister figure to people, including North American groups. May seem scatterbrained and silly on the surface but she is far more clever than she lets on. Very girly and bubbly, wears jewellery that jingles as she walks past. Koryak: "Sibling" of Chukotka but personality wise he's quite different - he takes himself a bit more seriously. Dry sense of humour, and like Ket, he can be pretty sarcastic. Has a reputation of being a troublemaker (blame Russia for that), he's really not though. Being somewhat strung up is unfortunately his default these days. Itelmen: Woman respecter™ (no seriously look up the Itelmens' original polytheistic religion). Invites the other Siberians to his celebrations and is a pretty good host, but is prone to being possessive over them (as in, he wants to remind them that this is HIS tradition so don't try and claim it 🙄). Also prone to unprompted malding. His hair is well styled and maintained, though he pretends like he does nothing to it so as to not give up his secrets.

BONUS:

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siphoklansan · 2 months

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Introducing…𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪

mentioned: Lilia Vanrouge, Anan Atthakornmetha, Charin Kamolnath

꧁𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐤𝗼𝐫𝐧𝗺𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚꧂

มธุรา อัฐกรเมธา 𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪

“Exiled to the deep, where the nagas reside; never to return again.”

Height : 197 cm.

Birthday : 9th of May

Age : 700+

Homeland : East of Scalding Sands (Attidaya)

Best Subject : None.

Club : None.

Talents : Ancient Magic, Fighting

Hobby : Taking care of his pet naga (Nham)

Dislikes : royalty

Favorite Food : Miang kham (เมี่ยงคำ)

Least Favorite Food : Unseasoned, plain food.

꧁𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜꧂

- 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐫𝗺𝐲: The ability to manipulate a large amount of individuals (specifically an army) at once to turn viciously attack their own. This ability can only be activated when Mathura uses a special flute. The drawback to this ability is unknown, possibly minor fatigue.

- 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐧: Warriors are adorned with talisman (tattoos) , giving wearers resistance to black magic and blot. And also some resistance to normal physical damage (ex. a normal blade, a bullet)

- 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠: A skill obtained from battles near and/or in the sea, Mathura is able to breathe underwater.

꧁𝐅𝐮𝐧 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝗼𝐮𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐚꧂

- Mathura is based on the Ramakien character Maiyarap (ไมยราพ)! Maiyarap is a violent yaksha with light purple skin, and is a dangerous warrior who later on died by the hands of Hanuman.

- It took me painful hours to come up with his Unique Magic name, and I even had help from my sister😭 So the name is not the best, I know </3

- Maiyarap had two abilities, one is to make an entire army to fall asleep by his flute, and second is to turn invisible👁️👁️. I wanted something along those lines for Mathura, but I realized that the original ability is similar to Malleus’s.

- I really, really like the name “Maiyarap” and initially wanted to use that name but I decided not to because Mathura is based on him, not a carbon copy of him.

- The rose carving on his earring symbolizes the flowers on a dancer’s crown (ชฎา), which also means that Mathura does dancing in his free time!

- Mathura’s purple hair is purely based on the fact that Maiyarap had purple skin✨

- Unfortunately, Mathura is usually in the deep sea so he is technically considered an NPC. But I can promise that there will be appearances of him in my big project (regarding the mysterious oc of mine 👀)

- Not so fun fact, I redrew him 3-4 times. Those were not happy times at all. I suddenly forgot how to draw old men and I struggled SO bad.

- Mathura is dressed like the uncle next door (for those SEA fans out there, yes he’s only clad in a towel wrapped around his hips) but tbh his age would make him more like a great great great great great great great grandpa next door-

꧁𝐀𝐛𝗼𝐮𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐚꧂

- Mathura Atthakornmetha was the general of Attidaya (East of Scalding Sands) for centuries until he was exiled to the deep sea due to treason.

- The deep sea in Attidaya is home to sea dragons known as naga, and Mathura has made one his own pet named Nham!

- As his surname suggests, he is Anan’s uncle! However, they have only met on several occasions, and Anan was still a child in those times.

- Charin knows Mathura very well, since Mathura was his mentor back in the deep sea. They cut ties as soon as word got around that Charin was getting fighting lessons from a criminal though, yikes😟

- Mathura was a very strict and ruthless mentor at that time, and he’s guilty of it ever since Charin left. He couldn’t help but think that maybe he should’ve been more gentle with the merman, since he was such a young boy :(

- The huge gash on his chest was caused by none other than Anan’s father right before the verdict that leads to Mathura’s exile.

- Mathura is a very…unhinged and vulgar type of guy. He’s incredibly blunt too, will tell you straight on about what he thinks and feels. He’s not the type to sugarcoat his words, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel bad about it afterwards…..on rare occasions.

- Mathura sucks, and I mean SUCKS at naming things. Never let this man name your pet cuz bro named his own pet naga Nham, which literally means WATER.

- “Well, she’s in the water and she’s a sea dragon, so?” <— his words

- Speaking about his pet naga, he babies her so much. He would clean her scales as a hobby. He just loves taking of a sea dragon that can swallow him hole🥰 would use a baby voice to talk to her too-

- You might be thinking that Mathura probably respect women like Anan and Charin. You’re not wrong, but he also won’t hold back with women unlike those two. A woman’s gonna fight him? Bring it on honey cuz he ain’t holding back too💪👹

- Bro’s the type to have a resting bitch face and is ACTUALLY a bitch, too.

- Yes, he knows Lilia.

- But there’s still a possibility for you to befriend him…though it might take a long time to break down this ex-generals walls, he’s quite lonely. He’ll give you a chance- if you’re worthy enough, of course.

I know I usually post my OCs on followers milestone events, BUT as the majority of you guys voted to see the next OC, I shall deliver✨ He’s not the typical twst oc but this is all I got😞 I’ll make comic on him soon but for now, thank you all so much for sticking around my blog despite my hiatus and supporting me along the way💖🫶 I love you all so much /pla<333

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #i just knoq this aint getting a lot of notes cuz he’s not an NRC student lmao #but oh well im prepare JAIHSUHAUHSJJS #i think it’s pretty obvious why Mathura and Lilia knows each other #if you guys want to know more about this grandpa right here feel free to storm in my inbox!!#not even gonna put a lilia tag on this because I mentioned him like ONCE with no explanation #i’d rather answer asks instead #gonna go make some Pin-Cha content now adios🚶‍♀️#Mathura #Mathura 𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪#☂︎︎siphok-museum☂︎︎

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bobfloydsbabe · 4 months

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never really cared (until i met you) | jake seresin x oc

a turning tables fic

SUMMARY: While saying goodbye before he leaves on a mission, Jas realizes there may be more to her relationship with Jake than she thought.

WARNINGS: angst, mentions of a dangerous mission, mild fluff. strictly 18+/minors dni.

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

TURNING TABLES MASTERLIST

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A/N: It's my birthday (29, yikes), and my gift to you is this fic. It was supposed to be longer, but alas, it is not. Thank you for your support of me and my writing. This is also my very late submission for @roosterforme's rocktober writing challenge where I picked the song Alone by Heart. Enjoy!

She watches Jake sitting on the edge of her bed getting ready to leave not just her house, but the city. Taken away by an aircraft carrier at sea for a mission he might not survive. He’s not allowed to tell her, but she knows.

The room is dark save for the lamp on the nightstand, soft yellow light bouncing off Jake’s perfectly tan skin, making him appear almost golden. He stands, his shoulder muscles moving fluidly underneath the skin, and they tense as he reaches for his jeans on the floor. He pulls them on and does the button up.

Next, he looks for his t-shirt while Jas sits up in the bed, letting the sheet fall into her lap. She watches him pull the black cotton over his head, and his golden hair looks even more unruly than it did before. The shirt stretches across his chest and fits narrowly around his biceps, and he almost looks like a god. Not that Jas would ever tell him that. She’d never hear the end of it.

His gaze holds hers as he tries to tame his hair, then he places a knee on the mattress, making it dip as he leans in and kisses her. She used to never allow this intimacy. They’d get each other off and he would go, vowing to not speak a word of it. Now she allows him to kiss her because it may be one of the last.

She may not know the details of the mission, but you could cut the tension on base with a knife for weeks. When Floyd and Trace went down, Jake came to her with a distraught look on his face. She’d never seen him like that, and any jabs she’d wanted to make died on her tongue.

Since then, she’s seen more of him. He stayed the night, and she would let him kiss her in the kitchen in the morning. She even let him come to her office to vent and let him buy her an old-fashioned at The Hard Deck a few times. Now, she’s letting him kiss her before he leaves on a suicide mission.

Jake gets off the bed and pulls on his boots. He reaches for the sheet on his side of the bed to make it, but stops at the look Jas sends him. “Leave it, Seresin.”

He nods, straightening his back again. “I’m gonna head back.”

Jas stands from the bed, contemplates walking him to the door in the nude, but decides against. She grabs clean panties and a t-shirt from the dresser and puts them on while Jake watches her every move.

She follows him to the front door, trailing behind him on bare feet. Uncertainty hangs in the air, rendering them both unusually quiet. Jas doesn’t know what to do with the silence.

Jake pulls the front door open. A light breeze flows through, making Jas shiver in the thin t-shirt she put on. Hugging herself, she runs her palms up and down her arms, trying to stay warm.

Jake turns to face her, expression uncommonly serious. He looks like he wants to say something by the way his mouth hangs slightly ajar, and his eyes search for something in hers. She’s not sure what.

“Doc,” he says, voice clear and bright in the faded glow from the porch light.

She steps forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and kisses him. His mouth moves against hers in slow, languid motions and she revels in his taste. She clings to him, and his strong arms tighten around her waist, keeping her close. Some part of her never wants to let him go, wants him to stay here with her where he’s safe.

But he has orders and a mission to complete, so Jas pulls back, leaning her forehead against his. Their heavy breaths mix and she wonders if he can hear how hard her heart pounds in her chest.

“I gotta go,” he says and untangles himself from Jas, but she senses hesitation in him. He doesn’t want to go anymore than Jas wants him to.

She doesn’t say any of it, though. She simply nods and steps back. You’d think after years in the Navy, she’d be better at goodbyes like this, but she’s not. Something about seeing Jake walk down those front porch steps makes her stomach churn.

He’s halfway down the path to his car parked on the street when she steps onto the porch and calls for him. “Jake.”

He stops in his tracks. In the rapidly approaching dawn, she can tell he takes a deep breath before turning back around. He walks back toward her, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.

He’s quiet, waits for her to do the talking. “Give me your phone,” Jas finally says and walks down the steps, holding her hand out towards him.

A furrow appears between his brows, but he complies, handing it over.

Typing in her number, she saves it under the name Doc, even though she hates when he calls her that. At first. Now she’s grown used to it, and hearing him call her anything else feels wrong.

“Here,” she mutters and hands it back to him. “Text me when you get back.”

He looks down that the phone that now sits in his hand, the furrow between his brows having deepened in confusion. Jas has refused to give him her number for weeks, but now that she’s done it, it looks as if he can’t fathom why.

“Doc, I–”

She cuts him off with a kiss. It’s the only way she knows how to express that letting him leave is one of the hardest things she’s ever done. She doesn’t have the energy to unpack exactly what that says about her situation with Jake.

Breaking the kiss, she plays with the short hair at his nape. “Let me know you’re alive,” she mumbles and pecks his lips again.

His hands rest on her waist, setting her skin on fire, and if he didn’t have to be back on base soon, she’d be ready to go again. It’d be the third time in the past 24 hours, which isn’t their record, but close.

“I gotta go,” he whispers.

She takes a deep breath, allowing the scent of him–leather and jet fuel–to fill her nostrils. She commits it to memory and hopes the pillow on his side of the bed smells like him.

Then she takes a step back and straightens her spine. Composes herself and reminds herself that Jake is just some guy she’s fucking. They’re not serious, and she ignores the hurt that crosses his face for a split second. He’s expecting her to say something, but the words that threaten to pass her lips are stuck in her throat.

He says nothing as he turns around and walks down the path to his car. He doesn’t wave as he drives off towards base, leaving Jas standing at the foot of the porch stairs in just a t-shirt and panties.

She watches him drive into the sunrise and out of her reach.

likes are nice, reblogs and comment are golden

TAGLIST: @blue-aconite, @kmc1989, @callsign-magnolia, @cherrycola27, @thedroneranger, @bluezraven, @desert-fern, @dizzydisaster, @hangmandruigandmav, @keyrani, @jessicab1991, @mamachasesmayhem, @hookslove1592, @joaquinwhorres

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remuslupinslefteyebrow · 20 days

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The Infantilisation of Aziraphale and Why It’s Such An Awful Thing.

Hii there, I'm Teddy and um this is my yap because this is a very close to my heart subject as you probably will be able to tell upon reading. Sorry if theres any repeated points or errors, I did my best to edit it. Anyways, enjoy! <3

The infantilisation of Aziraphale undermines his whole personality as an age old being, one who is incredibly powerful, strong, and intelligent. Far from infantile, he's made rational decisions and at times let his emotions influence them, yes, but this is no way an excuse to chalk him down to childish. Infantilising Aziraphale also jeopardises his relationship with Crowley, someone just as old and intelligent as he is, yet he is rarely infantilised. Although Aziraphale’s decisions may be more ‘pure’ than Crowley's, influenced by his ideas of rules and obligation, pushed on him from his very creation, they don't display naivety or the foolishness depicted in many infantile decisions. (for the most part)

People often infantilise him to purposefully further the effeminate, ‘cutesy’ stereotype of gay men, specifically gay men that don't necessarily conform to society's very strict beauty constructs whether it be through age, appearance, nationality, disabilities all these things can affect it.

A lot of gay men face either infantilisation or hypersexualisation and the way some of the good omens fandom treats Crowley and Aziraphale is exactly this stereotype.

They strip down the personalities of crowley and Aziraphale to something that may be only a small fraction of their personality, like Aziraphale’s softness being turned into this shy, mouse of a person, relying on crowley for everything, helpless, pathetic, crowley’s sometimes suave, cool manner turning him into a ice-cold, smooth-talking often masochistic alpha male fucking sex god. Neither of them are these things.

The fandom also tends to deliberately remove Crowley's femininity which historically has been a large part of his character, just look at his portrayals throughout the years. Like why? All for the sake of some Colleen Hoover style fuck boy?? Hell to the fucking no.

They often turn Crowley into a total slut as well, mindless and perpetually horny, neither of those things is he, especially not mindless. He’s proven himself to be clever, cunning and wily, as per his demonic heritage, but tends to do things a little…. Undemonically.

Oh well.

Aziraphale’s femininity, his softness and joy, his purity isn't an excuse to reduce him down to singularly those things. He is a well rounded character, with so many layers of personality and history and all these things that if you take away these elements it's no longer Aziraphale. It might as well be someone’s random OC. (well technically he’s Neil Gayma- ahem i mean Gaiman’s oc but yk elementary, my dear Watson)

The points people tend to zone in on in their quest to baby their dear sweet Aziraphale who ‘must be protected at all costs’ are usually these:

His innocence, particularly about human culture (though admittedly he knows more about certain things than even crowley does)

His love of soft, sweet things

His emotional dependence on crowley

is reluctance to rebel against authority

His politeness

People forget Aziraphale is completely capable of defending and taking care of himself. He’s not your ‘uwu soft boy’ who needs to be looked after. No, he’s far from that. The whole ‘infantilisation thing’ is also just an excuse to dumb down and baby gender-nonconforming people which in itself is atrocious. As my very good co-writer Kris said, he’s “the angel of the fucking eastern gate for crying out loud.” He wields a flaming sword, can produce strong miracles and can resist temptation. Oh, did I mention he also helped avert a whole FUCKING APOCALYPSE??? AS IN. END OF THE WORLD. FIRE AND BRIMSTONE. OH NO, BOOHOO, WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE TYPE APOCALYPSE?????????? HMM?

HIS KINDNESS IS ALSO WORTH NOTING.

He's also proven himself to be perfectly capable of making his own decisions with his own mind, has proven himself to have a conscience, a strong sense of right and wrong that he formed partly alone, sometimes deviating from heavens set ‘code’ for beliefs and behaviour, has proven himself to be able to deal with the guilt and confusing emotions (to a certain degree) that come alongside with finding yourself deeply involved with someone that you know the very institution that created you despises.

Aziraphale’s sense of fashion and general propriety also furthers the ‘effeminate’ stereotype, making him seem overly vain and prudish, he can be these things, he can sometimes even be petulant, but this further proves his well rounded character as being shown to display a wide range of emotions.

Using direct quotes from the book here are some lines people may use to zone in on Aziraphale’s femininity, and then of course, you find another reason for his infantilisation. (Women are dumbed down and infantilised, OBVIOUSLY.)

Aziraphales effeminate qualities:

“Aziraphale spread his elegantly-manicured hands.”

“Tartan is stylish.”

“Angels had certain moral standards to maintain and so, unlike Crowley, he preferred to buy his clothes rather than wish them into being from raw firmament. And the shirt had been quite expensive.”

“Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.”

Aziraphale has also been shown to be able to be thoughtless, careless and at times even selfish.

In season one, a dove used for magic dies in his coat pocket due to his thoughtlessness, though he ressurects it soon after its discovery.

I ALSO FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING DESPISE WHEN PEOPLE TWINKIFY AZIRAPHALE.

LIKE.

WHY.

His appearance goes hand in hand with his character. It HIGHLIGHTS elements of his character. He’s gluttonous. A quality we shouldn’t really see in an angel, but regardless we do. Because of this quality, he's plump. And? This doesn't affect his personality or character and is in fact still essential to it.

His vanity affects his appearance greatly. He’s said to have soft hands, ‘neatly manicured’. He typically doesn’t grow facial hair, opting for a clean shaven rather cherubic appearance. We know he greatly prides himself on his clothes, keeping them in pristine condition for hundreds of years, taking painstaking care with them. We see him greatly disappointed in season one when his jacket is shot by a paintball and he’s reluctant to wash or even magically remove it because he’ll ‘still know it’s there’, so in the end Crowley removes it for him, after which Aziraphale seems quite satisfied. He doesn’t mention about ‘knowing it’s still there’. Gay much.

We keep seeing qualities in Aziraphale that aren’t usually typical or desirable in an angel, adding more layers to his character and personality. If he didn’t have these things, he’d be like any other angel we see.

These angels aren’t necessarily cruel, or callous, or mean. They have no concept of such things. They simply follow orders to the extent they do not question or care what the thing is they’re being ordered to do. They don’t have an internal moral battle over whether this is right or wrong. They don’t believe that their actions could possibly be wrong or misguided because they literally take God at his every word. Get an order, complete it. Simple as that.

It’s because of the traits he’s developed by himself over time that make him so likeable. Do you honestly think he’d be popular at all without these things? Then how can he be stripped of these things so frequently people are starting to forget his original character completely? It’s such a shame.

In fact he really isn’t a very good angel at all. He’s far too human. But you see, that’s what makes him so powerful. He does have a conscience. It influences him. He has a sense of right and wrong. He rebels, because he thinks. He thinks and therefore he decides things are wrong. And he decides not to obey those things.

Off topic as I round my points up:

In reference to the appearance quirks of the angels, someone in a reddit post three years ago (user has been deleted) put it wonderfully:

“I believe that the gold make-up and highlights on Uriel and Michael’s face, Sandalphon’s diamond-studded grill with a crucifix, and Gabriel’s violet eyes were design choices to communicate their ethereal natures to the audience.

The way they did this with Aziraphale are his white outfits, gold angel themed jewellery, the cherubic curls, but most of all, his halo. The director put a lot of effort into always backlighting Aziraphale’s blond hair to give the appearance of a halo, as well as placing him in well lit areas. The result is that Aziraphale practically glows in every scene he’s in. Michael Sheen put a ton of light into Aziraphale’s smile as well, in a way probably no other actor could have done.

If we’re going to settle on something as an ethereal quirk for Aziraphale, it’s his radiance.”

Anyways, thank you so much for reading this giant yap, I’m very honoured.

anyways gang this is the other half of this post written by my very good friend, Kris. ( @anth0ny-c0wl3yy )

Enjoy! <3

#aziracrow #aziraphale #azirafell #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #ineffable fandom #anthony j crowley #neil gaiman #professional yapper

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resowrites · 1 year

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A Day In May - oneshot.

Summary: It proves to be a birthday to remember for Henry and his wife…

Pairings: AU!Henry Cavill x Wife!OC

Warnings: fluff, banter/British humour, language, dialogue heavy, a couple of sensitive topics mentioned but no detail, nondescript OC body type/appearance, hastily written/lightly proofread.

WC: 2992

A/N: Remember, this is pure fiction (as in completely made up) and not in any way meant to reflect reality. My work must not be copied, reposted, or translated elsewhere. Likes, follows, reblogs and comments are thoroughly welcome and appreciated! Gifs/pics not my own. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for visiting!

A Day In May - oneshot.

"Good morning birthday boy!" Henry rolled onto his back, his eyes adjusting slowly to the early morning light.

"Mmm, g'morning… you're up early."

"Well, who was gunna make breakfast if we both slept in? I made you your favourites; pancakes, Belgian waffles, and pan aux raisin. There's even a little bowl of fruit for you to ignore…" He chuckled as he sat up and helped her guide the tray over his lap.

"Aren't you having any?" Her eyes quickly darted to the floor.

"Er, maybe later—"

"Oh no, don't tell me you're still not feeling the best?" She had in fact been sick all morning and had even used the downstairs toilet so as not to wake Henry up.

"I'm fine! I felt a little peaky when I first woke up but it's passed. Anyway, when you're finished, have a quick shower and come downstairs, there might be a gift or two waiting for you in the kitchen…" She shot him a wink while he guiltily sipped his coffee. Henry knew she'd already gone to great lengths to make his fortieth birthday a success. For weeks she'd been planning a huge party at their favourite private member's club in London. Everyone they knew was going to be there and it promised to be a night to remember.

"Are you sure you're alright though? I mean I know you've worked hard on today but we can always cancel and just spend the day together if you're not feeling the best?" She scoffed and waved a hand in the air.

"Nonsense, I'll be alright. There's no way I'm missing my old man's birthday! Tell me, seeing as I'm still the better part of a decade away from it, how does forty feel so far?" He responded to her smirk with one of his own.

"Why? Do I look forty?!" She pursed her lips, remaining silent as she plucked a couple of blueberries off the tray. "Oh my God, you cheeky cow!"

"What?! You're as handsome now as the day I met you…" Henry pulled her into a headlock.

"Hey! Let go, you're messing up my hair!" Suddenly her stomach churned and she felt her mouth moisten. Clearly, the fruit and the headlock had proved a mistake. She dashed to their ensuite bathroom with him throwing back the covers so he could run after her.

"Darling! Oh God… I'm so sorry. There we are, oh sweetheart…" She continued retching into the toilet bowl as Henry held her gathered hair on top of her head. When she was finished, he hoisted her up and sat her down carefully on the edge of the bath. "I think I'd better ring the doctor's, don't you?" She looked into Henry's panic-stricken eyes as he carefully rubbed the sides of her thighs.

"Darling, I'm really alright, it's just a virus. So long as I'm careful about what I eat and don't go too crazy tonight, I'm sure I'll be okay."

"Well, we'll see. For now, I want you to get back into bed. Come on…" He tried to take her by the hand.

"Henry, I don't need to be babied! Honestly, stop being such a fusspot." But she started to sway unsteadily on her feet. Henry caught her before she fell and swiftly put her back in their bed.

"Right, that's it. I'm calling the doctor. You're so pale you look like a ghost!"

"Wait, Henry… don't. There's no need to call them." He looked up from searching through the contact list on his phone.

"What, why? Darling, you're not at all well. Hang on let me get you some water…" Henry wedged the phone in the crook of his neck while he refilled her glass in the bathroom.

"Henry, you won't get through at this time. Besides all they'll tell me to do is rest and drink plenty of fluids."

"How do you know that? Have you already spoken to the doctor?" She took the glass of water from him, carefully avoiding eye contact.

"Yes, and he said I'll be fine so stop please stop worrying. I just want you to enjoy your birthday." She sipped the water slowly and rested her head against the headboard so she could close her eyes. Henry took a seat on the edge of the bed and caressed her hand.

"Are you feeling any better, love?" He spoke tenderly which only made her feel worse. Today was supposed to be about him and already things were getting off track.

"Mmm, though I'm sorry I've ruined your birthday breakfast…" Henry scoffed and got back in bed beside her.

"Rubbish, you know nothing comes between me and food. But I'll take the tray downstairs if the smell's making you feel worse?" She shook her head and he cautiously began chomping his way through a pastry. She attempted to change the subject, more to keep her mind off the food than anything else.

"So, are you looking forward to tonight?"

"You're damn right I am! It'll be nice to have everyone gathered together again. I've not seen most of them since the wedding."

"I know, I can't believe that was only last month."

"Me either. What can I say, time flies when you're married to a stud…" Henry leaned in and peppered her cheek with crumb-filled kisses. She breathed hard. "Are you sure you're alright? I feel awful sitting here stuffing my face when you're not well." She looked into his pale blue eyes and sighed. She then eased herself off the bed and walked slowly around it. Henry pushed the tray aside and stood to face her. "What is it?" He took her face gingerly into his hands. For a while, he could see the wheels turn in her head. Clearly, she was struggling to find the right words.

"Henry, I…" She faltered and instead pulled his hands down to rest on her stomach. Henry's eyes went wide.

"You're… you're pregnant?" She nodded weakly, her eyes filling with tears when she could see the ones in his. Eventually, he choked out a laugh. "Oh my God… Oh my God!" She took a few steps back while Henry ran backward and forward whooping and cheering. He then lifted her into the air, quickly dropping her back down when he remembered she was still feeling queasy. Instead, he settled for holding her tight. "You're pregnant… you're pregnant!" Henry broke down in tears once again and they stood, swaying and crying together until the noise caused both Copper and Kal to nose their way into the bedroom to inspect the commotion. "Guess what, guys? Mummy's having a baby!" He danced around excitedly, whipping the dogs into a similar if rather confused, frenzy. When she could get Henry to stand still again, he dotted her face with more kisses.

"Henry… Henry stop!"

"Oh, sorry, are you still feeling sick? Here let's sit you down…" A sinking feeling washed through her as she was plonked onto the edge of the bed. "Darling, what's the matter? You're going to be a mum! Aren't you thrilled?" She brushed the tears from her cheeks.

"Of course, I am! I want this just as much as you, it's just that…"

"What?" Then it dawned on him. Henry mentally kicked himself for not realising how bittersweet that moment must have been for her. He softly stroked her back. "Oh darling… what happened last time won't necessarily happen again—"

"But I'm only four weeks! I didn't want to tell you so soon but then I started getting morning sickness and… and…" Her voice trailed off. "Oh Henry, what if we lose it?! I can't go through that agony again…" Her head fell into her hands as she sobbed. Henry swivelled off the bed and kneeled in front of her.

"Ollie, listen very carefully to me, sweetheart. I want you to know that no matter what happens, either now or in the future, I'm right by your side and always will be. Nothing is going to change that, okay? Darling, look at me…" But her eyes were still awash with fear.

"… I'm so scared Henry. This is such a big change, are you sure we're really ready? It's not like having another dog, it'll be really hard work at first. God, the responsibility of it all…" His heart ached for her.

"I know sweetheart, but remember things are very different this time. We have each other and I'm also going to make sure you get the best possible care. If anything does go wrong, we're going to figure it out and work together, alright? We can even get a nanny if that'll help at first?" She flung her arms around Henry and went to kiss him before stopping herself. "What? What is it?"

"Well… my mouth still tastes awful!"

"Don't be silly. You're perfect!" He pulled her up off the bed and kissed her hard. For a while, they just stood holding each other steadily.

"And don't worry about a nanny, I'm sure we'll manage. I'm not a great sleeper anyway and I've looked after my sister's kids when they were newborns. Once you get into a routine things settle down eventually… Henry? Are you listening?"

"Yeah, sorry. It's just, wow… we're gunna be parents!" She beamed up at Henry. "I just can't believe it… when did you find out? Do you still have the test? When are you due?!" She smiled as he fired off each excited question, and reached into her bedside cabinet. She pulled out a thin, blue, and white stick. When she handed it to Henry, he blinked a couple of times at the two pink lines before his eyes swelled with tears once again. He then kissed the stick and let out another excited cheer. She felt so happy - not to mention relieved.

"I'm not sure it's very hygienic to kiss that you know," she teased. "I took it a few days ago when I started feeling off. I don't know what made me do it, something just felt… different. The baby should be due no later than December. To be honest I'm surprised it happened so quickly, I thought we'd have more difficulty—"

"So I shot and scored on the first try?! Wait a minute, if you're four weeks… that means you must have conceived on our wedding night!"

"… Oh my God, you're right. Are we really that tacky?!" Henry chuckled.

"Aww, I'm so thrilled though! Honestly, you've made me the happiest man alive. And don't worry, I'm gunna be here to get everything sorted—"

"But Henry you've got to go away again in June—"

"No bloody fear! I'm not leaving now that you're pregnant!"

"Why not?! Henry you've got to go back to work!"

"You must be joking, I'm not missing you being pregnant!"

"Well, once I'm out of the first trimester things should hopefully go a lot smoother anyway. Honestly, you won't be missing much—"

"I don't care, I'm not missing any of it—"

"But Henry I'll need you here when the baby's born, it's better that you're away now and here later, trust me."

"Well, we'll see how things go, I have no problem taking another year out if I have to, you and the baby are far more important to me." He gently cradled the lower half of her stomach. "So, when can we tell everyone?"

"Not yet, we need to wait until I'm at least twelve weeks."

"God, it's going to be hard keeping it a secret…"

"I know, but it's for the best. I don't want it announced by your publicist either."

"That's okay, I completely agree. We will have to tell her at some point. After all, we don't want her catching wind of it further down the line. She's very good though, she'll make sure it's kept under wraps."

"Well, I certainly hope so. I mean, it's not like it's some dirty secret, but I don't want the stress of the media trying to release the story—"

"Don't worry sweetheart, I'll make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible. Now, when do we have to arrange to see the doctor?"

"I've already booked to see the midwife next week. It's only an hour-long appointment, you don't need to go with me…"

"Are you joking? I want to be involved every step of the way!'

"Well, I appreciate that but you must promise not to start becoming a fusspot over me?"

"But this is our first baby, you can't blame me if get a little bit protective!"

"I know but remember, until the later stages I can carry on pretty much as normal. I want to continue working for as long as I can, as well." Henry bit his lip.

"Darling your job can be very stressful, I don't want you juggling contract negotiations with being sick and tired all the time."

"The morning sickness should go away by the time I'm four to five months gone. To be honest, I've had it earlier than normal. Usually, it doesn't start until you're at least six weeks—"

"But maybe that's a good sign? Last time you said you had no symptoms so maybe everything will go smoother this time around?" She smiled at him sadly, always in awe of his eternal optimism.

"Well, I certainly hope so, God there's so much to do…"

"Don't worry, we've got eight months to get everything sorted. But what do we do about the party later? Do you think you'll still be up to going?"

"Yeah, I'll feel better as the day wears on. But I won't be able to drink so I'm going to have to fake it somehow. I hope no one cottons on…"

"You'll be fine, just make sure you stick close to me so that if you want to leave we can call a cab. God, I'm going to be a Daddy! I'm so excited! Aren't you?"

"Of course! My head's swimming though. We'll have to figure out what room we want to use as the nursery."

"Well don't worry, I can paint it in a day, just tell me what colours and furnishings you want—"

"Well that's the thing, is it okay if we don't find out whether it's a boy or a girl?"

"Oh, are you sure?"

"Yeah, I mean I don't think I'm going to have another, so it's tough shit if it's a girl, cos we won't be trying again—" Henry cackled.

"I'd love a little girl! Our family's full of boys so it'll be wonderful to have a daughter. Especially if she looks like you…"

"Oh God, what if she gets your arse chin?" He snorted.

"Well, that's just charming! There's nothing like a mother's love is there?!" Her face turned serious for a moment.

"Will you promise to look after them though? I mean whatever happens between us in the future, do you promise to always be there for them?" Henry felt his heart sink. The poor relationship she'd had with her own father was obviously weighing heavily on her mind.

"Darling, I've already promised that I will love and protect you both until I take my dying breath. Nothing will ever stand in the way of that, okay?" Her face still looked clouded with worry.

"… God I'm going to get so fat."

"Oh stop it, as long as you're both healthy and happy that's all that matters. And besides, I can always get you one of those electric scooters…" She swatted him on the arm.

"Oh Lord help me, it's gunna be a bloody long eight months…"

"Yeah, but it'll be a laugh too. And there are lots of positives. Just imagine how big those are gunna get…" Henry pointed at her chest, a look of pride on his face. "And this!" He gave her backside a determined pinch. She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Think of all the baby classes we'll have to attend as well—"

"Oh no we're bloody not! We can do virtual ones, there's absolutely no sodding way I'm attending any of those with you!"

"What? Why not? How else am I going to learn about everything?!"

"Henry, you will just play up and then every week afterward I'll be too embarrassed to show my face! Besides, you're famous. I'm not having people come up and ask for autographs while I'm trying to practise breathing techniques!"

"Okay, you've got a point. But please don't worry, alright? I promise I'm going to be hands-on and do as much as I can to educate myself. I want to be involved as much as possible."

"Is that right? So you're going to get up in the middle of the night to do a feed? And change shitty nappies?!"

"Well, we can draw straws on that last one…" She smiled, realising that there was no one else with whom she'd rather embark upon the journey to parenthood. "So, do you think we'll have a girl then? What about names? Personally, I've always liked Henrietta," she scoffed.

"Henry, if you think I'm naming my daughter after you, you’ve got another thing coming!"

"What? Henrietta's a lovely name! Better than Ollie at any rate!" She thwacked Henry on the arm again.

"Don't be so bloody cheeky, or I'll take all your birthday presents back! Come on, enough about the baby for the moment, we can talk more about it later. Now let's go downstairs Daddy so you can open all your gifts—"

"Well don't worry, you've already given me the best gift I could have asked for! Thank you so, so much darling. I didn't even know I could feel this happy. Look, I know it won't always be easy, but there's no one else I'd rather do any of this with. You're going to be an amazing mother. I love you, sweetheart… best birthday ever!" They grinned widely at each other, shared another kiss, and went down to the kitchen holding each other's hand.

To be updated on when I post please follow @resowrites and turn on post notifications.

@elizabetharegina @fanfictionaddiction99 @luclittlepond @caffeinatedfestivalsheep @summersong69 @ushijimbo

#henry cavill #henry cavill fandom #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill imagine

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venomous-ragno · 1 year

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Writing advice...

... About military things from a soldier

Pt. 2 / ?: Women and relationships in the military

You wanna write a story with a militaristic setting, like CoD or R6S? You wanna create a female OC, self insert or character, but you don't know where to start, if women are even allowed in the military?

Well, lucky for you or not I know what that feels like and I've also got the combat / real life experience to help ya out!

Feel free to hop in my askbox or dm's and ask questions. I'll gladly elaborate and do my best to answer in full and plenty.

Disclaimer: My experiences and knowledge are mostly based on the German military, the Bundeswehr. They may differ from those of other countries.

Happy writing y'all! :)

Are women allowed in the military?

The answer seems obvious: Yes. Most militaries around the world do allow women to enlist. Some, however, do not allow women to join the special forces, such as the SAS, for example.

Certain branches report a higher number of female soldiers than others. The US army air force and sanitation in the German military are two examples I can think of.

Some countries do allow women to enlist but forbid them from partaking in "action", such as North Korea, Sweden, Norway, Bolivia and some more.

What about misogyny by male soldiers?

In my six years of active duty I've learnt that sexism rarely occurs, but when it does, it's straight forward and nasty. Most men don't care about your gender. They treat you like you're one of them, and oftentimes even forget about the fact that you're a woman. The few times I was talked down to for my gender was blatant and hateful though; but even then, some of these opinions didn't come from within the military, but from civilians. (Cue the old granpa who saw me travelling back home in uniform and just had to tell me that women belong in the kitchen, how in the good old days women were still women yadda yadda. Yeah, I had the same look about on my face like you now.)

Appearance is important!

As is in any military. I can't speak for them though, but in my experience, light and natural make up is allowed. Nail polish and lipstick are a hard no though, albeit the latter may be allowed for special occassions. If there's one thing my comrades have taught me it's that most men in the military got no clue about make up, so you'll probs get away with more than you'd think.

The exact rules however depend on your unit and what you do. Back when I was in sanitation I'd be working a pretty standard 9 to 5. Worked in the medbay and treated patients, kept the medical archive in order, pretty normal stuff. My superior allowed us to wear small ear studs. When I got deployed to another base I was almost lynched for wearing them. Really depends on the ones in charge.

As for hairstyles: Most units are fine with anything as long as your hair is up and out of your face. Now, we didn't have to use gel to keep stray hairs at bay. It wasn't that strict. Just don't use any flashy hair accessories and hair ties that match your hair colour. Oh, and your hair must be a) one colour and b) a naturally occuring one. The length doesn't matter as long as you're not Rapunzel. If your hairstyle is anything other than a pixie cut, you will have to wear a hair net under your combat helmet.

Do men and women stay in seperate dorms?

Seperate rooms? Yeah. Seperate dorms? Nope.

Sometimes you'd have couples who shared a dorm room. It's a whole process that your superior has to give his ok to, but I honestly wouldn't recommend it. Dorm rooms aren't exactly big. You need privacy? Well, that's too bad.

If you're lucky enough you get to have a room for yourself. Depending on what branch / base you're in, the rooms will be more or less furnished. Back when I worked at the ministry of foreign affairs, my room was pretty luxurious for milutary standards: TV, fridge, sofa, bed, desk w chair, a closet and a bathroom next door. That's definitely not the standard though. We usually had to buy and bring our own stuff, like blankets, fridge, decorations, whatever you'd need to make that cold room somewhat comfy. (Wifi is also not a given. Gotta get your own connection running.)

Flings, relationships, cheating spouses... How common is it really?

They do happen, though not as often as you'd think.

It's more common to hear rumors about who has smth going with who and these rumors can get BAD. As in reputation and career ruining bad. At that point there's gonna be an order from higher up to stop talking about these rumors and punishment can be quite strict. (Speaking of rumors...Hate to say it, but the more women a unit had, the worse talking behind others backs was.)

One thing that I always found particularly disgusting were relationships between higher ups and recruits. Yes, they happen. No, they're not allowed. These things are like open secrets. If found out and proven to exist, the superiors will be held accountable by military law. Outside of basic training it may be frowned upon if a superior were to enter any kind of relation with someone of lower rank, thought not outright punishable.

As for cheating... Well, I haven't enountered any cheating myself, nor heard of it (yet). Not saying that it doesn't happen, but at least over here in Germany it's rare. It's highly frowned upon and will open you up to rumors and... Not so nice treatment by comrades. Cheating on a spouse is punishable by military law. A soldier found guilty may be demoted in rank, suffer financial losses or even get dishonourably discharged.

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #mod talks #call of duty headcanons #cod mw2 imagine #call of duty x you #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty könig #call of duty soap

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dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice · 2 months

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The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 2

Bruh. My back is HURTING from being hunched over my laptop lol. For some reason I've managed to shit out this next chapter at the speed of light, but I'm back at uni and deadlines are picking up so I can't guarantee another one for a couple weeks. ANYWAY - ALASTOR HAS FINALLY MADE AN APPEARANCE. Not in person yet, but he's here (in spirit). I also apologise to anyone not from Yorkshire, I've used some of our slang from there and it may not make sense, but MC's embracing her Northener crave for violence.

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 6800

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency, Swearing, Descriptions of murder and dismemberment. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

< Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 >

PART 1: Chapter 2

Another box for my trinkets it's trinketville.

Meraki (Definition): To put something of yourself into your work. (Noun)

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Thursday, 7th November, 1929.

The first four months of your new apprenticeship had you thriving more than ever before since arriving in the US. The last time you had felt this joyous and satisfied you were nearly eighteen, the tickle of the long grass on your cheeks as you laid in the meadow at the height of spring, holding the bunch of wildflowers against the kaleidoscopic swirls of the evening tones of the sky above you, admiring the way the lowering sun hit the petals and the small bugs that floated around with its golden highlights. It was one of the few times you had managed to bring your racing mind to a stand-still; no voices; no random lines of songs in your head playing on replay; no worries about the chores you were procrastinating or the book your friend had recommended weeks ago that you were yet to touch. You remembered the feeling of the summer dress you wore, the texture of the leather messenger bag beside you gifted by the old woman who lived further down the lane of the village. She used to babysit you when your parents would travel to York days at a time for work or personal errands. You loved to skip down that lane, with your hand running along the rough stones of the ancient stone walls that lined the lanes of your little village you had spent your whole life in – also lining your mind with the cuts it gave you as you tried to climb over them with the twins over the years.

The routine of working at the repair shop had brought the blissful feeling of stability back, the hectic frenzy of travelling from hotel room to hotel room, checking your tickets a thousand times to make sure you were on the correct train platform, then checking again. You no longer had to worry about travel dates that would leave you feeling paralysed from doing anything else.

Mr LeBlanc had been an excellent teacher and manager, drilling skills into your mind since you stepped into the shop for your starter shift. It was certainly an experience: opening the double doors to a vintage collector’s dream, an antique emporium filled from floor to ceiling (and on the ceiling). Ralph had brought you behind the counter, to a room in the back that he gleefully revealed to be concealed by a door disguised as a bookshelf. The workshop hidden behind was every antique restorer’s sanctuary, and it was certainly yours. Drawers lining the walls filled with every tool that could file, chip away, or apply anything you could find. In the centre was a large wooden table – thick, sturdy planks covered in chips and splatters of paint and adhesives used over the years. This table would be the place you would spend the next four months, your hair tied back by a patterned silk bandana, Ralph showing you how to work with materials from wood to porcelain, metal to textiles. You would pour over books you had pulled from Mr LeBlanc’s bookshelves until late into the evening, until he sent you home with them in your bag, and you protected them with your life as you returned on the trams (or ‘streetcars’, as Americans called them) in the evening light.

Every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, he taught you everything he could, and you absorbed it all at the speed of light, your mind soaking up every piece of information like a dry sponge. By month three you had been given the go ahead to work on your first object from a customer – a small, spindly regency era chamber table belonging to a local gentleman. All it needed was some chips to be filled and repolishing, allowing Ralph to be confident enough in your abilities to complete it correctly. Your results came out on top, both Ralph and the customer being satisfied with your work, and you received the praise gleefully, along with the hefty tip the gentleman handed you over the counter. To you, everything was going fine and dandy.

Until October hit.

Apparently there were plenty of warning signs, according to most. They knew this was coming, your aunt knew this was coming. It was what she had said when you sat with her on the steps of the front porch.

“Shops are going to start disappearing.” She said, keeping her gaze ahead as she watched the cars sputter by. “With the rate this is going, I’m going to have to pull the boys out of school and get them working – I can’t keep the walls of this house up by myself.”

It had sent chills down your spine when you had picked up a newspaper, the words ‘Wall Street’ and ‘Stock Market Crash’ staining the pages for weeks. You put your mind and body into helping Mr LeBlanc, desperate for him to keep his business up and running. Unfortunately, as prices dropped, less people wanted to splurge the extra cash on something nice and antique, so you both lowered prices where you could, even going to lengths to hammer fliers to every street-post that advertised restoration jobs for any household item, promising customers that they would save money on repairs instead of buying it new.

It worked more than you thought, and it brought in enough income for Ralph to scratch by. He was also grateful you hadn’t asked for a raise to cope with the financial crisis, flat-out refusing when he had tried to hand you some tips he had received.

It was just the beginning of December when Ralph had called the house phone as you were getting ready for work. Ollie had yelled up the stairs to tell you and you scrambled down in your work trousers with your nightgown still on. Grabbing the phone, you listened to a raspy Mr LeBlanc as he told you he had falling ill with the usual winter flu. Unfortunately, being 63 meant that he was more susceptible to the illness, and was unsure if he would recover. If he did, it would still take a while, so he had asked you that morning if you were capable of running the shop solo. You had instantly said yes, refusing to let any sidetrack be his business’s downfall, so, with your head held high, you walked to his house, picking up any essential documents that he said you would need, and kept the shop up and running to the best of your abilities.

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Friday, 6th December, 1929.

It was the Friday of the first week of December when you were an hour away from closing. You had been lucky that it had been pretty quiet the last few days, allowing you to settle into working your first ever Monday to Friday and getting to know the everyday things that were essential to keep the doors open. You had brought an armchair behind the counter – the gap between the counter and the wall was spacey enough for you to fit the chair and a small side table.

After not seeing any customers for over an hour, you had wandered off to the small side kitchen hidden by a Persian rug hung over the doorway to fetch yourself a warm cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake that Agnes had slipped into your lunch bag that day. Returning to the front, you placed the food and beverage on the side table, and sank into the chair, propping your feet up and delving into the book you had bought a few months ago.

Your eyes were drooping by the time you finished the tea and cake, and you rested your head on the back of the cushion, lowering your eyelids shut but remaining awake, knowing you had to get up soon in order to close in a half hour. Though the sudden sound of the shop’s bell chiming had you shooting out of your seat like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Scrambling to your feet, you scooted over to plop yourself on the counter stool, fixing yourself to look as presentable as possible as you faced the person entering. It was the mailman, stomping his boots to rid of the snow from the mild blizzard outside on the shoe rug by the door whilst holding a semi-large parcel under his arm. You recognised him from his rounds of the area, normally dropping off the odd parcel here and there for Ralph. Making sure the curls you had pressed into your hair overnight weren’t flattened at the back, you straightened out the silk scarf tied round the front of your head, flicking a curl out of your eye, and faced the man with a warm smile, to which he returned. He was a tall, young looking lad, older than you, but youth still shone in his eager eyes as he approached you.

“Afternoon ma’am,” he greeted, tipping his snow patterned hat. “I apologise for the snow on the floor, m’fraid the storm doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”

You waved him off, assuring that you were going to be cleaning up soon anyway. He inquired about Mr LeBlanc’s whereabouts, and you explained that his illness wasn’t letting up any time soon.

“Shame,” he said. “I know you’re probably not getting overrun, but it still must be complicated being a young woman running someone else’s business – especially near Christmas, having to trek home in the cold and wet by yourself.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright.” You laughed with a shake of your head, trying to not let your frustration show at the thought of him doubting your skills because of your gender. “He’s given me everything I need, and I can deal with the weather just fine. Wet and cold is the norm where I’m from.” Changing the subject, you gestured to the half-damp parcel still under his arm. “Is that addressed to Ralph or the shop?”

As if suddenly remembering the reason he was here, he quickly hauled the parcel from under his arm and slid it onto the counter.

“It’s for the shop.” He explained, gesturing a gloved hand to it. “S’pose it’s a last minute repair for a Christmas gift or somethin’.”

Placing your hands on either side, you slid the large square box towards you. Standing up from the stool, you peered at the top. Brushing off the half-melted snow, you read the handwriting that ornately spelled out the address - this was probably another repair.

The parcel itself was probably the neatest you had ever seen anything wrapped. The parcel paper was thick and expensive, the water and snow running off without leaving any trace behind except for a slight sheen, and the edges were folded so crisp and perfectly shaped and flat you wondered if whoever had wrapped it was human. Tied round like a present was a thick twine, looping into a bow directly in the middle of the top. You admired the dedication of whoever had put in the time to wrap this, running your fingers over the corners only to jerk them back slightly as the folds were so sharp they felt like they were slicing at your skin.

Looking back at the mailman, you thanked him for the delivery, and hoped him safe travels back home. Tipping his hat at you, he turned away with a farewell, and the bell chimed again when he opened the door, dipping his head against the wind as he faded into the white wall outside.

When the howling wind finally allowed the door to shut, you began the closing routine, knowing that there wouldn’t be anyone else today with the severity of the weather outside. After locking the exits and pulling the shutters closed and the blinds down, you kept the shops lanterns on as you lifted the hefty parcel with a grunt and shuffled through the hidden doorway into the workshop.

Sliding it onto the table, you got to work opening it up, pulling the twine bow free and taking some small hand-held shears to slice open the glued down folds to reveal a cardboard box.

Pulling the thick brown paper and twine out from underneath, you chucked them onto the other workbench pushed against the wall to the right. Placing the shears down, you pushed your fingernails between the gap of the serrated cardboard and swung the flaps open. Inside was a lot of loose cotton wool, and you reached in, removing the protective layer and chucking it onto the table whilst simultaneously thanking whoever had spent their time padding the box out. This uncovered a semi-large shape swaddled in a maroon-coloured knitted blanket, and you reached your arms in deep to wrap around the object and haul it out.

Laying it on the table, you pushed the box and wool out of the way, and gently began unwrapping the blanket, mindful that some repair jobs may start out with several shattered pieces that you certainly didn’t want to accidentally drop an lose amongst everything. Coming to the final layer, your nails slotted through some of the holes of the knitting and clacked against what sounded like solid wood, and slipping the material off, you had your first look at your new potential project.

It was an old radio. Well, not that old, considering radios had only been in circulation for a decade or so, but it was one of the earlier models, the features you recognised from when you visited the county Mayor’s house when you were in your early teens. It was shaped with a resemblance to a cathedral arch, the wood panelling around the edge looking like pillars that began swirling and spiralling into gothic patterns the closer you got to the top. These patterns decorating the fine grated material that covered the speaker, and a few dials were situated on the bottom half, and you immediately noticed one was missing.

Pulling a stool over, you sat down to get a closer look, and you noted down the damages that came to light. It had obviously been looked after over the years, but, as always, people are prone to accidents, and this radio seemed to have gone through a few. Apart from the dial that was missing, there was a large split down one side, between two of the panels, and scratches and slight dents from where it had obviously been dropped. Grabbing your notebook, you jotted down your initial observations, before diving your hands into the left over cotton in the box to search for anything that could assist you.

To your luck, you found a small linen bag about the size of your palm, that you untied to reveal the missing dial and a few pieces of wood that had come off in some areas. Returning to your notes, you were just about to start a proposal form for treatment when something caught your eye. Looking over to the blanket you had put to the side, your eyes landed on a fancy looking envelope.

Reaching over, your fingers clasped around the paper, the material just as thick and expensive feeling as the parcel wrap, and you brought it towards you, careful not to elbow anything in the process, because if they could afford fancy radios and paper during this crisis, then they certainly were expecting you to repair this with equally expensive standards. Holding the paper up you read the loopy handwriting on the front of the envelope:

To the Owner.

Turning it over, you pried the even fancier wax seal apart as gently as you could as to not ruin the paper, and opening the flap, you reached in to slide out a folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, you began to read the matching, loopy words.

---

December 4 th, 1929

Dear Owner,

I do hope this package finds you well. I am delivering this fine radio to be repaired at your establishment, as it belongs to my dear Mother and I would be overjoyed to have it completed in time for Christmas. Unfortunately, it has suffered its fair share of drops and bumps, but from what I have heard from others in our beloved city, you should be able to do an excellent job. The outside is obvious with what needs to be done, but there are areas within the interior mechanics that require some repairs. Now, I would take it to the radio shop, but the man who owns it is oh-so unpleasant, and would take weeks to be returned.

I am sure you would be happy to take on this challenge, for my mother’s sake, and that you will do a splendid job.

Regards,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

You blinked. Then furrowing your brows, you read it again. And again. Did this guy want you to not only fix up the look of his mum’s radio, but magically know the ins and outs of radio technology? You shook your head, then did a quick once-over of the words scrawled onto the page. Yep, he wanted you to do a Frankenstein and completely resurrect the old thing.

Placing you elbow on the table, you rested your chin on your palm as you stared at the wall covered in tool across the room. There was no way you could do this, not without Mr LeBlanc still ill – though even if he was here, you didn’t know if he had any knowledge on radios. Sighing, you rubbed at your face tiredly, not caring if you smudged the mascara on your lashes, it wasn’t like anyone was going to walk in on you with panda eyes anyway. Letting out a prolonged groan, you came to the final decision of what to do.

Trudging back into the shop, you quickly made yourself another cup of tea, before snatching some of the letter paper and an envelope from under the counter. Slumping back onto the stool in the workshop, you placed the paper in front of you whilst reaching into one of the drawers attached to the table to grab a pen, then, taking a moment to think of what you were going to say, you began writing.

---

December 6 th, 1929

Dear Mr Boudreaux,

Thank you for your enquiry. As much asI would love to fulfil your request, there are some issues regarding certain stages of the repairs. Mr LeBlanc, who owns the company, has taken ill this last week, and it is not yet known when he will recover, and I am the only member of staff he has employed at the moment. Unfortunately, I am not experienced in radio mechanics, and strongly advise that you come and collect the radio and take it to be repaired at a radio shop.

The radio can be returned here for outer repairs, but I am afraid that is the only option I can offer you at this time. The radio will be ready for you to collect from 9am on Monday morning. I do apologise for the inconvenience.

Regards,

---

Signing the first letter of your name, along with you surname, you read over what you had written. Satisfied, you sealed it in the envelope and got to work wrapping the radio back up. Quickly taking a candle, you took a peek in between the crack in the wood, the light shining on the innards. You definitely had no chance of fixing that, if the absolute mess of dislodged coils, wires and metal pieces inside said anything. Reluctantly you placed it back in its box wrapped up and padded with the cotton, before taping it up and re-glueing the parcel paper and twine back in place. It was a shame that you had to reject the request, the payment for the repair would have benefited you and Ralph quite a bit, and it made you feel awfully guilty to prevent someone’s gift for their mother, but it was out of your control. So, with the guilt hanging over your head, you pushed the parcel into the corner under one of the tables on sale.

Doing one last round of the shop, you extinguished the candles dotted around and flipped the light switches off except the main one by the door. With your coat and gloves on, you made sure the scarf was wrapped tight round your neck before grabbing your bag and did one last sweep of the place. Glancing in the corner, you took one last lingering look at the sorrowful parcel that sat under the table, but quickly snatched your eyes away, and grabbing the keys, you flipped the final light switch and stepped out into the cold, looking for the nearest post-box with the letter grasped in your hand.

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New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Monday, 9th December, 1929.

Monday came rolling round as usual, and you began your usual weekday routine of washing and dressing yourself before heading downstairs for breakfast. Scooping some scrambled eggs onto the toast on your plate, you trudged from the kitchen to the dining room, the slap of your bare feet on the tiles echoing through the wide hallway.

Shuffling through the doorway, you sat opposite Ollie, who, by the looks of it, was still waking up as he shovelled buttered toast into his mouth with his head still lying sideways on the table. Reaching over, you slapped the handle of your fork against his ear that stuck out from between his loose, dark curls, and he let out a whine as he sat up to face you with one eye glued shut, the other barely open, bread hanging from between his frown.

“You’ll choke eating like that.” You said as you scooped egg into your mouth.

Ollie dropped the toast from his mouth onto his plate. “Good.” He mumbled. “S’better than Miss Sammie droning on and ooonnnn about nonsense.” He flopped his head back on the table.

“Well enjoy it while you can.” You snorted. “If this crash gets any worse Mum will be pulling you both out to find jobs. And I know you two wouldn’t last a day in the workplace.”

He jerked his head back, scrunching his face in offence. “Like you would be any better.”

You deadpanned. “I’m currently working 9 -5, Monday to Friday, dumbass.” You jabbed back in annoyance, throwing a piece of crust at his forehead.

“Shit, forgot about that.” He grumbled, but perked up suddenly. “Yea, but you’ve only been working full time since last week!”

You chucked another crust. “Running a shop full time on my own – something I’ve never done before??”

“Still.” He retorted, shrugging his shoulders.

You had opened your mouth to retort, but stopped halfway as Allie’s voice echoed through from the kitchen.

“There’s been another one!” he called out, almost excitedly, the thumping of his feet vibrating through the floorboards as he practically sprinted into the room with the morning newspaper grasped firmly in his hands. The two of us jerked back as he slammed it onto the table.

“Amuver!?” cried Ollie, voice muffled by food, though he quickly swallowed it. All evidence of his tiredness now gone, he snatched up the paper and brought it right up to his face. “It’s barely been a week!”

“I know!” Allie replied, his voice rising in volume every time he spoke. “At this point it could end up happening every month!”

You looked between the two of them confused since you couldn’t see what Ollie was reading. “What could happen?” you asked, perplexed.

The two of them froze, turning to stare at you. Their eyes darted to each other, before Ollie lowered the newspaper and spoke.

“…The murders?” He revealed, as if it was the most obvious thing.

You blinked, then looked between the two, more confused. “What murders?”

“What!?” Allie cried, bracing his hands on the table as he leant over it, eyes wide. “You’ve been gallivanting round town for seven months and don’t know about thee murders??”

You leant back slightly at the sight of your cousin’s crazy expression, and slowly shook your head. “I’m uh – not one to read the newspaper often.” You explained sheepishly.

He gaped, clearly shocked at your lack of knowledge about the subject. His head whipped to where his brother sat, and his hand reached out and snatched the newspaper from Ollie’s. You quickly moved your breakfast out of the way, saving your food from being flattened as Allie slammed the paper down and began aggressively prodding at the headline on the front page. Swatting his hand away, you read the giant words printed above a photograph of a lake you didn’t recognise.

‘BARRISTER FOUND BUTCHERED ON EMBANKMENT’

Suddenly intrigued, brought the paper closer to read the front column.

Tragedy strikes again in New Orleans as the remains of county barrister, Paul Morgan, were found on the embankment and in the water of Lake Cataouatche by visitors to the area. Morgan was reported missing last Wednesday by his wife, Martha, when he failed to return home for two days after a night out on Monday with his colleagues. It was reported that Morgan’s body was dismembered, and his head took several hours to locate. However, certain body parts are still missing, therefore the lake has been closed off to the public for the foreseeable future. Police are calling in and searching for potential suspects, and give their condolences to Paul’s close family and friends, stating that they are working overtime to bring the killer to justice and prevent any further deaths. Due to the nature and severity of the crime, it is possible that this is another victim of who the public dubs ‘The Bayou Butcher’. The Sheriff strongly encourages people to stick to an early curfew and remain indoors after nightfall, as the safety of the public cannot be guaranteed at this trying time. (More on Page 5)

You went to flip through, but the paper was pulled out your hands by Ollie who wanted to read it.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Allie hissed excitedly as he lowered himself onto the chair at the head of the table between you both. “This could be another Axeman!”

Ollie gasped, eyes sparkling. “Shit, it could!”

You perked up. “Another Axeman? How long has this guy been around?” you asked as you brought your breakfast back in front of you.

Allie turned to you, eyes shining in excitement. “The first body was found in 1927 – and the rest have been popping up every 2-3 months, but this is the first time there’s been two in less than two weeks!”

You narrowed your eyes in thought. “How do you know it’s all one guy?”

At this question he seemed to get more excited, practically vibrating in his seat as he gestured to his twin. “Ollie and I have been collecting newspaper clippings on every murder that’s happened, and we’ve tried to eliminate any outliers – like, different weapons, ones that are bleedin’ obvious who did it – the rest all have the same MO: they never find the whole body.” He yammered on at light speed, emphasising each word with a loud thump of his finger prodding the table. “Sometimes it’s not obvious, I think they try to throw the police off by going for something small – like a finger – but there’s always something missing, and we know it’s them.”

You frowned. “Them?”

He shrugged. “Could be a woman.” You raised an eyebrow. “What!? I don’t discriminate! Women can be scary!” You slowly sat back in your seat, staring your cousin down. He pointed at you as he looked at his brother with wide eyes. “See!? You wouldn’t be surprised if she dragged a body in?”

Ollie swallowed the food he was chewing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she caused the second Great Fire of London because someone stole her food.” He said nonchalantly, before casually returning to his toast.

“Exactly!” cried Allie. “No wonder the government wants you all nice and buttoned up in a strait jacket!”

Dropping your fork with a clatter, you looked up at him in shock, mouth hanging open. He froze, quickly realising what he had said, and his face slowly scrunched up as he cringed.

“Too far?” he squeaked meekly as he glanced at you. “Sorry.”

Pouting, you glared silently before picking your fork back up.

A few moments of silence passed, before Ollie decided he had experienced enough of the dampened mood. “You know,” he began, catching your attention again. “We think the body parts aren’t just missing for the sake of it.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, intrigued again.

He looked you directly in the eye. “We think they’re eating them.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Oo yummy, like a cannibal?” you queried, eyes darting to Allie, who perked back up, nodding. “So… there’s a cannibalistic serial killer running around New Orleans?”

Allie pointed a finger. “Serial killer, yes. Cannibal, possibly. We don’t actually have any proper evidence for that. I’m also going to skip the ‘yummy’ part, cuz I know you would never willingly consume human flesh.”

“You would be correct,” you confirmed with an amused smile, before glancing at the two. “Has mum ever suggested that you two should consider joining the police force?”

All you got were two matching cheshire grins in response.

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After cleaning up your food, and disappointing the twins because no, you didn’t bring your serial killer books to America with you, because you didn’t want to be judged by the luggage inspectors on the ferry, besides, Jack the Ripper got a little boring after a while.

Even though it was interesting to learn about the current events of the city you were staying in, the subject of said current events did end up putting you on edge when you travelled to work that morning, with you clutching your bag a little tighter, and intensely staring down anyone who looked at you a little odd on the tram. It even got to the point where you had stepped off the tram, and spent the ten minute walk between there and the shop glancing down any alleyways as subtle as you could, even though you knew you would spot anyone against the white snow that reflected the morning sun into your poor, suffering eyes anyway.

Unlocking the shop doors, you stepped in, stomping the snow off of your boots on the mat before picking it up and shaking it off outside. Crossing the threshold of the room, you ducked under the rug into the kitchen, shrugging off your scarf and coat and hanging them up on the pegs.

You were just dusting off the old grandfather clock that was slotted between the shelves of smaller antique clocks when a knock echoed through the shop. Jumping slightly, you lowered the feather duster in your hand and looked over your shoulder to see the same mailman from Friday waving at you through the window in the door, his smile growing as you made eye contact with him . Placing the duster down, you quickly strode over to the door, twisting the locks before pulling it open and sticking you head through the gap.

“I do apologise Miss,” he began after you said hello. “I hate to interrupt you whilst your still getting ready to open, but my boss handed some priority mail to me – said I had to get it to you as soon as I could.” He held a letter out in front of you.

Frowning, confused, you slowly reached out and took the letter from his hands. “Okayyy…” Turning the letter around you came across some very familiar hand writing:

‘To Mr LeBlanc’s Employee.’

“Oh god.” You groaned quietly, your shoulders slumping. This could turn out to be quite nasty if this was going the way you thought it would.

The mailman glanced between the letter and your very prominent grimace. “Is everything alright?” he asked, concern shining in his eyes.

“Yea! Yea,” you breathed, glancing around the street with the dwindling hope that your client would show up to pick up his parcel, but the letter in your hand said otherwise. “Everything’s fine. Just some very small business issues.”

He glanced at your face again, and went to open his mouth, but hesitated, seemingly switching what he was going to say. “Well, uh, I hope everything goes well, ma’am. I’ll see you around?”

You nodded, still staring down the street. “Yea, sure. See you around.” You said distractedly. Quickly giving him a strained smile, you stepped back to close the door, and the man tipped his cap at you again before strolling away.

Walking over to the counter, you slumped onto the stool with a groan, chucking the letter down in front of you. Leaning your elbows on the surface, you rested your forehead against your palms as you glared at the words inked onto the paper. The way it was addressed to you already screamed passive-aggressive, and you hated confronting anything or anyone with a passion, and you certainly didn’t want to confront this Boudreaux guy because you denied his mum a Christmas present. With a loud whine, you slammed your head onto the counter before blindly patting the surface until you felt the thick paper and slowly dragged it towards you. Sitting back up, you held the seemingly innocent envelope in front of you, and stared at it for a couple more moments, before you couldn’t take it anymore and tore it open.

---

December 7 th, 1929

To the Employee of Mr LeBlanc,

I hope this letter has found you in post haste. I am deeply upset that you lack the skills of radio repair, after all it is a growing medium that most should be learning at this point. Therefore I have come to the conclusion that I will refuse your rejection. The fliers you put out stated very clearly that you could repair ANY object, and it would be very disappointing for people to hear that it no longer has that skill to offer, since the only other option for radio repair during these trying times is a very unpleasant experience with that owner I mentioned.

I do hope my Mother’s radio will be fixed on time, I do hate to disappoint her. If Mr LeBlanc does not recover within the period, or you have any queries about the repair, please call the number I have written below.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Best Wishes,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

If your mouth hung open any further than you would be catching every insect that resided in the swamps surrounding the town.

Was this guy fucking for real??

You scoffed slightly. Then again. Eventually you scoffing spiralled into manic laughter as you guffawed at the audacity that this man thought he had. With wide eyes, you slammed the paper down back onto the counter, staring over at the wall because if you looked at those words any longer you would probably end up tracking this man down so you could shove his mother’s radio up his ass along with the fat metal rod that apparently already resided there.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed back the stool and stood up, deciding you needed you reset your mind before the first customers came in. Marching back to the kitchen, you spent the next five minutes sat in the middle of the floor, waiting for the kettle to boil as you very angrily stuffed the blueberry muffin you had brought in your mouth. You glanced at the clock and pouted as you realised you only had 15 minutes before you had to put on your best customer-friendly expression despite the metaphorical grey cloud that thundered above your head.

Thinking for a moment, you shot back up, chucking the muffin case as you strode back through to the counter, and snatched the letter up, marching back to the kitchen over to the rotary phone on the table in the corner. Picking up the handset, you pressed it to your ear as you spun the number written out on the paper in front of you.

It rang for a moment, and you tried to picture the man who would – hopefully – receive your call. You expected to hear the gruff voice of some 50 year old, that would start yelling down the line about how incompetent you were, especially when he found out you were a woman, before you heard a crackle as it was picked up and a polite and much younger sounding “Hello?” came through.

You froze for a moment, your vision of some rude, old guy whooshed away at the voice of a much younger, more spritely man, and you pictured someone like the mailman, until you heard a louder, drawn out “Hellooo?”, the man on the other end seemingly becoming amused at your lack of response.

Snapping yourself out of the character builder you had in your mind, you quickly spoke. “Hello, do I happen to be talking to–”

“Oh, I am sorry, my dear.” You blinked as you were interrupted. “But I do believe you’ve accidentally called an American number!” The man said chipperly, though there was a condescending undertone – his amusement clearly growing at the thought of your apparent mistake. You guessed it was when he heard your accent.

“I- what?” you stammered down the receiver.

“Oh you poor thing.” He simpered over the line like some fake grandma comforting you after you tripped over. He was clearly having fun – you could just picture the fake pout he was putting on. “Like I said, I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

No, this was definitely the right one. His attitude over the phone matched his attitude in the letter precisely.

You could hear him being to move to put the phone down, and you quickly called out. “WAIT NO!!” you cried, on the verge of an outrage. “I definitely put the right number in! Now, am I or am I not speaking to a Mister Boudreaux?”

“Oh! Do pardon me.~” He practically sing-songed. Oh, so now he was willing to listen? “Yes that is I, and to who do I owe the pleasure to be called by an English dame such as yourself?” the fake flirtatious tone had you picturing the faceless man laid on his front, kicking his legs as he twirled the coil between his fingers. You pushed that amusing thought down, however, when you caught sight of the piece of paper in your hand.

“I got your letter.”

“Ah,” It was like a switch was flipped, the man’s tone darkening slightly. “I see.”

Rereading the words this guy had put down, you could barely control yourself, and you pictured the time your mother had marched you down the lane to the house of a boy in your school year. That boy had given you a large bruise on your forehead, and instead of telling you that he did it because he fancied you, your mum decided to give him and his family the verbal lashing of your life. ‘I’m not raising you to snap at the slightest pressure like those London lasses, my love’, she had said, ‘You’re gonna go down kicking and screaming like it’s the last thing you’ll do’.

And that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.

“Right,” you began, your Yorkshire accent coming on full force. “I’m gonna need you t’ open yer lug ole, lad, cuz I dunno how you lot do customer service over here in America, but bein’ passive aggressive t’ someone who’s literally done nowt to deserve the absolute shite you’ve just given me makes you out t’ be a right knob’ead, you hear me?” You reprimanded. “If you don’t get your arse down to the shop by the end of the week, I’m putting ya mum’s radio down as unclaimed and selling it t’ the next person I see!”

You quickly slammed the phone down, too fuming to hear anything that Mr Boudreaux had to say. The only reason you felt a little guilty was that you knew nothing about this guy’s mum – she could be the sweetest woman in the world, and you just up and went and threatened to sell her possession! Though, with the way her son behaved, you would be surprised if she turned out to be just like him. Ugh, then you would be dealing with two of them.

Letting out a sigh, you picked up the phone again, instead dialling the phone number pinned to the corkboard on the wall. It rang for longer this time, and when it picked up you received a very loud coughing fit. When it died down, you finally spoke.

“Ralph I need your help.” You groaned, plopping yourself down on the spindly chair next to you with a defeated sigh.

“I’ve got the worst customer in the world.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Does uh, anyone want more memes?

I hope you've enjoyed what I've given you so far, and I do apologise for the sudden dialect change, I was desperate for MC to finally speak the way I do lol. See you soon for Chapter 3!!

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< Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 >

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*feeds you content a lot earlier than I thought*

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radioisntdead · 12 hours

Text

Ways to piss off an Italian

Alternatively three ways to cartoonishly piss off an Italian

Hazbin hotel x reader [Platonic]

Warnings:

Italian stereotypes, just jokin' around this is all in good fun! I put an Imp OC of mine in as the reader assistant! She just pops in and out to stir things up! Reader's learning to cook other types of food because they've hadn't had to cook for themselves in ages they just had others do it. Ending is a little off but we don't talk about that I finished this at 6 am I need sleep, Angel isn't that pissed mostly dismayed

Good evening folks! This is a side story with Eldritch horror reader and Angel dust because he's Italian, this is somewhat inspired by my own bit of how my younger self made it her mission to piss off Italians because of that Italian TikTok duo back in 2020-2021 [???] She did not succeed as she did not know any Italians and all she did was eat spaghetti noodles with anything but a fork.

this is also the 100 followers special! Now at the time of posting we are FAR past that at 207! but better late then never! Thank you so much for the support, I genuinely did not think this many folks would like my silly little writings, I adore getting y'all's requests, comments, and just appearing in my inbox genuinely it makes my day thank you! And I hope you enjoy!

Angel Dust took great pride in his Italian heritage and culture, as he was truly Italian.

Unfortunately he lived with a centuries old Eldritch horror who may or may not have lived in Europe during the bubonic plague and didn't understand the more "modern'' Italian or Italy at all, and others that didn't understand the "sacredness" of the Italians.

🍝The spaghetti.🍝

You took over cooking in the hotel, you and Alastor had begun fighting over the kitchen, whoever got there first got to cook and today, you were victorious.

You were exploring new recipes you had thus far made spicy tteokbokki and Korean corn dogs, some type of curry that was sonic blue, teriyaki chicken, hummus and other things! You experimented with different flavors, seasonings,

These tasty things would've ended you if you ate it back when you were alive and not dying of the bubonic plague.

Anyways, you decided to give making spaghetti a try because you were in the mood for something fairly easy to make.

As you perused the recipe book while humming along to the songs playing from Alastor's radio show, you nodded noting down the ingredients before pulling out the phone that the little Imp that worked for you had bought you insisting you should have one to contact her instead of hunting her down at random and dragging her away.

You squinted as you scrolled through the few contacts you had until you reached said imp's phone number and slowly texted her a barrage of ingredients to buy.

Cece carefully opened the hotel doors and skittered over to the kitchen, having memorized the route since she delivered ingredients to you almost daily at this point.

You grinned as you took the ingredients from Cece's hands turning around to place them on the counter while she pulled up a chair and sat down waiting for the inevitable "Dear Cece can you cut this" or "Dear Cece can you stir this"

You washed off the tomatoes before slicing in an x and blanching them, you peeled the tomatoes after and diced them up before putting them aside to cut up yellow onions, you gathered them up and placed them into a pan, sprinkling in salt to unleashed the onion liquids and sweetness.

You added in some prechopped garlic and let it saute.

While that was happening you took the tomatoes and crushed them, once done you combined the tomatoes with the rest letting it simmer.

You added other components like herbs, basil and a little olive old at the end just for fun.

You filled up another pot with water to boil, sprinkling a twinge of salt and stirring it in.

You brushed your hands on your apron, as you scooted around to find the box of spaghetti noodles, grinning you opened it and take out the pasta.

It was at this unfortunate moment Angel dust decided to waltz on into the kitchen, intending to see what was for dinner and maybe snag something to munch on, you held the dry pasta over the pot, both hands gripping the ends

"Hey tentacles, what's for- WHAT THE FUCK!''

"Good evening Dearest Angel! I'm making spaghetti!"

You said unfazed as the pasta snapped in half and dropped into the pot as Angel dust watched in pure horror.

"Why would you do that?!" Angel asked, his voice pitched as he asked arms gesturing to the pot of sad broken pasta boiling away.

"Make spaghetti? I didn't think it was such a controversial meal"

"No! You broke the pasta! That's like the biggest sin ya can do! What is wrong with ya?"

"We're already in hell, I don't think sins matter much here," Cece popped in, you jumped slightly forgetting the imp was there.

"They do when it comes to' fuckin' pasta toots!"

Angel dust shouted before promptly turning around and leaving the kitchen, leaving you completely confused and Cece amused, unfortunately her amusement turned into irritation as you asked her to grab the ground beef and roll it into balls so you could cook them because meatballs.

During dinner time your spaghetti was a hit!

Charlie complimented your cooking saying you outdid yourself while Vaggie was grabbing a second serving, Sir Pentious enjoyed slurping up the noodles, Niffty kept stabbing the meatballs foe whatever reason, Husk seemed to enjoy the meal however Angel dust had one pair of arms crossed while he reluctantly ate, it was good he could admit but he knew the sin that you had committed while cooking, he knew that innocent pasta had been broken.

Angel dust almost died a second time when he walked into the kitchen later that night for a midnight snack and witnessed a probably drunk Husk eating leftover spaghetti pasta with ketchup because the sauce you had made was on a higher shelf in the refrigerator and he didn't feel like climbing.

🍕 pineapple pizza time.🍕

You and Alastor had... For lack of better words got into a little fight over the kitchen, tentacles, shadows, mild mind control and other things were used until Vaggie stepped in and separated the two of you,

It was decided that pizza would be ordered for the hotel, much to Alastor's disapproval.

Cheese, pepperoni, pineapple and ham, and supreme were the pizzas ordered unbeknownst to Angel dust since he was coming back to the hotel from a hangout with Cherri.

"Angel! Welcome back we ordered pizza!" Charlie said waving the spider over as Vaggie placed the pizza boxes onto the table.

"Great! I'm starvin'!" Angel walked over just in time to see the box containing pineapple pizza opened up.

"Nevermind I'll starve."

"We have other pizzas Angel."

Vaggie did not get paid enough to deal with this, she didn't even get paid!

Angel dust was extremely disappointed in you, you were the one to suggest getting pineapple pizza because you quote, "Never had it before and wanted to try it",

You were well over a few centuries old, you weren't a child, you had gone to hell and become an overlord that rained terror for a couple of years and therefore you should've been able to tell that pineapple on pizza was a crime against humanity, so what if pizza wasn't a thing during your time, it was a thing that came to be while you were down here!

He had later lectured you about it, it was amusing to you! You were a feared overlord and yet this little Italian guy had the gull to lecture you, this was normal in families right? To not be afraid of each other? How wonderful!

The lecture eventually switched over to Husk who was eating pizzas folded which was just weird because he was just tasting the crust! What about the cheese? The sauce? THE SAUCE HUSK? DO YOU NOT TASTE IT?

Husk was too sober for the lecture, Alastor found it amusing though.

🇮🇹Italian PowerPoint presentation 🇮🇹

"Alright tentacles, we're havin' a intervention!" Angel dust said throwing his hands down on the coffee table as you sipped something from a teacup, probably tea.

"Is what you dragged us here for? This shit?"

Husk was here, how did he always get dragged into these things? Niffty was beside him trying to stab a roach, Charlie and Vaggie were out of the hotel, Alastor was hell knew where, probably doing radio stuff and Angel dust had somehow tracked down your assistant and dragged her there.

"Oh! Whatever for dearie?" You asked head tilted as you placed your cup on the table,

"You've committed so many fuckin' crimes in the past week! Ya' broke the pasta before puttin' it in the pot! Ya' put cream in the carbonara! Ya ate pineapple on pizza, I get we're in hell but are ya fuckin' kiddin' me?-" Angel moved his arms around to empathize his point "Not to mention that little fusion stunt, ya' deranged octopus!"

You hummed thinking about the meals you've made recently before responding, "I don't think I made anything bad?"

"You decided to put tomato sauce, cheese and pepperoni on cooked ramen and stuck it in da' oven and ate it."

"It wasn't as good as the little people on the interwebs said."

"OF COURSE IT WASN'T GOOD IT WAS A CRIME! IT CAME OUT OF THE DEEPS OF HELL."

"Eh, it wasn't that bad" Cece popped in to stir the pot, Angel slowly turned around becoming slightly more spidery

"The fuck did ya just say?"

Cece shrugged, "Food's expensive and I need to eat."

Cece was picked up and thrown on the couch with you as Angel dust set up a PowerPoint presentation about the history of Italian food and whatever else, You did not want to be here you'd rather be drinking your drink in peace, Husk didn't want to be here he'd rather be drinking, your hellborn imp assistant didn't want to be here, she's never going to Italy she didn't need to know this and Niffty, well she's still stabbing things on the floor.

By the time Charlie and Vaggie returned you had zoned out completely and your mind was elsewhere, Niffty was napping on your shoulder, Cece had escaped by asking Angel if garlic bread was Italian and while he went on that tangent she ran out abandoning everyone.

Husk was more dead inside then per usual, he wasn't paid enough for this, the first hour was fine but this had been going on for five hours at this point, how did Angel dust manage to drag this PowerPoint presentation out so long?

Vaggie shut it down after it was realized that you weren't responding and they thought you had somehow died,

You did not die and you eventually snapped out of it when a white cloth was put over you in order to hide the body.

Good evening folks! Thank you for turning on in! I hope you enjoyed, my apologies for taking forever to get this out, if your wondering why it feels like there's a missing gap that's because I wrote a whole lil' thing of reader and Alastor combining forces to annoy Angel and I accidentally deleted it.

I'm gonna rewrite it eventually and add it to a different fic with Eldritch horror reader, also If your wondering why I have an imp OC in here there is a reason with Eldritch horror and their family complex you'll see eventually

I'll be getting the readers backstory which will be the 200 follower special out [hopefully] soon so tune on in for that! Thank you again have a wonderful day!

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #angel dust & reader #angel dust x reader #hazbin x reader #hazbin x you

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