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eris-snow · 6 months

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3. 𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐈𝐭

Tags: bakugou x fem!reader, juxtaposition, angst, fluff, swearing, more swearing (It's Katsuki what do you expect)

Feeling his eyes on you is like discovering how to breathe again. Relearning how to inhale and exhale and reworking the smile on your face.

“Come here, nerd. We need to talk.”

Katsuki is this close to losing it.

He doesn’t know how Izuku had developed selective amnesia in the span of hours, but Katsuki was considering hurling him into the nearest brick wall and see if it would work. He was rapidly running out of options at this rate. Percussive maintenance. How fitting.

This had been the 3rd consecutive day of him reintroducing you to Izuku, and no matter what question he asks, Mr I Fart Quirks Out Of My Ass just doesn’t remember you. What the hell?

You definitely know what’s up, because every time Izuku apologises for not remembering you, you simply smile and wave it of.

After the 5th day of this cycle, Katsuki comes to the hall alone.

“Oh,” You say, watching him calmly climb the stage by your stupid seat. “You’re here early. Where’s Midoriya—”

Katsuki pushes the heavy drapes aside and snarls.

“You’re fucked up, you know that?”

You look startled, but Katsuki doesn’t stop. “The nerd has been coming here every day, and you still go along with his ‘I don’t remember, I’m so sorry!’ bullshit. You have more problems than the water percentage in horse shit.”

Your face curls into a scowl. “Well hello to you too, Bakugou. Should I get up and offer you a chair and discuss your issues? Don’t worry about snacks, we have peanuts.”

The blond reels back at the sarcasm. Okay, you’re snippy.

“And let’s set the record straight. Your problems stack up so high, it makes Mount Everest look like an ant hill. You don’t get to say jack shit about me.”

Katsuki huffs. You’re really pissy today.

“Stop changing the subject. Tell me what you did to him before I punt you.”

You suddenly go very, very still. Eyes dull, lips pressed into a tight line like you’re recalling something unpleasant. Finally, you sigh.

“We’re not talking about this.”

“Uh, yes we are.”

You whirl to him, glare lethal. It feels like he’s staring at an angry Midoriya, because the way his skin crawls at your face can only be done by Izuku (and Auntie Inko, shh.).

“Drop it,” you hiss.

And he does, so that’s that.

—

Katsuki gives up on bringing Izuku back to the hall. There’s no point, anyway, since he won’t remember.

Schoolwork starts to pile up like a stake of due bills, so he stops going too. It doesn’t mean he stops thinking about you, though.

It’s just the little things that he’s now hyper-aware of. You’re nowhere. And by nowhere, he means not even in the halls, or at assembly. In that short span of time he kept coming to time without Izuku, Katsuki would find you in all sorts of positions.

Playing the piano terribly, leaning against the wall with your ears plugged as you hide away in the crevices of the curtains. Sometimes you’re doing homework, sprawled out on the light brown timber planks. Sometimes you’re revising.

However, every time he walks in, you smile up at him like he’s done no wrong and stop, putting aside your materials so that he could rant about how stupid it was to hide out in here.

On the country, whenever someone other than him walks in, they’d simply give him a raised eyebrow, before leaving without a word.

“Why don’t they ever say anything about you?”

“Maybe cause you’re the hero in training, and I’m not?”

A bullshit reason, but he doesn’t call you out on it.

Talking to you is like a refreshing vacation. Delightfully plucked out of time, away from the problems of rebranding and school work outside. Katsuki never dissociates. He doesn’t like to. But he appreciates the normalcy of his conversations with you.

You listen better than his therapist ever did.

It takes a second for him to realise that he’s been staring at the same diagram on his paper for 5 minutes, and he has to shake his head to snap out of it.

He tells his brain to kindly shut up, pushes the thought of you aside and refocuses on his assignment.

Something about triangles. And circles.

—

It has become common knowledge that Katsuki can cook as well as a Michelin star chef, and it has thus become common knowledge that U.A.’s kitchen was his.

Well, not all his. Sato owns half of it, but it’s mostly his. Clean, neat and organised, because so help the idiot that would mess up the his spice rack. Which is the only reason why he’s resisting the urge to dump this pot of curry onto said idiot’s head.

Seriously, fuck his life. Denki has decided that horror stories was going to be his new favourite past time, so he gets to hear a new stupid one every week.

Have you ever heard of the Women In Snow?

There was a wendigo spotted nearby! We have to go and see it!

We should go ghost hunting! I hear that there have been paranormal sightings—

“If I hear another mention of ‘hauntings’ or ‘ghosts’, I’m gonna boil you, throw you out on the carpet, and dance on your body.” Katsuki interrupts flatly, jabbing a ladle dangerously close to Denki’s face. “If you want to be here, make yourself useful!”

Denki dodges the attack, flying behind Eijiro who was standing beside Katsuki scooping rice. Coward.

“Kirishima, save me! Bakugou’s gonna murder me!”

Eijiro sighs with an exasperated look on his face. He’s always the peacemaker, and if Katsuki could find it in him to feel sorry for him, he wouldn’t be here.

“Bakugou—”

“Shut the hell up, Shitty Hair! Stay out of it.”

Denki pouts, peeking from behind Eijiro’s red hair. “If I become a ghost, I’m haunting you for the rest of your life.”

“Out!”

Denki grabs a stack of plates from the cabinets and places them on the counter. Dinner was about done, anyway.

“You’re being pissy!” The blond calls as a parting remark.

“You’re being insufferable,” Katsuki lashes back, taking the plate Eijiro had handed him. Eijiro gives him a concerned expression as Katsuki dumps the curry beside the rice.

He likes Denki’s first horror story best, though.

—

It’s a week until Speech Day and Katsuki feels like he’s going to pop a gasket.

He can handle it-the stress was nothing compared to his first year-but the war has changed him in ways he sometimes wished it didn’t.

Nightmares plague his slumber and between the wrapping up of syllabus and finals ending, he’s so close to degenerate into his old tendencies.

The yelling. The punching. The heat under his collar.

He’s pent up, and he needs someone that can listen. Izuku is there, he always is, but it’s an itch his best friend can’t scratch, because it’s something only you can do.

The quiet of the hall. The hushed conversations. You don’t have a clue what he’s going through, but you try to understand even if he just dropped into your life like a comet from outer space.

That…means a lot more to him than it should have.

He stares at the unnecessarily big doors in front of the hall, debates for a grand total of 5 seconds, decides he doesn’t give two shits about pride and yanks the doors open.

Katsuki manages one step into the hall, before he hears sniffling.

Shit, are you crying? You better not be crying. He doesn’t know what to do with crying people.

Should he go?

He pauses at that.

His shoes squeak on the smooth flooring as he hauls himself on the stage. You’re right where you usually are, splayed on the ground with a book in your hand and tissues strewn beside you.

Your nose is red.

He pulls the curtains away and steps back stage, cautiously approaching you. “Are you okay?”

You sniffle again, blowing your nose.

“Sinus,” you groan, throwing a tissue ball at him. “Been having it all morning. Life hates me.”

And for some reason, that makes him laugh. Low and raspy, genuine and soft. That feels nice.

“Throw that at me one more time.” He replies easily, relief evident. “I dare you.”

You close your book, grinning at him as you unplug your ears. Your eyes light up like a firework show.

“Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a warning.”

He says plainly, flinging the tissue paper back at you so he can create a spot to sit down.

“What brings you here? I thought you hero course students had to—oh.” You put two and two together quick. Katsuki watches you look back at him, and then to your book.

There’s silence for a quick second, before you settle. “Tell me about your patrols?”

And just like that, he’s off like a bullet.

You nod along and listen, balling the tissues in your hand that are wet with tears.

That was too close.

#juxtaposition (Bakugou)#mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugō #bakugo x you #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katuski x reader #angst #bakugou x reader #bakugou angst #comfort

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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 18 days

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Social Cues: Werewolf!Carlos Oliveira x Reader

I got you bb *mwah*

I had to rework it from a Halloween ask, but I hope you like you babe!

Contains: Werewolf transformation

He felt… off.

Well, more off than usual. He hasn’t felt right for over a year since he had his little accident, it was like something was always wrong in the deepest pits in his gut. It feels like something is always going to happen, he’s always on edge like a rubber band stretched too far that it was on the verge of snapping.

But today- He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him. He could feel it clawing inside, wanting to tear apart his muscles by the bloody sinew, he could feel his organs shifting around like they were being twisted by monstrous hands. He wanted to vomit. He could feel his stomach growing icy cold inside of his blazing hot body. He was too warm for his liking, like his body was fighting off an infection desperately.

He knew what that infection was.

Even now, as he stands in the bathroom with icy cold water beating down on his naked body, he still felt his fever spiking. He braced himself against the tiled wall of the shower, both hands pressing against the wall as his shoulders flexed to keep him from falling. His thick, dark hair fell into his face as he heaved and panted. He grit his teeth and pressed his forehead against the icy cold tile; It was a short reprieve for his pounding skull as he felt bile bubbling up at the back of his throat.

Why was this happening?

Carlos spit out the bile that had collected under his tongue, the bitterness remained against his teeth as wiped the sopping wet hair away from his face.

Through the humming of the pipes and the pounding of the water against the bathtub’s floor, Carlos was aware of every single noise in the apartment: Including you.

Fuck, just thinking about you made it feel like he was stabbed in the heart. It rattled his insides, forcing him to open his eyes as he was startled out of his thoughts. He turned the faucet off and stood there in the shower completely naked, horrible thoughts racing through his mind of just the thought of you finding out what he really was. How would you even react to something like that? Cry? Scream? Call him a monster? It tore him apart inside, only urging the feelings swirling inside of him to become even more bitter.

Drawing the shower curtain back, he snatched at one of the towels off of the rack and started to wipe off whatever icy cold water clung to his body before wrapping the towel tightly around his waist. When he stepped out, he hissed softly, feeling an odd pull along his spine like his muscles had locked up. He stumbled, catching himself on the sink vanity as his hands grabbed at the marble counter before he looked up.

He nearly jumped out of his skin at what he suddenly saw. Through the haze of the bathroom mirror, he saw two horrid yellow eyes peeking through the steam that had oddly built up despite just taking a cold shower. Two horrible yellow eyes staring right through the haze and directly into his soul. He swiped his calloused hand across the mirror, wiping away the fog only to relax when he saw his own dark and very tired eyes. His shoulders sagged but he kept panting, he was trying to quell the disgusting feeling inside of him. He knew what it wanted, he could practically hear it whispering in his ear as it clawed at the back of his mind.

It wants to come out.

And he’ll be damned if he lets that happen with you not even twenty feet away in the kitchen making dinner. The smell of the food made his stomach both growl with desire and churn in disgust.

He knew that you thought something was up, and as he finally clothed himself and walked into the kitchen, he saw it in your eyes as you looked him over.

“You don’t look so good,” you noted as you wiped your hands dry on a towel.

“‘M not feeling too not, babe.”

Just the thought of lying to you made him feel weak and horrible.

You walked up to him and placed a hand on his head. Your hand was cold and a little wet from washing your hands in the sink. He leaned into the touch of your skin, feeling something awful bubble in his chest when you pulled away. He looked down at you with exhausted eyes.

“Are you sick? You feel like you have a fever.”

“I may have gotten something.” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a lie, but it surely wasn’t the whole truth either. He needed to distract you from your worrying or it would make that horrible feeling cascading over him feel worse. “Maybe dinner’ll help.”

Dinner had relaxed him somewhat, quelling the gnawing fear in his gut for a little while as you snuggled up to him on the couch. A thick flannel spread over your legs, eyes on the tv and you both struggled to find something to watch. You were pressed right up against his side, one of his arms wrapped over your shoulders as you gently clung onto him. He could hear your heart fluttering in your chest, he could smell your sweet scent. He clenched his jaw and kept flipping through until he froze in fear at what was currently playing.

It was a fucking werewolf movie, some shitty b movie where its allowed to be over the top and bloody. The beast was ugly and horrific, up on its hind legs wearing the usual flannel shirt and dark jeans both torn to shreds as it held a fainted woman in its beastly hands. Its maw full of teeth like razors, its claws coated in blood, the woman had a nasty bite on her hip that bled through the fabric of her own clothes.

It was like he was shot through the chest. He locked up, his heart suddenly beating so slowly as it rattled through his head with every pound. It suddenly became hard to breathe.

He felt the tension finally snap inside of him.

He stood up suddenly, the couch scraping against the floor from how quickly he stood, before he set off for the bedroom. It was the first place he could think of despite knowing he was going to trap himself inside, but at least he could book it out of the fire escape. He slammed the door behind him, trembling hands locking the doorknob before he suddenly felt a horrible pain shooting up his spine. He couldn’t help the cry of pain that came out of him as he braced himself against the door. He pressed his full weight against the wood, his forehead resting uncomfortably as he winced at the feel of the beast taking over. On the off glance over his trembling shoulder, he spotted his eyes glowing a haunting yellow through the standing mirror in the corner of the bedroom.

And there was a soft knock at the door.

He slammed a hand over the crack between the door and the frame, fingers trembling as they popped and crackled while his nails threatened to give way to claws.

“Carlos?” your soft voice called out from the other side of the door. “Carlos, are you okay?” You sounded panicked but you were trying to keep calm. He heard you try the doorknob, he saw it wriggling but it didn’t budge. Another surge of pain rolled over, nearly crippling him as he fell to his trembling knees. The shout of pain that left him was deep, there were rumblings of something inhumane in his voice as he pressed his other hand over his mouth. He could feel it starting to take over, his vision swaying as he seized and shook. “Carlos, please! Open the door!”

He would rather die. He could see the look on your face if you found out if you saw him writhing on the floor as his body twisted into a hideous monster. Your eyes wide with pure terror, your heart beating so fast that it might give out, your body refusing to move like a deer in headlights.

You needed to leave.

“(Y-Y/n),” he managed to choke out.

He suddenly cried out, back arching as his spine crackled violently. Fuck, it hurt so much as he desperately tried to keep himself sane. He couldn’t last much longer. The corners of his vision were fading, he could feel his mind slipping, he could hear the monster baying at the top of its lungs. His clothes clung to him, too tight all of a sudden, threatening to pop at the seams from his growing body.

“Carlos, I’m here Just please, open the door.”

He could hear the strain in your voice, he could smell the salt in your tears. Fuck, you were crying for him. You were crying for the man you loved that was turning into a horrifying monster.

You needed to get out.

“Get out!” he suddenly found the strength to snap at you. His voice didn’t sound human at all, it was too deep and too pained. “(Y/n), please, get out of here-”

He cut himself off with another cry of pain.

He felt his body finally give in.

#resident evil #carlos oliveria #carlos oliveria x reader #carlos x reader #werewolf!carlos oliveria

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ivalice-tifalucis · 7 months

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Blue World

Guys, since TT3 is coming back and we're packing up our hype for the next album, I think let's make another post about Barlliams/Creamcakes aka my favorite ship in Take That crumbs.

I don't know why any of you haven't talked about this yet. Maybe you have but I didn't see it or know but haven't talked about this yet or maybe I've seen you talked about it but I forget for some reason.

In 2018, in one of his now deleted youtube live streaming which I actually watched when it was live (which is rare because I can count on one hand how many times I watch any live stream that he did), he showed this unreleased Take That song likely from Progress era based on the tune that sounds like Eight Letters, the beat that is Progress-like, and even "in requiem" words which become a whole song by Gary in his solo album. If you listen closely, this is clearly a duet between Rob and Gaz.

Edit: Can I just say I was internally screaming in 2018 when I first hear Blue World. We are so parched of CC crumbs that this got me gasping like OMG THAT'S GARY'S VOICE!!!!! (starts from 1:56)

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Another time where he played this song again in Coronaoke series on instagram live back in 2020 during early pandemic. In this year, he said the title to this song is "Blue World" and played the song from start to finish. Trying to make this blog entry make me realize he actually played a different version of the song in 2018 and in 2020. I think they are reworking this song, hmmm interesting isn't it?

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I tried to write the lyrics based on what I heard and try to tell which part is Robbie and which is Gary. It is hard and I might be wrong because Robbie's higher register and Gary's higher/middle register actually sounds similar which is something that I realized when Gary fill in Robbie's part in Everything Changes (Odyssey Version) in the last part of the song "thinking thinking about you". It took me like couple of listening to finally realize wait a minute, that's Gary's voice not young Robbie's. The only difference is that Gary has that soft edges on his voice while Robbie doesn't have that.

Plus, Robbie was karaoke-ing over this song and being Robbie he doesn't even know the right words of his own songs and sing the wrong words and sometimes just mumbles so I have to pay close attention to the song in the background. There are small parts that I still can't catch what the lyric is. I hope they released this song at some point. Have been waiting since 2018 and still wait patiently.

Edit 2: thanks @beautyofred for the notice. It is “You know how young we were” 😭, "You might be living but we're holding hands", "Can't stand the frequency here". After this, it makes even more sense this song is about them. So in the 2018 version, Blue World is basically like this:

(Gary) Blue world, your fate is calling Blue world, at last control A new world of final curtain calls Look how we've come together Just when we've reached the end In requiem

(Robbie) You know how young we were And feel how much it hurts We might be loving but we're holding hands We might be leaving but we're making plans Below our bleeding sky watching our mother's die It seems forever wasn't long enough Why must we always lose the ones we love?

(Gary) Will moment share it musters? But this fragile blue world With the cruel sunlight burning in our eyes ... And in 2020 it is like this:

(Robbie) Blue world, your fate is calling Blue world, at last control A new world of final curtain calls (Gary) Look how we've come together Just when we've reached the end In requiem

(Both) You know how young you were And feel how much it hurts You might be leaving but we're holding hands We might be dying but we're making plans Below our bleeding sky watching our mother's cry It seems forever wasn't long enough Why must we always lose the ones we love? (Robbie) Will moment share it musters? But this fragile blue world With the cruel sunlight burning in our eyes (Gary) You said, I don't know if I could love you for the rest of your life But I’ll love you for the rest of mine That we're led around your silent heart (Robbie) A blue balloon on a barbwire The weather on the ground is catching fire now And when you hear that sound (Both) You know how young we were And feel how much it hurts You might be leaving but we're holding hands We might be dying but we're making plans Below our bleeding sky watching our mother's die It seems forever wasn't long enough Why must we always lose the ones we love? (I'm sure this part changes at this 3rd reff but I can't catch what it is)

(Both) Because can't stand the frequency here Call my name and I'll appear I'm traveling at the speed of light When nothing matters but the life that seep your eyes (Gary) Hold us together Hold us together Hold us together Hold us together I know a secret about you

(Both) You know how young we were And feel how much it hurts You might be leaving but we're holding hands We might be dying but we're making plans Below our bleeding sky watching our mother's cry You know forever wasn't long enough Why must we always lose the ones we love?

You know how young we were (Hold us together) And feel how much it hurts (Hold us together) You might be leaving but we're holding hands (Hold us together) ....

#gary barlow #robbie williams #barlliams #creamcakes #take that #future take that album??#or future barlliams album that we have robbed from since 2012?????#i wasn't there in 2012 tho so maybe i'm not the one who got robbed lol #my ramblings #Youtube

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obligatoryidolblog · 10 months

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Pilgrimage

Genre: Smut? Weird? I’m not even sure what to call this

Pairing: Seonghwa/reader

Warnings: unprotected sex, lots of references to mental instability, lots of religious references?

Summary: When your midlife crisis comes a few decades too early, you run away from home and into a man who steals the last bits of your sanity.

A/N: This is a complete rewrite and rework of a blurb I wrote before.

Masterlist

Steam wafts up from your coffee mug. You have no idea where the hell you are. That should worry you. Normally it would worry you. But tonight is anything but normal.

You think people can tell. Or it could just be that you are alone, doing nothing but drinking coffee and scribbling on a piece of shitty scrap paper from the bottom of your bag. You swear you’re not looking to be ‘picked up,’ man down the way. You’re just here because here is where you’re at. And no, young ladies next to you, you are not crazy, a prostitute, or an addict.

Well, to be honest, the crazy part is debatable. Like, you’re in your early twenties and you just ran away from home. Guess your midlife crisis came early. But let’s not think about that. Let’s think about the waitress.

Probably your age, but she looks tired, old. Cute, bobbed hair of a flat color obviously obtained from a box, a neat row of short bangs brushing her brows. She looks like a throwback to another era, her precise black eyeliner speaking to the mid twentieth century.

You want to talk to her, but she’s busy. That’s what you tell yourself, anyways. You could never actually strike up a conversation with her. ‘Painfully shy’ has never been a more apt description of a person. So here you sit, watching the waitress through the curtain of your hair, her plump frame hazed by lank strands.

She has an odd, almost imperceptible rhythm to her movements behind the long bar you are seated at. Water dispensing, coffee, check the window to the kitchen, take a breath, hitch her smile back up and do it all again. It’s hypnotizing. You want her to stop and just… scream. You can see it there, in her eyes. She wants out.

You want to tell her that you understand. You wanted out, too. You’d take her with you. Ride off into the sunset. Hit the dusty trail. Thelma and Louise, reborn. But things like that don’t happen in your life. You are having your breakdown, but that doesn’t mean she is, too. Maybe she is perfectly happy working the bar at this diner. Maybe you’re just trying to find some connection.

Your rational side is trying to emerge again. Can’t have that. This is your break from reality, and you won’t have sanity infringe upon it. If you stop and think, then all the running is lost. You have to keep moving, keep looking ahead, don’t stop, don’t think, don’t let feelings sneak up on you. Watch the waitress and dream. Everything else is behind you.

Yeah, that’ll work.

As you sweep your eyes over her stained uniform once more, you hear the ding of the door. You don’t turn, don’t look, lost in your wandering imagination. But you’re dragged from your downward spiral by the form that slides to the stool next to you. Glancing over, you find a sharp profile and incredibly soft looking hair framing it. This creature almost seems to glow with ethereal light. His eyes swing over to you for a moment and in that moment you feel… salvation.

He gives you a brief smile, then turns back to order a coffee from the now-forgotten waitress. You study him, no part of your sanity remaining to remind you not to stare at some stranger in a diner in the middle of nowhere like some kind of freak. Thankful to whatever god had sent him your way, he doesn’t seem to notice your intense stare.

His lips are full, softly flushed. You bet they’re soft. You bet all of him is soft. You bet he’d laugh at you if you hit on him. Hell, you’d laugh at you. Why are you so awkward? You have no clue how to even smile at him without looking scared. Dammit, you want to smile at him. You want to pull his glorious attention back to you and ask him question after question until you know everything about him. You want to touch him and see if his skin is as soft as it looks. You want to kiss him. You want to be bold.

But you’re still sitting there, mentally stripping him and running your tongue over his skin as he sips his coffee and looks at his phone, unaware. Good job. Even in the midst of your early midlife crisis you’re a pussy. You wish you could say you’re surprised by your cowardice, but it’s nothing new. This escape to the unknown is the biggest step you’ve taken in a long time, and even now you’re barely an hour from home.

You are apparently bad at having a breakdown, even. Again, no big shock. Your life has been one big string of failure and you suppose you can’t break that lovely streak. You guess that’s one thing you didn’t fail at. Should that be comforting? It really isn’t. Time to stop dwelling on this and focus on the matter at hand.

The man. He’s looking at you.

“Yes?” you rasp out, wincing mentally at the curtness your nervousness created.

“Can you pass the sugar?” he asks, his deep voice soft, just as velvet as you imagine his body to be.

“Oh… yeah,” you mumble, feeling your face deepen in color as you slide the container to him.

You have to get a grip on yourself.

Ha. As if.

Taking a long swallow of your own cold coffee, you set your eyes back on the waitress, trying to grasp the remaining frayed ends of your decorum, and fail immediately upon setting the cup back down, turning once more to the magnetic draw of the man beside you. You choke slightly as you find him still looking at you, his eyes catching yours and that feeling of ease washing over you again at the genuine interest in his dark eyes.

Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird. Just smile at him.

A shaky smile curls your lips, and you raise a hand to wave lamely. Good job, fantastic, not weird at all. You feel the inward cringe only distantly, though, as the heavenly man leans closer with a chuckle, and your insides go to mush just as much as your brain has been. He waves gently in return and you feel your mental state topple sideways. No one should be that pretty, it simply isn’t fair.

“Are you okay?” he asks hesitantly, his brow wrinkling slightly, glancing at your bag.

Dragging your eyes away from him is way harder than it should be but you manage it. Oh. Oh yeah. Your bag was overflowing with the clothes you’d stuffed in it in your haste to get away. From what you still hadn’t determined. You had a nagging sensation that what you were trying to get away from was yourself, but you weren’t going to unpack that.

Instead you turn an embarrassed smile to him again and shrug, realizing that you’ve been staring at your bag for what must be a good thirty seconds. He must think you’re absolutely batshit. Which you couldn’t blame him for since you were pretty much coming to the same conclusion yourself. His voice and his eyes go even more soft and compassionate and boy, does that do a number on your heart rate.

“I’m… I guess?” you finally stutter out, “Are-… are you?”

A wide smile bursts across his face at your complete buffoonery, and the breath is knocked from your lungs. That perfect face, meant to be canonized in every holy work, cracks into something pained, his bright teeth shining as his eyes crumple. A glimpse of humanity infuses this divine being, and you weren’t sure what was worse - being in the presence of an earth-bound god or the knowledge that such sublimity could be contained in truly mortal flesh. Time slows, the frame rate of the universe moving at the pace of your broken, idiot brain as you simply bask in the mushroom cloud glow of this angelic man’s laugh.

Record scratch halt, the moment is fractured, and that mesmerizing smile ends as the waitress leans in to refill his cup. He flashes a small semblance of the world-stopping smile at her and you are momentarily numb, reminded that this celestial being doesn’t reserve its smiles for you.

He’s a stranger, you freak. Calm down. He could be an axe murderer for all you know.

His gentle, graceful eyes turn back to you, and all thoughts flee as he lifts his mug to you in mock salute and finally replies, “No. I’m pretty sure I’m not okay.”

White noise overtakes your consciousness for a moment, the thought that he just so brazenly told you, a complete stranger who was (you were pretty sure) clearly going through Some Shit, that he wasn’t okay… the bravery. The honesty. The pure terror of how to respond without letting him know that you are currently completely off your rocker.

“Er?”

Well that certainly didn’t do the job.

His smile widens back into that lovely grimace and you quickly look down, lest you lose your goddamn marbles again at the vision.

“Sorry, I’m being weird,” he says, embarrassment leaking into his husky voice, and this draws your amazed eyes back to his.

“Weird is kinda my thing right now,” you shakily reply, your own lips curling into what you hoped to god was a normal smile.

Turning fully to face you, he holds his graceful hand out to you, and feeling like an alien doing this for the first time ever, you reach out to shake it as he says, “I’m Seonghwa.”

“_____,” you reply, dimly aware that giving your real name to some rando in the middle of the night probably isn’t wise, but the ability to care is somehow lost to you, so you throw all caution to the wind. “Are you running away as well?”

He raises a sharp eyebrow and you can practically feel little cartoon hearts popping up and circling your head. The flash of his teeth as he smiles is doing a number on your pulse, and you can feel the first genuine smile in months stretch your lips in return.

“I’m not running away from anything,” he leans in and whispers confidentially, making your pupils blow wide and your pulse thrum in your ears. “I’m looking for something.”

Meeting his eyes much closer to yours, you are pretty sure you’re either falling in immediate, deranged love with this guy or you’re about to have a stroke. Odd how often those feel the same.

“Scavenger hunt?” your entirely cockeyed brain manages to force from your lips, and you’re simply glad you’re able to form words when the mere fact that he moved slightly closer to you sent the last few of your firing neurons into a frenzy.

With a cocked brow that could hold up the heavens, he pauses a beat, likely reevaluating the choice of speaking to someone clearly completely out of marbles to lose, he then replies, “Of sorts. If the scavenger hunt list consists of pieces of myself.”

And with that the last bits of your wits scatter like the dandelion fluff that currently seemed to have taken the place of your brain. His reality-altering smile breaks again and you have fallen so deep into the well of his starlit eyes that you can’t tug your gaze away to reduce the psychic damage taken by viewing such human artistry full on.

Shit. Here comes that love/stroke feeling again.

“Maybe you could help me,” he slyly adds, as if he hadn’t just slithered into your crisis of self like the serpent into the Garden of Eden.

“Uh,” you feel your lips fumble out, unable to even muster embarrassment at being struck dumb by this brash demon or angel or whatever the hell this man was; certainly not mortal, no matter what his deviously human smile indicates.

He had to stop looking at you like that, you simply wouldn’t survive it. With a devastating narrow of his eyes, the cunningness of Lucifer himself imbues this being, this self proclaimed Seonghwa, and your soul turns fully from any god ever worshiped. This man, if he could be demeaned to be reduced to such a lowly state as human, could require any act of you and you’d acquiesce with the devotion only known by the truly devout, or the fully deranged. Either of which could now be true of you, if the hallelujah chorus in your brain was any indication.

“I… yes?” you stammer, completely unable to give anything but full consent to the compelling creature, not even needing the quite possibly very important details of what he requested of you.

Seeing your immediate and unhinged acquiescence, Seonghwa’s face softens once more, and you feel absolutely none of the self consciousness that you should at his concern for your lack of self preservation. Who were you to preserve your lowly self from such a blessed being?

After a moment’s perusal, which felt like an eternity to your fractured mind, he leans closer to ask in a confessional booth whisper, “Do you know what it’s like to live solely for other people?”

His words flow over you like the preface to a homily that would drag you to your knees for eventual communion. Happily, devotedly, zealously would you live your life solely for him. But no, this was not his intent, and he continued on in his liturgy.

“For years now, I have given every part of me to other people. I’ve sacrificed myself for everyone else in my life, and where has it got me?” he clarifies, looking down into the depth of his shitty, overly sweet coffee. You could practically see the wreath of thorns adorning his crown, wanting to ask to see his palms, to view his personal marks of stigmata. Not in doubt, as Thomas had, but to kiss his wounds, to bathe them in tears as Mary Magdalene had washed the feet of her savior.

Raising his eyes once more to meet yours, the hymns of gloria return and you struggle to hear his low voice as he asks again, “Do you know what that feels like?”

Unable to defy his words, you hear the confession slip from your lips, “I’m not sure I know what it feels like to live at all. For myself, or anyone else.”

Rocked with the realization of what you’d just avowed, you still your breath, waiting for your penance for interrupting his gospel. But instead, his hand slides over to grasp your own, a benediction for your transgression against him.

“That’s the same though, isn’t it?” he asks, his canon hard to follow through your crumbling sanity but you listen on as this prophet gives his revelation, “You aren’t living for yourself. Is it so bad to want to be selfish from time to time?”

The cardinal sin of greed could never touch this seraph, you were certain of that, so with a shake of your head you denounce the mere idea, “Of course not.”

The martyr smile breaks over his face once more, and you’re convinced that the flickering fluorescent diner light behind him is now a halo, enwreathing his pained visage. How did this radiant being come to find you in this dump of a pitstop on a side road of perdition? How did you, your piteous, splintered self come to be so blessed? Was it blasphemy to question such a consecration? How long have you been staring at him in adoration, like some sort of lunatic?

The agonized smile had fallen from the grace of Seonghwa’s face, and he now looked almost hesitant, his beatific lips twisting to the side before forming yet another question, “Do you have somewhere to be? Where are you running to?”

The question of the night, surely. The hymns fall to silence in your mind as you are reminded of your own trials. A manic giggle nearly bubbles up inside you as you weigh his words. Running to somewhere? Certainly not. Only away. Always away. The burning itch to escape chokes you once again, panic nearly closing your throat. You meet his eyes, and you know that he sees the answer before you can speak.

“I’m just… I had to get away. I don’t… I don’t know,” you mumbled out, unable to order your disorderly thoughts, but of course he divined your meaning clearly. Of course this Seonghwa could look directly into your soul, know your inner workings before you know them yourself.

A tilt of his head dims the harsh glow of the light behind him, his halo diminishing to something less holy, something less angelic as he takes you in for a moment. You want to curl in on yourself, realizing that you had rushed from your house in naught but sweatpants and a stained tank top, no thought of a bra or underwear even. Great, just like you to meet divinity in your fucking pajamas, your hair a mess, the sweat of the dread of eternity in your own skin still drying on you.

“Then…” he slowly begins, the wily glint taking hold in his eyes once more, his purity darkening with infernal intent, “would you join me? I have a room. Allow… allow me to be selfish. Just this once. Perhaps even allow yourself to be selfish.”

As if taking off in the middle of the night wasn’t already your foray into the selfish, but that's beside the point when Seonghwa’s long fingers were now slipping over your wrist, trailing with promise of joyful sin, his now devilish eyes sliding down to the gleaming, damp meeting of your breasts peeking over the top of your soiled tank top. Oh. Oh, that’s what he wants. Again, the familiar sense of logic tries to take hold of your brain. Are you really going to go to a hotel room with some dude you just met and had a weird bonding moment with for like five minutes in a dilapidated diner in some podunk nowhere town? Is this what you’ve come to? Have you finally really gone around that particular bend? Is your rationality truly completely obliterated?

More importantly, do you give even the slightest damn? Because truth be told, you already knew the answer. Yes, you were going to go with Seonghwa to this chapel he so graciously invited you into. Sanity be damned, long forgotten consequences be damned. The burning trail of his fingers over your wrist brings a doxology roaring through your mind that silences the voice of reason. This being could do as he pleased with you and you would give an acclamation to his hallowed self in response. So in your ecstatic trance, you feel your head nod.

Seonghwa stands, and your center of gravity follows the pull of his orbit, nearly tugging you off your seat. As if immune to your complete ridiculousness ever since he entered stage left and stole the scene of your mental breakdown soliloquy, he ignores your wobble, and holds his hand out again. The alien motoring your brain once more takes the controls as you stare at his outstretched hand in confusion, flabbergasted in your stupor to the fact that he clearly wants you to take it in your own. Levers finally pull, and your arm reaches out like a ventriloquist dummy hand, puppeted with a stick by the last shard of lucidity in your stupefied psyche.

The angel choir roars to a crescendo again at the returned touch of his skin on yours, and then falls immediately silent as you meet his eyes. Supernova consumes your body, and you are pretty sure he has to feel the way your body rocks with the sensation of acceptance of your fate, but he has the continued grace to not point out your overt strangeness tonight. What a guy. What a man. You could fling yourself into the sun, immolating yourself from either embarrassment or sheer manic joy, you can’t decide which. But for now, you settle for letting him lead you from the diner, your haphazardly packed bag left orphaned and forgotten by your seat, now a shrine to the moment of your newfound zealotry.

With the blind faith of a new convert, you allow Seonghwa to lead you out the door and towards the shitty motel in the next parking lot over. Thoughts of axe murders and caution now wiped clean from your stricken brain, you find no place for doubt in this creature as he leads your form behind him, stumbling with scarecrow grace to a hotel room door. Like a cartoon character trailing toes along the floor, carried aloft by the scent of a delicious meal, you inhale the mere presence of Seonghwa as he unlocks and opens the door and leads you in.

It is at the same time not your finest moment and the best second of your entire existence.

The door closes with a finality that resounds with every decision that had led you to be sitting in that shitty diner tonight. You, like Seonghwa, had not been running from something; fate had driven you with the crack of a whip made of panic, out of your room, out of your house, into your car, and to the exact place that would bring you into the same realm as this divine man. Hazily, you decide to check later if that diner was somehow a holy site, drawing unknowing pilgrims.

But this thought is blown completely from your brain along with any other semblance of lucidity when Seonghwa’s hands grip your hips and his full, rose petal lips touch yours. This sensation is what turns sinners into saints, what razes mountains to the ground, what made the prehistoric seas boil and churn until life emerged.

The stroke of his fingers are the brush of a divinely inspired artist on the canvas of your skin. His palms press into your waist as in prayer, rucking up the hastily thrown on tank top in their quest. A soft sigh escapes your afflicted lips as he removes his own, looking down to once again meet your gaze. A flicker of doubt passes across his eyes and you repent for causing such a man any duress. Trailing your hands up his chest, over his neck, and tangling your fingers into his hair, you give a Mother Mary smile.

“Please Seonghwa, continue,” your absolution dissolving the confessional screen that hazed his eyes, “be selfish.”

A soft grunt escapes his flushed lips as you tug gently on the hair entwined in your fingers, pulling him back into the joining of lips, his tongue now sweeping through your mouth as the sense of exaltation returns. His legs step forward, driving you back to press against the door, fervor now taking him as he licks into your mouth, one hand slamming to press against the door beside your head as the other tightens on your waist, his nails digging penitent crescent marks into the plush of your skin. The flames of hell itself consume you as you press your body fully against him, returning his kiss with full devotion.

His lips slip from yours, beginning a pilgrimage down your jaw to the crux of your neck. Turning your head to allow him more room, you distantly see the hand by your head has balled into a fist, dragging a moan from your lips as he spreads a burning need throughout your body, sucking a deep bruise into your skin. More, you want more of the proof of his presence left on your body, evidence of this miracle to profess to the world. Your grip on his tresses tightens and a guttural groan vibrates from him to you. Seonghwa’s hips press forward, the length straining at his zipper rocking against your hip. One of your hands tugs at his hair harder, the other traversing down, wriggling between the flush of your bodies together to slide over Seonghwa’s twitching, confined cock.

His teeth sink into the bruised skin between them in response, and you cry out, a sharp jolt of pleasure rocketing to your core at the sensation. He quickly pulls himself away from you, and you pant, forsaken, turning pleading eyes to him as he stands staring at your trembling form, begging for him to return his grace to your body. Heavy breaths escape him as he appears to attempt to gain control of himself, to seek for the return of self sacrifice and restraint, to return to sanctity.

Oh no, that won’t do. You will not allow Seonghwa to nail himself to a cross for your sins. Stepping forward, you pull the ugly, filthy tank top over your head, baring yourself to him. His gaze drinks in the bared skin, his fear for his mortal soul wavering as you take his hand and bring it up to cup the weight of your breast.

“Stop thinking, Seonghwa,” you murmur, running the fingers of your free hand under his t-shirt, savoring the smooth skin hidden beneath, “Take my offering.”

If your strange verbiage caught his attention he did not show it, though you guess it was no more strange than anything else you’ve said tonight. Instead, he makes a pained sound in the back of his throat, then drops his mouth to the peak in his hand. You suck in a sharp breath as he laves his tongue over your nipple, his hands once more placing a firm hold on your hips as you wind your fingers into his hair again. Your head tips backwards, cries of pleasure leaving you as he pulls your pearled nipple between his lips and sucks. Dampness collects in your folds, slipping down to sully the sweatpants that you had tugged on merely hours earlier in your fervent haste to run.

“Heavenly,” Seonghwa mumbles around your flesh, “You taste like heaven.”

And he would know, wouldn’t he? Your soul soars at his words, and you tug his head away, your hands now at busy work pulling at his shirt, desperate to remove it and see the skin cassocked away from your sight. He quickly divests himself, and you are unable to refrain from darting forward to run your tongue over his collarbone. He hisses in a breath between clenched teeth, and you have a vision of his head tipped back, gleaming teeth bared as his eyes tense shut when you glance up from taking in the planes of his chest as you run your mouth over every inch you can reach. Pressing your breasts against him, you nip along his neck, putting your wandering hands to work now on the opening of his jeans.

“Wait,” he pants out, a rough grip on your wrists now, “wait.”

You look up, frozen at his sudden return of repentance. But instead of a look of contrition or doubt, you find him tilting his lips into a devilish smile, his hands on your hips maneuvering you to stand before the bed as he drops to his knees before you.

“Your turn,” he says, his tone now the reverent one, his eyes shining with wicked idolatry, “I want you to be selfish too.”

As he begins to slide your sweatpants down your hips, you feel a rush of sanctity infuse you, no longer the acolyte, but now the priestess in this mass. His covetous gaze follows the descent of your ratty sweatpants, as if watching the wonders of the creation, eyes locking on the glistening folds he uncovers and the slide of honeyed dampness coating your inner thighs. When you step out of the sweatpants, he leans in and presses a kiss to your thigh, then pushes your hips backwards.

“Lay down,” he says, looking up at you with carnal intent, and who are you to deny him?

Placing yourself slowly on the scratchy, cum-stained comforter topping the stiff bed in this dusty motel room shouldn’t feel like laying a cloth atop an altar, but should and shouldn’t have no place in your fractured mind tonight. Draping yourself back, Seonghwa moves to the bed, spreading your legs with a smoothing of his palm over your sticky thighs and settles himself between them. Normal you, sane you, would be mortified to have a gorgeous stranger raking eyes over your bare cunt like this, but you are not that person now. You are Seonghwa’s version of you. God help you, you hope to never return to normal if this is what madness brings.

“So ready to do anything I ask,” Seonghwa says, still gliding his hands up and down your inner thighs as his eyes drink in your form, “What if I were to hurt you? What if I wanted to do evil things to you?”

There’s a moral quandary in there, still tickling the back of his saintly mind, but honestly you are positive that in your current state you would acquiesce readily, no matter. Coherent thought had long fled the building, and you were fully immersed in your fallacious worship of this man. Nothing he could do to you could ever be evil, because he himself is wholly divine. He could make a sacrifice of you and it would still be an act of devotion.

“I’m yours to do with as you please. Be greedy, Seonghwa,” you tell him as much, watching the racing emotions over his face at your words, first shock, then a deep seated hunger.

“Be careful with your words, lovely,” he growls, leaning over you to prop himself on a hand, his lips over yours, “I’m likely to believe them tonight.”

You meet his intense gaze steadily, firm in your faith in him, and reply, “Take whatever you want, Hwa. I’m your disciple tonight.”

His lack of comment on your endless oddity continues as his eyes blaze and he drops to press a hot, spit slicked kiss to your hungry mouth. You return it with ardent devotion, and gasp in a lungful of musty motel air when he begins to work his mouth down your body, his destination clear as he makes quick work of devouring the skin of your neck, your chest, your stomach. He pauses when he reaches the juncture of your thighs, trailing his nose over your mound, inhaling deeply, bringing a shudder up your body and your fingers back to his hair.

The licking flame of his tongue between your legs is a pyre built to consume every wicked woman known to man. It slips between your folds, dragging over your clit as your back arches and a cry escapes you. His arms slide under your thighs, his hands wrapping up over them to hold them open as he delves his tongue into your hole, and a trembling takes over your body, yanking wildly at his sweat-damped strands. As he fucks his tongue into you, licking out the wet that is now gathering even quicker in your core, you chanted to the heavens, both curses and prayers, a creed of your worship of the tongue driving you to ecstasy.

Moving to draw your clit between his lips, he gives a hard suck and the breath is driven from your lungs. Your walls clench around the lack of his tongue, and you gasp out a silent plea, looking down to find his eyes closed in avaricious joy as he flicks his tongue over the nub he is still suckling at. Writhing, you finally draw air back into your lungs, and cry his name out, pulling a moan from him that vibrates through your clit and sends shocks up your spine. An ache forms in your walls, yearning to be filled, to clamp down on more than your own juices.

“Please,” you beg, caught in limbo and viewing heaven from afar, “please Hwa, I need more!”

He growls, pulling away with another long lick over your hole to your clit, then sitting up to yank open his jeans.

“That’s right, want it all, don’t you?” he questions, shoving at the waist of his jeans and boxers at once, revealing a quivering cock, red at the tip and anointed with glimmering precum, tumescent in the low light of the hideous lamp on the dingy bedside table, “My impatient little plaything.”

The covetous note in his voice is matched by the way you eye his cock with eager desire. You want nothing more than to shove him back and lay his dick on your tongue like the eucharist, to take the communion of his heavenly body and worship him fully. But he clearly has other ideas, as he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and grips the base of his cock and drags the tip over your folds. This draws a long moan from your lips, and you drop your eyes closed at the heat of his precum mingling with yours on your folds.

“So wet, so ready for me to take and take and take,” he releases on a deep breath, tipping his head back and screwing his eyes shut again as he coats the head of his dick with your juices, “All for me, right?”

His eyes dart back down to yours, commanding your response, which you readily give, “All yours, Seonghwa, anything for you.”

His moral dilemma seems to have ended as he gives you a look of fierce infatuation, all doubt gone, and you drink in the lust pouring off of him. He leans over you once more, planting a hand by your head as he positions himself at your entrance, leaning down to feather his lips over your jawline.

“I told you to be careful with those words,” he mumbles into your neck, “Anything?”

You are resolute in your conviction as you breathe out, “Anything. Make me yours.”

You gasp in a deep cry as Seonghwa pushes his way into you, moaning against your shoulder, “And if I want to cum in you?”

“Give me every drop,” you cry out, palms finding his back and your nails turning in to rake marks down his shoulders.

“Fuck, lovely,” he shudders out, drawing his hips back to drive into your heat with force driven by maddening desire, “Say it again.”

The thrust of his cock is a divining rod directly drawing every drop of essence from your core. He sets a fervent pace, the sound of your wet folds slapping against his base filling the room. He grunts with the effort of his passion, and you repeat a catechism of need for him, for his seed to fill you to overflowing, to be possessed fully by him and only him. The heavy stroke of his thick cock stretches the limits of your neglected pussy, and the fire building in your loins is only fueled by the thickly slurred whisper of his desires and passion in your ear, a rosary prayer that would serve as penance for Satan himself.

“God, beautiful, you’re so tight, so hot around my cock,” his words flood your senses, driving you nearer and nearer your peak, “My own little toy to fill with cum, going to fuck it into you so deep…”

He trails off into soft moans, pressing blazing open-mouthed kisses across your shoulders as you drag your nails down his back harder, arching your hips as much as you can to meet his rough thrusts, so close to paradise, but just out of reach. You cry out, begging him once again for more, and he pushes himself up, hooking an arm under one of your knees, the new angle making his harsh thrusts now batter that spot inside you that stole the breath from your lungs. As a final blessing, he brings his other hand down to press his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles on it, the fires of damnation in his eyes as they met yours.

“Fuck, cum for me, please cum for me,” he grits out between his beautiful teeth, his hips stuttering as he twitched inside you with each snap of his hips, “Squeeze me while I fill you up, beautiful.”

The last clear thought you have, as Seonghwa imbues you with his gracious self, suffuses your mind and body with every bit of himself, fills you to overflowing both literally and metaphorically, is “this must be what miracles are made of.” And the consummation, the sparkling moment of orgasm, your trembling body drinking in the baptismal font of his seed, is the purest form of communion. You quake with your release, clamping down around him as you buck and cry out to the heavens you have now reached. He jerks his hips against you, teeth clenched as his cum streams into you in hot torrents.

The sacrament of your joining overflows, and he collapses against you, still deep in your leaking cunt as you both catch your breath. Your once flagellating hands now sooth over his rent skin, and he draws in a deep breath then rolls off of you, bringing a sigh to your lips as you feel him slip out of you and his cum begin to flow out onto the filthy comforter below you. His head turns to look at you, and you see the same satisfaction you feel matched on his face.

“Are you… was that okay?” he asks, propping himself up on an elbow and cupping your face in his palm.

A laugh bubbles up from your chest and you pull him into a kiss. How do you explain that “okay” is not even close to what “that” was? You were born again, baptized and given new life by this man.

Feeling him settle against you, pulling you close, you close your eyes and whisper, “That was glorious, Seonghwa.”

But this transcendence can’t ever last forever, can it? Certainly not for a half-crazed dumbass like yourself, letting a crack in your sanity widen to the point of idolatry. The early morning light streaming through the ratty curtains of this shitty hotel room wakes you to find an empty bed, the deity you had gifted your entire soul to the night before gone. No note. No traces of him to prove he existed aside from the marks on your body.

Figures, right?

Stumbling your way into your clothes, you try to be angry. With him or yourself, either would do. But mostly, you feel renewed, as if his cum drying on your thighs had glued back together the shattered pieces of yourself. Exiting the chapel of a ratty flophouse room, you see the waitress from last night exiting the diner across the parking lot. She glances over then waves at you, and dimly you are aware of the pity in her eyes. It would bother the you from last night, but this morning you simply smile and jog over, this new you absolved of the sin of shame.

“Hey,” she says as you approach, “I set your stuff behind the counter for you. Are you okay?”

You consider her well-intentioned question for a moment, then reply with the beatific smile of the resurrected in spirit, “Never better.”

#park seonghwa smut #seonghwa smut #ateez smut #ateez fic #seonghwa fanfic #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x you #seonghwa x y/n #ateez x reader #my writing #under 50 notes lmaooo y’all really hated this one #but it’s my pride and joy #gonna go sit in the corner and cry a little lol

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ancientpersacom · 4 months

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Zagnos and Hypnos nation, I have an AU for you

I call it the white swan au

Hypnos is having family issues. He’s a ballet dancer, but is fighting chronic fatigue. He cherishes dance over the family funeral business, by the time he gets back from practice he’s too tired to work effectively. It’s caused tension in the family, they can’t understand that the death industry just isn’t for him. But he gets a golden opportunity, to be the white swan in a highly anticipated, first ever rework of swan lake that contrasts the black and white swan together in a tale of self doubt and overcoming it. One that the orchestra of Apollo and the muses is playing for. His partner in the dance will be Zagreus, the only one that seems to understand his situation as he too has some family issues. His family being the rivaling funeral home to the Cthonics. Hypnos believes that if he can have his family see the performance and draw a standing ovation, they’ll finally understand he’s worth something outside of the family business. He overworks himself, pushing himself to the point he’s so fatigued he’s barely holding on. Zagreus is worried, but he can’t seem to snap Hypnos out of it. A few days before the performance, a massive fight between the twins break out when Thanatos accidentally damages the very expensive and elaborate swan outfit. The fight gets so bad Hypnos takes the outfit and doesn’t come home, staying with Zagreus. Charon is the first to realise how far this has gone, and gets his partner Hermes’ to very quickly and efficiently fix the costume and assured Hypnos everyone will be there to see him perform.

When performance day comes around, Hypnos is completely exhausted but pushes on. Midway through the show he starts to feel lightheaded and sore, but he keeps going. He’s determined to prove himself. Zagreus begs him to let the understudy take over but Hypnos refuses. They push on, the whole time Hypnos is barely holding on and Zagreus is giving him pleading looks to stop. In his fatigue, he lands a jump slightly off and injures his ankle but he just keeps going. Charon notices something is wrong from the crowd, but he can’t exactly stop the performance so he watches in anticipation for the worst. Hypnos finishes the show, but right as the curtains close he finally collapses and blacks out. His whole family sees it, and it’s the wake up call they need that things in this fight have gone too far. He’s taken to hospital, and while they wait for the verdict Zagreus chews them all out for the way they’ve treated Hypnos. Luckily, he’s ok and will be able to keep dancing as long as he keeps to a strict recovery routine and doesn’t overwork himself like that again.

The story ends with the family talking everything through, Hypnos being given the credit he deserves and his condition finally understood. Zagreus makes him promise to not hurt himself like that again, assuring him he was the most beautiful white swan to ever dance the stage. And finally, things start to look up for Hypnos.

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summonhouse · 7 months

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did u know !!!!! i am . INTERESTED in your characters and u should Tell me all about them

WAA WAA WAAA (HITS YOU WITH BRICKS )

Heres two collections of characters .

housecats who ive detailed plenty recently. the perfect person/pp, xerox, catch 22, and amaryllis/no signal. they are (sans amaryllis) fiction aware interdimensional creatures. the perfect person is the hand of god (me as a writer) torturing and assisting fictional creatures, xerox serves to clean up forgotten and abandoned stories lest they become overrun by nightmares and void, catch 22 is the nightmares and void, and amaryllis is pps normal child.

pp's a righteous bitch, extremely erratic and constantly experiencing back and forth. to have personality while also being explicitly and only a tool for someone who enjoys hurt/comfort is existentially hellish; it cannot allow for any personal connection because it will inevitably be torn apart for some writer sanctioned angst. its also only able to do what writers are capable of and so could easily be written stripped of its powers and lives knowing it has to serve or be trashed (which it had been for a year until recently and is still recovering). xerox is nice and sweet, despite regularly killing people and fighting monsters and the other housecats being very mean to him. he wishes everyone had the clarity to enjoy their time on screen and submit gracefully when the curtains close as an inevitability. catch 22 is just miserable and wants to see everything end (as it cannot) so seeks to permanently ruin any story it could. it personally despises pp for reasons i actually cannot remember. something about stealing its partner before it turned into a creepy void centaur? amaryllis is pretty normal, half mortal and ignorant to the larger problems around it really. in canon verse its been kidnapped by catch 22 in the hopes of hurting pp or inspiring it to try and rescue it but pp actually doesnt really care so amaryllis has been left abandoned to rot away in the void. i like to think about what i call "normalverse" aus where that didnt happen and it grows up relatively normal. i think it has a very .. heady personality

heres characters for fibs story which im in the process of rewriting. i originally made it in 2019 and dropped it for 2-3 years and am only now picking it back up so theres a lot of reworking i need to do and explanation is mostly going to be recollection. its about a dog named fib (first guy), he used to be prince lye of the laurel kingdom before labyrinth (second guy), a malicious magical entity, teamed up with another canine to usurp his parents and tossed fib in a magical prison for a decade or so, where fib slowly goes mad. the usurper has since died and so fib has been released, but the magic of his binding has leaked into him and he is now cursed so that he cannot tell the truth, instead automatically saying lies which then warp reality into whatever he had stated. still he is the only one who can take title of king and now struggles to maintain control of his kingdom. he now goes on an adventure to try and track down labyrinth to reverse his curse, learning lessons along the way about self reflection, different nonverbal ways of communication, boundaries and expectations in relationships he has with others, and generally coping with immense trauma. cricket (third guy) hunts fib down during his journey; when fib was a normal boy, so was cricket, and they were young best friends before lye was imprisoned. with no clarity on the situation as someone new takes over the throne, cricket assumes that lye had simply ran away, abandoning the kingdom for worse as the new king subjected the kingdom to needless war, drafting the young cricket who dies on the battle field and resurrects through his rage, digging himself out of his mass grave and now seeking to kill fib. lie (fourth guy) is like totally nothing i just wanted to put him up there LOL hes some sort of spooky doll magical creature who seeks to manipulate fib by feigning kinship, for profit i guess

i love. to think and talk

#ask

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sroop · 8 months

Text

guided (updated version)

He should tell her, he knows. All those nights laid alone after she'd left imagining everything he wanted to tell her.

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!OC

Summary: Din loses his son and his Creed, and took it out on Reyza. Now they're reunited on Tatooine.

Warnings/Notes: smidge of suggestiveness, a little angst. Also, Fennec Shand was part of Polaris in this series!

For some context, this takes place between seasons 2 and 3 of the Mandalorian and during The Book of Boba Fett's season one, when Din helps out on Tatooine. Also, Mandalorians can only marry non-Mandalorians if they become Mandalorian (from what I gather from my research), and the OC and Din have been together unofficially for some time before this.

A/N: I've been writing the guided series for a bit now, and it was so much fun I decided to rework some of the details and characters! The other mini chapters I've been posting will stay up, but aren't what is necessarily "canon" in this new updated version (i'll change their titles to avoid any confusion). Anyway, this is the first chapter I'm posting, but I won't be posting chronologically because I just prefer to write jumping all over the place. Hope someone out there likes it because I really like writing this!

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Din tries not to jolt upright in his bed when she knocks on his door, searching for permission to enter the room he'd been given. He hangs himself casually over the pillows instead, propped up languidly, grunting an affirmative. He wants to look laidback, like he doesn't care. He didn't want her to know he was starting to wonder if it was normal for his heart to beat so quickly, for his hands to shake.

"Hey, tin man," Reyza calls softly, teasingly. The old nickname feels like balm on his bad leg, easing over the burn like he was a young, invincible man again. He smiles from behind his mask at her.

Dank farrik. Why pretend?

He straightens himself and lifts the corner of his blanket, opening his arms to invite her into him, like she deserves. Din hopes she knocks some sense into him through his mask. It'd been so long since he'd last seen her like this, so long since he'd gotten the chance to apologize for all the things he'd done and said. He should tell her, he knows. All those nights laid alone after she'd left imagining everything he wanted to tell her. All the apologies he'd rehearsed, but also the little things. Murmuring how his day went into his pillow, pretending she was there.

Instead, he settles on, "Are you happy here?" Because he wouldn't bother if she was. If this was what made Reyza happy, living on Tatooine in a palace with her guild sister, then he'd leave it be. He'd keep whispering to his pillow than to her.

But Reyza smiles up at him so brightly that he questions if he even has the resolve to do that. She's shaking her head, stroking a hand down his shoulder.

"What? No what've you been up to? How've you been?" she teases. She's always teasing, Din laments without any real complaint, always trying to push his buttons. He runs a thumb over her cheek. It's smooth.

"What've you been up to? How've you been?" he echos softly.

His room is dark, and the only light comes from the three moons outside, filtered through a gauzy curtain. It's still stifling hot despite nightfall, and his gaze falls to the rest of Reyza, folded carefully under herself so she could sit with him in bed. The closeness of them, the still air, and the dark. It reminds him a little of the small, secret tenderness in his bunk on the late Razor Crest. Familiar.

Her silence feels a little oppressive though, and Din shifts uncomfortably, trying to get a better look at her face to gauge whether he'd done something wrong. She knows and squeezes his hand.

"Thinking about you, mostly," she finally says, and it cracks whatever composure Din had left.

"Me too, cyare," he groans, closing the distance between them easily. They tumble to bed and Din cages her in between his arms, resting against her forehead. "Been thinking about everything. Can't stop thinking about it."

She pulls at the stray hairs peeking out from under his helmet.

"I'll bet. You haven't even cut this," she says. Din shrugs, pulling her closer still. The apology is right there, in his throat waiting to crawl its pathetic way out and spill all the sad things he's done to try and stave off the sheer loneliness he'd felt when she'd left. But he keeps it still. He's still waiting to hear whether she's been doing better without him. He gulps down his fear that maybe she has been.

"So, you happy here? On Tatooine?" he asks.

Reyza sighs quietly, running soothing fingers through the hair she can reach and down his neck in comforting patterns. Her hands go everywhere. They're smoothing over his shoulders, tracing the figure of his arms, massaging the knots in his back. Please, please, please, Din thinks. Please don't do this to let me down easier.

He can hear her heart, beating as fast as his, now that his head is on her chest.

"I'm ok. Tatooine is nice in its own way, but I miss you. I miss..."

"Grogu," Din supplies gently as his heart soars selfishly. The name still feels a little foreign to him, and he can tell from the way Reyza's lips quirk that she feels the same way.

But there's no time to think about that. She misses him, he misses her, he's starting to think this might all work out for them. That is, if she can forgive him. Din turns his attention back to the words he'd been practicing for months before, feeling both horrifyingly unprepared, yet pathetically over-prepared all at the same time. But the look on her face is soft, and nonjudgemental.

Din lifts himself, dragging the helmet off slowly.

The warm air on his cheeks feels cool, the result of always sweating and being covered head to toe in beskar. He can feel the way Reyza jerks back, hands flying to her eyes to respect a Creed he didn't even have a right to anymore. The way Din figures it, he was an apostate already. He may as well say what he needed to say face to face, and part of him wants her to see and know him fully. He needs her to look at what she may, potentially, if he's lucky, choose as her forever.

"Look," he says, guiding her hands from her eyes. "It's ok."

At his reassurance, Reyza opens her eyes and devours him. It's her first time. He's older than she expects, and the streaks of grey in his tangled, wavy hair show it. As expected, there are worry lines everywhere and Reyza smiles at that. Of course he does, the way he gets himself tied up into knots. She lifts a finger to the etch between his brows, the drag of where his cheek and frown meet, tracing and memorizing each. Then she goes to the bend in his nose, the unexpected mustache over his lip, the heavy brows and matching eyes. Those eyes, as lost as she'd known they'd be. As vulnerable and unguarded as she would ever see them. She puts both hands to his cheeks and leans in to brush her lips across his forehead.

"Beautiful," she murmurs without moving her lips away. When she does draw away, it's just to look again. And she repeats the word over and over again, breathlessly, until Din begins to smile crookedly.

"When we had to let go of Grogu, I felt like all I had left was you and whatever was left of my Creed, and then I lost that too." Reyza furrows her brows and shifts her hands to his shoulders at his voice, deeper and richer without the modulator in place. "I don't know why I said all those things," Din admits, closing his hands over where Reyza's lay. "I just know that I did, and that I was wrong for it. I'm sorry."

"You said I could never be anything to you. Because I'm not Mandalorian," Reyza reminds him, turning cold suddenly. Din gulps and reaches for her cheek.

"I shouldn't have, because you mean more to me than any marriage vow could have made you, cyare. I shouldn't have said any of it." He exhales slow and long when he reaches for Reyza and she goes with him happily. She mouths at his jaw and he sucks in a breath. "Reyza, wait, I want you to hear this," he says.

"Go on." Maker blast her smile, always the same devil-may-care smirk.

"I want you to be with me always, for as long as you want to be with me. And I'll give you whatever it is you need to believe that." He swallows thickly. "I've taken off the helmet. My covert has disowned me. If you want, we can be husband and wife." He looks away and quickly repeats, "If you want."

Reyza pauses, smile gone, lips parted.

"No, Din."

The disappointment crushes them both physically, pitching towards each other in their fall. Din desperately shoves aside the sting in his chest. But Reyza holds onto him still.

She tilts his face until they're looking at each other again, and Din can't help but sigh a little at the color of her eyes so close to him. They're almost a blur, between the darkness and the wetness forming over his vision.

"You're a Mandalorian. You have always been a Mandalorian, and you always will be no matter what anyone says." Reyza says this with such conviction, it sends chills up his spine. "We'll find a way for them to accept you again, so be it, but you can't just... You can't offer this to me."

"Why not?" Din rasps. "I want to."

"Sooner or later, it'd break you. If you do this, you'll be betraying a part of your Creed and don't even try saying it's ok. You know it's still important to you." That much was true. Din could say he was an apostate a hundred times, and still feel Mandalorian at his core, still feel the prickling little voice in his head that told him that it was possible, that the living waters could still exist and cleanse him.

Reyza wipes the pad of her thumb against a forming tear at the edge of his eye, pecking the other away. She relishes the way Din's sad chuckle rumbles against her.

"I want to do right by you," he finally says.

Reyza shrugs and it hurts his heart how resigned she looks.

"I want to love you." She drives a finger into his unarmored chest to punctuate the sentence. "Not love you for a few years until you resent me for making you give up your Creed. Not even love you forever knowing you'll never really rest until you're redeemed."

It's hard, but it's the truth, and somehow Din loves her all the more for it. He pets her back as her own tears bubble up, like he was soothing a child.

"Cyar'ika," he murmurs as they embrace. "Forgive me."

She squeezes her tears onto her cheeks and shakes her head, wrapping herself around him.

"I forgave you the night I left," she weeps. "For better or worse."

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Thanks for reading! If you liked this, consider reblogging or following, and feedback is also always appreciated :D

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #mandalorian oc #din djarin x female oc #din djarin x female reader #mando #mando x reader #mando x female reader #mando x f!reader #mandalorian fanfic #the book of boba fett #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x female reader #mandalorian x oc

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redadm1ral-moved · 1 year

Text

scuttles back on this blog. I come bearing gifts

well, kinda: I'm still throwing myself against the wall that is reworking Chapter 1 of The Plagued Capital (for new followers who've been trickling in during my inactivity: that's my Dishonored/Call of Duty: Modern Warfare crossover). I've come to realize that the first two acts of the fic needed serious overhauling, which I think was contributing to my writer's block; now that I'm smoothing out those issues and changing the plot happenings up a little, I'm a lot more eager to write. I'm also getting a handle on the type of tone and writing style I want to go for in COH as a whole, which means my Chapter 1 rework is going a bit faster too.

it'll be a while before I have new stuff to share still (I've been at the mercy of ailing physical and mental health for a while). but I do really want to share a portion of what's for sure definitely gonna be the final version of Chapter 1. I'll stick it under the cut (and maybe also tag @onlycodcanjudgeme since it's WIP Wednesday)

Dove gray light scattered across the overcast sky as the frigid morning sun crept over the eastern horizon, pulling the jagged fragments of Prague into the tentative embrace of dawn. Black pillars of smoke towered over the city’s rooftops, spitting debris into the clouds and shrouding the world in a thick veil of gray and brown. The air shivered with the deep drone of patrolling helicopters, punctuated by the occasional crack of gunfire from the streets below.

An icy breeze snaked through the old city’s veins, scraping soot from the bottoms of mortar holes and dusting the steps of shelled-out buildings in ash. The ash clung to frost-coated walls, to rain water trapped in the dips and crevices in pavement, to the blood seeping between stones and pooling under the corpses of waxy-faced insurgents. Crows squawked and squabbled between each other as they feasted on the bodies amid the smoldering, mangled remains of the civilian vehicles and military transport trucks scattered across the Old Town Square.

Rising above the carnage, glimmering under brilliant white floodlights and crowned by a grand brass clock, the Hotel Lustig stood as a beacon on the southeastern end of the square. Golden light beckoned from around the scarlet curtains in her arched, frost-kissed windows. Her unblemished silvery walls promised security, comfort, warmth—though only for some.

Soap narrowed his eyes at the Hotel Lustig. Unlike the hotel, the Church of Saint Nicholas swaddled its many occupants in darkness, in the muggy warmth of moving bodies and the tenuous security of her stone walls. But that was many stories below Soap’s feet, in the nave. Up in the church’s mortared bell tower, Soap and his companion, Yuri, weathered the cold October morning on their own. The freezing wind plunged through the mortar hole and sank frosty teeth into exposed skin, chilling their blood and stiffening their gloved fingers, and Soap drank down the stink of smoke and the threat of rain with each slow breath. And yet, rather than envy, the Lustig’s rosy lie of safety inspired contempt. The hotel—and its occupants—could burn as far as Soap cared.

And by noon it would be, God willing.

Soap slipped his hand into his pocket, tangling his fingers in the cool, solid beads of his rosary. This would be the best time and place to appeal to God’s will, if he wanted. And once upon a time he might’ve. But he would not; Soap was certain God had long left the equation by now, just as he was certain of the cool, firm weight of the rifle resting across his thigh.

The shuffle of fabric and the soft clink of metal against metal alerted Soap to Yuri’s movement. He’d started yet another examination of his gear. Nervousness from Yuri wasn’t new—he’d always been quiet and reserved, sometimes to the point of neurosis—but he’d already counted his rounds ten times, and he moved with the careful precision of a man focusing too hard on staying calm. Truthfully, the anxious knot in Soap’s own gut left him with little room to judge even if he wanted. Any apprehension this morning was warranted.

“Which vehicle do you think he’ll be in?” Soap asked. A pointless question; unless he’d spontaneously gained the gift of prophecy, Yuri wouldn’t have a straight answer. And for once, Soap didn’t want one. What he wanted was reprieve.

A few moments slipped by before Yuri lifted his gaze to the hotel. The dim morning light glinted off the round he rolled between his thumb and forefinger, and a white cloud floated past his lips as he let out a long, low breath.

“They constantly rotate for security.” The gentle clink of metal against metal as Yuri slid the round into the magazine underscored his statement. “We won’t know until he steps out.”

It was a perfectly acceptable answer. An educated guess. Soap might’ve come to the same conclusion, had he been asked. Even so, Soap found himself lingering on his companion’s face as Yuri returned to refilling his magazines, searching for…well, he wasn’t certain. Because it was a perfectly acceptable answer, after all, and so he let out a low scoff and simply muttered:

“You seem to know a lot about Makarov.”

Yuri’s fingers stuttered over the rounds, not quite fumbling, then returned to their smooth, rhythmic glide over the metal.

Soap gave himself a mental shake. Paranoia at this stage would do him no good; Yuri was a man, just as susceptible to clumsiness and anxiety as any other. And as Soap turned his gaze once more to the square, to the corpses scattered across the stones and the writhing black mass of crows that devoured them, he knew as well as God that they had every reason to be afraid.

Because Vladimir Makarov was responsible for this. Every corpse, every burning building, every speck of ash and soot on the wind and every drop of blood seeping between the stones of every city square and footpath, the cracks in the pavement of every street—he had orchestrated it all, carving a bloody swathe from the Urals to the shores of the Atlantic. Chasing Makarov had been a long, grueling, bloody endeavor, a spiraling descent into cruelty and betrayal. But it would be worth it. Bringing the architect of a third world war to justice would give meaning to all of Soap’s sacrifices. And maybe, once the head had been lopped off the viper and all was said and done, the dreams would finally—

The crackle of Soap’s radio snapped him back to reality.

“Alpha One,” came Price’s low, firm voice through the static. “Radio check, over.”

The black hands of the Lustig’s clock read seven. Almost time. Soap untangled his fingers from his rosary and held down the transmission.

“Bravo One, copy,” he answered. “We’re dug in with line of sight.”

“Right. Kamarov’s our eyes and ears inside the hotel; once he gives us the nod, we’ll kick this off.”

Soap said nothing as he scanned the hotel again, hunting for any sign of their approaching quarry. A flicker of movement caught his eye—on the second floor balcony, human-shaped blots teemed in the shadows like maggots emerging from carrion. The long silhouettes of rifles stood out against the soft light filtering through the curtained window. Ultranationalists.

“You see that?” Soap growled to his companion. Yuri responded with a low hum, and Soap reached for his radio.

“Price.”

“What do you see?”

“I’ve got some activity on the balcony,” Soap answered. “Four armed guards.”

“Any sign of Makarov?” Price pressed.

Soap scoffed. “Bugger-all, mate; looks like Makarov’s late for his own funeral.” Beside him, Yuri let out a dry snort. “They’ve got curtains up on the second floor—you and Kamarov are gonna have to take care of ‘em if you want sniper support.”

“Right. Sit tight until you’ve got a clean shot.” Price’s low, dry voice darkened. “Then you can put as many rounds on him as you like.”

Here they were: three men perched on the edge of a bloody morning, poised to finally catch their kingfish after years of relentless pursuit. Yuri had never been completely clear about his stakes in this hunt for Makarov, but when their gazes met and the resolve in Yuri’s stony brown eyes mirrored Soap’s, suddenly, the specifics didn’t matter. All that mattered was putting Makarov in the ground.

“It’ll only take one,” Soap growled into the radio.

Silence settled over the bell tower.

The urge to smoke nibbled at the back of Soap’s mind. If time were on his side, he’d have indulged in that craving; instead, he chose to spare his lungs, slipping his hand back into his pocket to tangle once again in the cool comfort of his rosary. The sensation of the beads rolling between his gloved fingers melted some of the tension in his shoulders, and on his tongue settled the distant anticipation for the cigar he’d share with Price once this was all said and done.

“How are you feeling?”

Yuri’s voice snatched Soap from the comfort of his short-lived fantasy, and he gave his companion a quick glance—Yuri stared at the hotel, having abandoned his inventory-taking. With a low huff, Soap averted his gaze and grumbled, “I’m fine. Freezing my arse off, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No,” Yuri pressed. “How are you feeling, John?”

Soap turned toward Yuri with deliberate slowness, making no effort to hide his annoyance; he’d made it clear that he wanted Yuri to address him by either his last name or his callsign. Yuri had never slipped like this before—and if the earnest, though cautious concern lurking in Yuri’s eyes as he faced Soap was of any indication, he hadn’t slipped this time, either. A misguided attempt to foster familiarity, then. Or maybe Yuri just wanted to mess with him.

“What’s this, therapy hour?” Soap released the rosary in his pocket and brought his hand back to his rifle. “I’m fine.”

Yuri hesitated. “Are you still having those dreams?”

Soap arched a brow. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

He and Yuri spun away from each other, repelled by the awkward tension crackling between them. As Soap stared at the men patrolling the Lustig’s second floor balcony, he struggled—and ultimately failed—to suppress a low, sharp sigh.

They’d started in the early days after Shepherd’s last stand. Morphine-induced slumber had trapped Soap in a whirl of twisting dreamscapes, a contradictory cacophony of whimsical vibrancy and achromatic desolation. Under normal circumstances, none of this would be notable; Soap had always been predisposed to vivid dreams, and he blamed any disquieting dips into surreality on the drugs. But as the weeks dragged on, as his knife wound closed and he was weaned off the morphine, one dream persisted—and increased in frequency.

Words alone struggled to encapsulate the sheer vastness of his recurring dreamscape. To Price, he called it an abyss; in his journal, he called it a world of only sky. A cold, brackish mist diffused the light of a blazing sun, a brilliant hole punched through a limitless dark that stretched leagues, eons. Through the mist, a frigid, swirling wind carried the mournful calls of unseen creatures and shivering islands of jagged black stone. One of these islands kept Soap from plummeting into the abyss.

On another island stood a stranger; the flickering haze reduced him to a tangle of disjointed images, to snatches of curly, dark brown hair, patches of a deep umber complexion, and fleeting glances of curious black eyes. The stranger drifted through the mist, sometimes closer, sometimes farther. Sometimes the mist consumed him entirely, with only a deep-seated pull in Soap’s chest to assure him of his sole companion’s presence. Soap’s calls to this stranger went unanswered, swallowed by eternity.

Soap drank in a deep breath, and the frost and ash he swallowed down reminded his lungs of the freezing sting of that unending sky. Images of the black dreamscape lanced through his mind, and dense, deep pressure—the pull, the tether—battered against the cage of his ribs. It felt ridiculous to admit even to himself, but Soap never woke up from these dreams. He returned from them.

Soap drummed his fingers against the side of his rifle and glared out at the broken horizon. After a few moments of prodding the raw inside of his lip with his tongue, he finally asked, “How did you know?”

A few heartbeats passed before Yuri answered: “I overhear you sometimes. Talking to Price.”

“So you’re eavesdropping on us now?” Soap demanded, and internally winced—his attempt at a playful jab had come off far more forceful than he’d intended.

Yuri’s eyes widened. “What? No, I—” He cut himself off with a sharp sigh, then said, “You seemed distracted.”

“I’m fine,” Soap insisted. He drummed one last beat against the side of his rifle before forcing his fingers into stillness. “I’m just focused on Makarov.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Yuri asked.

Soap weighed his response against the rifle in his hands. He’d come to Price about the dreams because he trusted him in a way that transcended friendship, transcended family—an entirely different beast than the more tenuous, practical trust he placed in Yuri. To Soap, the quiet, solitary ex-Spetsnaz sat firmly in the categories of ally and asset but not quite friend. He’d assumed Yuri felt the same; perhaps that was why this uncharacteristic line of questioning bothered Soap so much.

“Aye,” Soap finally answered, and he gave Yuri a sideways glance. “I’ll be even better once we put a bullet in Makarov’s skull.”

Yuri nodded, silent and firm.

The minute hand inched past five.

A splash of green and red emerged from the Lustig’s main entryway: four more armed guards, milling impatiently before the Lustig’s stone walls. Then the telltale thunder of a low-flying helicopter rumbled through the frigid air, prompting Soap to duck behind cover moments before it swept into sight. It passed without landing, and Soap raised a brow at his companion, who’d also hidden himself away. Yuri responded with another silent nod just as Soap’s radio buzzed to life.

“You see that?” Price growled through the crackling static.

“Aye,” Soap answered. “Any sign of him?”

“Negativ— Wait.” A pause. “I think that’s them. Four armored vehicles, coming from the east.”

Soap swung his rifle into position and rested it on the edge of the crumbling wall, then settled into his perch overlooking the square. Yuri clicked his magazine back into place and mirrored Soap’s position.

“Head’s up,” Price said. “Makarov’s convoy is arriving now.”

#cod yuri #john soap mactavish #captain john price #vladimir makarov #call of duty #modern warfare #au: call of honor #fic: the plagued capital #(not using any dh tags here bc there's not a lot of dh-ism in this chapter. other than the void)

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octentaya · 1 year

Text

Get out Hana.

Author’s note

Slight spoiler for My Hero Academia

This is a one shot fic I made a long time ago and decided to rework. It includes the fanchild of my self insert and Tomura Shigaraki, who was named after Tomuras deceased sister.

While I enjoy coming up with stories, I'm not the best when it comes to the writing part. But with all of that aside

Enjoy

It was 5:50 pm, the sun had already set and Hana was laying on the floor in front of the TV. November was coming to an end and it was freezing cold outside. She was rolled up in a warm blanket, while she scribbled with her crayons on a piece of paper.

In the meantime, Dokusei and Kurogiri were preparing dinner in the kitchen. As Dokusei was placing out the plates on the table, she called out for Hana.

“Hey sweetie, could you go get your dad? Dinner is ready!”

Hana let out a simple “mh-hm'' as a response, while she gathered all her crayons and put them back into the little box. She stood up, still holding onto the blanket around her shoulders, slowly making her way up the stairs where Shigaraki had his room. Climbing the stairs with the blanket around her was a bit difficult, almost taking a tumble but managed to make it up without any casualties.

She walked up to his door and knocked.

“Daddy? Pama said dinner is ready!”

She stood there for a moment waiting for a reply. Yet she was met with silence. So she knocked again, calling out for him once more.

Still nothing.

Her last attempt was to reach up and tug on the door handle, expectations already low, since he always locked the door to his room. Dokusei was usually the only one allowed inside, Hana herself couldn't recall a single time she had stepped foot in his room. She didn't even know what it looked like there.

To her surprise however, the door opened up and a slight chill ran down her spine making her take a step back. She stood completely motionless for a second, staring at the door waiting for something to happen.

Nothing.

“Is he… not in his room?”

She thought out loud to herself, looking in both directions of the corridor. She felt her heart pick up speed as her curious mind thought about looking inside. She knew she wasn’t allowed to… the opportunity was just too good to pass on.

With a stern face, she took a deep breath and carefully opened the door a bit more, hoping for it to not creek or make any noise. Poking her head inside, Shigaraki was nowhere to be seen. It was dark, the only light source was his computer screen saver. She felt hesitant, worried that her father would get disappointed to find out.

“If i'm quick about it… he won’t notice”

Hana whispered to herself before she silently sneaked inside of his room, leaving the door half open in case she needed to make a fast escape. The moment she entered, she immediately noticed how much colder it was. Even with the blanket still wrapped around her, her body shivered.

The window behind the closed curtain was slightly open, the wind could be heard blowing pretty heavily outside. The walls were covered with shelves, decorated with action figures and physical video game copies of different consoles. There were pictures and small written notes on the wall above his computer desktop. Wires connecting to the electronics were spread across the floor, Hana having to be careful where she stepped as to not trip.

But what caught her attention the most was the dozens of gray hands that were laying on top of his bed. She recognized them as the same hands her father would carry with him at times, all though she still didn’t understand why. Curiously, Hana made her way over to his bed, looking down at the hands that had been delicately placed on top of his soft blanket. She studied them, noting how they all varied in size and shape.

Her focus landed on the two smaller hands, only a bit bigger than her own. She decided to gently pick one of them up, being a bit weirded out of the feeling of it. It was cold, the texture was odd, both being firm yet soft almost like a real hand. She stared at it for a while before she tilted her head back and placed it on her face, much like she had seen her father do.

She giggled to herself

“Now I'm just like daddy! I don't know how he can see properly with this on his face though…”

Her smile quickly faded however, once she heard the door creaking behind her. She froze in place, blood running cold, feeling a severe sense of anxiety rush over her. She could feel her heart in her throat, terrified to turn around in fear of what might happen.

A couple of seconds passed in complete silence, so she built up the courage to turn around. Perhaps the wind entering Shigarakis room had simply made the door swing open a bit more. With a deep breath, she slowly faced the door.

But to her dismay, she was met by her father.

He had just come back from a shower, his hair was still a bit wet. His eyes were wide, his stare so intense, Hana had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. The small hand she had placed on her face ended up slipping off, falling down to the floor with a “thump”. The same moment the hand touched the floor was the same moment Shigaraki moved away from the door frame, making his way into the room towards Hana.

She backed away, hiding her face in her trembling hands, her blanket had now fallen down to the floor as well. She was overflowing with guilt, completely unable to hold tears back from falling.

“Hana”

Shigaraki spoke, as he carefully picked up the small hand that had been dropped. Gently brushing it off before putting it back down on top of his bed. Hana sobbed, completely at a loss on what to say…

“There, there… It's okay, my dear”

She felt her fathers big hand on top of her head, patting her for comfort. He sat down on his knees in front of her, taking a deep breath before sighing.

Hana was somewhat afraid of her father. Not because he ever raised his voice to her or because he was ever aggressive or violent. In fact, he always spoke to her in a very calm and sweet manner whenever he was upset with her. Always reassuring her that everything is okay.

What scared her… was the face he would make. While he never meant to come off as scary, his intense eyes and crooked smile would terrify anyone. She couldn't look him in the eyes because of it

“There is a reason you're not allowed inside of my room. There are alot of things in here I'd rather you not touch. These hands in particular… are very important to me. You understand?”

Hana nodded, going in for a hug, grabbing onto his shirt as hard as she could.

He lightly brushed his hand through her hair with one hand while wiping her tears with the other. She sobbed into her fathers arms, repeating “im sorry” over and over again.

“It’s okay, Hana. While I’m not happy you went inside my room without my permission, I hope you learn from this until next time. Promise me you won’t do it again”

“I-i promise… it wont h-happen again, I promise”

“Good, good… now, please go ahead downstairs without me. I'll be there in a shortly”

Without another word, Hana nodded before picking up her blanket from the floor and hurried out the door as fast as she could, leaving her father all by himself. He let out another sigh as he scratched his neck. He needed a moment to breathe, just to calm down so he wouldn't have to go downstairs with a tense look on his face. Once he felt better, he stood up and made his way to the door, giving the pile of hands on his bed one last glance.

“… of course… she picked yours…”

“…”

“Hana”

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peanut-tyrug · 1 year

Text

@the-valiant-valkyrie a gift for thee :)

Rework Short Rambles

Chapter 10 - The Curtain Calls

I think Wigfrid’s capture was one of the more earlier disappearances. The San Fran earthquake is on the front page, so it may have not been long since Maxwell and Charlie had went missing.

NOT THE SASSY BITCH WALK!!

She is SPUNKY bro

I wonder if Wigfrid has questioned letting go of her title of “Star of the Stage”. Maybe she only acts bc she likes feeling that sense of happiness when she performs. Maybe it’s the only thing that keeps her going.

This looks like it’s for an entirely different game. I don’t mean this in a bad way though. This is wonderful!

This makes the short unique compared to others. This is cool I like it :)

EUUGGGGHH

GET YOUR CONNIVING ASS AWAY FROM HER

Like this makes me recoil a bit like EUGH he looks so fucking manipultive

He looks punchable

SHORT

She is at least my height. Maybe even a few inches shorter.

#don’t starve #dst wigfrid #dst maxwell #rework short rambles

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mollymauk-teafleak · 2 years

Text

I will listen, tell it all (chapter one)

As promised, I'm reworking my beloved courtesan au! In the form of putting a background pairing from the widomauk centric stories front and centre, with a fully fleshed out world now, I hope you enjoy!

This is also an already belated and extended wedding gift for my wonderful friend and percahlia queen @minky-for-short! And thanks as always to my most favourite person @nb-fearne for beta reading!

Please comment over on Ao3 I would super appreciate it!

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Vex'ahlia loves her life, as one of the most celebrated and beloved courtesans in the city. And what's not to love? She has her brother, her family and all the confidence and assurance in herself she was missing back in Syldor.

And now she has a new client, one Percival de Rolo.

------

Art is subjective. A very drunk dealer for the Rexxantrum Gallery had whispered that in Vex’ahlia’s ear, not long after she’d become a Jewel.

She didn’t remember much about that particular appointment, the poor dealer had been a little drunker than clients strictly should be that early into their hour together. But she did think of that, the thing about art being subjective, whenever she walked through the brothel’s foyer and saw the portraits hanging there. Because she knew they meant very different things to different people.

The clients walking through the doors, sometimes in large, raucous groups already half drunk and giggling their way through dirty jokes, sometimes furtively with hoods drawn up, sometimes confidently like they thought this place was another corner of the world they owned, to them the portraits were a menu. They were there to be gazed at in awe if they’d heard of the famous Jewels, they were to be lusted over, they were to steer a decision. They beckoned.

Every courtesan who worked there had one, framed in gold and hung in the same order of the apartments they occupied, painted skillfully and richly by an artist friend of Marion’s. They were explicitly provocative, what wasn’t directly on show was strongly hinted at, full of winks and nudges to particular skills or specialties. For example, there was a reason that Beau- Jade, according to the plaque under her portrait- was depicted eating a peach and twirling a cherry between her fingers, in a way that could only be described as delightfully obscene. To the prospective clients walking past them, these portraits made promises and crooked fingers. Come in and call me yours for however long your gold lasts.

But Vex knew Marion looked at these portraits and saw her family. The names on the little brass plaques might be their stage names, gemstones rather than people, but the grande dame of the Jewellery Box had made sure they never felt like possessions here. To her, the one who’d welcomed them all no matter where they’d stumbled in from or how heavy they’d thought their burdens were, these paintings were a very unconventional family portrait. Vex had often caught the soft spoken older tiefling gazing at them with a gentle expression, before she went out to light the red lamp every evening.

Some of the Jewels looked at their portraits with a wry smiling pride. Some rolled their eyes at them, cringing fondly at some of the decisions made in the heat of the moment. Some of the ones who’d been here the longest lamented the times when they’d been that flexible or wondered where that particular piece of jewellery or silk had ended up. Most felt many things when they looked at these depictions of their selves who weren’t themselves, the roles they played as long as that red lamp was flickering above the door.

Everyone saw something different, things that were hard to put a name to, things that hid behind other things that were easier to deal with. But Vex’ahlia had only ever seen one thing.

The courtesan’s name was Onyx. She was depicted in a forest, standing tall with her curtain of black hair swept back by a wind that you could almost feel in the richness of the oils, proudly showing her slightly pointed ears. Majority of the material she wore was on her forearms in the form of two fine leather braces, very little left to preserve her modesty anywhere else but that wasn’t exactly the point now, was it? What was left was soft and dark as shadow to match her hair, like she was some hunter goddess cloaking herself in night. Her only ornamentation that wasn’t designed to stop an arrow was a necklace laying in the valley of her breasts, a purple crystal on a leather tie. All her finery was instead concentrated into the magnificent bow she drew back, all supple, gilded wood with fantastic carving, all the power of it bending to her wiry muscles. Onyx was strong, unapologetically so.

Vex’ahlia often spent her quiet moments, in the milky light of dawn when the rest of the courtesans were stretching and chatting in the lounge or devouring a well earned breakfast or simply collapsing into sleep, sat in the foyer gazing at her painting. Sometimes she would doze off sitting here, usually to be found by her brother, who’d just wake her gently and help her upstairs to her room without asking questions.

Art may be subjective but Vex knew exactly what she saw when she looked at her portrait. She saw someone she’d always wanted to be so desperately. Someone she’d lost, back in Syngorn, when she’d so briefly held that bow before it was taken and broken along with any faith she’d ever had in herself. Someone she’d been trying to be after they’d left, when Vax had needed her to take charge and lead and find a path for them, but it had never fit right, like a pair of boots on the wrong feet.

Vex saw the person who, now she was safe in the Jewellery Box, she was growing to know better and better each day. Someone she wasn’t going to lose again.

Every Jewel had their own ritual for getting ready. But Vex and Vax did things the way they’d always done it. They did it together.

Vex was wide awake, as always, already fed and watered and washed, twice over after a long visit to the archery butts Marion had kindly put into one of the unused tower rooms for her. Vax slouched through the door that adjoined their rooms just as the sky was darkening into dusk and the lamp was an hour or so from lighting.

“I’m not doing your makeup for you,” Vex said, as soon as she saw him skulk through the background of her dressing table mirror.

Her brother gave a plaintive whine, taking a nose dive into her bed, messing up the way she’d neatly made it half a day ago, “Stubby…don’t make me walk all the way up to Shaun’s…”

“Shaun should tell you the exact same thing I’m about to tell you,” Vex was unmoved, opening a gilded box of powder and starting to dab it lightly onto her cheeks, “Quit being lazy and do it yourself.”

There was an indistinct noise from her pillow, one she knew her brother well enough to interpret.

“You’re too sleepy to do it because you wake up half an hour before showtime,” Vex reminded him, moving onto her eyes, applying kohl with a much heavier hand than she’d done the powder.

Vax turned his head, hair spread in an inky halo around him, “I had a long night! The Marquet ambassador wanted me and Mollymauk at once.”

“So you did half the work you usually do?” Vex arched her now accentuated left eyebrow at him.

“I had to keep up with Molly!” the indignance was enough to sit him up, “Do you know how hard that is? The guy’s a bloody acrobat!”

Vex rolled her eyes, “Very well. You had a long night. What’s your excuse for oversleeping the rest of the time?”

Vax broke out his most devastating weapon, pouting and filling his eyes at will in a way only a trained actor could do. Or a brother.

“Because I have the best sister in the whole wide world who helps me get ready. Usually…”

Vex sighed and put down her lip paint, pushing back her chair, kicking it out and pointing to it, “Fuck you. Sit down.”

Vax’s face lit up like a sunbeam, triumphant. He scrambled out of her silk sheets to sit down before her, tilting his face up expectantly. Just like every evening.

“You could break Shaun so much faster. Why do you bother with me?” Vex sighed, though they both knew fine well she’d already planned her outfit and finished her make-up so she’d have plenty of time to help him. Just like every evening.

Vax smiled a little guiltily, “Please don’t tell him this because I still want him to marry me. But I like the way you do it better.”

Vex chuckled, putting a steadying hand under his chin, “That man is head over heels for you, Scrawny. He’d marry you anyway. Close your eyes.”

“Still, I’m not taking any chances,” Vax obeyed as powder puffed up in clouds around his cheeks, “So. What’s Onyx’s book like tonight? Will I be able to steal you away for a dance?”

“You can have as many dances as you like,” Vex hummed, lost in the comforting familiarity of applying makeup to a face identical to her’s, save a few light scars here and there, “I haven’t got any pre-arranged appointments tonight.”

Vax’s eyes snapped open in shock, causing him to yelp in pain a second later when he inevitably got powder in them.

“Rub your eyes right now and I will end you,” Vex told him calmly, “I told you to close them.”

“Come on!” Vax frowned but he did keep his hands at his sides, “You’ve not had a free night since you started working here!”

Vex dabbed gently at the tears that were running down his cheek, “Well, I had Lady Ashra but she had to cancel last minute. Not enough time to find someone else to fill the hours. You know how it is in the summer, so people off at their fancy coastal manses…I’m looking forward to a quieter night, actually.”

Vax had never been one to flatter herself but she’d learned better since becoming a courtesan. She knew she was a very popular choice in the Jewellery Box, she always had been. Her books were usually full months in advance, with parties and galas and fancy dinners during the evenings and a string of paying lovers every night. Those who paid for her time praised her conversation skills, her wit, her dancing, giving her something of a reputation about the city.

It was amusingly ironic. Not good enough for the elves of Sygorn but more than fine for the nobles of Rexxantrum. It was an effort not to think of the cruel things her father would say at that.

“Well, I’m sure it’ll be someone’s lucky night,” Vax hummed, his voice soft and musical and just the right amount of mocking, “A surprise visit with the famous Onyx…”

“Shut up,” Vex rolled her eyes as she lightly filled in his lips with a lighter red than her’s, “What about you? Who’s Obsidian spending his night with?”

“Well, technically I’ve got de Rolo on the books tonight, he’s in the city on a trade deal,” Vax hummed, clearly enjoying the gentle touch of the brush, he’d always loved having his makeup done, “But I think I’m going to bring Shaun into it.”

Vex paused, “De Rolo’s coming round? He’s a big ticket, are you sure you want to share?”

Not that she had personal experience. De Rolo wasn’t one to ascend the winding stairs with a lady but he had the generosity they often saw with people who couldn’t be themselves outside of the Jewellery Box. Secrets were worth a little more.

Vax tilted his head, “Me and Shaun are the same pot, Stubby. I’m kind of about to sign up to share everything with him. And besides, de Rolo needs it, the poor fellow’s got daddy issues coming out of his ears and you know lads like that absolutely flock to Shaun...”

“Oh does he now?” Vex smirked, folding her arms.

Her brother opened his mouth, realised what he’d said and snapped it shut again, raising an accusing finger.

“Hey now.”

Vex cackled, shooing him out of her chair and back towards the door, “Thank you, Scrawny. I’ll be smiling about that one all night.”

“Fuck you,” Vax groaned, though his heart wasn’t in it, he was fighting a wry smile himself, “But one dance. Promise?”

“A dance,” Vex put her palm on his chest, over his heart, the way they’d always done when they were making a promise to each other, “Now. Go put on something revealing and expensive.”

She watched as her brother disappeared into his own room, lingering a few seconds longer than she really needed, just like always. Just in case. Only when she could hear him scrambling through his wardrobe, making silks whisper and ornaments rattle, did Vex close the door.

Onyx was rather looking forward to a quiet night.

“Friends, please, show your thanks to our wonderful Petal!”

Vex and the other Jewels scattered around the lounge hardly needed to be told twice. While the clients applauded, they stamped their feet and whistled and whooped, bringing a grin to Petal’s face as he bowed up on stage. His routine was worth the clamour, the lithe halfling had seemed to untether himself from gravity entirely, turning and twisting in mid air and conjuring bursts of pink blossoms from nowhere to swirl around him and look like extensions of his costume.

But what really lit up the stage was the fact that Petal- Orym to his family, once the lamp had gone out- so clearly loved what he did. That faint sadness tucked into his eyes only ever faded when he danced.

With the performance done and the next one not for another few hours, their bard shifted into something light and airy, something that could facilitate conversation but also someone could close their eyes and lose themselves in it if they needed a moment. This new bard was still finding his feet amongst the Jewels, still blushing and stuttering whenever anyone teased him as they always did with the new ones. But Storm certainly knew his business even if Dorian was still getting comfortable. He would though, they always did.

Not everyone could be a Jewel. But those who did were always meant to be.

Vex made her way to the bar, thinking she could allow herself another drink. The night was maturing and still her time was her own. She did love her job but this chance to linger in the lounge and chat with her family, enjoy the music and the dancing alongside them without being whisked up the stairs, was proving to be a treat.

Like Storm and Petal, Sapphire wasn’t a Jewel in the sense that her time could be purchased. But she had been the first to get her gemstone nickname from Marion, the one who had started the tradition in the first place. A gift from a mother to her daughter that she’d then so kindly extended to the rest of them. And those who’d been here long enough could still remember when Marion’s little Sapphire- Jester, a true name she’d more than earned- had been too small to be seen past the bar she now operated every night.

As Vex approached, passing from the brighter lights of the stage area, through to the softer lamp light of the bar and the semi-private booths, Jester was handing off one of her dangerous concoctions to an unsuspecting customer. The glass was piled high with as many fruit garnishes and magical flourishes as could fit and the colour alone could cause a bitch of a hangover.

“I call it Rainbow Candyfloss Toxic Explosion!” Jester announced grandly, conjuring a burst of confetti along with her exuberant jazz hands.

Vex laughed as she leaned against the bar, watching the customer teeter off with their listing tower of fruit, sugar and alcohol, “I hope that comes with a health potion chaser. They’re going to need it.”

Jester beamed brightly, “Does that mean you don’t want one, Onyx?” Only gem names once the doors opened to the public.

Vex pretended to think, humouring her, “Perhaps later. For now I’ll take another of your lovely Marquet Sunrises.”

Jester blew a raspberry, “Boring. But only because it’s you.”

“Thank you darling,” Vex reached across the bar and gave her a pat on the cheek.

However much she’d rather be experimenting, Jester soon had a tall glass full of swirling, glittery yellow and red liquid in front of Vex.

“It’s nice to have you downstairs tonight,” Jester pushed it over to her with a sweet smile, a smile for a friend and not a customer.

“Nice to be here,” Vex gave her one in return, though some commotion by the entrance drew her focus.

“De Rolo is in the building,” Jester hummed, happily snacking on her own garnishes, “Your brother better have stretched good.”

Vex snorted, wrinkling her nose at Jester. The bar had a good view of the gossamer curtains of the entrance, she didn’t even have to crane her neck to see the tall, handsome Julius de Rolo standing there, all of his lordly charm on full display as he kissed the back of Marion’s hand and bowed low before her. He looked every inch the man he was, oldest son and heir of the famously beautiful, famously rich city state of Whitestone, confidence lighting him up from the inside.

Only the trained eye of an experienced courtesan saw the relief he hid behind that smile. The full, deep breath he was finally taking, now he was in a place where he didn’t have to hide. Where he could go upstairs with whoever he wanted.

“It’s so sad,” Jester was clearly seeing it too, her voice pitched low, “I’m sure if he just told his parents he was gay they’d be fine with it and he could be happy…”

Vex reached over and took Jester’s hand where it rested on the oak bar, squeezing gently, “Their problems aren’t ours, Jessie. We can only give them what they need while they’re here with us.”

Vex didn’t blame her for being optimistic, for having a storybook ending in mind for everyone who walked through their doors. Jester had only ever known the Jewellery Box, her mother who loved her and cherished her, the adoration of her two girlfriends, and a family all around her. She’d always felt safe.

But the world wasn’t The Jewellery Box.

“Oh,” Jester’s voice flooded with excitement, her eyes widened and fixed back on the entrance, “Something new!”

Vex glanced over. The something new was another man, younger than Julius. The feature that struck first and hardest was his eyes, probably because they were amplified by a thick pair of owlish glasses. Then the rather unruly mop of dark brown hair that had clearly fought back against the attempt to wrestle it into anything acceptable. Then the strong jaw, the large nose, the myriad of familial similarities that left no doubt as to who this young man was.

“Not de Rolo,” Jester hummed interestedly, “De Rolo s.”

Vex tilted her head, sharing her friend’s immediate focus on this new but not so new face in their midst, “I thought the next one was a sister? Maybe she’s not one for the cat house.”

“I’m not so sure this one is either.”

Jester wasn’t wrong. This younger de Rolo- though not as young as Vex had first thought, he simply had a youthful face- was looking around the Jewellery Box like a chick who’d wandered into a nest of snakes. A lot of first timers came in with that look, especially if coming here hadn’t been their idea. And judging by the way he clung to his brother’s sleeve, that was the case.

Greetings given and introductions made, Julius steered his younger brother towards the lounge, clearly his appointed time with Vax’ildan was not for a while. Once their backs were turned, Marion caught Vex’s eye deliberately and signed a quick message to her, in the hand signal language all the Jewels knew.

New. Undecided. Reassure. Downstairs for now.

Vex gave her mistress a subtle nod, hunger’s eyes tracking the brother’s movement through the fairly ample evening crowd. They took a table by the stage, Julius immediately turning to greet the Jewels around him, while his sibling sat frozen.

Jester had seen her mother’s message, “Have fun, Onyx.”

Vex took her drink, blowing Jester a kiss as she moved back into the press of bodies, “Thanks for the drink, Sapphire.”

She took her own table next to theirs, waiting for Julius to leave for his appointment before making her approach, sipping her drink and listening to the music. But, as she’d always done, even before she was Onyx, she let a little of the conversations around her tune in. A survival tactic she’d never quite managed to shake.

Julius had turned back to his brother and his tone was a one she recognised, she’d both heard it from Vax and had given it to him, “Perce, if you’d be more comfortable waiting at the hotel, I don’t mind. I’ll even come back with you if that’s what you need.”

His brother had an edge of panic in his voice, “No! No, you don’t have to do that, I…I know how much you look forward to coming here. Don’t ruin that just because I’m being-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Julius’ voice was still gentle, “Percy, it’s okay. It’s a new place full of people and you’re far from Whitestone. But that can be a good thing. You’re safe here, I’d never bring you somewhere dangerous.”

“I know,” some of the nervousness had left the voice of the young de Rolo- Percy, she could now think of him as.

“Maybe in time, this place can do for you what it’s done for me,” Julius said reassuringly, “And if not, that’s fine…look, I need to head upstairs. Just have a drink, listen to some music, try to relax. I won’t leave without you.”

A scraping of a chair being pushed back and footsteps that vanished into the low murmur of the crowd. Percy sighed and Vex heard him shift, probably looking around anxiously for how to order a drink.

Her cue.

“Good evening,” she didn’t inject anything into her voice but genuine friendliness, standing and turning to face him with a dazzling smile as though she’d just been happening by, “I haven’t seen you around here before. Though your face is familiar…”

Those owlish eyes widened in alarm for a second before he registered the welcoming tone, “Oh…um, good evening, my lady.”

Vex liked him already, “My name is Onyx. And yours?”

Percy took her hand and, honest to the gods, pressed a kiss to the back of it like they were at some lord’s ball, “Percival de Rolo. At your service.”

“Percival,” she rolled the name around her tongue, smiling, “Well, it is a pleasure. I know all this can seem a little daunting at first, we Jewels do like to go all out but it can make the basics a little hard to decipher for newcomers. So might I order a drink for you?”

He visibly relaxed, “Please. Would you join me?”

“I would be delighted,” she said earnestly, like doing just that wasn’t the task she’d been set for the evening.

She signalled over to Jester at the bar for two glasses of wine. Wine was always a safe choice with young lords, they’d grown up on the stuff. It always set them at ease and, crucially, it was easy to water down when needed.

“Apologies, I didn’t answer you,” Percival spoke with the formality of the upper classes, “I probably look familiar because you know my brother, Julius.”

Vex gave a sigh of realisation, like this was new to her, “Oh of course! Dear Julius, he’s such a favourite around here.”

Percy nodded and opened his mouth to say something more but at that moment a large crowd of young rakes moved past them, the loud voices and clamour raised by alcohol and frivolity making Percy flinch hard and duck his eyes. Vex frowned gently.

“Yes, he’s…he’s my brother, my older brother, I…” Percy tried to pick up the threads of his thought but his eyes were darting around the room now and his fingers were tapping on the mosaic tabletop.

“So you live in Whitestone too?” Vex asked kindly, leaning forward, trying to distract him with a question, “Julius has made it sound so beautiful.”

Percy’s wide eyes flickered back to her. The wine glasses appeared on their table at that moment, making Vex send a prayer of thanks to Jester, and the young lordling eagerly seized his.

“It, ah, it is,” Percy took a small sip, more grateful for the glass to hold than the contents of it, “The peaks around it are beautiful and…and the snow…”

The room around them erupted in sudden cheers, as some overly merry sorcerer Fearne had in her lap ascended the table and conjured miniature fireworks that filled the space with sound and light, probably to amuse the faun courtesan who they knew as Alexandrite.

Vex laughed in delight as gemstone light fell across them all in bursts. Sometimes the clients provided their own entertainment.

“Would you believe that’s one of the top mages of the Arcana Guild?” she chuckled, turning back to Percy.

Only to see him ashen faced and shaking.

Vex acted fast, reaching across the table and putting her hand on his, feeling them tight and ready to break the glass in his hand, “Percy?”

“Is…has Julius gone upstairs already?” his voice was barely audible under the crackle and fizz of the miniature fireworks but Vex had good hearing.

“He has but I’ll get him for you,” Vex promised, already guiding him to his feet, “Come on, I’ll take you upstairs where it’s quiet. Is that okay?”

Percy nodded, muscles tensing hard at every fresh burst. Vex put a steadying hand on his arm, finding the shortest route through the tables and knots of people, taking them towards the door tucked away in one corner, the one that was surrounded by gorgeous stone carvings of erotic scenes and climbing ivy. She pressed the gem of her onyx bracelet into a particular leaf that looked no different from any of the others but every courtesan could find in the dark.

There was a low, faint rumble of stone but nothing discernable changed about the door itself and Vex knew no Jewel in the tower felt any shift. Such was the magic that allowed Marion’s tower to hold exactly the number of rooms it needed, no more and no less, and to save any tipsy clientele from a possibly dangerous trip down the spiral staircase that did exist beyond the door if no room was summoned.

Pushing open the thick oak door revealed Onyx’s room. Not Vex’s room, that was carefully hidden away behind the back wall of this expansive space, with its enormous bed and windows that showed a lush forest beyond that didn’t actually exist. It was tastefully and extravagantly decorated, all with Vex’s input, but she was sure Percy didn’t care one jot for the hunting tapestries and decorative bows bolted to the walls and faux animal skins. It was quiet as soon as the door creaked shut and that was all that mattered.

“Here, come sit,” she guided him to the bed, sat him down, “Deep breaths now. In and out, that’s it.”

Once Percy’s shallow, rapid breaths had started to lengthen and deepen, Vex snatched up a jar of large glass beads set on the bedside table, designed to magnify the candlelight.

She tipped them across the blue silk sheets, “Here. Count these for me, Percy. And keep up those deep breaths, you’re doing well.”

He seized on the task with palpable relief, setting his shaking hands to sliding one bead at a time over to his side, mouth moving silently as he counted. By the time he was at twenty, his fingers were still and he was breathing evenly again.

Vex smiled gently, reaching over and squeezing his shoulder, “Good. Feeling alright again, Percy?”

“Yes,” his eyes moved to her face, embarrassment opening up deep wells inside them, “I…I’m very sorry, my lady, that was…I shouldn’t have allowed myself to lose control like that…”

Vex cut across him gently, “You don’t need to apologise at all, Percy. Apologies are for when you’ve done something wrong. I’ll just message my brother and we can have Julius down here in just a moment-”

“No,” Percy yelped and then instantly blushed, “I mean, forgive me. But please, I really do feel okay, I don’t want to interrupt Julius. He deserves a night to…to himself, I don’t want to ruin it.”

Vex frowned gently and sat next to him on the bed, “I’m sure Julius would care more about you feeling safe.”

“I do feel safe,” Percy insisted, “Now. Here. With you.” The blush on his high cheekbones darkened.

“I’m glad,” she smiled fondly, delicately breaking their gaze to gather up the beads, giving him a chance to compose himself.

“How did you know what to do?” he asked after a moment of cleaning his glasses on the hem of his shirt, “It was exactly what Julius or my sister would have done, I thought there was some instruction manual for my mind that only they had access to.”

Vex chuckled gently, running her thumb across the cool, smooth beads in her hand. Suddenly, she wasn’t meeting his eye for her own benefit.

“I used to have moments like that myself. I simply did what my brother would do for me.”

Her voice was small all of a sudden, as if the unexpected truth was a weight pressing down on it. Why she’d chosen to give this stranger a piece of herself, her real self and not the courtesan they all came here to see, Vex couldn’t say. And she braced herself, fingers tightening around those beads, waiting for the inevitable punishment, a reflex from another place and time. Vex had been trying to be braver since she became a Jewel but showing a weak spot like that was just reckless.

But Percy’s voice was as tired and as gentle as it had been since she’d met him, “I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m glad you’ve got someone to help you, like I have.”

Vex glanced up, surprise meaning she didn’t care if it was a good idea of not. But the young man sat across from her just looked exhausted, a little lost but glad to be sat there with someone who could understand at least a small part of him. An understanding that could go both ways.

Vex tilted her head, smiling, “Would you like to stay up here with me until Julius is done? You’re safe here, I promise.”

Percy looked hopeful but he bit his lip, “You must have better things to do tonight than that, my lady? This might be my first time in the city but even I’ve heard of the famous Jewels and your name is always one of the first anyone mentions.”

Vex shrugged coyly, leaning back against the pillows of the bed she never slept in, “Actually? I was looking forward to a quiet night.”

It might not have been the night she was expecting but Vex couldn’t say she hadn’t enjoyed herself.

They sent down to the bar for a second attempt at some glasses of wine and just sat and talked. Percy’s nervousness never left entirely, it seemed to just be an indelible part of his personality, but he grew comfortable enough to chat with very little coaxing from Vex. She had a suspicion that Percy rarely got this kind of attention on himself.

Which made a lot of sense as he explained that he was in the middle of six other siblings. He was the spare, the second oldest boy, enough into his majority now to start being noticed and getting some duties of his own that he didn’t feel ready for. Tagging along with Julius on one of his many business trips to sell the family residuum in the city was something of a test run. Percy had always been excited to go on these excursions with his older brother but, as it happens, doing it while feeling the intense scrutiny of your parents somewhat took the fun out of it.

Percy didn’t tell her any of this so explicitly, of course. But Vex was an expert at reading around and through the words people actually said, she always had been. There was so much to be heard just under the surface, you could follow any thread to their hopes, their dreams, their resentments. In the same way there was never just one noise in the forest, no matter which one happened to be the loudest.

Especially with someone as innocent and instantly trusting as Percival de Rolo. He was clearly a young man who’d been given no reason to believe the people around him had anything but the best intentions. These things happened when you grew up in a palace and you had the right surname.

But Vex had told him she was safe here and she’d meant it, so she let him open up to her. She only reclined back on the pillows and listened, sipping her wine and enjoying the part of her job she’d always found easiest.

It turned out Percy’s deepest desire wasn’t to be a diplomat or to hammer out deals or take over some arm of his city’s government or any of the options normally open to a second born son. Percy de Rolo wanted to be an inventor. He wanted to take things apart and see how they worked, he wanted to make them run better and easier and more efficiently. Not to be rich, not to make piles upon piles of gold, but simply because he enjoyed doing it.

Vex realised at some point, when she had no reason to be realising anything, that she’d stopped smiling because she was doing her job, because she was playing the role of Onyx. She was just smiling because she felt like it.

“But I’ve been talking about myself for hours,” Percy stopped suddenly, some of that learned formality slipping back in as he clearly realised he’d been talking about clockwork for longer than most people tended to talk about that sort of thing, “Apologies, my lady…”

“Onyx, please,” Vex smiled soothingly, waving away his embarrassment, “It’s my job, to listen to talk about themselves, after all.”

“And you don’t mind that?” Percy tilted his head.

“Not in the slightest,” Vex answered honestly, “I love every part of my job, I wouldn’t do it if I did.”

“No. I don’t imagine you would. I don’t think anyone could make you do anything you didn’t love,” Percy gave the kind of smile that made Vex realise that, where she was a listener, he was an observer. She heard things beneath the surface, Percy saw them.

“Not any more,” she said softly, again surprising herself with how easy it was to let this young man see past the silks and jewels.

Percy didn’t press, just like he hadn’t last time. If these small vulnerabilities were sudden metallic glints beneath the sand, he was simply nodding and letting them be, instead of digging for treasure.

Or bits of broken glass. It depended on where you stood.

All Percy did was nod and give a smile edged with familiarity, “I’m glad. I’m glad you got out.”

Vex wanted to ask. She almost did, in spite of what she’d told Jester, in spite of one of the foremost rules of the Jewellery Box that kept them safe, Vex wanted to ask. Their problems aren’t ours. But something about the way Percy smiled, the way he meant his words so sincerely, made her want to ask why he felt this connection with her.

“You will too,” she settled for reassurance, reaching across the space between them to rest a hand on his knee.

Percy blushed a little, in that endearing way he had, “Thanks…maybe when I’m older and Jules is in charge. Or perhaps I should run away and be a courtesan, hm?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d be a wonderful Jewel,” Vex grinned, sipping the last of her wine even down to the last few drops, never one to waste any, “I think you’d look very fetching in silks.” She twitched the hem of her own translucent blue gown.

“Well, I couldn’t be a worse courtesan than I am a client,” he admitted, throwing a gangly arm across the backboard, pulling open his dress shirt where he’d undone the laces.

Vex tilted her head, letting a little more of Onyx into her eyes, “Well. Next time Julius comes to visit us, maybe you can have another go?”

The way Percy nearly dropped his glass, spluttering for an answer and turning the colour of the wine dregs inside it, warmed something in her heart that she’d feared had grown a little numb in all the time she’d been doing this job.

“I mean…” Percy caught his wine just in time, mouth still moving with more words than it could handle, “I…if that wouldn’t be…I would love to, obviously…”

Vex nearly didn’t hear the soft message sent through her onyx earring over the sounds of their giggles.

All done with Julius, Stubby. Put his brother back together and bring him down.

Vex rolled her eyes at the note of amusement in Vax’s voice. She could practically hear the eyebrow waggle. He’d only laugh harder when she told him how she’d actually spent her time upstairs with Percy.

Though she didn’t want to know what he’d say if she told him it was the best night she’d had in a while.

Back in the foyer, Percy’s armour of awkward formality returned, lingering with her while his brother went to hail a carriage. He even kissed the back of her hand.

“I did have a wonderful time tonight, my lady,” he said sincerely, “Thank you for your kindness.”

Vex stroked her braid absently, her smile soft and fond, “It was my pleasure, Percy, honestly.”

He straightened, eyes drifting to the portraits on the walls, catching on her’s. A terrible fear seized Vex’ahlia in that split second, a fear that came from the younger version of herself that still flinched at every flaw whether it was really there or not. That frightened young half elf in a city where every brick told her she was worthless, she worried Percy would look at her portrait and think it was tawdry, cheap or, worse, that he’d just see another item on a menu. Because wasn’t art subjective?

But Percy just smiled, behind those adorable owlish glasses of his.

He looked back to Vex and murmured softly, “She looks strong. And I’m very glad to have met her.”

“Then make sure you come back,” Vex spoke softly too, as if they were trying not to be overheard. Like this moment was just for them.

“I’m sure you’ll see me again, my lady,” he promised sincerely, giving her a last, low bow before finally disappearing out into the hazy light of early dawn.

Vex didn’t go back upstairs, not yet. She sat on the soft, velvet benches and spent some time in comforting silence, gazing at her portrait, the way she’d done so many times before.

Vex’ahlia knew what she saw when she looked at her portrait and now she knew it wasn’t just her imagination or wishful thinking.

Because Percy saw her too.

#courtesan au #percahlia #vaxilmore #please comment!#would super appreciate!

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nicetrynicetry · 8 months

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KOREA 56 pt.2

The onslaught of new experiences on Tuesday makes a thorough recounting extra difficult. I know that I fell asleep at 1am and woke at 7am, the equivalent of taking a bizarre late afternoon nap in London, missing your alarm and waking at just before midnight; a nap fit for one's depression rock bottom. And yet the trick to overcome a shift in the body clock when travelling, I think, is pulling open every single curtain or drape or blind in one's hotel room, so that natural light tells you when to wake(ish). NB: look at me, an anxious and comparatively rare traveller, giving obnoxious travel tips. NNBB: having said that, I am the master of Not Listening To The Body, which makes jet lag easier I know I did not go back to sleep at 7am when I woke and decided to ride the morning out. I collage together a routine: coffee in the room, TM, brush teeth, coffee in the lobby (5,000 ₩, sounds like a lot), 2 cigs out front with the westerners and service staff, writing this very blog

When I'm done I text J to see if he's up given his 13 hour time difference. We both don't want to go to the gym but know it'll be good for us. We half heartedly walk on the treadmill and I stretch while J lifts weights and remarks on how sparing they are with the AC. "They want us dead", he says, takes a picture of us for his fiancé in which I look insane, wearing my German Marlboro cigarettes t shirt We shower, then walk through the "French antiques" district of Itaewon to a brunch hosted by the globe's finest gay Asian art dealers. It is here that I decide to let go of my No Photos rule, and take a picture with fans of my music and/or art. This will be the first of many, a strange 10 minute ritual where the person taking the photo switches places with the people IN the photo and each person takes a photo and is in a photo. R and J look on appreciatively. I guess I take photos with people in Asia now. I attempt to chat with strangers while inhaling a large pork and lettuce sandwich in which the bread is flaky pastry aka a reworked BLT. There is something both unnerving and freeing about not necessarily knowing where one's next meal or snack is coming from, and thus eating as much as I feel I need. I eat the way I did before my eating disorder at age 10 - unafraid of seconds - with a little more caution because you don’t cure everything in one day. I smoke a cigarette on the roof and look at the taller buildings to the left (BASTARD bar and club) and right (Twilight Zone). The sun is out and it is scorching. While I eat a triangle of Camembert (why is Camembert here?) a woman tells me that Uber works in Korea now. I had been futzing around with a taxi app called Kakao until this moment, and breathe a sigh of relief, even though I hate Uber with all my heart

So we Uber to the Gangnam neighbourhood (pause for a rendition of Psy’s Gangnam Style) with the sole purpose of acquiring the shade of NARS lipstick I left at home in London by accident. We snake around the 11 floors of a giant Shinsegae mall and I engage in sign language with a Korean NARS staffer who in the end does not have the colour I need. I settle for a close approximation. J then buys a blue sweater vest, and I buy a fuzzy yellow Isabel Marant shacket (shirt / jacket). We both agree that it is nuts we are suddenly shopping in Korea, both new to the country and new to travelling together. It feels like our friendship honeymoon. I couldn’t have asked for a better companion, one who waits for me outside the Shinsegae smoking box while I join 45 addicted Korean men in what feels like the hottest party in town

Instead of going to the Korean suit shop I had in mind, one where I got two of my best suits on Matches.com, we survey the traffic situation and make the choice to go back to hotel to prepare for my show opening. R, Y and D join us outside to get the car and we are all wearing our chicest black attire. It will become abundantly clear by the late evening that we make a great crew. We go to Ilmin and I take my photos and I see my show for the first time. G is darting around approvingly, I am shown some cakes prepared by the museum that I’m told are inspired my particular paintings. They name the titles of the paintings that informed each cake and I am too embarrassed to admit that I don’t remember which titles are for which works. Overstimulated by the number of conversations and bows with and to strangers, I go to hide in the cafe next door, and see a waitress running at high speed with a large back of ice. I learn that a visitor has slipped and fallen on the marble stairs and her face is bleeding. She is taken away in an ambulance. We go to the roof of the museum with a stunning view of the king’s palace and the mountains behind it. Y explains what all of the skyscrapers are used for (book publishing, Pharma, weapons, banks), and explains the legacy of a 16th century Korean general whose statue stands in the square below. The sun sets and the air cools slightly, but not enough to wear a jacket

We walk along a fake river to dinner, I wade in my Hoka slides through the water and my crew expresses jealousy since they’re all wearing socks and shoes. We are seated in a small room for Korean BBQ and I eat a little of all 25 condiments and accessories alongside the most delicious meat I’ve ever tasted. The businessmen eating at the restaurant are getting drunk. They seem joyous, almost raucous. Not even my constipation can ruin the evening. We walk through a brightly lit series of streets selling merchandise and jewellery and street food. I plead with Y to go to a cat cafe, where J will become depressed and triggered as he thinks of his kitten at home. Later I will dream that I am nursing my mother’s dying cat during its final hours and hiding from a butch lesbian who keeps claiming to be my girlfriend. Our cab ride home is silent with fatigue. I fall asleep at 11pm sharp, my body superglued to the bed

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sims5leaks · 8 months

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Showcasing a Complete House

2 juin

Hello everyone!

Léa here to bring you fresh screenshots from the game to showcase new build mode items!

Designing a Full House to Explore the Live Mode

As you probably already know, the team has been working hard on various aspects of the Live Mode and we needed a small home to test various aspects of Paralives’ gameplay. Our Parafolks needed to have access to many items to take care of their needs, so might as well make it fun and colorful!

A complete floor plan with everything our Parafolks need to fulfill their needs.

We wanted a big living space to showcase our modern furniture and decor. We chose to lean more into an industrial interior with metal, leather, and dark colors.

A cozy living room with everything you need to distract yourself from a stressful day. On the walls, you can see a new painting called ‘’Kroy Wen’’ created by Chloé.

Next comes the kitchen. Obviously, our Parafolks needed somewhere to cook their meals and have a cup of coffee in the morning. Because sometimes you need technology to simplify your life: dishwashers and small appliances are making their way into our Parafolks’ home!

A colorful kitchen with clutters on the shelves and small appliances. Keep in mind that this house has been made to test things out, including those small interactable objects, you might not be able to place them as they are on the picture if it leads to technical issues later on. Also, some items might not be functional and just be clutter.

What is that behind the curtain? A washer-dryer set! We still haven’t decided on their use in terms of gameplay, but at least you can enjoy the view and remind yourself that you should probably do your own laundry.

After a long day of cooking and distracting yourself, it’s time to get cozy: grab a book, or practice your musical skill! We added new industrial pieces of furniture, a brand-new bed, and a piano.

A small bedroom with a comfortable bed and lots of books!

The dresser from Maggie’s loft has been reworked and we added lockers to create a matching set. In the foreground, you have a closer look at the new piano!

The house being small, it was perfect for our new independent shower head.

A tiny bathroom with everything our Parafolks might want to use to tend to their hygiene need and a new mirror for them to reflect on their existence.

Finally, with summer just around the corner, it was time to add our barbecue to the mix and create an outdoor living space for our Parafolks!

A cozy and intimate patio that the Parafolks can access through the bedroom.

We hope you liked our little house, it’s gonna be really helpful for us to test all the new Live Mode features. We’re still adding more pieces of furniture, appliances, and clutter to the game. We look forward to showcasing them soon! Have a nice weekend! Léa ૮⍝• ᴥ •⍝ゝ

Edit: This post was originally published on Friday, June 3, 2023 but there was a bug and the email notifications were not sent that day. Edit #2 - July 27, 2023: This post is now public, feel free to share it

#paralives

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cyarskaren52 · 9 months

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Eminem is a Hip-Hop superstar who built his legacy on emcee skills and an endlessly compelling discography.

Over the course of his 25 year career, the man born Marshall Mathers has cemented his place alongside rap's greats. The songwriter wears his love of Hip-Hop on his sleeve, and his grammy-winning catalog features classic albums like The Marshall Mathers LPand The Eminem Show. He's delivered an enviable list of hits, tracks like "Lose Yourself" and "My Name Is..." are among some of the biggest songs of their time. And he's still capable of packing arenas and dominating the charts at age 50, landing alongside younger talent such as Kendrick Lamar, Kanye West, and Drake.

The Detroit-born emcee receives a lot of credit for providing an entry point for white middle America to feel connected to Hip-Hop's voice, aesthetic and ethos; and he became a linchpin for Detroit artists like D12 and the late, great Proof. And he's now a Rock And Roll Hall Of Famer.

We picked 25 of our favorite Eminem songs.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

"Till I Collapse”

“Godzilla” (ft. Juice WRLD)

“Kamikaze”

“Kill You”

“Role Model”

“The Monster” (ft. Rihanna)

“Brain Damage”

“Berzerk”

“Just Lose It”

“Love You More”

“No Love” (ft. Lil Wayne)

“Lucky You” (ft. Joyner Lucas)

“Walk on Water” (ft. Beyoncé)

“You Don’t Know” (ft. 50 Cent, Cashis, Lloyd Banks)

“Fast Lane” (under Bad Meets Evil collaboration with Royce da 5’9”)

“Renegade” (Jay-Z ft. Eminem)

“Forever” (Drake ft. Kanye West, Lil Wayne, and Eminem)

“Shake That” (Eminem and Nate Dogg)

#26

"SMACK THAT" - AKON FEAT. EMINEM [BONUS SONG]

Our BONUS SONG pick is a celebrated classic guest spot! You might not associate Eminem with club bangers, exactly, but he and 'Kon delivered one for the ages with this smash single.

#25

"GUTS OVER FEAR" FEAT. SIA

The song was heavily tied to THE EQUALIZER back in 2014. Here, Em offers a motivational banger that looks back at his own career of ups and downs.

#24

"LEGACY"

A deeply personal track that finds Em reflecting on his childhood in Detroit, while name-dropping legendary rap acts from Onyx to A Tribe Called Quest and how the music helped him cope.

#23

"NOT AFRAID"

After 2009's disappointing RELAPSE, Eminem rebounded with RECOVERY a year later. And this emotional single was indicative of that project's push towards themes of 2nd chances and redemption.

DROP YOUR EMAIL

TO STAY IN THE KNOW

SUBMIT

#22

"SING FOR THE MOMENT"

Reworking Aerosmith's classic "Dream On," Em came with another anthemic single. The track was a standout on THE EMINEM SHOW, and the single hit the Top 10 in no less than 20 countries.

#21

"LIKE TOY SOLDIERS"

Martika's 80s hit serves as the foundation for this somber track from 2004's ENCORE, as Em addresses the 50 Cent and Ja Rule feud and Em's reaction to being drawn into it.

#20

"WHEN I'M GONE"

Pointeded included on Em's first greatest hits collection CURTAIN CALL: THE HITS, the single seemed to feed into the idea, at the time, that Marshall Mathers was probably winding down. Tellingly, it would be five years before Em delivered another studio album.

#19

"MOCKINGBIRD"

Marshall's relationship with his daughter Hailee has always made for some powerful moments in his discography. This reworking of the beloved song finds Em offering words to his daughter (and his niece) and apologizing for his mistakes.

#18

"MARSHALL MATHERS"

A moody, introspective track that stood out on the immaculate MARSHALL MATHERS LP, this semi-title track served as one of Em's most personal tracks at the time. Evidence of the leap in maturation between this album and it's predecessor.

#17

"'97 BONNIE & CLYDE"

A song that managed to be both heartwarming and deeply disturbing at the same time, this track from 1999's SLIM SHADY LP helped establish that Em was a uniquely gifted storyteller with a truly twisted sense of...humor. But he also really loves his daughter.

#16

"WITHOUT ME"

Nobody does zany irreverence better than Em when he's in full Slim Shady mode, and this hit from THE EMINEM SHOW featured him at his most cartoonish—complete with a goofy Batman & Robin-themed music video.

#15

"ROCK BOTTOM"

An early example of Em's penchant for discussing his emotional issues and painful childhood. As his star was rising, Em included this track addressing his depression, the stress of being a young dad, and the anger he's grown up with.

#14

"SUPERMAN"

The bitterness of Marshall Mathers' divorce(s) from Kim Mathers were still very much lingering in his thoughts and his lyrics on this one. A track where he lets off every misogynistic thought in his arsenal, as Em goes in on groupies and shady women in his world.

#13

"THE REAL SLIM SHADY"

The first single from 2000's masterpiece THE MARSHALL MATHERS LP served as an unofficial follow-up to 1999's "My Name Is..." with Em in full zany and obnoxious mode. One of the best hooks of the era.

#12

"JUST DON'T GIVE A FUCK"

One of the best lyrical showcases on Em's breakthrough SLIM SHADY LP, it's another song on the album that serves as an announcement for who Slim Shady is, was and remains.

#11

"WHITE AMERICA"

Slim Shady is nothing if not self-aware. Eminem tackled his own white privilege on this popular album cut from THE EMINEM SHOW. Em spits rhymes making it very clear that his popularity and celebrity aren't disconnected from the fact that mainstream America loves the white guy.

#10

"LOVE THE WAY YOU LIE" FEAT. RIHANNA

A song that looks at the pain of abuse, Em and Rih-Rih teamed up for this monster hit from Em's RECOVERY. The track would also be featured on Rihanna's smash album LOUD.

"MOSH"

Eminem's political commentary may not be the first thing that comes to mind when discussing his songs, but one of his best topical tracks was this bodyslam of George W. Bush and the War On Terror.

"CLEANIN' OUT MY CLOSET"

Eminem's personal life has always been a fixture in his music. Even his most famous hits can feature the rhymer getting nakedly open about his familial troubles. One of the best examples is this angry, pained track about his strained relationship with his mother.

"GUILTY CONSCIENCE" FEAT. DR. DRE

One of Em's most infamous hits, this second single from THE SLIM SHADY LP cemented the Detroit rapper as the most controversial man in rap. Appropriately, Dr. Dre rides shotgun for this series of stories about doing very, very bad things.

"RAP GOD"

Em's lyricism cannot be denied. But just in case he needed to offer a gavel-slamming final argument for why he's a consistent fixture on "Best Emcees" lists, this song was sufficient proof.

"MY NAME IS..."

The song that announced Slim Shady to the mainstream. The video was inescapable on MTV in 1999, and it became the prototypical zany hit single that Em would deliver consistently throughout his career.

"TIL I COLLAPSE"

One of Em's most stirring lyrical performances (and if we're being real, it's one of his best productions, as well), the Detroit emcee goes in over a thunderous beat, making his claim for rap supremacy as only Marshall can.

"THE WAY I AM"

Quintessential Slim Shady. Em interpolated Eric B. & Rakim's classic "As The Rhyme Goes On," turning it into a hit single from his second major label release, THE MARSHALL MATHERS LP.

"STAN" FEAT. DIDO

It's an instant classic that has endured as one of the rap game's most effective and affecting story raps. Em etches his name alongside the all-time great rap storytellers with this tale about an obsessed fan. And he gave the world a go-to term for anyone who goes too hard for their faves.

"LOSE YOURSELF"

It's an anthem for the ages. The Hip-Hop answer to "We Are The Champions" or the ROCKY theme. The hit single from the 8 MILE soundtrack has become a timeless track for anyone needs motivation to kick ass in any given situation. https://rockthebells.com/lists/greatest-eminem-songs-25-dopest/

Sent from my iPhone

#hip hop 50 #today in hip hop history #todayinhiphophistory #hiphop #hip-hop #hip hop #hip hop music #hip hop history #hip hop culture #music #history #music history #television #rap #rapper #emcee #mc

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