#does anyone else here feel like this show is sometimes too heavy for them?
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#does anyone else here feel like this show is sometimes too heavy for them?#i mean that the themes themselves are dark but also that it brings up really really dark and heavy things within you?#i know i am not the only one who’s had this kind of fandom experience and i want to talk openly about it#i’ve been an unsafe and cruel person in my past and i need to talk about it so i can let it go so it can stop swarming around in my head#i don’t want to be a cruel or hurtful person my heart is too heavy for that#i am going to talk openly about it in therapy too#but i’m tired of feeling really alone in this because that’s not helping me to get out of my head#hannibal#nbc hannibal#hannibal lecter#will graham#hanniblogging#hannigram
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Tell Me Sweet Little Lies Part 1
By the time Eddie is twelve, going to live with his uncle in a trailer in Hawkins, he only has a dozen or so words from his soulmate.
It used to make him guilty, that his soulmate was the kind of person who rarely lied, getting stuck with Eddie who spit lies out like they were the shells of sunflower seeds. Then it made him angry, that he only had a handful of shit like he did it! and I already washed my hands. A small spattering of normal kid shit, while Eddie had to say things like no, officer, I don't know where my father is and Mom's just not feeling well today, Mrs. Anderson.
Then, a year or so before his dad got caught for good, he got It's nothing, I just tripped and Yeah, Mom, I understand, I know he won't do it again and he thought - maybe his soulmate is the kind of kid who knows sometimes it's just better not to say anything.
Eddie can understand that.
Living with Uncle Wayne is - hard. It's hard because it isn't hard, not the way it should be. It makes Eddie say more things that he knows his soulmate will see on his skin, things like I never wanted to be here anyway, and I want to be alone, just leave me alone.
His uncle is endlessly patient, and it grates on his nerves because he wants it. He wants it so bad to be real, but he just - keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to be too much.
For Eddie to be too much for him.
It comes to a head one night when Eddie's mad at him over something or other, asks why he's doing all this.
"You're my kid, and that means I'm not going anywhere," his uncle says, all gruff and raw honesty, and Eddie can't bear it.
"You don't think your soulmate's going to get tired of all these lies that keep showing up?" he snaps, even though he regrets it the moment it's out of his mouth.
He regrets it even more when there's a heavy, aching silence, and he finally looks up at his uncle, eyes wide and terrified as he thinks this is it, he's finally gone too far -
"It's not a lie," Uncle Wayne says finally, holding Eddie's gaze. "You hear me? It's not a lie. I'm not going anywhere."
Eddie nods, and his uncle relaxes a little, then grimaces, like he isn't sure he wants to say anything else.
"I don't have anyone for lies to show up on, anyway."
He says it like it doesn't matter, but Eddie bursts into tears anyway.
Not everyone has a soulmate. The majority of people do, but it's not uncommon for people to never have words written on their skin. In school, they teach that it doesn't mean you can't be happy, it doesn't mean you can't find love. They teach about soulmate bonds that didn't work out - there's whole plays and novels and movies written about that kind of tragedy and misery, after all.
But sometimes there's still an undercurrent of pity, of bitterness. Outside of school - or inside it, when it isn't the teachers talking - some people say there's something wrong with people who don't have soulmates, some people say that they were meant for bigger and greater things.
Some people say that soulmates are supposed to be between a man and a woman, and every time someone who's queer gets a soulmate, it's because they stole them from someone else.
And Eddie doesn't believe that, not really, but he can't help but wonder if maybe his uncle does, and he can't stop crying.
Now his uncle is the one who looks terrified.
"Son, come here, it's all right, it really is." Uncle Wayne gathers him up in his arms, holds him close the way no one's ever done for him before, and just lets him cry and cry and cry.
Later, Eddie thinks about just letting it go, but - he has to know, he just does.
"Do you think someone stole your soulmate from you?" he asks as he's washing dishes, not looking at his uncle and hoping it doesn't sound anything like do you think someone like me stole your soulmate from you?
Uncle Wayne scowls. "That's a load of horseshit, is what I think. No one can control whether they have one soulmate or two or none, and it doesn't make someone greedy or a thief."
Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it again. He's known about people with two soulmates before, of course, the same way he knows about people with none - and he's heard the comments about them being greedy same as he's heard comments about them being lucky, or a dozen other things people've theorized to explain it. It's just that it doesn't really tell him what he'd wanted to know, and he can't figure out how to ask without being more specific.
Uncle Wanye is looking at him real close, though, and there's something like a quiet acceptance that flashes over his features.
"No one can control who their soulmate is," he says softly. "Whoever yours is - they were meant for you in a way they aren't meant for anyone else. Love like that can't be stolen, kid, it can only be given."
He thinks about that for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."
"Good," his uncle says gruffly. "Now finish those up and get off to bed."
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First part of a Steddie and platonic Stobin soulmates AU I'm working on, where any lie you tell gets written on your soulmate! No idea how long this is going to be - it was supposed to be a oneshot but it just keeps growing, so I wanted to share at least the first bit of it.
Now with Part 2
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okay. OKAY. I JUST WANT TO SAY.
NEW MUSIC STYLE. NEW ART STYLE. NEW MAGIC SYSTEM, NEW GIRLS, MORE CLARA DOLLS, MORE HOMURA OUTFITS, MORE EVERYONE OUTFITS, and AAHAHAHAHSGH.
Homura wins by style points alone.
Anyway. Choice screenshots and my thoughts on them. Plus a few wild theories. Replies, tags, and your own reactions are VERY welcome.
(You're doing great, sweetie!)
First of all, I’ve already said this, but Homura has usurped Kyubey. She is the contractor in this new system. She calls magical girls and asks them if they can bear the responsibility of fighting (LEAGUES better than Kyubey's misleading BE A HERO language), using a magical lizard phone. She knows better than anyone else how heavy this is.
And she looks amazing while doing it. Look at that outfit! Look at her steampunk-esque aesthetic! Her throne. Which, notably, has glowing magenta eyes and her wings as a backrest.
The moon is either actually, physically repurposed, or she’s made something that looks like it. Not only that, but the pins going into the moon are exactly like the pins that went into her soul gem when she was being experimented upon in Rebellion. Those pins, according to the artbook, are for draining her gem of grief to keep her just before the point of witching.
Well, here’s my first wild speculation: Homura has not only taken over Kyubey’s job as a contractor but also its job of disposing of grief. That moon steampunk device is maybe for collecting, concentrating, and distilling grief into energy - hence the strange tesla coils connected to red liquid in the second screenshot above. She's doing what Kyubey says it's doing - turning the grief of people into energy to prolong the universe's lifespan.
I for one support her reality-warping shenanigans.
Here are some voices over a phone, sometimes speaking over each other, sometimes together. They call Homura “Akuma-sama” (!!!) which is a distinct upgrade from calling her Good-For-Nothing. They say “Just bring hope” like a mission statement. Are these her contracted girls? Or her Clara Dolls? They seem to show her a lot of respect.
I’ve also said this, but I strongly feel that this and the girl shown later are some of Homura’s new contractees. Their magic is darker. It warps the world around them, even. Their outfits incorporate black a lot more, too, though that might be the lighting.
Look at the little sigil on the top left-middle! Looks a lot like Homura’s lizard sigil shown when she was consuming the universe, just with a longer lizard.
And, of course, the image of Madoka throwing herself off of a building. “Wraith” and “Legend of Bestie” (lmao) show up here. I’ve actually been really looking forward to seeing what they’ll do with Madoka’s… self-sacrificial tendencies, so this might be part of that. Or, because of “Wraith”, it’s… well, I’ll get to that later.
On the other hand, it might not be Madoka. It might be the girl who the speaker in the phone call calls her "best friend", jumping to her death because of a wraith, and Homura saving her to fulfill a wish.
So glad that the insane architecture from Rebellion is making a comeback. Love what you’ve done with the place, Homura. Look at all those cranes!
The outfit changes are very cool to me. I honestly don’t have speculation for why Sayaka is covered in bandages, but I do have speculation for the changes!: they’re older. Years have passed. Since they’ve changed and grown, their outfits have changed, too. I don't have proof of this - I just like the idea.
Light shines down on Madoka. Petals fall towards her as flowers bloom above. Behold, Homura's extremely subtle and inscrutable feelings. (Sorry for the blurry Madoka, but I am not going through the ordeal of uploading screenshots to my computer again because Tumblr does not like mobile users).
Homura is apparently waiting for Madoka here. She's standing right in the fountain's water and holding a Victorian umbrella like a vampire. Right now we can see that the visuals of this movie will not miss.
Is this a routine thing for them or is Homura just showing up to greet them this one time, for some reason? No clue. Madoka's expression as she notices Homura could indicate either.
Eagle-eyed people on Twitter noticed this, but in these shots, Sayaka already has her bandages.
Aside from the multiple and/or teleporting Homuras, there's also a Clara Doll in a ballerina dress and a cute Clara Doll peering over the side of the tower like a little kid.
The tower is interesting. It appears to be made of books or pages, and there's chains throughout it. More notably, it's in the shape of a helix - infinity symbols on top of each other.
Please appreciate these Clara Dolls. I'm sure they're working hard.
But seriously, those Clara Dolls' details. One has a witch's hat. One has an apple on its head. And the one with a teacup appears to have not only a lizard's tail but a replica of Homura's Devil outfit. Appreciate them!
Here is Homura(?), lounging or trapped on a chair filled with even more of those pins. Look at her closely. She's wearing a strange combination of her magical girl outfit and her Devil outfit - her shoulders are bare, and she has... feathers? She's sitting on a bunch of nails. But she also has two soul gems - one in her hand, and one hanging from her neck.
Is she cleansing them? Eating them? Holding people hostage? I don't know, but I support her completely.
She looks so tired.
So: here's some of what I think might be going on.
Homura is using wraiths to repress her worst memories. We know already that wraiths take memories and emotions from their victims. Well, there's no reason it can't be used as extremely terrible coping! Homura actually does this in the Wraith Arc, too - she lets a wraith take her feelings for Madoka.
If it is Madoka, it explains the shot with Madoka throwing herself off a builing - what if Homura has seen this happen in the loops, and out of pain lets a wraith pull it right out of her? The shot says "WRAITH" and billows with smoke. A wraith could have taken Madoka's form to act out this memory. And it doesn't need to be a memory - it could also represent Madoka's self-sacrifice and almost suicidal tendencies. This, too, would explain the multiple Homuras. All wraiths using her form.
This puts forward powerful enemies for the plot, as well as an interesting point of literally fighting Homura's demons. Most importantly, this lets everyone see Homura's pain.
Other wild dartboard speculations:
Homura will try and present herself as a villain. This is, honestly, kind of guaranteed, but it bears mentioning that her magical girls will be very likely to try to defend her.
Kyubey may appear to try and turn the girls against Homura.
Homura made the new magical girl who is drawing a bow. She has a lot of design choices from the Quintet, and people have already noticed how much she looks like Madoka. This new girl plays a role of the hero to Homura's pretend-villain, eliminating the risk that her friends will get seriously hurt.
The new magical girl is actually Madoka. Or the Law of Cycles. Or Kriemhild Gretchen.
The girl who jumps from the tower is a contractee being asked to take a leap of faith. She does so, and Homura rewards her with magic.
#pmmm#pmmm analysis#puella magi madoka magica#madoka magica#walpurgisnacht rising#walpurgis no kaiten#pmmm 4#please tell me what tags to use for spoilers!#pmmm specuation#homura akemi#long post
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the sargeant's tattoos | b.b.
SUMMARY: It's a lazy morning in bed, and your boyfriend has new tattoos, which means inspection. Bucky lets you do your thing, as always.
🏷️ Established relationship, fluff, body worship. WC: [2.2k].| 📑 This work is part of a series called Coming In Hot, but it can be read as a stand alone. This is specially for the nonnie that missed it. Mwah.
"Can you get back up here?" You giggle. "I wanna see the new one. You said it's healed. Lemme see, Sargeant."
Bucky's got a thing for your legs, he tells you all the time, but the amount of time he's willing to spend sometimes kneeling on the floor just because your bed is basically on the floor is ridiculous sometimes.
He looks up at you, rubbing his scruff on your calf and smiling with the same indecency in his eyes he had when he first walked in and saw you sprawling across the bed with a book in your hands and only your newest sundress—pure want, mixed with devious thoughts and even more devilish intent.
"I like it down here," Bucky answers. He puts on a cute pout, and you grab him by his hair. The soft and now longer strands are perfect for pulling, and you smile with your jaw hanging open at the fact that this bastard hisses with a smile on his face at the strength you use. "Ow. So you get to trace my tattoos for as long as you'd like—ow, woman, god, you're hot when you're needy little this," Bucky's laughter tastes somehow even better when he presses it against your mouth. "But. If I spend half an hour sucking bruises on your legs, I can't? I don't like that. Doesn't sound that fair to me."
You're successful in pulling him back in bed with you.
"I just miss you," you whine. You kiss him back when Bucky dives for several small pecks, holding his head there, as close to you as possible. "And your tattoos are up there with my favorite art pieces. You know that. You also gave me full permission to ogle them for as much as you want, so..." you shrug your shoulders.
Bucky scrunches his nose, then lets all of his weight drop on you.
Your body lets out an 'oof' sound when he does that, but you wrap your legs around his waist even though you can barely breathe.
In a mocking tone of military order, Bucky says. "Tell me I can go back to my duty of honor after you're done with your starin'."
"No!" Bucky's heavy, and if he makes you laugh this is over before it starts. "You said we're gonna go watch a movie, Buck."
"Don't whine at me, darlin'. Tell me I can do it or else I'll just crush you to death," he insists, wiggling his body for good measure.
Muscle.
Your boyfriend left the military many years ago — thank everything that's real — and his only exercises involve a lot more aerobics than you'd like to think of at any given time, but he's also a mechanic.
One who loves what he does, who's always doing the most himself. You've seen him lift things in that car shop you were sure were a part of the decor, and it shows.
"If you stay on top of me like that for one more minute I'm gonna lick your face, Barnes."
The threat almost sounds real, but Bucky knows how to recognize weakness in your voice when he hears it better than anyone.
He leans closer to your face. "Tell me," he whispers, inches away from your lips.
"Fine. You can go back to whatever you want between my legs," you exhale heavily. Oh, what a cruel hand you'd been dealt with. "Now off. On the bed, face down." You wiggle your eyebrows.
A deal's a deal, so Bucky gets off.
Smiling because he's won what he wants, too, but all that matters right now is finally getting the time to look.
When he arrived earlier at your place, you'd been so lost in the ocean of sadness, longing, and desperate need to see him, be near him, kiss him, taste him feel him rub on him gasp his name have him writhing and begging for you, begging for him right back, Bucky BuckyBucky—there was time for nothing else.
Barely a hello.
His working clothes were still somewhere close to your front door, with grease on them and a button missing, most likely.
You hated residency.
Hated being away from him, the boys — your boys — and hated even more that the limited time you had was often wasted doing stupid, grown-up shit.
You missed and loved Bucky Barnes each more every day, ever since the day he welcomed you into his shop and fixed your Baby, and being away from him felt like torture at times.
Specially when he got a new tattoo.
Bucky laid with his stomach on the mattress, wiggled his hips a few times to get comfortable, and placed a pillow under his head.
"Go ahead," he muttered, resting his cheek on your silk pillowcase and casting his blue eyes on you.
You climbed on top of him this time, sitting on his ass.
"Pain level?" You ask.
The first of many questions, as he well knows.
"Mmm. A solid five. The parts closest to the ribs were the worst," he answers.
Your fingertips start tracing the lines of the tattoo that so far you had only seen through pictures.
There was not an ounce of a lie in your previous statements to Bucky:
All his tattoos were art.
This new one was no exception.
"Time?" You ask.
"Seven hours with a few breaks here and there," Bucky answers.
You whistle. "That's impressive, Sargeant."
He chuckles. "It's not that painful," he states.
"So you say," you tease him.
Bucky's still daydreaming about the day you'll allow him to pay for a tattoo on you, and the day is yet to arrive.
The art he puts on him makes him look like art as well.
It was the first thing you said back when at the beginning of the relationship you had a chance to truly look at his tattoos. To lay on his chest and analyze them from up-close without feeling like you were invading the privacy of what they meant.
Each tattoo Bucky had held personal meaning to him — unlike his best friend, Steve, who had a bunch of random (and beautiful) shit permanently drawn on many parts of his body — and it took no genius to figure out Bucky would rather chomp his own feet off than talk about it with anyone.
You knew from stories of the boys that Bucky had the habit of giving people the bluntest answers he'd given on the times they all traveled to the beach and the rare occasions when someone saw him shirtless and asked about his very sick tattoos.
How could you blame those people?
On his right side, drawn across his ribs, there was a raven taking flight. A very realistic one about the size of an adult man's hands spread wide open.
"That's my dad's favorite bird. He liked the poem by Poe—very on the nose, I know. But I like it, too. It's funny this is the first one you ask about 'cause... this was the first one I got."
Unlike with others, Bucky had no problem talking to you.
He told you about the raven, about Saturn on his chest, and the story his mother told him when he was a kid about how she had a guardian angel who picked up rocks and asteroids straight from the planet of Saturn only on the special occasion of her birthday, and how his mother started to give him her special "Saturn stone" to him whenever he felt anxious.
"She said it wouldn't give me superpowers, but that it had superpowers and I had to trust it would just be whatever I need to face off the challenge I was anxious about, and... it worked." That explanation had been so beautiful you told him it made you want to get Saturn's rings tattooed on you, and that had made Bucky laugh. "It's a nice magic thing to believe in. You know... back in the desert, sometimes... I would just pick up any stone, close my eyes, and pretend it was a Saturn ring. Carry it around in my pocket like a lucky charm."
Before the newest addition, Saturn had been your favorite of all his pieces.
Bucky also had tattooed on his left chest a hyper-real android thing that made it look like he was part robot on the inside.
"This one was just after I learned how to accept this," he'd told you, wiggling his prosthetic arm. "Learning how to feel okay with the new me and all that yadda."
Then, there was the constellation.
Wrapping around the left-wing on the back of his left shoulder there was the constellation of Cassiopeia.
"It was... this was Kim's favorite." The sound of Bucky's lost battalion member might be closed, but the scar of losing a loved one was forever. "Stars and stuff like that was the first thing that got him talking back then. You know how he was intimidated by Stevie and I..." You recalled seeing the fondness and the obvious infatuation still visible in Bucky's eyes when talking about Kim, and all it made was bring you this wave of sadness of knowing you'd never be able to meet someone who made Bucky feel so happy. "It was the first thing we really talked about. And we could talk about it for hours."
After you two started dating, Bucky got a new one a few months after on the back of his right shoulder in the same conceptual style as this newest piece.
It was a quote from Wuthering Heights.
Be with me always. Take any form—Drive me mad!
The quote stood between an anatomically correct heart and a book.
Seconds before showing you, Bucky had stood on your bedroom door playing with his fingers and hair, trying to figure out what to say. Then, he had just closed his mouth, took off his shirt and come to sit next to you in bed in complete silence.
When you read the quote, all you could see was your Instagram post.
He had sat and waited for you to find your own words, and it took you a while.
"It's gorgeous."
Bucky had looked at you, smiling so softly it hurt. "An ode to love."
"Is it?"
"It is. It turns out... that there is such thing as a love you'd want forever."
That day was one of your favorites. Ever.
Today, though, you stand there sitting on your favorite seat with your fingers tracing the new conceptual art on his back.
There were a lot of things, but the main connection was time, and in the other lines, you recognized little things that each traced back to one of the boys from his group. To Steve, Sam, Peter, Gabe, Morita—even Kim was there if you paid close attention to details.
It was gorgeous.
Then, you noticed that the dismantled machine on one of the edges of the tattoo was a 1959 Cadillac.
Your Cadillac.
"Bucky..."
"Ah. She found it," he says with a laugh, talking to himself. With a look up, you see Bucky twisting his neck a little just to look at you. "You like it?"
Like it?
To be included in his vision of... what? Family? Love? All the things that time brought to him and mattered?
Your answer is to close the distance between your bodies and press your lips on his. Bucky sighs softly, kissing you back and trying to hold onto his smile.
"I love you so much," you whisper to him. I'm not gonna cry. I'm not gonna cry. To fulfill that, you focus on kissing him some more. "I love how the art on you makes you even sexier. It should be fucking illegal, to be honest, but it's the best eye candy ever so I do not care."
"I'm eye candy?" Bucky asks, laughing again.
You nod. "You know you are." And... there it is. The blush on his cheeks as he shakes his head, trying to play coy or argue with you when he knows it's useless. Caressing his face, you sing the praises your lips are used to. "Beautiful, pretty, gorgeous Sargeant," they're as familiar as the taste of his mouth by now, and how much he seems to drink them in is all that you ever want to see at the end of the day.
Bucky blinks heavily, smiling so hard his cheeks must be hurting.
Then, he opens those hypnotizing blue orbs and leans in to sensually touch his lips on yours.
"And she wonders why I love to spend time between these legs," he hums in feign disapproval.
There's a sharp slap on the side of your thigh, and you yelp.
Bucky's smile turns devious.
"You've done your ogling. Time to stick to your word, darlin'."
He's right.
This time, it's you who sighs before lying down. "Yes, Sarge."
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Toxic!BalletAU!Jordan where your dance studio becomes you two's bubble.
On paper most rooms are free for all at all times but when you need some privacy you need to schedule and Jordan always needs some privacy especially since you two have been paired up for more than one performance together.
you two have been spending all your time together training and with Jordan always scheduling your time together in the evening your training has been long and tiresome often leading to the two of you exhausted on the floor.
With pauses here and there you test the water, sometimes your questions are met with dry, "shut up." Or "that's none of your buisness." But sometimes after a three hour session Jordan is exhausted enough to answer your questions.
It feels a bit like pillow talk, Jordan will be spread on the floor trying to rest for a few minutes while you'll be massaging your ankles and they'll huff before answering your questions.
You touch everything little by little, their power, if they were scared the first time they shifted, how their parents reacted or questions unrelated to that like how they came to want to become a dancer or what music they listen to.
You two feel it. Especially Jordan when the sun sets and it's been down for a few hours, the vibe has changed it's different and it's just the two of you. They'll still be banter and sarcasm but they'll be soft moments too where Jordan would check their notifications and messages before they turn around ready to start again when they see you napping on the floor and 'reluctantly' (that's what they convince themselves) let you sleep for a small 30 minutes before they gently nudge you with their foot to stand back up and go at it again.
I have so many more in store!
oh my god im melted ice cream on the floor
me when I wrote more than i expected to.
they really start showing their love language too ( i think they're heavy on physical touch and acts of service) to the point where they have this since of pride in their chest whenever you look to them expectantly, doe like eyes wide, and they present you with your protein bar. they ignore the warmth in their chest at how it feels to - to take care of you - feed you, watch you get replenished. and you start falling into this sense of comfort around them, even if there's still moments you genuinely don't know if they hate you or not, you couldn't do what you're doing with anyone else. something in you feels safe around them, despite the thorns threatening to prick you at every turn.
but it feels good to learn about them little by little. you try and be a positive person, maybe you try too hard but thats a discussion for another time, but you're suprised at the intensity of the dark emotions that come over you when you learn about their parents, the way they dont accept jordan - how they're basically the whole reason jordan doesn't shift in front of people here. it actually makes jordan laugh one day, a sharp sound - "shit - you look like a pissed off little rabbit. what, you gonna pout my parents to death?"
that leads to you huffing and shoving at their shoulders, and they actually nudge over a little, in their fem!form - and that's how it starts. a tussle, playfighting really - they just suddenly can't stop giggling at your attempts to be intimidating and you start off miffed but end up just doing it to hear them continue to laugh - because its such a beautiful sound. you think you could bottle it up. wear it around your neck forever.
eventually they pin you under them, panting a little, grinning and flushed - their longer hair fluttering in the space between you. and the giggles die down, their eyes go from mirth at your expense to something - something shockingly tender. it traps the air in your chest. you both have a moment of looking at eachothers lips, then your eyes, before they're leaning in, hungry and fast - and this is all so new - you've never been kissed by anyone - let alone a woman - and you find you're not afraid. far from it. your legs seem to spread natrually, wrapping around their slim waist, pulling them into you.
they kiss you so intensely, its ravenous really, a moan clawing its way from deep in their chest as they move to kiss along your neck - reach down and grip your thigh, yanking it higher around their hips so they can - can grind down. and you gasp at the friction of their cunt on yours - the tights you're both wearing thin enough you can feel the pressure as they drive their hips against you - mimicking - mimicking
"this is how i think about fucking you - " they say, biting at your earlobe, "all the damn time."
you whine, hands scrabbling at their back - "jordan." you gasp, "don't stop - please dont stop."
"fuuck." it comes out like a hiss, they're really rutting you into the floor now, you can feel the wetness of your cunt, of theirs, seeping together, mixing in the sheer fabric separating you both - "god, what're you doing to me." a hand sneaks up, wraps around your throat in an almost punishing manner, "haven't cum this way in ages - fuck - this little freshmen cunt -"
they're cut off, groaning, and your thighs squeeze around their hips, rocking your pelvis up to meet theirs and you hit that peak right after they do - eyes rolling back into your skull at how good it is.
they roll off you, staring up at the ceiling. a kind of dazed, content expression on their face.
and then you say, "that's never happened to me before."
its like a shudder comes down - reality crashing back. they suddenly remember you're a fucking - virgin. and they dont get attached. fuck. especially too people they're working closely with. that familiar panic, panic at this becoming - a thing. they sit up.
"yeah, well. now we can put this - whatever the fuck it was - sexual tension, i guess, behind us. no more missteps."
you feel your heart crack a little. "um, jordan?"
they glance at you as they get their things, and its like weeks of progress has melted away. they're already on their phone, fingers flying across the screen. they shift back into their masc!form, running a hand through their hair as they stop beside you.
they look down at you, something like pity in their eyes, and it makes you sick.
"look freshie." they sigh, "dont make it a thing, okay? we got caught up, we fucked around to let off some steam, this kinda shit happens all the time. bright and early tomorrow, I'll see you then. dont be fucking late."
you try not to cry as you pack your things - alone in the studio. funny how you thought just thirty minutes ago - that you felt safe with them. now you'd been pricked by the thornes, and fuck, if the wound didn't hurt.
outside, jordan kicks over a trashcan. probably way too aggressively. they run both hands through their hair, and actually debate going back inside. taking it all back. because that had been something raw, and real, and vulnerable. but they dont. not for the first time, they harden their heart towards you, and vow to not get close enough to the flame to let it burn them again.
#ask#IM SORRY I TOOK THIS AND RAN#LMAOOO#my fingers sped away from me#toxic!ballet jordan#jordan li x reader#jordan li smut
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I want to lore dump about my BG3 storyline and OCs so bad, but at the same time I don't want to release any information before it would come out in the future chapters of my fanfic, so to stave off the dark urge, here's.... 🥁🥁🥁
Team Tadpole doing sweet things for each other part 2!
Sometimes, when Astarion has trouble resting at night, Gale will stay up with him and play chess- They started with card games, but Astarion cheats like a fox. He still cheats at chess, but not as often.
Karlach probably notices when her comrades are in pain after battle, and will hug a sack of rocks until they heat up to make a sort of makeshift heating pad for sore muscles.- Bonus points, She'll borrow some scented oils from Halsin to add an element of aromatherapy.
Gale has 100% done talis card readings for Team tadpole when they deal with heavy emotional stuff, if only to help them find their path forward. Maybe he isn't the best at verbal comfort, but magic is one thing he knows he can use for at least some benefit.
I feel like Gale also notices when people aren't dealing well with things, and will purposefully annoy Durge so they have someone to pick on and hopefully feel a little better afterwards. They're definitely the sort of friends that pretend to hate each other, but are there when you need them. Durge definitely brings out his petty side, but its all in good fun. Usually.
While maybe they have a bit of a rocky relationship, I also believe Durge would indulge Gales special interests and let him ramble about things, because they know what it's like to have to shut up to make other people happy. I also feel like Gale would return the favor and deliberately ask about weird, macabre things so that Durge actually has an excuse to bring up topics that interest them.
Wyll has a knitting hobby. You probably wouldn't expect it, but he definitely does. And he's really really good at it, too. He uses every holiday as an excuse to gift people things like socks, scarves, mittens, etc. And I mean EVERY holiday. Earth day, valentines day, national owlbear day (Which is totally not something he made up as an excuse to give people their presents early), etc. The thing is, he notices when people complain about their socks getting worn from traveling, and gets random ideas for gifts at 3 AM, and then spends the rest of the night knitting. He has also been known to make cute little knitted outfits for the group pets in the winter, because he thought Scratch was getting cold.
Adding onto this, Lae'zel is the only person Wyll is willing to go to for a blunt and honest opinion on the gifts he makes before he gives them. Lae'zel doesn't take this lightly, either. While maybe she doesn't show it, she takes this very seriously and is somewhat honored that Wyll came to her instead of anyone else.
Shadowheart tends to replenish Wylls yarn reserve without telling him as well. She asks Lae’zel what colours he's run out of, and then sneak some extra spools into his pack. Wyll still doesn't know who's been doing it, but he's thankful nonetheless. And it's one thing the cleric and the gith can actually be somewhat peaceful about.
Durge doesn't take all of their kills lightly. When it comes to someone they actually respected, there's a ritual they perform afterward that they read about in Withers old temple. They'll grind bone and ash into ink and take time to write out the names of those they respected, and bury it with the bodies. As well as little offerings as well. It isn't a short process either.. Durge will spend the entire night locked in their caravan burning incense, praying their name to Jergal in hopes that the spirit will find rest, and doing little things in honor of the dead.- It isn't hard for team tadpole to figure out when Durge has taken the life of someone they held a genuine respect for, and will be careful not to disturb them, or leave bones or herbs/flowers on the steps of their caravan. Karlach and Astarion will occasionally come to check on them. While maybe it doesn't happen often, it does happen. Withers was particularly surprise to begin receiving prayers after all this time, but it strengthened a sort of bond between the two.
#bg3#baldur's gate 3#astarion#bg3 durge#dark urge#gale dekarios#baldurs gate tav#lae'zel#shadowheart#wyll ravengard#karlach#scenarios#writing prompt#bg3 scenarios#bg3 withers#jergal
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california king bed (jake seresin)
AN: the one where jake seresin realizes his selfish tendencies could cost him everything. inspired by this ask. fluff and a dash of smut exist below the cut ♡
warnings include: consensual penetrative vaginal sex, some oddly specific details in here friends, so sorry it's part of my process sometimes, minors DNI.
characters: jake 'hangman' seresin x female reader
Jake Seresin is falling in love with the woman sleeping soundly beside him.
It’s much too early to be contemplating such things, yet despite that, a morning sun bathes her in a pale glow, highlighting the parts of her that no one else gets to see as up-close as he does. A front-row show to the world’s most wondrous woman.
He knows it’s love because everything else he’s ever experienced has paled in comparison to what he feels when he’s with her. Where he had never before bothered to know a woman as intimately as he knows her, he can tell anyone who'll listen what her favourite films are. He can name- with infuriating confidence- the types of flowers she wants to make up her future wedding bouquet, the titles of the tattered paperback westerns her beloved grandfather used to collect, that her socks stay in the laundry basket a full week before she finally summons the strength to put them away. He knows he’s in especially deep because the precarious stack of unread novels next to her side of the bed never ceases to make him smile anytime he catches sight of it.
She shifts then, rousing him from his reverie. Her body is entirely nude save for the white cotton sheet draped over her front. He counts the freckles that scatter her back like constellations, and the urge to reach out and trace them is almost entirely overpowering. He refrains from touching her though, because as much as he wants to wake her, he also wants this moment to himself. In the silence, he can admit that he is on thin ice with her. He knows that the fight they had last night could very well have been one of their last, and he realizes without a shadow of a doubt, that he wants a lifetime more of heated arguments with her. He wants the fights and the makeups; the fucking and the loving, and the life- the good bits and the gory bits. He wants all of it with her.
But she is fine sand and he is the hourglass that encases her and sometimes- like last night, he feels powerless to stop her inevitable departure.
“I worry sometimes that I’m not cut out for relationships.” The alcohol in his veins made his tongue loose- made being honest with her as effortless as breathing.
She laughed, but any humor behind it was frozen inside a block of ice the size of Texas. “So what? The last seven months were a trial run? ‘Let’s see if Jake Seresin can do this… and if he can’t oh, well. Onto the next one’.”
“It’s not like that…”
She folded her arms across her chest in defiance. “Then tell me what it’s like because I care, Jake. I care so much. But if you can’t let me in…” Her expression hardened, as if a shadow passed over it. “If you won’t let me in, I don’t think I can keep doing this.”
He watches the steady rise and fall of her chest in the glowing morning light; watches her eyes dance beneath veined lids, wonders briefly what kind of dream she’s having and if it’s as lovely as she looks right now. He gazes at her a little while longer; wants to memorize every miniscule detail of her face lest she opens her eyes and decides she’s finished with it all. But her eyes do slide open a little while later, her pupils constricting to pinpricks at the sudden onslaught of sunlight. She doesn’t smile at him like she normally does when she greets him in the morning and that rattles him a little if he’s honest.
“I’m sorry for last night.” He offers finally, his voice gruff and heavy from recent sleep.
She watches him, her expression unreadable. “You were just being honest.”
He closes his eyes, wants desperately to get what he’s about to say, right. “I do well on my own. I always have. It's why I choose not to share the sky with anyone, it's certainly why I choose not to involve myself with anyone.” He clears his throat. “I have spent so much of my life thinking I was above loving and being loved back, and for some reason that all went out the damn door with you.”
I have spent so much of my life thinking I was above everything, period.
“Women like me come along once in a lifetime, Jake.” She inches closer to him, her fingertips find the jut of his chin, forcing him to gaze at her. “You know that don’t you?”
He nods his head furtively.
“I realize how close I came to blowing this all up last night. It’s the last thing I want to do.”
The weight of the vulnerability that comes along with that confession feels like it may just crush him if he’s not careful.
Her face hovers mere inches above his; her warm breath as it ghosts over his lips causes him to shiver against her in unabashed anticipation. Bending forward, she captures his lips in a kiss that while languid, is also painted with a dash of scarlet passion. This was what they needed after a night of stifling silence. Knotted bedsheets always offered them a solace not found anywhere else on earth; their bed had a habit of bringing them back together when they strayed too far from one another.
He's already entirely ready for her when she breaks their kiss to straddle his thighs. He can tell she is too by the way her arousal trails down the velvet-soft of her inner thigh, over the head of his cock, and down the underside of his shaft. The sensation of it causes his eyes to roll back in his head as he grips himself firmly in his hand and lines himself up at her entrance.
Placing both hands firmly on his shoulders, she lowers herself onto his impossibly hard cock and begins to ride him slowly, and deeply. She drops her head to the hollow crook of space between his neck and shoulder blade and peppers kisses to the warm skin there.
Jake can barely string together a coherent thought; she’s always taken him so well, but there is an intimacy to this time that causes a lump of emotion to swell inexplicably in the hollow of his throat. His large, deft hands roam the dips and valleys of her back; he feels her muscles bend and flex as she rides him like her life depends on it and being close with her like this after last night, just feels like coming home after a long, exhausting mission.
She pulls away to gaze at him, opens her mouth to say something, but a desperate whimper escapes in place of any actual words. Jake stifles a groan and cups a palm to the apple at her cheek, nodding at her.
“I know, baby. Keep going.”
And she does.
She fucks him until her hips still and Jake feels her spasm around him. His name is a breathless scream on her lips; the electric and all-encompassing heat of her orgasm drives him ever closer to the precipice of his own and Jake wonders briefly if this is what heaven is like.
“It’s too good, baby.” He gasps as she continues to pulse around him, and when she doesn’t immediately stop, his fingernails leave crescent-moon indents in the soft skin of her hips as he tosses his head back and comes into her in thick, hot waves.
She stays connected to him longer than she should, and when she lifts herself off of him, the sudden loss of intimate contact is almost painful. Pressing a kiss his sweat-damp forehead, she disappears for a little while. Her absence is felt long enough that Jake wonders momentarily if she left, but then she enters their room a couple minutes later with a bowl of strawberries which she places on counter next to his side of the bed.
“I love you.”
It has nothing to do with how good she just fucked him, or that she brings him freshly washed strawberries in the mornings, or even that she waits for him while he spends most of his waking moments in the clouds.
He loves her because where everything else in his life is difficult or heavy, loving her is the easiest decision he’s ever made.
“I love you too, you cocky bastard.” Her words are warbled around the strawberry in her mouth, and as she tosses a wink his way, Jake can’t help the hearty guffaw that tumbles from his mouth in happy waves.
#have i been on a rihanna kick lately? ill never tell#jake seresin#hangman seresin#jake seresin x reader#hangman seresin x reader#jake seresin smut#jake seresin imagines#top gun: maverick#tgm#glen powell#smut#writing#drabble#california king bed
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6x15 spec
Eddie doesn’t know what’s come over him. One minute he was fine, the next he sees Buck tenderly checking a pretty girl’s hand wound and he’s very vividly transported back to the day he reconnected with Ana.
A familiar panic creeps up his throat. At first, he assumes he’s just triggered by the memory of his old panic attacks (it wouldn’t be the first time something happens and the memory overwhelms him), but he’s been working with Frank to pay better attention to his emotions and properly pinpoint where they are coming from and, after a moment, it hits him that his sudden fear has nothing to do with the girl. It’s Buck, the way he’s smiling at her, flirty and gentle, the way he leans in with sudden interest in whatever she’s saying, the way he smiles and looks away, suddenly bashful.
Panic is then replaced by the sudden and undeniable urge to intervene, to walk over and insert himself in the conversation, to divert Buck’s attention towards whatever Chris said this morning before school or send him over to help someone else. The urge to —he’s startled to realize— mark his territory, show the girl Buck is his best friend, his person.
Where did that even come from? Eddie can only guess. He tells himself it is because Buck’s too nice, too sweet, too loving, to quick to give himself away to anyone that will grace him with a little kindness. He tells himself it’s just that he wants to protect Buck from making the exact same mistake he did with Ana. He tells himself it’s because Buck should be focused on the emergency at hand and not on whatever the woman in front of him is saying with those big dark eyes and a sweet smile.
Eddie squashes down that instinct though, like he’s done with so many impulses in his life, and continues tending to his patient with gritted teeth until, an eternity later, Buck comes over.
“Hey you ever heard of a death doula?” He asks later, causally, as they walk back towards the engine.
“A what?”
“A death doula. They are like- like people who help prepare others for death, you know? That girl back there, that’s what she does.”
The memory of his abuela’s curandera hits him suddenly. The protective instinct from before resurfaces, it feels like he swallowed a mouthful of hot smoke.
“How can she prepare you for death? Like, paperwork and funeral arrangements?” He asks, and he knows how dismissive he sounds but he can’t help it.
“No, it’s- it’s more like, they help people accept death, you know? Old people or terminal patients, and their families…”
“So that’s what this whole living funeral show was about?”
“It’s not a show, Eddie. It’s- Well, I guess it is sort of like a performance. But, you know, when someone dies and people talk about their life and how great they were and they say their last goodbyes, they always say how they wish they’d been able to tell them while they were still here. So why not do that?”
Eddie thinks of a grave, of his son talking to his mother, of all the things Chris will never get to tell her now in person, on how much he’d needed to believe that Shannon can hear them when they speak to her.
“I suppose it makes sense,” he concedes, reluctantly, “if you know that you’re dying, anyway.”
“We all die in the end, Eddie,” Buck says, matter of factly, with that lingering darkness that sometimes appears in his voice ever since the lightning strike. “It’s just… we never know when it can happen. It can catch you by surprise.”
Add heavy concern to the list of complicated emotions swirling inside Eddie’s chest.
“That’s just life, Buck.”
“And death.”
“I suppose. Still… having a whole funeral before you even die sounds like a lot.”
“I died and didn’t even get one,” Buck huffs.
“Three minutes and seventeen seconds isn’t long enough to plan and throw a funeral.”
“Right,” Buck frowns, still clearly uneasy. Maybe Eddie should have intervene when he saw him talking to that woman. “Anyway, I thought it was interesting.”
“You’re gonna go do a deep dive on the subject as soon as we are back in the firehouse aren’t you?”
“Nah, I figured she’ll tell me more about it later.”
And there it is again… the panic.
“Later?”
“Yeah, I sort of got her number. Thought it’d be good to talk to her, you know, all things considered,” Buck shrugs as he climbs into the engine.
“You said she helps people who are dying soon, Buck. And, unless there’s something you aren’t telling me, that’s not your case.” Not as long as I’m around to help it.
“Eddie, if there’s one thing we should’ve learned by now it’s that anything can happen when we least expect it. I just- I just wanna be ready next time.”
And isn’t that the most absolutely terrifying idea Eddie’s ever heard? Buck being alright with dying. Buck accepting death. Buck just embracing the fact that he could be gone any second. Buck actually dying and not coming back to them.
“Or you just wanted a date with the hot death lady,” Chim intercedes, smirking as he sits opposite to them.
Buck doesn’t even have the decency of denying it. He just flashes them that wide bright smile and looks horribly smug.
Eddie finds himself furious, suddenly, at Buck, at Chim, at whoever decided to drive a car through a funeral house and landed them here in the first place. The reason behind that anger… he’s going to need to examine it later, alone, because he suspects the answer is going to be more complicated than he can deal with, right now.
“If you make us throw a fake funeral for you, I’m not coming,” he says.
Buck looks suddenly devastated. Eddie meant it as a joke, but he should’ve known that even his hypothetical absence to a fake and ridiculous scenario would make Buck twist it somehow into thinking Eddie really truly wouldn’t bother to show up to his funeral, as if he thought that Eddie couldn’t care enough, as if he didn’t know that the three minutes and seventeen seconds he was gone were by far the worst of his life.
“You’re not?” Buck says, voice small and shaken.
Eddie decides to commit to the bit.
“No way. If we are being realistic about your fake funeral, I will probably be in jail after killing whoever killed you.”
That startles a laugh out of Buck, at least.
“Oh, so he was murdered, now,” Chim snorts.
“Not completely unlikely,” Hen adds, playfully.
“Hey, that’s not fair, only one of my three near death experiences as a murder attempt. The other two were just… nature.”
“Then I fight God,” Eddie says. And it’s meant to be ridiculous, an exaggeration for laughs, but as the words leave his lips he realizes he maybe sort of means it, despite the impossibility.
The other’s laugh, as intended, at least, even Bobby. But there’s a curious twinkle in Buck’s eye as he does, like he suspects deep down that Eddie meant it.
“You can’t end up in jail if I die, Eddie. Christopher needs you.”
“Oh, he’d be my accomplice when avenging you.”
“Chris can’t go to juvie, Eddie! You can’t let that happen,” Buck pretends to be appalled.
“Then, don’t die, Buck!”
“Fine, fine, I won’t. Can’t let the Diaz boys lives be ruined because of me.”
Oh, little does he know that’s exactly what would happen. They can’t afford to lose him. The idea is too terrible to even fathom.
“Good! Finally.”
“If only we’d known there was a way to get you to be more careful all these years,” Hen teases.
“You’re still going to that date, though, aren’t you?” Chim asks and Eddie could strangle him.
“Yeah… I guess I am. I just- I don’t know. It feels like the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe she’s my- my destiny or something. Like I was meant to find her.”
Eddie snorts a humorless laugh and rolls his eyes.
“Buck, the universe didn’t kill you to get you laid.”
“Who said- that’s not- I’m not saying that!”
“Besides, what’s so wrong with Buck going on a date?” Hen shrugs, side eyeing Eddie. “There’s no way it’ll be worse than Vanessa brushing you off fifteen minutes in.”
Right. That.
“That’s not the point,” Eddie huffs. “That was my Tia setting me up. Not the universe…”
“Well, maybe the universe is better at blind dates than Tia Pepa,” Buck declares, grinning.
“I’m telling her you said that. She’s never gonna make you chilaquiles again.”
“You wouldn’t do that, Diaz.”
“Try me, Buckley.”
“God, get a room you two,” Ravi says, from the copilot seat.
The silence that follows is the weirdest and heaviest Eddie can remember. Chim and Hen’s eyes share an entire conversation. Eddie cannot bring himself to look Buck in the eye. Buck’s leg (a constant bouncy presence next to Eddie’s thigh) stills completely, like he’s turned into stone.
“So,” Chim finally says, “anyone know anything about tax fraud?”
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Where's Daryl?
This was very difficult to write. It opened up a lot of old wounds for me, so if you read this, thank you. If my thoughts on this show haven’t been your cup of tea, that’ll most definitely be the case here as well, so maybe just move along. ***Trigger warning for discussion of childhood abuse***
For about a year and a half, Caryl fans asked Where's Carol? as a pointed reminder that the spinoff was always meant to be hers just as much as it was Daryl’s. Even though she's back now, her fans didn't always know she would be (nor did the EP's 🙄) so her absence during filming and promotion of the first season was a heavy burden to bear. The irony is, though “Daryl Dixon” sticks out like a sore thumb in that ridiculous font, he's the one who feels absent sometimes, as if important parts of his character development were lost when he washed ashore while other parts come and go as the plot demands.
Zabel talks about swapping Daryl's iconic vest for "old man" suspenders as a matter of pragmaticism i.e. they were the only clean clothes available. Norman says it was a choice he wanted for some unclear reason, but neither of them seem to consider the intelligence of their audience, particularly Carylers, to see it more symbolically. The costume change is our visual reminder that Daryl isn't himself. In some scenes he's chattier than he should be, far more trusting of strangers with personal details, and far more theatrical. Then in others, the differences are even more alarming. He calls a child cruel names, puts his hands on him, and feels conflicted about returning home to his family, to the woman he said he loved.
I mentally prepared myself for retcons, but the one I'm struggling with a lot right now, which I haven't seen anyone bring up yet, is the retcon of Daryl’s childhood abuse. Daryl tells Isabelle that he and Merle had to take apart engines and if they couldn't put them back together, their dad wouldn't let them have dinner. It's a milder version of the stories the scars on his back tell us, though I can buy Daryl omitting the worst of it like he did in the pilot. What I can't buy is Daryl saying his dad was "hardly ever" around and emphasizing it as the main source of his pain growing up. It feels contradictory for one thing. When we see Daryl's scars for the first time in S3 of the flagship show, it's implied Daryl was trapped in an environment that enabled his dad to physically hurt him often. Presumably that's why Merle felt guilty about leaving him behind. The revelation also seems like it's only intended to highlight the consequences of an absent father figure, explaining Daryl's fear of not making it home, but also justifying his "close" bond with Laurent. The best stories allow a character's emotions to drive the plot, but this just does the opposite, twisting Daryl's backstory to fit the current narrative.
Daryl's backstory made so many people root for him in the first place. It allowed Carol to see him when nobody else in the group could. It helped me process my own childhood trauma. The ways I got to watch him overcome his violent past gave me hope that masculinity could mean more than what I grew up around—more than anger, shouting, and swinging fists. Daryl taught me that men could still be tender, kind, and loving even if those closest to them in their childhood never showed them how. I imagine Daryl's representation has been important to boys and men too, specifically to those who were afraid to speak up about their abuse because of the stigma around it. The implications of this scene may not be easily noticeable to some, but they are to me, and I'm deeply offended by it.
I’ve talked at length on this blog about how it takes a village to make or break a show, though it’s usually the showrunner who has to answer for it. I've already mentioned that I do blame Zabel. His knowledge of French history has no value when he obviously didn’t bother to study Daryl’s history aside from reading old scripts and (maybe) watching the first couple seasons. That's incredibly irresponsible and terrifying for S2. I also blame AMC for their short-sightedness and their determination to save face no matter how much it costs them. I blame Gimple for his pettiness. I blame Greg Nicotero for his insensitivity to Melissa and her fans.
As for Norman, he's hinted very loudly that he wants credit for the show being "different," so in theory he should be prepared to take some of the blame too. I can't name all of the decisions he specifically made, but no matter what they were, I can blame him for not speaking up about the shipbaiting, Daryl's wavering loyalty, and the childhood abuse retcon, all things that hurt his character and hurt the fans. I genuinely don't know what else to think other than Norman didn't give either the consideration they deserve. The show has been treated like nothing more than a vanity project, and it’s unfortunate when you think about what he and AMC had to gain from the original Caryl spinoff.
I love the version of Daryl I knew before this whole mess, I love Carol, and I love the relationship between them. I want them to have the story they deserve in S2. At the moment, I don’t know how to reconcile that with the agony I feel over the damages to half of my two favorite characters. If Carol is going to cross the Atlantic ocean to find Daryl, I want him to be the man who threatened to punch holes in all the boats so she couldn’t leave and the man who told her he loved her before—ironically—leaving himself. I need to hear Daryl admit he hasn't been completely honest with the French characters, not because he was afraid of getting too close to them, but because he didn't want to face the pain of potentially living without Carol and TF. I need to hear him say that he can't be Laurent's father, which is okay because the kid has plenty of other family to take care of him. I need to hear him say, out loud, that he could never love another woman romantically because he's already in love with Carol. That's what I need to feel better about this story. That's where my investment is. I feel like Carol is safe in Melissa's hands, but I don't feel like I have anyone to rely on for Daryl. That’s a big problem because their stories are so intertwined. There’s no Daryl without Carol nor Carol without Daryl. If you ruin one of them, you risk ruining both of them, and that’s a possibility I really can’t bear.
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Hanzo is three, dashing down the halls in the estate to the agony of his nanny, who's trying her best to catch up to him after he ran off while she was using the bathroom. He's giggling, excited, tiny hands reaching out before him for whatever they can grab onto; diving under legs and furniture, until at last he reaches the desired door: his baby brother's nursery.
"Mama!" He calls out, small knuckles rasping against the door softly. There's a minute of pause before his mother comes to the door and in the meantime the nanny finally manages to reach him. She quickly scoops him into her arms as he wiggles and whines.
The door slides open and the nanny is quick to bow her head and say, "I'm very sorry, madam-"
With a kind smile and a gentle tone, the woman cuts in, "Not a problem. It's his big day, right Hanzo?"
Though she's holding a week-old Genji in her arms, Hanzo throws himself at her and she leans in to kiss his face and give him a sideway hug. "Here, say happy birthday to your big brother, Genji," she coos softly as the baby stares up at them with big, round, curious eyes.
Hanzo leans closer to the newborn as the nanny pulls him back. "Be gentle, now," his mother says when he inches closer again. He presses a very soft kiss to Genji's forehead and the baby giggles in response. Both women laugh at the cuteness of that moment.
-
Hanzo is ten, sitting quietly on a bench, watching as about a dozen kids in Halloween costumes run around the estate grounds. Genji is among them, his vampire cape flapping behind him in the cold night breeze. He sighs, looking down at the bag of sweets in his hands, full to the brim. But none of it is his - it's Genji's.
It's all about Genji these days.
The crunch of heavy feet on gravel has him involuntarily straightening his back. The hand lands on his nape, strong and controlling.
"Get your brother," Sojiro says without looking down at Hanzo. "We're cutting the cake."
He backs off without another word and Hanzo breathes in relief. Sometimes, like now, he misses mother so much it hurts. But he can't show his pain to anyone, doesn't want father to think he's weak. So he collects himself and gets up, calling out for Genji and their friends.
When they stand side by side at their shared birthday table, Hanzo realizes they forgot to write his name on the cake. The family governess has to add a "And Hanzo!" at the end of Happy birthday to you because father calls out Genji's name and claps loudly as if that were the end of the song and there was no one else worth mentioning.
He feels sick, like he might throw up on the cake, so as soon as the singing is over and everyone is busying themselves with candies, he disappears from the crowd and locks himself up in his bedroom. He doesn't come out until the next morning, when everyone - including him - can pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened.
-
Hanzo is twenty-two, blowing cigarette smoke into the night air at the window. He knows that he should sleep, but can't seem to relax. This room feels too big for him, as do the shoes that he's having to fill since father's very recent death. He's been trained for this job all his life, but now that it's here, he doesn't feel prepared.
The door behind him slides open and he doesn't have to look to know that it's Genji. Hanzo continues staring at the cloudless sky until a body presses behind his, one arm going around his middle and the other reaching out until Genji steals the cigarette from his hand.
They smoke in silence for a moment. Genji puts out the butt on the windowsill and he finally glances towards his brother, reprimanding. All Genji does is smirk; he'd done it on purpose, to get Hanzo's attention.
The hand around his waist crawls all the way up to his hair, brushing gently at his temples. He feels as Genji tries to curl it around his fingers, but his hair is too short now, so he just plays adoringly with it.
"It's almost time," Genji says in a whisper. "I got you a present."
Hanzo looks at him again, eyebrows shooting up. Genji has never been most thoughtful... But maybe losing father has made him realize people can just. Be gone someday, out of nowhere. It has certainly made Hanzo painfully aware of that.
"You shouldn't have," he says, but as Genji's hand travels once again to wrap around his, he allows himself to be dragged away from the window and walked back towards the bed.
When he sits at the end of the bed, Genji is quick to once again curl himself around Hanzo's body; one of his legs around his back, the other over his lap, chest glued to Hanzo's side. He holds Genji's waist and watches as he pulls a tiny velvet bag from his pocket. He tugs at Hanzo's free hand until he's holding it out, palm up, so he can dump the contents of the bag in Hanzo's hold.
It's a pair of golden bands that he immediately recognizes as their parents' wedding rings. Hanzo gasps, hand shaking as if the metal could burn him. His stomach feels cold as he stares at the rings and tears threaten to spill from his eyes; he misses mother more than ever, and even though losing father felt like freedom, he misses what he represented in their lives - the figure of authority that Hanzo didn't have to be.
"Hanzo," Genji starts and he forces his eyes to move to his brother's face. "It's you and me now."
This thought, though to Genji it might mean something else, to him is a relief. He has Genji, so what else could Hanzo need? Besides, he is at the head of the family now, and he wants his brother at his side. He will have it his way.
There are tears in Genji's eyes, too, when he adds, "I'm yours if you're mine."
And for the first time since father died, Hanzo allows himself to cry.
He pulls his hand free from Genji's waist and takes the ring, slides it reverently onto the finger that his brother holds out. Cries silently as Genji does the same to him. When they kiss, it tastes like fear, salt and love.
-
Hanzo is twenty-five, hands shaking and covered in blood as he fumbles with Genji's corpse for the wedding ring. His katana rests at his feet, bloodied and sharp.
He did not have things his way.
-
Hanzo is thirty, barging uninvited into the Shimada estate to make an offering to Genji's spirit in the temple. His katana rests on the altar like a trophy. Genji lives in his heart.
-
Hanzo is forty-one, climbing to his feet and crossing his room in Gibraltar in silent strides. The old bag he hides at the back of his wardrobe has a secret compartment, a hole in the lining that he's used for over a decade now to hide a certain box.
When he returns to the bed, heart racing with anxiety, Genji is still blinking awake. But he smiles a sleepy thing and reaches out for Hanzo, who slips back into his arms. Genji spends a good minute laying a plethora of kisses over his face, neck, arms, hands; crushing Hanzo in a passionate hug.
His voice is croaky when he murmurs, "Happy birthday, old man."
Hanzo just chuckles. "Don't worry, you'll get there."
But he's hit with a wave of gratitude - to Mercy, to the gods, to the universe - that he knows Genji will get to 41, too. When for years he spent his and Genji's birthdays wallowing in guilt that his brother never knew 23, 24, 25... All thanks to him.
"We'll be celebrating in the retirement home," Genji jokes and he laughs again. He would have it no other way; having Genji at his side until the end of their lives is his only plan for the future.
Hanzo sits up, then, and Genji follows him with his eyes. Curious eyes, like that week-old baby; gaze that doesn't lose a single move while Hanzo digs out the small box and gently opens it. The shine of gold has dulled some after years of dust and lack of wear. Hanzo surprises himself that he still remembers which is which.
He takes Genji's hand, holds it with the same reverence he had that night, almost two decades ago, in his bedroom in Hanamura. The ring slips easily and fits with perfection onto his finger. It's as if time hasn't passed at all, but it has. So much of it has - and thank the gods for that.
Genji is the one to gasp and freeze in place this time, staring at the ring, at Hanzo's face. Doubtless running over the memories from that night as well. His face doesn't betray a single emotion as he slides Hanzo's ring into place and Hanzo fears that this was a mistake, that maybe some mementos are meant to be just that - objects to remember the past by. Not things to build a present and future with.
But Genji brings his hand to his face and kisses the ring, and sits up to kiss him on the lips, and Hanzo knows they're fine. They're more than fine, they're-
"-yours and you're mine," his lips moving around the words that Genji whispers, and though it's early morning and so much has yet to happen today, this has to be his best birthday by far.
Life sure has its way of making all the right things fall into all the right places, sooner or later.
#shimadacest#my fics#happy birthday old man i love you and so does genji#sorry i enjoy watching you suffer#genzo#hanzo shimada birthday#i know this is kind of sad but so is hanzo anyway it's a last-minute thing i'd been trying to write something for days but had no muse
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Hey, I finished the first chapter of the little fic I made. It's not great, but it's here, so I might as well share it, I guess? Have mercy on me, I don't know how to format this and it started out as a mini vent thing.
Anyways, on with the show! (let's hope it doesn't crash and burn)
(no it doesn't have a title I'm sorry)
Word Count: 1, 537
Another day in, another day out, just like every other. Clock in, grab your supplies, work for six hours, go home. Start the day tired and end it numb. The routine gets to you some days, but you’ve gotten used to it, trudging through the hallways with a heavy heart and a spirit that’s been stepped on for too long to recover.
You’ve been knocked down so many times that you can’t get back up again.
So you go through your day. You get a couple looks, hear a murmur or two from some nearby parents. You wish you could say you’ve learned to block it out, learned not to care.
What you have learned is how to fool everyone, sometimes even yourself for a bit. You plaster on a passable default smile, forcing your lips to twitch up as you give a short wave to people. The small jolt of disappointment when people buy your ruse never did disappear. The ache is still there, dulled and hollowed by time. You remind yourself that the loss of attention means it worked. It still doesn’t stop the small, faded part of you from hoping that someone would care enough to try to see through the well-placed mask you’ve created.
Of course, you know better. People would never try more than they had to. You couldn’t fault them for that. They’ve always been content with shoddily built structures that could collapse at any moment. As long as it held, as long as they didn’t have to clean it up, the ‘fine’ you gave would always be a satisfying answer.
You’d long since given up trying to change people’s worldview.
You stand in front of the daycare doors, preparing yourself for another day. Your pep-talk does nothing; you’ve never been able to fully fool yourself, even when you could fool everyone else.
You suppose magic only works if you believe in it, and when you’re the magician, no one can pull the wool over your eyes. You know every trick, every hole in your facade.
You take a breath, glancing at your watch. Six hours and you could leave, not that you had anything at home for you to look forward to. No use in setting up false hope.
Pushing the daycare doors open, your eyes dart around and take in the prison you’ll be trapped in for a duration of your day. The bright fluorescents and warm atmosphere give the misleading idea of an almost normal work day. You’ve been here long enough to know better.
You glance around before making a beeline for the desk, too tired to interact with anyone, much less your dreaded coworker.
To no one’s surprise, your wish goes unheeded, and a figure looms over you, further dampening your mood. You brace yourself and meet his gaze with a tired expression, not bothering to hide your exhaustion today. Still, you try to be cordial, folding your arms and politely greeting the animatronic set on tormenting you for the duration of your shift.
“Good morning,” you say, cringing inwardly at the unintentionally sharp inflection in your tone. You try to smooth over it, even though you know he caught onto it, if the twitch of his eye didn’t prove it.
Sure enough, he latches onto it with a thin, seemingly friendly smile. “And a good morning to you! I couldn’t help but notice that you’re slacking today, friend.”
The cheery words do nothing to veil his cold, blatant hatred, and he makes no move to hide the venom lacing his tone. You can feel your own smile thinning, but try not to show it, not wanting to give him another reason to continue this conversation. “What makes you say that?”
His eyes narrow, and he leans in further, smile just barely hiding his disdain. You keep your innocent facade up, having learned that the confrontation lasts less when you just go along with it.
“Well, you’re not in dress code. Aaaand I don’t recall lounging behind the desk being a part of your job description.’
You hold your tongue, biting back the urge to defend yourself. You know there’s nothing wrong with your shirt, and you know he does, too. You also know that he wouldn’t let you set foot in the actual daycare unless it was actually necessary. He’d made that very clear from day one. Still, you keep your act up and nod, seeming apologetic. “Oh, sorry, Sun, I didn’t realize. I’ll go get changed.”
You pick up your bag, already prepared for this very scenario, and head over to the bathroom, not bothering to continue conversation. You’re careful not to walk too quickly (or too slowly) so as not to get called back. You’ve been here long enough to know each trick, each problem they pull out from under the ground, each flaw they insist on picking apart.
You can’t even remember the last time you were excited to come to work. It must’ve been back when you’d first started, before you were aware of the hostility you’d face. You don’t think your past self would recognize you now.
You don’t even recognize yourself.
From the start, Sun had been hostile, him and Moon both. At the time, you’d figured that it was because you were now. Surely with time things would die down, and you’d all learn to get along.
Oh, how wrong you were.
Of the two, your preferred Moon. Sure, he was the one pulling out all the stops to bother you, but at least he made it clear how he felt about you, with the tricks, insults, glares and mockery. Sun’s hatred simmered just below the surface, quick and sharp when striking like a viper lashing out at its prey.
It should’ve been easier to hate them back with the way they treated you, the way they still treat you. You could have fought back with just as much force, should have, even.
Somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate them. You saw the way they played with the children, how they attended to each and every one who passed through those doors. You saw Sun’s games and Moon’s stories. You saw the way parents treated Sun, the way kids shied away from Moon. You saw them happy, kind, caring, and you saw them panicked and broken. How could you fault them for trying to be in control of the one thing they had power over?
You just wished it wouldn’t hurt so much.
You knew deep down that it didn’t justify their treatment. You couldn’t understand why you kept making excuses, kept coming back, why you hadn’t just up and left like everyone else insisted you do.
Maybe it was because you knew what being left behind felt like.
Stars, it was tiring to do the right thing, though. Every day, you felt a little part of you wither inside at being shoved into smaller boxes for someone else’s satisfaction.
Ah.
Well.
Not like you hadn’t had experience in that department.
It wasn’t like you could leave, anyhow. Contract was a year, no exceptions. The pay was too good to pass up, and it wasn’t like you hadn’t been put under pressure before. The plex wasn’t too bad overall. No one bothered you, save for the security guard and the occasional parent. The band members were mostly neutral with you. You had yet to hold a conversation with Chica or Freddy despite working here for several months. Monty was rude but had yet to actually talk to you outside of small snide remarks and gruff warnings, and Roxanne just treated you like dirt on the bottom of her shoe, an ant on the sidewalk, which was fine. You rarely visited the Arcade, but the DJ was nice enough, not interfering with your work and responding to questions if you had any. At least the STAFF bots were nice to you.
(Distantly you wondered how pathetic you were for only being held in an okay light by someone programmed with on directive in mind and a dim sentience.)
And how someone designed to be friendly and welcoming hated you with every line of their code.)
You shove your thoughts aside and focus on surviving the day. You quickly change into a work shirt almost identical to the one you were just wearing, knowing that he couldn’t argue against it because he had approved this one specifically two weeks ago. And he never went back on his word, at least not to you.
You check your watch again. You had maybe two minutes before you’d be taking “too long” by their standards, and you gratefully took the moment to decompress before facing the day head-on.
You shut your eyes and slump against the back wall, just breathing. You note your heartbeat in the background, the quiet rise and fall of your chest, the creaking of bones rubbing against each other, the twitch of each muscle, your eyes flickering under closed lids.
For a moment, you just are.
It ends too quickly as you notice the time, grabbing your bag and heading back out, feeling a little more ready for what’s to come.
(The feeling doesn’t last long.)
Aaaand that's a wrap! I'm working on the next part, so it might be out? If people like this? I dunno, I'm new to this whole thing...
#sorry to bother#don't mind me#how do I tag this?#I'll prob delete it later anyway honestly...#ig i have to put the 'x reader' thing right??? I've never done this#this was a terrible idea#anyways...#moon x reader#sun x reader#fnaf dca x reader#moondrop x y/n#sundrop x y/n#Sundrop x reader#Moondrop x reader#Where the Stars Don't Shine
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Glee Musical Retrospective: 4 Minutes (The Power of Madonna)
youtube
Sung by: Kurt Hummel and Mercedes Jones
Original Artist(s): Madonna feat. Justin Timberlake and Timbaland
Baby penguin my ass.
I sometimes go back and read 'of the day' reviews, and one of them stated that this episode featured too much music. And I got to thinking, while I clearly don't agree, this is the one that would probably end up on the chopping block. I'm very glad it didn't though, because I think it has more to say than you may think.
And it's only one of two duets we get between Kurt and Mercedes.
Story Anaylsis
It's really nice to be talking about Kurt again... when is the last time???
So, here's the fascinating thing about this one. Kurt and Mercedes both often feel like they're playing second fiddle - especially to Rachel Berry. And here they get to showcase their amazing talents together. But the thing is - they got this huge performance as a thank you from Sue for making her over in Vogue. (Also - Sue is doing this as an FU to Will, but Sue is savvy enough to know talent when she sees it - and Kurt will remain one of her favorites for the rest of the series.)
The song itself is a little random story wise -- and most likely chosen because it was a highly energetic, more modern hit. It's a song about going out and saving the world in 4 minutes? Honestly - the lyrics are supposed to be about saving the planet, and having the urgency to do so. But I can finagle a few things...
I think one of the things both Kurt and Mercedes are doing here are latching onto the urgency in their own lives. Sue's giving them a chance to shine and they're both going to take it. Neither of them is willing to wait around for Will to give them a chance. So, they'll make their own chances. Which speaks to both their characters, really.
But if I die tonight
At least I can say I did what I wanted to do
Tell me, how bout you?
I think the lyrics are mostly not the point in this one. But I like this little stanza. It speaks to the two of them briming with their own confidence and jumping at the chance to show, at least the school, what they can do.
I'm going to quote myself from my Kurt meta:
One of the things I really love is how confident both Kurt and Mercedes are in this dance number–with the whole school watching. Before, both of them were looked down upon, and thrown in dumpsters, and slushied, but now that they’re with the Cheerios and singing Madonna, they really latch on to a growing self-confidence. Sure, they aren’t there yet, and they have many more obstacles to go over, but just the fact that they’re up there performing, uncaring really what anyone else thinks, is a step in the right direction.
I will say - one of the things that I've often had a hard time buying on this show is that people continually think that these kids are losers. I'd have been so amazed if I saw a performance like this in high school. There's no reason any of these kids get the hate they get except for the fact that the plot needs them to be.
Technical Thoughts
First of all - I love that they arranged this as a marching band song. Not only is it a great interpretation to the heavy sound of the original song, but it's nice to see a marching band used well on screen.
Secondly, they sound pretty good! I love Kurt in his lower register. And Mercedes just owns this song. It's not surprising that they had them switch parts because Amber is much more comfortable with kind of song than Chris and it does show a little bit in the vocal track.
The on screen charisma, though, they both have it. The fact that both Mercedes and Kurt feel so comfortable in their bodies is fantastic. Neither of them are what mainstream society would label as sexy or hot but I love, love, love that this speaks to that -- that these two are both sexy and hot in this number as they play off each other. The choreography on this is the best, and I love that they allow these characters to be in control and confident in their bodies.
Also - sometimes I don't think Chris gets enough credit. Yes, he can be clumsy and fall of a piano (oh we will get there) but sometimes he just owns his physicality in a way that is never commented on is just remarkable.
This performance also has some great reaction shots. I love that Will looks annoyed and almost disappointed. Rachel's 'no comment' was perfect. And I love that Quinn genuinely seems to be enjoying herself. (I love when Quinn gets to be a human.)
Also - super technical thing - but notice all the quick cuts and camera whips? I'm sure that was done purposely to enhance the urgency the song is trying to create.
Fun fact: Apparently, this is the last time Kurt does a duet with anyone else besides Blaine and Rachel until Adam Lambert shows up. Crazy right? Shame that the show doesn't try out varying combinations more often.
vs. The Studio Version: It's the full song! Or more so it feels like they just repeat the chorus a few more times. I do like the second half, though, because they both get into the song just a bit more and it feels even more powerful than the show version.
vs. The Original Song: I love that this song is actually 4 minutes long. It is slightly slower than Glee's version - which makes sense, because that's Glee's trend - to make everything just a little bit faster (I assume to fit into time limit of being on a tv show). As I said earlier, I think Glee's marching band interpretation is really cool - because it's a great in world adaptation of the instrumentation the original song uses. That all said, what is going on in this video? I don't get how this reflects saving the world. *shrugs*
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∇ - old age/aging headcanon (for dream and hob if they were human rather than immortal, i suppose)
Oh my friend, you have just unlocked a side of my mind that's rarely seen but so so feral!
From this headcanon meme!
I absolutely adore aging Hob and Dream. Even outside of a human au, I love the thought of them growing old together. Age continues to exist, even if the physical evidence of it (and indeed, the end result of it) does not. Hob still ages; each year that passes is another year since he last saw his mother, another year since he last rode a horse (he really wants to get back into that and keeps telling himself that this year will be the year, but it never is), another year since he heard his oldest friends' laughter. He feels the weight of his immortality every single day, and it's not an unbearable weight, but it hangs off of his shoulders nonetheless. Dream, too, ages. Perhaps not in the same way; his life is not measured in the same way as human lives are, he does not count each passing second as an added second to his never-ending, eternal clock, nor does he measure the length of the road behind him (or the road ahead of him) in human years. Yet he ages. If learning and growing and changing are all marks of growing up and growing old, then he is doing both. He was not always; for a long time, he had been stuck in time, neither adapting nor maturing in any conceivable way, but recent events (and a certain immortal mortal) have dragged him firmly into the realm of the aging.
And it's a good thing! Hob had learned the old aphorism long ago: change or die, and he had chosen to live. Living means changing; changing with the times, changing outlooks, changing opinions, changing biases. He is a master of change, moving from one life to the next with all the fluidity of a rushing river. His ability to do so is his aging. Likewise, Dream's willingness to, if nothing else, at least see Hob's point of view about change, shows his own aging.
But you didn't send this ask to hear me wax poetic about the philosophy of aging or changing, so here are my thoughts on old, human Dreamling.
Dream is a grumpy old man. He's the old man who worked every day of his life, without break or vacation, and his body is punishing him for it. He was definitely an artist of some kind, maybe a sculptor, maybe something else. It doesn't matter; at the end of his day, his knees click and his knuckles are swollen with arthritis and all of the muscles that had built up in his shoulders have languished in his old age. He can't hold a paintbrush or spin a pottery wheel anymore and it eats him alive with every sunrise. Hob, on the other hand, is the singular spot of warmth and light in Dream's life. Hob, a retired soldier, or maybe a life-long construction worker, has kept his sunny disposition (and, infuriatingly, his fit frame) into his older years. They're the quintessential grumpy one/sunshine one, though anyone who knows them personally knows that Dream has a soft spot for children, and for birds, and for anyone who has a story to tell, while Hob has a mean streak a mile wide if you get on his bad side. They spend their days sitting at the kitchen table, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea, or sitting on their front porch, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea, or sitting on a bench in their local park, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea. They always have warm cups of coffee or tea. They're well-known at the coffee shop, and Hob will recount the story of how they met in that very same shop loudly and at length to anyone who asks (and sometimes to people who don't).
On days when Dream feels as though he can't get out of bed, like his body is too heavy for the world, like his mind has fallen into such disrepair as to be unusable, Hob is the one who sits next to him, a warm hand on his shoulder, and affectionately calls him a drama queen. He'll roll his eyes at his husband's antics, but he'll bring him breakfast in bed anyway. And when Hob is haunted by old nightmares of a long life, not always well-lived, Dream will hold one of their countless books in long, shaking fingers, and he will read to his husband, poems and epic tales, and Dream won't tell Hob that he's not reading, he's reciting, because his quiver and eyesight have gotten so bad that he can't see the words clearly, but he knows them in his heart. And Hob won't tell Dream that he doesn't need to go through the trouble, that it's his presence that's grounding, not the words he's speaking; he'll sit in his presence and let the wash of words roll over him like a comforting tide, drowning his bone-deep anxieties. He'd listen to his husband read the phone book and still find enjoyment in that deep voice and the cadence of his tone.
And when they die, because they do die, they die together. Not in time, mind you, but in company. Surrounded by friends and family, the younger siblings of the Endless family, the children they adopted and the grandchildren, both blood-related and not. Morpheus dies first, his body breaking at the seams. He dies in his sleep, napping on the couch while Hob cooks dinner, and his last words are breathed into the quiet room, asking Hob for a blanket. The funeral is a somber affair, a solemn celebration of everything Morpheus had been; an artist, a husband, a father, a flawed man. The entire town attends, even those who had gotten yelled at from across the lawn or across the park (Dream had taken grave offense to anyone disrupting the local bird population, a story that gets told at the reception with teary eyes and wobbly smiles). When Hob gets home, their entire family is there, warm and laughing and joyful and he can feel his husband in the room, in the people they both had dedicated their lives to.
When Hob dies a week later, no one is surprised. It's his daughter who finds him, curled up on the very same couch, wrapped in the very same blanket, tucked lovingly around him, as if someone else had draped the quilt over his shoulders. She cries, because he was her father, and she loved him, and a part of her had hoped that he would be around forever. But there is a larger part, a much larger part, that finds comfort in the sight. Hob and Dream were never meant to be separated. Wherever they are, she reasons (because they were never a religious family), they are together. For now and forever. As they always should be.
#thanks for the ask!#anyway this got sad but I really enjoyed writing it#fun fact: my grandfather actually died how I described Dream dying#so that hit really close for me#I really love this idea (both ideas actually) and I could talk about it for way longer than this#dreamling nation is going to hate me for this one lmao#the angst king strikes again#I was really supposed to write tonight (and in a way I did) but this was far more fun to do#I made myself sad in such a good way#I hope this makes everyone else sad too#hehehe#i love how i say ‘rarely seen’ like this didn’t devolve into angst which I am very well known for lmao#the sandman#sandman netflix#dream of the endless#hob gadling#morpheus#dreamling#death cw#cw death#cw: death#major character death#my writing#death tw#tw death#tw: death
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𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐞𝐣 𝐆𝐡𝐚𝐟𝐚'𝐬 𝐬/𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞
⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!
a/n: I love Inej so much oh my gosh, so this was a tad self-indulgent...
ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ
SFW🌿
⭑ Inej has a lot of walls; she doesn’t like to show herself, nor her feelings. So your 5 interactions were just her ... being silent
⭑ And you knew she was aware of everyone in the room. Everything they did, their movements, their voices - hell even their breathing.
⭑ From your own hypervigilance, you could see more than others. You noticed more. And Inej held your attention like no other
⭑ She was beautiful; well with what you could tell. Having seen parts of her face. Even the way she held herself was like no other.
⭑ She noticed you too. But her attention was on your intentions; what did you want, why were you here and what did you intend on doing?
⭑ You were the one that first started a conversation ... well tried to. And you pursued Inej. Only because you wanted to better your life. To higher your station. You came from a lowly neighborhoodd, your family had died in an illness and you wanted to find a home. A safe one, with safe people and a steady income.
⭑ It wasn’t until Helen had scouted you for the Menagerie, that Inej stepped in. She was quite cross with yo, until she learned of your reasoning.
“I have nowhere else to go!” You shouted, tears slipping from your eyes.
“I- I know a place.”
⭑ She took you to Kaz, and he gave you a barkeep job. And you weren’t that good at first (who is?) But over time you learned. Jesper seemed to take a liking to you. You had big emotions and were still learning how to understand them. Sometimes when you got too emotional ... things would happen. Unexplainable things.
⭑ You stayed in one of the rooms above the club. Never making much noise, always being polite and never being late for work.
⭑ You felt safe. Even if you were in a gang. Surrounded by criminals. You didn’t care - you had people.
⭑ The relationship with Inej was grounded in friendship, trust and loyalty. She was your stable person; your rock. And you were someone new - a face that she was yet to open up to. But in time, she did.
⭑ Kaz was distant and most of the time you thought he hated you. But Jesper said “he’s like that with everyone - and if he didn’t want you here ... well you wouldn’t be here.”
⭑ One day you were slumped at the bar, rag over your shoulder as you stared at your feet. The club had closed and no tenant was insight. But you felt like a burden, on everyone. Your thoughts were heavy and showed on your face.
⭑ Inej noticed like she does with most things. And sat gracefully on the stool.
“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone this sad since Jesper lost his goat.”
“Jesper lost a goat?” Your eyes found hers and a smile was already growing on your face.
⭑ Inej liked your smile. And she liked being the reason for it.
⭑ Her feelings slowly grew, but yours were already there. You loved being in her company. Her thoughts were so different from everyone around her.
⭑ One night when the moon was full and high in the sky, you had kissed Inej.
⭑ She didn’t speak to you for two days. But when she saw you, her lips found your own.
⭑ As a significant other Inej is thoughtful and kind. She has a lot of love to give.
⭑ She loves having a person. A safe person; someone she can go to for anything.
⭑ You love giving her gifts, although she tells you not to spend your money on her.
⭑ You two would share a room; and Inej doesn’t own many things but does love to create. She’s great at drawing and her desk is covered in sketches
⭑ You covered the walls with trinkets and maps. Showing Inej how big the world is. On tough days it helped you to know that there were millions of people out there. All living their lives.
⭑ You never touch her daggers; not because you’re afraid of what she would do. Absolutely not. But because you know how special they are to her. You’d only handle them with respect.
⭑ She loves cuddling; although Inej isn’t big into PDA - she loves being close to you when you’re alone.
⭑ You tell each other everything about yourselves; even if you can’t remember things, you’ll quietly whisper them as you walk past each other in the club, or out on the streets.
⭑ You leave her favourite flower on her pillow, hidden in her boots, next to her daggers. You try to make her life more exciting in that way
⭑ Inej sees you as her hope. Her light in the darkness of Ketterdam.
⭑ Jesper would tease the two of you, and he would be met with a firm slap on the arm.
⭑ You hate Helen and do everything to stop yourself from killing her
#shadow and bone#six of crows#inej ghafa headcanons#inej ghafa x reader#inej ghafa x you#headcanons#shadow and bone headcanons#six of crows headcanons#grishaverse#grishaverse headcanons#grisha#inej ghafa x grisha reader#alina starkov#mal oretsev#the female gaze#witchthewriter#kaz brekker#the crow club#jesper lahey
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A Little Vicious Snippet #2
#1 X, HERE, #3 X, #4 X
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Danny's parents aren't home. He knows that. They're at some kind of conference or another. Showing off their latest blueprints for detecting cold spots or thin spots or whatever else they decided was evidence of the supernatural. Trading stories with all the other "eccentrics" that thought the way they do. It would be fitting, if they did it around a campfire.
Danny thought it was amazing how much quote-unquote evidence they could pull from a blip on their gadgets.
He knows they aren't home. He knows they'll be gone the whole weekend. They only left just that afternoon.
So why could he hear them in the basement?
He shoves his face in his pillow, trying to ignore it.
But then there's another thunk, like something heavy fell on the floor. He tries to think of anyone else it could be--anything.
The house is old. His parents bought it that way on purpose. Probably with their fingers crossed and ghost-detection equipment on hand while they signed the papers.
It had creaking pipes. And old doors. And a musty smell sometimes that made him crinkle his nose. It felt like almost half the outlets didn't work and the light in the hallway outside his room hasn't turned on in months. Sometimes there are noises that make Danny think the whole frame of the house is shifting. And the times he heard that at night, he'd wonder if the house was gonna crumble down on top of him.
But his parents had it "inspected" before they moved in. Apparently it got the all clear, but Danny has his doubts sometimes. He's sure the walls are filled with asbestos.
Sometimes in his most bitter moments, he thinks that the house should have been torn down a long time ago. But someone just decided to pull out a bucket of paint instead and label it newly-refurbished. And, well, some of it was, to be fair. The floors were brand new. New carpets, fresh tile. Not to mention any DIY projects his parents have done.
Danny just felt like it looked like amalgamation. Like the architectural version of a facelift. Old, but trying not to look it.
With a begrudging sigh, Danny flings the covers off his legs and shuffles out of his bedroom.
His throat feels dry, like cottonmouth. One glass of water, and he can sleep.
That's all.
Everything seems the same as it always is when Danny enters the kitchen. He hit all the creaky floorboards on the way as he wondered what it would take to wake up Jazz. She could sleep like the dead. Like Dad.
He sets his empty glass of water on the counter when he's finished and just as he does there's another loud clang coming from the basement.
His Dad's toolbox? So they were home? Why? Was the conference canceled?
Danny bites his lip, he's gonna regret this later.
The lab door opens with a low hiss. Danny hears a small grumbling voice somewhere in the furthest corner of the lab. Too low to make out anything other than the sound of a deep voice, slightly… echoing? Danny's hair rises.
The door slams shut with a sudden bang. Danny nearly jumps out of his skin. It's too heavy to brace open. Too heavy to shut any other way than sudden and loud.
The silence left is deafening. So quiet it feels like a void sucking Danny in. It makes him want to make noise just to make it feel any other way than eerie.
"Hello…?" Danny throws out, searchingly, barely louder than a mumble.
Nothing. He takes a breath.
"Dad?" He says louder, chest out but still almost breathless.
Silence persisting, Danny takes a few more steps down the stairwell. He can see half of the table closest to him. Nothing out of the ordinary. Messy in the way his parents sometimes were with the things they didn't think we're important enough to be anal about. Half their stuff is kept pristinely organized: the blueprints, the bare-bones of their current projects, and the tools they used most often. Everything else is haphazardly shoved out of the way in whatever place they could fit.
A few more steps and he finally catches sight of his dad's toolbox sitting innocently on its shelf, and exactly where it's supposed to be.
On that note Danny finally raises his shoulders and looks at the whole room in front of him.
It's empty, lights dimmed. Not a test tube out of place.
Then he catches sight of the portal, the furthest thing from him. It's shiny, large, and oh-so impressive. Finally finished and sitting there like it belonged in this house more than Danny.
His brows scrunch together and he looks away from it sharply. He feels stupid.
He let his parents stupid stories get to him. But this house always creeps him out. He knows better.
With a huff Danny spins around and marches back to his room. He's tempted to slam the lab door, but it's heavy enough to do that on its own. He holds it to make it shut softer, if only so Jazz doesn't yell at him.
When he finally climbs back into bed, he expects to sleep easier after his little investigation.
He doesn't. He ignores the prickling sweat on his brow and the feeling like he cut off someone's gaze when he shut the door to his room.
There's no tell-tale creak in the floorboards. Danny thinks that should make him feel better.
It doesn't.
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So if I ever actually commit to this idea. It'd be a crossover. Cause, I mean. Apparently that's the only thing I can hyperfocus on lately.
But the idea behind this is that I never understood how Jack put the ON switch for the portal INSIDE the portal. It just didn't make sense to me. And it was always something that kind of broke me out of my suspension of disbelief
What DOES make sense to me is this: what if it wasn't an ON switch, but a failsafe? In case the portal ever started coming alive at the wrong time? An emergency OFF switch.
And what if Vlad decided to take action against Jack a little earlier and a hair more indirectly?
Basically, Danny's accident happens because Vlad sabotaged the portal and when Danny hits that button, by accident. It makes the portal turn on, instead of shutting it down.
The kinks really aren't worked out with this, like how Vlad could be sure the portal wouldn't backfire on Maddie. Maybe he was in a blind rage, or maybe Maddie's strengths are in drawing the blueprints while Jack's got the mechanical skills. IDK I'm mostly posting it on a whim
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I can’t believe I’m posting about Sonic Underground, but this is the Cringe App, so here are some random thoughts and headcanons:
Sonia has super strength parallel to Sonic’s super speed (Manic has no innate power, because life isn’t fair) and that should have been explored more. Like, outside of battle. Imagine all the training Lady Windimere must have put her through to act ladylike and demure and not accidentally break all the fragile expensive things around her. She casually carries her brothers and Bartleby all the time. Sometimes she squeezes them a little too hard when she hugs them. She reunites with Bartleby after a rough mission and effortlessly picks him, spins him around and throws him high into the air. She can arm-wrestle Knuckles as an equal. Someone else is working on a heavy robot or vehicle or something and Sonia is propping or holding it up for them. The van breaks down in a place they can’t stay in and she just sighs, tells her brothers to take out and carry everything they can, lifts the van over her head and starts walking. She grabs the scruff of Sonic’s neck with her fingers when he tries to run away to do something stupid and he runs in place, extremely annoyed. A very exasperated Cyrus tells her that she needs to stop hitting the door buttons so hard when she dramatically leaves after an argument (thank God the doors don’t have hinges to be ripped off of), because they can’t keep installing new ones. First Sonic wearing away the floors and heating the metal so much it could melt people’s shoes, now this? He does have a favourite triplet and it’s Manic. This isn’t the only reason, but it’s a big one.
Seriously, why didn’t the show remark more on how Manic doesn’t have a power? I guess his instrument giving him earth manipulation while the others just get lasers kinda makes up for it. Maybe super genes run in the royal family recessively. With all the stock episode plots they did, you’d think there’d be one where he felt inferior to his siblings for this reason and reaffirmed his worth by saving the day and rescuing them when they were both captured.
There really should have been a body swap episode. Here’s my pitch: tensions are running high between the siblings as they clash over their respective flaws and insecurities, when some magical shenanigans that tie into whatever Robotnik’s plan is switch their consciousnesses around. Sonic is in Manic’s body, Manic in Sonia’s and Sonia in Sonic's. Now, Sonia has been stressed lately feeling pressured to be the mature, responsible one and, with so much steam to let off, finds herself slipping into Sonic’s recklessness, impulsivity and cockiness. She can literally outrun all her problems… or so she thinks. The speed is liberating and intoxicating. Meanwhile, Manic, who was giving her shit at the start, realizes how much restraint Sonia needs to exercise to not cause more trouble than she fixes with her strength and that, while it definitely makes some things easier, having a superpower isn’t a cure-all and requires rules in itself. He gains a greater respect and appreciation for her, which enables him to remind her of the value of responsibility and caution when she runs off the deep end. Sonic absolutely hates not having any extraordinary abilities. At first his siblings think he’s just cranky because he can’t do awesome tricks anymore and has to have a normal person’s amount of patience. Averse to vulnerability as he is, he pretends that that’s the extent of it; but as his complaints shift from whining to self-abuse, it turns out that he can’t stand feeling this helpless. He’s never been this incapable before. It hurts. It takes him right back to the worst moments of his life, when he wasn’t fast enough to save his parents and uncle. Now he isn’t fast enough to save anyone. Keeping the cycle of empathy going after Manic talks her down, Sonia reflects on how amazing her new speed feels and what having had that power her whole life might have done to her self-esteem. She tells Sonic that his speed and usefulness don’t define him or his worth, and it’s okay to fail, need to go slow, make mistakes and have things that are just beyond you. Everyone does. She’s made some big mistakes herself just that day! What matters is the strengths you do have and how you use them. He’s done so much good, for all his flaws, and she and Manic love every part of him. Inspired, Sonic ultimately defeats Robotnik using his intelligence and leadership skills, with both his siblings using their new powers effectively and wisely to make the plan work. Once they switch back, they get in a similar unfortunate situation to the one that pushed their stress to the tipping point in the beginning, only now they take it in stride and deal with it together. Who am I kidding, the show wouldn’t have gone into that much character analysis and emotional depth. That’s why we need fanfiction.
Sonia has had a five-star privileged education; however, she must also unlearn all Robotnik’s propaganda and lies. Sonic has had a less thorough education, but presumably still a pretty good one and without any of the propaganda from moving in with Uncle Chuck onward. Manic has never been to school a day in his life. Think of the comedy you could get out of this arrangement. But also, is Manic illiterate? His reading and writing are probably significantly poorer than the others’, right? I headcanon he’s secretly insecure about his lack of formal education and occasionally teases Sonia for her “nerdy” advanced knowledge and makes fun of her when she doesn’t know something, in an effort to bring her down to his level.
Uncle Chuck is the triplets’ father’s brother, not of royal blood. My headcanon is that after Robotnik killed the king during the takeover, he agreed to go into hiding and cut ties with Aleena. He didn’t plan to have a role in her children’s lives until the Time arrived, but he wound up near enough Sonic’s home to visit and couldn’t stay away. He fondly told Sonic a great deal about life before Robotnik ruined everything and his birth parents, carefully omitting that they were the king and queen of course.
Sonic and Manic love to hear Mindy and Bartleby’s stories about Sonia before they met her. Though they are sad that the people who could tell such stories about them are all roboticized, so unless until a deroboticizer is invented there are parts of their early lives they don’t remember or fully understand that can simply never be told. In general, seeing Sonia with her old friends makes them feel Big Feelings. They’re glad one of them still has people from before in their life, but… it stings.
Where? Was the triplets’ grief?? Over their parents and guardians??? Where were the bonding moments about it? Where were the reminiscing scenes and Sonic explaining how he lost his old family twice and had to watch the first time? Where were the dramatic, heartwrenching confrontations with the roboticized guardians? FANFICS I NEED YOU
Manic likes to tinker with machinery when he’s bored, anxious, frustrated, guilty or even excited. Basically, he reaches a significant intensity of emotion and gets out the tools. He’s a fidgeter in general and always doing something with his hands - why do you think Farrell supported his impractical, attention-drawing hobby of drumming? A deroboticizor is a top priority ongoing project in the Resistance and if he’s in a really bad mental state, especially if he’s missing his dad, he can probably be found working tirelessly on one of the prototypes. Sleep, hunger, other people, the passage of time all mean nothing to him in that state. Sonic is the best at snapping him out of it because swap engineering with running and vigilantism and he essentially has the same coping mechanism, so he gets it in a way Sonia can’t. However, the sign that the hyperactive brothers are completely crushed and hopeless is that they lose their energy and motivation. If they’re notably still, slow and restrained in movement, they are Not Okay.
Sonia’s contrasting coping mechanism is to distract herself and her support system from her feelings with others’ business. That can manifest as criticizing someone else (constructively or destructively), wanting details on some aspect of their life, stoking drama and gossiping about them, or trying to fix their problems and/or make them open up about their issues. The last one is increasingly common since embarking on her character development. She’s always been a social butterfly and was a duck in water in the social perception, awareness and shrewdness-centric culture of the upper class; genuinely loves using those skills to help people so this is still in character on a good day; and is so at best charismatic and at worst overbearing that she can easily make you worry more about whatever she’s latched onto as a diversion, whether you agree with her stance on it or not. It takes a trained eye to catch when she’s actually neglecting herself. An indicator is that if her drive is the subconscious desire to avoid confronting her own feelings, she’ll be or become over time less tactful, patient and respectful of boundaries than usual, or resort to pettier topics in her desperation. Her brothers are the best at telling these behaviours apart from her healthy altruism and harmless theatrics and making her talk.
The medallions are royal family heirlooms. The rare, potent magical crystal they were carved from was a primary resource of Mobotropolis and the reason the capital was built there, their clean energy used for rapid magical/technological advancement that brought huge prosperity to Mobius, hence the paradise it was pre-Robotnik. Shards of them were incorporated in many royal regalia pieces. Through past political upheavals, disasters and thefts, most of the ornamental fragments have been lost. The medallions were made relatively recently to celebrate the dawn of a new golden age of art and culture; music was a key part of Mobian culture, so it was symbolically very fitting to give the rulers and protectors of the people instruments and weapons in one. It represented the ideal that they should give as much as they were able to take - even if they took up arms, they would at the same time have to preserve the life and spirit of Mobius through playing music. Hopefully that would tether them to their conscience. Plus, what’s more gloriously badass for a monarch than defeating your enemy by playing a rock cover of your national anthem? Robotnik’s relentless mining extracted the last of this precious resource years ago. He forgot the sustainable methods his predecessors used to harness the magic indefinitely because he can’t be bothered to understand magic, so he’s exhausted the power of every existing piece of the crystal besides the three medallions that have remained out of his grasp. He keeps trying to synthesize it, but you can’t synthesize ✨magic.✨ The sudden decline and loss of a longstanding reliable power source has made everyone reliant on Robotnik’s dirty energy. When the royal family retake their thrones, the medallions can either be given up and used to power Mobius or the very similar Chaos Emeralds used instead upon relearning the magic crystal energy harnessing techniques. Wouldn’t it be cool if discovering the Chaos Emeralds or recovering them from Robotnik was what turned the tide of the war? Sonic, Manic and Sonia going super and defeating Robotnik once and for all? Yes, yes it would.
Sonia is the oldest. Manic is the youngest. Sonic, as in the movies, is the middle child. Sonic and Sonia believe their birth order is important and she will never stop lording it over him, since before they got ahold of their birth certificates he’d assumed he was the oldest. Manic doesn’t care and wishes they would drop it.
Having been eager to help his uncle around the house and then needing to pull his weight in the Resistance, Sonic is a reliably good cook. He likes to learn more whenever he has the resources and time to experiment. Manic had no technical skills initially, not having had a kitchen and all, but is learning quickly under Sonic’s tutelage and has the sheer ingenuity to make a meal out of pretty much anything. Sonia can’t cook for shit. Sonic won’t give up on trying to teach her… but he’s certainly been tempted.
Sonic is afraid of fire due to the trauma of watching his old home burn down when he lost his parents (I put him at eight at the time, like Batman, and so he spends an almost equal number of years with his adoptive family and Uncle Chuck if he’s fifteen in the show). The smell of Sonia burning toast is enough to trigger flashbacks. Once Robotnik trapped the siblings in a burning building and he just froze, overwhelmed with terror; Sonia had to carry him to safety like a firefighter.
Follow-up with Tails.
#i love that every sonic underground fan is actually a fan of the Well- Written AU in their head#we all have our own#we like the show in theory#on paper#we like what it is in our hearts#also yes i lowkey ship sonia and bartleby okay#i just can’t ship her with knuckles and i think bartleby’s ‘aristocratic defector’ arc has potential#sonic underground#sonic the hedgehog#sonia the hedgehog#manic the hedgehog#hedgehog triplets
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