#yes this is the kind of angst and hurt i will be manifesting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

evilminji · 8 months

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Actually? You know what would be darkly hilarious?

If, when the GIW can't get ghosts declared both malicious AND non-sapient/sentient? They push for "dumb animals" instead.

Which is accepted. Ghosts are animals. Checks out, says scientists everywhere.

HOW "dumb"?

What? Says the GIW, mid-victory high fives. They did not expect a follow up question. They SHOULD have, as this is the SCIENTIFIC community and that is literally their job, but here we are.

How. "Dumb"? The scientists repeate slower. What methodology did you use? What is your sample size? Are their different sub-species? Is this dimension like ours? Is Ghost the equivalent to Mammal? It says here their are humanoid ones.

What IQ are we talking about here and HOW DID YOU TEST??

A goldfish, parrot, and dolphin are all animals. WILDLY different levels of intelligence. You can't treat them the same. Technically speaking, WE are animals.

The GIW does not like where this conversation is going. Tries to shut it down.

.......well NOW the scientists are both offended AND invested. How DARE you try to push faulty science and hide the Truth from them! They're gonna do their OWN studies! *picks up the phone and dials that one embarrassing spiritualist friend they had in college* Hey! You still think you can summon ghosts? I'll pay you to try it for Science!

And like? As a Ghost? It's degrading as hell. But ALSO these fuckos just Whoopsie'd you into having both protections under the law, since animal abuse IS illegal, AND just put the ENTIRE planets scientific community on their asses.... by accident.

So you take a deeeeeeep breath you don't even need. Remember you're doing this for the little ghost babies and fluffy ghost animals. And show up at a research facility like "yes, hello, I am Ghost. Here for you to poke and prod at. Please ask me to name the object on the flash card or whatever IQ tests do these days."

Should you HAVE to prove your own fucking sentience? No. But? You do it. You're even polite about it. Ask for a copy of the study they plan to publish so you can BEAT some mother fuckers with it. The scientists nod in understanding and use the BIG font for your copy so it'll hurt more.

They've been there.

And just? Shitty people getting what they wanted only to have it blow up in their faces?? I see all these angst "but what if they were declared ANIMALS" prompts and I just?? Are we talking PARROT or goldfish!? One has the average intelligence of about a human 4yr old and the other is a FISH! People get RIGHTFULLY furious when you treat INTELLIGENT animals badly.

And would, in fact, adapt pretty easy to discovering one of said animal has become HUMAN lvl intelligent. It's easy to grasp the idea of human intelligence lvl dolphin or monkeys. Maybe there was some mutated strain, maybe in uetro tampering. Who knows. But if I tried to sell you a human intelligent housefly? Gold fish? Lizard?

You wouldn't believe me. There is some kind of trick at play.

So if GHOSTS are seen as animals? Everyone nods and then later? Someone comes in TV and very excitedly informs you "we found INTELLIGENT LIFE amongst the ghosts!" You'd believe it. Probably be really excited by your conversation starter for the day. Get a taco and move on with your life.

But? Having to willing sit for a barrage of testing? Is going to suuuuuuck so bad. Poor Danny. SATs all over again. For HOURS. At multiple facilities, just to be CERTAIN it's not a one off. All because he not certain he can insure good behavior from other ghosts and This Is IMPORTANT. He ALSO can't be certain it's even SAFE.

Might be a trap.

But if he has to do it again and again and again? Mexico to Bavaria to China to the Maldives? If this is what it takes for the scientific community to bitchslap the GIW into ORBIT before the UN? Hand him that pencil.

He has no where more important to be.

@hdgnj @nerdpoe @mutable-manifestation @ailithnight @the-witchhunter

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #you wanna call me an animal?#well check mate!#SO ARE YOU #now they're asking what KIND of animal i am!#and THIS ghost is sayin SAPIEN!#i am in your scientific community #disproving your theories!#your studies were bad and you should feel bad!#danny phantom

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cuubism · 11 months

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pls do make angst out of it

I need no impetus to make angst about Dream + clothing choices.

"Dream."

Dream did not mean to flinch. Perhaps one never meant to flinch. It was an involuntary reaction, one that he should have been above in this form. He should have absolute control over how he manifested.

Except Hob's hand had landed on the back of his neck as he tried to pull Dream from his distant musings. Dream should be above such physical sensations. But he was composed of all fears. All thoughts and memories. The snapping grip of a lion's jaws on the neck of a gazelle. The vulnerability of an unprotected back.

So many dreams, now, and in the still-recent aftermath of his escape, they swirled and spilled within him like floodwaters.

His flinch away broke Hob's touch halfway through grazing a hand along Dream's jaw as he came around the back of the armchair where Dream was sitting. "Did I startle you?"

"Yes," said Dream. He settled deeper into his chair, into his soft sweater, no coat in Hob's flat, not when he did not wish to leave. But he wished he could manifest a higher neckline without it being obvious. "Yes, I was lost in thought."

Hob cupped his chin and tilted his head up and kissed him, and Dream did not flinch.

Dream loved Hob very much. The feeling had caught him by the throat not long after their reunion, when Hob had met him again shortly after Dream had resolved the vortex. Hob had taken his hand and looked with worry at the gash still gracing his palm, courtesy of the Corinthian's betrayal.

Dream was made of incorporeal thoughts, not flesh, and Hob had known this by then and still asked, "Can I bandage it for you?"

Dream had acquiesced more out of shock than need. Hob had held his hand, and wrapped it with experienced movements. He couldn't have known that the very act of bandaging sealed the cut in Dream's skin. Such was the power of dreams.

Dream fell quick and perilously with his hand pressed between Hob's, with Hob's kind eyes upon him.

He loved Hob with the pain of a knife stuck through his hand. He loved Hob and he knew that love was a bared throat. And he would bare it. For he wanted love. And he was not supposed to flinch.

He loved Hob, sitting in the safety of Hob's bed. Bare legs tangled up together, scratchy hair and strong muscle, and still the high-necked long-sleeved shirt Dream had taken to wearing. Hob kissing under his jaw, and slipping gentle hands under his shirt to brace his hips. The resonant dreams were loud--the exploration of youth and a first time together, the familiar bodies of a long-awaited reunion, the peace of an entangled old age--and for a while these layered memories distracted him from the fact that Hob still hadn't stripped his shirt off.

Perhaps. Hob saw more than Dream thought he did.

"You see much," Dream said, voice just edging on rough, and Hob paused, pulling away to look at him. Tilted his head in question, and Dream took Hob's hand, laid it along the collar of his shirt, below the jut of his throat.

Hob kept his hand there, a loose half-collar of Dream's neck, and said, "You always flinch when I come up behind you."

Dream looked somewhere around Hob's jaw, avoiding his eyes, and so had to rely on Hob's voice to imagine his expression. And Hob's voice was very gentle indeed.

"Do you know," he started, taking Dream's cheek in his other hand, "once upon a time--well, not so long ago, really, considering--I would jump at every loud noise? War gets in your head like that."

Dream knew of this, from the nightmares that were within him. He hurt to think of Hob like that. He laid a hand on Hob's thigh, though he was unsure if he was attempting to comfort Hob or merely grounding himself. "But no longer?"

"Not so much. It doesn't have to last forever." He stroked his thumb back and forth over Dream's cheek. "Helps that it's pretty rare for a loud noise going off in London nowadays to be a gunshot."

"But not impossible."

"In my experience, vanishingly few things are impossible, love."

Dream's capture should have been impossible. He had thought himself invulnerable. He had not seen the summoning coming. Had not seen a century of imprisonment coming, or Corinthian's betrayal, or Desire's. They had crawled silently up his back. Sunk their teeth into his spinal cord hard enough to snap.

"Do you feel like I'm going to hurt you, when you can't see me coming?" Hob asked.

He had failed indeed, if Hob thought so. "I do not think you will harm me."

"But do you feel it?"

Dream went to deny it, then thought. Of the prickling feeling that crept up his neck when he had his back to a room. To a doorway. The cold air on his shoulders before he pulled on one of Hob's sweaters, used it as a shield. "I do not like. To feel exposed."

Hob ran a hand through his hair. Dragged down to the nape of his neck and held him there. Not a threat, but a brace; stay close to me. Dream followed the touch and tucked his face in against Hob's shoulder. "Don't, then. I'll cover you."

"With shield and sword," Dream murmured, and Hob hummed in agreement. His hand was warm on the back of Dream's neck. Always, Hob was banishing the cold.

"I do not," Dream repeated, for it felt imperative that Hob know this, "think that you will hurt me."

Hob kissed his hair. "I know."

Love was showing one's back. Dream shivered as Hob slid into place behind him, thighs bracketing Dream's hips. As he wrapped his arms around Dream's torso, bare chest to Dream's bare back. He was so warm. His breath ruffled Dream's hair. Hob's arms caged him where he might have wanted to run. He could have disappeared to the Dreaming. But didn't.

Hob kissed the base of his neck. Kissed the bump of each vertebra. The vulnerable spot under his ear. Splayed his hands over Dream's belly. Another soft place.

This form was made of soft places. Outside, Dream swept his coat around himself to shield them. Fabric made for weak protection, but the less he was seen, the better. Dreams suffered in daylight.

Here, the soft places felt Hob's touch the most. Dream did not want to be soft, was not meant to be. But he did want Hob's hands, and the kisses placed along his throat. Always a conundrum, with Hob.

Dream did not reconcile it now. Instead he turned his head, pressed his lips to Hob's over his shoulder. Took Hob's hand and put it in his hair, encouraged Hob to tangle his fingers and pull, so that Dream's throat was bared, his balance thrown, so Hob could kiss and bite up his neck and hold him there.

He trembled against Hob's lips. Shook in his grasp. Dream knew the nightmare of a rabbit caught in a fox's teeth, and the dream of a fox with blood on its lips. But he was no rabbit, and no fox either. He could decide for himself if he wanted Hob to touch him, to pull the collar down.

Hob's teeth grazed his pulse. Dream whimpered, the sound loud in the quiet bedroom, and Hob shushed him. Stroked a hand along his throat. Dream loved him, and that he held him, and that he let Dream live on this boundary of discomfort so he might decide which way he wanted to fall, pain or pleasure. Love was risk-taking.

Dream leaned into Hob's palm, felt the pressure on his throat. His back to Hob's chest. Their bodies in alignment. Teeth to spine. Hob's body as a shield.

"How are you doing?" Hob whispered. His lips brushed Dream's ear, hair tickled his temple.

Dream let his limbs go loose that Hob might catch him. Love was a net.

"Good," he sighed, and tipped his head back.

#me: i'm not going to write prompts i have too many wips #also me when there's angst: 👀#this feels like a spiritual companion to the dream's wings verse #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling #dreamling fic #my writing

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kneelingshadowsalome · 11 months

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What if Konig accidentally scared the reader?

Like they were having small disagreement when he raised his hand to touch his face - and the reader flinched at that?

I can imagine him getting flashbacks to his father and how he used to treat his mother. He would feel so bad :(. Like, 'Does she think I'll hurt her? Is she scared of me? What if I do end up like my father?' And have a mini breakdown.

But from the reader's POV, she wasn't really "scared" of him. She just saw movements from the corner of her eye, and her body reacted for her.

Sorry not sorry for the angst ‼️🥰

I’m going to answer these two together because they kind of interlap!

CW: sexism, toxic König, light angst, a dash of fluff

Ooh this kind of behavior would remind him of his mother and only amp up König’s protectiveness for sure! I can’t stress it enough that the more his woman needs him, the better König feels about himself. It’s his life’s purpose to take care of his companion (so much so that this caretaking gains manipulative, stalkish and possessive elements...)

Truth be told, he would view this kind of behavior as you being helpless. And helpless creatures draw him in. König very much has a thing for helpless women. Actually, he thinks it's only natural for a woman to behave like that! His motivation to shield, guard and protect is founded on the need to make himself feel strong and capable (or masculine, if you want to put it that way).

You're scared? He will protect and console you, whatever it is. The more jumpy you are, the more it fires up his protectiveness. This guy wants to be the hero who saves your day. He will do anything in his power to drive your fears away.

You're clingy? Boy, you just gave a starving dog a fat bone! The more clingy you are, the happier König is. (Then he can pretend it’s you who needs him and not the other way around.) It soothes him when you're needy and desperate for him and his company. He will always be there for you, don’t worry ❤️

You forget things and stuff? König will go and fetch that shirt you forgot, even if it's miles away. He will say you should go and rest for a while if you spilled some water on the counter. In fact, he orders you to go and sit down while he cleans it up. He doesn't normally do house chores and cleaning but hey – his woman has clearly just exerted herself so of course he'll help.

And about arguments: during an argument König would be quite calm, actually? He would rarely even raise his voice with you. He's simply that sure of himself and of knowing what's "best for you". You can have your little fits and he might entertain you by giving you what you want if it's something insignificant, but otherwise, he knows he will have the last say if you disagree on something major.

The only thing that would make König lose it with you is probably the cheating scenario discussed earlier... He would be so broken, it would fuck him up so completely that there would be no redemption for him anymore. His violence might bleed into this relationship and manifest as emotional abuse, perhaps verbal abuse, too. He would go outside occasionally to let out some steam (wreck something) but even then, he would not touch you in anger.

If you flinched as an involuntary reaction to his touch during whatever argument you were having... yes he would have a minor breakdown. Flashbacks to his abusive father: definitely. König would apologize if he has been too rough with you. He knows his size and that he’s violent as fuck.

He sometimes wants to squeeze you a little too hard, gives you bitemarks when you two are having sex, he wants to hear those helpless sounds you make when he’s inside you... He wants to own, no, possess you. But he doesn’t want to see you hurt or scared (well, that's what he tells himself, even if you might suffer from his controlling behavior). There's a tug of war inside him: between the need to protect those few he cares about and the need to just annihilate the whole world that has made him suffer.

The last thing König wants is to become a replica of his father. That’s why women get treated differently, like they’re delicate flowers (because König is in fact scared of himself and that he might hurt them), and that’s why his woman will be protected and sheltered and taken care of. At all costs. She will never suffer the same abuse his mother did.

(Yes, König will only, um. Abuse you differently? Aaargh!)

#answered #yandere könig #könig headcanons #possessive könig #tw: sexism

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calamarispiderart · 4 months

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your interpretation of heart's blindness is so cool and true. giving heart that agency benefits both his character and the overall story so much. something about either mind or soul somehow having the authority to afflict heart like that just rubs me the wrong way tbh. like a big part of the story is they're all one and the same, can't survive without eachother. there's like 3 lines in the soul eclectic about soul's tridential authority being pretty surface level, the only way for him to hurt heart and mind is to hurt himself, so why should it be different when it comes to blinding heart

thank you, yes!! i have a lot of gripes with the way hearts blindness (and heart himself honestly.....) is framed and depicted in some spheres of the community.... im sure its unintentional but i feel a lot of people forget heart has just as much agency, power and control as the other two. him being blind doesnt change that whatsoever and the consistent framing of his blindness as a punishment or some kind of... karmic consequence is just.... yeah. rubs me the wrong way too

...i feel theres definitely some ableism coming into play whenever people frame heart as like... the weak beaten down one thats always abused by the other two, or maybe he just sucks at everything because 'ohh he cant see so he bumps into stuff and is always confused!!!' (which itself holds a fundamental misunderstanding of how blindness can work and manifest), or just framed as otherwise lesser than the other two in a variety of ways ....im sure you can imagine what im talking about. its very much a problem which i hope people realise they need to correct.

ableism aside, while i am biased due to this being my own subjective interpretation of things i do agree and feel heart having the choice and control over his blindness is both just a lot more fitting for his character/themes overall and just....far more interesting for the dynamics of the story? maybe it doesnt hit all the 'dramatic angst notes' in the same way as other interpretations but... yeah idk im just rambling at this point B:•P

im glad u like it!! thank u for sharing ur thoughts B:•]

#calamarispeaks #ask #anon ask #ehhhh should i tag this.....#im talking abt chonny jash stuff so maybeee?#unsure #ill come back to this and maintag it if i decide i want to

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mind-travel-er · 2 years

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The London Daily Ride [2]

09:37

# Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader Jake Lockley x female reader # Synopsis: Before you know him as "Steven from the gift shop", you know him as "Steven from the bus stop". You summon all you might to speak to him. # Warning/Content: Fluff/Angst, Character Study, Accurate DID (triggering), Hot/Sweet!Steven, Slow Burn. # Word Count: 3.4k [read me on AO3] · [previous chapter] · [next chapter]

Four minutes. It’s all it takes. And he’s looking at you, only manifesting utter shock.

To be frank, you are as well. Seeking contact outside your comfort zone is no hobby of yours, and yet, here you are. As you’re waiting for the next bus stop, in the delimited square of the standing area surrounded by seats and passengers, your eyes have struggled to recover their independence. Irremediably drawn to the silhouette hunched over his book, glasses on his nose, unconditionally absorbed by his reading. From where you were, you couldn’t decipher the nature of the paragraphs, yet you couldn’t miss a collection of photographs in black and white with recognizable figures of Egyptian gods. As one of his hands had reverently skimmed over some parts of the illustrations, you had observed the brush of his fingers, divulging his lingering admiration. Your chest has squeezed itself into a delicious awakening. The sleeve of his rumpled jacket revealing his wrist, his golden skin was at odds with the rain. Not fitting quite right in the decorum. Like a misplaced ray of sunshine in a greyscale. Your organs are unsure if they are misplaced as well. Your stomach seems to be in your throat. Your brain, either nowhere to be found or racing like an untamed horse. Your skull, a shell for raw emotions. It requires a few seconds to realise that your body, part by part, is coming alive anew. The link that had been severed for several weeks is blooming again. You shift your feet. Detect the vibration of the large motor coming up to you. Feel the pain lodged in the arches of your feet, standing so still until now that it hurts. Your stomach grasps that it’s hungry. You forgot to eat breakfast this morning.

Outside, it’s pouring. Inside as well. Overwhelmingly. For a few seconds, you are both blinking at each other, and you feel as if it would be the perfect timing for recorded laughs from an invisible public. But no lines of dialogue come to you. You can only blankly stare at him.

"Sorry, wha’?" His voice. Boyish tone. Authentically wondering. A detail to add to your collection of appreciation. You can’t tell if the irresistible pull that drowned you in is fascination and yearning; or if it’s his bubble of comfort calling your own until both collide. Either way, you observe his book like a lifeline as he continues. You’re not yet ready to cross his gaze. You have time. You always get up a few stops in advance. "Ah, loud noises here, yeah?" he says, pointing around aimlessly, leaning slightly towards you, so you can hear him better without raising his voice too much. "Sorry, I didn’t quite catch tha’." So, you repeat the question you prepared; or rather, blurred out while you were positioning yourself to wait for your bus stop. "Good read?" Two words. It’s barely an ask, and it’s missing a verb. Cue the laughter. You don’t know if it’s you or your question that’s missing substance. And who asks yes-or-no questions anyway? How could it even create a conversation? Somehow, it does. He does . "Oh, that?" he closes the books to display the back cover, and he laughs softly, oh so softly, that with the racket of the bus, the rumbles of conversations, and the tumbles in and out of passengers, you could almost have missed it. It has an unmistakable endearment as his head falls to observe the companion of his ride. "It’s an astonishing read," he corrects with a kindness of his own. "Absolute marvel, if you ask me."

You feel his gaze returning to you as he explains in considerable detail how Howard Carter, anything but a true Egyptologist or archaeologist, and after five years of unsuccessful and costly searches in the Valley of the Kings, had ultimately made one of the greatest discoveries in History. Mister Carter, aged 48, was yet to fulfil his dreams about ancient tombs awaiting in the dark belly of the Valley. And on the 4th of November 1922, deeply buried into the protective Egyptian sand, below what was thought to be an ancient village, the door of the Tomb of Tutankhamun was in front of him, the seal of ropes and clay still on the entrance, unbroken. You’re not sure when your eyes unfocus plainly, your mind conveying fantasised images of oil lamps shining on treasures; the flickering flames revealing them for the first time in three thousand years. And then he looks at you, truly looks at you, with a burnt sienna that reminds you of the ochre steppes beyond the desert, where untamed Arabian horses are free to ride at full speed. And his traits become very still, until they are overcome with a gentle sadness of sorts. The one you’ve seen before, as the newspaper man had stepped out indifferently. He stops himself as if he was doing you a mercy.

"Look at me, rambling." And he adds with an apologetic smile: "You prob’ly don’t want to hear about tha’."

It takes you a few seconds to travel back from the depths of Egypt in its early 20s to rainy London and a cramped bus. You breathe. You observe him. Hands on his closed book. You don’t reinforce his false interpretation. You redirect instead.

"I heard that Carter was on the verge of giving up when he found the tomb. Wasn’t he helped by a Lord of some sort?"

You tend to forget many things, yet you don’t forget little fun facts about an inspiring story or piece of history. Your memory is as good as the interest you have in the documentary you’re watching late at night on the history channels, while sorting through your files for the next day’s trials.

Eyebrows raised, mouth briefly closed, a quirky little smile is twisting his lips.

"Well, someone knows her British archaeologists." He lets out a tittering laugh; somewhat astounded: "That’s amazing."

His eyes meet yours with directness and fortitude. A swirl of spice and espresso that you are somehow sure that will never quench your thirst.

"Oh, I don’t think so. I’m afraid my brain only remembers bits and pieces when it wants to." You shrug with no embarrassment. "I’ve got no control over it whatsoever."

For a few seconds, he smiles, as if he would precisely understand what you meant. And then, he frowns.

"Sorry, I don’t mean that in a creepy way, but …" You can feel how truly puzzled he is, yet can’t quite put your finger on what .

What he says next leaves you in the same state.

"I’m not imagining this conversation. Am I?" Then, he’s slightly frowning a little bit more with an almost comical disarray: "… Am I?" You like how the second time he says, Am I? like he's actually wondering. And indeed, it doesn’t feel like any ordinary London rainy day now, does it? Something has shifted from the well-constructed routine that you typically experience in the morning. The frightening and marvellous premonition that what’s happening is important . Like the tide withdrawing after a muted earthquake… or was it just the vehicle trembling beneath your feet? Maybe, just maybe, this was a shared feeling.

As silence drags itself, you realise that he somehow needs confirmation. Looking expectantly at you.

"You’re not. Absolutely not."

You hope that the hint of doubt isn’t coating your voice. At least, you feel real.

As if he’s now a bit lost, he’s vaguely looking at his book. With the commotion of the bus, you can’t make out what he’s muttering to himself. However, you can deduce that your confirmation is not enough.

"If I could …"

His eyes focus on you again.

"Wha’?"

"Prove it to you?"

The hissing of the double-decker has its stops makes you almost trip, and you’re only still standing vertically thanks to one of the yellow poles. Just like that, the shared bubble bursts. Without warning, still with red glasses on his nose, he gets on his feet instantly.

"Oh, bugger! My bus stop!!"

He gasps so hard that a few heads turn around.

Now, he’s frantically shovelling his book into his saddlebag as the bus is departing again. Then, he stands next to you, breastless, his possessions against his chest with one arm, the other almost over your head, hanging from one of the ceiling handles. A source of warmth unexpectedly at your side. His glasses now crooked, he offers a contrite smile. You don’t know if it’s just the embarrassment of missing his stops or due to your sudden proximity.

"All righ’, that settles it then."

You tilt your head in interrogation.

"If this was a dream, I wouldn’t look like a knob now, would I?"

And just like that, he has the power to reunite your bubbles again. He’s so close to you, huddled in the standing area with other travellers, that his minty heated breath is tingling the skin of your face as he’s laughing softly. A smile hidden all along at the corner of your lips blooms into a laugh.

It sure feels unreal to me, you want to say, but the whisper doesn’t even leave your lips. Time’s up.

"I better jog on before I miss my stop again… Nice meeting you," he says embarrassingly, not knowing what to do with his busy arms, wanting to probably squeeze your hand but thinking better of it before rapidly taking off his glasses, precariously balancing on the bridge of his nose. Your raincoat brushes his grey-clay gabardine as the bus is stopping again and finally opens its doors. He squeezes himself between the others, stuttering and apologising while making his way out. He adds before he gets off: "I will see you�� on the flip-flop."

On the flip-flop?

Stepping out, he’s sheepishly smiling at you before partly disappearing behind the automatic closing doors. His face takes on features expressing pure dread, as he seems to realise he has omitted a crucial element. Through the doors, you hear him shout at the departing bus:

"THE NAME IS STEVEN BY THE WAY"

The belly laugh you get after that has been the best you’ve had in years. You don’t care about the passenger sending either a concerned look or a smile to share your hilarity. It's the kind of laugh that fills one’s core with ease and light. When you brush the corner of your eyes to dry saline drops, you are desperately, positively wrecked with joy.

Morning after morning, Steven becomes part of your daily routine. His illuminating smile. His wave. Your cheerful “Good Morning!”. Your re-found sense of comfort. The usual empty seat on his left becomes yours. Habits have the reputation of dying hard. You enjoy loneliness until your craving for connection is so strong that you can finally rejoice at the prospect of long conversations with your friends and parents. A coping mechanism that served you well these recent years, creating distance when everything becomes too much. Allowing your mind to be consumed by objects of desire and passion. Plus, what law firm would complain about the ability to work intensely for eight hours straight? Your addiction to seclusion has its ups… and lows. At one point, you can feel how your mind is desperate for an authentic interaction. As starved as your stomach that morning in the bus. However, you perceive that for Steven, starvation ignites from elsewhere. There’s no self-infliction. No harmful habits are involved. He did not choose seclusion; not like you. Seclusion seems to have chosen him. That’s when your endearment turns into something more profound. Steven isn’t really the shy guy that you first thought; avoiding social interactions. On the contrary, as you observe him day to day, it turns out that’s the other way around: Steven is so driven and desperate to connect with others, with so much enthusiasm … that it becomes awkward for most people on the other end. And that’s what most people are afraid of: deep and uncompromised consideration, with an intent to genuinely bond. And who is brave enough to let the mask down before a stranger? You understand what Steven can’t. People fear the possibility of attachment —his intent to truly bond— because they fear vulnerability. Steven was the opposite of everything you ever knew. The opposite of masculine stereotypes. Gentle. Caring. Willing to be vulnerable . Even the choice of his food was a far cry from the raw, bloody, virile steak. More than that, the more you come to know Steven, the more you come to redefine falling in love. Until now, you had experienced the rush of falling. The intense months of passion and then the degradation throughout the years. You had always thought the butterflies were the predictable sign of true, unyielding attachment. The sign that someone is a match for you. Then … Why was it never good enough to sustain a relationship? The fire of passion is all good and well. However, what good is it when comfort is never built? When the wood is lacking, and there’s no fire left; what is left? As one would expect, there’s always a bit of nerves to a new encounter, but it had become abundantly clear that even if there was alchemy, meeting Steven each morning wasn’t the nerve-wracking experience that you ordinarily had with men. Instead, it was soothing. Your favourite TV show after a strenuous day. The purring of your little black and white cat on your lap. Your decade-old copy of your favourite book that has lived in your high-school backpack, dog-eared pages, spine broken, yet losing none of its powerful story. Steven was all that and more; conveying a tranquillising warmth that felt like home . When we are loved through passion and passion alone, what interest does that person really have in you ? Besides the butterflies? Besides the attraction? All that’s left is a fusion of well-matched bodies. And when the chemical reactions finally fade, as the neural pathways are used to the rush of hormones, what is left to celebrate? In your hard-earned opinion, passion is more about losing oneself in another than truly knowing the other. Lonely were some nights in your tiny flat cramped in the heart of Camden. Lonelier it was to be loved by someone who believed that passion could build and solve all. And for a time, you were no exception.

So, when Steven naturally places his hands on your shoulder, as any friend would, showing you a paragraph of his readings about an artefact, saying: “Oh, no, no, that’s impossible. You’ve actually never seen it?". Your head says no. “Oh, all righ’ then. You’re in for a treat now, aren't you! I’m pretty sure you’ll love it. Come by the museum Thursday, yeah?”. You’re convinced that that guy doesn’t want the passion . He merly wants to share his favourite place to ever exist in the world. Romance has nothing to do with it.

When Steven holds his sides for laughing too long, one morning, when you compare Donna to a velociraptor, you feel as if you’ve known him for years, and is this what a best friend feels like ?

When you gently nudge him to point out at the window an advertising sign for Cammas Hall, revealing how you absolutely adore going to the countryside, just north-east of London, and Steven leans in so very close to you, as to make a confession: “Their maize maze is mental, innit? Ah! Say that three times fast. Maize maze, maize maze … ”. And you laugh; you know there isn’t an ulterior motive. No excuse to get close or physical. The glimmer of copper in his eyes tells another narrative. Again, he just wants to be a part of, to make you a part of .

When Steven sits in silence beside you, exhausted from his sleep condition, and finally drowses off; only for his head to fall on your shoulder, your heart doesn’t hammer. You run your hand through his oh-so-soft brown curls to clear his face; to ensconce his head in the crook of your neck, as a mother would do for a child. The tenderness living under your chest radiates and encompasses the both of you. You just want him to be okay. And you can only hope that it is the same for him.

In fact, you’re pretty sure. Because it’s another element with Steven: he doesn’t make you doubt his attention or his building affection. He lays it bare, for everyone to see. Just like his bubble. Every paper is about superheroes these days. It’s filling the news and every talk show. They aren’t talking about unsung heroes, those from ordinary life; those who lay bare their hearts.

There is no game here. No “can’t wait to get to the next base”. As if Steven would be forever happy to have those simple moments to share. Alchemy is just a bonus. Not the other way around. I’m not imagining this conversation, am I? You swear that sentence could have come straight out of your mouth.

You think again about your loneliness, your “almost-addiction”, and how it shields you from the bad … and the good. With Steven nearby, seclusion appears to be less attractive. And the outer world feels like a decent place again.

Changing harmful habits is a challenge. Yet, with the right person, it seems to fall like the scab of an old wound, rather than a vivisection.

It was both wonderful and terrifying … that one person, one encounter, could change so much.

The picture of Steven Grant is constructing itself. Even its flaws.

Attentive, caring, devoted to what he loves. A sensibility and sensitivity like an acute nerve, exposed to the elements. You know all that. That’s why when Donna crushes his hopes to be a tour guide yet again, you truly question how those devastating interactions are pretty much all the socialising he gets. He has colleagues, but friends ? Surely, this isn’t healthy. Adding to that, his sleeping condition is bringing questions to the surface, when one morning, he’s thrilled about his new puzzle, a new variation of the Rubik’s Cube. A tetrahedron that will undoubtedly keep him awake this time .

"Oh, it’s ace. Yeah, it’s amazing. New shape, new algorithms, you know what I mean?"

"So, you’re able to sleep," you point out a cup of warm coffee in your hand, sitting next to him. "It’s just that you … won’t?" There’s nothing accusatory, you’re just pointing out the incoherence.

You’re working in a law firm, for God’s sake. Finding incoherences and counter-arguments is what you do. Your ex had a lovely little nickname for that, calling you “The Scalpel”. Acute questions. Pushing and inquiring where it hurts. Incisive . “Can’t you stop analysing and arguing on every fucking point all the time? Just … let it go ”. At that time, you were pretty sure you were mostly cutting through bullshit. But now, Steven is at your side, vulnerable and sensible and right, this time, it’s different, don’t be such a fucking scalpel, dumbass, you admonish yourself.

The white of his eyes is more visible, and his forehead wrinkles, as he stares wide at you. He babbles a confused explanation; how of course he can sleep, but, you know, his body wants to get up and wander about, he’s not an insomniac or narcoleptic or anything now is he. And he laughs awkwardly— and he crosses your eyes again and oh, oh— he realises that’s exactly what you assumed. But yeah, nothing to worry about, the sleepy part was fine, it’s the dreams you see. The vivid dreams that make Steven exhausted and how is this a medical condition you think racingly; when dreaming is more exhausting than living ?

There and then, the perfect picture that you’ve assembled of Steven begins to crack. Like an oil painting, as time does its work, the thick layers of paint begin to split and break. Reluctantly showing the rough sketches under; exposing the wood beneath. You were wondering how deep the fractures were. If the cracks you were witnessing were just the thin upper layer of varnish giving up, in need of light restoration. Or were the lacerations so deep that they would eventually break the painting apart? If it was ever the case, would Steven be the whole piece of work; or merely a section of it ?

But you don’t press . You do not invade and question. No arguments or counter-arguments.

Somehow, you think you understand.

Aren’t we all parts and pieces, holding together by sheer will?

#steven grant #oscar isaac #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #jake lockley #jake lockley x reader #jake lockely x you #moon knight #moon knight tv #moon knight fanfic #ao3 #marc spector x you #marc spector x reader #steven grant imagine #jake lockley imagine #wholesome #the london daily ride

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 1 month

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Asbod!! (This is my name for you when i refer to you in my discord servers lol) can you talk about Brothers? I love it!! I want any thoughts you have abt it! All of the thoughts you have about it!

first of all i love the name Asbod please feel free to call me that (that goes for everyone)

SECOND oh my god Brothers was such a fun thing to write especially considering there's a strange thing that happens with the twins where Roman gets comforted by Remus a lot (I'm guilty of this I know shush) but Remus doesn't really have a whole lot of people he can actually go to for things

(under the cut because wow)

one of the things i associate the most with remus is my tenuous relationship with reality. this might be tmi but I have these...episodes? hallucinations? delusions? somethings where it's really hard for me to stay in my body where i am at the point in time that i should be, and most often how this manifests (or how i realize it's happening to me and i would like it to No Longer Happen) is I get really fucking cold. Now, normally, I'm a goddamn space heater so that's an unfamiliar sensation. so i wanted to give remus that same kind of panic where it's cold, who knows why, and then you slowly have that feeling that something is Wrong. Not in that there's something outright coming to get you, or that you can see how things are going to spiral out of control, but that feeling of being in a sterile, bland, completely emotionless room and hearing the buzzing of the fluorescent lights just a little too loudly. and of course because it's remus, we take it to the extreme

the wolf...look, i blame puss in boots the last wish and dimension 20's neverafter for reigniting my love for wolf death deities, especially benevolent ones. (yeah yeah Death from puss in boots isn't really benevolent until the very end but you get what i mean, he's reasonable, he's not just mindlessly evil or malicious.) The wolf for me is such a symbol of the end of a story, or at the very least an irrevocable turning point. within the context of the twins specifically, the wolf serves as an interesting bridge between the two; the wolf as a fairytale figure fits very nicely into Roman's more traditional 'storied' Imagination, whereas the fear and uncertainly the figure of the wolf connotes slots very well into Remus's side. there's something incredibly soothing for me, a very brain-spicy person, about having a being who is kind for no other reason than it chooses to be. I dunno if you caught remus referencing Emily Dickinson's work as he was carried.

and then for roman! we all know i'm a full time station master for the roman angst train, but it works both ways. roman is deeply connected to the imagination, to creativity, to his brother, and as much as remus and he butt heads about things, there's an element of roman's creativity that remus finds safe. i think roman perhaps out of all the sides is truly the embodiment of the hurt/comfort genre, the desire to see something fall so far, yes, but land on something soft. that's the sort of thing his brother makes, and so the imagination/remus/the wolf takes him to roman because that's the soft landing he needs. and then with the hypothermia specifically--look, okay, i'm not an exception to the lure of that trope, even if i never take it the sexy route. bringing someone out of that state requires patience, gentle and constant attention, because you have to warm them up slowly and carefully. how could i not want to portray that? especially for these two, who are such obvious mirrors yet at the same time are exactly the same.

#dragonbabbles #i do have opinions on the matter #fic #you guys are so fckin nice #also seeing asbod and hearing myself say it for the first time gave me gender euphoria so thank you

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telleroftime · 9 months

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Food for thought

An idea where Reader is known to dabble in magic here and there. And under whatever circumstances they've been brought in to help Bowser maybe break some kind of curse or protect his kingdom from some enemy that's seeking them out. Whatever reason, they're learning spells and stuff.

And as they learn, it corrupts them basically slowly killing them but they're too worried about helping Bowser to say anything until one day they just succumb the effects.

Dark magic causes a lot of damage to a human.

Hehehe - Yes. Yes feed me this angst that is. It's.. Hehehehehe. I love it.

Warning for angst and description of bodily harm.

I can just imagine that for a while the Reader attempts to hide it. They noticed it straight away, the way it differs from their light magic. The way it feels heavier, like a nightmare as opposed to a dream. Feverish almost. At first it just tingles on their skin, but quickly - the more they learn - it starts to become like an irritation. An allergy almost. A plague.

Their hands starts to hurt and there's odd pigmentation there. The dark magic manifesting physically like a burn. Their arms ache, their lungs feel smaller every time they cast a spell. But, at the same time they learn more about Bowser. The outcome weighs a lot on their success. They need to do this. They want to help Bowser. They believe there is no other way.

So they hide the symptoms. "Oh, this is just a cough" - "I just didn't get enough sleep" - "I'm just low on magic energy, I'll be fine tomorrow"

But it just gets worse. They start to struggle with the pain. They stumble and groan every once in a while. Sometimes they cry when it gets too much. They start struggling with their normal magic almost as if the dark magic corrupted it. It becomes impossibly hard which only makes them spew more excuses.

The Reader doesn't want the king to see them as weak though, so they never speak up.

All until their body can't take it anymore and they collapse in the middle of a spell. The royal Magikoopas are called in instantly, all the healers at their disposal coming to aid. But the Reader ends up in a coma. A magic induced coma where their body tries to expel the dark magic. They groan and whimper and even in their slumber they attempt to scratch away the marks to the point they need to be observed and stopped before they scratch too much at their skin.

Bowser has no idea how he didn't notice it before. Why? Why didn't they say anything? Why did they hide it? There could have been another way, surely. They didn't need to risk themself.

But they did, and now they're not here. Not fully. Bowser is alone and Reader is stuck fighting whatever blemish the dark magic caused on their soul.

Eventually though, they wake up. Weeks... months... maybe even years later. It was a moment they were left alone. They wake up as if it was the next day. Their pain is gone, surprisingly numb, but the marks are still there. The scars from scratching at the pain, the odd pigmentation of dark magic wrapping around their body.

They're delirious for a few minutes, waking up like from a nap.

Then they storm out of the room. They can't be late! They were supposed to cast a spell for Bowser today, they were supposed to help the Magikoopas. They can't possibly miss that, they-

The room they enter is empty, no Magikoopa in sight as if the event was forgotten. It couldn't have been, could it?

Just imagine when Bowser manages to catch them. Reader wouldn't understand why he's so emotional. They saw him just the other day, didn't they? They barely process the words when they're told how much time actually passed. How much time the dark magic stole from them. How much could have been avoided.

It's just - ahh the angst potential!

#Bowser #Bowser x Reader #Super Mario #Sorry this is short #And cuts off abruptly #I have a lot more to say about this #However I feel really exhausted so I'll add more later #I'll reblog it when I do #toonce responses #redaskeded

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rapha-reads · 1 year

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I've read three Lockwood & Co books in two days (no, I'm not doing that fine, thanks for asking), and even though book 3, The Hollow Boy, just broke my heart in ten different ways, there's something that I find fascinating in the way Jonathan Stroud writes his horror. At first, when the team faces the Visitors, it's scary, obviously. Walking around the house or ground in the dark, al the ways a Visitor can manifest... Typical horror stuff. But then, with Lucy's Talent growing up, there's something that happens: the ghost isn't that scary anymore. Some are irritating and repulsive, but a lot are also, mostly, pitiful and compassion-worthy. Like, the Fetch at the end of book 3? Definitely made me tense rigid-spine and look around my room and over my shoulder when it started following Lucy in the department store. But when he faced Lucy in the room of bones, taking on Lockwood's appearance? I wasn't scared of him. Wary, yes, Visitors are still dangerous, but mostly feeling pity and gratitude. I had the feeling that the hollow boy wasn't really trying to hurt Lucy, but really to have a conversation with her.

Anyway, it's 4.50am. Should I start book 4 now? I want to delve back in immediately, these books are real page-turners! And now the real Locklyle angst has started, I'm deeply invested. I'm kind of surprised I never read them before, the first book is from 2013, that was exactly the period I was reading every single YA book I could get my hands on, especially fantastic/fantasy/sf (as always, then and now). Surprising that this series evaded me.

#rapha talks #rapha reads #lockwood and co #lockwood and co books #lockwood & co #jonathan stroud #lockwood & co books #the hollow boy #lucy carlyle #anthony lockwood #locklyle #locklyle angst #books #ya literature #horror books #ghost stories #literary delight of the month #i'm fascinated and mesmerized by these books as if i was the one in ghost-lock #i swear i literally haven't been able to put them down #i watched the entire show in the night of sunday to monday #monday afternoon when i woke up i looked and got the first book and started reading compulsively #it's now wednesday early morning and i have read three books of 400 pages each #i love this feeling but i'm also not sure what's real anymore and with daylight saving hour change since sunday i'm feeling very confused #it's a good thing i have a study group tomorrow and i'm seeing people because knowing me i could go another 2 days like that #my mental health is cracking... oops?

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doodle-pops · 1 year

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Us Against All Odds

Ecthelion x human fem! reader

Request: Angsty fic where Ecthelion falls in love with a woman from our world in Valinor after coming back from the halls of Mandos…but he’s unsure of what fate the Valar will rule for her and whether she can carry his kids (elvish pregnancy and that jazz). Odd idea, I know. She’s smart, strong, all that, but they have to navigate these challenges together. Will they or won’t they? - Anon

A/N: It's not an odd idea because I immensely enjoyed this request and would love to make a second part to continue their angsty life. Just a little extra notice, I decided to make a little linkage between immortality and pregnancy if you all don't catch on to it.

Warnings: fembod reader, angst, talks of pregnancy and potential loss of life (not a miscarriage), reader being selfish with their choice, and arguments because it's angst.

Words: 1.9k

Synopsis: Having a blissful marriage always left you wanting more, but when immortality becomes the problem for happiness, do you forsake it and act selfishly or wait for a verdict?

Silver bells tinkered in the distance in your eardrums and your heart drummed like a stampede of wild beasts. Hands shaking at the speed of light and breathing unevenly, the flock of birds that passed overhead triggered more reactions. The tears that pricked the corners of your eyes, slowly, one by one trickled down and stained your angelic face. Bouquet in hand and adorned in white, you represented innocence, purity, liveliness, life, new beginnings and death. Were your upcoming actions the right ones? Would your choice bring you unconditional love and elation or would it be a mistake that brought destruction and unhappiness to everyone and yourself? Was it selfish of you to go against other beliefs and force yourself to manifest happiness unlike any other that tricked you into believing your decisions were right?

It all depended on one individual’s answer, and it was a happy sacrifice to make for yourself and another even if the world disagreed.

The wind blew, ruffling your thoughts and stirring them up in further confusion. If no was the final judgement, then could you still bring yourself to carry out the act? Could your body the pain it would bring to everyone around you if you chose to act selfishly? Would white still be considered your colour or would black suit your actions, perhaps grey? To manifest your dream despite denial was never your fault. It was those who welcomed you into their home and then rejected the opportunity for eternal bliss. You found love and support, friends of many and friends of all who cheered and sang songs of praise at your serendipity. He came out of the blue when you least expected him— noble and fair, majestic and wise, kindness in his smile, forever in his touch and love in his words. How could you not be selfish and give him the world after his sacrifice?

If yes was the other decision then worrying and pain would no longer be. No more thinking selfishly or acting in vain. There would be no pointless promises or long nights of alternatives, you would both be content and locked away back in eternal paradise. A bundle of joy and never-ending immortality to kiss the seal of fate and bring about the final act of completion of your union and undying love. Was it so difficult to grant an innocent person like yourself? Never harming or hurting, plotting or deceiving, causing actions of malice and destruction. You lived your life in a bubble and spared many others through the touch of a healer’s hand. The great Lady of the forest saw your heart and deemed you worthy of finding a place among her people in the West. You made yourself home and still helped, portraying kindness as far as your smile and heart allowed you; why was one word impossible to declare? Would it bring chaos and uprising, or change others’ views of them?

Sullen and grim were your two companions ever since your first form of euphoria blossomed with him. Every visit filled you with more excitement but left an unpleasant taste of reality around the corner. No amount of flower picking and consultations could sedate the ache in your heart as each month passed and turned into years. Any longer and the hair on your head would turn grey— maybe they were waiting for that moment to arise to make a pronouncement. You could do with a silver lining to grant you everlasting life.

“My fair love, I have returned to you,” the sweet, enchanting voice of Ecthelion echoed causing you to jump in your seat. The carnations and bluebells almost fell from your loose grip and scattered on the floor had it not been for his quick reflexes. The melody of a thousand nightingales sung to your heart as he returned a tender smile and handed you your bouquet, “You know, should you continue to stare so…gloomy, those lines may begin to appear before we even receive a response.”

Widening your eyes at his comment, your right hand flew to your forehead and began pressing against your skin in a panic, too terrified of appearing aged before the verdict. The small gasps and whines that escaped your throat as your carried on pressing out your non-existing wrinkled make Ecthelion frown. He hadn’t meant to upset you tremendously. Standing up to walk around and squat directly before you, he reached for your hand and pried it away from your forehead. Cupping his enormous hands around your fragile one, he toyed with your finger, holding each one between his thumb and forefinger and giving them a wiggle. He continued until all five received the same treatment before lifting your hand to his mouth.

“My apologies for startling you vanimelda, it was never in my interests to worry you,” kissing your hand, he trailed his kisses from your knuckles all the way past your wrist and up your arm— kissing your cloth-covered skin— until he arrived at your shoulder. There he paused, then with a lift of his head, he turned to face you, “you appear extra stunning today under Arien’s rays.”

Your cheeks grew warmer the longer he gazed at you until you appeared embarrassed. Attempting to hide your face by looking away, his fingers caught your chin and tilted your head in his direction, keeping eye contact. “…Thel, you only say these things because you know how much elven beauty bothers me,” you whispered nonchalantly with a saddened expression. Living in the blessed realm for more than fifteen years already changed your appearance, giving you a more aged look. It was only three years ago since you met Ecthelion, so he saw you at your mature age and still found you most beautiful, but insecurity was insecurities.

“It bothers you that much…still? I saw you first and fell in love with your smile, your brightness, your aura, your walk, your style, and your everything. How could I not find my soulmate the most beautiful when their soul sings the most magnificent melody?” falling to his knees, he was able to lean in closer to speak, “you know that the first time I saw you, I thought I was—”

“— looking at an angel. Yes, yes, I remember. You tell me this all the time,” you nodded with a reminiscing smile.

“Then why do you still doubt your beauty in my eyes?”

Silence fell between you both. The loudness of the larks and magpies in the background increased, drowning any loud thoughts that shouted across the room. Wind scattering loose papers across the room, curtains kicking up a fuss, leaves and petals floating through the air and you both remained stagnant, staring at each other. Ecthelion could see your thoughts before hearing them. It was the sole purpose of his back-and-forth visits to Mánhanxar to consult with the Valar.

“Even if you were to become old and frail, I could never take my eyes off a beauty like yourself vanimelda,” this time, his voice sent shivers up your spine as he spoke his words like a vow. They were true and pure, like his heart and actions.

“I just…maybe instead of waiting on them, we should just continue with our lives normally. It’s been months since a reply came in,” you eagerly proclaimed.

Rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb, he pondered. The idea of letting you go through with that, without a say from the Valar was life-risking, even if it were your dream at having the final slice of life. He didn’t want to lose you so early should immortality not be granted. What was having a child or children if he lost you in the process? Elven pregnancies being elf males and mortal females were rare, nearly unheard of. From what healers who survived Middle Earth spoke of, the risk of mothers surviving was low since their bodies were not able to accommodate twelve months. The stress and toil it took could cost you your life. Had it been reversed with your race, then he would have no problem, and there wouldn’t be a risk from the start.

“I know you want this terribly, but sacrificing yourself to not be here is…unnecessary. I wouldn’t be made to choose Y/N. Please don’t make me,” he cried angrily into your hand as he bowed into your touch from the bouquet of flowers. Stroking his hair and calming his nerves, whispering soft coos to reduce his stress.

“You worry too much Thel— my immortality, my life expectancy with pregnancy, my this, my that…where is all that faith and confidence the Prince Turukano told me about you having?” you joked while softly hitting the flowers against his head to catch his attention.

“It died with me in Gondolin…” he snapped and then froze as his words slipped out, not meaning to further dampen the mood, “…forgive me. I should not have said that.” Lifting his head to meet eyes filled with affection and patience, he felt guilty for worrying. Heaving, he flopped to the wooden floors and sat with his head on your lap while you raked your fingers through his silky ebony locks. He said nothing for minutes while prolonging to sulk in silence and reprocessing his and your thoughts. As your husband, it was his duty to worry and protect, especially for an event like the one you wished for.

“Do you truly not believe that we can have a child of our own even if immortality is not given?” you asked.

Mumbling faintly into your dress, he painfully replied, “Yes. Immortality would alter your body to safely conceive, without it, you are open to greater complications love. . .and I value your life over all.”

“Greater complications, but never death,” you counterreply making him gape at you stunned, “I cannot simply allow one decision from your Gods to ruin my life. I deserve extra satisfaction, even if it means being selfish a bit.”

“And what of my happiness my love? Do you not think me happy as I am with you and wishing for no change?”

“Thel,” you bent down to cup his face in your miniature hands, “all will be well and fine, I know this; it’s a gut feeling. We will have our wish granted, why else would Eru bring you back?”

Groaning in defeat, he felt it a bit pointless to continue arguing with you as your mind was already made up, furthermore, making you happy was a natural process for him, to deny was to commit a crime. He loved you and that meant doing whatever it took to make you satisfied. The most he could do was pray to Eru to plead with his cause and grant him fulfilment. Today was the last day of the trial and soon the messenger would visit to deliver the verdict. He could only beg for the response would be life-changing and saving as the hours went by until nightfall. There was enough weariness seeping into his brain from overthinking and repeating the same conversations cyclically, all that was needed was a miracle to end his stress and he hoped that it would knock on your front door soon.

Masterlist

Taglist: @spidergirla5 @lilmelily @eunoiaastralwings @noldorinpainter @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @starborne0661 @floraroselaughter @singleteapot @asianbutnotjapanese @justellie17 @justjane

#ecthelion #ecthelion x reader #ecthelion imagine #silmarillion imagine #silmarillion x reader #silmarillion #silmarillion angst #middle earth x reader #middle earth imagine #middle earth #house of the fountain #lords of gondolin #ecthelion angst #ecthelion of the fountain #angst #x reader insert #x reader angst #gondolin #doodlepops writings ✨

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brandwhorestarscream · 5 months

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Cybermorph au( Armada)

What if we change the "dead" to "badly injured"? I saw some fans do this

The result would still be Megatron having a reality check with what happened

I'm sad and cranky rn so I'm taking it out on Starscream

I don't remember all the exact details of his death but I do know he's generally hailed as a martyr. Sacrificed himself for the greater good and all that. I'm gonna twist it juuust a bit: he has every intention to die and not just because he thinks it's a necessity. That is part of it, yes, but I like to imagine all the countless years of utter-indifference-to-downright-cruelty from Megatron has made it so he just... doesn't want to be alive anymore. He's a nuisance, an unwanted mistake: he's never done anything to help his hive and his carrier doesn't seem to love him at all. He's tolerated only because their species is already critically endangered. He's a bad morph. He's cripplingly lonely and sad. Cybermorphs are social creatures that need bonds to be healthy, and Starscream just. Doesn't have it. His mental state has spiralled out of control and has finally manifested in the ultimate amalgamation of self loathing and isolation: suicidal ideation.

He's eager--no, desperate--for the pain to finally end. And deep down, more than anything, he hopes dying to save everyone will finally, finally, earn him his carrier's pride and maybe some of his love. It's all he wants. All he's ever wanted.

He's gotten really good at filtering out his own thoughts from the hivemind over the years. Doesn't want to burden them with his angst. But as he's about to throw himself into the metaphorical fire, his filters crack and then dissolve all together: he wants them to know they won't have to tolerate him anymore, and that he's doing it for them. For him. He truly, genuinely hopes this will make his carrier happy.

Megatron suddenly freezes during his final stand off with Optimus. Prime manages to get a hit in and sends him skidding back, but notices the cybermorph queen isn't really looking at him anymore. His face has gone slack, optics wide and horrified, then he promptly turns on a dime and takes off like a bat out of hell, bellowing Starscream's name.

It's too late, though. He can't stop his foolish little morphling even with his most powerful and desperate command as the queen.

He arrives just in time to see him drop, collapsing limp and charred and terrifyingly still, his presnece from the hivemind gone and sparkpulse so faint he seems doomed to blip out before Megatron can even get his hands on him. I'm headcannoning this scene to be similar to the frozen river in Wolf Children--desperate and regretful mother shaking him, hysterical and panicking, begging him to wake up and open his optics. Megatron's lost morphlings before, so, so many before, but not like this. Never like this. They all died at the hands of the autobots, be it in battle or during the early war nest raids. This is new, this is fresh, a special kind of grief and terror he's never been subjected to before. His very last morphling just tried to kill himself. He's shocked. He's horrified. He doesn't know what to do.

Through the power of fanfic and extremely resilient cybermorphs bodies, Starscream survives, but barely. He's in a coma for several decacycles after the fact. There's extensive bodywork to put him back together and stabilize him, but he's still in critical condition. While he's unconscious, he doesn't dream. He doesn't hear anything of the outside world. There's no sensation, no feeling, no nothing. Just the abyss.

When he finally reawakens, he's very disoriented. So stiff he can't even bend his fingers at first, optics open a single micrometer and flinching against even the low light of his recovery chamber. Everything hurts. Everything. Ventilating hurts. Blinking hurts. Trying to turn his neck to look around hurts. Tears bubble up in his optics and he starts very softly sobbing, in agony and disappointed in himself all at once.

What will the queen say? He's going to be in so much trouble. How can he be such a failure that he can't even die properly?! Did they win? Are they safe? He doesn't remember, he doesn't know-

Anxiety and panic bloom in his chassis and he's about 2 seconds away from a whole ass nervous breakdown in his hospital bed.

Then, suddenly, the door opens

His helm jerks to the side to look and white hot pain flares throughout his entire body, lacing down his main spinal strut and setting fire to every single nerve ending and sensory diode in his body. It's too much and he's helpless to stop himself from crying harder, especially when he sees who's just arrived.

The cybermorph queen himself has arrived and Starscream flinches back, trying so hard to cower away from him but his body won't move the way he wants it to, he's so stiff and it hurts so bad and oh stars Megatron's going to kill him for this-

He's expecting a lot of things. For his carrier to yell at him. To ream him the worst he's ever experienced. To be banished from the hive for being so reckless and stupid, or to just be eaten for his transgression. The cybermorphs have never been cannibalistic before, but he wouldn't be surprised if that was deemed a fitting punishment for royally screwing up as much as he has. He's expecting to be ridiculed, hated, screamed at.

He's expecting anything, honestly, aside from what happens. He is in no way shape or form expecting his carrier to cross the room in a single second and throw all 4 arms around him (I uh. Recently found out xenomorph queens have 4 arms. Didn't notice that until 2 days ago. Whoops)

Starscream gasps, shock pulsing through his entire body. He's never been held like this before, never been held at all: his secondary arms are both grasping at his shoulders, holding him close. Main arms have one wrapped around his back, the other cradling his helm and tucking his face close against the queen's chassis.

He's trilling, chirping, blubbering in cybermorph speak. My Starscream, my little morph, I'm so sorry, forgive your foolish carrier for not realizing how you felt. I'm so glad you're alright, I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, but you're safe now. You're ok.

The first time he's ever been held by his carrier. The first time he's ever been spoken to so gently. The first time he's ever been told that he is loved. He doesn't have it in him to be angry, or to feel betrayed: he's so exhausted and in so much agonizing pain, all he can do is melt into the warm embrace and cry. It's the sort of crying wherein every sound is visceral, wet and painful, pouring out every bit of loneliness and devestation and every horrible thing he's had to endure over the years. He clings on, desperately, to Megatron's frame, begging him to say it again. To swear it to be true, that it's really over, that he's never going to have to feel like this again. The queen promises it easily, and holds him tight enough to dent the entire time. Purring at his last remaining morphling, swearing to protect and properly love him forever going forward. Maybe Starscream's connection to the emotional hivemind was weak, maybe it had grown numb in war, but he'd never been privvy to these feelings before. Megatron blames himself and vows to never, ever allow these mistakes to repeat.

...

I'm gonna cut this here cuz it's getting long and I'm tired. This may be exceptionally ooc but I really can't be hecked to care. If you want a follow up of this, uhhh just ask. If you have more thoughts, send em. Im going back to bed lmfao

#am i projecting cuz i don't have a good relationship with my mother and desperately wish i did??#why yes. yes i am. sue me #if my mom wont love me i can at least make starscreams mom love him #cybermorph au #megatron #starscream #oh and #cw suicidal ideation

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sehtoast · 6 months

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Okay, just a thought,

What if Ben started going though a transformation that started making him look more spidery? How would Homelander react?

I think Homie really is the kind of guy to stick around and get used to the changes. Likewise, I think he’d end up fascinated by them, honestly. He might even find fun ways to incorporate them into their sex life, because that’s just how this man is.

Nsfw ahead bc i can’t help myself:

I imagine if Ben grew another two sets of arms (8 limbs), Homelander would be living his best life. That’s extra hands to pet his hair, stroke his sides, touch his cock, play with his balls, and finger his ass all at the same time. He’d be in tactile heaven and I sincerely doubt he’d wanna leave. Plus, the snuggling? The hugs? He’d be down so bad.

If Ben grew fangs and could secrete venom from them, I think there’d be no problem there. In fact, some spider bites (such as the banana spider) can cause erections that last for several hours, so I think there’d be plenty of fun to be had there. I imagine Homelander would enjoy being bitten, and bonus points if Ben can actually puncture his skin so that he can really feel it. Also, the thought of him getting in the mood and just holding his arm out like, “bite,” is so asdfhkjffk to me. Yeah, he has no refractory period already and can ride a boner all day, but maybe the prolonged erection manifests as extra sensitivity in him.

Ben’s setae are concentrated in his finger pads and the soles of his feet, so I don’t think he’d end up all furry like a spider, but, even if he did, I think Homie would just shrug it off after he got used to it.

Thank you to @anon-nee for their infinite spider knowledge with this bit: Male spiders try to book it after sex so they don’t get eaten alive by their mate (i know this is mostly about appearances, but this is just so cool aadhflkj and i’m SUCH a slut for angst). If Ben ended up developing this instinct, I think it could make for some hurt feelings on both ends. Like, why does he think Homelander looks so scary after sex? Why is his spider sense urging him to get the fuck out of the room? Ben knows he’s safe, but it’s still scary. I imagine Homelander would be crushed by the thought that Ben is suddenly so scared of him. The man can practically smell fear, so he’d know as soon as it started that something was up. He jumps to the worst conclusion: Ben must not love him anymore, obviously. I think it’d take a while to settle the turmoil from this one.

The rest my brain is coming up with is Ben growing a few more sets of eyes, which, possibly a little odd, but I still think Homelander could get over it. Maybe Ben ends up insecure about it and starts wearing beanies to cover them and Homelander is constantly trying to pull his hat off. “Yeah, it’s weird, but now you can stare at me in six different ways! What’s not to love?”

Ultimately, that’s his lil spider bf, and we know this man will cling to someone he loves until he literally physically cannot anymore (and even then, will seek out remnants of them [yes, I’m talking about the milk scene hahaha]). I think as long as Ben stays true to him, he would do the same no matter how Ben looks.

#ask #the benlander agenda #thank you for the ask <333 #homelander x oc #request

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mare-sanguis · 1 year

Text

what i love about star struck the most is how characters are portrayed as humans, with flaws on BOTH sides because, a lot of times, both parties are struggling, with all kinds of emotions. and the series portrays exactly this but in two different types:

we have the socially drawn back, who appears more calm, hanjoon who keeps things to himself because he feels inferior (he thinks yoojae cares about how much money he has, he belittles himself). when he voices his thoughts, they are direct and polite, but they can also spit fire

and then we have the more open, who appears more lively, yoojae who keeps things to himself because he feels he would hurt hanjoon (the money thing especially). when he voices his thoughts, they are rude, thorny and hurtful.

they are both perfect potrayals of human beings. even the amount of stress, angst, anxiety and miscommunication they've got going on is real. even in close friendships, you'll find such situations from time to time - those situations do strengthen the bond, IF the people involved actually care for each other (and both do). theres no friendship without real fights.

and i do think that yoonjae is struggling with some type of internalized homophobia or just doesnt understand feelings at all- the possibility is high, if we look at his family (theres literally no love involved and i guess there is much strained emotions between him and his mom as well), and a lot of times it also feels like he has already given up on himself (when he says hes just like his parents). and hanjoon is the other side of the coin. there was no adult to guide him thought friendship or love either- yet, he tries his best, but fails ultimately. a beautiful depiction how growing up without parents can manifest within people.

but most importantly: both keep secrets from each other which means no one of them is perfect and both are kinda assholes to one another. both kept from each other how they'd move out/part ways with their parents. and both were mad at each other for exactly this reason.

while yes, yoojae may be an ass (as he shows it outright in some parts), hanjoon is one as well even if its not as visible and hidden under a layer of composure. no matter how often yoojae tells hanjoon he doesnt care about how much money he has, the latter one does not understand it and it hurts yj's feelings as well.

_______

i really hope people will look at both characters in a nuanced way and not take any sides because neither hj nor yj is perfect. yes we can, and should criticize yj, but we should also do the same with hj.

because no human is perfect

#korean bl drama #bl drama #bl series #korean bl series #star struck #hanjoon x yoojae #yoojae x hanjoon

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signoraviolettavalery · 7 months

Note

Your favorite anon here/j

Brain is rioting a bit so ....

Either fluff or angst of the vampire variety? Pls?

Lepo lepo prosim?

(/nf of course)

You asked for angst, so you're getting ANGST. And if you complain I can just say...you asked for it :P

So this is from the AU where Jan had a very awful, very abusive husband prior to being married off to Bojan as a vampire alliance/pact thing. It's a bit rough at the moment so please pardon the dust! co-written by me and @touchyourblood

Trigger warnings for spousal abuse.

It's the anniversary of Jan's last marriage (which is also his birthday) and Bojan, having seen that Jan is having trouble adjusting to this new marriage and hearing him constantly wake up with nightmares, gifts him a crystal to ward off nightmares. This small kindness brings tears to his eyes. Bojan, thinking he's sad and grieving his last husband, is unsure what to do or if he's misstepped; he puts his arm around Jan and says "I'm sorry. I know you miss him. I'm sorry you can't be him."

Jan, full-on sobbing now, whispers "Please don't be like him."

That gives Bojan pause.

"Please don't hurt me. I wasn't a good husband to him, but I'll do better with you, I swear, I'll obey, I won't be cold and frigid like I've been lately. Anything you ask for, I'll do, I won't complain, I swear - "

"He hurt you?" Bojan ask. His voice very, very calm and very very controlled.

"He beat me, but I deserved it, I made him mad," Jan says. "I couldn't guess what he wanted, I didn't obey in exactly the way he wanted me to - "

"What else did he do?" Bojan's voice is still preternaturally calm. Jan would think it was simple curiosity but there's...something behind it. Want? Desire? Is he getting excited by what Jan is describing?

"He'd chain me up in the dungeon if he was really angry, leave me there for a few days," Jan goes on. "And the normal vampire things, choking me, feeding until I was unconscious, but you don't have to worry, I'm used to that"

Bojan: 😦😧😨😱😱😱 (yes that is currently our shorthand for Bojan's reaction)

"he did....all those things to you?"

"Only when I deserved it."

Bojan's anger manifests without him even quite realizing. His eyes flash red, his claws coming out and sinking into Jan's skin where he's still holding him. The next second, Jan is cowering away from him. Bojan can smell his fear, though the tears in his eyes and the terrified whimper he lets slip also make it very clear.

(his last husband always loved his fear and his whimpers and it was a relief to not have to hold them back, at least)

Bojan forces himself to calm down, carefully retracts the claws.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm not angry with you, I promise. I won't hurt you."

Jan looks up at Bojan and Bojan can tell he doesn't believe him.

"I'm not like him," he says. "I take no pleasure in the pain of others"

Jan doesn't really know what to do with that either. Hs last husband always insisted he was a good person, and it was only jan that drove him to violence. And maybe Bojan doesn't take pleasure it in but what if he nonetheless decides Jan needs disciplining? He hasn't been a particularly warm and loving "bride" after all It would make sense for Bojan to show him his placr6

"I'm not going to hurt you, ever," Bojan continues. "Even if I'm angry or upset or we have a disagreement. I promise. I swear it. Just like we swore vows at our wedding"

Jan isn’t sure what to make of that either. Words can be twisted in so many ways, after all.

#vampire!bojan #tw abuse #and angst ALL THE ANGST

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mars-mystic · 21 days

Text

20 Questions for Fic Writers

tagged by @crimsonicarus tyyyyy <33333

How many works do you have on ao3

23 as of today. Tomorrow, who knows? Perhaps 24. I have 5 on ff.net too :P

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

154,239

3. What fandoms do you write for?

currently only f1. But the full list includes (but is not limited to): Critical Role, Our Flag Means Death, Star Trek, Percy Jackson, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Lord of the Rings, Macbeth, etc

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Ongoing Speculation - Critical Role

Diplomatically Inclined - Star Trek

Unspoken Love - Critical Role

Keep a Close Watch - Critical Role

Take my Hand (Take my whole life too) - Our Flag Means Death

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Always. I love yapping about my fics, and where better to do it than the comments. I'm liable to say too much in the comments, because I'll just say anything. I think it's polite to reply when someone has gone through the effort of engaging in conversation by commenting (I also fall immediately in love with you. so there's also that)

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Bold of you to suggest I've ever ended a fic. I also have... 4 fics tagged Hurt No Comfort. But I'd say The Mourning After is the angstiest. Of the complete ones. But maybe also just in general.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Perhaps Unspoken Love. It has a very cute not friends not dating but more vibe to it. Very QPR. Who doesn't love a good Wizard date not date? Aeor is for Lovers, after all.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

no hate comments but sometimes I think my readers hate me for what I put them through <3

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

nothing that ao3 knows about... yet...

what kind? ummm.... fucked up? Awful? its me, what else is new?

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

hell yes. My first fic was a crossover, gotta stay true to myself. The craziest one I've written. well. it doesn't exist on the internet. but it features Hamlet/Robert Ross (from the World War One novel The Wars) as well as Ahsoka Tano/Darth Maul/Din Djarin (The Mandalorian). That or the Formula One Hamlet AU I partially wrote (and never posted).

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

lmao, doubt it

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

not really. but if you yap at me about a fic concept there's about a 95% chance I'll write it for you.

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Shadowgast got me through the pandemmy and I adore them with my whole heart. But also. Glance Nation. I couldn't live without you. <3

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

all of them I really wanted to finish The Shadow of You, had it all planned out and everything. But then first year uni happened and I just never came back to it :/. I WILL finish my current WIPS. Manifesting for myself.

16. What are your writing strengths?

umm... angst?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Emotional consistency. I always overcomplicate things to the nth degree and then get stuck trying to figure out what everyone is thinking. It's a disease but I won't stop doing it.

Also plain romance. I just get bored lmao. There's a reason my fluffy things are all a little weird. That or they're just crack treated seriously. I have no middle ground.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

if it's a language I speak then it's good, if I don't speak it then it's bad, hope that makes sense :)

19. First fandom you wrote for?

If we're being all the way honest it was Octonauts when I was 8 before I even knew what the concept of fanfiction was. That one is lost to time and probably also the recycling bin I'm afraid.

If we're talking fic I wrote knowing what fic is it was a most definitely Clone Wars fanfic, none of it published. The first one I published was a Clone Wars/Percy Jackson crossover. A New Camper on ff.net. Go read it if you wanna see what 13 year old me was up to :)

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

those are my children. you can't make me pick. i love them all in different ways

But Blackout my beloved... I love you so much. Kissing you on the lips. I know I've been an absent mother but I'll be back for you I swear.

wow this really turned into me writing my own expose. if you want a full tour of my ao3 you're on your own tho bc I can't remember a single thing I wrote during the pandemic. this was fun tho. a real mixed bag going on over here on my ao3

No idea who's been tagged, so if you want to: @weegreenbean @pitconfirm @autumn816 and anyone else who would like to. Tell me about your rich and varied pasts

#marsmystic summary

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batpham-discord-highlights · 2 years

Text

Jazz Drake: Part Four or Four

source: #ghosts-and-bats channel

tw: gory dreams

1, 2, 3, 4

Jazz's guilt manifests in spending as much time with him as she can

And making sure someone else she trusts is with him if she isn't

She stress cooks now

A habit picked up from Alfred

There's two of them

When Jason returns, he doesn't quite understand who this little girl is and why she spends so much time with Alfred

Then Alfred finally introduces them, made difficult by her avoiding Jason

And she's like: my big brother may have forgiven you but I sure haven't

Because to Jazz, Tim has been her whole world for so long

And Jason could've taken that from her

Y'know

How did jazz die?

Hmmm

Truck-kun

Was thinking angst but if that's how u wanna go about it xd

Except the driver was possessed by a ghost

Or wait

It possessed the truck

I was thinking Danny dissec and jazz find out and maybe she trips and explodes the portal or smth

I mean, that works too

Bc horrifying prophetic dreams are aesthetic

Oh?

Prophetic is not the right word

Like she is very very overprotective, but she doesn't exactly know why (no complete memories maybe?)

Tw Gorey dreams? And she sometimes will have dreams of another life, of someone familiar and they always end with scream of pain and strange green liquid, and blood

Are you making Drake!Jazz a meta? Or is this memory returning?

Memories returning

Ah, I see

Slow memory return is very interesting to me

Can cause many an issue

What kind of issues are you thinking of?

Paranoia, signs of PTSD with no discernable cause

Bc they don't know whats going on, batfam cannot fix it

Or try to help

Did she witness any of Danny's vivisection? Any of the evidence of it happening?

Because issues with medical tables/scalpels/other medical equipment would be very interesting

Honestly up to you

I would like it if she did

And considering that she's wanting to be a doctor

I agree

It would make learning surgery very difficult

And even Damian calls her a wimp for it she just absolutely breaks down

Because like, she's young and under stress and Damian hits where it hurts

Are u applying the "not all memories are there" thing?

Bc like just not knowing what ur scared of can be pretty terrifying

Yes

She just sees the table with the equipment and has a full-blown panic attack

Bonus points if there's a dummy already cut open

Everyone else is in the cave too

And they're all worried about her

Even Damian, reluctantly

She doesn't quite remember the face, or the name, but she knows it was familiar

Blood/hallucination And she stares at the table. The lighting is suddenly garish and green, and there is a Boyd on the table. Green and red drip quietly, and the face she cannot describe is staring at her, mouth open in a scream

Yup

Some good ol angst

Does Danny and Jazz meeting spark their memories more?

Yes it does :4

Jazz gets all her memories back

Danny gets a headrush and promptly faints

Jazz immediately goes into protective crisis mode

Everyone is so confused about why Jazz got attached so quickly

They're like twins, attached at the hip

Tim and Duke are a little jealous

Danny has exceedingly good aim but is physically weak and faints like no tomorrow

Danny: what kills me makes me stronger

Danny no-

Duke, Jazz, Everyone: nO

Jazz gives Dick many stinky side-eyes at the beginning of their relationship

He is absolutely delighted to have a baby sister

She's upset that Dick supported Tim becoming Robin

It's not until she blows up at him and they sit down and talk about it together that she realizes he didn't really want Tim to be Robin either

He just knew he wouldn't be able to stop him and was doing his best to keep him safe by teaching him

Just what I was going to say

Yeah

They realize that they have a lot in common

(big shocker)

And she starts seeing him as another brother after the fifth time he takes her out for ice cream

And he is unspeakably grateful that she isn't going to be fighting on the streets at night

She's small and sweet and soft and innocent right now

And he wants to protect her, let her stay that way as long as it's safe to

Alfred mostly keeps her off of comms, especially on bad nights

And she stopped watching the news after the fifth time she freaked herself out about Tim not coming home

Jazz and Cass adore each other

Spoiler doesn't really meet Jazz until Cass invites Steph over to hang out during the day time

And then there's this awkward "that's my brother's ex"/"that's my ex's little sister" moment

But after that the three of them get along like a house on fire

And while Alfred would do most of her training

It would be a cold day in hell when Babs didn't make sure each of Her Girls are computer competent

And Jazz has been one of Hers since Dick introduced them

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