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pocketjoong · 6 months

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❥𓂃𓏧Intertwined Destinies

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (SYNOPSIS) "There will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears, and love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears..." After The Storm, Mumford & Sons

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (PAIRING) idol!seonghwa x gn!reader

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (GENRE AND AU/TROPE): angst to fluff. soulmates.

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (WARNINGS) Angst. It ends in fluff though? Sad and frustrated Seonghwa. Sad you. Mentions of broken hearts. Lmk if I missed anything ksksks

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (WORD COUNT) 1.4k

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (A/N) @hwaightme my loveeeeeeee~ happy birthday! I love you as much as there are stars (hwas) in the night sky. thank you for being you and for being such a kind and warm person. wishing you lots of love from the bottom of my hwart. I hope this is not too angsty asdfghjkl, I was planning on fluff, but my brain didn't want to listen... :) Anyways, I hope you like this little rollercoaster of tears, and i'm sorry in advance!

Shoutout to @armysantiny for reading this beforehand!

Seonghwa runs his fingers through his already tousled ebony hair, groaning as he pauses the track sent to him by the producers at KQ. In the dimly lit studio, the neon glow from the computer screen casts a dreamy glow around him. Seonghwa’s brows furrow as he stares down at the pages of his leather-bound notebook. Each scribbled lyric within its pages doesn’t seem to fit the melody given to him.

For Seonghwa, writing lyrics is a territory he’s still exploring and learning. But he wanted to challenge himself this time around, especially since he had received help from Hongjoong while writing lyrics for his rap verse in Bouncy. That experience ignited the desire to create something that will not only awe atinys but also the composers too. But till now, every word he has penned down seems like a discordant note in what he would consider a masterpiece.

With a deep, exasperated sigh, Seonghwa slumps back in his chair. The leather creaks in protest, adding another irritating voice to the cacophony of his own rapidly darkening thoughts. Seonghwa groans again, frustration etched across his features as he tugs at the roots of his hair as though trying to yank inspiration from the depths of his mind.

“You will rip out all your hair if you keep that up,” Hongjoong deadpans from the doorway, causing the elder male to slowly swivel in his chair, exhausted eyes meeting the former’s figure. “You need help?”

Seonghwa’s response is a weary shake of his head, his lips parting, about to reassure his friend, but Hongjoong interjects, his voice laced with concern.

“You need to take a break, Hwa,” Hongjoong implores. “You’ve been cooped up for so long in the studio. That’s my thing, not yours. We’re worried about you, especially since…” He trails off, his gaze shifting to Seonghwa’s forearm, which remains fully concealed by his full-sleeved shirt.

“Oh, it's fine, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa smiles, though anyone can see the fakeness of it. “I'm—”

“—If you say fine once more, I swear,” unable to bear his friend’s hollow reassurances any longer, Hongjoong cuts him off with a firm tone and sits on the vacant chair next to Seonghwa. “I've known you for years, Hwa. And even if I didn't, I would still be able to know that you are not fine.”

Seonghwa's weary sigh seems to echo in the dimly lit room as his gaze drifts up to the false ceiling as if searching for answers among the shadows.

“I’m not…” he begins, words weighed down by the gravity of his emotions. “How can I be? I was supposed to get my soulmate tattoo on my birthday. And I didn’t.” The words spill from his lips like a lament, each syllable tinged with the bitterness of disappointment. His voice begins to quiver as he continues to speak, “Out of every single person in this world, why is it me who doesn't have a soulmate? Am I not worthy of one? I know I’m not perfect, but…” Seonghwa’s voice breaks, and he finally turns to look at Hongjoong with tear-filled eyes. “Out of everyone, why me?”

“Seonghwa…” Hongjoong begins, but the weight of Seonghwa’s words leaves him momentarily speechless.

Seonghwa lets out a bitter chuckle and shakes his head as if trying to shake off the sorrow that clings to him like a shroud. He rises from his seat, “You won't understand, Joong. You have an amazing soulmate; please take care of them.”

With that, Seonghwa leaves the room, leaving Hongjoong alone in the dimly lit studio. As the door closes behind the taller male, his eyes fall on the lyrics Seonghwa had penned.

Mournful thunder rips the skiesIt’s much too bright for me to hideAnd purples lie beneath my eyesAnother crash as clouds collide

“You're right,” Hongjoong whispers in the studio, his voice blending in with the shadows. I don't understand. But I wish from the bottom of my heart that the universe gives you your soulmate. If anyone deserves one, it’s you,” his words hand in the air, lingering like an unspoken prayer, even though he knows that Seonghwa can’t hear him.

As he speaks, a soft breeze gently rustles the curtains, casting patterns of light and shadow on the walls. The room itself seems to hold its breath as if in reverence for the longing that envelopes Seonghwa’s heart.

The world has always worked in peculiar ways as it tries to unite each soulmate pair. On the day one turned 22, the universe would bestow an individual with soulmate marks. Each mark, in one way or another, had the power to help the bearer to contact their soulmate, either through dreams, thoughts, or writing. It is different for everyone but similar in that it all led to one destination: the union of souls.

You had always believed in the concept of soulmates, for it was a belief etched deep into your heart as you couldn’t help but be captivated by the concept. You loved to read about soulmates and heard stories from people about how they met their soulmates. Hearing all the stories from different people, you started fantasising about how you’d meet yours. And by the time you turned 22, there wasn’t a thing you didn't know about soulmates. You had read almost every book you could lay hands on and talked to whoever had met their soulmates. There were some cases where someone didn’t get their soulmate tattoo, but that was extremely rare, and in one generation, not more than one or two people didn’t get their tattoos. But since you had read everything and knew a lot, you thought you were ready for anything.

But nothing could have prepared you for the disaster that struck on the day of your 22nd birthday, a day that was meant for a celebration of destiny. You were happy as you saw the beautiful musical note that was engraved on the skin of your wrist that morning. There was a skip in your step that day until the evening. As you were returning from your classes at the university while listening to ATEEZ, a K-Pop group that you loved for their deep and meaningful music, you became aware of the stinging pain in your wrist. Like a nightmare, you saw the newly acquired music note fade, and the world was enveloped in darkness. When you awoke, you found yourself in the sterile confines of a hospital room, surrounded by your family, who bore expressions of sympathy and sorrow.

A year has passed since that fateful day that shattered your dreams, leaving you grappling with the wreckage of your heart. In a bid to start life anew, you move to South Korea, taking on the role of a translator for a broadcasting network.

As you navigate your new life in a foreign land, the pain of your lost soulmate remains a constant companion, an indelible mark on your heart. The wound is far from healed, but a sense of contentment begins to seep into your life. South Korea, with its bustling cityscape, offers you solace and a chance to rebuild your life.

The rain pelts against the coffee shop’s misty windowpanes, creating a soothing melody of its own. Inside the warmth of the coffee shop, you sit perched upon a cushioned stool, your hand cradling a cup of warm hot chocolate in your hands. The cafe is quite crowded today due to individuals seeking shelter from the rain. The soft chatter of conversations swirls in the air, punctuated by the distant hum of espresso machines and the occasional clinking of cutlery.

As you gaze out at the deserted street, a tranquil feeling settles within you, the raindrops serving as a lullaby to your thoughts. It allows you a brief respite from the storm, both literal and metaphorical, that had rages within your soul.

The sound of the bell, which signals the door’s opening, shakes you out of your reverie. You look up, curiosity piqued by the arrival of a masked figure. The male surveys the room, eyes scanning the available seating options, and his gaze settles upon the only vacant spot next to you.

With each step the mysterious figure takes to walk toward you, you can’t help but feel that you know them from somewhere. Your pulse quickens when realisation dawns upon you. It hits you like lightning that the mysterious figure is Park Seonghwa.

Your breath is caught in your throat as he approaches. His sultry, brown eyes meet yours, and something clicks inside you. As if controlled by an unseen force, he reaches a hand out for you, and as your fingers meet his, a beautiful star engraves itself on both your and his wrists, a symbol of your intertwined destinies.

#cromernet #k-labels #wonderlandnet #kvanity #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez fic #ateez angst #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa imagines #seonghwa reactions #seonghwa fluff #seonghwa angst

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ckret2 · 6 months

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Chapter 25 of human Bill is the Mystery Shack's prisoner and somehow befriended Mabel: in which Bill and Mabel make friendship bracelets. It's heartwarming. Bill is not, I repeat, not secretly up to anything nefarious.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the chapter, Bill is secretly up to something nefarious.

####

"I'll be back in exactly one hour," Ford said. "Be finished showering by then. You've got everything you need, as well as..." He looked disdainfully at a baggie of shampoo and conditioner sample bottles, "your gift from the Northwests."

Bill eyed the Northwests' little care package skeptically. Four entire separate products that were supposed to be used all in one shower. He was drowning in mammal-cleaning slimes. What a waste of his time. "You don't expect me to use allthis junk, do you?"

"Frankly, as long as you aren't bald and don't smell like gnome urine in an hour, I don't care what happens between now and then."

"You're the most merciful warden I've ever had, Stanford."

Ford wasn't sure if that was supposed to be sarcasm or an awkward glimpse into Bill's sordid history, so he just shut the bathroom door. "One hour."

"One hour!" Bill waited until he couldn't hear Ford's footsteps; and then he turned on the shower, fished a crushed cider can and eight candles out of his hoodie, and stood on the wooden crate by the window.

Over the last few days, he'd spent every spare private moment using toothpaste and toilet paper to polish the bottom of the can into a perfect, shining, concave mirror. Now, he held it up to the window with one of the candles, using the mirror to focus the sun into a point on the wick of the candle... and...

It took a couple minutes of agonizing patience, but finally the wick smoked and then ignited. Yes. Moving carefully so he wouldn't douse the flame, he used the burning candle to melt the bottoms of the other candles just enough to stick them to the floor, lit them in turn, and in the middle Bill quickly made a (frankly terrible) drawing of Kryptos by finger painting with a tube of toothpaste.

And then he knelt in front of the candle circle, and—quietly enough that the shower covered the sound—he started chanting.

Some humans called Bill a dream demon. It wasn't exactly wrong, even if calling him a dream demon was kind of like naming the entire human race "the mountain bikers."

Which was to say, if Bill was a "dream demon," then so were the rest of his people. The other surviving shapes could cast themselves like shadows onto the walls and floors of other dimensions, slip through the cracks in reality that were too thin to accommodate the depths of three-dimensional creatures, and wander through the higher dimensions' mindscapes.

It was just that it was only one of their many side hobbies rather than their main pursuit as a species—and not a particularly popular hobby, at that. Most shapes weren't into taking safaris through aliens' dreams.

Out of the shapes Bill still hung out with, Hectorgon wouldn't do it; he appreciated why Bill went on his psychic excursions for the everyone's benefit, but skulking in a higher plane's second dimension made Hectorgon feel voyeuristic—and he'd only gotten more uncomfortable with the idea since his three-dimensional makeover. Bill could wheedle a majority of Amorphous Shape into a sightseeing trip once a millennium or so, but they were just a passive tour group who would be lost without Bill as their tour guide. Kryptos alone had taken enough of an interest in alien mindscapes to make the leap from "occasional tourist" to "frequent traveler." He was the only one other than Bill who spent enough time on Earth to network with the locals; and he was the only one other than Bill who had bothered to set up a summoning ritual, in case an earthbound buddy wanted to ring him up for a party.

Kryptos's party line was going to be Bill's salvation.

Which was a shame, because Bill just knew Kryptos would be annoying about this for the next million years. He'd worry about finding a way to bully Krypt into not lording it over him after he was safely back home in the Quadrangle of Qonfusion.

But when Bill called, nothing happened.

That wasn't right. Nothing wasn't supposed to happen. Even if Krypt didn't pick up, Bill should feel the spell working. The sound of the shower should pause. The air should go still and cool. Everything should be gray.

Bill opened his eyes. Nothing was gray. He checked each candle to make sure they were all lit, checked his drawing to make sure it looked right—it wasn't exactly flattering, but the lines were straight and the angles were correct, and anyway it was recognizable enough to work for the summoning. He remembered the words, he knew he remembered the words.

Try again. He shut his eyes. "Rhombus sapphirinus. Fraternitas, caritas, veritas. Te invoco, te invito." And then, not because it was necessary but because he was getting mad, he tacked on, "Responde mihi, quadrum defututum! Culum tuum calcitrabo!"

Nothing. The world went on un-paused. Bill remained awake. He opened his eyes to the vibrant, colorful, tragically real world around him.

It didn't make sense. Even without his powers, he should be able to reach Kryptos. Any human could do this ritual, and Bill knew a whole lot more than any human. Either Kryptos was dead (unlikely; but without Bill there...), or something was blocking Bill. The block could be inside him—maybe the Axolotl was sealing off even this paltry little magic—or outside, some sort of shield blocking the mindscape. But whatever the source, the result was the same:

He couldn't get a call out. Nobody, not even his oldest friends, could hear him.

He stared at Kryptos's ugly mug for a long moment; then blew out the candles, hid them and the crushed can back in his hoodie, used toilet paper to wipe the toothpaste and wax off the floor, and got in the shower.

If he wanted to get out, he had to make new friends. He'd been making some good progress lately, particularly with Mabel. Perhaps it was time to test just how far her compassion could get him.

####

Prisma the Rainbow Fairy said, "Gee, Sunny Cat, I haven't seen you spending time with Teddy Tender lately. What happened?"

"He's a killjoy," Bill said, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV. "He's a wet blanket."

A sunshine-yellow bipedal cat said, "Teddy's so sad today, and it's making me sad. I don't want to hang out with him when he's like this!"

"That's what I said," Bill said. Heckling the characters helped distract him from the urge to scratch the exposed skin on his arms until he scraped it off his bones. After showering, his hoodie had been confiscated for a round of emergency post-eye-bat-repellant laundry, and he was temporarily back in a reject gift shop t-shirt. He felt exposed.

Prisma said, "Sometimes when our friends are sad, all they need is another friend to give them a hug or tell them they care. It'll help them feel happier."

"I don't know," Sunny said. "When I feel sad, being around other people makes me feel worse."

"Everyone's a little different, Sunny. Why don't you offer to hold his hand and see if that makes him happier?"

"I guess I could try."

"Nah, it's too late for Teddy," Bill told the TV. With some glee, he added, "The most caring thing you could do is put him out of his misery."

Mabel, sitting up on the couch with three colors of embroidery floss tangled around her fingers, lightly kicked the back of Bill's head. He grinned wider. Mabel said, "Bill, I don't think you're taking this seriously."

"Was I supposed to?"

"It's a beautiful June day and I'm inside with you, so you could at least pretend to. I thought you were a good liar."

"I've never told a lie in my life," lied Bill. "But okay, fine. I've seen the error of my ruthless ways. Maybe there's hope for Teddy yet."

Mabel nodded, mollified. She set aside her current project and rummaged through her bag of embroidery floss. "Hey Bill, what's your favorite color?"

"Gold!"

"Why did I ask. What's your next favorite color?"

"Every color simultaneously superimposed over each other, instantly blinding you!"

Mabel tried to picture that. She imagined a rainbow that was also a laser that was also iridescent. Her mental image looked a lot like Prisma's combat magic. "You have such good taste."

"It takes good taste to recognize good taste!" Bill mentally reviewed the last couple minutes of conversation, saw an opportunity to bolster the "reforming monster" image he was trying to sell to Mabel, and added, "By the way—thanks for sticking around just to keep me entertained!" (See: he can say thank you unprompted.) "This sure isn't where I'd want to spend my afternoon," he laughed wryly, "but unlike me, you have a choice in the matter."

"Yeah," Mabel sighed. "It stinks. I wish you could go outside with me."

Bill quietly, smugly filed that statement away for later use.

Mabel pulled a couple fresh rolls of embroidery floss out of her bag and got to work with them. "We can't set off fireworks inside the shack. Or play with Soos's paintball guns."

Bill's smugness vanished, leaving behind only the hollow feeling of missing out on a lot of fun. Fireworks and paintball guns. Those were three of his favorite things: explosions, colors, and interpersonal violence.

Mabel went on, "And Candy's saved up three years of Magic Vision Poster calendars to wallpaper the inside of her closet. She read online that if you cross your eyes just right to make them all look 3D at the same time, you can hallucinate going inside them! We're gonna try it out tomorrow. That seems like something you'd like."

"What!" Bill groaned. "I've always wanted to see an autostereogram poster with two eyes! Now here I am, stuck in a stupid meat body, and I don't even get to enjoy the only thing binocular vision is good for?"

Mabel patted his shoulder.

"Back home I've got a chair with autostereogram detailing. I've never actually seen it work. And where is it when I've got two eyes?"

"I think they've got Magic Vision books in the kids' section at the library," Mabel said. "Do you want me to check one out for you?"

Bill glared at the TV, silently fuming. Then he muttered, "Yeah. I'd like that. Thanks."

The low-stakes drama on Color Critters was resolved when Sunny asked Teddy Tender if he wanted to maybe hug or hold hands until he felt less sad, and Teddy revealed he felt bad because he was lonely when he hadn't had a play date with a friend in a while. Sunny and Teddy went to the playground together, the gray swings and slide and seesaw blooming orange and yellow as they played. Crisis of the day concluded. Prisma watched proudly, before joining in the play herself. Bill was not jealous of their freedom to go to the playground.

As the credits rolled, Mabel said, "There! Give me your hand!"

Bill stuck his right arm straight out to his side. "Why—?"

Mabel wrapped something thin around his wrist, and there was a quick tug as she tied it off. "Bam! You just got friendshipped!"

"What?" Bill pulled back his wrist to examine Mabel's handiwork. It was a bracelet made out of embroidery floss knotted together into a flat band as wide as his thumb. "What is this?" Stupid question.

"A friendship bracelet!" (Of course it was a friendship bracelet; he was passingly familiar with the art form, he'd seen it centuries before they were called "friendship" bracelets.) "Make a wish."

He wished to get his body back.

"You've gotta wear the bracelet until it breaks, and then the wish'll come true."

And if he believed that, he'd already be chewing through the knot. "And, why am I getting this?"

"Because we're friends!"

"Oh." Well. Yes. Obviously.

He examined the bracelet more closely. The band formed a zig-zag pattern of black and metallic gold triangles; and Mabel had tied glass beads that looked like eyes over several of the gold triangles.

"I didn't have every color simultaneously, but I thought the black would make the gold pop." Mabel pointed at the triangles. "Look! It's you."

"I can see that." She'd used nazar beads for the eyes—a dot of black ringed in blue and white. A little eye-shaped lucky charm humans had been using to ward off the evil eye for millennia. Cute. He laughed, pointing at the beads. "So is this supposed to protect me from the evil eye, or am I the evil eye you're protecting everyone else from?"

Mabel was thirteen. Mabel hadn't put any deeper thought into it than these look like eyes. All the same, Mabel didn't hesitate before replying: "I'm turning your face into a protective charm! Now you've got to keep everyone safe!"

"Oh." And that, too, Bill quietly filed away.

"I expect you to take your new job seriously," Mabel said, pointing at him. "Don't let me down!"

"You give me a gift with my face on it and then tack on a bunch of extra terms and conditions. Very slick, kid." He admired the bracelet. It really was a pretty fine offering. He hadn't been gifted textiles in a while. "But all right! I've never gone back on a deal before," lied Bill.

Though it galled him to get something without a way to pay back the favor. It felt uneven. People don't want a god who grants miracles worth less than the tribute he'd been offered. He ran down his usual list of tricks—he couldn't snap his fingers and summon up a dream gift, he didn't have any useful info he could offer without prompting an interrogation session with his jailers, right now he couldn't even call somebody else to pull some strings on her behalf... His gaze drifted over to Mabel's bag of embroidery threads. He could see beads and a couple more friendship bracelets inside. "How many of these are you making?"

"A bunch! I'm giving one out to each new friend I make this summer."

That'd do. "Teach me."

"You what?"

"Teach me." He turned around to face the couch and pointed toward the bag. "You're making them anyway, right? Just show me as you go."

Mabel stared at him in disbelief. Was he serious? She thought he was serious.

A broad smile stretched across her face. "Okay!" She dug beneath her supplies for a little dog-eared friendship bracelet pattern book. "What kind of jewelry making experience do you have? Especially involving beads or knots."

"I can tie a living creature's blood vessels into quipu knots that spell my name—all without breaking the skin!"

"That's great! Can you do it with embroidery floss instead of blood vessels."

Bill eyed the bundle of floss Mabel held out. "Yes."

"Perfect!" She shoved four thread colors in his hands, a pair of scissors, a jar of pony beads, thought better and quickly took back the scissors, and added a roll of parachute cord. "I'll teach you everything I know. Even my secret trick to keep the edges from going all wobbly! We'll start you on chevrons and then move up to teardrop loops and triangle ends." She put her hands on Bill's shoulders, looked him in his uncovered eye, and said, "I'm gonna make you a friendship bracelet master."

Solemnly, Bill said, "I'm ready."

####

Ford squinted blearily into the living room.

Sitting alone on the far side of the room, Bill was bent over the living room table, fussing with several multicolored strings and a few beads.

Bill glanced at Ford from the corner of his eye, and then—with a faint smirk—turned back to his project without a word. Oh, he wanted Ford to ask. He was dying for Ford to ask.

It was too early for this. Ford wasn't dealing with it before coffee. He shook his head and shuffled onward to the kitchen.

Stan was already up, eating eggs with some unidentified liquid meat poured over them. Over the past year, typically Ford had been the earlier riser; but this summer Stan had gotten used to Ford pulling late nights downstairs as he worked on his research, so he didn't comment on Ford's sleeping in as he poured himself a mug of coffee.

But Stan did look at Ford's face and immediately ask, "Okay. What's the latest Bill bullsh... soup? Bullsoup."

"He's..." Ford tried to figure out what Bill was doing. "Making jewelry in the living room, I think."

Stan grunted and nodded. "Yeah, he was doing that yesterday with Mabel."

"Well, now he's doing it by himself."

Stan raised a brow.

The Stans leaned around the living room doorway to watch Bill.

Bill was engrossed with picking out a mis-tied knot, frowning deeply in concentration, one eye squeezed shut and the other squinted. He smoothed out the thread, his face relaxed; and then he glanced at the doorway, did a double take, and his shoulders went up around his ears. "What am I, a zoo attraction? Shoo! Scat!" He waved them away. "I'll throw salt at you!"

Ford raised his palms defensively. Stan said, "Okay okay, we're going."

They retreated to the kitchen.

"Well?" Stan pressed. "Is he up to dangerous voodoo stuff?"

"I'm fairy certain Bill doesn't practice Vodou."

"Answer the question, smart aleck."

Ford ran through every form of magic incorporating strings or knots he could think of. It was a pretty short list, and most of it was used for protection or binding separate things together. "Not that I know of," he said dubiously. "But it's more likely he's up to something I don't know about than it is that he's doing arts and crafts. Don't you think?"

Stan considered that. He shrugged. "Eh," he said. "It can wait 'til after coffee."

Eh. Ford was tired. He didn't want to go to red alert over some string and plastic beads. He sat down with his mug.

####

"I'm home!" Mabel called. "Biiill, I couldn't get you a Magic Vision book! The pictures in Candy's closet started moving, and I don't know if we were hallucinating or if we accidentally summoned an invisible holographic horse you can only see when you cross your eyes, so we decided to burn the posters and library books to be safe! Do you know if Magic Vision Posters summon things...?"

"I wish," Bill said. "But hey, I've got something better. Gimme your hand."

Mabel held out her hand, half pulled it back, and said, "Why?"

"Relax." Bill grabbed her wrist, tied on a bracelet, and said, "Make a wish!" He grinned. "You're impressed, admit it. Tell me you're impressed."

Mabel studied the bracelet. "Whoa." Purple, green, and orange threads formed lacy loops around a central thread, forming an endless wave that rolled up and down. The threads passed through several star-shaped pony beads, making the wave look like the tails of shooting stars. "A Peruvian wave with a perfectly straight center cord. That takes crazy precise string tension." She looked at Bill. "I have nothing more to teach you."

"Thank you, teacher."

"Is this supposed to look like my sweater?" Mabel asked, studying the pink in the tassels tying the bracelet on. "The one on your zodiac thing?"

"Sure! You gave me one that looks like me, I gave you one that represents you. Friendship's supposed to go both ways, right?"

"Bill! Is this why you wanted to learn to make friendship bracelets?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"Biiill! You're being so nice!" Mabel flung her arms around him. "I love it!" And then she took off, running laps around the living room, cackling madly and waving her braceleted arm in the air. Abuelita, who'd been watching TV, calmly turned to watch Mabel zoom around.

Oh, this was great. Look at this, Bill was the best at being a friend. Everyone who'd ever ditched him was a moron who didn't know what they were missing out on. They could've gotten personalized friendship bracelets. Maybe he should have offered Ford a friendship bracelet? No, that was stupid, why would Ford prefer a friendship bracelet over unimaginable cosmic power. But then it didn't have to be either-or, did it? Ford's favorite color was red, what went with red?

When Mabel had gotten the enthusiasm out of her system, she trotted back out to the entryway and hugged Bill again. He endured it. "You won't stop making friendship bracelets now that you've made this, will you?" Mabel asked. "You're such a natural at it! And you need more hobbies that are constructive instead of destructive."

"Ouch, kid. I'll have you know I have plenty of constructive hobbies."

"I don't believe it. Name one thing you like creating."

"Weirdness bubbles."

"Name one thing you like creating that doesn't terrify people."

Bill pursed his lips. "Agree to disagree. Anyway, I'm not getting out of the friendship bracelet game just yet. In fact, I've already got another few projects in mind."

####

Bill plopped down at the kitchen table across from Mabel. "Hey star girl. Guess what."

She looked up from her cereal at the dark rings under Bill's eyes. He had one eye squeezed shut; he could usually keep both open when he'd just woken up. "Were you up all night?"

"Doesn't matter. Time is an illusion and I can see the projector. I'm counting that as your guess. Look." Bill tossed two matching bracelets down on the table between them, deep watermelon pink and minty green, shaped like macrame chains with hearts where each link of the chain met.

"Aww, little hearts."

"Thought you'd like the hearts."

Mabel picked up one end of the bracelet and slipped it on—and then noticed the long coil of embroidery floss connecting the end of one bracelet to the other. "Bill? What's this for?"

"Didn't you say a few days ago that you wished we could go outside together? I thought up a perfect solution!"

With a sudden sense of dread, Mabel realized that the chain pattern and the string connecting the bracelets made them look like an extremely long pair of handcuffs; but before she could take off her half, Bill picked up the other bracelet and said, "There's a little magic in these, look. When both ends are being worn—" He slipped on the bracelet, and Mabel felt its matching pair gently tighten around her wrist. The string connecting them vanished into thin air.

Mabel gasped. "What—?"

"Poof! It's like a ghost: still there, but invisible to human eyes. We could even go into separate rooms and it'll connect us through the walls." He demonstrated by waving his hand under the table. "But we can't get farther apart than the length of the thread. I gave it about ten yards." He plucked up something invisible and gave it a tug, and Mabel felt the bracelet go taut against her wrist. There was no force, no matter how hard Bill tugged she didn't feel like the bracelet was pulling her; rather, it felt like the other end of the thread was tied to an immobile boulder preventing her from moving further away, until she moved her hand closer to Bill's to give the thread a little slack. "And..."

Mabel tried to jerk the bracelet off her wrist; it stuck around her hand. "How do I get it off?! Bill—!"

Bill put a finger on her hand, stopping her. He said, "Neither of us can take our end off until we both decide we're ready. Like... now." He winked; and the bracelet suddenly loosened again.

Mabel pulled it off with a sigh of relief.

"Unless one of us dies or something, I guess," Bill said thoughtfully. "That'd deactivate the magic. It'd be pretty gristly to have to keep sharing a friendship bracelet with a corpse!" He laughed. "Anyway—"

Mabel chucked the bracelet in his face. "That was mean!"

Bill blinked in surprise. "What was?"

"You tricked me!" She cradled her wrist against her chest, heart still pounding from the brief unexpected captivity.

"I did not!" He took the bracelets back and started coiling up the thread between them. "You put yours on before I even said anything."

"But you could have warned me before you got us stuck together!"

"Sure, I could have, but would you have kept it on then?"

"No, you jerk. That's the point!" She looked around for something else to chuck at Bill's face, plucked a dry piece of cereal from her bowl, and flicked it at his nose.

Bill endured his punishment without flinching. "Well, sorry, but I had to demonstrate how they work somehow." He twirled the bracelets around one fingertip. "This solves your whole 'can't let the big scary triangle out unsupervised' problem! Slap these bad boys on, and I've got automatic supervision that I can't escape! Maybe this'll convince the adults that I can be trusted outside, right?" He ate the piece of cereal. "So? What do you think?"

She thought he was still a jerk. All the same, she studied the chain bracelets. "Did you just make me a gift that's actually a gift for yourself?"

He didn't even look a little bit ashamed. "I prefer to think of it as something we'll both benefit from!"

"Bill."

"C'mooon. You know you want me out there." He lowered his voice. "Who else in this town will help you break into the pet shop to dye the dogs' fur?"

Oooh. Mabel should not have told Bill about that ambition. "Well..."

"Or help you grill hamburgers with sprinkles. You know Stanley's never gonna do that for us again," Bill said. "Or what if you need a drive somewhere, huh? The guys with licenses are gonna get tired of trips to the craft store eventually."

"You can't drive!"

"Of course I can drive, didn't you see me during—?" Bill's eyes widened. "Oh no, you didn't see! I can't believe you didn't see my car. You, you would have loved it."

He seemed serious. Maybe he could drive. "You... shouldn't get to drive."

"What if it's an emergency and I'm the only one who can do it. Do you want me in the driver's seat with or without a leash?" He spread his hands in a shrug. "And anyway... think of everything else we could be doing together outside. Purple poodles and pink pugs are just the start, my friend."

Mabel hated when she knew she was being manipulated but Bill still made a good point. She bit her lip and glanced at the clock over the sink. A tour had just started; the gift shop should be empty and the vending machine safe to use.

She got out of her seat, taking her cereal with her. "I'm gonna run this by the household magic expert."

Bill rolled his eye. "Fine. Tell Sixer we're out of apple cider."

####

"Tell Bill we got three packs last time," Ford said. "If that's not enough to hold him one week between grocery trips, then he has a drinking problem."

"Okay, but what about the bracelets?"

Ford set aside the book he'd been reading and studied the bracelets. He slipped one on his wrist. "Mabel, would you mind putting on the other side?"

"Sure!" She pulled on the bracelet. It tightened around Ford's wrist and the thread between them disappeared. Fascinating.

After a few minutes of experimenting to see how they worked, Ford was fairly sure this was a spell he'd learned about years ago, although he'd lost the details when he tossed his second journal in the bottomless pit. Usually it was done with metal chains—but the spell should make the bracelets nigh on indestructible while the magic was active, so, as promised, it would contain Bill. As long as he didn't murder the person on the other end of the spell.

"So can I take Bill outside?" Mabel asked, hands laced together and eyes wide. "Please please please?"

"You did hear what I just said about murder, right?"

"We'll bring someone else along! Bill wouldn't try to kill me if someone else is standing guard!" (At least she still recognized that there were circumstances where Bill would try to kill her.) "He's been stuck inside for weeks. That's not healthy! He needs to stretch his legs, get some sunshine!" She smacked Ford's desk as a thought occurred to her, "And we need to take him clothes shopping. I can tell he's uncomfortable in gift shop t-shirts and Abuelita's skirts. Does he even like skirts?" She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Does he even have underwear, or is he still wearing Soos's old swim trunks?"

Ford winced. "Melody was kind enough to pick some up a few days ago." But he could admit it had taken them longer than it should have.

"What about the rest of his clothes? Does he have a bra?"

"Wh—" Ford sputtered. "Does he want one?"

"I don't know, I haven't asked. It might be more comfortable. He has a lot of chest."

Lord. Ford closed his eyes. He did not want to think about bras.

"Pleeease?" Mabel said. "I wanna take him clothes shopping. He's probably never explored human fashion before! He's got to find his style. I can be his style consultant."

Aha. So that was what Mabel was getting out of all this: a person-sized dress-up doll.

Truth be told, they probably should take Bill outside. Depending on how Fiddleford's research proceeded, destroying Bill could take weeks, if not months. If there were ever an emergency, they might need to relocate Bill quickly—so it was better to ensure the bracelets worked as advertised before they became necessary.

"Fine. But this won't be a regular thing," Ford said. "Ask Stan when he can go. And your brother—I'd rather Bill know the numbers are stacked against him. And he's not allowed to talk to anybody outside the shack. You, Dipper, and Stan will have to intercept anybody he might speak to."

"Don't worry about that! I've got the perfect solution," Mabel said. "What if Grunkle Stan doesn't want to go?"

"Ask him to talk to me. I think I can convey the importance."

"You don't want to come? Are you too busy figuring out how to kill him?" Mabel's gaze moved to the books Ford had been reading.

Ford suppressed the urge to shut the books and hide the papers beside them. Mabel wouldn't be able to understand the books anyway: it was an ancient Roman historian's description of augury—fortunetelling with birds—and a Latin reference dictionary he was consulting to help him translate. He was more afraid Mabel's gaze would fall on the pages next to the books, where a few vocabulary words from the mystical, mythical language of the birds had been scrawled out in Bill's distinctive chicken scratch.

No, Ford wasn't busy figuring out how to kill Bill. He was still waiting to hear back from Fiddleford about the feasibility of synthesizing or replacing the quantum destabilizer's Dontium; and, in the meantime, he'd allowed himself to believe there was nothing else he could do on his own... and by now, he'd gotten thoroughly distracted. Going through Bill's notes, verifying his claims, following up on the leads he'd subtly slid in. Bill's miniature grimoire was the most dense magical text since the Emerald Tablet. Opening it up was like a cryptography puzzle mixed with a dissertation research project, and each sentence was a fractal flower of information, a bud that bloomed into a dozen more buds that each bloomed into a dozen more.

It was amazing. Enthralling. This was the kind of research Ford was made for. He was the most relaxed he'd been in weeks.

He hadn't told anybody what he was doing while Fiddleford worked.

"No, not that," he told Mabel, "I just don't want to spend time around Bill. Especially on what's essentially a social trip. Stanley can... handle it better."

"Oh," Mabel said. "That makes sense, I guess."

Ford glanced uneasily at Bill's papers, then looked away before Mabel could see.

He was so caught up in his own shame at getting caught toeing at one of Bill's traps, he didn't notice the quick shameful look on Mabel's face for the same reason.

####

(Thanks for reading! Please drop a comment or reblog if you enjoyed, y'all's commentary is what helps keep me writing. ❤️

Also I feel like Google translate can handle the Latin pretty well if you wanna see what Bill's saying at the start, but it's important to me that you know Google is wrong about "quadrum defututum" and it can actually be more accurately translated as "you square slut.")

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #mabel pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fanart #gravity falls fic #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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dollypopup · 2 months

Text

adaptations, relatability, and the internal landscape of the polin fandom

polin fandom is an interesting place to be in right about now. having been here for a good while, it's been fascinating to see it through the changes. and i think it's particularly interesting because we are currently on the knife's edge of a full split in fan thinking. why? well, i would say that it's because of the biggest change between the show and the books: age

we went from a story between a 28 year old woman established in her career and accepting the shape of her life and a 33 year old man untethered from his feelings and desires, attempting to be what society wants of him coming together after more than 10 years of little moments to a '2 years pining for him is too long' love story between a 19 year old woman still figuring out who she is and what she wants to say and how to say it and a 22 year old man who is ultimately isolated not necessarily from his own feelings but particularly from much of everyone else

that is to say, in particular with age: they are living a reflection of Violet and Edmund's early love story. not necessarily their own in the original source material. and that, of course, will have an impact

Polin's romance as it is now is vastly different and i see that echoed in the fandom, as well. there's been a massive change in how it was even just a year ago. if you look through the archives, this is very evident. namely, now it skews much more immature, mostly because the couple themselves are immature. I don't say immature as an insult, either. I say it in a much more objective way. See, Polin went from being the oldest pair to fall in love to the youngest. that will have a drastic impact on their narrative. as well as the fandom. fans of early material are more of the mind of 'i want them to pine for so long and so intensely that when he FINALLY tells her he loves her we collapse on the floor' whereas fans of current material are in the '2 years??? girl move on, there are plenty more fish in the sea'

and it causes a wide divide, though there is less discussion about it. the fandom has flattened into a few different tropes with much more tension between them because, ultimately, i think we are fans of different couples. or, at least, differing dynamics. and so we have differing, oftentimes completely opposing wants for their outcome

the Polin I first fell in love with took an entire decade to marinate and blend together. Penelope pined for years realizing that it was fruitless and eventually coming to recognize that her love was, ultimately, for her. and she accepted that. and she was content. she had accepted who she was and any changes she made were for herself. this appeals to an older demographic, a demographic who relates to that particular story. who loved and lost and realized that's a part of life. who love and lose and love, still. this Penelope follows a long, rich line of career women characters who come home to their pets and a to-do list and live meaningful lives through that. love comes around and catches them off guard, and they suddenly live the whirlwind romance of their dreams

likewise with Colin, he'd been running for years, looking and exploring and trying to find who he, ultimately, was. and he failed. failed the way so many of us will and do. he failed for a decade. he wanted to live up to the shadow his father left, the shadow his older brother casts, and he couldn't. he looked for meaning in other places and didn't find it. he didn't find it at 21. or 25. or 29. or 31. he was purposeless and confused, he had no direction and he was 33 going 34. no job, no future, just a rut he kept walking in hoping eventually the depth of routine would provide meaning and it didn't. ultimately, he realizes that the person who can push him and knock him off his axis is the person who has been there all along, and he falls fast and hard, making up for lost time in the euphoria of that

in this universe: their romance is them clicking together like two parts of a model railroad. Colin feeling jealous that Penelope found *her* purpose, right there in Mayfair, and he couldn't. that she became brave because she accepted who she was internally, and that he was afraid to show who HE was because he was so accustomed to being what other people wanted him to be. that they learned from one another in that aspect. Penelope learning to flourish externally and Colin learning to be content internally. like a hand hold where the fingers fill the spaces.

but Colin in the show has no reason to feel any pressure about not having found his purpose because he's twenty-two. Who amongst us found our purpose at TWENTY-TWO? I sure as shit didn't. And this lowers the stakes for him and the emotional impact of that. He's meant to be aimless and making mistakes. It's more than acceptable. In his early to mid thirties? That carries different weight. And same for Penelope. a 28 year old woman content with who she is and her choices in life is relatable to different people than a 19 year old throwing anything at the wall and seeing if it will stick whenever something goes wrong. and that also carried different weight for her because like. . . when i was 19 i was still sniffing scented markers until i was dizzy. of COURSE she's bumbling and fucking up.

Penelope in the show is young and confused, she's trying her best and she's fucking up in it. She's attached so much of her existence to WHAT she does as opposed to WHO she is. This is relatable to many, many people. People early in their careers, particularly. People fresh in school. People trying to 'make it'. She's made mistakes she now has to learn how to bounce back from because they're some of her early messes, as opposed to her counterpart who has already done that work. Instead of coming to an internal understanding of herself, she looks for external validation through her work. Penelope in the show is more akin to a tea-channel as opposed to a 'Ask Miss Manners' column. she cares about what her viewership says, as though she is checking the comments. she obsessed over the criticism, as an early start influencer would. her story is coming to a contentment internally. this is work that book Penelope has already done in her own love story

Colin, likewise, is similarly young and confused, but interestingly, more aware of who he is. When he tells Penelope that he came to understand himself on his travels, if he's being honest, then he is already farther ahead in his maturity than *his* counterpart. He is more introspective, vs. being able to read a room. His charm is different. Whereas in the book, Colin was traveling to find external validation, in the show, Colin travels to find internal validation. And he finds it. It is not a lack of understanding of *himself* that has him unable to see what is in front of him, but rather time. Colin has mostly known Penelope from when she was a minor. It makes sense he doesn't see her in a romantic light. Colin is still lost in the sauce, but in a different way. He's lost in the goings-on of his family and the world around him. He is trying to bridge what he knows of himself with what he is told being a Man is and coming to terms with the fact that he doesn't have to subscribe to someone else's ideal of manhood to be, himself, well established. Colin, in the show, has done the work that Colin in the books is actively engaged in for his story.

we, as a result, are trying to bridge what the book and show are, and that causes tension. there has been a LOT of tension in this fandom because all these changes, ultimately, flip Polin's dynamic. This is where the 'she should have multiple suitors' vs. 'no, that makes no sense for her narrative' comes from. This is where 'it's a much better story if he's jealous of her finding her purpose' vs. 'what? nah, he should be the green eyed monster when she dances w/ someone else' comes from. This is the 'she would never ignore him like that, they're meant to be friends' vs. 'boi fucked up, she has every right to ghost him' comes from. we ship, essentially, two different couples.

well, two different dynamics, at the very least.

add in how they changed LW and you have a perfect storm. book readers and fans are relatively horrified by how Penelope uses LW to punch down repeatedly, whereas show fans see LW as a means of empowerment. this is also a case of age. s!Penelope does not have the time under her belt to recognize that she has other options. LW is *a* option, but s!Penelope makes it *the* option. VS in the book, LW is very much more of a 'this happened today' type of situation. She doesn't publish about her friends, she doesn't agonize, she doesn't commit harms. LW is her triumph because it is a decade-long publication that occupied her time and gave her days meaning. LW in the show is a two years long scandal sheet that has actively pushed away her close connections.

i'm fascinated for how the show is also going to bridge the source material with the current love story they're depicting and how that will change the fandom once more. it feels like we're somewhere between the before and the after of it all, standing in the middle of the rope bridge

it makes sense to me that it's a bit rickety, then, all things considered

#polin #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #bridgerton s3 #what is this? dolly with a meta analysis? and the sky is blue lol

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fairy-eclipse · 2 years

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AHHHHHHHHH invisible string was so good! Your writing is absolutely divine *chefs kiss*. Would you ever try to make a part two for "Devil's Sweet Demise"? IDK I love the grumpy/sunshine trope. It's completely fine if you don't want to!

Devil’s Sweet Demise II

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Reader

A/N: due to my inability to shut up this thing is LONG and it’s not even finished yet :’] editing was so painful you don’t understand i’m sobbing on the floor ahhdshaj. what do you mean it’s been three months 😒😒

anyway here’s 5k words of tom being a total jerk in denial, thank you anon and thank you to @sociomoon for the original idea !!

Part 1

Disdain on their faces. Cold creeping up his skin.

The day Tom had known happiness was off the table was the day they shunned him, left him standing there in his oversized, threadbare shirt—he’d watched in silent resentment as their game of Hopscotch played out on the concrete. It had hurt only a little to realize that despite his best efforts to acclimate to their mob mentality, the place would never be home. And company would come in the form of twisted thoughts and talking snakes until hell froze over.

Even when the memories have been blotted out, buried in the depths of his mind and left to stew over in the hush of night, every now and then Tom can't help but remember. Remember that unlike the anger and hatred that runs through his veins forevermore, happiness will never be a familiar feeling.

Until in comes the most frustrating little badger he’s ever met, lugging rainbows and sunshine and unwelcome feelings by the boatload.

And Tom, with his knack for persuasion, can proudly say he can elude blame for most things. It’s not his fault everyone falls for his carefully-crafted smiles and well-woven lies, or intimidation works wonders on the student body. Or that fountain pens are more convenient than quills.

But as much as he wishes he could, he just can't find any rhyme or reason to the fact that your presence is…an antidote.

A strange remedy for the jagged pieces of his heart.

"You know,” your gentle voice carries from above, and Tom is pulled from his reverie to the sound of lush grass rustling under your feet. “You really have a thing for secluded places."

In a vast courtyard teeming with dense crowds and lone studiers, of course it’s you who finds him.

Tom raises a derisive brow. “Perhaps it’s to get away from you.”

He sees to it that you don’t miss the way he shifts in some semblance of an invitation.

Laughing, you step out of the June sun to plop down beside him against the trunk of an old elm tree. Going on a few thousand years, if Tom has to guess. Its winding, leaf-coated branches cast dancing shadows across the ground.

“Classes drained the soul out of me.” You let out a muffled yawn.

Like a kitten.

Tom frowns.

He’s no stranger to intrusive thoughts, but lately they’ve been odd. Unpredictable. Not to mention it’s only when you’re near that they seem to materialize, and, well, he isn’t so sure what that could spell. To analyze a yawn, for Merlin’s sake…

But you’ve always been a bit of a distraction, haven’t you?

The rhythmic drumming of your fingers on your lap can attest to that.

He watches as a faint smile pushes at the corners of your lips and a dreamlike quality glazes over your irises—both tell-tale signs that you’ve come bearing good news.

Not that he cares or anything. It’s none of his business, none at all because honestly what does it matter if you—

"You’ll never guess what happened today.” You declare, triumphant when you meet his eyes.

Tom’s breath catches in his throat. “Hm?”

Maybe the earth can swallow him whole.

You beam. “Professor read over the report from my tutor this morning. He told me that at the rate I’m going I’ll be caught up in no time!” You clasp your hands together. “On top of that, I passed my practical exam with soaring colors, so things are going swimmingly."

Tom had forgotten about your struggles in Charms—arguably the easiest subject Hogwarts has to offer. He can sympathize with needing a little assistance in Arithmancy, maybe even Runes to some extent. That is where the average student has their pitfalls, after all. Charms, though?

It certainly isn’t common, to say the least.

But he really wishes you’d quit looking at him like that. He wishes the radiant twinkle in your eyes wasn't so adorable and you’d stop grinning expectantly like his acknowledgment would make your entire month.

Yes, nobody should be behind in Charms. Tom decides he doesn’t particularly care.

"That's a decent amount of progress in just a few weeks.”

There’s a moment of peace, a second of placidity before Tom’s brain turns into turmoil.

Why did he say it?

To make you happy? For the sake of something so trivial as your feelings, with nothing to gain for himself? Impossible. He’d never stoop to such—

“Thank you!”

Your infectious smile boasts only sweetness and light, but to Tom’s absolute horror it’s in that instant that you decided to inch closer—he has no time to prepare himself before he’s falling into a heaven comprised of the fragrant smell of your shampoo and the softness of your gaze, an erratic tha-thump reverberating throughout his chest all the while.

Distantly, he sees your mouth moving, knows you have to be talking, but God has breathing always been such a laborious task?

Well, the world can burn for all he cares because nothing else matters save for the heat radiating off your shoulder. Nothing else compares to the bliss.

“—om?” Concern seeps into your tone.

No, no, no. It has to be wrong, all of it.

He fights desperately at the haze for his bearings, wills his focus to trickle back in and reins to be found again. All too slowly the stupor relinquishes control and the feeling of repulsion emerges from the fog, shame not far behind. Tom closes his fist around a tuft of grass.

He sees it now, in all its foul glory. He has it muddled up—the point where wanting ends and doing begins—and if there ever is a master of self control it’s him. The patient, composed, self-restrained student extraordinaire. It’s degrading that a mind of his caliber could simply stop functioning. Frozen, reduced to nothing, like a used parchment purged of its contents.

Could he be possessed? Insane?

Tom knows he’s insane, has to be for the plans he’ll carry out and unspeakable things he’ll do in the coming years. But this is a different kind of insane. It’s the kind that challenges all he’s taken to be set-in-stone, that threatens his beautiful, tragic world of black and white and red.

It's the kind that could sever the rope between mere life and immortality.

And yet Tom can’t decide whether it’s a curse or a blessing when you cast your eyes away in lieu of foraging through your satchel.

He’ll have to…look more into this matter. He’ll tear up the library in his wrath; he’ll search all over, high and low and in every nook and cranny until the thirst is satiated—

“Tom, Tom, Tom. Tomato. Tomfoolery. Oh, there you are!” You find his eyes once more, completely oblivious to the pathetic feeling closing in on him. “This is for you.”

A book flaunting loose threads sits on your lap, worn and flimsy.

Tom knows it’s one of those muggle stories you like to read, ones with the plotlines he can never understand and messages he can never grasp. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to—he’s tried at one point, and he does indulge in muggle literature on occasion (it’s not his fault they’re informative)—it’s just…well, he doesn’t think he can.

"I wouldn't have picked it for you if I didn't think you'd enjoy it," you assure him matter-of-factly.

He blinks. By no means are you adept at reading him, but it is strangely pleasant that someone should see past the anger and ire into his quieter, rarer emotions.

"A little broken, I know." An amused chuckle escapes him at that. You grin sheepishly. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t love it.”

Sincerity on your face. Warmth hugging his skin.

Your fingers brush against his as you press it into his hands.

But how can he dare dream of anything more when darkness is a constant in his life? He has never wished to see the rainbow, has never found any appeal in a kaleidoscopic world until you stumbled into his life. You ebbed away at the corners of his concrete barriers until little by little the light shone through the cracks.

And Salazar. He wants to do something to you right then. Something way out of line, something that goes beyond his protective urges and against everything he believes in.

Regardless, he can always break away, can't he? When the time comes, he’d toss you into the pile of people who served their use and then he'd never have to deal with that stupid fluttery feeling in his chest again.

Yes. That is what he'd do.

So things are good, wonderful even; they’ve never been better and Tom has never been happier, at least he thinks that’s what it has to be. For once it’s not the promise of power or the vow of eradication that get him up in the wee hours of the morning.

And things are good.

Right up until they aren’t.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

“My Lord.” Mulciber fidgets nervously in the gold candlelight. Clears his throat. Once. Twice. “Do you think...will there be enough time to find the chamber before vacation commences?” He grips the rim of the table with ring-clad fingers until his knuckles turn a pasty white.

Tom bites back a sneer. Coward.

"You fret for nothing. While you incompetent fools were lazing around, I was scouring every inch of this castle. I'm quite certain I've found the very place Salazar Slytherin built his foundation on."

Tom bathes in the outbreak of gasps and elated cries before silencing them with a hand.

"I will not be disclosing the location; I alone will find a way to open it, though I doubt any of you would have proven to be of help anyway."

Tom watches them deflate, like he’s pierced their spirit with a needle. Perhaps this way they’ll learn that with him, making an impression takes more than a feeble attempt or two. Besides, he has yet to discern the loyal from the fainthearted and with so many things that can go wrong, there is no room for mistakes.

He holds everyone’s gaze for a few tense seconds (most of which end in rather pitiful quivering on their part) before continuing on.

“As I have discussed previously, our years at Hogwarts are drawing to a close. We have time, of course, some of us more than others, but we must plan every move meticulously.” Tom allows himself a satisfied smile. He’s been so painstakingly careful, so thorough in drawing up the plans and in due time every ounce of his hard work will be recognized. "The infiltration of the Ministry plays a pivotal role in my—our success, thus each of you must ensure your positions are secured—”

"You're infatuated with that Hufflepuff."

A sharp intake of breath, and then silence befalls the room. All eyes flick to Avery; some with disbelief, some with poorly concealed excitement, but he pays them no mind.

"That's what's taking you so long, isn't it?” The boy hisses vehemently. “Ever since you met that poor excuse of a student, you've been putting off the purge. You’ve known about the Chamber’s whereabouts, haven’t you? Why is it that you haven’t acted by now?”

He pauses to feign contemplation, a slender finger tapping at his chin. “I’ll take a wild guess; it’s because that little mudblood is sufficient enough for you.”

And just like that the stillness is back, though this time it is an illusion; it can’t exist, not when the unmistakable buzz of fear and apprehension crackles in the air.

No one rushes to Avery’s defense, but Tom doesn’t need legilimency to know—he can see it clear as day—that it’s a unanimous agreement.

Red swirls in his vision.

An audacious Avery leans back in his seat as if accepting a major victory, boastful smirk intact. He lets his accusation sink in before he adds, like salt to injury, like an arrow piercing right through Tom's heart:

"You know what I think? I think you've gone soft."

Jaws drop and eyes widen, but Tom only smirks back, nauseating and sickly sweet.

He could torture him right now. He could turn his skin inside out and make him feel pain in all the worst places. He could reanimate the darkest stages of his trauma and dangle him by the ankles like a marionette until he begs for death's cold embrace.

And what’s stopping him? It’s nothing he hasn’t thought about before. Nothing he hasn’t come close to doing.

Would you be afraid of him if you found out?

Tom sputters.

Who are you to come up in his thoughts at a time like this? How dare you traipse over every line he’s ever created and exist there as if you’ve always belonged?

He suppresses his flaring, burning rage and tries, unsuccessfully, to even his breathing. No, it's hardly worth getting his hands bloody over. Besides, he'd rather not have to clean up the mess.

"Leave. All of you. Now." He manages to choke out.

It’s a scramble for the door.

Good. Fear is good.

His last follower has barely bolted before he’s pointing his wand at the long teakwood table and thundering out an Incendio. With each careless flick of his wrist, searing flames consume the conference space and it’s not until dark, ashy smoke obscures his vision that he takes his leave.

The door to the secret room clicks shut behind him, but the release has done little to assuage his fury.

He paces the length of the hallway outside.

The nerve. How could he suggest something so preposterous?

Everyone involved in his cause knows to never bite the hand that feeds them. And Avery has been feeding out of his palm ever since he took him in and gave purpose to his otherwise meaningless life.

Tom should tail him right now, really. Find him. Curse some sense into him. Who does that dull, privileged snob think he is? That daft, good for nothing—

But he's right.

Avery is right. Dead on, nail-on-the-head right.

He’s fallen for you; hook, line, and sinker.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

Tom isn't at the library the next afternoon.

You tell yourself he's busy, that he probably has a million duties to carry out and the world isn’t going to cave if he doesn’t show for one day—still, the little tug on your heart speaks for itself. Call it sentimental, but the study sessions have become something of a tradition.

And Tom’s usually a stickler for tradition.

“Looks like it's just you and me,” you tell the waiting pile of homework on the table.

You can practically hear his exasperated whisper in your ear. For Pete’s sake, stop conversing with inanimate objects as if they’ll miraculously bestow upon you the solutions or so help me. You grin.

It appears you’ve come to rely quite a bit on his forceful encouragement, because twenty minutes later your parchment is emptier than the porcelain flatware in the Great Hall after dessert, and only one thought reigns supreme on your mind.

“So much for productivity,” you mutter sullenly.

It hits you right then that Tom Riddle is taking up all your headspace.

When you had met him in this exact spot on that fateful night, you never would’ve guessed that he’d be so drawn to you. So adamant on getting to know you. You share no common ground with his other friends—egotistical, haughty, you’re-so-beneath-me blood purists who command the open-mindedness of jellyfish.

But despite what your confidantes claim, you truly think you’ve seen a side of him no one else has. Because when he’s with you, he sheds the rigid golden boy demeanor for something relaxed and content and dare you say it, warm.

Of course you had plummeted headfirst into your emotions. How could you not? Your affections for him have been growing by the day, and you doubt this is some silly old crush that’ll peter out with the last of summer.

No, the feeling extends way past friendship, you’re afraid.

You entertain the idea, play around with it and roll it over the edges of your brain, let it circle through before reluctantly storing it away for next time.

For the guilt, it’s always there; overbearing and unshakable and clawing at you. Surely it’s immoral to think of a good friend in such a way, especially when it seems good friends are all you’ll ever be—you’re no fool to neglect his detachment towards the whole topic of romance.

You groan. You’ll have time to dwell on it later, but for now there are more pressing matters to at hand. For starters, the conference with your D.A.D.A professor that starts in approximately…fifteen minutes.

You bid the librarian goodbye and wave to the old, regal portraits on your way down the long marble staircase, unceremoniously scouting for vanishing steps.

“Safe and sound,” you sigh when your feet reach hard ground.

Sunlight spills through arched windows into the ever-majestic halls, which are empty save for the occasional wandering student. With the early summer weather, everyone must be congregating outdoors again.

Tap tap tap!

Rushed footsteps and a sudden blur of motion at the end of the corridor bring an abrupt end to your solitude. You halt in your step, just managing to catch the barest glimpse of an outline before it rounds the corner in one swift turn.

Curiosity killed the cat.

A grin breaks over your face. But satisfaction brought it back.

And quick as a fox you’re trailing after the shadow, only a little ashamed that the promise of a distraction outweighs any sense of responsibility you might have. An instant later, a pair of spotless dress shoes accompanied by pristine, ironed robes come into view.

Why, you’d recognize that statuesque figure anywhere.

"Tom!" The prefect freezes mid-step, tension written in every line of his body as he reaches into his pocket and shuffles to his side ever so slightly and right ahead of him stands...

The girl's lavatory?

He swivels around as you approach, wand in hand. "Tom! There you are—"

Except he doesn't look very much like Tom.

There's something manic in his eyes, a ferocity in the way he peers down at you that sets your fight or flight instincts ablaze. His fingers curl restlessly at his sides and you have the horrible impression that you’ve just interrupted something very important.

Tom scowls, regarding you with a coldness so foreign, so unfamiliar you almost recoil under the scrutiny.

But everything your body tells you pales in comparison to the concern that overtakes you.

“Are you alright?” You place a tender hand on his arm, your initial excitement dimming at his state. “You seem ill. Should I escort you to the nurse?”

Tom stares at you, unblinking with those glacial eyes.

Ouch. You tear your gaze away and push down the fears that threaten to surface. There are a million different possibilities, but it'd do you no good to ruminate over any of them right now.

“Come on.” You tighten your grip and steer him toward the stairwell, mindful to take slow steps—you know it’s a fragile peace when eggshells are what you’re treading on.

Still, you’re thoroughly unprepared for the force that wrenches the arm out of your grasp.

The shock registers slowly. It’s a colossal punch to the gut, but all the same you try to keep the woundedness off your face.

“I am not in need of your assistance.”

His voice is low, devoid of its usual silkiness. Chills form a serpentine path up your arms and down your back, raising goosebumps all over your skin until you’re shivering.

Indignance claws its way past the alarm. “Is that why you didn’t show up?” You retort. “You’re normally awfully insistent on cramming as much studying as you can. Vital lucubration, or whatever you call it. I figured you might’ve needed to—”

Tom cuts you off with a scoff, all scorn and vitriol.

“That,” he enunciates slowly, “is none of your concern. I am not quite certain when such brazenness entered the picture, but it is not appreciated."

You blink owlishly before taking a much needed breath. “I don’t understand. Could you start from the beginning? I’m certain we can figure this out, it’s just the story is a little convoluted right now and—well, actually, I don’t even know what the story is.”

“This is a waste of time,” Tom chides. “I’ll make one thing clear: we are not friends.” The crazed stare has vanished, replaced by something eerily vacant. You’ve always wondered how he does that so quickly. “And I believe you’ve helped enough as it is, so if you’ll excuse me I’ll be seeing to my duties now.”

But he doesn’t leave, just crosses his arms and waits expectantly for you to turn away. To go.

You’ve helped enough as it is.

You have the sinking feeling that if you walk away now, you’ll be walking out of his life forever.

We are not friends.

Your pulse races. How can he say all those joy-filled hours you so often look back on amount to nothing? How can he brush you off like you’re just another speck of dirt on his clothes?

Maybe, when it all comes down to it, he’s no different from the rest of them.

“What part of your duties, pray tell, consists of going into the girl’s washroom?” You demand incredulously, voice shaking and mind reeling because Merlin there is no way this was all a ruse and you fell right into it like a blindsided, delusional moron in lo—

Tom stiffens, and you watch, mystified, as the mask of calm falls off. His nostrils flare in anger and he takes a step closer to you, only this time it doesn’t feel anything like the afternoon under the tree. Only this time it’s threatening.

“Fine. I’ll spare you, is that what you want?” He laughs mirthlessly, long fingers running through raven curls. “Since you’re so insistent on pretending to care for me? Fine. It won’t touch you. You have my word.”

Your vision blurs, though from the exasperation or tears you can’t be sure.

“Spare me what?” Your books drop to the floor with a resounding thud. “My concern for you has never been a pretense. That’s ludicrous! You’ll never begin to comprehend how much I care for you. As a matter of fact, I...”

You can’t say it.

His eyes are on you, curious and searching and scathing, but all you can do is helplessly stare back at him. You dig half crescents into your palms.

This time when he speaks, you’re prepared for the flames that come with it.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to me,” Tom all but spits, and you’re wishing for the quiet to blanket you once again. He pauses, if only for a second, tone turning subdued. “The lightness in my chest, the nerves spiraling out of control, the…the…” He gestures wildly. “Floating feeling whenever you’re near.”

“I was satisfied with my perception of the world, so sure and unwavering in my decisions until you came along. You’ve turned all I’ve known upside down.”

Your blood freezes inside your veins.

Tom frowns at his hands. “I’m suffering the consequences, even when you’re not near. Every waking moment is you running through my thoughts and I am not dramatizing when I say it is driving. Me. Insane. I’ve had enough. This ends now.”

Your despair falters just enough for a sliver of hope to take hold. “It doesn't have to end.”

“It must.”

It pains you, it does, but you say it anyway.

“If that’s what you really want.”

The rigidity on Tom’s face lets up slightly, though you could’ve sworn you caught a flicker of something akin to regret.

You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale. “Just...about what you said. I know feelings are daunting, but I promise whatever you’re experiencing is perfectly reasonable.” You think back to the memories you share, as if that’ll make saying the next part any easier. “In fact, Tom I think I—”

“Stop,” he whispers, dangerously calm, yet somehow you know the fury has returned tenfold.

Your heart plummets.

“Get out of my way.”

And is it bad that you sense the undercurrent of something dark in his words? His intentions?

It doesn’t feel of your own accord when you rush to block his way back.

Tom levels you with a death glare, and you have only a second to ponder over whether you should be six feet under before his eyes are flashing a horrifying crimson. You give ground for every stride he takes towards you until a thump indicates that you’ve backpedaled to the lavatory entrance.

You watch in dread as Tom turns his attention to the inside, yearning written all over his features and for one harrowing second, you think he’s going to hurt you to get there.

But then he’s stepping away, away, and in the blink of an eye he’s gone.

And for the first time, you think there's more merit to your friends' warnings than you gave credit for.

You slump onto the floor. You wish you were in any condition to make sense of what transpired, but all you know is that it feels like your spirit has been zapped away. The strain on your chest persists even as you push it down, and then you feel a crushing snap before it all comes undone—caged sobs wrangle free from your throat and salty tears rain down upon where your smile had held just moments ago.

Has it really only been a week since you and Tom had that conversation in the courtyard? Since you lent him that book?

You wish you could retrace your footsteps, find where it all went astray.

“Waaah!”

You almost jump out of your skin.

“Waaaaah!” The sound, high-pitched and lamenting, can only be coming from inside.

You rise to your feet.

“Hello?” You venture from the doorway. Your voice ricochets off the stone walls. The place is well-kept, complete with four shiny sinks situated below a mirror and a row of wooden stall doors left fairly unchipped.

“GO AWAY!”

You may or may not be one stone’s leap away from hysterics (who’s to say?), but you think you’ve had enough scares in a day for the whole of Hogwarts. Besides, no one should be howling like their life is ending, and smiles make the world go round.

“Would you like to talk?” You goad gently, taking note of the leather shoes peeking out from under the far stall. "You can say the word again and I’ll leave you be.”

You cross your fingers behind your back, pray with all your being that this one won’t end in a full-blown lash-out session.

To your relief, the wooden door swings open a few moments later and a pale girl with long brown pigtails, round glasses and a blue tie steps out to face you. No older than fourteen, from the looks of it.

“Olive Hornby made fun of my glasseeeees,” she wails, and the noise grates against your ear. You wince.

“I’m sorry.” You place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I, for one, am of the opinion that your glasses look just fine.” She flushes at that. “Although if this is a recurring thing, I’d like to talk to her for you—only if you assent, of course, but it’d give me peace of mind.”

Her puffy, bloodshot eyes light up and suddenly it’s as if she were five years younger, a hopeful child with stars in her eyes. “R-Really?”

You nod. “Really.”

Her sobs subside to sniffles and the pout on her face morphs into something bashful. “Thanks…”

“What’s your name?”

“Myrtle. Myrtle Warren.” She takes off her glasses and wipes at the fogged-over lenses with the fabric of her clothes.

“He comes in here often, you know.” She peeks at you from under her lashes. “Taps on surfaces and makes these strange hissing noises, like it’s a language he’s fluent in." Her tone turns wistful. "I stay silent and listen because it’s all so mesmerizing…”

“Who does?” You frown.

“You know who.”

“Wait. Don’t tell me...”

But Myrtle only giggles, brows lifting in amusement. “Good luck on your boy problems.”

Then she’s off.

You stare after her in shock.

You catalog the new information, an onslaught of burning questions and what-ifs invading your mind in a trice.

One sticks out in particular. It’s afflicting and unnerving and you don’t want to consider it, but it prods and pushes at you until you’re forced to cave.

What exactly would’ve happened if Tom had gone in there today?

Nothing good, that’s for sure.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

The note comes a week—dense with radio silence and carefully averted glances—later, tied by a silken ribbon (high-end, no doubt about it) to the leg of a beautiful owl with raven feathers.

Now it rests, protrusive and unbidden in your lap as the root of your apprehension for the past half hour.

You pick it up and set it down again. Fidgeting in your beanbag chair has only fueled your restlessness, but now that the adrenaline’s gone you’re really out of options.

And if you’re being completely honest, not knowing is killing you more than anything.

You slouch in resignation and raise the letter to your face.

“Helga help me,” you whisper to the portrait above the mantelpiece.

It reads something about how he’s been awfully occupied with responsibilities and how he’d like to have a chance to make up for lost time and would you be so inclined as to accompany him to Hogsmeade tomorrow afternoon.

There’s a palpable, gaping hole in the place where an apology or explanation should be—or an acknowledgement of anything that went down, for that matter. You don’t know what you were expecting.

A week ago, you would’ve been delighted at the prospect of going on a date with the Tom Riddle. Squealing in ecstasy and bouncing on the balls of your feet. Now all that’s running through your head is maybe the rose-colored glasses you see with have only made you blind in the end.

Crackling orange embers engulf the parchment with a satisfying hiss.

You’ve never been one to hold a grudge, but If he wants your forgiveness—he’ll have to try much harder than that.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

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dontyouworrydaddy · 10 months

Note

Can you please write about how the task force 141 + whoever you want react to the reader having asymmetrical breasts (you know when one is bigger than the other)? In fact, I decided to write this request as I have this type of chest myself and I'm a bit insecure about of it :⁠-⁠[

It's totally okay if you not wanting to write it, just ignore my ask!

Yoᥙɾ ᑲoᑯყ ɩ⳽ ᥲɾt

Task Force 141 + fem! Reader

As the title says, your body is art. You are a masterpiece, a work of art that is one of a kind. Your body is a canvas that as shows everyone how unique you are. Be proud of who you are and never let anyone make you feel less than beautiful. Because everyone is unique in their own way.

Remember that your always loved by me and so many people! You’re beautiful ❤️

‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

Simon Riley

Simon and you sat together in your shared apartment, laying in each others arms while watching a movie, a timid silence hung between you. Simon noticed a flicker of unease in your eyes and decided to gently inquire about their distress.

"Hey.." he began softly "Is something on your mind? You seem a little distant today."

You shifted uncomfortably, trying to find the right words. "Simon, there's something I've been meaning to tell you, more like show you, something I'm scared you'll find repulsive."

Simon's eyes softened, realizing the depth of your vulnerability. "You can tell or show me anything, love. I promise you won't scare me away."

Taking a deep breath, You hesitated before whispering, "The real real reason why I’m wearing hoodies and refuse to show my chest is because I’m insecure about them. They’re asymmetrical. It's something I've always been insecure about, and I'm afraid you won't find me attractive anymore."

Simon's heart ached for your self-doubt. He gently cupped their face, his voice filled with warmth and affection. "Do you think my scars are beautiful?"

You blinked in surprise, "Of course, Simon. Your scars tell a story of bravery and resilience."

Simon smiled tenderly. "Then you have to find your body even more beautiful. Imperfections make us unique, and they should never overshadow the beauty within."

Overwhelmed with emotion, You felt tears prickling at the corners of their eyes. Simon's unwavering support gave them the strength to embrace their insecurities and trust in his love.

"Baby.." Simon continued, his voice filled with sincerity, "You are extraordinary just as you are. Your beauty goes beyond physical appearances. It resides in your heart, your courage, and your ability to be vulnerable with me."

You couldn't help but smile, feeling a sense of acceptance wash over you. Simon's words resonated deeply, helping to shatter the walls of self-doubt that had plagued you for far too long.

John MacTavish

You’re an independent and determined soldier, were a valued member of Task Force 141. You fought alongside the elite team, including the sergeant John MacTavish. Your skills were unmatched and you held your own in the most dangerous missions.

However, there was something that haunted you, casting a shadow over your confidence—the asymmetry of your breasts. It made you uncomfortable and self-conscious, especially when it came to getting close to others. Your insecurity prevented you from being comfortable enough to wear a little tighter shirts.

One evening, after a particularly grueling mission, you found yourself alone in the barracks, trying to hide your feelings from the world. The weight of your insecurity felt unbearable, and tears welled up in your eyes. Just as you were about to lose yourself in self-doubt, a gentle knock on the door caught your attention.

"Hey, it's me, Soap" John's voice called out, warm and comforting.

You opened the door, trying to hide the remnants of your tears, but John's piercing gaze instantly caught on to your emotional state.

"Something bothering you, love?" he asked, concern etched on his rugged face.

Unable to find the words, you nodded, allowing your tears to flow freely. John stepped forward, pulling you into a comforting embrace, his strong arms enveloping you.

"It's okay, lass. We all have our insecurities," he whispered softly, his voice a soothing balm to your troubled heart. "But trust me when I say that your body is a work of art, flaws and all. You're perfect."

John's words reverberated through your soul, bringing forth a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness of your self-doubt. He held you tightly, reassuring you that he was there for you, no matter what.

"You don't have to show anyone anything you're not ready for" John said gently. "Your well-being is what matter most."

Through your tear-streaked vision, you saw love in his eyes. In that moment, your heart swelled with a newfound strength. You knew you could trust John and his unwavering support ignited a flicker of courage within you.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

John's warm smile melted away your fears. With tenderness, he brushed away your tears and pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead.

"Remember, love, you are beautiful just the way you are," he said, his voice filled with conviction. "And your beauty goes far beyond your physical appearance. Your strength, bravery, and compassion are what make you truly extraordinary."

That night, you and John remained locked in an embrace, finding comfort in each other's presence.

John Price

John was walking up the stairs to your shared apartment, feeling exhausted from the recent mission. And tonight, the universe had conspired to bring him face-to-face with a vulnerability he hadn't anticipated. As he stepped into the living room, he saw you, huddled in a corner, tears streaming down your face.

Your distress caught him off guard, and he rushed to your side, concern etched across his weathered features. "What's wrong, love?" he asked softly, his voice filled with genuine worry.

You hiccupped, trying to control your sobs as you looked up at him through teary eyes. "I... I can't do it, John" you managed to say between shaky breaths.

Confusion flickered in his eyes. "Can't do what, love?"

"I... I can't show you" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of your words. Then, his gaze fell upon your trembling hands, clutching at your chest. The realization dawned on him like a punch to the gut. Your insecurity about your asymmetrical breasts.

The room fell into a heavy silence as John's heart ached for you. He had always seen you as the top of beauty. There wasn’t anything or anyone more beautiful than you. But he understood the deep-seated insecurities that could cripple even the strongest soul.

With gentle resolve, John knelt down in front of you, his piercing blue eyes locked with yours. "Listen to me, love," he spoke softly, his voice carrying a warmth that enveloped you. "I've seen the world, been through hell and back. And let me tell you something…you are more beautiful than anything I've ever come across."

You shook your head, the weight of your self-doubt still looming over you. "But, John..."

"No buts, my love" he interrupted, his voice firm but kind. "We all have our imperfections. It's what makes us human. And it's those imperfections that draw us closer, that make us unique."

He reached out and brushed away a tear from your cheek, his touch gentle and comforting. "I love you and you‘re the most beautiful woman that has ever walked on this world."

Your breath hitched as his words seeped into your wounded soul. John's love and acceptance were like a balm, soothing the rawness of your insecurities. Slowly, you felt a flicker of hope ignite within you.

As if reading your mind, John leaned in, his lips barely brushing against yours. It was a tender and sweet kiss.. your very first.

Kyle Garrick

Despite your unwavering strength, there was a deep-seated insecurity that burdened your heart. You struggled with self-acceptance, specifically regarding your asymmetrical breasts. The fear of judgment and rejection prevented you from fully revealing your vulnerable self to Kyle, despite his unwavering affection. And you were always scared because you couldn’t find a way to like them.

One day, as the weight of your insecurities became too heavy to bear alone, tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over. It was during a moment of solitude that Kyle, ever observant, noticed your distress. Without hesitation, he approached you, concern etched across his face.

"Hey" he whispered gently, his voice a soothing balm. "What's troubling you, love? You can tell me anything, you know that."

Your lips quivered as you struggled to find the right words. "Kyle, I... I'm afraid. Afraid you won't see me the same way if I show you. My... chest "

Kyle's warm hand reached out to wipe away your tears, his touch grounding you in the moment. "Baby" he said tenderly, "you're the most beautiful person I've ever met. Your physical appearence is just a fraction of who you are. It's your heart, your soul, your unyielding courage that captivates me."

You tried to speak, but your voice caught in your throat. The fear of rejection still lingered, but Kyle's unwavering support gave you the strength to take a leap of faith.

With a trembling hand, you began to unbutton your shirt, revealing the hidden secret that had kept you shackled for so long. As your heart pounded, you felt Kyle's arms encircle you in a warm, comforting embrace. His presence became a shield against your fears.

"I know it's not easy for you…" Kyle murmured against your ear, his voice filled with empathy. "But believe me when I say that you're more than your physical appearance. You're unique, you're strong, and you're breathtakingly beautiful just the way you are."

"I love you," Kyle whispered, his voice laced with sincerity. "Every part of you, inside and out."

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demenior · 7 months

Note

trick or treat! :)

You get a sample from a Critical Role au I'm working on in which Fjord freed Uk'otoa. It's loosely called 'The Brine King au' bc I felt like Brine King could work as an unoficial title for Fjord in this situation until I can think of something cooler lmao

Mama stares out of the open window in her room, at the ocean beyond. The faint glow of sunlight seems to get further and further away every day.

“Mama?” Jester prompts.

Mama stirs, as if only hearing her now, “I’m sorry, my dear, I’m just not hungry.”

“You need to keep up your strength,” Jester reminds her, “when— when Fjord comes back, with the others, they will probably want you to sing.”

Mama’s face twists, as if pained.

“I do not know if the Great Leviathan will want to share my talents,” Mama finally says.

“Of course he will,” Jester says, “and it will be just like performing at home. With an audience. And real people to talk to!”

“I just want to feel warm again,” Mama whimpers, and she raises a hand to touch the window. The water ripples at her touch.

As if in response, something large rises from below to block the light, casting a shadow over the room. Jester forces herself to stay still, and not pull Mama away. A coiling, scaled loop of Uk’otoa’s great body has risen, just enough to look in through Mama’s window. To ensure Mama is still here. It’s so close they could touch him.

Mama stares out the window. From her expression she could be looking at paint dry. The attention of the god is no longer thrilling, or terrifying. It is the fact of her life.

Satisfied that his prize remains, Uk’otoa sinks back to the depths.

“I’ll talk to Fjord, again,” Jester says, “I’m sure I can convince him to take us to the surface, even for a little bit.”

“That snake will never let me go that far,” Mama growls. She closes her eyes, and sighs heavily, “though I suppose, that is why I am still alive.”

“Because you have the best voice, and you are so beautiful,” Jester agrees. Mama’s moods come and go, and Jester likes to think she can encourage more good ones, “that’s why Fjord saved you before… before…”

The thought of her home, of the City she grew up in, of all the people who raised her, dead and decimated at the will of Uk’otoa and now at the bottom of the ocean takes Jester’s cheer from her. Bluud, Carlos, everyone. All dead. She doesn’t even know if the Mighty Nein made it out of the city in time.

But she had to go with Fjord. When they had finally caught up to him, found him putting Mama under a spell to run away with him; Jester had been impulsive in giving herself up as well. There had been no time to think.

“Fjord…” Mama says quietly, and she looks to Jester, “and that serpent…”

“He’s… he’s okay, Mama,” Jester assures her, “he’s good to me.”

#critical role #fjord stone (tengentially)#uk'otoa #jester lavorre #marion lavorre #its vaguely a beauty and the beast love story too #wip

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egg-emperor · 1 year

Text

I really like getting any look at how Eggman treats poor little critters of any kind. I wish they'd show more in depth, beyond just seeing that they're captured and used in robots/for energy/etc, such as his behavior and how he treats them too. In Sonic 1, the animals in robots and capsules were the first look at his evil on screen that established that he's a villain there after all, so it's pretty important.

I personally really wanna see more of his cruelty when he's messing around and toying with them. I really like how they did it in IDW when he was testing the metal virus.

He's cruel, threatening, condescending, and short-tempered when forcing them into doing as he says. But he also has a wide sadistic grin on his face and casts a delightfully sinister shadow while towering over them as he watches their fear and struggle as they succumb to their cruel enslavement and become what he wants them to be. He takes great pride in the success and revels in their suffering for his selfish benefit in his evil plans.

I also love how he visibly enjoys it way more than Starline, who treats it more like a serious task and procedure, while Eggman knows how to have fun with it! He's the evilest and most fucked up 💕

And I love how he lowers a Pocky down with a fishing rod to attack a poor Ricky and is just so silly about it. How does he manage to be so cute while doing something so messed up? XD

Rise of Wisps has that similar energy that I had always wished to see in Colors, so it was a real great treat to finally get it a decade later:

I love his dark mischievous grin after he grabs and almost squeezes the eye of the white Wisp, how he slams them into the machine then throws himself against the glass to scare them, then leans in for a good look at their energy being zapped for his benefit and erupts into laughter. He didn't even need to be so physically violent and harsh to get what he wanted out of them in this case, it's even clearer that he did it just because he wanted to and enjoyed it.

These are good examples of the perfect balance I say I like to see in Eggman, where he'll be dark, threatening, and serious in his evil, yet also find enjoyment in it and being sadistically playful and giddy in it too. Anything of the sort where he's doing something messed up but finding twisted joy and entertainment in it is something I always love to see, if you haven't figured that out already hehe

Just look at this asshole having a great time being terrible and tormenting and toying with his prey 🥰💜💕

You can really see how much he enjoys not only using them as his tools in accomplishing his goals but also striking fear into them, forcing them into submission, and having total power over them when they're weak and helpless against him. He finds it really entertaining and amusing and has a blast!

I can imagine that he enjoys controlling and tormenting little defenseless creatures because it gives him a taste of how he wants the whole world and everything in it to be as small and inferior compared to him and be overpowered, owned, controlled and used by him like this. They're a good start because they're vulnerable and easy targets. He probably likes how they can't talk or fight back and he's so much bigger, stronger, and smarter than them.

It's very satisfying and entertaining to him but he's so power hungry that he desires to move on to bigger targets. In the games, we know him to keep climbing up by starting with the little creatures, then Sonic and co, then other humans in his attempts to accomplish his biggest goal of all- total world domination where he'll force everyone else to become his slaves and obey and serve in the same way and they'll have no choice but to submit to the rule of the empire.

It's no secret that he's always been cruel even to poor innocent an defenseless creatures but it's interesting to get more insight to how he goes about treating them when they're in his clutches. Especially with how it's a good example of his sadism as he clearly loves the power and control he can have over them, finds it entertaining and will go out of his way to treat them especially cruelly, even when it isn't necessary to accomplish his goal. Love this nasty bastard 💘

#dr eggman #eggman #dr. eggman #dr robotnik #idw sonic #sonic colors #my post #animals #animal abuse

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blazehedgehog · 9 months

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You need to reread Archie Sonic. I can assure you, it was not as nearly as good as you thought it was, and the IDW comic is not as nearly as bad as you think it is. Slow arcs doesn't mean bad arcs, and there's more character development than just "Surge attacks Sonic." And this arc clearly had an ending. Stop letting the metal plague arc overright your critical thinking skills. It was *years ago.*

My question to you is this: are you involved with the production of IDW Sonic? Because if you aren't, it sounds like you're taking something personally that was not directed at you and have saddled yourself with the responsibility of teaching me a lesson.

I'd like to point you to this post from six months ago, where I had nothing but nice things to say about IDW Sonic. I ran across it recently while digging through my blog for a different post (which I could not find, thanks Tumblr Search). Contrast that with the post where I say "the last six months have been kind of boring in retrospect."

I think I'm allowed to say that. I'm allowed to be bored. A story arc that amounts to "Eggman built a really big and scary city" feels weirdly low key and kind of bland (he's built a lot of cities), and none of the other story arcs feel like they've been paying off.

Coming at me from the angle of "WELL ARCHIE SUCKS TOO YOU JUST DON'T REMEMBER IT" is very strange to me, because that's just, like, your opinion, man. You even suggest the concept of opinion itself is fallible.

And maybe mine is. I dunno. Who I was yesterday is not who I will be tomorrow. But who I was when Archie was good thought it was great. I was practically counting the days for new issues. I was about to start a monthly comic review column for TSSZ just to have an excuse to get a subscription.

I was a different person back then. But also I was feelin' pretty high on IDW Sonic just six months ago and now it feels like they're stalling.

Yes, I said it's felt like something has been missing for a long time, and to some degree it has. The world of IDW Sonic revolves around six characters and four or five locations, and some of those locations don't have very strong identities outside of "it's like the place from the video games." The depth and the breadth of Archie isn't there.

But you at least had intent. Surge was interesting, Starline was interesting, Belle was interesting, Sonic jabbing Eggman about Mr. Tinker was interesting, everyone jabbing Sonic about letting villains go all the time was interesting, Tails was desperately trying to use the non-violent approach with Kitsunami. There was strong characterization for miles.

What have we had over the last six months?

Surge came back, and she repeated a longer, slower version of the same interaction she had with Sonic in issue #50.

It was revealed that Surge is having PTSD hallucinations of Dr. Starline.

Eggman built another city, but this builds and repairs itself, which doesn't actually mean anything given we've never drawn attention to how Eggman builds or repairs his cities before. The dude has a robot army, it's reasonable to assume he's always had cleanup and repair crews. Telling me it's "special" now isn't really exciting.

Tangle said the wrong thing, upset Whisper and they had a girlfriends moment about it. But given Tangle was just being the way Tangle always has been, this isn't exactly a major event.

We were introduced to Lanolin, who so far has very little backstory and barely established a personality besides "does not want to put up with Tangle's shenanigans." So like half the cast, then.

Team Dark was retconned back into existence, so Shadow gets to be part of stories again.

It doesn't feel like this is going anywhere right now, and the world around it isn't robust enough to pick up the slack and keep it interesting.

And you don't have to take it personally. You don't have to hit back. It isn't about you.

#questions #Anonymous #idw sonic #archie sonic #comics #sonic the hedgehog #sega #sonic team

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gerardwaygirlmoments · 9 months

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What We Do In the Shadows: The Musical Episode

I saw someone on Reddit say that the show would have officially jumped the shark if there was a musical episode, so here's my idea of how that would go!

It takes place a little before the s5 finale, so Nadja still thinks she has to be nice to people to break her hex. She already took Guillermo to the vet, so she's helping him on an errand run this time. At the moment, he is delivering Nandor and Lazlo's sperm to the witches, as is the deal they have made. As they arrive, the witches have just got back from seeing Wicked on Broadway for the umpteenth time. Nadja hasn't heard of it, so when they tell her, her inheritance of Lazlo's distaste for musicals and her own hatred of witches merge and she laughs at the idea of anyone enjoying singing sympathetic witches. The witches are offended and cast a spell on her and Guillermo, teleporting them to a demiplane where they can be taught a lesson. Since Guillermo was holding Lazlo and Nandor's sperm, they teleport alongside them. Colin Robinson also shows up, which confuses the others at first before he explains he was jealous of Lazlo and Nandor for being considered more vampire than him and the witches not wanting his sperm so he snuck some in when no one was looking, which wasn't difficult with how hot Lazlo and Nandor's are to look at (Lazlo concurs that "The old chap and I truly do have some magnificent spunk, wouldn't you say, my dahling?" Nadja agrees about Lazlo's but refuses to believe Nandor's could be all that great).

With that tangent over, the gang finds themselves in the dark behind a red curtain. Guillermo's been binging Twin Peaks recently, so he becomes afraid that the Black Lodge is real and they've been brought there. That's quickly disproven with no one talking backward, and their also confused why it’s even be called “the Black Lodge” if it’s red. The curtain rises and the gang learns that the witches will be magically forcing them to perform songs from various musicals to learn the True Meaning of Broadway. They hate it at first, but over time they come to like it. This is especially true of Colin, who at first thinks he can just use it to drain but then starts to recover his childhood enthusiasm for the art form.

Some musicals they could perform could include:

Phantom of the Opera (gothic romance for Lazlo/Nadja)

West Side Story (romance for Lazlo/Nadja)

Sweeney Todd (gothic romance for Lazlo/Nadja, see my in-depth post on this AU)

The King and I (Nandermo with emphasis on Nandor's old kingly role)

Oklahoma! (Cowboys for Jackie Daytona)

Guys and Dolls (idk too much about this one but it's a classic and there could be something with Dolly)

Cabaret (for the flamboyant queer sexy performance)

Hamilton (kinda obligatory at this point)

Fiddler on the Roof (this was brought in in the s4 finale, it should be expanded here)

Wicked (Nadja could finally come to appreciate witches and get her big Defying Gravity moment)

When everyone is having a great time and the moment has come for the grand finale, Lazlo leads the cast in a rousing rendition of a song "by none other than an old friend of mine, a true Chinese-American icon, who no doubt wrote this ballad about his treacherous journey from the Orient to these United States and this wonderous city of ours. Mr. Frank Sinatra!" It's New York, New York, and Lazlo mispronounces it in every incredible way possible, except for the final sweeping note.

#I'm gonna be making another post similar to this where I make wwdits AUs of various older sitcoms #If anyone has more ideas on this please let me know!#wwdits #what we do in the shadows #twin peaks #musicals #Phantom of the Opera #West Side Story #Sweeney Todd #The King and I #Oklahoma!#Guys and Dolls #Cabaret #Hamilton #Fiddler on the Roof #Wicked #frank sinatra #new york new york

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bakuliwrites · 2 years

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Slip Away- Xander x Reader

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

Fandom: Fire Emblem

Relationships: Xander x Gender-Neutral Reader

Summary: Xander finds himself unable to unwind at his birthday party, until a certain someone whisks him away.

Tags: Semi-Public S*x, Closet S*x

A/N: Happy Birthday, Xander, baby❤️ This man is so emotionally constipated and uptight. He needs someone to remind him to relax haha. Especially on his birthday! Thank you for reading! Read here or over on my AO3!

This party, though generous in intention, has been more than Xander can handle. After a day filled with meeting after meeting, all Xander wanted was a quiet evening to himself with his beloved. But this party has been planned for months. His birthday celebration was something everyone else had insisted upon, including his siblings. So how was Xander to say no, even if it wasn’t his ideal way to spend his special day?

Practically everyone in the kingdom has been invited. The halls are bustling with revelers, all wanting a spare moment with the King of Nohr, the birthday boy, himself. It’s absolutely overwhelming and Xander hardly feels like he can actually enjoy the party. So when his beloved sneaks up behind him and whispers those fatal words, Xander is quick to acquiesce.

“Do you want to slip away for a moment?” their voice hums in his ear.

“Gods, yes,” Xander returns, letting them take him by the hand and lead him quietly out of the main hall. They dart through doorways, skirt around party-goers eager to speak to the King, and hide behind corners until people pass.

“Where are we going?” Xander chuckles as his beloved leads him further and further from the festivities. They merely smile impishly as they pull him through a set of double-doors that lead into an abandoned wing of the castle.

“You’ll see,” they return with a wink. His beloved leads him through the dusty corridors, weaving seamlessly down passageways as if they’ve scouted this area before. The music from the party is muffled and the joyous voices of the guests hushes to almost nothing. It’s peaceful here, if not a bit rundown.

Gods, I really need to get someone in here to fix up this area, Xander thinks to himself as they pass a dust-covered candelabra. Suddenly, Xander feels himself being yanked into a dark room. The door slams shut behind him and his beloved, showering them in complete darkness.

“Where are we?” Xander tries, his eyes just barely adjusting to the depths of the shadows in the tiny room. When they finally do, he spots some folded up bedsheets and towels stacked on several shelves.

“Why did you bring us to a linen closet?” he asks skeptically, trying his best to make out the shadowy form of his lover before him.

“Because no one will look for us here,” they reason with a twittery laugh, “And your room has been invaded by party goers. Otherwise, I would’ve brought us there.”

“Well, what are we going to do in a linen closet-” Xander begins, but interrupts himself when it suddenly dawns on him exactly what it is they’re going to do in a linen closet. He can feel his cheeks burning and he knows they’re probably bright red, not that anyone could see that in this impenetrable darkness.

“I have some ideas,” his lover drawls, voice low and sensual. Xander grins to himself, gripping his beloved by the waist and pulling them close.

“Do you, now?” he starts, leaning down to find their lips, “I’m all ears.”

What obnoxious behavior for a King, Xander suddenly panics, but it’s too late. He’s already testing his lovers parted lips with his tongue, diving in to explore the warmth of their mouth, gently grazing their teeth. They wrap their arms around his shoulders, drawing him closer until their bodies are pressed as near as they possibly can be. Their shared body heat in the small closet space is enough to force Xander to remove his jacket and cloak. His hands fumble with his buttons, but his lover is quick to come to his aid. Deftly, they unbutton his jacket and undershirt, casting them carelessly to the side. His hands are busy feverishly wandering his beloved’s body, feeling every curve and dip.

This moment feels so utterly self-indulgent. So not King-like. He wonders what the guests will think if they find out. They’re probably searching for him now, confused as to where their King could’ve possibly disappeared to. He knows that he should be more considerate. But Xander can’t help himself. His core is burning with desire, his cock heavy with arousal. His mind feels almost foggy, lost in a haze of passion.

In the darkness, Xander can feel his beloved’s fingers at the hem of his trousers. They’re busily suckling at his neck when they start to palm the growing bulge in his underwear. Their massaging is positively wondrous. He can hardly help the moans and whimpers that escape his lips as his lover masterfully kneads. Xander is quick to return the favor, wanting desperately to hear their soft keens and whispers of his name. He wonders if anyone passing by can hear them, if he’ll get chewed out by the rest of the court for his inappropriate behavior. But he doesn’t care. He’s too busy luxuriating in the absolutely sinful way his lover is making him feel.

The friction in his trousers is becoming unbearable. Everything just feels so heavy. He needs to be satiated and it needs to happen soon. Hurriedly, he undoes the buttons of his trousers and slips them down just enough to free his throbbing erection. He sucks in a breath as it brushes against his lover’s stomach. Swiftly, Xander lifts his lover into his arms, helping them hook their legs around his waist. They giggle, a sound that is absolute music to his ears. Xander hungrily captures their lips in his before trailing searing kisses down their jaw and neck.

“Gods, you taste amazing,” he huffs, voice husky with desire. He allows himself to fall back against the wall, not caring in the slightest how loud the thump of his back hitting the inside of the closet is. It rattles the shelves a bit, but not enough to send any of the linens flying.

“Are you ready?” he questions, breathless now. Cruelly, his beloved gives his cock a few languid pumps. Xander smiles ruefully at their touch, gasping in surprise as their warm hand strokes his shaft, slickening it with a bit of saliva.

“I am,” they hum, placing one last kiss on his temple. Xander whirls them around, so now their back is against the wall, giving him some leverage. It’s pure relief as he sheathes himself inside of them, allowing them a moment to adjust to his girth. They throw their head back in pleasure, moaning shamelessly as he buries himself even further in them.

As Xander begins to pump in and out, he can feel his beloved grip him tight, their nails digging into the tender flesh of his back. The sordid slap of skin against skin mingles with huffy breaths and small keens as their hips move in tandem. It’s positively electric as his lover tangles their fingers in the golden ringlets of Xander’s hair, tugging ever so gently at them. They riddle his neck with love bites and Xander knows there’s no way he’s going to be able to hide all of them from the other guests. But it’s the last thing on his mind as he feels his arousal building in his core.

“Ah, my love,” his beloved whimpers, holding tight to him, “I’m so close.”

Sweat beads on Xander’s forehead as he picks up his pace, the rhythmic motion of his hips starting to become erratic as he draws closer and closer to ecstasy. His lover feels so tight around him, so absolutely delightful. As the tip of his cock hits deeper, he can feel them shudder around him. The heat in his core builds to a blazing flame, his entire body starting to tremble with pure pleasure. With a final thrust, he feels himself twitch and release, his seed spilling into his beloved. With a cry of his name, his beloved comes undone with him, gripping him so tight, he knows their nails will leave marks.

Xander collapses into them, panting as he tries to regain his balance, dizzy with euphoria. The two of them linger there for a moment, wrapped up in each other’s arms, enjoying the quiet aftermath of their clandestine meeting. Xander feels relaxed for once, all tenseness in his muscles having melted away with his beloved’s masterful touch. He buries his head in the crook of their neck and whispers words of praise and affection.

“Thank you for this marvelous suggestion, my darling,” he whispers, pressing kiss after kiss just behind their ear.

“I thought you could use a bit of reprieve,” they return and he can tell by the tone of their voice that they’re smiling.

“You know me too well,” he beams, drawing back to look at what little of them he can make out in the darkness. Xander opens his mouth again, but just as he is about to ask if his beloved is ready to part, he hears footsteps just outside the door. All movement stops, his lover frozen in his arms.

“Xander?” a voice calls. He can’t quite make out who it is, and honestly would rather not know. A bit of panic starts to seep into Xander’s mind and his muscles tense. His beloved must sense this, for they plant a tender, loving kiss to his lips as if to say, Don’t worry.

When there’s no response, the footsteps set off again down the hallway. Xander can overhear whoever it is mutter to themselves, “Now, where could he have gotten off to?”

It’s only when the echo of their steps has disappeared entirely that Xander feels like he can breathe again.

“I suppose we should get back to the party,” he comments, feeling a bit guilty all of a sudden.

“Or,” his beloved begins, something mischievous in their tone, “We could just stay here for the rest of the night. I told you- this is an excellent hiding spot.”

Xander quirks an eyebrow up and grins.

“You are a very bad influence for a King, you know that?” he goes on. His beloved’s laugh is silenced only by Xander’s lips hungrily pressing against theirs.

Maybe we could stay in here a bit longer, he thinks to himself.

#fire emblem #fire emblem xander #xander fire emblem #fe xander #xander x reader #fe fates #fe heroes #fe warriors #dani writes #lemon #my writing #spicy #happy birthday xander

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x-authorship-x · 1 year

Note

Shisui and OC?

Hey Anon!

Are you asking little ol' me if I have an OC lined up to sweep Shisui off his feet? Me? 🥺👉👈

...yes, I do actually lmao

Arashi

He's a Tokubetsu in ANBU gunning for full Jounin promotion.

Civilian, twenty three and he came into the Academy sideways. There's always a big push for recruitment around war, and Arashi was a year into his Blacksmithing apprenticeship when they came looking for more civilian cannon fodder recruits. He kept one foot in the door during his studies. He's been raised with an expectation of nothing, knowing that the world was cruel and brutal (get that grind), doing odd jobs around the forge for as long as he could remember, and working the forge after school had been both a way to help get hot food on the table as much as building muscle and a familiarity with the weapons he was wielding. He now works shifts as the ANBU weaponry Quartermaster. Kenjutsu and Taijutsu speciality with a small, surprising side ability for undercover work.

Tall and solidly built, all usable forge strength tempered by ANBU flexibility. Thick black hair kept shaved on the sides and longer on top (yes, this is an undercut, it makes sense with the headband okay). Really strikingly brown eyes. Tanned skin, freckles and sunspots and cat-whisker wrinkles around his eyes, prematurely deep set, from squinting at the fire and also at the sun. Big knuckles, extremely calloused, lots of faded burns.

He's careful. In a crowd, he's excellent at blending in and reading the room. Along with his continued socialisation with civilian tradesmen, he's excellent at integrating himself with civilians and he's learned to mimic different regional accents and slang to really sell it. He's friends with Raidou, Hayate, and Yugao, because sensible professionals are a rare breed in Narutoverse.

His grandfather is one of the favoured weaponsmiths in the village, where Arashi learned to work the forge, and it means that he knows almost everyone but isn't in the spotlight. Arashi gets it from him.

Arashi is not interested in drama and drama is not interested in him. I don't mean this in the 'Omg fuck off nooo~ i don't want to be a protagonist love interest' and i don't mean that hes hostile or weird around main cast characters but- he's not a jealous person, he's not a glory hog. Arashi hasn't made a name for himself and he considers that the best sign of skill that he could imagine. Shinobi, he was raised to believe, are not supposed to be notorious. Most civilians think Arashi is just a full time blacksmith, and he lets them keep thinking that. He's not got a name or a flashy Jutsu to make his classmates etc remember him.

He passed the Genin exam in wartime, which means there weren't a lot of Jounin to take teams on. In an emergency measure, like many others, Arashi was pushed directly into the Genin Corps, which suited him just fine, and he was field promoted to Chuunin for taking up his superior's blade and finishing the mission. Tokubetsu ranking can be achieved through paperwork, several Jounin sponsors, and an official examination of skills. Arashi did this and was immediately absorbed into ANBU, which means all of his records were pulled from public/Daylight access.

With Shisui:

Shisui is in ANBU for three reasons: to watch Itachi's back, to work for peace from the shadows like he always talks about... And to be recognised for his efforts and not his name (he loves the Uchiha but this is a guy who's moniker is the Shunshin and not his Mangekyou, that speaks to me). Arashi is in ANBU because he thinks that this is the spirit of what it really means to be a Shinobi. They get on, needless to say.

Shisui is bright. He's hopeful, even in the depths of his despair, and he's frighteningly competent but also.... He was raised in a huge Clan with a lot of culture and a bloodline to boot. He's been on the outskirts of Konoha, devoted but kept apart because of tensions and discrimination, and thats not a good situation for being... In touch with how other people, let alone civilians, go about their lives.

Arashi is excellent for all of this; he is quiet but sincere, warm and genuine and 🥹 he takes over, shows Shisui everything he's ignorant of, gently correcting harmful assumptions/stereotypes and introducing Shisui to everything he's missed out on from the Uchiha side of the compound walls. Picture the cutest dates, Shisui showing Arashi about Clan life and the Uchiha culture specifically, and Arashi showing Shisui a whole new side to Konoha. It sparks an even brighter flame in Shisui's heart... And it incites a rage for justice in Arashi's.

I made Arashi because I wanted to delve deeper into how non-famous Konohan Shinobi work. They're still really badass but they're low-key with it, they're a totally different vibe from the main cast that we see and i wanted to do a FUCK tonne of world building (my readers will be rolling their eyes at this predicability lmao).

This ship is... Steadier. As some of you may have noticed from these shipping posts I do, i have a basis of whether i feel compatibility is healthy and long term, and that's not because i think short or "shallower" ships have less value, but preference and how i always end up shaping relationships. I like people to stay, basically 🤷 and I love the idea of Shisui having a really stable partnership like this. Arashi would have his back, would make him feel safe, would show him new things, would hold his own, and i love to see equals like this. There is something so heartwarming to seeing Shisui with a newer, warmer hope for the future. Arashi would be that, personified.

Now I'm all in my feels 🥹

Enjoy, Anon! Have a good day/night ☺️

#torship #torship talks #ask #anon #shisui #shisui shipping #OC Arashi

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hungeringheart · 8 months

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Can you please do a session analysis with Prince void, Rogue of space, mage of life, thief of time

Woohoo, we are back in business baby! Finally answering my backlog!

Anon, as you're the oldest anon in here I think I owe you a particular apology for how long this took -- the others I can honestly tell I got married and then hurt my spine and couldn't do much of anything all that time and then the holidays rolled in, but you were "only" a casualty of common or garden depression ::( ... at first.

I hope I manage to make up for that!

So all right, in our little world we have our dramatis personae.

☆ Prince of Void

☆ Rogue of Space

☆ Mage of Life

☆ Thief of Time.

I have a clear favourite already! Which is unusual, admittedly, but I'm admitting this because I have to make a legal distinction for both you and myself between your Prince of Void and my fantroll blorbo, Yudhei Tanina, imperial failson. :^)

Or maybe I don't! Maybe you'd like to hear how I write that one, and cannibalize a bit. Either way, two for one deal here, let's get mystical!

Prince of Void

Prince, active "Destroyer" class; a Prince destroys with, through or the essence of their aspect. I suppose they could also subvert their aspect and subvert through their aspect, but they would do it more aggressively than bards are able to, and more selfishly, very like the difference between Rogue and Thief.

There are also undertones of command and nobility, though they're played differently than a Lord's.

Ah, Void, the aspect of mystery, secrecy, depth, obfuscation, the arcane, the dark. The aspect, apparently, also of obsession -- just look at Grimdark (Inverted, Void) Rose, or Equius, in his element! We can also make a case for Roxy... but let's not get into that, it is very sad after all.

Truly the most sexyman of all the aspects. Muah. Chef's kiss, chef's kiss I say!

The presence of this Prince within the parameters of your play predicts that, bluntly speaking, everyone is phucking screwed. Not because of the Prince, necessarily -- although maybe because of the Prince, you could do that. You could write a story about a Lovecraftian-Machiavellian paranoiac ruining everyone's lives with their hidden depth of obsessive eldritchness. I kind of did it (almost).

There is a second path. In a specifically trollish, caste-bound reading of the role of a prince, and also in a parallel human one focused on the romantic concept of royalty, nobility obliges, and so a hypothetical good, realized Prince of Void must serve the cause of victory through their capacity for destruction.

That's sort of the concept behind my Yudhei -- a literal prince (both by blood and in that he's the Prince, like a Nasi, of his Empire's religious-legal supreme court -- a president and an emissary and interpreter of the eldritch gods, and most importantly the Empress' fruity vizier) who sincerely believes that only he, or at least his benevolent direction from the shadows, can fix anything. The Void is all around, see, and nobody else can see and thrive in it...

Yudhei's biggest problem was/is that he's incapable of delegating to other people, which in his case was because his entire life is a conga line of increasing horrors, and everyone who raised him including the monster openly thought he was an abomination who ought to have realized his destiny as a condiment sweeps ago.

For totally understandable biological and social reasons he decided he was physically and psychologically the only non-Horrordeity person in the entire universe even slightly capable of coping with his problems, so he simply never told anyone anything that would endear him to them, ever. Also, per his own beliefs, as the only competent person anywhere at all and one of the most powerful individuals in the known universe, of course he was both entitled and obligated to meddle ominously in everyone else's lives!

(Actually, the SGRUB-SBURB double reacharound game in that story is directly a result of him realizing what the game is, releasing it into the world, and herding his mostly estranged siblings and their friends into an enormous daisychain of linked sessions. He fucked it up for everyone colossally.)

I think this is probably common to the entire classpect, for different personal reasons -- whether a Prince of Void personally wants to destroy Void or use it to destroy (or both) or whatever other reading you prefer, they do it out of motivations that ultimately grow out of a deep feeling of loneliness and being in danger from others, which they build a "castle" around and defend from others using whatever power or privilege they have. They may, as you can see, also deeply need to be sure that no one else is lonely.

We can kind of see similar behaviours playing out with Eridan, Prince of Hope, and Dirk, Prince of Heart, with respect to their own classpects. Eridan's White Science thing is an obvious result of feeling failed by the concept of whimsy and magic, inextricable from the concept of religion (which after all presumably dictates that whatever happens to anyone is moral as long as the castes look right). Dirk has no idea who he is, and vacillates between tearing down others and leveraging what he does know about souls and the like to help them.

So then, what would you like your Prince of Void to be?

You have options! Many options, even.

Distant, lonely, altruistic but misguided seeker of mysteries?

Enlightened aspirant to the status of Horrorterror for themself (I once wrote against this exact concept but as a Mage)?

Machiavellian grey eminence?

All three, somehow?

What you do depends on what you want from the narrative.

Rogue of Space

Rogue: Class of altruistic redistribution. One who takes their aspect or uses their aspect to take for the purpose of sharing the loot with the team.

Space: Aspect of potential, room to grow and breathe, and actual physical space, dimension and physics.

I also quite like this one, and no doubt the players for it like it for the same reason: how do you take and give potential, safety, place-belonging? Can you do that with size? What does that MEAN?

To think about it, let's address our canon Rogues, Roxy (famously the Robin Hood of Void, whatever that means), Nepeta and Rufioh.

Examining their patterns we can see that what a Rogue seems to actually "do" to redistribute their aspect is be dealt an objectively fucked up hand, and then through sheer yes-anding, willpower and a little bit of luck and legerdemain.

In that way they really are the Robin Hood of whatever it is -- it's not "about" the stealing (and Rufioh certainly wasn't meaning to steal freedom from other people, that's the opposite of what Rufioh was meaning), it's "about" the other Robin Hood trait of being handed hot nothing and making a balloon animal out of it that helps everyone somehow. Stealing is kind of incidental here; you can think of it as more like ... the effective use and allocation of limited resources. Some of which you happen to need to steal.

Roxy making things from literal nothing isn't actually doing any crimes, and Nepeta is a furry roleplayer, not an identity thief, see? They do things that seem like they should be illegal, and iirc they do both actually steal, but rogue is a broader term than thief...

So then, the Rogue particularly of Space is someone who doesn't have a lot of space -- room to breathe, literal actual living-space, space away from people. But even though they're deficient, they provide to others -- they're the street-corner therapy friend with a skeleton full of closets full of more skeletons. The guy whose couch is always open, for "free", except if you consider it a form of payment to listen to them obliviously go on about how they went to a protest once and got robbed by otherwise completely see-through cops ("I never saw it coming!"). We all know and love one like that.

What does it mean that they're in over their head like they are? In their cramped little room covered wall to wall with struggle art, their own and others', where does the room for others to breathe end, and when do they actually get to breathe themself?

Who watches the watchers? Who recognizes the one who recognizes others?

Mage of Life

Mage: Class of the active seeker of understanding for themselves or for its own sake: the visionary, the prophet, the wizard.

Life: Aspect of the way of things, cycles, systems, growth, flourishing, struggle, and development.

Personally, I'm a Witch of Life, but I can respect the single most Earthsea classpect in the catalogue.

The Mage of Life has essentially the same arc and lifepath as Ged from Earthsea, which is a fascinating cycle you should read if you haven't.

I'll try not to spoil too much in case you haven't in fact read the books -- I really do treasure Earthsea and think everyone should read it, even if they never touch any other fantasy.

But, so, then -- a Mage of Life begins the session with no understanding of Life. Their being a Mage, this doesn't also need to be true of the rest of the cast; for the Mage's journey it doesn't really matter whether their friends are all perfect boddhisattvas in tune with the cycle or not.

The point is that they personally aren't. The point may even be that they personally don't get it -- they could be merely naive or actually malicious, in the vein of a smug young capitalist aspirant too deep in the hole to care about a burning planet.

Either way, whether they're essential to the group's victory or not (it may help humble a particularly industrialist Mage if they aren't), they have to engage with Life on its own terms. Perhaps their Quest relies heavily on becoming a participant in and interdependent with their Consorts' society? If you like, you can also have them wake up to the realities of certain systems -- have them acknowledge their own gender, their demographic's structural role in their own society, the way they've been shaped by their own struggle, the ways they didn't see others' before.

Out of your entire cast here I think this person is the one who's most likely to benefit the most from the game... if, of course, they flourish and learn and grow and survive.

They might not. Knowledge is power, after all, and it's not quite that only the strong survive, but how equipped actually are the only available people in the world to hold them up if they flag?

Their journey's a very hard one most of us are still on, and they'll need support. Without it... well... it doesn't bear thinking about.

Thief of Time

Aspect of routine, ritual, rhythm, pattern, the relation of past and future, relation to the coming end.

Class of one who takes away from others for their own benefit, to fill their own lack.

Ah! Traditions, traditions. Without them, how would I get three words deep into the Fiddler on the Roof tradition monologue before you realized what I was doing and seriously contemplated shooting me?

Bulwark, scaffold, thing on which a spirit grows; Time is the complement and antithesis to Space, the concept of learning to relate to yourself as a mortal creature dancing its own brief role in a spectacle without end. Homestuck has this as a central theme -- I think all aspects in some way relate to either conforming to or defying or iterating the way of things, as is required for making your own way as an adult, though some do this more literally than others.

Time's concern is with rhythm and repetition, though, and in a way with predestination, though it doesn't take Doom's stance about embracing the inevitable.

It's left open-ended what a Time player wants to do with the rites and patterns, and most people write their Time ocs as rebels in the vein of Dave.

But ... you can lack Time-- literal Time to live, metaphorical Time to dance to -- so severely that you need to aggressively and hostilely appropriate other people's.

What if structure is something some people actually want?

I had a conformist Seer of Time many moons ago, when I was barely older than he was myself, Khanan S. by name (six-player game, as you can see). Great kid -- his inciting incident will be instructive here. Khanan, see, was a sort of person immensely concerned with religious norms and rituals, the right things done at precisely the right times, in a cycle that will go on forever (even past the end of our own universe). But you can't do all that when all your friends formerly from the Internet are people who don't get it, can't get it, and who need you desperately.

So he did a lot of flailing around, a bit of ill-advised shaving with Occam's razor (lalala none of this is real lol the world can't be over because it can't, also I'm 14-15 years old I'm too little for this) and trying to make it work, very Magelike behaviour you know. And then his friends started dying because he refused to be a big damn hero, at which point he leveraged his understanding as someone who once actually did have Time (before the end of the world; to keep the beat of life unending; to be a child), to provide his friends with some sort of a framework for themselves.

Also from Alpha Khanan's point of view he was trying to make sure everyone else (including his own alternate selves) understood what to do with their Time over, and over, and over, and over, and...

Well, for him it didn't pan out, he went a bit grimdark. Everybody else had to help their Khanan (#18) herd Alpha Khanan back into the Furthest Ring where his natural habitat now was (completely deranged and well on the way to becoming a Horrorterror), it was great. Existential. Horrible, actually -- imagine being trapped in the void forever because the people you love most know that if they kill you, their better and kinder and softer and stronger version of you, which is you but completely stupid, ignorantly cruel and irredeemably naive, will also die. And so they won't even give you the mercy of letting you stop spinning plates for them. They hate you and they need you and you love them because you have nothing else.

Homestuck, everyone! And that's why he turned himself into an Earthsea dragon type of game construct - can't be sad if you can't experience sorrow and live forever as a caretaker of the cycle! It's almost like growing up and going to divinity school really (it's nothing at all like that even slightly. When this was current events my friends and I had also just read Omelas and seen Madoka.)

Cool story bro. What have we learned here that's applicable to a Thief?

Well, what if somebody never had time, or Time?

What if they were very ill and very hurt, and their community had no more communal tie to the rest of time than any random arbitrary bunch of strangers?

What if they thought they were the only one of their friends who really suffers, who really gets it, because at least the friends have something they can point to and say "this is my way to go, this is who I am, this is a map for my life, this is me"?

What if they envy their friends' connection and sense of knowing what to do to be a friend, their friends' connections to their cultures, their friends' banal musicality and sense of timing?

What if something told them they could take that for themselves?

I imagine your Thief of Time is probably the sort of person who's chronically online and loves to argue -- they need a sense that they do something, anything a person is supposed to do better than other people, because for the moment, their sense of self depends on diminishing others. And of course they love to take up others' time. It makes them feel seen, heard, and something very far removed from but still tangential to loved.

This is probably a very complicated and sad character, typifying the struggles of the other three: pathologically alone, naive, and without the luxury of either space or a blueprint for their own development. Their arc seems tragic, to me. Let's have a look at how it all goes together, though -- there is a happy possibility even for them. There has to be, right?

Otherwise everyone else is wrong, and they're right, they're the only one who's right.

Flow

So there's these four friends. I don't know them, they're very open-ended -- but I do know that they live in a particular type of world, or at least a particular type of connection to each other.

Insofar as their friend group is a world, there are patterns, and these will carry over to the needs of the session.

Void has a Prince -- that person destroys the void and through the void. Perhaps they destroy the void of ignorance by being the homework friend for the others, but they also hurt others by prying too far into their lives. They destroy through void by being unapproachable and clammy themself -- in that players reflect their aspects, this perhaps tells us that the nature of obfuscation and darkness in this session is self-protective and vulnerable. It might also tell us that some mysteries need a soft touch... and some secrets have power.

Space has a Rogue -- potential and physical space and room for development is unequally distributed in the beginning of this session, and this player's mission is to fix that, however they can, for their friends. To do that, though, they'll first have to figure out their own problems and see their friends a little bit less personally -- perhaps mediated by their Land Quest? Prior to ascension, this Space Rogue might not be very roguey in a team focused way -- or at least not effectively so, although they will try.

Life has a Mage who is on a mission to understand what the fuck it's all for. Depending on your personal philosophical mileage regarding this, what you want their position in the group to be and how they react can vary -- I think, depending on how realized they are, though, their friends might have an easier time of it...

And of course, the Thief of Time. Thieves, like rogues, mean there is a structural imbalance in the distribution of their aspect -- the difference is just that they think they're subsequently justified in hoarding it for themselves. In the Thief of Time's case, all they really need is one friend who has it all figured out to feel that they need to micromanage and manipulate their friends in order to feel something. Maybe they want the leadership role naturally occupied by someone else, and flail around imitating success because they don't know how to be themself, really. Vriska sort of thing.

So the world has a neutral Void (of course, the Void is only ever neutral), a shortage of Space and Time, and at least one person has no idea how they're supposed to work with this.

A difficult situation, to be sure, but personally I think you can write it! I'd love to see!

Good luck!

#homestuck #classpect #classpect analysis #session analysis #homestuck fansession

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kyle-reviews · 1 year

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The Shawshank Redemption

How do you talk about a movie that's been praised as much as Frank Darabont's The Shawshank Redemption? Well, there's always more to say, especially for a film that leaves you in awe every time you watch it. For those who haven't seen it, they might think of it as "that prison movie with Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman." Trust me, you're missing out if that's all you know. This isn't just another prison flick; it's a deeply emotional and thought-provoking masterpiece that explores the human spirit's resilience. The movie starts with the wrongful conviction of banker Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins) for the murder of his wife and her lover. He's sent to Shawshank State Penitentiary, where he meets Red (Morgan Freeman), a long-time inmate who "knows how to get things." Together, they form a strong friendship that anchors the film. The choices they make and the relationships they forge create a rich tapestry of character development, making us care about their fate deeply. Darabont's direction and screenplay, adapted from Stephen King's novella, are top-notch. The pacing is excellent, allowing us to experience both the passage of time and the character's growth. The cinematography by Roger Deakins is absolutely breathtaking, with its moody, dark tones and excellent use of shadows, creating a stark contrast between the bleakness of prison life and the hope that lies within the characters. The acting in this movie is truly exceptional. Tim Robbins delivers a powerful performance as Andy, a man who never gives up hope despite his dire circumstances. Morgan Freeman's portrayal of Red is nothing short of iconic, with his smooth, soothing voice narrating the story and providing insight into life at Shawshank. The supporting cast, including Bob Gunton as the tyrannical Warden Norton and Clancy Brown as the brutal Captain Hadley, bring depth and nuance to their roles. The film is filled with memorable moments that showcase a range of filmmaking techniques. The iconic scene where Andy plays Mozart's "The Marriage of Figaro" over the prison's PA system is an excellent example of the power of music in cinema. It's a brief moment of beauty and freedom in an otherwise oppressive environment, and the choice to use this particular piece of music is a testament to Darabont's understanding of storytelling. Another standout scene is when Andy reveals his escape plan to Red. The sequence is cleverly constructed, with Darabont using editing, sound design, and visual storytelling to reveal the details of Andy's ingenious scheme. This moment adds a layer of excitement and tension, making the audience root for Andy even more. What makes The Shawshank Redemption stand out is its ability to blend drama, emotion, and hope in a seemingly hopeless situation. It's a beautiful exploration of friendship, redemption, and the power of the human spirit. The film's conclusion is a masterful piece of storytelling that leaves the viewer with a sense of satisfaction and the belief that good can triumph even in the darkest of times. Whether you love or hate prison movies, The Shawshank Redemption is a must-watch. It transcends its genre and offers something for everyone – a powerful story, outstanding performances, and expert filmmaking. This movie has rightfully earned its place in the annals of cinema history, and I highly recommend it to anyone looking for a film that will touch their heart and leave them feeling inspired.

A feel-good masterpiece, 9/10 :)

#The-Shawshank-Redemption #IDC4U #Film-Reviews #Writing

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nightowlfandom · 3 years

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Ayato Sakamaki- My Only Human

HEY HEY!!

ANON ASKS

Can I make a request from your x -rated prompts. 36, 40, 57 , With Ayato Sakamaki. >.< if you can.

Idea: Maybe the reader, catches a student at the night school flirting and touching him, but when she thought he would shove her off, he doesn't. She gets super mad at him and doesnt talk to him the rest of the day until he comes in her room after school demanding to the what the readers problem is, and it leads to some rough sexy time??

If you cant thats fine >.<

If YoU CaN’t ThAt’s FiNe, PSSSSHH I GOT THIS

36- That’s it, grab my hair. Yank it, pull me back into your pussy.

40- How do you ride me so good? God damn, you’re gonna break me!

57- Fuck! You’re mine. You’re fucking mine and I’m fucking yours.

CHECKOUT MY MASTERLIST HERE!!!

Leggo!!

...

“Yui, question.” you walked through the halls with your favorite adoptive-cousin.

“Y/N, Answer!” she giggled in reply. “What’s up?”

“I needed help! Me and this math thing is not a thing.” you glared down at your folder.

“18, 42, 6.9 and X=17.” she instantly filled in the blanks to the questions you hadn’t answered.

“Have I ever told you I loved you?” you faked crying.

“Only always.” she shrugged. “I see the boys beat us here.” she mused, noticing the Sakamaki AND the Mukami brothers in the respective groups by the lockers, right across from each-other.

“Always beating us here, but never offering to drop us off...assholes.”

“Aren’t you the one insisting on Ayato and you arriving at different times?” she raised a brow as you two slowed down in pace.

“I told it it would be better if I arrived a little bit after him after his gaggling fans dispersed.” you half-shrugged. “The last thing I need are his fangirls trying me.” you rolled your eyes.

“Like that girl flirting with Ayato?”

“Exactly...Wait WHAT?”

Yui pointed in the direction of the Sakamaki brothers. A girl was standing in front of him. Holding her books to her chest with one hand while twirling strands of her hair in another.

“Julia.” you growled. “She always does this!” you motioned to how ridiculous it was that she always flirted with one of the Sakamaki brothers. Especially the one that was TAKEN!

“Ayato won’t let her even touch him!” Yui tried to console you.

“You know what, you’re right.” you smiled a little. Everyone knew you two were an item. She wouldn’t dare.

“He loves you and he wouldn’t let her-”

You two watched as Ayato put on a flirtatious smile, crossing his arms in amusement as he leaned against the lockers.

“Maybe he won’t even entertain-”

Julia trailed a finger up his arm, laughing like a hyena.

“Maybe he’ll embarrass her?”

You watched as he took her hand, raised it to his mouth and gave her knuckles a short peck.

“Maybe-”

“Yui I love you, but I’ma need you to stop talking.” your voice kinda cracked.

You had transferred from day school to night school for him. You had transferred SCHOOLS for him. You dealt with the burden of having to take care of a human girl who was allergic to her own skin (you loved Yui to bits, but damnit if she didn’t get you into trouble all the time) on some days along with dealing with a bunch of perverted, self-important, assholes for him...so why..WHY was he responding to Julia....like he was single.

“I’m going class.” you grumbled. “See you later.”

“Y/N WAIT!”

...(Meanwhile)

Ayato needed to pass his English Lit. Class project, so of course when that Julia girl offered to type his report for him, he couldn’t say no. He had to pretend he wasn’t disgusted by her if he was going to remain in the top 5% of people with an actual brain. Fuck being like the other students.

“Y/N WAIT!”

“That sounded like Yui.” Reiji commented. They were surprised to see you bolted down the hallway at full speed with Yui on your tail. She skid to a stop to glare at Ayato.

“You’ve really done it this time.” was all she said before she ran off. “Y/N!! COME BACK!”

“Smooth move, moron.” Yuma called from the other side. “Looks like I get to play knight in shining armor.” he winked.

“Ayato~” Julia got his attention, “make sure to meet me in the library so I can give you your essay.”

“Yeah, sure whatever.” Ayato watched at Yui chased you down the hall.

... (Lunchtime/Free Period)

You sat in the courtyard, sadly staring at a sketchbook page You liked to paint or draw school life in the quad. You had started with a sketch of the Sakamaki brothers, but it didn’t feel right.

You’d probably get in trouble, but you just had to draw Yuma Mukami who was sitting by the fountain. You looked up every so often, hoping he didn’t see you.

“Y/N!” You heard. You turned your head to the side to see Ayato sitting with his brothers. “COME OVER HERE.”

Wordlessly, you grabbed your sketchbook...only to walk to the other side of the quad. You sat at another table, focusing back on your artwork.

“Hey...”A shadow was cast over your work.

“Do you mind?” you grumbled. “You’re blocking my light source.”

“Hm, I was just thinking you’d wanna see the reference up close.”

Your head darted up to see Yuma, standing in front of you. “May I sit.”

“Do whatever you want.” you grumbled. “I don’t care.”

Ayato watched from the other side of the court yard as that smug playful bastard took your sketchbook from in front of you and began flipping through it. Why hadn’t you sat with him today?? That Mukami dickwad had better not touch you.

He watched as Yuma flirted with you, and thankfully you didn’t seem to fall for his charms. Though that half smile you gave when he gave you a flower that had been growing nearby was enough to make him angry.

“AYATOOOO~” Julia practically threw herself into the spot where you usually sat when you sat with him. “I finished your report!”

“Great. Sure, whatever.” he glared potholes at Yuma.

“So...do you wanna eat lunch together?”

“That’s nice, Maria.”

“It’s Julia...”

“Sure whatever.”

(Meanwhile)

“There’s that smile.” he winked as you looked at the flower.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Also, next time you draw me...let’s have it be a nude painting huh?” He winked, getting up.

“Gross.” you scoffed, standing up yourself. “See you in Biology.” you cringed.

“Y/N!” you heard Ayato’s voice call again. Just ignore him...(Read more below the break)

... (Smut warning)

When you got home, you locked yourself in your room. You had told Yui to not bother trying to make you feel better, because it wouldn’t work. You had just finished your homework when-

“Y/N! LET ME IN!” Ayato angrily knocked at the door. When he didn’t hear anything back, he decided that the window would have to suffice. “FINE! YOU LEAVE ME NO CHOICE.”

“Oh shit!” you began to run towards the window, hoping to shut it when Ayato practically appeared out of nowhere with a frown on his face.

“Why have you been ignoring me?” he glowered. When you didn’t answer, he grew more agitated. “Y/N, Don’t make me ask again.” Still nothing. “Y/N, You have three seconds to tell me-”

“Why don’t you ask Julia!” you finally snapped. “You sure seem to like flirting with HER.”

“What? I’d never flirt with that disgusting-”

“SO KISSING HER HAND THIS MORNING WASN’T FLIRTING! Yui and I saw you! She touched your arm and you didn’t even move!” you accused.

“Y/N, let me explain!”

“YOU DON’T NEED TO! You don’t love me anymore!” you pointed. “So go be with her! Go flirt with her! Go and spend time with her because that all you seemed to be interested in doing today!”

Ayato gasped, he finally realized what Yui had been talking about when she said ‘You really done it this time.’ He hadn’t even realized it, but he had been busy with Julia all day that by the time he got free time. He thought-

“You gonna let me talk now, Human?” he used the pet-name he coined for you. “I don’t love Julia. And I wasn’t flirting with her because I don’t love you.”

“Huh?”

“She was doing my English Lit. paper and I had to make her think she was worth my time.” he explained. “She had to think I was actually interested in her or else she’d make a scene. She knew what this exchange was. A litle bit of attention and that A+ was as good as mine. I passed by the way.” he winked.

“S-so, you don’t love her?” you wiped your eyes.

“Of course not! How many times have I told you that my heart only belongs to you?” He asked. “Idiot.” he shook his head with an amused smile. “As if that plain, lowly human could ever compare to my own personal descendant of the goddeses that made this wicked world.” he bit his lip.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was running out of time. I would have told you, had you sat with me at lunch today.” he rolled his eyes. “...Y/N, please accept my deepest apology. I wouldn’t hurt you...unless you asked.” he wiggled his eyebrows at the last part. “Now come here.”

He grabbed your waist and pulled you towards him, taking you in a long drawn out kiss. He purposefully moaned in your mouth, laughing maniacally through each peck.

“Me, and that disgusting excuse- how laughable.” he began kissing down your neck. “I guess I’ll have to show you that you’re mine and will only ever be mine.”

“Ayato~” you whimpered.

“Shush.” he kissed you again. “ Fuck! “ he kept kissing your lips “You’re mine. You’re fucking mine and I’m fucking yours. .” He backed you up towards the bed. “Usually I’d ask you to suck my dick first, but I want everything to be about you.” he made you sit down. “Aww, you didn’t take off your uniform, so I can take your panties off right now.” he smirked.

Had he lost his mind?!?

“Have you lost your mind?!?” your legs shook as your panties were discarded who knew where.

“I’ve always wanted to defile you while you were wearing it, so you can think of me every single time you put it on. Mmmmff-” he buried his head between your legs, exploring your depths with his tongue.

You took in a sharp breath, instantly arching your back in his favor. Good, that was his invitation to go forward. “Y/N, you taste so fucking good-” he laughed gleefully. “I wanna bite your clit and taste the blood right from your naughty place.” he moaned, lashing his tongue against your heat.

“Ayato, It feels so-” you mewled. “M-more, please?”

Hearing this, he went feral. He dug his nails into your thighs, sucking harshly at your slit. You had to hold the back of his head to stay vertical, your hands tangled through his lush hair.

“ That’s it, grab my hair. Yank it, pull me back into your pussy-mmm. “ he couldn’t even finish his sentence. He was so hungry that not even a snide comment could leave his lips while he tasted you. He’d never do this with anyone else, love anyone else. He was having too much fun worshipping his beautiful human.

“Ayato- I’m gonna c-cu-”

“Cum. Let me taste you. Let me feel it against me, let me drive my fangs into your thighs while you cum so you can feel what true ecstasy feels like.”

You felt yourself unravel, only to feel those fangs dig into your left thigh. “Ungh! Ayato!!” you cried.

“Fuck, Y/N.” he lapped up your blood. “It tastes even better when you’re cumming.” he bit his lip. “I wanna feel you wrap around me.” he crawled over you, capturing your mouth in a long, messy kiss.

You were surprised when he moved you two so you were straddling him. “Undo my jeans, take what’s yours, Y/N.” he bit his lips.

You shyly unbuttoned his jeans and pulled then down along with his boxers. You were welcomed by a very obvious hardon.

His cock slapped against his stomach as it was set free.

“C-can I, touch?”

“It’s yours.” he winked. “Do whatever you want to me.”

You began stroking him, coaxing a low satisfied moan from your lover. You wanted to be mean and leave him but who were you kidding, you both needed it.

“Is it too forward to ask you to ride my cock?” he asked, biting his lip. “Please?”

He caressed your thighs, coaxing you to slip his dick along the perimeter of your slit. You met his eyes, but could only shyly look away.

“Oh Goooodd-” he sucked in air as his dick slipped inside. You shy rocked your hips, coaxing another moan out of him. His hands rested on your thighs. “Shit, Y/N, Why are you so fucking- Ungh...Shit I can’t take much more.” he thrusted his hips upwards.

A small gasp hitched in your throat, followed by many as he thrust himself in and out of you. You wanted some sort of control too, so you rolled your hips even more against him. “Shit. Ayato~” you moaned. “Fuuuh-”

“Why would I want anyone else when you’re here with me.” he spoke. “Why would I NEED anyone else!” he growled. “You’re mine! I’m Yours, that’s how to fuck it should be!” he seethed. “Fuck your pussy feels so good.”

He was absolutely right, you didn’t think even washing this uniform would get his essence out of it.

“Shit!!” Ayato threw his head back, moaning like you had never seen him moan before. You didn’t even think he could even make such a face. “Y/N!!! “ he cried. “I fucking love you so much, Fuck, S-shit!! Fuck say it back, please.”

“Ayato,” you felt his cock twitch inside. “I love you-haah-aah!”

“ How do you ride me so good? God damn, you’re gonna break me! “ he cried, digging his nails into your thighs. “Fuck Y/N this is what you to do me!!”

You both were loud, sensitive, and on the brinK of breaking.

“I’m gonna CU---AAAHH FUUCCK!” you felt his warmth spill inside you. You were taken aback by him wrapped a hand around your neck and pulling you down to kiss you abruptly. He moaned loudly into your mouth, crying in euphoria as he bottomed out inside your wetness.

“Y/N!” he cried once more. “Fuck I love you.” his face twisted in pleasure, those usually stern eyebrows going soft. “I fucking love you. My human, My only human~.” he hugged you close.

“Ayato~” you replied just as wantonly. “I love you.” you whimpered.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook for ignoring me today, now it’s my turn to get revenge.” you heard his breathless laugh. “Shall we continue?”

(I.....AM SO SORRY FOR THIS)

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

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There was a Girl...

Pairing | Jace Wayland x reader

Summary | When Clary becomes a shadowhunter, she notices how cold and ruthless Jace is. Every one seems to relate to his pain, not resonating at quite the same level. They’re all mourning nevertheless.

Warnings | Mentions of death, brief smut (handjob), angst, heartbreak, unrequited feelings (for Clary)

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Opening your eyes, you awoke to Jace's chest, his blonde hair falling over his face. You preferred how it looked when it was a little bit scruffy instead of slicked back, and you reached for one of the hanging strands. They were like seams of gold, reflecting from the light that hid within him.

Most people had the wrong perspective on the young man, they only saw a well skilled shadow hunter. But they ignored the smart and witty, yet simultaneously charming person that he was underneath all of his runes. His parabatai Alec was familiar with the set of abilities that his brother figure had, and all that he would accomplish. People thought, because of Jace’s distorted, and confusing past, that he was just another warrior to serve whatever institute that he was sent to.

But in fact, he was not. His duty would always be, to put his family and friends first. He liked to put you on the top of the list, but you always felt the need to scrap that idea, claiming that you could not be his priority from start to finish. It was as though you knew what you future held for you, and how indeed, he could not manage to protect every person that he cared about. The prospect was a great responsibility, far too much for one shadow hunter, even if they be among the best of their kind.

To put such a weight on your own shoulders was defiantly cruel, it would always end in failure, no matter what was done to prevent said downfall. There was never a possibility of saving everyone, that was insanity. The monsters had to kill, in order for you all to remain outside of Idris, and continue on with your heaven sent duty.

“Jace?” You could tell he was awake from how he smiled at the sound of your voice. “Come on.” It was an attempt to encourage him, but you were quick to realise that it wasn’t working. He didn’t like mornings all that much, for good reason too, after all you were shadowhunters.

“Jace.” Your voice became louder and clearer, up to the point where it no longer sounded like your own. He looked away from the screen, to see the new girl watching him. She had an expectant glaze to her green eyes, which were much different from the shield that was covering his own. His pools were surrounded by a shadow of grief, pulling down the entirety of his face to the point where it looked as though he no longer wanted to live.

And that wasn’t entirely incorrect, he struggled at life, often never finding a moment of happiness, and if he did, then he would paint a smile upon his face and wear it to satisfy everyone else around. He had tried to cope with the loss that burdened his heart so gravely, yet nothing made it feel okay. You’d want him to move on, whether it be to lose his vengeful esteem concerning your passing, or find someone else to confide in late at night, to stay up with talking as his head rested upon the pillow, that he needed to wash, so it didn’t smell like you.

Or even, if not to share a bed with this new person, your overall plan as you sat with the angels above would be to find some kind of peace. But that appeared to be the last thing that he wanted as he digitally scoured the city of New York for monsters to uncover, and kill. If he couldn’t protect you, the love of his life, then he would settle for doing so with humans, after all, that had been the way that you had gone. The job had been your passion, yet simultaneously your downfall, and he’d be fine if one of these days he failed to tackle a beast, and it got to him first.

“Clary.” He greeted her, wanting to remove a dangerous monster from the streets by decapitating it. In memory, he would use your favourite blade, spilling blood upon its glowing stake to keep your legacy continuing, although, it did not do much but serve to release Jace’s frustrations. It was a day in which he wanted to speak to nobody, have nobody following him, nor asking him mundane questions about what it meant to be a shadowhunter. Hell, he didn’t even know! To him, the lifestyle was nothing more than accommodated anguish, though, he had been told not to promote it using those words, otherwise, there wouldn’t exactly be many people lining up to join the adverse fight.

And one of the people that he had in mind concerning excitement over a dire and ‘exciting’ lifestyle was Clary. She was naive, and whilst she didn’t know everything, today wasn’t particularly the day in which he wished to explain it to her. It, being predominantly anything. Whilst he had managed to be nice to her during the first few days, it was out of courtesy, considering Alec had an instant distaste towards the wide eyed redhead; he wasn’t sure why, but he supposed that Clary could see a detail of himself that was hidden from the others.

However, even through Jace’s welcoming exterior, was in pain. The feeling tormented him, denying him a break from the patronising pressure, leaving him to hold blame to nobody but himself. The hurt was cemented into his eyes, reflecting as he watched all other tragedies with a stone cold expressions, them hardly affecting him, because he had and was experiencing the worst routine of torture that was possible to him. He had watched you die, and nothing could take those horrific memories from him, no matter how much he wanted them gone.

That was the last time that he saw you. When you passed in his arms, a large wound in your abdomen pouring out with blood, drowning his desperate hands as he tried his utmost to put pressure on the life threatening injury. He wanted to save you but he didn’t know how, his training had always claimed that killing the monsters was more important than saving the life of a shadowhunter from an unknown bloodline. There had been nothing to prepare him for that day in the field, he was a fighter, and taught to be so, not a healer; he wasn’t a medic, he was just a warrior. “What do you want?” Blatantly fell from his round lips as he cast an eye towards the newbie, unimpressed by her timing, or her presence at all.

Clearly, she hadn’t received the memo to leave him be, especially today out of all the rest. Alec, having the personalised intel as to why Jace was emitting a solitary rut understood why he wished to be alone, and respected the space, granting him as much time to himself as he wanted. And whilst Alec was your friend also, he could feel the deep longing that was stabbing his parabatai in the chest, and it killed him too. Your death had been so unexpected, and now without you, there was a void within the institute. And the archer felt as though Clary was trying to fill it, and he saw that as nothing more than disrespect, though she was probably ignorant to the history that wandered the halls.

Her face revelled back at his tone, but nevertheless she continued on with her prying. “I was wondering if I could join you on the hunt, I’m getting better, Izzy even said so.” Jace refrained from rolling his eyes, and contained the feeling that was trying to burst out of his chest. It was anger, directed at everyone that was still alive, including himself. There was no fairness in it, to say that he was sad was an understatement, he was eternally devastated, the death of you had broken him, crumbled him into a figure that he no longer recognised.

“No, you can’t Clary.” He dismissed her, walking away, and going to grab his seraph so that he could hunt this sucker down, and bring upon the same kind of pain to its family as its kind had down to him. God, did you look badass as you swung it, and the thought alone had tears resonating in his unmatched eyes, thinking of how it was the last relic that remained of you.

Walking casually into the armoury, Jace had his hands prized in the depths of his pockets, as his expert and quick fleeting eyes focalised on you, and the weapon within your hold. Your body leant in harmony with the blade, the sound of it woosh-img in the air satisfying to all that could hear; that being only you and the Wayland boy.

“Can i not train in peace?” You groaned, lowering the blade whence you realised that you were being watched. The eyes trailed up your side where your shirt had ridden up, raking over the rune that you had drew upon your skin only this morning. A light laugh fell from Jace’s lips as he stalked forward, taking your seraph out of your hand, and going to lob it upon the ground, but the stern look in your eyes stopped him. Instead, against his nature, he placed it down as though it were made of glass, and rose to stand before you once more.

“Not when you look that good.” The blonde retorted with a sly smirk, sliding his hands up the sides of your hips, finding absolute solace in the feel of your skin. He could be against you forever, and he would not complain, so long as it did last for such a time. “Makes me want to do things to you y/n y/l/n. Terrible things. What would the heads think?” He asked, in reference to those that were in charge of the institute.

Stifling down remarked laughter at his sensually intended words, you raised your forefinger to the space above his brows, and poked him with enough pressure, so that he would pay attention to the notion. “That you’re not thinking with your own.” You went to cross your arms, but instead, Jace grabbed them, moving down to cast his hand over your own.

“Oh, I’m not.” The shadowhunter confirmed, placing your hand upon the crotch of his sweats, applying enough force behind his grip so that you could feel him twitching. “I am indeed having thoughts from elsewhere, would you like to see my sweet?” Licking your lips, you nodded, watching as he peeled the layer away, wrapping your hand around his base, and giving him a few jerks, feeling his pulse race through his cock.

“Tell me more about what you’re thinking my love.” You bit your bottom lip, fluttering your eyelashes up at him, only to reverberate a groan from the blonde male. He panted as your pace quickened, and he was almost certain that he was going to spray his jizz all over the floor if you did not uphold your sexual administrations. His head leant back, as pleasured sounds broke through the clenching of his teeth.

And then, it all stopped as a voice, dressed in absolute disgust, written over with unmotivated shock, interrupted your little exchange. “Really guys, this is a gym, not your damned bedroom. The two of you really are disgusting!” It was Alec, and he cringed at the fact that he had seen his best friend’s cock being stroked in your grasp. Yeah, he wasn’t going to be training today, or at least, not in the asserted place for it.

“Clary.” Izzy called her name, wearing a short lived smile. Whence she studied the expression of the redhead, she was quick to pay attention to the disappointment upon her face. There was confusion laddered in her skin, masking it with creased that made her look worried all at the same time. “What happened?” The Lightwood woman asked concerned, bracing a hand upon said girl’s shoulder.

“Jace snapped at me.” The newcomer informed her, frowning at the prospect, and then after all that, he had stormed off, as though she didn’t even matter. She felt well and truly rejected, like a newspaper that had been tossed in the street, and ending up in a horrible puddle. “I thought he might have liked me, but his attitude says otherwise.”

Izzy twitched her nose; she knew what day it was. There was no way to break it to Clary easy that Jace had no amorous emotions towards her, and so instead of being blunt with the new resident at the institute, she decided to tell the woman a story. “There was a girl...” she began, knowing that after all was explained, that Clary would understand.

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