#and the corpse is of course the old year

[zincbot]

kakashi's death still kinda fucks with me

[necronomeconomicism]

Ok gotta talk about it.

As a Jewish historian, I fucking hate Israel in ways most probably will never be able to comprehend. I'm going to try and explain it anyways. The central creation myth of Israel is that it is Jewish, and then consequently, that Israel is a part of Jewishness. Its easy to simply state this is false, but fully comprehending this and putting it into practice in thought and deed seems rare to me.

The evil at the heart of this violence predates the recent acceleration of genocide. Israel is a colony, and more than that, an antisemitic fraud itself. After WW2, when Israel was being founded, the Jews of Europe generally did not wave goodbye to their neighbors and head to the promised land. Many were expelled from their homes. Zionism itself, as an action, was a false choice at the time. A mere excuse to place an ally in the middle east, and an excuse to complete the expulsion and destruction of the European Jew. The Zionist Jew is more than complicit in this, they actively seek the destruction and assimilation of all other Jews.

Many fail to realize, and largely because of Israel, that Jews are not inherently white, Ashkenazi, European-descended people. Our faith and culture has an immense variety that is spread all across the globe. Jewishness, in population and volume of culture, exists more so outside of Israel than within it. Israel is for a very specific kind of Jew. The kind that lets Yiddish die, that attaches themselves to European things, that makes themselves and their practices as white as possible.

And they have the nerve, the fucking belligerent GALL, to frame themselves as the necessary saviors of our people. To the Zionist, questioning Israel is to question Jewishness itself. They bake adoration for the colonial machine into their very prayers, and push them on us even as children. To *not* oppress, to *not* kill, to *not* genocide, is to invite death. This is the core of fascistic thought, of course. "Kill them before they kill us." And they KNOW this too, they really do. The truth of that irony does not matter, because as is true for all fascists, the truth itself does not matter to them. They wanted this, they wanted this even before the British saw it in their best interest to give them the land. Any excuse to RETVRN, as the neo-nazis say of Rome, or the German Empire, or whatever the fuck stupid country they want to poorly animate the corpse of. Some select Zionists even *sided with the fucking Nazis* in agreement they should abandon Europe to colonize Palestine. (Haavara Agreement)

My people have proved time and time and time again you don't need a nation state to have an enduring culture. We have protected ourselves for thousands of years without the help of these spiteful, doom-saying maniacs. I was going to post something like this on Passover, but that would be hypocritical. The state of Israel doesn't actually have shit to do with Jewishness. שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל יְה Vi tsu derleb ikh im shoyn tsu bagrobn. [my best translation] Hear Israel (beginning of a prayer in Hebrew) I should outlive him long enough to bury him. (an old Yiddish curse)

Free Palestine. Donate what you can, they need it right now.

[baddiewiththebook]

ONE OF THE BOYS

-> While you pine hopelessly over your best friend, Eddie Munson. You hear the sentiment 'one of the boys' one too many times and you've decided to change that. All in the name of the one boy who won't even look at you, or so you think.

-> eddie munson x you (she/her)

-> friends to lovers, slow burn, angst

-> warnings - strong language and suggestive themes [no smut]

-> a/n originally a one-shot, but I couldn’t help myself and wrote some more!

Part 1 [Part 2]

-> <-

Your heart sinks into the deepest pits of your chest. The tiny inconspicuous hole where no one would ever look. Your spirit lies under the earth, while Eddie lies bricks instead of dirt across your corpse. A quite violent death you have taken on.

“Are you still with us?” Gareth waves a hand in front of your face. Grease slips between his fingers from his two day old burger that your school pretends was freshly slapped on a grill that morning.

You squirm. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Eddie says you could come to practice,” he throws his hand up. “You’re one of the boys!”

Right.

Like someone had thrown water across your face, you slide theatrically to the floor in a puddle of you. Theatrically speaking - of course.

The lunchroom chatter dies in the back of your head like you just did a moment ago. You excuse yourself from the group, while claiming that you have forgotten your exam in the next class period and you should really put in at least a few moments of study time.

Your few moments are actually spent stowing yourself away in the ladies room.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe he asked you out!” A girl squeals. “What are you going to wear? Tell me everything!”

You had stopped your self doubting and your eternally ill fading romantic imaginations you came up with while you stare at the dull gaze in your eye behind the dirty spotted bathroom mirror. You should focus on your studies anyway. Failing your senior year of high school, again, was not on your list of to-do's.

Then again, the two girls gossiping were very pretty. You took notes. Hair full and down to her chest in length. The kind of hair Texas wishes they had. Cheeks were plump, and dusted pink with some powder of sorts. Full lips covered in sweet strawberry gloss. You can smell their gloss from just a sink away. That, or perhaps that was their perfume. Sweet and feminine.

“I'm sorry,” one of them notices you staring, while she applies a thick coat of her lip-gloss. 'Strawberry Dream' is what the little label on the tube reads. “Are we being loud?”

“No, no,” you shake your head.

“Okay,” she sings awkwardly, before continuing the conversation her friend had started. “Anyway, Josie, I think we should go shopping for a new outfit. Oh! I - so - need a new gloss. Something sexy!”

“Sexy?” You accidentally slip the words, before you could stop yourself.

The girl cocks her head. “Do you usually eavesdrop?”

Not that they weren’t talking in front of her.

“My bad,” you tug at the ends of your t-shirt. “Erm- you’re trying to impress this boy?”

“Yes,” she says simply. “Do you have some sort of advice?”

Looking you up and down, she spots the stains from your lunch at your chest. Trying not to snort and jeer at your expense, she waits for you to respond. Her cocky tight lipped smile says enough.

“Actually,” you reply. “I- Why don’t you try being yourself? He clearly likes you to ask you out, so maybe you could tone it down?”

“Tone it down?” She frowns. “Like you? Tell me er- girl of some sort- how many dates have you gotten with that fresh out of bed look you wear every single day. You look like a shy boy. Yeah, I see you around. You’re small like a shrimp. You need to be shark in these waters or your going to get your head bitten off. Put on a bra. A low cut top. And, maybe some blush to hide that dead corpse face you wear-,”

“It’s my skin-,”

“When you get a date, then you get an opinion. Got it?”

“Got it,” you zip your lips. What a bitch.

-> <-

Practice, as the group of men slamming poorly synchronized chords together, is held at Gareth’s garage promptly after school. You did not participate in the noise, but rather you sit in a lawn chair onlooking. Fanning yourself with your hands, sweat glistens across your skin like armor.

Your friends finish their set. Eyes on you, you cheer for their noise that will surely draw eyes from the neighborhood. Someone will be by soon to tell the boys to quiet their racket, and to perhaps indulge themselves in a new activity like reading a book. The Book, perhaps.

“You’re getting better,” you propose promisingly.

Eddie nudges your shoulder with a fist on his way to the cooler to grab a cold soda. You pretend like your heart didn’t just stop inside of your chest.

“I told you, guys,” Eddie has been raving to his band mates (and occasional D&D players) that you, his B.F.F., wasn’t going to ruin practice. That just because you might have a new rack and hips hidden underneath this t-shirt wasn’t going to change any dynamic within the group.

They all agreed about this while staring at your ever growing chest and hips. You cover your chest again, before speaking out of turn.

“Are you ever going to preform these songs?” You ask the group.

Eddie’s plush lips touch the bottle his soda came in. Condensation from the glass dripped across his chin and down his neck to the exposed flesh of his chest.

And, they were so worried about you “developing.” Here you are, eyeballing your best friend like you haven’t ever seen him before. Suddenly, you woke up one morning and you were obsessed with him!

It isn’t like that at all. You didn’t know when you began having feelings for your best friend. Somewhere between living next to each other in the trailer park. Sneaking out after your curfew to splash in Lovers Lake (Eddie’s favorite way to wash off his worries). And, the times you tripped over your own clumsiness when Eddie was the first to rescue you. You might have just fallen into his eyes you stared at them so long. Maybe- maybe that’s when something changed.

No more boys and girls - there are men and women. High school changes us - all of us. There’s science behind it all, you suppose. You took health courses, but no scientific explanation could bring you to figure out how you were completely enamored by your best friend.

Your best friend, who is sweating underneath the heat of the garage. Finding himself without options, he strips his shirt.

“Hold this for me,” he says like there’s no issue. Because there was no issue for him, you’re alone in your feelings. Classic.

“Sure,” you fold his shirt up in your lap, while resisting the urge to inhale his scent like a trained dog trying to find a missing person. Or, like an addict getting their fix for the first time in days.

“And, yes,” Eddie announces, before slamming down a new chord. “Come watch us at the Hideout!”

“Really?!”

“Sure,” Gareth speaks for his friend. “If you want.”

“I’ll come,” you ask, “What time?”

“We’ll start setting up around six in the evening, but we’re not set to play until seven,” Eddie explains to you. “Friday.”

You nod. “I’ll be there!”

“Oh, Eddie!” Gareth grabs his attention. “You gonna bring Roxie?”

Roxie Martin? Now, she’s a hot pair of tits in a mini skirt. Full scarlet lips, Rockin’ Roxie, as some people called her, was a She Devil in human skin. Sinking her teeth into her pray, she poisons them with feminine venom. She doesn’t even have to sing them a tune, for men will follow her into the depths of the vast blue ocean without question.

Some just thought she was a slut in heels, though.

Whatever story floats.

Eddie strums a sour note.

“Dude, I’m just teasing,” his friend snickers.

Eddie scolds his friend, then the group of boys begin to slam on their instruments some more.

You sat there for hours watching Eddie slobber over his guitar. Sweat glistened down across his skin. His fingers striking each chord by heart as he did every night. Touching the strings expertly with the tips of his cherry red fingers. He begun feeling sore towards the end of the night, and the guys agree that it would probably be a good opportunity to turn in for the night.

Practice would resume tomorrow.

And you were forever and eternally frustrated.

-> <-

“Robin,” you slouched over the clear candy bowl labeled ‘Free.’ “I need to be a girl.”

Robin jabs away at the keypad of the store computer that is clearly frozen. While she might be renting out videos to people, Robin’s shit with technology.

That gave her more time to ignore her responsibilities, however, and acknowledges to your moping. With an arched brow, she sucks in her lips and she lets them go with a loud pop.

“You are a girl,” she states the obvious, while appearing to look down at your chest. “Or- so I think.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you stuff more candy into your mouth like a starved squirrel just coming out from hibernation. Squirrels hibernate, don’t they? Whatever.

“What ever could you possibly mean?” She props herself up onto her elbows.

There was a time when you were a child that a mean boy kicked dirt on you at the playground. Swooping in like your knight in shining armor, Eddie came to you to brush the dirt from your clothes and to wipe the tears from your cheeks. Feeling outcasted, Eddie surrounded himself in the weaker kids. The kids that enjoy recess sitting on the brick wall of their school, or close by the door to wait for your teachers to let you back inside.

You read books with him during quiet reading because he didn’t know how to keep the letters from mixing together. Eddie would apologize for his hair being frizzy, and all over the place. You thought he was funny looking like that.

Sometimes you wish you could go back to the good old days where your heart didn’t sing in your chest whenever your childhood best friend was near. You wish the aching in your bones would sooth itself instead of feeling fuzzy every time Eddie greeted you at a whisper from behind. That his strong hand touching you like a doll would become friendly again, and less like you want to shove him against the lockers to kiss his pretty face.

You knew better.

Yet, here you are.

Say it had something to do with what happened yesterday. Roxie’s sexy. You want her sexy. Not her. But, just the sexy. And, whoever was in the bathroom was right. You’re much more than a baggy t-shirt and a pair of denim on your legs. You grew up during the summer, and so what if you want to show off a bit. You earned your assets.

“I can’t tell you,” you put out there for Robin to read. “You’ll blab to Steve, and Steve will tell- doesn’t matter.”

You wait for her to speak, but Robin never does. She blinks at you.

“There’s this boy-,”

“A boy?!” Her voice echoes against the furthest most walls.

You wave your hands. “Robin!”

“Go on!”

“I just - I want to grow up a little.”

The jangle of the front door opening broke their conversation apart. There was nothing elegant about Eddie Munson. He slammed his jacket into the stand of desperately rentable tapes. The display wobbled. Swiveled. And, slammed into the floor. The video tapes splattered.

“Dude!” Robin huffs. “I just put those up!”

Eddie scrambles to rescue the mess. “My bad, Robs. You know? You might not want to put these right in front of the walkway. ‘Could get knocked over - see?”

Robin knew Eddie from class. Smart mouth guy with a lot to say about literature. He held a lot in his head, but once he got to a piece of paper, he could just go.

“The usual, Eddie?”

Oh, and he also rented out the same tape once a week for the past three weeks. It was a Rated R film that had a single one minute scene of a nude woman on top of a man she was suffocating. Not with her boobs- with his belt.

Robin snaps back into reality.

“Eh, looking for something new,” he fixed the display, before joining the girls at the register. “Suggestions?”

Robin slams her palm against the monitor. “Stupid thing is still frozen. Oh! Did you hear your little pal has a crush on a boy?”

“Robin!” You cringe. Turning into the wallpaper sounds really nice right about now. Hell, you’ll fix that computer if it gets Robin off the topic of you.

Anyone, she can blab to anyone, but Eddie. Where was Steve when you needed him? Oh, you are so screwed!

“What? It’s just Eddie!”

Just Eddie - yeah, Robin, that’s the problem.

“A crush? On who?” Eddie scoffs out loud.

Your jaw goes agape. “Are you saying I can’t have a crush on someone?”

“No, I just- you’re one of the guys!”

“She can’t be one of the guys forever,” Robin defends you. Perhaps she saw you twitch. “She’s a girl underneath those stains.”

You brush your dirty t-shirt.

“Robin-,”

“What? Whoever this boy is, he’s shit out of luck if he doesn’t see what we all see,” your friend continues.

Eddie teeters his balance back and forth on each foot.

“I’m going to go look for a movie,” he says.

Robin ignores him shuffling into the isles. “I’m just saying if he doesn’t like you back that is his loss. Right?”

You peak around for any sight of Eddie. His frizzy mane is locked onto a movie in the farthest isle.

“Oh my god,” Robin follows your gaze. “Oh my god! This is big- no, huge- I can’t believe before my eyes your friends to lovers trope-,”

“Robin! Hush!” You whisper at a much louder volume than you anticipate.

Yet, here comes Eddie back to the counter without a film in hand. Robin shoots you a glance that screams that she’s about to burst like a toddler who has to pee, but they can’t get their overalls off.

“Can’t find anything?” Robin intertwined her fingers in front of her.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Eddie sighs.

The sound that came from Robin’s lips could have been the earth splitting in two, and trying to suck her in or the angels above calling her back to heaven. She’s a bit eccentric.

Oh, God, you think she’s plotting.

“Actually,” she settles. “I have a film back here that we haven’t set out on shelves yet.”

“Is it a romance?” He guesses purely based on the actors gazing longingly on the front cover. “Robin, I don’t do romance.”

“Obviously,” she says as a matter-of-fact. “Anyway, this is a mystery. Hm? You know? Like clues and shit.”

“Clues and shit?”

“Maybe,” you signal ‘no’ to Robin, but she blatantly ignores you, “you two can watch it together. Hm? Solve the mystery, before the show ends? Let me know what you think!”

“Robin-,” Eddie begins, but Robin is already scanning the tape to rent out.

“It’ll be fun!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I’ll see you around six for a movie night like old times?”

You mask your embarrassment. Nodding in a set agreement, Eddie left with the film still eyeing the cover like it had just insulted him.

“How could you do that?” You shame her.

Robin shrugs her shoulders, while dancing behind the counter like a relationship fairy.

“Oh! You’ll need something to wear by then!” She shouts to her coworker. “Steve! I’m not feeling well! Will you be okay for the rest of the day?!”

“Ah ha,” Steve appears like he’s been waiting for permission to enter the conversation. “You’re not leaving me here by myself!”

“What was that? I can’t hear you,” she points to her ear, as she’s setting her jacket over her shoulders. “Ear ache.”

“Robin!”

“Huh? Oh, thank you!” She shuffles herself and you out the front door.

Warm air meets you outside. Although you wished to take off another layer, you felt practically naked as is. Cotton blend shirts were thick in these spring days. The same could be said for your denim jeans.

“Won’t he be mad?” You ask.

Robin snorts. “Steve? No.”

No explanation given - no explanation necessary. Robin and Steve were like a pair of siblings at most times. Although, knowing Steve had a thing for Robin at some point made the analogy much creepier than it should have been.

You drive yourself and Robin back to your home where your family was not. They’re out of town for the whole week doing an anniversary trip. Figuring your of the age to take care of yourself, they’ve left you by yourself with only the responsibility of keeping the home clean.

“What are we looking for?” You sit on your made bed hugging one of your pillows to your chest, while Robin riffles through your closet.

Robin shoves another dress across the hanger to the disapproved pile. Her grunts and sighs are discouraging as is, but rather her blatant disregard that you like some of those clothes is hurting even more. Or, maybe you like those clothes. You haven’t gone shopping in a while.

“Do you own anything that isn’t from Forever 40?” She jokes heartily.

You tilt your head to one side. “I like my clothes.”

“Well, we don’t have time for shopping,” she scans around your room for something. Jostling your clean laundry, your papers across your desk and the drawers under them - she finally lets out an, “Ah, ha!”

You groan. “Are you going to clean your mess?”

Clearly ignoring you, Robin holds up a sharpened pair of scissors like a magic wand. Holding one of your plain shirts in the air, she begins slicing away at every angle.

“Hey!” You protest.

She pauses. “Right, put it on.”

“Rob, that’s my favorite shirt!”

“I’ll buy you another one,” she shoves your head through the hole, and continues sniping at the edges. Fondling your chest, she measures where the top of your breast lies. “Hey! Your the first woman to let me touch their boobs. Congrats!”

You laugh at this. “Robin, as your friend, you can touch my boobs any time you need a fix.”

“Don’t tease me with a good time,” she jokes back. With one more snip, she steps away from you. “You have any skirts? No, of course you don’t. Jeans will have to do.”

You couldn’t hear Robin’s tangent. In the standing mirror hung on your wall, you saw someone new. Surely, she moves when you move. Her chest bounces while she breathes. That tan from the summer on the beach is touching her skin in a most devilish manor. You hold your chin a bit higher seeing what a few snips from craft scissors will do.

“Makeup!” Robin insists.

Pink rouge presses into your cheekbones. Those cheekbones you earned from your grandmother. That’s always the compliment your mother spoke. And, mascara coated thickly across your eyelashes. Your lashes are rather short, but with that black mascara you were seeing yourself glow with confidence.

Lip gloss that tasted like honey-

“In case you’re kissing any boys tonight,” she clicks the tube together with the wand. “My dear, you’re ready.”

You take a spin in the mirror.

“I hardly recognize myself,” you touch your hair.

Robin slaps your hand away. “Don’t mess that up, before Eddie gets here. Oh! And, look at the time, I should go.”

You’re left by yourself for another hour. Twiddling your thumbs, and checking your makeup by the minute. Eventually, you pop popcorn in the microwave and place the bowl in the center of the coffee table in the living room. You twist the bowl around, so you can’t see the chip on the side from when you dropped the bowl a few years ago.

Tapping your foot against the plush carpet beneath your feet, you travel between worlds where you feel ridiculous for dressing up like this, but you also feel hot.

Denim cuts at your waist, and you begin to doubt wearing jeans instead of pajamas. You never wore jeans after you got home. Eddie will surely know what’s up.

You have no time to change your mind because the doorbell rings through the quiet house. Stillness - as if moving would threaten your life somehow. Then, again, the doorbell sings.

You drag the sweat from your hands onto the back of your jeans. Jeans that you should have changed to shorts. He’ll see right through your ruse!

You settle your nerves with one more glance over in the mirror in your little entryway. When you open the front door, Eddie’s tickling the lavender your mom set out on the front porch last week.

“What? Your shirt go through a lawnmower?” Was the first thing he says.

You knew it.

“Erm-,”

“I brought the movie, and beer,” he held up the movie and a six pack he snaked off of his uncle. “Come on, I’m freezing out here.”

Eddie doesn’t ask where anything is. He’s been here so many times before, birthdays, holidays and any time your mother has just come back from the supermarket with “the good snacks.”

You knew each other for some time, which is probably why he’s never going to see you as someone other than his best friend. Why would you think about that? You had a shot, right?

“I popped popcorn,” you pointed in the living room.

“Sick,” he drops down into your couch. “We can go ahead and start the movie - the guys will be here soon.”

“The guys?” You blurt.

“Well, yeah,” Eddie says. “Like old times?”

“Right,” the light in your eye fades, and you just hope Eddie can’t sense the hesitance in your tone.

In the next hour, your quiet date night that had been set up by your overly optimistic friend, swirls in the direction that it is always meant to be. You squish into the couch arm rest, while Gareth battles Eddie over the movie choice. Although, this time the boys came to an agreement that this was not an action movie like Robin promised Eddie earlier.

“Where’s the gore?!” Gareth flings popcorn at the television screen. “Throw her off the ledge!”

“You want to see an innocent woman flung to her death?” You snap at him.

A piece of popcorn drops from Gareth’s mouth, and into his awaiting lap. You didn’t come to raising your tone with the boys unless something truly bothers you. Clearly, by the tightness in your chest, some of the anger spills over the edge. Quite like the woman dangling the man’s waist.

“Never mind,” you stand. “I’m going to make more popcorn.”

Taking the bowl from Eddie, you stow away in the comfort of your kitchen. Before your mother left for her trip, a folded note stacked on the island told you to not bring anyone over. But, if you are going to have boys over, she asks that you use protection. She has a wild imagination if she thinks her daughter has a sex life.

She must have passed this onto you. You toss yourself at someone, who obviously holds no similar feelings as you do. This whole night was a bust. Your eyes itch from the mascara. Your lips bled from when you chewed on them like they’re your last meal. At least the color matches with your lip gloss that you reapplied many times in the bathroom when you need a break from the crowd in your living room. And, you can’t feel your waist anymore. Tingling below the belt - and for all the wrong reasons.

“You okay?” Gareth’s voice startles you.

You spin around, and he’s there standing where the carpet meets the linoleum.

A yell from the living room suggests something mortifying must have happened in the film like the boy finally kissing the girl, or perhaps saying something romantic.

“Yeah,” you blink. “Just- making more popcorn.”

Gareth doesn’t say anything about the popcorn bags sitting on the counter next to him, but the room reads itself. You scamper over to the bag, before ripping the plastic and the bag apart by accident sending kernels across the floor. Gareth meets you at the floor below.

“Shit,” you sniff. “I’ll get the broom.”

“Hey,” he grabs your arm, before you can run off again. “What’s going on?”

You sit next to the mess on the floor letting out a gust of air from your lungs that you’ve been holding onto for dear life.

“It’s stupid,” you tell him.

Gareth moves a piece of your hair from in front of your face. “What?”

You look at him for the first time. Between you two, you didn’t have to say a word he didn’t already know. Because while you’re chasing Eddie, Gareth’s warm heart is following after you. You’re blind to him before.

“Eddie’s not going to like me back, is he?” You whisper at an almost inaudible volume. Dabbing at your eye, you wipe the single tear threatening to break the damn.

Gareth sits next to you with his arms wrapped around his knees.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I think he just hasn’t woken up yet. He does talk about you a lot when your not around.”

“Really?”

“You scare him,” Gareth lets out a breathy laugh. “In a good way. He- he’s never had someone to rely on in his life besides his uncle. And, if what Eddie says is true, you’ll never truly change to please anyone. You’re loyal, and your funny. You’re beyond beautiful. The Goddesses shrivel in your light-.”

Your cheeks heat up.

“Okay, I might have added that last part,” he admits. “But, you never know if you don’t try.”

You reach out for his hand. “Thank you, Gareth.”

He squeezes your hand. “Anytime.”

You say. “And I- I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Erm- you know.”

“I guess I do,” he looks away. “I’ll be fine.”

You toss a popcorn kernel Gareth’s direction hoping to lighten the mood. Gareth snorts and tosses one back.

“We should clean up,” you tell him.

Gareth agrees. “Oh, and - when I said you don’t change, I meant it.”

You pull at your half shirt. “Yeah, I don’t think this is me. Everyone just kept telling me to stop dressing like a boy.”

“Trust me,” Gareth suggests. “You do not look like a boy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you gather yourself on your own two feet. “I don’t know - I kind of like the look, but maybe tone it down a bit?”

“I’ll get the broom,” Gareth says leaving your question unanswered. "Oh, and I promise to keep myself and the guys out of your way the next time Eddie suggests we all have a 'movie night'" at your house."

"You caught onto that?"

"It's a classic move," he sweeps. "I can't say I wasn't going to try it on you some day."

"Well, I'm sorry that it won’t work out between us," you assure him.

"I'll survive," he won’t really look at you now, only at the task at hand. "Besides, I know how great of a guy Eddie is. If you do go out with him, there’s no hard feelings."

Gareth sweeps every last kernel from the floor, then uses the dust pan to scoop them up and finally tosses them into the bin. By the time he's done scoping out every inch of your floor, you're done popping a new bag of popcorn.

The movie night continues without a hitch (aside from the merciless damning of the film coming from each of the boys in your home). Your eye on the one man, who could never look at you the way you do him. But, you don't know that for sure.

Because, as soon as you look away, Eddie's full attention is on you.

[bg-brainrot]

More than Vampiric Charms (Astarion x Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Summary: After some banter between Astarion and Jaheira goes too far, you (Tav) take some time to remind Astarion that he is so much more than a pair of fangs.

Tags: POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Comfort, Vampire Spawn Astarion, set in Act 3, Astarion is Bad at Feelings, Blood, Blood Drunk, blood as a coping mechanism

A/N: Thank you to everyone who voted for this banter in my last poll! This was a fun one c:

Word count: ~3.2k

Walking through the streets of Baldur's Gate is always an adventure with your group– a particularly fraught adventure on this day, as Jaheira and Astarion seem hellsbent on trading barbs.

It had started out playfully enough, with a snide remark from Astarion, "Oh that building used to be a delightful little sweets shop about a hundred years ago. Though I suppose the crone would remember that, wouldn’t she?”

Jaheira, used to remarks about her age, often being the one to start them, was ready with a quick quip back, “Was that before or after your hair turned gray? With my old age, I can never remember.”

Astarion visibility bit back a remark about this being his natural hair color when you glared back at both of them. “Could we focus a bit please? You two can reminisce after we’ve seen to this latest bloody basement.”

One trail of blood, a disgusting array of corpses, and a piece of clown later and the two of them were at it again.

“Jaheira,” Astarion had started in a light tone– a clear indicator that he had no intent to focus. “Have you considered taking on the role of Dribbles the clown yourself? The makeup might help cover all those pesky wrinkles.”

The druid had snickered, appreciating the comment, and shot back, “I think you would be better suited to the role, given you are already a fool.”

That time, Karlach had interrupted, “Don’t either of you dare! No one could replace this Baldurian hero.”

“Which is exactly why we’re helping to piece him back together,” you’d confirmed with a nod. “Besides, you’re both cranky enough to make the children weep.”

“Darling!” Astarion had gasped, an offended hand on his chest. “How could you say that about me?”

You’d ignored his question, instead choosing to deposit a quick kiss on his pursed lips. A soft, effective bandaid that left the man with crossed arms and a reluctant smile. 

Moments later, you were ushering the group out of the building and into the city. Insults forgotten, everyone began trudging the familiar path back to the Elfsong to clean up.

Now, along this very path, you hear Jaheira strike up a new conversation with Astarion– one that has your ears perking up, even as you continue to lead the way ahead.

“It seems that you and our leader are closer than ever,” the woman observes, a smile in her voice.

There’s a moment of silence, and you can practically see Astarion’s suspicious expression in your mind’s eye as he assesses the situation. “Yes, you could say that,” he finally replies. “What can I say? I am, after all, quite charming.”

“I am glad it is your non-vampiric charms our friend has fallen for, Astarion.” A short, thoughtful pause follows before she asks, “It is, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Astarion responds, his voice reaching a comically high pitch– one that almost makes you laugh. You want to hear this conversation more than most though, so not a sound escapes your lips. The vampire scoffs before he continues. "Is it so unbelievable that they would simply like me?"

There’s a clear hesitation as Astarion’s words hang in the air.

You wonder why Jaheira isn’t responding, what her expression must be– but before you can turn around to find out more, Astarion is speaking again.

“If you insist on prying,” he starts, clearing his throat a bit pointedly. “Perhaps you’d care to join us. And see how much we enjoy one another.”

The insinuation in his tone is almost enough to have you spinning around– teasing Karlach or Shadowheart is one thing, but Jaheira? Gods, you can feel the heat rising up your neck– “Why?” Jaheira snaps back. “Do you require some instruction on how the deed is done?”

“I’m sure even I could learn some new tricks from an old veteran such as yourself,” Astarion replies, mirth shining through in his tone.

Wait, is he actually inviting her?

You know you need to stop this conversation before it mortifies you any further. “Stop it, both of you!” you say, turning your head back, trying your best to keep a stern, not-at-all embarrassed expression on your face. “We don’t need the next installment of ‘Love at First Knife’ getting any more convoluted.”

There’s some grumbling from Astarion, an amused smile from Jaheira, and a chortle from Karlach, but otherwise your group makes it back to the Elfsong without tearing each other– or their clothes– apart.

__

That evening, Astarion slips away.

It’s not an unusual occurrence– some days his hunger is harder to ignore than others, on some you hadn’t found nearly enough evil to suck dry. Ultimately, he never wanted to take too much blood from you, so he chooses to forage as he has taken to calling it.

As a result, you think nothing of it at first, settling into bed after dinner with a book propped between your hands. After all, Cazador is dead, and Astarion is more than capable of taking down some of the most fearsome enemies in the city– he should take all the time he needs to himself.

But the hours pass, and Astarion has yet to return. The candles around you begin to dwindle, words begin to swim on a page you haven’t turned in quite some time, and sleep slowly but surely starts to drag your eyelids down.

It has almost claimed you when the door to your shared room at the Elfsong slams shut. You hear groans from around the room as those who were similarly drifting off to bed are shocked awake, everyone expecting yet another unwelcome visitor. You almost don’t have time to react before an armor-clad vampire lands atop of you.

You do react though, instinctively striking at the man with the spine of your book, a loud ‘thwack’ letting you know that your contact was true.

“Oof,” Astarion mutters, now fully splayed across your torso like a stretching cat. “Darling, must you be so violent?”

“Astarion?” you ask, putting down your book, shaking off the beginning throes of sleep as you realize what’s transpired. “Weapons down everyone, it’s Astarion.”

After a few affirmative grumbles from around the room, you turn your attention back to the vampire, “Are you alright? Did you get injured?”

“Mmm,” he murmurs, burying his face in your blanket, and rubbing at the spot where you’d hit him. “Nothing's the matter. Everything is perfectly dandy.”

His words slur though and something seems to be amiss. His movements are fluid, his body weight is completely and utterly relaxed onto you.

Almost as if…

“Are you… drunk?” you haven’t seen him like this since the bear he drank near the grove. When you’d asked him the question then, he’d shrugged it off– but it was certainly the closest to drunk you’d ever seen him.

“Not strictly speaking, no…” he drolls, tilting his head slightly to stare at you with one eye. His cheeks are flushed, a telltale sign of his recent feeding, and his eye is glazed over, its blissful sheen telling you all that you need to know.

“Have a good dinner, did you?” you ask, smiling down at him wearily. You can hardly fault him for indulging, especially after the couple of weeks you’ve had.

He chuckles, his one visible eye crinkling a bit. “Oh yes. A rather large bugbear. Hardly knew what bit him.”

You run a hand through Astarion’s hair, and respond, “Well done, my sweet, bloodthirsty vampire.”

Normally, such sweet words of unabashed ​​flattery would elicit a smile, a laugh, maybe even a kiss– but tonight Astarion freezes under your touch, his eye going wide before he tucks his face back into the bedding.

“Astarion?” you ask, your previous worry about injury now promptly replaced by a worry of a much deeper hurt.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, voice sounding distant.

You scratch at his scalp, a bit, trying to encourage him back toward you. “Love, you know you’re a terrible liar. What’s wrong?”

He gives a soft, annoyed huff– an endearing, drunken noise were it not for the fact that he seems determined not to look at you. And continue to crush you with the full weight of his body.

“Astarion,” you say again, with a bit more emphasis, shaking his head a little with your next scratch. “If nothing is truly wrong, I will wake up Karlach. You know she would love to see you in this state.” As if to punctuate your point, a snore sounds from a few beds over, where you know the barbarian slumbers.

“Please don’t,” he murmurs, finally turning around to look at you fully.

You’re surprised to see his eyebrows furrowed, his lips turned down in a truly melancholy frown– always an expressive man, it seems that Astarion’s intoxicated demeanor is twice as exaggerated. Cute, you think. But also concerning. “Love,” you whisper, running a hand along his face. “Talk to me.”

Astarion hesitates, his watery eyes wincing as he debates his next words. Those same red eyes show an unexpected amount of vulnerability– all that bugbear blood is keeping his expression open, his entire face a rosy hue. His mouth opens, closes, his body shifts, and he fumbles with the latches on his armor as he thinks. You simply lay there, playing with his curls until he’s ready.

When he finally speaks, his words take you by surprise.

“You don’t just like me because I’m a vampire… do you?”

“What?” you ask, eyebrows raising in disbelief. Surely, you misheard him.

“You know,” he continues, waving a hand about the air. “My vampiric charms. The fangs. The blood sucking. The mysterious allure?”

“Why in the nine hells would you think that?” You reach a hand out to grab his, tugging on it gently to try to get him to sit up.

Astarion’s eyes drift away from you, but he does sit up, legs draping over your stomach. “Just… because of something Jaheira said.”

Oh. The conversation you’d been eavesdropping on.

“Do you mean what she said earlier? On our way back to the Elfsong?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Well, yes,” he mutters, still not looking at you. “Though I can’t help but notice you haven’t answered my question…”

“Astarion,” you start, releasing his hand, only to place it on the slightly flushed skin of his cheek. “No, I do not only like you because you’re a vampire.” Your words are firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

His eyes meet yours again, and still you can see so much doubt, so much unmitigated fear. “Are you certain? You truly do seem to enjoy it when I bite you.”

“Well, that’s true,” you admit with a small wince. It does feel rather… good when he bites you, it would be a lie to say otherwise and, besides, you’ve told him as much before. “But that’s not why I like you, you fool.”

Astarion’s bottom lip slips into a small pout and he moves away from your hand. “You’re not very convincing, you know? Especially when you call me a fool.”

You scooch out a bit from under him, leaving your legs under his. With all of the severity in the world, you reply, “If it makes you feel better, I’m a fool too.”

“You are?” he asks, curious despite himself– easily falling for your little trap.

“A fool for you.”

The noise that escapes him is half groan, half chuckle, and his mouth pulls into a lopsided little smile that you’re not certain you would have earned were he not a bit blooddrunk. “Gods, how the hells did I fall for you?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions,” you respond with a smirk on your face. When you place a hand on his knee, the smirk turns into a small smile. “But I’m being genuine– I don’t like you because you’re a vampire. And before you ask, I don’t love you because of your vampirism either.”

He gives a small huff. “Well, Jaheira made it sound as if there wasn’t much else to care for.” An uncharacteristic admittance from him– normally he would brush off such a statement with a proud declaration of how phenomenal he is. But it seems that Jaheira’s words cut deep– and that blood has loosened his lips.

“Jaheira, despite all of her many, many years of experience–” you enjoy the full laugh that elicits. “simply doesn’t have my refined taste. There are so many reasons to like you, love. In fact, vampirism doesn’t even make the list.”

“Oh, you’re keeping track, are you?” he asks, folding his arms and body over his legs and smiling up at you.

“Maybe,” you murmur, leaning forward toward him. “Would you like a sampling of reasons?”

The look he gives you then is hopeful, but more than a little dread slips through in his shining red eyes. When he answers, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Only if you mean them.”

This withdrawn, unsure Astarion isn’t a common sight to you, but, like every other facet of the man before you, he’s no less lovable. So you lean forward, placing a kiss on his pale forehead, and say, “I mean them with my whole heart.”

“Then… I suppose I ought to be lavished with them," he murmurs, and you spot the blush intensifying over his cheeks, now also coloring his ears.

Coupled with his fluid, inebriated state, his heart laid bare before you, you want to scream the reasons from the roof of the Elfsong, if only for him to believe you. But, as it is, the soft snores of your companions keep your voice hushed, your face close to his as you begin.

“Let’s see… should I start with the first thing that stood out to me?”

He hums in agreement, and closes his eyes, as if preparing to listen to the sweetest tune known to the entirety of Faerun.

“Well, it started with your first lie, I think,” you start.

Astarion gives a disapproving groan, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“My dear, you said you said you had a ‘brain thing’ cornered– I hope you know the smile on my face wasn’t from confidence,” you say with a new, fond smile at the memory. “I just knew from that moment on, you didn’t much care for what others thought of you, as long as your goals were met. A kindred spirit. Or so you said that day.”

At that, he reopens his eyes. “That’s not true.”

“We’re not kindred spirits?” you ask, an unexpected tinge of hurt blooming in your chest.

“That’s true,” he says, balming the hurt quickly. “It’s not true that I don’t care what others think of me. I do. Well, maybe not everyone.” His eyes dart toward Gale’s bed and you stifle a snicker. “But I certainly care what you think of me.”

You look into his crimson eyes, a bit clearer now than when you began talking– the blood seems to be working its way through his system. His words come from a place of honesty, not a lack of inhibition.

“Then, let me assure you here and now,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. “I think–” Another quick peck on his lips. “you’re the funniest–” A kiss to his nose. “the most deft–” A brush of lips against his temple. “creative, endearing, brave–” Each word comes with a kiss along his jaw. “man I’ve ever met.”

Astarion’s eyes look at you, his face still for a moment as he considers your words. When he finally speaks, it’s a quiet, choked up question, “Oh, is that it?”

“Would you like me to keep going?” you ask, lips perched just above his eyebrow, ready for another round.

He shakes his head ever so slightly. “No– no need or you’ll be here all night, surely,” he says, posturing as best as he can while still looking at you with fearful eyes. Almost as if your candid praise is simply too much for him to bear.

It may be too much, and you’re not one to push it.

“Very well,” you say, pulling back. “But I didn’t even get to how good you look covered in blood…”

The man gives a light laugh at that, some of his nerves melting before praise he understands– his appearance is a source of comfort, one that brings him back to himself. “Oooh yes, I do look dashing in red, don’t I?” he purrs, a content smile forming on his face.

“That you do,” you assure, with your own warm look. You wish he would accept all praise this easily, but you suppose this is all you can do for now.

So little of what matters to you is his vampirism, his looks… but for a man like Astarion, for whom a kind word felt like a double-edged blade for two centuries? Well, you’re reminded that regardless of how many times you may tell him, whether now when he’s a bit fuzzy around the edges or when you’re in your cups, he may never truly believe you.

No matter, you suppose. I’ll simply keep finding new ways to show him how much I care for him…

“So Jaheira was kidding, right?” Astarion asks, sitting up and finally beginning to remove his leathers.

You nod, moving to help him remove his greaves. “Naturally. I thought you’d been enjoying the conversation, actually.”

“I had been,” he replies, thoughtfully. “But the more I remembered how sinfully you shiver under my fangs…”

He’s dodging before you can so much as flick his ear. “Excuse you. Is that any way to treat your most reliable source of sustenance?”

Astarion smirks as he leans away from you in the bed. “Oh darling, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. After all, you can’t help it.”

“Astarion–”

“Ehem!” You hear from somewhere behind you. It’s followed shortly by Shadowheart’s annoyed voice, “Would the two of you please keep it down? Some of us are trying to rest.”

If by ‘rest’ she means ‘reach the end of her copper novel’, then you suppose she’s right. Either way, you whisper back, “Sorry, I was defending my dignity.”

“What dignity?” she murmurs back. “And in case you’re wondering, you’re both utter fools.”

Oh great, she’d heard everything.

“Shadowheart, were you eavesdropping?” Astarion asks, crawling over you to glare at her from the edge of your bed. He’s half-dressed and still somewhat out of sorts, so you just lean back against the pillows and accept your fate.

“Is it really eavesdropping if I can hear it all clearly?” the cleric says, and you hear her book snap shut. “Besides, Astarion, if you really needed someone to reassure you, you should have asked me.”

“You?” he asks, incredulously. “And why should I ask you?”

“Because,” she starts, and you can hear her wicked smile in her tone. “I can confirm without a shadow of a doubt that there’s no such thing as ‘vampiric charm.’ I’ve never felt less charmed in my entire life.”

You can sense Astarion is just about ready to light Shadowheart’s hair on fire, so you tug him back down from the divide. “Thank you for that clarification, Shadowheart,” you call, biting back a laugh. “And I’m starting to realize none of us really have private conversations, do we?”

“No, we do not,” you hear Gale reply from a few beds away.

With that, Astarion gives an exasperated sigh and the two of you finish removing his armor in silence.  When you’re both finally ready for bed and you whisper to him, “Goodnight.” Shadowheart, Gale, and Wyll all respond, “Goodnight!”

[the-loststone]

I'm very anxious that the show is going to exclude Maelor from the story. Just write him out like they did Daeron. You know what excluding Maelor does? It takes the choice of the eldest son versus the youngest son and makes it a choice between the heir/the son and the daughter.

Helaena's choice was about who would understand what decision was being made. She chose Maelor, a heartbreaking choice she was forced to make or to watch both her children be killed and her daughter r*ped, because she thought he wouldn't understand what was happening. He was three years old at the time. She thought it would be less painful for him compared to Jaehaerys.

Taking Maelor away means that the choice will be between Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Its the choice between the heir and the daughter. We already know that they will never let Jaehaerys live because he is a son, he is the heir, and the entire concept of the revenge was 'a son for a son.' Its not a choice. Jaehaera never counted. It means that the choice is the value of a daughter, which we already know they don't actually consider, versus the son. Of course they're killing the son over the daughter.

You know what else it does, it takes another character away from the greens, another tragic death. Meanwhile all the Blacks get to keep their characters (with the exception of Nettles, but of course we can't have a character that poorly reflex on Rhaenyra). Maelor was a toddler murdered by a mob incited by Rhaenyra's actions. His corpse was delivered to Rhaenyra essentially as a prize instead of returned to his family.

Maelor is an essential character to show the cost of the war on house Targaryen. I hope that the showrunners do the right thing by keeping him in, otherwise it's just a blatant attempt to rewrite the tragedy.

I will never get over how one-sided they made this conflict in the show.

[tabithatwo]

It’s actually so painfully brilliant the way yellowjackets sets up their un-stereotype-able characters. I could (and might) do this for all of them, but because she’s on my mind right now—the show tells us that jackie taylor is the type of girl who has high expectations put on her and WILL be analyzed constantly (from coach, her parents, jeff, shauna (if only by way of shauna’s reflective habits and her personal narrative construction), the team (by way of being captain).

Then they show us so many instances of Jackie being good and kind. Is she perfect? NO, BECAUSE THEN SHE’D BE ANOTHER STEREOTYPE (THE PERFECT DEAD GIRL/WIFE), SILLY! She has enough edge to be believable as a teenage girl.

And what do people do with that edge? They sharpen it and sharpen it and use it to cut out every moment where Jackie is being kind or trying her hardest! Because what do we like?? Feeling confident in our stereotypical assumptions of people! And what did the show do? Give us scenes with blocking that suggests the popular girl/loner best friend stereotype and absolutely turn them on their head, because what’s not very realistic?? The popular girl who is mean to her loser best friend stereotype in media! (Is it impossible in life? NO, nothing is! But it’s not a standard set up. It’s not as common as media makes it out to be.)

What is one of Jackie’s primary fears as a character? Being held to INSANELY high standards and not meeting them! And what do the viewers commonly do to jackie? Why, they hold her to INSANELY high standards and show how she doesn’t meet them, of course!

Jackie cannot slip up, every instance where she falls short is catalogued as a gotcha moment. She was never allowed to fully develop on the screen because we often get her through the filter of shauna.

She gets deeply depressed, that depression is largely ignored in the show (lottie doesn’t pitch in much either, but her brand of being unwell is observed and understood as existing more so than Jackie’s), and then it is often ignored by viewers (“why didn’t she just come inside, she’s stubborn and dumb!” rather than “wow, look at this consistent descent into deep depression and suicidal ideation we’ve seen since episode 3, culminating in Jackie choosing to stay outside, what can we glean from that?”)

Jackie dies and she is literally consumed in totality—her memory is obscured, the hallucination form of her is filtered through Shauna’s psyche, her corpse is a doll, her flesh is digested. And a photo of her at 18 years old is posted at the 25 year reunion, looking perfect, attached to nothing of her life or who she was, used to facilitate a dance between her ex boyfriend and her best friend, who betrayed her in a way that most people would never get over, (but as we’re shown in the death dream Jackie ultimately would).

Allie literally says, “While I know she isn’t here with us, I know that this is what Jackie would have wanted.” She says that! In the show! To punctuate the absurdity of it all! The very relationship that broke Jackie’s heart, crushed her spirit, destroyed her will to live, being touted as something she would’ve wanted to hundreds of people.

And if that doesn’t strike you as a fucking horrifying tragedy, as emblematic of the reduction of women to whatever those around them need them to be, in order to fit their narrative, in order to be useful to them, then baby this show is sailing over your head.

[getonite]

PLAYING : HOTLINE ! — DAZAI TUNES IN!

𝗧hinking about Dazai, your childhood friend and the one who shows his vulnerability only to you. Years after you've gone and left the Port Mafia and your terrible past behind, he knocks on your door. He looks downright terrible. His bloodied hands are trembling as he grips onto the fabric of Odasaku's coat, he's trembling, and on the verge of tears.

"Dazai, how'd you—" he practically leaps, his bandaged arms wrap around your neck, squeezing harshly, though you wonder how he found you... Ango.

There's not a word spoken between you two, but you know exactly what he needs. You pull him inside, carefully closing the door. "How about we clean you up first, okay?" You whisper. He stinks. His eyelids are puffy and there's red underlining his eyelashes. His hair is due for a wash with split ends, and he's pale. You guess he hasn't taken too much care of himself since you left. He silently nods, leaning his full bodyweight into you.

You bring him to your bathroom, carefully peeling the layers of clothing from him. The first to come off is the black coat he's regularly worn since he joined the Port Mafia.

His knees are to his chest as he speaks for the first time. "Mori-san's coat, burn it. I don't need it," he whispers in a raspy voice as if he's been screaming. You hum in acknowledgement as you set the dirty thing on the bathroom tile. Your hands carefully help him undress before starting to undo his bandages. "Years later and you still can't change your bandages like I told you to," he hears you whisper with a small smile. The bloodied and worn bandages fall to the floor as he hears the sound of streaming water come from the bathtub inches from him.

Once he's in the bath, you carefully rinse his body with warm water, lathering his new and old scars with soap carefully. There's a hint of guilt in your heart as you hear him wince, though this is probably for the best.

The pads of your fingers massage his scalp as you wash his hair, just like you did when the two of you were kids. You carefully trim his wet hair and brush it before getting him out of the tub, helping him dry off. You were likely the only person he could truly trust to see him so...bare and vulnerable. You couldn't exactly tell if the silence was tense or comforting, regardless you continued with is predictable mute moment. He always got like that when there was something wrong, you sigh.

"How about, I get you something to eat? I made some bento boxes, you can eat one and then brush your teeth, is that okay?" You speak softly and re-bandage his tender skin.

You smile softly at him when be finally nods. "Okay," you whisper and attempt to finish quickly before his mind changes.

As his hair dries it becomes its usual fluffy self, you'd assume hair matches personality; however, Dazai's eyes were close to dead. He only seemed to relax, feel different, when you touched him so gently. You quickly clean up and head to make him food. "You don't have to eat all of it y'know...just some, okay?" You whisper, setting the box in front of him.

He can tell your eyes are studying him as he eats, wondering what your Dazai from years ago has turned into. You look at him proudly when he finishes half of it before pushing it away. "Thank you," you whisper.

Handing him a toothbrush, you let him brush his teeth and fix the mess that is your bedroom, knowing he'll ask to sleep. And surely, 5 minutes later he stumbles to your doorway. "Can I...Can I stay?" You look him up and down, smiling softly. Compared to the terrible look he had when he first appeared at your door, he looks better. No longer like a man seconds from being a corpse.

"'Course," You smile, pulling back the covers, "C'mere."

He walks to the bed, crawling onto the soft sheets carefully. His brown eyes look at you expectingly, watching you get under the covers with him. He moves his body next to yours, putting his face into your neck without a word. "Ready to talk?" You whisper. His hoarse voice whispers a 'No.'

The calming effect your fingers have as they glide along him and his hair makes him feel like he's home. "Okay, just sleep. I'll be right here, I'm not leaving."

Dazai again, speaks no words, but his legs entertangle with yours. He remembers just why he came here. He missed you. Even if Odasaku is gone, he has you to make sure he doesn't go over the deep end. He'll save people, he'll grant Odasaku's last wish. But first, he wants to rest. Right next to his home.

"I promise, sleep." The man listens, squeezing onto you as if to test that this is real before drifting off.

For the first time in days...he's at peace.

A/N: dazai srsly needs a hug, 'n ill b the one 2 give it 2 him if no one else will! we need more fluffy fics of taking care of dazai, rather than dazai taking care of us. nyway, if u haven't signed up 4 the new tag list u totally should! there's new options n better format.

SUBSCRIBERS : @avatsu @sofliesy @tamreadfanfiction

[missblissy]

Domestic Astarion x Reader HCs

A/N: UwU just wanted to add to the married life headcanons after the events of the game. Fluffy good stuff below. GN!Tav, no class/race. Enjoy!

Some days always started better than others. But that’s only to say because someone didn’t need as much sleep as you, and had a life time left to learn new skills. One of them being cooking. Sure Astarion can’t taste and it’s a useless skill to him. But you? He would do anything for you. And that includes learning to cook for the sheer simple act of spoiling you with a warm and home made breakfast in bed.

It’s strange to say you two never had a wedding. That’s not to say you two weren’t married. “Oh…?” Astarion isn’t sure how to explain this when someone asks, “Well, you see, my darling little love here found this-” He holds up his hand and wiggles the ring in his finger, “On a rotting old skeleton then found the matching one, get this, on another smelly corpse!” Most people wouldn’t look fondly on something like that. But no, Astarion wasn’t most people. He’d smile and swoon, “And I suppose since then we’ve been married,”

It doesn’t help that back then when you did find those rings, you quite literally told him, “We’re married now,” As a joke. It wasn’t joke….

Astarion has a habit of leaving you poems to find in the most hidden of places. Like little lost treasures. Or maybe he just knows the looting demon you are at heart with your little grabby fingers going for anything they can touch. So it always comes to a surprise to you when you open a book and a poem written years ago flutters out… but the love and truth still rings pure despite the yellowing of the pages.

Crimson sons, vermillion daughters. Quivering maroon, burgundy, cardinal. Short fainting strokes Fester a broken carotid Free from feathers Unbound By the serpent's head no more.

His way of saying thank you for everything you've ever given him. And then some. No matter the message you cherished each treasured poem you would find.

The man had a knack for spoiling you, unconditionally, and most importantly, endlessly. If you saw something out in a shop that caught you eye, but you were just to stubborn to get it for yourself. Surprise, surprise when you get home and find it there with a man beaming proud like a puppy with his bone.

But that didn’t mean affection was off the table either. Astarion spoiled you with kisses, big ones, little ones, some on the back of your hand as he opened a door for you. Others on your cheek, gently but with sorrow as he left for some few weeks for whatever reason. He had his own things to do and sometimes you couldn’t go with him. But that just meant when he got home you could throw your arms around him, breathe him in and share the long awaited kiss of his return.

Married life strangely suited you both, from the little grabbing of hands under tables, the protective placement of an arm, the look of pride when the other did something extraordinary. And Astarion would always be the more boastful in pride when it came to talking about you.

And he couldn’t help but show off, sure he’s loud and arrogant about it. Saying he was best option of course, no one else stood a chance… blah blah blah. But when no one was around he can look you in the eye and practically grovel, “I am so lucky you chose me,”

There were many other things that came with the long life of being married together. The two of you were quite dedicated to learning to… dance. Astarion hadn’t a clue wether his left foot was right, and you may have been no better. It was your idea really. You heart would swoon watching other couples and with an eager voice you pointed a finger and declared, “I want to do that too!”

And so you did, but behind the close doors of your own home. Seeing as Astarion didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of so many people. Where you both could trip and side step and laugh, giggle and make the most out of learning something new together.

It seemed the two of you had a habit of learning things together. From silly little drawings, to paintings, perhaps an instrument or two. You both always found a way to share your hobbies and passions together.

And it was the mornings, where these happened most often. Naturally Astarion couldn’t be in the sun but that didn’t stop him from enjoying what little light he could. You’d find him in the dusty dusk right before the sun actually broke the horizon.

He had been teaching himself to play the piano, so to wake up in the morning and not hear the soft echos of keys down the halls would be a bad sign. It’d be another bad sign if you didn’t sit down beside him, stroking the keys as the two of you played a song that was always in the process of being made and never done.

Surely soon he’d go off to sleep, sharing kisses and affection. You wouldn’t see him again until the evening, when the sun was starting it decent. Day-phobia was real in vampires no matter how much they loved the sun and he didn’t have a worm anymore to help him fight that. But he managed, enjoying every sun rise and sun set he got to see just as the world of night came and went.

Despite staying up all night sometimes just to be beside him, it was fairly often that Astarion would have to nag you to go to sleep. You’d barely have even one eye open, drifting back and forth between dreams and you’d still tell him, “I’m not tired, I’m just resting my eyes,” All because he was up late in kitchen and you didn’t want to leave his side.

He often compromises though, making deals and barters, “If I go upstairs with you, will you go to sleep?”

“…” Surely you aren’t going to say no? “Will you be the big spoon?”

“Of course,” How could he say no to a face like yours? And such a sleepy one too?

He didn’t mind, not really. Some nights he’d stay in bed with you until the morning. Even though nothing would get done, or things he had planned were set aside, he wouldn’t sleep either, he truly really didn’t mind. He could lay there for eternity holding you close and be at peace.

[ultimateshixiongfuckertournament]

Canonicals Tournament FINAL

The final is between Luo Binghe from The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System (shizun: Shen Qingqiu) and Mo Ran from The Dumb Husky and His White Cat Shizun (shizun: Chu Wanning)

Propaganda under the cut! (Warning: Propaganda may include spoilers about the characters and their media)

Luo Binghe:

Luo Binghe's shizun Shen Qingqiu caused his sexual awakening and they lived together with Luo Binghe acting similar to a housewife.

Even after being betayed, stabbed, and pushed into the Endless Abyss, Luo Binghe still loved Shen Qingqiu and wanted answers instead of revenge. Instead he had to repeatedly suffer his shizun dying in his arms and assumed abandonment. Which makes him absolutely lose it, made even worse by his evil sword Xin Mo which worsens all of his negative emotions and destroys its hosts, along with additional trauma over the course of the story.

He reused the sword that his shizun sacrificed himself to free him from, cuddles the corpse every night for five years to preserve it, he creates dreams of their happy years together but never made a Shen Qingqiu that would speak to him, he kidnapped and destroyed cultivators' cores so he could feed xin mo and preserve sqq's corpse, he rebuilds their house in his demonic palace, he spent years fixing sqq's destroyed cultivation and trying to revive him, he forces Shen Qingqiu live in that new house, he rescues and repeatedly puts himself in harms way to protect sqq, he tries to destroy the world so Shen Qingqiu can only love him (due to being driven mad by Xin Mo and his believed abandonment by sqq). He tries to kill himself after Shen Qingqiu dies for him again. He would do absolutely ANYTHING for Shen Qingqiu! He's increadibly jealous of everyone Shen Qingqiu gives attention to, including stairsweeps he smiles at. Luo Binghe has sooo much wrong with him and it makes him so lovable. He's so incredibly traumatized, driven by love and desperation for a majority of the story. He loves Shen Qingqiu so much and can't bear to live without him.

After everything? He lets Shen Qingqiu go, wanting him to be happy even if it means sqq won't stay with him. But sqq wanted to stay together! He gets his man! There is in world porn written about them, they have weird kinky sex inspired by the porn, they get married! Luo Binghe cries regularly for sqq, so sqq can dote on him despite his thin face. Luo Binghe is shameless and adores sqq. Lbh got so nervous that he fell flat on his face when proposing! Lbh loves sqq so much and wants him to be happy more than anything else!

More on disciple era:

Luo Binghe's sexual awakening was his shizun tied up and shirtless. He fell in love after Shen Qingqiu got poisoned protecting him. He moved into his shizun's house and handled all of the cooking and cleaning, would regularly fake fall into Shen Qingqiu during training to get hugs. He got a boner from being forcibly cuddled to heal his injuries. And ran to jump into a lake after being spanked for struggling too much during the forced cuddling. Sqq still never noticed lbh's affections.

--

It took him like 3(three) interactions with nice shizun (transmigrator who replaced his old one) to fall irrevocably in love. baby boy was ready he had mommy issues daddy issues and honestly by that time shizun issues too... luckily his new shizun can fill all those roles and more!

#lbh is THE shizunfucker

#binghe calling him shizun is a kink at some point its definitely him

#vote binghe!!#he wanted to fuck shizun so much that shizun died twice for him

#... i mean. luo binghe is a satire of the shizun fuckers character trope. hes an exageration of it so hes Very It

#luo binghe#again its basically a kink for him as well that puts it on another level

#cmon man#binghe is THE shizun fucker#activily has to be told to not call his husband shizun during sex

#binghe is THE shizunfucker supreme. no competition.

Mo Ran:

*gestures helplessly at the whole damn book*

#Mo 'I died and went into the past after the teacher I hated died in my arms and I dream of him every night' Ran???#of course its him

#vote for Mo ran I’m sorry but he is the emperor shizunfucker of all the shizunfuckers#he is the man the myth the legend#he’s the one you think of immediately when someone says shizunfucker

Extra Propaganda here. There are 3 versions of Mo Ran throughout Erha and every single one of them either wants to or did fuck their Shizun. Even in the darkest timeline when he thought he hated CWN more than anyone he fucked him. This boy is obsessed.

#mo ran 100%#he truly has the shizunfucker mentality

#mo ran#HAS TO WIN#he wants to fuck his Shizun so bad

#but it's gotta be mo ran#the all-time shizunfucker in this world that world and beyond

[ponderingmoonlight]

Can you write one where the reader is supposed to executed after Shibuya cause she’s in a relationship with Gojo. I kinda want it to be angsty, but you do what you want with this!

I know you said angsty, but all I can hear is bad bitch (the elders are REALLY angsty though lol)

Gojo's wife supposedly getting executed but kicking ass instead

Pairing: husband!Gojo x reader

Word Count: 1,5k

Synopsis: When Sibuya is finally over, you find yourself facing none other than the elders who want to execute you. Little do they know you are no one to be messed with, that even without your husband by your side, you are a true threat if you want to...

Warnings: lots of violence, (y/n) takes no shit in this one, language, not proofread yet

This is kinda like a continuation of this fic here

The sound of your heels clicking against the marble floor are the only thing that hangs in the air along with that deadly silence – literally.

You aren’t dumb. Of course you know why you’re here. Satoru is sealed, the only jujutsu sorcerer they were always afraid of. And since your husband is gone and nobody knows when or if he’ll return, these old farts seize their opportunity to finally get rid of you, to get rid of Yuji, to get rid of Yaga.

Well, maybe you weren’t exactly kind to them these last years. Yes, you were a pain in the ass yourself, threatening to kill every single one of them more than once. And with your husband, the strongest jujutsu sorcerer of this time, chuckling in the background, they simply had no choice but to hear you out.

Not anymore, though. Not when your husband is sealed in a tiny box with no way out.

You play with a strand of your hair while making your way to the huge door that separates you from them, containing your temper and breathing. Honestly, you couldn’t care less about the fact that they want to execute you. But Yaga, Yuji…There’s no way in hell you’ll let that happen, no way you’ll let them kill you this easily.

“You have some fucking nerve, calling me here after our last meeting. Didn’t I told you urgent enough what happens when you threaten my students?”

Confidently, you position yourself in the middle of the circled room, glaring right through their dark figures with your death stare.

“As if it’s not enough that I lost my husband in Shibuya while, if you even care about that minor detail, we all tried to save everyone in Japan from certain death. You know what would have happened if we didn’t fight until the very end, right? You know that we did all of this for the innocent people out there, right?”

Tame down your beating heart, your rushing blood. If you get angry, you might lose it all. And while Satoru supports you no matter what you do, you don’t want Yuji to look at you with those innocent disappointed eyes. No, you aren’t here to kill every single one of them.

But if one wrong word leaves their mouths, one word of disrespect against your beloved husband…

“You will be executed, (y/n) Gojo.”

You can’t contain a disrespectful huff. You, executed by those old farts? That you don’t laugh, that you don’t slaughter all of them on the spot.

“While you sat here on your old asses, my husband, I and countless others were out there fighting bravely for stranger’s life’s. Who are you to judge over mine? Who do you think you are to even consider you’d be able to take my life from me?”

Your threatful eyes seem to glow in the dark, hands clenched into fists so tightly that your own blood spills onto the marble ground.

“But all you care about is supremacy, isn’t it? Masamichi’s formula for creating independent cursed corpses, my infinite powers…You give zero fucks about the jujutsu sorcerers out there. All you care about is your puny selves”, you hiss through gritted teeth.

“Shut your mouth. You are no threat to us.”

Did you hear that correctly? That man sitting to your right didn’t just raise his voice at you, didn’t just say that you can’t hold a candle against them. Them, a room full of old farts. Them, who are too afraid to even fight. Them, who hide in this stinky room in order to protect themselves.

“Am I not?”, you mutter.

Within the blink of an eye, you throw one of your poisoned needles towards him, hitting his shoulder just how you wanted. Immediately the tension in the room is thick enough to get sliced, all elders springing up immediately.

“Come on, attack me, kill me if you dare. I couldn’t care less. Never forget that you are talking to me, (y/n) Gojo. There is a reason why Satoru married me and it certainly wasn’t to protect me.”

Oh, how much you miss him. What you would do to have Satoru back on your side.

“You are nothing without Satoru Gojo!”

“Look who’s there, the woman who just threatened the higher ups of Jujutsu High all on her own. Did you really choke that man?”

Your husband grinned at you widely, his blindfold already taken off. You simply shrugged your shoulders and smiled at him.

“Apparently I was able to convince them somehow. Come on, we should get going. I hope all of them are alright…”

God, how much you long for his tender touch, how much you’d do for him standing right by your side right now. Not to handle the situation for you, but to know you’re not alone.

Are you alone, though? Your husband might be sealed, but he isn’t dead, let alone gone. He’s still somewhere out there and thinks about you, still supports you from where ever he is. No, with Satoru as your beloved husband, you’ll never truly be alone.

“I am enough to make sure none of you will ever see the daylight again if you insist on this path. If you hurt Yuji Itadori-“

You aren’t able to finish your sentence. All of the sudden chains fly your way, trap you right in the middle of the room in the matter of seconds. For a brief moment your senses fail you, darkness summons you like a veil. Is this your end? Are they really able to bring you down this easily? You simply can’t die like that, not through their dirty hands, not when you weren’t able to say goodbye to your husband.

Your trembling breath hangs in the air, cursed metal digs into your tender flesh. Satoru…His face appears before your inner eye.

“Hey, you aren’t giving up now, aren’t ya? You’re just getting started, babe!”

You are better than them, stronger than them, braver than them. You huff to yourself, thick fear and power starts pumping through your veins. Fall seven times, stand up eight.

“Let’s get the party started.”

Their puny chains tear like threat under the sheer force of your bare arms, setting you free like a bird.

“See this as your final warning.”

Your fists discolour the room in deadly crimson, lighten up their scared faces.

“If you ever touch me or my students again.”

Fire runs through the room like a storm, lights them up, lets their flesh melt away like butter.

“I will kill every single one of you without blinking. Every. Single. One.”

Their desperate screams fill you with satisfaction while you keep going, shooting your poisoned needles their way, letting each one of them collapse underneath the weight of their sins.

“I kindly advise you to never mess with any member of the Gojo clan. Even though I’m not my husband, I’m definitely strong enough to end every life in this room if you keep threatening my students, friends and myself. If you ever dare to call me again…”

You snap, sending another wave of cursed fire their way.

“Well, maybe not do that. Now excuse me, I have to look after my students and figure out how to free my husband. See you never again.”

With one last satisfied grin, you turn on your heels and walk out, closing the door behind you for what you hope forever.

Was this the right thing to do? Did you cross a line you shouldn’t have crossed? Maybe you put Yuji in even more danger, maybe Masamichi still gets executed.

No.

Stop your train of thoughts.

This is not the right time to doubt yourself. They want to execute you, want to wipe you from this earth without a trace?

“That I don’t laugh…”, you mutter to yourself.

“There you are, Gojo-sensei! I was looking for you!”

A gentle smile creeps up your face and makes you forget about what just happened immediately.

“Hey, how are you feeling today, Yuji? Did Shoko treat your wounds?”, you question, gently wrapping your arm around the pink-haired boy who went to hell and back.

“I was thinking about a way to free Gojo-sensei and I’d love to try it with you! Oh, your uniform is a little burned. Are you alright?”

His eyes dart all over your body worried while you can’t fight a wide grin any longer.

“That? Oh, nothing for you to worry about. Come on, show me what you’ve find out.”

Bonus:

“Can you imagine? They called me to literally execute me. Wanna know what I did?”

“You bet I do…”, Satoru mumbles to himself on top of a pile of bones.

“I kinda burned them to the ground. But don’t worry, I am almost certain they survived. Hopefully they’ll leave Yuji, Masamichi an me alone now. But I think that could have consequences, so maybe move your ass out of that cube a little faster”, you bubble.

Satoru lets out a heartfelt laugh. So you really threatened the elders again? No wonder he married you, that force of a woman.

“I’ll come back to you babe. And then we’ll  both kick their asses together.”

Tags: @arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld @dazaisdick @hellkaiserinphoenix  @lauv4chuuya @shadowfoxey @starlightanyaaa @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen @magalimachete @mokoartpost @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut  @mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0 @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @wxwieeee @lovelyluna1 @froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @gojosrealwife  @coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain  @risuola  @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny @ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr @kayleegomez @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world @oikawarz @darkstarlight82

[fanfic-obsessed]

Failing to Thrive then Thriving in failure

I just had the funniest notion. Time travel comedy, but the twist is that Palpatine is the one to go back in time. 

So we start just after Kenobi, Palpatine has been emperor for about a decade, he succeeded. The Sith plan is complete, he has everything he had dreamed of and worked toward for a decade…and he is so bored. He never realized that 90% of his joy actually came from pretending to be a benevolent Chancellor and the intrigue of fooling people.  Now he has shown his true colors and could not go back to pretending (it simply would not work). Being the Sith in charge is not as fun as he thought it would be. Even getting to openly torture people has lost its appeal after 10 years.

It’s ok for Vader. For one Vader was never interested in those intrigues in the first place. For two 45% of Vader brain is taken up by trying to resurrect Padme Amidala, 50% is taken up by Obi Wan Kenobi (Palpatine is not sure if Vader wants to kill Kenobi, Kriff Kenobi, make Kenobi tuck Vader in every night and tell him is it going to be alright, Force Kenobi to help Vader resurrected Padme, or make sure Kenobi is eating, taking care of himself, and has a good enough blanket), leaving only 5% for everything else.  

Frankly if this is what Kenobi had to deal with before the war, Palpatine is somewhat impressed he got anything done.

Vader isn’t bored. Palpatine’s assorted lesser minions are not bored, they are living the dream of being as bigoted as their little fascist hearts desire. But Palpatine just could not find joy any longer. 

I do want it clear. Palpatine is not repentant. He does not regret the deaths that he caused, the genocide, the enslavement, any of it. He’s just bored. 

One day Palpatine finds a book, or maybe an artifact, or possibly a scrap of paper with an archaic formula. The title roughly translates to ‘Sith Master Time Travel’ (Listen The Son was also very bored, and being outside of Space Time meant He wanted to see what would happen). Palpatine is able to time travel, but only as far back as when he became a Sith Master. It was also a one time deal, he would not be able to use the method again AND it would destroy his origin timeline (not that that actually factored into Palpatine’s decision at all).  Not to mention he would essentially be possessing and killing his previous, alternate timeline self. 

Of course Palpatine time travels. He goes all the way back to the moment he became the Sith Master (it turns out the Sith titles are not just titles), looking at the still warm corpse of Hugo Damask, just as the Naboo crisis is wrapping up. 

Now Palpatine had already decided to do some things differently.  At first he was still working outward the Grand Sith Plan, if trying to keep his ‘Kindly Politician’ mask a bit longer, however he has decided that instead of Vader (or possibly in addition to Vader, if things get boring again) he will get Obi Wan Kenobi as his apprentice, figuring that there must have been a reason that every Sith Apprentice for 20 years ends up obsessed with the man (also because he thinks it would be funny to corrupt the Jedi’s ‘Guiding Light’). Dooku and all the pieces needed to start the Clone wars are already mostly in place. It is just a matter of maintaining until the clones are the right age.  So he does what he needs to to maintain the Empire building plans and decides to focus on corrupting Obi Wan. 

He fails, utterly. He fails so fully that Obi Wan did not even notice his attempts at corruption. Like he knew it would take time to corrupt a Jedi, he had done before after all, but he still expected at least a little change within the first year. There was nothing. 

And it was not a case of Obi Wan not trusting Palpatine. This is still a decade before the war. Obi Wan is a grieving, freshly knighted,  trying to keep up with a nine year old with somewhat unique trauma. Palpatine knows how to get Obi Wan to feel comfortable and trust him (Palpatine probably knows too well how to get Obi wan to feel comfortable and trust him, between Dooku and Vader). Obi Wan is just, for a given value, incorruptible. 

Now Palpatine’s obsession switch has been flipped. He went into it thinking that corrupting Obi Wan would be a fun side project, a way to pass the time.  He was wrong.  He knows from the previous timeline that torture would not be effective (Listen if the torture mask specifically built to corrupt lightsiders did not make a dent after a month it is pretty well proven that torture will not cause Kenobi to fall, Palpatine knows this) nor would killing Kenobi’s loved work (again, if it didn’t last time we have some pretty concrete proof). 

So now we have Palpatine trying every method he can think of to seduce Kenobi the darkside, always just shy of admitting to being a Sith or being creepy. To the point that he has actually forgotten the Empire building he was doing. He kind of even forgets to be Sidious.  He almost ghosts Dooku, before he remembers that Dooku is Kenobi’s grandfather(that is not the correct term, Dooku tries to correct Palpatine an even dozen times before giving up) and gets Dooku involved in the corruption that is STILL. GOING. NOWHERE.

Dooku basically becomes Grandpa Dooku to both Obi Wan and Anakin, and falls back into the Light while trying unsuccessfully to corrupt Obi Wan to the Dark. Due to darkside vow complications (also because I think it would be really funny) Dooku is not able to say, imply, or otherwise do anything to make the Jedi suspicious that Palaptine is a Sith. Also, to a certain extent he thinks that as long as Palpatine is focused on corrupting his incorruptible grandson, the other Sith is not thinking about galactic domination (To be fair he is correct).  

Palpatine spends most of his time trying to corrupt Obi Wan, while keeping up the act used to maintain Obi Wan’s trust. The thing is Palpatine is fully aware that Anakin in the original timeline was about observant as a particularly dense brick wall and would not have realized that the persona of ‘My friend Palaptine’ did not match the reality of ‘My pal Friendpatine’. Obi Wan would realize if his act was not consistent. 

So Palpatine decided to keep the act up 24/7.  And everyone knows that your actions become your habits become your personality. 

Somewhere in year 8 Palpatine forgets how to Sith. 

Technically he is still a darksider but not the extra layer of fucked up that comes from being an actual Sith. And he still has not even made a dent in Obi Wan’s light. He has also, almost single handedly, derailed the war that had been brewing and fixed about 40% of the corruption in the Senate.  All without killing a single senator.

Palpatine spends most of his time very confused. 

Palpatine lets his term as Chancellor end, having gone down in history as one of the most beloved Chancellors in history.  The Clones are found and mostly are inducted as an arm of the Jedi Order. Jango Fett is given a metric ton of therapy, which helps him see that the Jedi were not actually at fault for Galidraan (Jango had, in fact, been the person to escalate things to violence) before he is allowed to take Boba back into the galaxy. By that point the Clones want little to do with him. 

For the rest of his life Palpatine tries, unsuccessfully, to corrupt Obi Wan (who never noticed). At this point he is genuinely friends with a number of Jedi (He and Mace Windu have a surprising amount in common, including a love of the theater and a mild exasperation for Anakin Skywalker's antics). He is an honored guest at both the CodyWan and the Anidala Weddings (including a Jedi based wedding ceremony).

Honestly he is having the most fun of his life. 

He is also never caught as a darksider. He never figures out how that is possible either.

[wri0thesley]

my heart a frozen thing (I of III)- capitano x reader

the tsaritsa's handmaidens are enviable indeed; perfect, chaste, and honoured beyond measure. a well-oiled machine. but you do not quite fit in. lucky, then, that the tsaritsa herself has intervened, to find you a position that befits who you once were - to arrange your marriage to one of her most trusted lieutenants.

cw: arranged marriage, mentions of death/freezing to death, corpses, weird religious themes, bullying. reader is referred to as a 'handmaiden', wears a gown, but no pronouns are used. wc: 5.4k. sfw.

a/n: capitano and his little handmaiden are a little thing i've wanted to explore for a while; i don't usually do series, but i have a very clear idea of where this is going and i hope i can get it there! in my head this ought to run to three parts, but here is the first! i had a lot of fun just making up background for this honestly fbgnkjgbfn.

i.

The halls of Zapolyarny Palace have never felt so cold. 

They are halls that you have walked a thousand times, at the behest of your Goddess; chambers that you have traversed for as long as you can remember. You learnt yourself here - so much so that the person you once were, the family you once had . . . that has faded to nothing. You have been a ward of the Tsaritsa since you were six years old, and you would not have had it any other way. 

After all - are you not one step down from divinity? Do you not follow in her wake, untouchable and lovely? Do you not provide her with anything she could need? You see the Fatui members who walk these halls, the Harbingers - their hands are stained with blood up to the elbows, their figures stooped from war, their faces twisted with their troubles. They have clawed their way up the ranks -

And you? You have done no such thing. Something about you had called out to the Tsaritsa and she had welcomed you to her bosom and you had accepted, allowing yourself to be draped in furs and glittering crystals, to stand proud and haughty, to kneel for her and ensure her skirts are never dirtied, her every whim is met . . . 

Until today, you suppose. 

Her lips had felt like ice when she had kissed you on your forehead, and you had known then that you would walk from her chambers freezing cold and stripped of everything you held dear. You have always known that your fellow handmaidens did not like you; that they had envied you the Tsaritsa’s favour, that they have whispered that you are unworthy. Such things are easy to ignore when you know that you are cherished, though - and you had ignored them. You had ignored how they had ripped holes in your stockings and sent you on wild goose chases and errands, how they whispered behind your back when you fell into formation looking harried and rushed and imperfect because you had not been able to find your hairbrush in the morning. 

But the handmaidens of the Tsaritsa are supposed to be a unit. You are all supposed to see one another as siblings; to think of nothing more than Her, and how you may serve Her. It is this that the Tsaritsa had said to you in your private meeting, as you had shivered and burned with the cold ice of humiliation. 

“I love you,” she had said, with her voice as lovely as shattering crystals, as she had pressed that traitorous kiss onto your forehead. “Do not worry, little one. I shall ensure that you will not be thrown to the wolves.”

And then she had told you exactly how she was ensuring that, and you had had no choice but to stand before her, trembling, chin jutting proudly up - and pretend that you agreed with her decision. 

There is nobody in the dormitory when you go to pack what little things you have; you are glad of that, at least, so that those who have brought you down to this station in life cannot gloat at you. You do not have many things of your own; of course, the handmaidens are given fine clothes, but they are more uniform than ordinary wardrobe. You pack your hairbrush, a book, a few other creature comforts - but you are supposed to be a homogenous unit, after all, and to make yourself too individual would simply not do. 

One of the Tsaritsa’s servants is waiting outside of the door for you when you emerge. You shiver in the cool air, but try to keep a thread of your calm; give her a trembling smile. She looks at you with curiosity in her gaze, but she does not pry; that is not the way of things here. You soon lose track of where she is taking you.

In Zapolyarny Palace, there are paths that you walk every day; to the chapel, to the Tsaritsa’s chambers, to the hallowed halls and meeting rooms and anywhere else a handmaiden may be needed. But you do not wander freely beyond that. You know there are offices and spare bedrooms and studies and libraries galore - it is a most magnificent work of architecture - but you are not at liberty to explore them. So you soon lose your bearing as the servant brings you through hallways you’ve never seen, past doors you never knew existed. You feel your heart begin to beat too fast in your chest, anxiety crawling up your throat. 

You do not know what is to happen to you now. 

You know in theory what the Tsaritsa expects to happen, and you ought to believe her - find her infallible, as your Goddess and Archon surely is - but you have learnt, today, that nothing is infallible. You do not think any handmaiden in the history of Her Majesty’s service has ever been let go like you - and, too, you know none of them have suffered the humiliation of being--

You can barely even think the words. You think of the first Harbinger again, the one directly beneath the Director; the looming presence, the always-worn mask, the whispers that follow in his wake . . . you cannot imagine yourself on his arm. Cannot imagine yourself in his bed. Cannot imagine yourself standing beside him at an altar, promising him eternity--

“We’re here.” The servant’s voice is timid; even though she must surely know that you are disgraced, there is still - in your bearing and in the fine white furs and silks you wear - the reminder of what you were before disgrace came knocking at your door, and she has been taught that the Tsaritsa’s handmaidens are pure and perfect and precious. How you wish you felt that way. 

“Thank you,” you say to her, swallowing to try and clear the dryness in your throat, trying to summon a smile. She bobs an awkward curtsey and inclines her head before she scurries away down the corridor, no doubt to whisper to someone about the scandal that is unfolding within the palace’s halls. 

You look at the door to your new life. It is carved with swirling snowflakes; a solid impenetrable wooden shield from the rest of the palace. You do not know if it will stay your door, but you have nowhere else to go now. You cannot go running back to the dormitory of the handmaidens; surely, by now, they will all have been told exactly how you have been disgraced--

Your gloved fingers fasten about the doorknob as you force your traitorous heart to beat evenly. You must take things as they come; there is no point getting too frightened just yet. Some of the Harbingers do indeed keep quarters in the Palace - Pantalone, you know, has a wing set aside for his use. And Pulcinella, too, needing to be near the beating heart of Snezhnaya, has rooms here. 

It is in the nature of a handmaiden, you remind yourself, to be calm. To keep their wits about them. It is proper of you to maintain an even voice and a pretty face, to be ready to be called to your service at a moment’s notice; and though you are not, really, a handmaiden any more . . . your entire life has been governed by these rules, and such things do not desert one so easily. So you keep your head held high as you step into the room, your chin jutting out, your eyes wide, your face proud--

And you do not let the tears fall, like your life is collapsing into the sea around you and leaving you adrift with no safe harbour (your beautifully designed ice sculpture of an existence), until the door is closed and nobody but you and the sharp coldness of the mirror mounted on the wall opposite is there to see it. 

ii.

You are expecting to be brought before him, as would befit a man of his status - a status that now far outranks your own. You are expecting Fatui grunts or serving maids to come and fetch you from the neatly appointed little room of the Palace, to drag you before the Harbinger you are to become reliant upon, and to have every part of you scrutinised. Perhaps he will find you wanting, you think bitterly; perhaps he does not want to be a part of this mockery any more than you do. Perhaps he will snarl beneath the mask and despite the Tsaritsa’s attempts to save your life, will have you banished to some cold unfeeling corner of the Palace where you will freeze to death and nobody will find your corpse. 

(It would hardly be the first time such a thing has occurred in Snezhnaya). 

You are not expecting that the first of the Fatui Harbinger, he of the war glories, second only in the chain of command to the Director himself, would lower himself to come to you. 

But come to you he does. 

The room that you have been given is lovely if impersonal; a bedspread patterned with sprigs of blue flowers, an ornate mirror, a wardrobe and a shelf of knick-knacks. You, as a handmaiden, have never had cause to tend to the guest rooms - that is for those whose service is less important, whose place in the world is less holy - but you do at least know enough to know that is what this is. And you suppose, too, that is what you are now too. 

No longer somebody who truly belongs in the Palace; no longer one of a flock of beautiful befurred doves, cooing and twittering over who will be granted the honour of smoothing Her Majesty’s dress, of combing her hair. Simply a guest - a person waiting to see what the next step in their life will be. Perhaps Zapolyarny Palace will be a pitstop; perhaps your new betrothed will have somewhere else to put you like an ornamental doll. 

Perhaps he will take you to his camps, his fields of war, install you in his tent until you have forgotten the luxury of silks and glass and the blood he sheds stains your white furs red. Your nails dig crescent moons into your palms at the thought of it; of all of the ways your life could spiral into decay and dirt when it has only ever been pristine and beautiful before. 

You are sitting on the bed when the knock comes, when the door is opened before you can even call out. You see the faintest outline of some Fatui soldier, before his bulk is silhouetted in the doorway and your breath is robbed from your chest. 

Seeing him pass by you in hallways, or at the table when you have been called to the Tsaritsa’s side, does not do the man justice. He seems to tower over you; his presence in the room makes it seem like a dollhouse more than anything functional. Your eyes flitter, afraid to rest upon him too much lest you see something terrifying staring back at you. 

You cannot describe it, but your entire body seems to go into a freeze response; you sit there, exactly like the ornament you are so afraid of becoming, your gloved hands neatly balled into fists upon the luxurious fabric of your handmaiden’s gown, your eyes wide with surprise and fear.

You expect him to stride in; to take what he has been given, self-assured as only a member of Her Majesty’s most esteemed lieutenant can truly be. Thoughts flash through your head; of him throwing you upon the prettily patterned bedsheets and having his way with you, of him grabbing you roughly and letting his hands explore the merchandise he has been granted. 

Certainly, the visual of him makes those seem the most likely course of action. The massive stature, the shadows that his shoulders throw across the room. The impassive iron mask; the armour that he dons, whether he is on official business or not. Your shoulders draw up against your ears, preparing for something, though you know not what. You catch a glimpse of eyes, bluer than the hottest fire--

And then Il Capitano sinks to one knee in front of you and reaches for your trembling, gloved hand. Your breath catches in your throat as he draws it closer to himself - but then, he presses his mask against the fabric in an echo of a kiss, and from beneath the helmet he wears comes a voice like an echo in an iron chamber. 

“Little handmaiden,” he says - and then, “I regret not coming sooner.” 

“I--” Your tongue will not work around the syllables. It trembles in your mouth; only your willpower alone stops your teeth clacking together like some awful grisly musical instrument. “My Lord Harbinger, I . . .” 

“Do not worry,” he says, his voice still a strange echo - you cannot imagine getting used to it, cannot imagine it whispering words of love into the shell of your ear. You can imagine it, though, booming across a battlefield, and the thought makes your heart seize in your chest. “I have no intention to hurt you. I am . . . most honoured by the privilege that has been entrusted to me.” 

You realise with a start that you are the privilege; that this is punishment for you, but it does not seem so to him. The thought gives you pause. 

Even the word . . . ‘privilege’. He does not call you a reward; does not act as though he has been given you as some Archon-won right, to do with as he pleases. For the first time, you let yourself wonder if perhaps your fate is not to be as cruel as you had feared. 

“Thank you,” you say to him, your voice a thready little mouse-whisper of noise. Capitano does not move from his place before you, kneeling upon the parquet flooring of the room - his hand does not let go of yours for a moment, as if he cannot quite believe that you are real flesh and blood there before him. You cannot properly see his eyes behind the helmet - only that bluefire suggestion, the glow of something behind the ornate visor - but in your time as a handmaiden of the Tsaritsa, you have grown used to the sensation of being looked at, and that is certainly what he is doing. 

“I intend to do this properly.” He tells you, with the door still open, with the Fatui soldiers who had accompanied him still stationed outside of the door listening to every word that he says. “I intend to make you mine in the eyes of the Tsaritsa and everyone else who matters.” 

You think once more of the altar; you think of your uniform of pure white furs, traded for something lacier and gauzier, something more of a wedding gown than a ritual dress. You think of being chained to this man for all eternity--

And though he has been kind to you in these few brief moments, though your Archon had said she wished to see no harm come to you . . . once more, you think of Capitano’s reputation. Of the war fields and the bloodshed, of his victories and his spoils, of the way you have heard he throws himself into conflict like it is the only thing that keeps his blood pumping through his veins. 

But you cannot say a thing. 

“Tomorrow,” he tells you, and he says the word like a sacred thing - a prayer on his breath. “Tomorrow, I will marry you, and I will take you home.”

He does not leave his words in a question; there is no space for you to reply. You swallow your protestations as he stands back up and bows his head like a gentleman, though you know he is stained with blood in a way you had never expected to be yourself. 

(You think of his hand on yours; imagine bloody fingerprints where he had clung to you. Marked. Soiled. No longer pristine and pure; no longer one of the Tsaritsa’s favourites. You stand upon the precipice of becoming something else, and it terrifies you). 

“Tomorrow,” you echo, but the door has already closed behind him. 

iii.

You cannot sleep. 

The bed is fine; finer, perhaps, than the one in your dormitory that you have slept on for decades. The blankets and coverlets, with their pretty patterns, are warm (warmer than you are used to; the handmaidens are kept close to Her Majesty, and coldness permeates the air wherever she dwells. You had not realised just how cold you were used to being until you had slipped into this bed in a guest-room of the place you thought of as your home).

But your mind will not quieten. 

You cannot stop thinking of Capitano, and all that his future entails; cannot stop the whisper of his voice, constrained as it is by his helm, when he says the word ‘home’. What is a home for you, now? At this moment in time, ousted from Her Majesty’s Service and not yet yoked to the first-ranked Harbinger, you are a creature that has nowhere to lay down their roots. 

If you slipped out of this room, and out into the cold Snezhnayan winter . . . you would be another nameless person, another corpse frozen to a block of ice. You have not been out amongst the general populace in some time - that is not a duty that befits one of the handmaidens - but what memories you do have, before six, remind you that you would hardly be the first. Indeed, finding some poor soul frozen into the next life is an occurrence that happens to all citizens of Snezhnaya, eventually. 

A memory rises unbidden to the forefront of your mind; another child, who looks like you but older, concentration writ clear on their face as they try and unbend fingers from a poor man rimmed with frost with lips of pale blue. An older woman, shouting - a sickening snap--

You squeeze your eyes shut and force the memory away. There is nothing, you remind yourself, before the Tsaritsa’s tender care. If there ever was, it has gone the way of snowstorms and blizzards; there is no use remembering. It has been so long that all of the figures in your memories, too, are perhaps no better than markers in the frozen ground. 

If you cannot sleep, you tell yourself forcefully, you are not going to allow yourself to be haunted by nightmares of your own making. You will lie here, in this lovely little room. You will let yourself think of the warmth that seeps into your bones; you will let yourself remember it. 

One final night; the first night you can truly remember where you are free. 

And as for what tomorrow holds - as for the thought of standing beside Capitano, as to the thought of his home - be it tent or wing of rooms or little shack or anything in between - you will not think on them. You will think of how, if you wished, you could toss and turn and no other handmaidens in the dormitory will hiss anger at you beneath their breath. How you could sing in this room, like a pretty bird, and nobody would shout for you to shut up as they throw their pillows at you.How there will be no ringing bell in the morning, no sidelong glances from your fellows who do not think you deserve to play the role you are given. 

There is blissful silence; the luxury of having a bedroom to yourself, of being an individual when you have for so long been an entity made up of so many. 

You do fall into sleep, eventually. 

You dream of being a beautiful white horse, your hooves leaving distinct prints in the snow, blending alone into the barren landscape of your homeland. 

When you awake, there is a dress hanging on the wardrobe opposite the bed. 

You do not question it; how they found time for your measurements, who made it, whether it is Capitano’s design. Your training does not fail you; things happen, and you must accept them. The easy freedom of last night is gone, and the weight of what you are to become settles like a mantle around your shoulders. 

It is still service, you tell yourself, as you bathe in the little basin in the adjoining room. The soaps and potions that are lined neatly up on shelves are scented like something fresh and clean and floral; the kind of flower that makes you think of rolling hills and ticklish breezes. The handmaidens used toiletries scented with spearmint and frostflower, as the Tsaritsa had chosen - you wonder if these bottles here are the choice of your betrothed, or merely coincidence. 

You perform your ablutions and ignore the fact that you are preparing yourself for something you do not fully understand. If you stop to think too hard upon what it is you are primping and preening for, you do not know if you will be able to keep the thread of your calm - as it is, your hands are shaking when you step into the gown left for you. 

It is undoubtedly a wedding gown. 

It is not cut in the Snezhnayan fashion; there is no trimming of pale blue diamonds, of furs or feathers or warmth. This is the gown of a beloved maiden in a tower; something to be worn whilst dreaming of gardens, all pretty eyelet lace and delicate embroidery. Wearing it, after being so used to the garb of one of Her Majesty’s attendants, feels almost like being naked. 

There is nothing for your hair; you leave it unbound. There is no other ornamentation; you suppose, when you think about it, your glimpses of Capitano have never suggested him to be a man of excess. If it were one of the others you were to wed - Pantalone, perhaps - you have no doubt you would be draped in jewels. 

If it were Pantalone that you were to be wed to, you think, he would not have been satisfied with a mere ceremony, rushed through the next day. You know from gossip he is a man who thinks he deserves better than the world has given him, that he would never take less than excess. A brief gladness that it is not the Regrator that your Archon has given you to flashes across your mind--

And then you remember Capitano, the size of him, the mystery of what lays behind his mask, and you swallow the lump in your throat. 

There is a serving maid at the door, holding a bunch of flowers in her hand - they are delicate things, white petalled and lovely, scattered with pink roses. You breathe in the scent to calm yourself and recognise them as the same scent that lingers on your skin and in your hair - and the serving maid gives you a small, nervous smile. 

“They’re Cecilias,” she tells you. “from Mondstadt. The Captain asked for them specifically.” 

She says his name in the same way so many of the citizens of Zapolyarny Palace do; with respect, and reverence. There is none of the fear that edges those who whisper of other Harbingers in her voice - you have heard horror in the tones of those who speak of Dottore, the Doctor . . . But Capitano seems to command awe and respect. You want it to be comforting - but you cannot help but wonder if it is merely that those who know his true nature are quieted by his sword. 

“Thank you,” you say, for you cannot make your voice shape any other words. Your tongue has grown leaden in your mouth, the moisture gone from it completely, and you know the thing that has sapped your ability to speak is fear. She gives you another smile, and looks at you in your gown. 

“You’re beautiful,” she says to you, as if to reassure; perhaps misunderstanding your terror of your bridegroom as the normal nerves of someone about to tie their life to someone else’s in matrimony. The whispers of your dismissal have had time to grow their own stories, after all; few things move faster than gossip in a place like this. “Come. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

You’re helpless to do anything but let her lead you. The hem of your gown trails on the floor behind you, but the Palace is spotless; it does not gather dust or dirt. You pass through the halls like a ghost, and you wonder if that is how you look. 

As a handmaiden, you had moved with purpose, with the assurance that you were Somebody. As the betrothed of a Harbinger, you move like somebody sentenced to execution, your heart pounding in your throat. The halls seem silent around you. You wonder, if given the chance to do it all again, how you would stop all of this so you would not find yourself in this position, walking to what could very well be your own doom. 

“Here,” the serving maid whispers, stopping by a door. You look at it with dumb terror in your heart, but you keep your face an impassive mask as you have been taught to do. You know where you are; you know this chapel to be the Tsaritsa’s most sacred place. You have been given access only a handful of times; the handmaidens who serve your Archon here are far more senior than you. In time, you had hoped you would become one of her most trusted, one who could sit with her in prayer in this private sanctuary--

You suppose that is a dream that will never come to fruition now. 

You give her a smile - a trembling thing, but you have been taught how to behave - and as she opens the chapel door for you, you square your soldiers and summon all of the courage you have (what little there is; courage is not a thing that is encouraged amongst the handmaidens, amongst those who must move and act as one), and you place one foot in front of the other as you begin your walk down the aisle. 

You tell yourself you will not look at the pews - hewn of glass, the more to resemble the Tsaritsa’s beloved ice - but as you begin a walk that feels as though it lasts forever, you cannot help it. The chapel is still a sanctuary; it is almost empty, in fact, but for a few faces sitting at the very front. 

The Tsaritsa herself presides, and you immediately lower your eyes to the ground. You have seen her before, of course - have tended to her when called - but it would not be proper of you to stare. She is still your Archon. Your fingers tremble where they are wrapped around your bouquet. 

Capitano stands, as patient and as still as a massive statue, at the altar. He is dressed still in his armour; the only concession he has made to the idea of a wedding is a buttonhole tucked into his chest, of matching roses and Cecilias to your own. You can see that burning bluefire from across the room, and as you walk closer and closer to it you are hit by the urge to laugh at the thought that perhaps you are simply walking into hellfire. 

And a few other familiar faces fill the first row; that is Pierro, you know. The Director. He sits ramrod straight, the second-largest man in the room, his cloak serving to highlight the severe lines of his face. There is The Knave, too - in her beautifully-cut suit. There is the smallest smile playing on her lips, as she looks from you to Capitano and back again. 

Not all of the Harbingers have come to see this spectacle - you are silently glad of the absence of the Doctor - but there are enough there that you feel sweat prickle down your spine, gathering in the small of your back. You force yourself to swallow and to breathe. This chapel’s aisle has never felt so long before. 

But even though it feels as though the aisle will never end, end it does - too soon, too quickly, and you are at the end of your last walk as somebody free and unmarried. You are standing beside Capitano, ready to pledge yourself to him as your Archon has demanded you do. 

You wonder if he is smiling beneath the helmet. Your own face, you’re sure, must have the look of a deer staring down a bow and arrow; wide, frightened, terribly aware suddenly of its own mortality. But there is nothing a doe can do when she is a hunter’s quarry, and there is nothing you can do now either. 

So you say the words, after they issue forth from the Tsaritsa’s lovely voice and she commands you to repeat them. You listen to Capitano make the same oaths, his voice still a strange echo. You do not hear them, not really - but it does not matter, because they are binding in the eyes of your Archon and it is your Archon who has witnessed them being said. 

Your hand is shaking when Capitano takes it to slide the ring upon it. It is plain, too; a silver band, etched all over with some decorative scrollwork and words in a language you do not understand. 

You have never seen a marriage. The handmaidens do not do such things - they are chaste, and pure, and when they are done with the service of the Tsaritsa they remain so even when cast back to the powdery snow. But you have read books, and you know that a marriage usually ends with a kiss; a sealing of the pact that two people who love one another have made. 

You steel yourself, then, to see below Capitano’s mask. You try not to dwell on possibility; the idea of him being monstrous or disfigured or perhaps even just perfectly ordinary. You try to prepare yourself for the feel of another’s lips upon yours. 

But the Tsaritsa never decrees that it is time for Capitano to kiss his spoils. 

Indeed, Capitano takes your hand - his own like a massive claw, yours delicate and tender in his grip - and leads you back down the aisle. He does not look at you as he does it; but you have the strangest sensation that he is . . . uncomfortable, with the way that everyone is looking at him. That such pomp and circumstance is perhaps not something he would generally choose. 

In fact, when the door closes behind you - when you and he are briefly, briefly, briefly along in the corridor . . . something in him seems to unknot. He lets forth a rattling breath, his shoulders sagging just a touch, that would perhaps be invisible to any other eyes but the eyes of a frightened, lonely little mortwal who has been torn from what they thought was their purpose in life and thrown to the whims of somebody that may yet be a monster. 

“Little handmaiden,” he rumbles, from somewhere low in his chest, and you wonder if it is indeed relief that makes his tone seem almost comforting. “The formalities are done with. You are mine, and I am yours.”

He tilts his helmet, and that bluefire burning behind the visor finds your own eyes; almost imperceptibly, perhaps because he sees the terror in your gaze, he seems to soften at the edges. 

Hesitantly, he reaches out a gloved hand; just as hesitantly, he cups your face, the metal cool against the softness of your cheeks. He turns your face towards him, with a grip that you expect to be rough and possessive but is as gentle as the first layer of snow upon a shooting leaf. 

“Let’s go home,” he says. 

Home brings to mind your dormitory; the identical rows of beds, the identically dressed handmaidens, the comfort of routine. Home whispers in the back of your mind of something cooking in the oven, of a rowdy family gathered around a battered old table, of three children older than you and three children younger than you. 

You cannot return to either of those places. 

So all you can do, then, is smile for the man who could be captor or lover or liberator, but is now, inarguably, your husband. 

And let him lead you home. 

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

May I request the FNAF movie with a reader possessing Sparky? They’re an adult or in their late teens as opposed to the kids. They don’t “wake up” often but when they do they have a commanding presence over the others.

YES thank you for this Sparky ask-

15 year old me would have flipped her lid if she knew a FNAF 1 hoax would become canon in a movie

........

First...it was the distant muffled screams that awakened your systems, mechanical eyelids slowly fluttering open.

Then..there were louder sounds. Clearer sounds:

A woman's screaming cut short.

Bones crunching.

Flesh squelching.

And finally, something heavy hitting the floor with a thud.

Only then were you fully alert.

As your optics adjusted to the dimness of the backstage room, you realized that it wasn't just the old costumes and springlock suits that were keeping you company.

Freddy was here, too...with half a human corpse laying at his feet.

Your eyes widened out of shock.

Although you've seen him and the others kill before, what he did to that woman was quite abhorrent.

You didn't even think was possible for him to-

"You're awake."

Blinking, your head turned to see the Golden Freddy suit lingering by the door, standing up. His mouth didn't move, but you could tell from his single functioning eye, which was pulsating with a soft blue glow, that the child possessing him was talking to you.

All you could do was glare, your suit's mouth opening. "What is the meaning of this? Why are you letting them act like animals?" Your voice spoke.

In the blink of an eye, he was replaced by a blond boy in a striped shirt. He walked over to you, taking your paw and helping you stand. "It's not me. Some bad people broke in and tried to hurt them. Three others were with her, but they've all been taken care of."

As annoyed as you wanted to be, you knew you couldn't blame them for wanting to protect themselves.

Hell, you didn't even know what fully happened.

Maybe it was justifiable.

"Fine. Bring them here so we can hide the evidence...assuming we have enough room to hide all of it, of course."

The boy just smiled innocently, pointing to where you were sitting.

"Don't worry, there's always enough room for everyone."

You briefly looked to the empty purple Freddy suit that laid in pieces beside you, huffing. "I guess it'll do...I just hope they didn't leave too much of a mess-"

When you looked back to where the boy was, he had vanished completely.

He liked doing that a lot.

You're just relieved that there's at least ONE person you could talk to after being stuck in this pizzeria for.....

For.....

It suddenly occurred to you that you had genuinely forgotten how long you've been here. And the same holds true for the other children...who couldn't even remember their own names anymore. Now they only respond to the names of their characters.

Although there were significant gaps in your memories of being alive, your latest one was of the day you saw a yellow rabbit leading some kids away--taking them one at a time to show them a "backstage tour".

After the fifth one vanished, you followed him, but for some reason....he got angry that you did so.

It's like he didn't want you to see something.

Next thing you knew, you woke up, looking through the eyes of Sparky the Dog--a character you remembered from a diner that once collaborated with Freddy's for a short time.

At some point he was retired, as he kept breaking down while performing to the point where the owner didn't wanna keep repairing him.

And so Sparky--and you--were shoved backstage, being used for nothing more than spare parts.

Unfortunately, that led to you scarcely waking up and roaming like the rest of the Fazbear Band. But whenever you did, they all seemed to listen to you for some reason, doing whatever you asked of them like obedient dogs.

Ironic, considering you were the one possessing a dog.

However it seems you've woken up a tad bit too late this time, as apparently a group of adults have broken into the place, and without your guidance, the gang took it upon themselves to deal with it how ever they could.

But it seems they left quite the bloody mess...or at least Freddy did, given the red stains on his teeth.

You approached him, stopping only to point at the half-eaten body. He seemed to recognize your expression as the "I'm not mad, just disappointed" look, and his ears flattened in slight shame.

If only he could talk to you so he could explain himself..

Before you could give him an order, the doors creaked open, and you both turned around to see Bonnie, Foxy, and Chica slowly filing into the room.

Each of them dragged in their own brutally-slain victim, the intruders he must have been talking about:

Bonnie brought a man who had blood oozing from his mouth, palms covered in the same sticky substance.

Using his bloodstained hook, Foxy struggled to carry the weight of a younger man covered in deep gash marks and bite wounds on his head.

And in Chica's grasp was another man whose face had been chewed off by her Cupcake--arguably the most brutal way a person could die.

All at once, they stopped and dropped the corpses to the ground, staring at you and awaiting further directions.

You assessed each one before turning just your eyes towards the wall where you often sat deactivated, pointing to the various suits laying there.

Immediately, they knew what to do, and you also got to work helping them hide the "evidence" and making these intruders part of the band.

Forever and ever

[dex0s]

IMAGINE!

WARNING! ♫ !dark content ahead! gore(hand getting cut off), abuse, obsession, and miscarriage!♬ (before you get confused reader and the husband gives their semen to a surrogate mother)

⇨ 𝟷𝟶/𝟷𝟻/𝟸𝟹 ⇦ ♡ Wₒᵣd cₒᵤₙₜ ₋ ₆₅₇ ♡

YOUR YANDERE HUSBAND! Have been in marriage for 5 years. And it’s the worst 5 years you ever experienced abuse, forced pregnancy, two miscarriages but that man just wouldn’t stop until he had baby trapped you. And when he finally got a baby he wasn’t satisfied so he tried to force you to have another with a different donor, lucky you got away before anything can happen. Then you finally had your baby a beautiful baby girl, she was an angel compared to your husband and you hope she would stay like that. Now it’s your daughter’s 17th birthday and you hope the birthday gift you will give her will go as planned.

First, the arguing. “You know you should stop spoiling that kid so much when you can’t even do the same for your husband” he said, “why should I? She’s my flesh and bones plus she’s an angel unlike you” you answered back. You can see the redness/anger rising to his face, good now continue too anger him and take it outside. “What happened to the obedient person I married. Why are you so bold right now?” He tried stay calm but you can see him about the explode. “Why don’t we take this outside. I don’t want my angel to hear us fight” as you say that you walk outside because if you didn’t he would’ve said why can’t they talk right there.

Now that you guys right both outside it’s time for the second plan. “Now why come out here when we could just-“ Run to the door and lock it that was second plan but that man had other ideas. Just has you were going to close and lock the door your “husband” in question puts his hand between the door. “OW! You little shit! Once I get you, you better pray to whatever god you worship that I don’t snap that pretty neck of yours” he yelled while trying to push the door open.

As you continue to fight him to shut the door he grabs your hand and you start to scream and panic due to your hand about fall off the door. As you thought of the things he will do to you once the door is open in the corner of your eye. You can see your daughter running right at you closing your eyes only thinking that maybe you wrong about your daughter being a angel-“AAHH!? THE FUCK!” Quickly opening your eyes you see your daughter cutting out your husband hand that is grabbing you or was grabbing you. Your daughter quickly locks the door and you can hear your husband cursing like a hellhound. You quickly shake your hand to get the hand off of you and turn towards your daughter. “Come up we have to go” you grab her hand and run to the back door but also get the keys.

You guys get the the backyard and see your neighbor waving at you to hurry and jump the fence. “Are you okay dear” asked the 40 year-old lady. “Y-yea but do you know where the directions to the church is?” You asked in a hurry “Oh! Just jump over the fence in the far back side of the garage and go straight ahead until you hit a light and you should see it.” She answers and you thank her and take your daughter to the fence and you hear someone you didn’t want to hear at the time. “Where are they”he asked, “what are you talking about sir?” The poor lady answered. “ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION” he yells before you jump the fence you can see the lady shaking then after you jumped it you started to run and not looking back but of course your “husband” had to do the final blow. “(Y/N) when I get my hands on you just know that you won’t be my living bride, but my corpse bride”.

[regal-bones]

SWORDTEMBER DAY 4 : DRAGONSLAYER

The Caldera Calvaria, of bloodied metal and stolen crown 👑🔥 “Mockery. Domination. Control. The Skullblades were more than just weapons. They were symbols. They showed that anything, even gods, could be killed. These weapons are relics, older than our history, from when dragons still ruled The Continent. The wars between the Auramics and the tyrannical lords of magic spanned eons - this was the time of ancient legend, before the golden tendrils ensnared the land, before the great palace in the north was built, and blood spilt into molten silver. They fought for that wild, brilliant power the dragons held close to their breast, that shifting entity that they eventually forged their empire with over their rivals scaly corpses.  When a dragon was finally killed, when man conquered nature itself, driving its shimmering blade into the beasts beating heart, their body was repurposed, and changed. A sharp, shallow knife to peel away the skin, precise cuts into tender flesh. Meat and scales pushed aside until thick fingers gripped the beasts skull, their thumb deep within its eye socket. They would change it then. Shift it to their whim - bone to gold, dirty teeth left gleaming into the light of the forge. And of course, that one singular eye. Like an artists signature, the Auramic eye was moulded into the centre of the skull. The old face forgotten, warped like warm clay to leave room for this twisted perfection.  Encrusted with gems from their hoard and infused with its stolen breath, the sword became a tomb, a regal headstone, and would likely find itself again surrounded by familiar blood, deep within the chest of its old kin.  Now, no one knows where they are. Some say the Skullblades are sealed within a vault in the depths of Palace Regalia. Others think they are hidden throughout The Continent, waiting to give unwitting travellers power more than they can manage, and angry, bitter dreams. We can only hope these ancient giants are well at rest, and that nothing, not vengeance or rage, will wake them from their slumber.”

A Skullblade - a relic of the Auramic history. I hope the people who have been following the lore of the Curated Curios universe for the past few years (if u guys are out there!) like this one. A very important and powerful weapon. There are more skulls out there - perhaps we will see this blade’s siblings one day.

Yesterday’s sword!

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[apomaro-mellow]

Wrong Number 3

(2:21 am) I just realized something (2:21 am) Ur a cooking teacher (2:22 am) Who can't fry a egg (2:23 am) You're a fraud 🫵

[7:29 am] I can fry an egg just fine I just can't make the yolks runny. It's too hard to time it right. And why are you up thinking about eggs at 2 am?

(7:47 am) I was up thinking about you at 2 am

Steve felt his stomach flip as he sipped his coffee and set his belongings down in his classroom. Eddie didn't play games. He always said exactly what he was thinking. And it drew Steve wild.

(7:48 am) And about how your students might clown on you for not being able to scramble an egg

[7:49] Aww you're worried about me?

(7:49 am) Kids can be little monsters (7:50 am) Actually how old are the little monsters you teach?

[7:51] Youngest is 6 and oldest is 14. Speaking of, they'll be arriving soon so...

(7:52 am) Godspeed you academic warrior

Eddie didn't typically text so late on weeknights. Not since learning Steve was a teacher. It was just that he truly HAD been up and thinking of him. Steve drove him crazy and he thought he was doing a good job keeping a lid on it. 2 am texts were what happened when the lid got loose but Steve didn't seem put off by it.

At about half past three, Steve called him. Eddie was glad he made that leap with his first call. The sound of Steve's voice never failed to warm him through. Eddie was in the middle of collecting axes for sharpening at the end of his shift.

"What's cookin' good lookin'?", Eddie greeted as he picked up.

"Today was good. Had a really riveting conversation about meatloaf versus pate with the kids", Steve said.

"Meatloaf rocks and pate is just cold meatloaf for rich people. End of discussion."

"Well, we talked about it for like fifteen minutes. Had a real interesting tangent on forcemeats in general."

Eddie paused. "Excuse me?"

"You'd be surprised at what kids are into. This one I taught last year was really into rice-"

"I need you to backtrack just a bit. 'Forcemeat'?"

"Yeah it's-oh grow up", Steve chided while shaking his head. He had just gotten home and was taking off his work clothes for something more comfortable. He thought about what Eddie might think he'd look nice in. "Not even my 12 year olds are this childish."

There was something about the way Steve talked about his students. Like they were his actual children. The conversation continued for a few minutes more before Steve suddenly had to hang up. Eddie tried not to think much of it, but it wasn't the first time that it had happened.

Steve ended the call just as Robin came into the apartment. She narrowed her eyes at him, then looked to the phone in his hand. Steve hid it behind his back and winced at practically telling on himself.

"You're hiding something."

"No I'm not."

"And now you're lying to me."

"No I'm not!"

Robin pounced and wrestled him for the phone. It wasn't a real fight of course. Steve could've pinned her in seconds but a part of him was tired of keeping the secret. And obviously, she knew how to unlock his phone.

"Who's Eddie?", she asked, sitting on his back triumphantly.

"A guy."

"Thank you, I had no idea it could be a man's name. You've been texting him aaaaaaa llllllllllllot."

"Are you reading them!? Robin!"

"Where did you meet him?", Robin said as she got up, continuing to read through their conversations.

"I um, technically, haven't. Yet."

Robin gave him an odd look and Steve spilled everything to her. To her credit, Robin listened to the full story before throwing one of the couch pillows at him.

"Stephen Elliott Harrington! Did no one teach you stranger danger? You just kept texting him? And calling? And I saw the pictures you sent. You know he can find out where we live? What if I came home to your skinless corpse??!"

It went on for a while like that and when Robin was finished, she collapsed onto the couch. Steve sat across from her on the coffee table. He waited for her to silently process it all.

"You think he's cute?"

"What I've seen of him, yeah."

Robin sighed. "I can't believe you're turning into the guy who has a internet girlfriend."

Steve rolled his eyes but then balked when she started to read through his messages again.

"And I can't believe you haven't even started flirting yet."

"I've been flirting with him the whole time!" Maybe not the whole time but-

"You're giving him Diet Steve. Why are you holding back?"

Steve shrugged, looking sheepish now. Now Robin was rolling her eyes.

"Steve, we're getting you a date."

"But he's-"

"A virtual one. Jesus is he an axe murderer?", Robin said as she looked to one of the texts.

"No, he just works with them. Axes! Not murderers."

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

Eddie was about to sit down to a movie when his phone buzzed.

[5:17 pm] Thinking about you.

Oh. Now that was some text to get.

(5:18 pm) Oh yeah? (5:18 pm) What about me?

Steve looked to Robin. They were sitting cross-legged next to each other on his bed.

"What do I say?"

"Be honest, duh."

"If I'm honest I'm gonna talk about his hands."

Robin shook her hands at him like she wanted to wring his neck. Steve got the idea and decided to put himself out there.

[5:21 pm] Your hands. I think about them a lot actually

Eddie had not given his own hands much thought. But knowing that Steve admired them, he gave them a second look. He thought about them gripping Steve's thighs.

(5:23) You're gonna make me blush (5:24) What would you do with my hands Stevie?

Steve panicked and looked to Robin. "Are we sexting? Is he getting me to sext?"

"That's the idea, dingus. I said I was getting you a date. Now tell him what you want him to do."

"I don't know I'd....I'd want to..." Steve trailed off, looking at his phone while the fingers of his other hand brushed against his lips.

Robin stole the phone from him again and started typing. "'First...I'd suck..on them'."

"Robin!"

"Is that not what you want?"

Steve shrugged and Robin continued. "You've got me on the clock for five more minutes before I go out. You dictate, I'll type."

Steve hated how much he liked the idea. Especially when he heard the ping of Eddie's reply. "What did he say?"

Robin cleared her throat. "'Yeah? You wanna suck on them? I bet you got a beautiful mouth.' Oh he's good."

"Yeah", Steve breathed out. "Really good." He thought about Eddie sticking his fingers in and pressing down on his tongue, his rings tasting metallic and so nice.

"'I wanna choke on them'", Robin said out loud as she typed. "Is it too soon to call him Daddy?"

"What?!" That snapped Steve out of it.

"Oh come on. Tattoos, the hair, his job. He wants to be called Daddy."

"Robin don't call him Daddy."

"Pops?"

Steve took his phone from her and looked to Eddie's reply.

(5:30 pm) I'd only choke you if you were being bad (5:30 pm) Are you gonna be bad baby?

[5:31 pm] Maybe. I can be good too. So good.

(5:32 pm) Lemme call you baby wanna hear you

Steve dialed without hesitation just as Robin was leaving. Her work was done.

"Don't get murdered while I'm out!", she shouted just as Eddie picked up.

"Hey pretty baby", Eddie said.

"Hey. You said you wanted to hear me?"

"Yeah. I wanna hear you say those things with your own voice."

"Like how I wanna choke on your fingers? Among other things?"

Steve could hear Eddie let out a breath on the other end. The power he felt right now was intoxicating.

"Bet you'd look so good on your knees."

Steve hummed while pressing his fingertips to his lips. If Eddie asked, he'd suck on them. Let the wet noises fill his ears, let Eddie know how good he could be.

"Darlin' you went quiet."

"I'm thinking", Steve said, laying down on his bed. "I wanna show you, Eddie."

Eddie swallowed. This man would be the death of him. He'd nearly jerked off to just a picture of his fully clothed lower half. If he saw more...if he saw everything-

"Eddie! We've got a Code Red!"

"Jesus! Knock!"

Steve sat up quick at the shouting coming from Eddie's end. It sounded like someone had barged in.

"Eddie?"

"Sorry. Sorry Steve. I gotta handle something. Um, call you back? Please?"

"Eddie, I want to video call you."

"V..video...?"

"Yes. I wanna see you. Please."

"Yes. Yes, a thousand times-hold your horses! Uh, tomorrow? It's Saturday, so you're free, right? Can we make it a date?"

"A date", Steve nodded. "I'll see you then. I'll be thinking of you."

"And I'll be counting the seconds. 1-one thousand, 2-one thousand, 3-one th-ouch! Okay! Damn!"

Eddie hung up and Steve still had the phone to his ear, smiling. He had a video call date. He had a date with Eddie!

Shit what should he wear?

Part 5

Tag Team (CLOSED)

@anne-bennett-cosplayer @estrellami-1 @newtstabber @omletlove @ifyoudonlysurrender @rehfan @morganski-19 @corvidcantina @dragonmama76 @just-ladyme @tinyplanet95 @goodolefashionedloverboi @idoquitelikebread @kittydeadbones @manda-panda-monium @rhapsodyinalto @paintsplatteredandimperfect @keylime-green @ihavekidneys @samsoble @honorarybrit81 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @aizawa-emma @deleataecount @thesuninyaface @fromapayphone @justmeinadaze @hbyrde36 @queenie-ofthe-void @resident-gay-bitch @bestwifehaver @dangdirtydemons @ellietheasexylibrarian @perseus-notjackson @pyrohonk @holysteddie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @mrsjellymunson @geekymagicalpotato @notaqueenakhaleesi