#anyways. i didn’t add that frankly because it’s too long

[sunglassesmish]

the way misha always puts his hand on jensen’s shoulder so he doesn’t interrupt him but signals he wants to say something… it gets me everytime

[rashomonss]

HAPPY 800 DARLING! YOU'RE SO GOOD AT WHAT YOU DO, LOVE YOU /P

For the 800 follower prompts could you pretty pretty please do "don't come back if you walk out that door..!" with Lucibabes. We love our overworked father of 7 (including Diavolo) and we would absolutely love if we even add more to his workload with some angst<3

Aside from that, I do genuinely enjoy your stories and you are absolutely good at what you do.

aww thank you sm anon! I’m so glad you enjoy my work it means a lot!

and omg, lucifer angst is my absolute favorite, you literally have no idea how much fun this was to write (⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝)

lastly i wanna apologize for getting this out so late, i’ve been procrastinating a lot with everything lately, but anyway i hope you enjoy! ♡

“it’s too late for that”

Being the Avatar of Pride was a lot to bear for one demon. However you would never, in all of the three realms, hear him admit that fact. Instead you would hear something along the lines of how well he’s doing in his position.

He was doing well at everything and anything, that’s just how he was. But why was he falling short of this feeling when he thought about his relationship with you.

You seemed quiet to him, more so than usual. He did remember that you could possibly be upset due to him canceling plans with you, but he believed you’d get over it by now. So why was he still feeling like this?

As fate would have it he was coming down the stairs just as you had made your way through the front door. Lucifer then smiled and made his way over to you as you took off your shoes.

“Where have you been?” He smiled.

Your face turned to one of surprise upon seeing him. “I was at Purgatory Hall. You know, since you told me you were to busy with work to go out”

You didn’t catch the face Lucifer made as he heard your words. The oldest sighed then continued. “Well I finished early so how about we do something? Does that sound nice?”

You thought for a moment and weighed your options. You did think it would be nice to spend time with him after he was brushing you off for so long, but on the other hand you were tired of only being his partner when it was convenient for him.

“Maybe some other time. I’m tired” you replied, keeping your eyes away from his.

“Is this because I canceled our date the other night? Are you still upset about that?” Lucifer sighed, he was beginning to grow slightly concerned about how personally you were taking things.

“That has to do with part of it, yes.”

“Part? MC, what are you mad about this time?”

This caused you to turn around and face him for the first time since you both started talking “This time? Oh I don’t know Lucifer. Maybe, just maybe I’m upset because you’re only acting like my partner when it is convenient for you. If it’s not on your time then you couldn’t give two shits about me”

“MC I don’t want to have this conversation again. Are you still not over that? We spoke about this once. Was that not enough?”

You stared at him for a minute, trying to process if he actually said that, and after he gave you a look you finally spoke up. “I can’t keep doing this with you Lucifer, no matter how many times we have this conversation you never learn. Frankly it’s annoying and just draining.”

“Annoying and draining you say? Well I for one agree there, I’m tired of that as well. Everytime I try to talk to you, all you do is bring up the past and get upset. Plus you have no room to criticize me when you hang all over other demons.”

Your eyes widened slightly, then your brows furrowed as you took a few steps closer to him. “Excuse me? Hang all over other demons…?”

“MC don’t play dumb with me. I’ve seen the way you hang off Diavolo and Barbatos. As well as that shady sorcerer. Oh should I also mention Simeon as well? I see that you both have been spending a lot more time together recently” Lucifer said smiling.

“Oh is that so? Well maybe if my partner actually gave me attention I wouldn’t be hanging out with others so much? Has that thought ever come to mind?”

“Attention? Is that what this is about? You’re upset because of something as simple as a little attention?” Lucifer asked in a mocking voice, as if he was trying to take you seriously.

“Excuse you? I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you but your not even taking me seriously”

“I never said I wasn’t taking you seriously. It’s just that I don’t see the reason for you to blow this out of proportion is all.”

“Blow this out of proportion?” You replied, giving him a look as if you were asking him if he was serious.

The two of you went from speaking to yelling at each other in a matter of seconds. No later than a minute everyone knew you both were fighting again.

Sighing each brother made their way to the foyer and it was a sight to behold. There you were yelling from the door at Lucifer who continued to roll his eyes as he raised his voice back at you.

Insults were being thrown back and forth and none of them knew if they should intervene until they heard Lucifer yell.

“Don’t come back if you walk out that door…!”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” you spat grabbing the side of the large wooden door.

Lucifer glared at you as his brothers stood behind him in shock, faces going back and forth between the both of you, yet not one said a word. They all knew you both had a rocky relationship but in the end it always worked out after the two of you fought.

So why was this any different?

Maybe it was due to the sinking feeling they each had in the pit of their stomachs as you and Lucifer had been yelling across the foyer. Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t cry.

Or maybe it was the fact that they could tell you were serious.

You had slammed the front doors shut leaving the seven of them in the silent foyer. Lucifer did nothing but glare at the door with his arms crossed as his brothers stood watching the door.

“Ya gotta go after them Lucifer” Mammon yelled, shaking his older brother.

“Lucifer…please go get them” Levi then spoke up.

“You need to apologize,” Beel said, fidgeting with his fingers.

“You need to do more than that. No apology from you would ever fix something like that” Satan spat.

“He’s right, you know.” Belphie then replied as he stood closer to his twin.

“Lucifer please. You have to go after MC.” Asmo said, touching his older brother's arm.

“If you all want to go after MC, be my guest. They however are not allowed to step another foot in this house anymore. Is that clear?” Lucifer spat as he glared at his brothers.

“You know you're so insufferable. It’s no wonder, they got fed up with you and left. They can’t stand to be around your horrible personality anymore. And you know what neither can I.”

Lucifer’s head shot over to the fourth born and he glared his way. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Satan spat then left slamming the front door behind him as well. Not long after Belphie followed along with Asmo and Levi.

Mammon and Beel were the only ones left. They both looked at each other then Lucifer. Beel made his way to the front door along with Mammon who turned to Lucifer before shutting the door.

“Ya know…for the first time I’m actually disappointed in ya, older brother ”

Mammon sighed then shut the door leaving Lucifer alone in the foyer. The Avatar of Pride sighed and took a step toward the door but quickly stopped himself.

He turned on his heel and walked back to his study without a word.

Even now after fighting with you, he wasn’t going to set aside his pride to go out and look for you. No matter how special you are to him, there are always more important matters.

He tried to tell himself that, of course, but the sinking feeling in his stomach consumed his every thought as he made his way closer to his study.

For the first time in his life he was conflicted about his own feelings, towards you and towards his pride.

[allzelemonz]

The O’Driscoll Golden Boy: Colm O’Driscoll X Male Reader

Pronouns: he/him, Reader is referred to as ‘feller’ and ‘boy’ Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut, murder, implied mutilation, references to castration Warnings: Power dynamics, power imbalance, oral sex, face fucking, deep throating, praise, abuse/unhealthy relationship, marking, possessive behavior, outdoor sex, semi-public sex, facial, humiliation, slight aftercare, hints of fluff if you really squint, homophobia, period-typical heavy homophobia Summary: Colm’s golden boy made a little mistake. The boss doesn’t like that.

Every job always goes smoothly. Every job. Not once have you ever messed up. Not like this. Riding with the O’Driscolls has always been fun so long as Colm is pleased, and Colm is always pleased with you. Pleased enough to drag you into his bed and show you what being the golden boy really means. But tonight… tonight you won’t even be making it back to camp, let alone your boss’s cabin and that big warm bed he’s had these past few weeks.

No, tonight you got caught.

Frankly you should consider yourself very lucky to be breathing.

Sheriff nearly broke your arm hog tying you though, probably shouldn’t be happy about that. He acts like he’s some god when he and his deputies get you in a cell. Something about a bounty having just been raised. Your head’s too fogged from getting hit and your arm hurts far too much to care anyway. Last poster you saw had upwards of a thousand, but that was about a big job further out West. Who knows which state you’re even in at this rate.

Then one of them says it. “Colm O’Driscoll’s golden boy!”

It’s a sneer, mocking and provoking, as they all turn to look at you. You’ve sat down on the floor of the cell, nowhere else to sit and your feet and legs are tired from running. You almost want to stand just so they’re not looking down on you, but in the end you find yourself much too tired to care.

“Should hang ‘em ourselves.” One of the deputies says. “Heard he’s done some sick shit.”

Of course you have. Colm asked you to after all. That’s your job. Whatever Colm wants.

Another deputy pulls a paper from the wall, tossing it on the table and letting it glide and spin. Your bounty poster, you assume. Terrible drawings really, they always are. It frankly surprises you anyone ever gets found.

“Wanted for murder, horse theft…”

You tune out the list of crimes, knowing all of them won’t even be listed on the little space. If they actually wrote everything out there wouldn’t be much room left to put your name and bounty, let alone a picture. It does leave out a lot of details though, important details in your opinion.

“He the one what did those robberies up along the forest, killed those families?”

Yes. You are. They had money, more than they needed. At first you asked nicely, then you didn’t. Business is business and it got you a nice reward from your boss.

“Couple damn orphans came outta that string.”

They’re fine. You even took them into town and gave them some bread and cheese. Boys wanted to shoot them too, you’re a saint in comparison.

“An’ he’s runnin’ with Colm O’Driscoll.” One of them glares at you. “Bet some a’ his charges could trickle down.”

Sure they could. You’ve helped Colm with plenty of things you’ve never seen yourself charged with. Not that you want to recall any of that or have it formally charged. You only kept your mouth shut about it all because you’re smart enough to be deadly loyal when it comes to Colm. You’d never say no to his orders or his requests. That would be stupid.

“I heard he got sodomy in the next state over too.”

Oh, that was a fun clash with the law. Colm fucking you in a back alley in some big city only for a lawman to find you, add charges for you but not Colm. Bullshit really, but it was such a good time that you recall it with fondness. You got rewarded for getting away when you got back to camp after all.

“Love ta see ‘em hang.”

If it would get them to shut up, you might opt for it. You’re starting to get a headache from all the hitting and incessant discussion of your crimes. Your guns aren’t that far away. If they just happened to drink a little more of that whiskey they pulled out to celebrate, got nice and distracted, you might be able to swipe them.

“It’s a three-thousand dollar bounty.” The sheriff snaps. “We’re takin’ ‘em ta the city.”

A trip to the city, a poorly guarded jail car, easy target. If not that, then easy lock picking. But you know the boys that got away will run back to camp with their tails between their legs, tell Colm all that happened, and seeing as Colm had said plenty of dirty things in your ear before you left, he will be a little upset that you didn’t come back like you always do. Cash in hand, happy to take the reward Colm is so desperate to give you. You used to think that’s all it was, the boss giving his best, his golden boy, a reward for doing well on a job. But Colm slips up in his facade sometimes, enough to see he doesn’t just want to fuck his golden boy.

There have been times where you’ve woken up, pretended to sleep, while Colm presses very uncharacteristically sweet kisses all over your face. There’s the occasional exchange before a shootout where he steps in front of you as if you need protecting. Little things a cruel outlaw might do when in love with his dear golden boy. Not that Colm would ever admit anything like that. No, he’ll hide it and let out his frustrations about not being able to act sweet by fucking you senseless under the guise of rewards.

And you have been well aware of this for years now. Not that you’d ever bring it up.

“Could at least let some widows an’ orphans rest a little easy…” One of the deputies says with a slur to his voice. “Hard ta shoot folk without no hands.”

A few of them laugh and you find yourself looking at your hands. You are quite attached to your hands, both in the literal and figurative sense. Though you can think of a few ways to pull a trigger without them, you’d still rather keep them.

“I’d rather castrate ‘em.”

That gets more laughter. It’s an idiotic joke in itself. Once again, you’re quite attached to your dick and would like to keep it and its friends. But, just like the shooting, there are other ways you can think of to get around the loss of an appendage. Colm hardly touches it half the time anyway. Still would rather keep it though.

“Who’s ta say he ain’t cause us some problems.” Another laughs. “Could give ‘em a good beatin’.”

At the rate they’ve gotten themselves drunk, you would like to see them try. One of the deputies stumbles past the others. They watch as he takes out the keys, snickering and giving light cheers as he glares down at you. The second that door opens it will become very easy to take his gun and shoot the drunken fools. Though it is tempting to only disarm a few, maybe pay them their own threats before finishing them off.

But then the large front door to the sheriff’s office opens and several men flood inside. All thankfully featuring green somewhere on their bodies. The drunk lawmen drop to the ground as the boys shoot out their legs. They cry and whimper until blows land on their heads and the boys tell them to shut up. The man by your cell sputters as he tries for his gun, the same one that recommended hanging you. A hole forms in his head and he falls, keys dropping to the floor. Of course it’s Colm that stands with his gun raised, an irritated look across his features.

One of the boys scrambles for the keys, unlocking the door as you stand. You walk out and stop yourself in front of Colm like the obedient dog you have become in his presence. Very slowly, he runs his hand over your chest until his fingers curl tightly into your shirt. He tugs you closer, glaring and angry in having to rescue his dear golden boy.

“Anythin’ ya wanna say, boy?”

You shake your head, knowing better than to say what needs to be said in front of the boys. Not that they don’t know, but that you’d rather hang than look as pathetic as you let yourself become in Colm’s hands.

“They treat ya nice?” He asks, his grip on your shirt loosening ever so slightly.

Your eyes trace over the men, finding the familiar faces that laughed about torture. “Sheriff’s fine, not those two.”

Colm follows your gaze. “Any recommendations?” He releases you, turning to look at the men cowing on the ground. “Boys deserve a little fun since we came all this way.”

And those men very much taste their own words. Colm doesn’t think you deserve to see such a fun little party, so he drags you outside by the collar. But the screams, they sound much better than the laughs.

“Ya wanna explain yerself, boy?” Colm seethes, throwing you roughly against the stone wall that makes up the side of the sheriff’s office.

It’s too dark to see his face. Too late for people to be out and about, even with the screaming. This town is small, surrounded by gangs, no one would be so stupid to leave their home right now.

You stumble a bit, settling yourself against the wall, knowing very well Colm wants you where he puts you. “Can’t explain it, boss. The detonator should have worked.”

His hand winds into your hair, pulling you towards him. The pain shoots through your scalp, a good half of it running down to your dick knowing Colm’s habits. In the dim light of a lantern you can now see his face with the proximity. Perhaps his habits won’t be holding up, he looks rather displeased.

“And why is that?” He asks and you can practically feel the mocking in his voice.

He knows. He must know you messed up. His golden boy made a mistake, something that’s never happened before. You’re not entirely sure how he’ll react to it. But maybe you can talk your way out.

“Seamus probably.” You say as smoothly as you can with the grimace on your face Colm’s rough tugging brings on. “He’s the one that wired things.”

Faster than you can blink, Colm shoves your head back into the wall. The impact with the stone does nothing for your headache, even makes you see stars a little. Your vision is double and shaky as Colm grips harshly onto your cheek to make you look at him, his other hand still gripping at your hair. For a few seconds you see two of his angry face, but as he speaks it settles into one.

“I ain’t a fool, boy.” He hisses. “Ya messed up, lost me a lotta money.”

You groan as his hand tightens in your hair, the stinging not bringing any more pleasure and solely burning through your scalp.

“Here I thought you was perfect.”

That almost stings more than your head. Colm’s praises always keep you going and disappointing him is not something you ever want to do again.

“‘m sorry, boss.” You rasp. “I-I…”

Colm presses his nails into your skin, deep enough to leave marks across your face. “Shut yer damn mouth, pretty boy.”

You nod slightly in his grip, only unable to keep yourself from whimpering at the fresh pain. You can feel something trickle, something wet. By the momentary smirk on Colm’s face, you guess he’s drawn blood, perhaps even done enough to leave scars. Scars embedded into your cheek, Colm’s nails forever digging into your skin.

“Get on yer knees now, boy.”

His grip releases, pain no longer focusing where his hands were and now spreading back to your head as you drop to your knees. You land rough, not wanting to make Colm any more upset, not wanting to disappoint him again. With somewhat hungry eyes, you watch as he unfastens his pants. He pushes his gunbelt up, situating things around as he pulls out his dick. Long and thin, achingly hard, everything you remember. But you’ve never been on your knees before, never had your face so close.

“Fuckin’s a reward, pretty boy.” He grunts, pressing his dick to your lips. “Ya haven’t been very good.”

You don’t dare move without his order. There have been times where he’s thrown you out of his bed for being too eager, made you sit on the floor while he dealt with himself. But that was when he was happy with you, when his dear golden boy hadn’t made any mistakes. You fear what he might do if you make even a single move of your own. So you sit on your knees, taking in the musky scent of the thing you’re supposed to put in your mouth. You wouldn’t particularly describe Colm as a clean man.

He drags his tip along your chin and up to your cheek. You’d give anything for a bit more light to see his face but you’d likely die on the spot if anyone saw you like this. For a moment it stings and you know it’s rubbing over one of Colm’s marks on your cheek, the one his thumb made by your eye. You make a note to clean yourself thoroughly after this. As much as you want to please Colm, to hear his praises, you don’t want some infection from his unwashed dick rubbing into a cut on your face. He seems to enjoy doing though, and for a moment you shutter at the thought of what he would be doing if you had something as large as a stab wound instead.

Then his hand returns to your hair, tugging roughly enough to snap you out of any thought and make your focus turn entirely on him. He tilts your head back and you provide no resistance. Every step of the way, he guides your head. Pressing softly to your lips and urging you down onto him, you open your mouth without question. As he slides through your mouth you taste every inch on him. He certainly hasn’t bathed in a while and you could guess that from his hair, but this really sells it. He tastes like sweat and dirt and dried pomade. And as he forces himself all the way in, hitting the back of your throat as tears form in your eyes, your nose is pressed against an even more foul bunch of pubic hair. It smells like the rest of him, but it’s not nearly as pleasurable as a normal musk might be with the unkempt hairs tickling your nose. For a few seconds he simply sits in your mouth, his dick fully enveloped. You struggle not to panic. You’ve always known he was long, loved it when it hits you so well deep inside where most men could never imagine fucking, but now that he’s shoved himself down your throat you’re not quite as keen.

You can hardly hear his words with how much your head pounds. “Be a good boy an’ sit still.”

Then he moves. You have air for all of a second before he rams himself back in and your throat closes slightly around his tip. It chokes you but it must be the feeling he’s chasing because he does it again and again. At this rate you feel much more like a simple dark, wet hole than a golden boy. But Colm keeps you eager with praises.

“Look at chu, pretty boy.” He mutters. “Such a good boy, always makin’ the boss feel good.”

Of course you do. Colm ordered you to after all. That’s your job. Whatever Colm wants.

“Shit, yer such a pretty thing.”

His hand still grips your hair as he forces your movements, fucking your mouth roughly. But his praises come with another hand, soft as he combs through your hair. Two sides of a coin, just like always, reward or punishment.

“Feel so damn good, boy.” He huffs, his hips starting to become erratic. “Always so good fer me, my golden boy.”

With that you can feel the tightness of your pants, but you don’t dare do a thing about it. Not without the boss’s permission, not without Colm’s smile and hungry eyes.

“Sit pretty fer me now.” He orders, pulling back.

His hands leave your hair, his dick slipping from your mouth. It takes a lot of control to stay upright, to not keel over and gasp for breath. Instead you stay as he left you, sputtering coughs and little gasps as your eyes fix on him. He works himself fast, his hand moving roughly against sensitive skin slicked by its time fucking into your throat. You close your eyes when he grunts, feeling warm streaks across your face a second later. As Colm hums to himself, you keep still. You feel the air around you shift as he kneels down in front of you. His lips press against yours, kiss slicked by his cum on your lips. He holds you still, his hand gripping that same spot in your hair with the same roughness as he kisses you deeply. Faintly, you feel something else against your skin. It rubs over your eyes and over your cheek. When Colm pulls back from his kissing you open your eyes.

He holds a rag in hand, running it over the cuts he made to keep them somewhat clean for the moment. His face holds a focus, but nothing else. No anger, no gentleness, simply focus as he wipes his cum off of some of your face. Not all, just what’s necessary, just your eyes and injuries. Then he tosses the rag to the ground, his other hand still tightly holding you in place by the hair. His eyes look over you, tracing along where you can feel the now cooling bits of him still on your skin. You take a sharp inhale as his free hand grips roughly onto your straining dick. His eyes bore into yours, anger now clear on his face.

“No more mistakes, pretty boy.” He warns. “I much prefer fuckin’ ya normal.”

You give him a small nod. “Yes, sir.”

He squeezes your dick. “My golden boy don’t make mistakes, do he?”

“No, sir.” You gasp out.

“An’ he’s gonna make that money back so I can fuck ‘em senseless, ain’t he?” His hand kneads down into your dick, giving it much needed friction.

“Fuck…” You groan. “Y-Yes, sir.”

He removes his hand, the other tugging tightly at your hair to make you focus on his face again. “Take them boys ‘n get me my money, pretty boy.”

You hold back a whimper from the lack of contact. “Yes, sir.”

He tugs again. “No cleanin’ up either, ya deserve what ya got.”

Then he releases you, standing as you fall on your hands and knees to the ground. You breathe heavily as he walks away, catching your breath and gaining your senses. You have blood drying along cuts from Colm’s nails, cum drying on your skin and likely your hair as well, no fit state to face a bunch of the boys. But of course you do. Colm told you to after all. That’s your job. Whatever Colm wants.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Got myself in a cycle of stress editing / rewriting particular piece which will not go the way I want. So I abandoned it for now and challenged myself to just write a one-off scene that has lived in my head for a long time with no going back and editing or adjusting but just a linear splurge of words and silliness.

It’s entirely ridiculous but here it is anyway (with an affectionate nudge to @crunchyluigi @obeyweegee214 @galaxytransman)

It’s a Secret No-One Knows

6pm on Tracy island and all was quiet as Scott made his way up the stairs into the lounge.

Virgil, Gordon and Alan were still in the air on the way back from a tricky mine rescue in Northern Europe. He was grateful that success had been confirmed on comms as he’d been on the point of ignoring John’s pointed comments about flight hours and heading north.

He’d have been there with them of course if, when the call came in, he and One hadn’t already been plucking panicking, inexperienced climbers off of one of his favourite crags in the Blue Mountains. His nimble ship was always the most suited to such environments and frankly he could have done it in his sleep.

Oh, but it was such a waste of his time and fuel! Enough awful disasters happened around the world every day without people putting themselves into danger because they were more focussed on researching what shots they wanted for their vlog than on the rating of the climb they were undertaking. The names the Aussies had assigned to each route didn’t exactly help - the latest gaggle of idiots had got half way up “Does my Bum Look Big On This?” wearing entirely inappropriate shorts for the weather and got themselves tangled in each others’ safety lines while trying to take selfies from a distinctly unorthodox angle. It had taken every last ounce of self-restraint he had not to accidentally drop their phones into the ravine.

And the next one to use the word ‘gnarly’ was going to experience an Incident with the passenger loading bay door.

Over the ocean.

At Mach 19.

When had young people got so ridiculous?

And when had he stopped being one? He sighed and dragged his hands down his face. Damn, he really was getting old and grumpy.

And probably hangry, now he thought about it. Well that was fixable even if the inexorable march towards irrelevant middle age was not. He made a beeline for the fridge and found himself uninspired by the array of pre-prepared high calorie low effort snacks they usually favoured post mission. He craved something… nutritious…

Ignoring the imagined old-man mockery of the younger brothers who resided in his brain, he pulled out every fresh ingredient they had in stock: Eggs, bacon, sausages, three types of cheese, peppers, spring onions, basil… ah Ha! He knew exactly what this was going to be. A quick rummage in the larder turned up a bag of potatoes and he hefted it over his shoulder, flicking the switch on grandma’s ancient radio as he went past.

Ooh, ‘Happy 90s Hour’ was starting. One of his guilty pleasures as a teenager in the early 50s…

The repetitive peeling and dicing task combined with the irrepressibly cheery pop bangers slowly eased the knot of grouchiness in his chest. By the time he scooped the mountain of potato cubes into the dustbin-lid sized frying pan he was singing along with both halves of the Barbie Girl duet. A pleasing sizzling ensued and he grinned to himself. This was going to be epic. A little prodding with the spatula to cook them evenly then he turned the heat down and did a little slide sideways to fetch the meat and a shuffle and a hop back to add them to the pan.

As John popped up on the kitchen comm, his big brother was too busy volta-ing through the kitchen with a cheese grater to notice. Because you can’t just walk across a room when Ricky Martin is playing. John’s quizzical single eyebrow was rapidly joined by its twin as he spotted the pan on the stove… he cut the connection and leapt into the elevator, sending a message to Virgil to put his proverbial foot down.

Frittata Night was not to be trifled with.

And so it was that all four younger brothers took the elevator up from the hangar together and arrived in a state of some excitement for the culinary experience that awaited them.

As the door opened however Virgil threw out his arms to prevent them piling out. The chatter stopped immediately as they peered round the wall of brother to spy their eldest dancing to and fro at the stove and belting out the words to some ancient pop song:

So hold on to the ones who care

In the end they’ll be the only ones there

When you get old and start losing your hair

Can you tell me who will still caaaaare?

As the chorus dropped so did the jaws of Alan and Gordon for who knew their biggest brother could move his hips like that? And why was he waving the spatula that way? Alan looked wide eyed to John and pointed with a shaking hand as if to ensure his space brother was seeing the same thing he was. John, didn’t acknowledge him, instead staring straight ahead, tapping a finger on the doorframe in time with the beat. Gordon turned to Virgil unable to verbalise beyond “bu.. bu… bu…” only to find his tank of a brother smiling broadly and… his jaw dislocated further… also swaying his hips in time.

Then he was gone.

… And so was John!

Both of them jigging across the floor to join their brother in an honest to goodness dance routine while the three of them sang nonsense words. Alan lost control of his knees and collapsed cross-legged to the floor. Gordon desperately tried to grab his phone to record the moment but fumbled and dropped it down the back of the couch. And then it was over.

And there was frittata.

And if the Tinies were unusually quiet during the meal, the elder three didn’t notice as each treasured the memories of their little dance trio ‘performing’ for their biggest fan. While eating her signature dish.

Fin.

*****

You want the dance routine? Course not… but here is is anyway (Scott starts singing at about 0:40, chorus and excellent hip action kick in at about 0:52)

Edit to add: Weirdly specific note because the precise image is apparently super important to me (clearly been sucked in by the child watching Strictly) and because I forgot there are two types of Volta… this is the move I mean - the samba one (skip to 1:44 of the video and it’s just a few seconds).

[definitelynotafurinasimp]

Hey, I like your writing. Would it be alright if we get Ganyu and Hu Tao with a pre-S/o who obviously has a crush on them but is to shy to confess their feeling. So it's up to them to take initiative. Thank you.

Them with a reader that’s too shy to confess their obvious crush to them

characters: Hu Tao / Ganyu / Keqing x gn!reader (separate)

warnings: none, just fluff

a/n: I decided to add Keqing because I feel like I haven't written for her in a long time, and frankly, because I could.

If there's something I got wrong about your request, feel free to say and I'll try again once i find the motivation/time to.

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Hu Tao

While, at this point, most people would think that Hu Tao had no idea how to read a room, the funeral director was confident in saying that their theory couldn’t be more false, as she simply chose to ignore it whenever she could. So when you started acting increasingly shy and nervous around her, she was quick to pick up on your behavior. And once she noticed how you were acting, her discovering why was already on the horizon.

Of course Hu Tao used this gained knowledge to sort things out for the two of you. Or at least she will… eventually. After she got her fun first.

The longer you stared at the lines of the poem Hu Tao had handed you, the more of a weird feeling you got in your stomach. It was unusual enough for her to write anything that wasn’t at least 50% meant as a joke, so when you saw that it was about love you wished for nothing more than to either sink into the ground or wake up from this awkward scenario. 

What didn’t help was the fact that she continued to stare at you with a grin the whole time, not seeming to blink once whenever you stole a quick glance towards her.

“Uhm”, you tried to find the right words to start, only for Hu Tao to cut you off.

“Is there a problem?”, she asked, almost sounding genuine, if it weren’t for her grin growing bigger.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why didn’t you choose anyone else to proofread this?”, you nervously asked, seeing her playfully tilt her head from the corner of your eye.

“Who else should I hand it to? Xingqiu? Nothing against him, but he really isn’t made for criticizing romantic poetry”, she was quick to respond, letting out a small yawn as the first sunrails made their way towards you, causing you to realize how long it was since she had dragged you out here.

“And I am better at talking about these kinds of texts for what reason?”, you asked with all the sarcasm you could muster, both of you knowing damn well how bad you were with any material about romance.

“Your reactions are funny”, she stated almost matter of factly while raising her pointer finger and pointing at a specific verse in the poem, looking at you expectedly. “Reread this once more and tell me if there’s something to change”, she demanded, causing your eyes to scan those words once again, only for the realization that the person described shared a lot of features with you… Almost too many for this whole thing to be a coincidence.

Before you had a chance to say anything however, Hu Tao snatched the paper out of your hands, giving you a smile before playfully patting your shoulder.

“Oh no, it seems like a new morning has dawned, which means that a new day of work lies ahead of us, so sorry that I have to cut this short all of a sudden”, she feigned sadness, only to give you one of her usual mischievous smiles. “But hey, if you need to tell me anything, you know where to find me.”

Ganyu

When you first began acting awkwardly around Ganyu, going so far as to avoid looking her in the eyes, the more anxious side of her began worrying she may have unintentionally done something that caused your behavior, only for you to blush whenever she mentioned it before trying to assure her that everything was fine.

It was only after one specific, purple haired coworker of hers started to notice the way you two acted around each other and decided that enough was enough, that Ganyu was confronted with the possibility of you having caught feelings. And while the intention of revealing your somewhat obvious crush was to make the half Adeptus stop worrying too much, it turned out to have the exact opposite effect as Ganyu also began to turn into a nervous wreck whenever she was around you.

Taking the initiative in situations like these never was something Ganyu was all too fond of, her own anxiety not exactly helping in making things easier. Nevertheless here she was, waiting for you to meet her as she requested, doubts about this whole thing quickly starting to invade her mind, only for her to try and shake them off once she saw your form in the distance.

“Good morning Ganyu!”, you greeted her, a smile on your face as you made your way over to her, completely oblivious to how much of an anxious wreck she was at the moment.

Or at least you were until she presented you with a rose, barely managing to look you in the eyes as the color of her face started to turn into the same shade of red as the flower.

“I-I’ve heard of a nearly opened shop that sells beautiful flowers, so I wanted to… buy you one”, she mumbled just loud enough for you to hear, the sudden change in atmosphere causing you to start blushing as well, slowly taking the rose out of her hand, making sure not to sting yourself on any of its thorns.

“T-Thanks, I would have brought something with me too if I knew you bought me something. Please excuse me for a minute, I’ll get you something”, you offered, trying your best to get out before your nervousness took over completely, only to stop when you heard Ganyu speak up again.

“Wait!”, she almost yelled, immediately stopping herself once she realized how loud she was, lowering her voice drastically. 

“There’s something I wanted to tell you.”

Keqing

No matter what way she looked at it, Keqing couldn’t help but feel slightly infuriated. You were her secretary, the first one to hold out for such a long time at that, so why were you spending less and less time around her, preferring to pretend to be busy running errands around the office?

This wasn’t jealousy that was speaking of course, it wasn’t like she started to enjoy having you around her at work so much that she couldn’t help but feel lonely whenever you weren’t, but if you had a problem with her, you should simply tell her that face to face instead of trying to run away.

And so, the Yuheng decided to ambush you somewhere private, fully intending to resolve whatever issues you had in a direct way.

“O-oh Keqing. Is there something you need?”, you asked, nearly jumping as Keqing appeared from behind the corner, cutting off your way suddenly enough that you nearly ran into her..

“Yes. I need you”, she stated, her tone sounding slightly frustrated, only for her eyes to slightly widen once she realized that her words could be taken another way, quickly adding a few more. “-to do your job as my secretary.”

While Keqing may have been full of resolve when she set out to confront you, the longer she had to wait for you, the more she began to actually fear what could happen. What if you really had a problem with her? Would you resign? Did you not enjoy working together as much as she did? At this point it was fair to say that she was feeling somewhat nervous, increasingly hoping that this all turned out to be some kind of misunderstanding.

“I can’t help but feel like you're avoiding me. Even now I had to basically ambush you to get you to even speak to me”, she explained while crossing her arms, checking your face for any reactions before taking a deep breath and continuing, “If you have a problem with me, just say it”, Keqing tried her best to continue her confident facade, only for it to slowly giving way with each and every word, her nervousness making its way onto her face.

“I don’t have a problem with you”, you quickly blurted out, only to almost instantly be cut off by the Yuheng.

“Then what is it?”

Her question almost instantly managed to shut you up, causing you to look around nervously as you tried your best to find the right words to continue with. Eventually letting out a long sigh as you closed your eyes in defeat.

“Could we go somewhere more private? I… have some things I need you to know.”

[mostlymaudlin]

just read every single one of your fics and prompts. ur so good i literally love everything you’ve ever written ever. would you be able to write (or recommend if you don’t fancy writing it) some wymack just being so good to neil and or andrew? being there for them, understanding them, i love parental wymack

hi anon 🧡 ty for being so nice!!! it has been a while since you asked this question, sorry. ive read a lot of excellent portrayals of wymack, but i don’t know that i could name any fics that really focus on this? as you probably know, i wrote one wymack pov fic, but it’s still mostly about andreil hahaha.

ANYWAY. i know you said parental, but i was kinda thinking abt the very unique role he serves. And I did write a little scene abt Andrew’s midnight break-ins to Wymack’s apartment 🤪 cw for vague mentions of past abuse/self-harm.

rated t, <1k

“And here’s the real kicker, Coach.”

Wymack is fairly certain that the information Andrew is about to deliver will not be the kicker. He’s fairly certain that it will only lead Andrew to another line of outrage about the thing he is always rattling on about these days when he breaks into Wymack’s liquor cabinet: Neil Josten.

“He doesn’t even listen to music!” Andrew says. “I know you see him running on that treadmill too, eyes glazed over like a goddamn zombie. I heard Boyd offer to let him borrow his iPod, and he went, ‘oh, no thanks, I don’t listen to music.’ And Boyd kept pushing him, trying to find out if he liked an obscure genre or something. But he is ambivalent to it. Be honest, Coach — did he grow up in some kind of satanic cult? Is he brainwashed? Is he going to hear some code word and go ape shit on us?”

Andrew is lying on his back on the sofa, dirty boots on the arm rest and a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand. He’d made significant progress on it before Wymack even got home, and Wymack can see it flushing his cheeks and ringing around his eyes.

Wymack has dealt with a lot of fucked up kids, but in some ways, Andrew is one of the most difficult. It’s not the violence or the bad manners or the obstinance — Wymack can deal with that shit all day long.

It’s nights like this that make Andrew such a challenge in Wymack’s head: Why does Andrew come here? What is he looking for? What has Wymack done to earn this frankly irritating privilege — and how can he make sure he doesn’t squash it?

Andrew doesn’t talk to anyone. Betsy doesn’t tell Wymack much about the kids, but even she has expressed worry at the layers of repression Andrew seems to hold.

But sometimes here, between casting Neil in various villainous roles or complaining about Kevin or stating his grievances with Palmetto State’s meal options, Andrew drops in something real. A comment about getting slapped by a foster mother. A crude joke about the scars Wymack already knows are on his arms. Hints toward some kind of big secret that Andrew seems to dangle in the air between.

It’s always casual. It always feels like a test. Wymack doesn’t know if he passes or fails — Andrew always just finds his next tangent and moves on.

Wymack rubs his temples. He must take too long to offer a grunt to indicate he’s listening, because Andrew looks over to where Wymack sits in his armchair.

“I don’t think Neil is religious,” Wymack finally offers.

“But would we really know?” Andrew asks. He sighs, dramatic, turning his head away again. “He doesn’t add up.”

“He’s hiding things,” Wymack agrees. “So is everyone else on the team.”

“Yes, but everyone else on the team isn’t as interesting.” Andrew brings the bottle to his lips again. “He’s a threat. But it would be less of a problem if he wasn’t so nice to look at. It’s very distracting.”

Well. Wymack didn’t see that coming.

Maybe he should have.

Andrew keeps his eyes on the ceiling, but the air is charged as he waits for Wymack’s reaction. Wymack holds in a heavy breath.

“Maybe you’re looking so much that you’re seeing stuff that isn’t there,” Wymack says.

“Ha,” Andrew says, but there’s little amusement in his voice. He tips his face toward Wymack, pointing with the bottle in his hands. “That’s a good one, Coach. But no. He’s definitely up to something, and I’m going to figure it out. How far is Millport from Area 51?”

“Far enough,” Wymack says.

Andrew hums. “He’s pretty fast. Maybe he escaped containment there and ran.”

Wymack snorts. “Report back when you’ve exhausted that theory. Preferably not in the middle of the fucking night.”

Andrew laughs. It’s not a joyful sound, but it’s familiar.

The are boundaries he’s supposed to maintain, and he knows Andrew wouldn’t want to have rules bent for him. The minute Wymack gives Andrew an open-door policy, he’ll never see him again. He’ll never get to see if he’s passing Andrew’s tests — he’ll never figure out if there’s something he can do.

So he’ll play the role. It’s not hard — he’s old and grumpy and tired. He’ll listen to Andrew bitch, even when it’s about these other kids whose names weigh heavy in his chest.

Maybe it will pay off, maybe it won’t. But this is the job. He has to be okay with these odds — they’re the best he’s going to get.

[marshatesthisreality]

I’m telling you now I neeeeeed some Minho fluff maybe a reader is hurt or scared blah blah some classic hurt comfort. PLEAAAAAASEEEE I BEG OF THEE - 🙏

a/n: AHHH YES OMG OK I GOT THIS. im such a drama queen this will be so dramatic also the second part my writing sucks sm. also im so sorry this took so long i was so unmotivated

warnings: swearing, fluff, 1 kiss?, newt being a little shit for like 2 seconds

runner!gn!reader x minho

w/c: 519

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

(readers pov)

“Shit, shit, shit” I muttered to myself, trying to push myself to run faster. I was already running late and I did NOT want to be stuck in the maze for the night. 

I turned the corner and skidded to a halt. Right in front of me was a griever, it luckily hadn’t noticed me yet. Of course, i thought, just my luck that there’s a fucking griever. I pressed my back against the wall so it wouldn’t notice me and took a deep breath. Please please please go away, big scary griever. I really don't wanna fight you. 

I heard it moving closer and then it let out a screech and ran the other way. I let out a sigh and kept running, I was so close to getting there.

I turned the last corner and saw the exit of the maze and the welcoming sight of the glade just a rough 20 metres away from me. C’mon y/n, this is the final stretch I told myself. Just as I was a few metres away from the doors I heard the all-too-familiar sound of the doors closing. I ran faster, my heart pounding in my chest, managing to squeeze through just as the doors slammed behind me. I leaned my back against the doors and slid down, resting my forehead on my arms and letting all the tiredness I was feeling wash over me. 

“Y/N!” I heard a thick British accent call. I lifted my head and gave the blonde boy limping towards me a reassuring smile.

“Bloody hell, are you ok?” Newt said, furrowing his brows. “Your boyfriend will kill you for being so late, y’know?”

“I’m fine, and Minho’s not my boyfriend.” I replied,  "Where is he anyway?”

“Helping Alby set up the bonfire because otherwise he’d go out running for you” Newt smirked.

“Ok thanks blondie” I said, running off before Newt could add any other remarks about me and Minho.

I ran as quickly as I could to find Minho, accidentally running into someone “shit I’m so sorry” i said before realising the person I ran into was none other than minho. 

“Hey Princess, are you ok? What happened?” Minho said, throwing questions at me and pulling me into a tight hug “I was so worried and I wanted to go find you but Alby wouldn’t let me”

“I’m fine, I just ran into a griever” I explained, hugging him back

“Are you sure? You’re not hurt or anything right?” He said, giving me a onceover to make sure I wasn't lying.

“Yes, I’m fine, I promise”

“M’kay good, can’t lose the second best runner, can we?” Minho teased, his eyes flicking from mine to my lips for a split second. “I’m just glad you’re okay”

“Yeah same” I said, noticing how he looked at my lips and quickly kissed him. I didn’t know why I did that but something compelled me too and just as I was gonna pull away he kissed me back.

“Sure he isn’t your boyfriend, y/n?” I heard Newt call but quite frankly I didn’t care.

[nine-of-words]

Out in the Cold (Part Two)

M Orc x M Troll (Hulder) Reader

PREVIOUS || STORY TAG || NEXT

Wordcount: 3473

Content Warnings: Emetophobia (Brief Mention of Vomiting)

I’ve been snowed in today, so it seems very fitting to post more of this story now :)

You’re not afraid to admit it; self control has never been your strong suit.

And in a way much reflective of your nature, you’ve completely lost steam. Relaxing as much as you can on the uncomfortable rock you’re sitting on, you fondly think back on the day you came here last winter, while chewing on more of your meager rations than you should. It’s hard not to feel nostalgic, even with the frankly pathetic way you ended up on the settlement’s doorstep.

They still took you in, even when they didn’t have to- and now you have a full year’s worth of memories of the orcs you’ve lived amongst.

…You suppose those memories will always be twinged with a more bittersweet quality, from now on. 

You’ll have to learn to live with it…

It’s not like you need them, anyway, you try to convince yourself. It’s gotten harder to do that now- after everything that’s happened- than when you first arrived, that’s for sure.

You're knocked from your thoughts by the reverberating sound of a hunting horn in the distance, carried even over all the ground you've covered because of the thick blanket of snow.

"Dammit-" You curse and scramble from your seat at once, then haphazardly shove your remaining travel provisions back into your pack.

Your daydreaming got out of hand, and now your headstart is spent. The orc hunting party will be on your tail any moment now, with strides much bigger than yours. You take off once again, footsteps nearly silent as you dash through the snowy woods.

Over the next few hours, your inescapable streak of bad luck rears its inevitable head. 

That tree looks familiar. And you’re pretty sure you've seen that configuration of rocks recently…

You brush it off as nerves, at first. You’re just getting into your own head. You know where you’re going- after all, you did have the brilliant foresight to pack a map and a compass, to combat your unfortunately lacking sense of direction.

…Until you come across a set of tracks in the snow.

There's no way they caught up already, let alone lapped me!

Taking a closer look, they're definitely from boots. Petite ones.

Not an orc’s, for sure. Who else would be out here? This isn’t good hunting weather… Out of curiosity, you line up your own boot next to one of the tracks.

…It’s a perfect match.

You… have managed to come across your own tracks in the snow.

Oh no. No, no, no- Not again-

You dig in your pack, looking for your compass and map.

…Which are not there.

A pit of despair knots in your stomach. You must’ve left it behind on the rock you were resting on earlier, after the sound of the horn spooked you.

Then it dawns on you - not only are you lost, you haven't even attempted to cover your tracks.

Your palm meets your forehead in irritation with yourself. You let out a long sigh, your fluffy tail swishing violently. 

This was supposed to be simple. You planned your exit strategy for weeks.

And yet you’ve already managed to screw it up this bad.

Why is it always like this?

Why are you always so unlucky?

The Spirits must really have it out for you…

LAST WINTER

“Here’s your package, granny.” You say in the most charming voice you can muster as you approach. “You look absolutely radiant today, I might add.”

Since you’re a newcomer to the tribe without skill in an applicable trade, for the last few weeks you’ve been here, you’ve been doing general odd-jobs. Some other orcs do this sort of work as well for various reasons, but it seems to be where everybody starts, outsiders included. You tend to favor the delivery jobs; you’ve always been quick, and they’re hard to mess up too badly.

“Oh stop, you’re such a sweetheart.” The elderly orc stops her work at the loom and stretches her leathery green hands out to take the bundle. She pauses when she sees the label, though, and immediately bursts out in raucous laughter.

“What’s the matter?” You ask, your soft, pointed ears flattening back against your head in dread.

“Hahah- Oh no, little one, that package is for the other Ghorza. Ghorza Gog-Burzog. The one that lives by the mill? It says right here…” She taps the text with her fingertip.

You swear internally as you make your way back across the entire settlement. Though the orcs here speak the universal tongue for the most part, all of their writing is in the Orcish alphabet, and while you’ve started to recognize some of it, you haven’t fully gotten the hang of reading it yet.

At least granny gave you a jar of her winter berry preserves to take home with you for your trouble.

This is not the first time this has happened today. What should’ve been a morning chore has taken you into the late afternoon. By the time the other Ghorza gets her package and you head back to the middle of the settlement, the sun is starting to paint the horizon with streaks of red, mocking you.

Maybe he’ll not be here and I can just… pick a quick, easy task from the board to finish before sundown. That way, I'll still make the job quota for today…

You cringe as you walk into the vestibule leading to the great hall, and are unable to miss Torg’s looming presence sitting in his attached office, the door propped wide open. You attempt to pass unnoticed by the open door, towards the job board posted right beside it, utilizing all of your skill in stealth trained over years of being an accomplished thief, to try to save yourself the misery.

Then he says your name, and you cringe, cursing internally before slinking back into view of the doorway.

It’s not that he’s rude or cruel to you, but he’s just so damn observant. You can barely do a task, it seems like, without him showing up to check on you. Half the time you’re surprised he’s not still watching you like a hawk while you sleep at night in your singles’ dormitory bunk- criticizing your method and ready to give terse advice on how to get better rest.

It’s like he’s just waiting for you to screw up. And when you do, because it is a question of when and not if- he’s right there to witness your incompetence and correct you.

“Where have you been?” Torg says gruffly, not looking up from the papers laid out in front of him. “It’s nearly evening.”

“There were… some complications.” You rub your neck.

“Got lost again, then?” If you didn’t know any better from his weary, disappointed tone, you could swear you see the edge of his lip twitch in amusement around his tusk.

“No!” You let out an exasperated sigh. "Simply a minor mix up. Don't you worry, I came back to take another job before the day's out. I’m not trying to slack."

"No need." He rises out of his chair, tidying up the papers a bit as he does. "I have a job you can help me with instead."

“What would that be?”

“Wort and I had kitchen duty for dinner tonight, but Wort sprained his ankle on a tree root earlier and can’t put weight on it for now. You will be joining me instead, so Cook doesn’t have to work on one of his nights off.”

“Er… I can’t say I have much experience cooking, but I’ll do my best.”

“Great. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

It doesn’t take long before you’ve arrived in the kitchen, washed up and donned aprons. 

Yours, of course, hangs halfway down your stomach, because this apron is designed for Orcish proportions. 

“Here.” Torg shakes his head with a sigh, motioning for you to come to him. “Turn around. I’ll shorten it.”

You comply and turn your back to him, and you feel his hands start tying the neck strap into a knot at the midpoint.

You barely manage to keep from audibly gulping in fear. This man could squash you like a bug with minimal effort, and you’re showing him the bare nape of your neck, completely defenseless. You would be shuddering in fear, but his fingers are surprisingly gentle against your skin as they work the fabric into a knot.

It’s sickeningly anxiety-inducing and oddly intimate- and then it’s over just like that.

“There you go.” He nods, then ducks into the pantry. He returns in a few moments, coming over with a huge basket of various tubers and leafy greens under his arm.

“Since you said you don’t have much experience, we’re going to keep things simple: Winter Root Stew.” He places the basket down with a soft thump. “How comfortable are you with using a knife?”

“I know my way around one.” Sure, you’re more used to cutting purse strings with them and not vegetables… But he doesn’t need to know that, right?

“Good. You’re going to peel and cut these, and then put them in the cauldron. Greens get washed and then go in later. Easy. I’ll be cooking the game that the hunters brought in earlier, if you need help.”

Work goes surprisingly fast, and your deft hands are soon slinging cut root vegetables into the bubbling bone stock at a snappy pace. In fact, things go so smoothly that you are surprised you've managed to complete the task without any unlucky hiccups. 

When you've finished, you're drawn to the other side of the kitchen by the sound of sizzling fat and the scent and browning meat. Torg is there, tending to a large, open oven. 

"That smell is heavenly."

Torg grunts in agreement, strong arms working to stoke the burning logs underneath.

The food here has been surprisingly good, especially after having it conditioned into you growing up in a more civilized town that Orcish cuisine surely must all be grey slop. It's definitely heavier than standard faire, but you've found that it has its own rustic charm- with its rich flavors, game meat, and tendency towards rib-sticking density- that's begun to grow on you.

“Venison. A few late winter fowl as well."

"Damn, who doesn't love a man who can cook…?" You sigh. 

Torg is oddly silent for a moment before letting out a small chuff of a laugh, then promptly changing the subject.

"Did you season the stew yet?" He brushes off your flattery with a wry smile.

"Ah, no I have not. What should I use?"

"Mostly salt. But some basic herbs and spices will be good enough." He points out the jars on the shelf to use and dictates what quantities, slowly and deliberately, since you can't fully read their labels yet.

"Okay, got it."

You confidently return to the prep area, mentally repeating a mantra of the ingredients and their amounts. You manage to collect most of the bottles just based on your sharp memory, until you come across the last needed ingredient. Two apparently identical versions of the same bottle sit side by side, even the labels looking nearly identical.

Urgh, which one is the ground mustard seed? They look the same…

Maybe there’s two bottles of it?

You chew your lip in thought, looking at the script on the bottle labels. The squiggles might as well be chicken scratch to you.

You peek back at Torg. He’s completely engrossed in basting the meat, with his back turned to you. 

You don’t want to bother him. You want to stay on his good side to keep your cover and not get kicked out before you’ve finished your job. But strangely, you also are beginning to harbor a strong desire to prove that you’re competent.

…Wait, it’s definitely this one. I recognize that letter!

You take the cap off and take a whiff. The familiar, pungent, biting scent fills you with confidence.

Yep! That’s mustard alright!

Now, how much did he say again…?

You can’t recall. So, you unceremoniously dump an enormous amount of each seasoning into the cauldron.

The more flavor the better, right? Plus, this is a huge pot…!

When you’re done, you help Torg with a few other easy tasks while everything finishes cooking. By the time the stew has had enough time to boil and meld together for a while, Torg is pulling the meat out to rest before slicing. 

He walks over to the cauldron to taste a small spoonful of the liquid.

Why are you suddenly filled with anxiety? It’s just vegetable stew, and you’re not even a real cook… But you find yourself dangling on a ledge waiting for his reaction.

“Hmgh-” He winces slightly, one bottom eyelid twitching, but quickly covers it with a small, tusky smile. “A little over seasoned- but not bad at all.”

“Really?” Your voice perks up.

“Yes. You did a good job.”

“...Thanks.” You can’t stop yourself from beaming.

Why is a bit of simple praise over such a menial task making you feel so happy…? Sure, you don’t exactly get praised that often, but still… You don’t need it…

You’re just here to do a job, you remind yourself. Once you figure out where the artifact you’ve been sent here for is, it’s the simple matter of getting your hands on it and getting out cleanly.

You don’t need to care about approval from any of these brutes in the least…

“Well then, let’s get this stuff out to be served.” Torg grabs the handle of the cauldron with both hands, lifting the heavy wrought iron vessel with barely any exertion besides a rough grunt. You’re nearly caught up contemplating the easy show of raw physical strength, before Torg’s instruction snaps you back to attention. “Grab some of the bread baskets and follow me.”

You comply, and soon you’re set up methodically ladling hot stew out of the cauldron and into the waiting wooden bowls of hungry orcs queued in the grub line.

This is… almost kind of nice?

No one is looking at you with pitying looks as you make another mistake or struggle to complete a task. Just a nod, maybe an appreciative grunt or mono-syllabic expression of approval, before they move on.

You can’t help but feel a pleasant, calm focus, and a boost to your self-esteem as you work through the line, working to the sounds of the lively dining hall.

Unfortunately, the peaceful sense of accomplishment is tragically short lived.

Suddenly, the good cheer of mealtime is disrupted as a loud tremor of havoc winds through the dining hall. Wooden chairs and benches and tables scrape loudly, some overturning and falling to the floor, though that’s barely audible over all of the booming voices yelling.

You’ve not really witnessed any brawling yet, despite being told to expect it; that orcs are violent and dole out black eyes and rip off earlobes with their teeth like it’s nothing, over the smallest of disputes.

This doesn’t seem like a brawl, though.

Torg swiftly leaves the serving line, immediately parting the crowd to get to the heart of the issue. You watch as a few different orcs are dragged outside by others, into the snow.

“Nothing else served!” One of the other orcs on the serving line barks after convening with someone that’s run over to them from closer to the commotion. You let the ladle rest on the edge of the cauldron, a sinking feeling from your throat to the pit of your stomach.

That’s how you find yourself sitting on a stool in the kitchen hours later, your hands bound with scratchy cord and two gruff, irritated looking orc guards watching you closely. 

Not long after, the huge, seething Chieftain returns to interrogate you. 

“What kind of poison was it?!” He roars as he storms into the room with a bang, the door threatening to explode off the hinges behind him.

“P-Poison?!” You barely squeak out. You shield your face with your hands, if only to dampen the larger man’s thunderous volume. 

“Don’t play dumb! Everyone who had a serving of the stew you made fell violently ill within minutes!” He gestures widely towards the door to the dining hall.

“I didn’t poison anyone! I wouldn't- !”

Poison has never been your style…

“Then explain! ” He snarls, nostrils flaring and teeth fully bared in anger. “What did you put in that stew?!”

Despite the yelling, you feel strangely safe. You don’t think this is going to get physical. You’ve never seen Torg get violent with anyone, and if anything, he seems to be struggling to keep his loud, expressive rage reeled back.

Moreover, during the interrogations you’ve endured at the hands of other authority figures in the past… the beating usually would’ve already started a while ago, if it was going to happen.

“N-Nothing, except what you told me to!” You whimper, quickly rattling off the list of spices you memorized like an incantation. “Salt, Pepper, Paprika, Dill, Mustard Seed-“

Torg turns, and his eyes scour the shelves of spices as you list off items. His hand hovers above the bottle of mustard seed, and after a moment of thought, he grabs both it, and the bottle beside it.

He brings them over, presenting both of the bottles to you. You lower your hands slightly to look at them.

“Tell me,” He says your name grimly, and takes a deep breath before asking his next question, voice still dripping with barely restrained rage. “Which of these is mustard seed?”

“That one.” You point to the bottle you used with your bound hands.

His shoulder jerks as if he’s about to fling the bottle to smash against the wall, but he apparently resists the urge, setting the bottle on the counter instead and releasing his white-knuckled grip on the lid.

“This is not mustard seed. It is bellow-seed.” He says through gritted teeth.

“Bellow-seed?”

“A spice made from a plant in the mustard family. Not a poison.” A bit of relief is clear in his voice and body language despite the clear vestiges of rage still burning inside.  “But in large quantities, it is a powerful emetic.”

You look at him blankly.

“It makes you empty your stomach.” He speaks slowly, forcefully annunciating each word. “Violently.”

“Oh, I’m… I’m so sorry.” You say weakly. “I- They were just right next to each other and I couldn’t read the label, but it smelled like mustard, so-”

“If you were unsure, you should have asked! I was right there!” He growls, his large palm finds the side of his head in disdain. “I told you to ask for help.”

You don’t have an answer for that, besides your inflated sense of ego and wanting to avoid your own embarrassment. You simply sit there pitifully, soft feline ears swiveled back in shame.

After a few moments of you failing to come up with an answer or excuse, Torg pinches his glabella and lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

“...Did you do this on purpose?” He finally asks.

“No.” You look him directly in the eye and say with conviction.

Torg nods, then undoes the ropes holding your wrists together himself in tense silence.

“Is… everyone going to be okay?” You ask tentatively and rub the indentation on your wrist, the guilt of your mistake already eating at your conscience.

“You- go to tell Shaman-” He ignores your question and gives one of the guards orders, then the other. “And you, take him home. He stays there until morning, until his story is confirmed.”

You’re pulled to your feet, then lead back towards the dormitory. As you trudge through the snow, you can’t shake the feeling of guilt. It follows you all the way back to your dormitory, and weighs on your chest as you’re finally in bed for the night, tossing and turning.

What’s your punishment going to be? Surely, nothing good. And sure, your cover didn’t get blown yet, but they still might exile you for putting people in danger, and you wouldn’t be able to finish the job- 

What’s your guildmaster going to do when word gets back that you ruined the one chance to do the job? Fritz has never been the most understanding when it comes to failure.

You suppose you could just go on the run if you fail, but… you have a feeling that messing up such a big job will earn you a grudge, and he has a well-earned reputation for not letting those go. You doubt you’d get very far without the past coming back to haunt you.

You heave a sigh.

More importantly… What if you really hurt someone with your seasoning mishap? Usually the only one paying for your mistakes is you…

 You don’t sleep well that night.

>> ✨ MASTERLIST >> ☕ KO-FI

[the-archxr]

*vague cryptid sounds* yOU TAKE REQUESTS FOR STEVE

can i please have headcanons for moving in together and/or him proposing??

thank you ily

I LOVE YOU TOO BRO AND IM SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG

aight so for shits and giggles let’s just say you two practically already live together.

except you don’t live anywhere specific.

it’s either you’re at your house and Steve happens to be there as well, or vice versa. never once are you guys separated in any way because that shits nearly impossible.

you sleeping all by yourself in your cold ass bed? unacceptable.

him watching tv alone and eating leftover pizza? pizza that you had ordered??? no way jose.

even though you both need your space (cause quite frankly it’s unhealthy if you don’t), you don’t want to be in separate homes.

because you are each other’s home, ya feel??

anyways

I think you guys moving in together would be the most natural, organic fucking shit in the world. like the kind of thing where Steve just shows up on your doorstep with two suitcases, a backpack and the biggest fucking smile ever.

although let’s be honest, he’d make a joke about it, try to play it off as though he wasn’t bouncing off the freaking walls at the thought of actually living with you.

“rents fucking expensive, babe. I think splitting it is the more economical decision.”

and of course you give in; play along right with him

cause that’s just how the two of you are, and deep down you both knew this shit was coming (honestly you’re more shocked that it didn’t happen sooner).

it’s a smooth transition as both of your lives completely entangle

like to the point where you’re writing your joint schedules on the calendar; keeping your toothbrushes together instead of on either side of the sink; buying his shampoo without him even having to ask you; him having a glass of water ready for you on your bedside table.

anyone who comes over always asks if you’re secretly married; the running joke being you take off the ring when you have company and put it back on when they leave.

it’s the kind of joke that you both roll your eyes at and pretend to forget cause for the most part marriage and kids are at the back of your minds (until you find out months later about steve’s lil’ breeding kink, but that’s to elaborate on for another time if y’all ask nicely).

and so for a solid year and a half you somehow get even closer.

the kids and Robin visit you all the time, which isn’t surprising at all (despite the fact that Robin is constantly trying to bribe you guys on her moving in for a little bit once she graduates).

everyone loves your place and each person brings a little knick knack to add to the space. there’s even a designated shelf you put up because the kids just continue to bring so much stuff (el having a particular interest in bringing random wild flowers she picked off the side of the road).

meanwhile Dustin brought over his old Nintendo as a “welcome gift” (though it’s his excuse to come over all the time, saying “oh, I forgot I gave it to you. I just didn’t want to misplace it.”)

he comes over unannounced too, which causes a couple issues (although he never fixes them) after he walked in on the two of you having sex for the third time.

but when the kids aren’t stealing your pocket money and buying shitty takeout, you and Steve actually have quite a lot of alone time.

living with him is simple and fun and calming.

you’re either cooking together, dancing to his cassettes or having horror movie marathons

(and although he’s terrified of the horror movies you pick, he really likes when you watch them and your adrenaline gets up…if you catch my drift *winking aggressively*)

all in all, you and Steve fall into a beautifully tender and comfortable routine. it’s a routine that no one would dare to change, for the worse or the better…

except for Steve himself, and the small blue velvet box that waits in the back of the Robin’s closet.

✨the-archxr headcanons✨

[ruffgem]

At the beginning of COVID I set out to make an ms paint-animated cartoon with a good friend of mine via the power of texting and the internet. It was crazy cuz I actually did single-handedly animate two full 4-ish minute “episodes,” but it sucked because I didn’t realize til it was too late how… different… our senses of humor actually were. LOL. like no shade but she was like, studying modern-day SNL for her writing (she was in charge of writing each episode, I did the animating) and I was like fuuuuck…. That’s like. actually the exact opposite of what I personally find funny. and also she took the advice “write what you know” way too seriously because I always wanted our characters to get haunted by demons but she was always like “I dunno… that’s not really realistic…” WHAT! why would u make a cartoon if nothing crazy happens in it? just write a sitcom with real life actors then!! but anyway I could sorta live with it because I could insert physical comedy into the animation which I thought helped fix some of the unfunny shit. sometimes. also, she was lowkey dictatorial about the character design (my domain!!!!) and even the voices we used for our characters (mine was annoying!!!) (IT WAS GIVING MORDECAI AND RIGBY!!) so the project sucked lowkey. Even though I still love that friend dearly we just simply… suffered from creative differences. Rest in peace. But I’m kind of proud of the fact that I actually animated two whole episodes by myself so maybe I will share them one day… but idk if I’ll ever be removed enough from them to do that. but I also hate the idea of doing all that work for nothing. But it happens sometimes frankly. U LIVE AND U LEARN!!! anyway it’s been like 4 years so I’m less haunted by it now… hmmmm I think im going to make another cartoon myself (or with my brother (we have the same mind)) yay!!!! *Adds it to my insanely long and unrealistic list of Shit I Want To Do*

[hchollym]

I read your post about Percy being a spy during book 7, it makes sense perfectly and many people believe it also (except the fact that if he was, why Rowling didn't clearly tell it? because of time restricted? Voluntarily, like something she intentionnaly hiden?) I just wanted to add two little things which i have never see people point out, and who may support this theory: Percy had become a departement director after the war, we didn't have more information about this but it's likely that he was one of the youngest departement head ever, if not the youngest. From the little we know and can feel, he seem to be a respected man in the reformed ministry. I am not convinced that he could have accessed to a very hight position if he had gotten along, even if it was by obligation, with the voldemord government (and people don't pay attention but we are even free to go as far as imagine that he become minister since cursed child is evidently not canon and JKR know it), despite having participed in the battle at hogwart. He may have fake his loyalty and end up with "the good guys", but he had still been associated for months with the last minister and this had chances to have limited his career perspectives. I may have totally wrong, but i tend to thinks that his hight position after the war can also be a argument. Another thing is that we can wonder what he tells to Aberforth exactly for him to believe and had confidence in him (obviously he totally had, otherwise he wouldn't have call him for the battle). It's possible that they had acquaintance in common who have assured him that Percy was truswhorthy, but we don't know. But i doubt that Percy just arrived and say "hi, i am the son of Arthur Weasley, the one who had deserted and was assistant to Fudge and Scrimgeour, i want to go back to my family but i can't, can you call me if something happen? It's possible that it was that and not go further (they just talk and Aberforth understand him), but i think that Percy had give him some guarantee other than that. It's very obscure anyway. What do you thinks?

Sorry for the long post, i hope you read me until the end of this!

I love getting longs posts like this, because I enjoy reading other people's perspectives, so no worries! 😄

I don’t think it matters much that Rowling didn’t specifically say that Percy was a spy. She had plenty of “ghost” or dropped storylines in the series, and even after the 7th book, she left quite a few unresolved story arcs. She also didn’t tend to focus too much on the plots involving minor characters, so I feel like Percy being a spy is just another one of those things that she ultimately didn’t want to waste too many pages on.

I agree with you completely about your first point. After the series ended, Rowling said, “Percy ended up as a high-ranking official under Kingsley.” What’s interesting though is that she also made the statement that, "Any Ministry officials who knowingly and willingly went with Voldemort's ideologies during the time when the Ministry was under his control were sentenced to Azkaban." So what exactly is considered ‘willingly’? It’s incredibly vague, because it would be hard to prove whether someone went along with the Ministry because they wanted to vs. they were afraid of the consequences if they didn’t (especially since law enforcement didn’t regularly use Veritaserum in questioning suspects due to its limitations). 

Percy was working directly with the Minister of Magic while it was under Voldemort’s control. He would have gone along with everything the Minister did - on the surface anyway - and would have been involved with the new laws based on the deplorable ideologies (more so than many other officials in the Ministry). Frankly, if he wasn’t a spy, that would have been enough to sentence him to Azkaban, regardless of his involvement in the final battle (because one good deed does not exonerate someone from past war crimes). So the fact that Percy didn’t go to Azkaban and became a high-ranking official instead is very telling; it implies that Kingsley had no doubts about his loyalty before the battle, which would only really be possible if Percy was proven to be a spy. 

I also agree that Aberforth would have needed to trust Percy in order to risk contacting him. If Percy were actually aligned with the Death Eaters, then Aberforth would have given him full access through a secret tunnel to Hogwarts and the people opposing Voldemort. In that situation, Percy could have led all the Death Eaters inside in a surprise attack and the battle would have been over before it began. Aberforth needed to have at least some assurances that Percy was not a traitor. 

As you said, it’s possible that he came to that conclusion after having a conversation with Percy, but I tend to doubt it. Aberforth was rather cynical and not overly trusting. I think Percy proved himself in some way (such as passing on vital information) in order for Aberforth to directly reach out to him. Also keep in mind that Aberforth was likely contacting as many allies as possible - Percy was only one person (as opposed to a big group of people that could have joined them), and yet Aberforth took the time to specifically let him know what was happening. That implies that there was a stronger connection between the two of them than just a quick conversation about loyalty. 

You made some excellent points, and thank you for sharing them! 😊

[singrate]

Charlie Spring is Also Autistic

A little while ago I made this post about Nick Nelson being autistic and got a handful of requests for one about Charlie because, well, obviously. So here it is.

First of all:

I'm sure you agree.

This post won’t be as long as the Nick one because quite frankly I am trying not to ramble. Once again referencing the webcomic and the series. 

TW: very brief mention of OCD & eating disorders

The Converse collection. And the knitwear collection. Even the skinny jeans. He always wears the same jumper/jeans or button up/t-shirt/jeans combination. I just know he rotates through wearing all of his jumpers because he doesn’t want any of them to be left out.

The jumpers are definitely a sensory thing, too — in the part about their wardrobes at the end of Volume 2 Alice mentions that he loves anything ‘snuggly and oversized.’

Both in the webcomic and the series, Charlie’s ‘misfit’ status is fairly important to his character, regardless of whether or not he’s popular. Even though he fits in well with his friends, there’s something that makes him quite distinctly different from everyone around him.

His special interests are indie/alternative music, classic literature and ancient history, especially Roman and Greek. 

Drumming is a stim for him. At the start of S01E02, right after that delightful encounter with Ben, and in the scene with Tori in S01E08, it’s fairly clear he’s using it as a way to process and release his emotions.

When he wears headphones on the bus… yeah. Stressed, anxious; much more likely to be overstimulated. 

Pattern recognition: he picks up pretty early on that Nick probably isn’t straight and nobody else around him believes him.

Mental illnesses like OCD and anorexia are commonly comorbid with autism.

His resting face. That’s all.

Actually, that’s not all. These too:

There's so many more of these but I don't have the energy to find screencaps for all of them right now. Also, getting home from school and immediately collapsing on his bed.

The wave in S01E01 and S01E06 when saying bye to Nick. Can’t find screencaps but you know the one.

And the little giggle after Nick tackles him and says, “Well done!”

His sense of humour is exactly the sort of offbeat sarcasm a lot of autistic people use. “Oh, she left, long ago!” (S01E01) (same vibe as Tori asking, “Was he a knob?” because obviously Tori is also autistic and I find the similarities between these two so wonderful), “I’m not hiding.” “Then what are you doing?” “Eating lunch.” (S01E01)

Saying sorry a lot. First of all, he’s not sure when it’s appropriate/necessary to apologise and when it isn’t. Secondly, it seems like a form of masking — he is likely aware of his tendency to miss social cues but doesn’t know which ones he’s missing and apologises as a way to compensate.

There is just something very autistic to me about the way he delivers his monologues — to Nick in S01E04, staring at the floor the whole time, hello??, to Ben in S01E01 and S01E08, just very impassioned and earnest, but still kind of monotone. Yeah.

A lot of his lines from the series that people (mostly on Tiktok) find cringe are just like… things that an autistic teenager would say? S01E01 after Nick’s pen explodes when he says, “You should make it the new school fashion!”, S01E01 when he’s confronting Ben: “Thanks for telling me. Oh wait… you didn’t”, “Why are we like this??”, the ‘gay panic’ lock screen, I’ll probably think of more of these later because Heartstopper Tiktok does not deserve Charlie.

Isolating himself when he’s struggling socially because dealing with anybody, even his close friends, is just too much. I think that one is fairly universal for autistic people.

Just want to add that Joe Locke did such a good job of bringing Charlie to life. His delivery is literally perfect and I will not ever shut up about this.

Anyway, feel free to add stuff!

[fatals0ul]

Rant timeeee

FINALLY REMEMBERED TO GO INTO THIS TY TO THE PERSON THAT COMMENTED UNDER THIS POST!!

Just to be clear, this wasn’t made out of malice or anything for said person, I genuinely wanted to explain my second viewpoint that I said in that post, that being that majority of SF fans like A.K.I because she’s a woman. This is an opinion btw, not a factual statement, and if I’m wrong and there’s something to prove that I’m wrong, then I don’t mind adjusting said opinion!!This is going off of what i’ve seen in the community, so if you’ve seen differently then alright! That’s lovely for you!

I’m not saying that you HAVE to like her if you don’t like F.A.N.G, I’m not saying that you have to like F.A.N.G if you like A.K.I, and i’m not saying that you HAVE to get into their lore in order to like them. I’m also not saying that this is the ONLY reason people like A.K.I.

I have little to no right at all to tell you who you should and shouldn’t like and why you should/shouldn’t like them, and frankly I don’t really care too much because there’s more important things happening in the world, but this is just something that i’ve noticed and I decided to point it out. I apologize in advance if this has an aggressive tone or if it seems like I’m trying to push my opinions onto people. I’m just really passionate about the things I like i’m sure you get it 😪🙏🏾

I’m an A.K.I enjoyer too lil bros 😔 I’m jabbing at my own kind /j

ANYWAYS. More under the cut

Now the main reason I said that is because of her personality and the reception of it. In simple terms, she’s like a genuinely batshit insane woman who’s obsessed with her master. While the Wiki may not explain it similarly, in-game you can definitely see the similar aspect of her personality with F.A.N.G’s. I’ve only really played the games, but from what i’ve seen, they both act similarly and it like. SHOWS….

But when it comes to F.A.N.G, barely anyone likes him.

There could be a LOT more that explains why people don’t like him, but a vast majority of reasons is because of the way that he acts. It’s seen as weird and off-putting, especially with his obsession with Bison (or Vega for those who know him as that).

Then you have A.K.I. Same insane kind of vibe, the whole interest in poison, obsession with the person who’s taken her under their wing, yadda yadda, but now people actually like her AND her personality.

So two characters are portrayed as insane and have a very similar way of acting. One happens to be a guy, and the other happens to be a conventionally attractive girl. The girl is extremely well received even before she comes out. Hopefully you can see why I said that now. Especially considering that majority of people in the FGC are cishet men (keyword: MAJORITY!!! not EVERYONE bc i sure as hell ain’t LMAOO).

You are MORE than welcome to disagree with me, in fact, if you do, then we can have a respectful debate about it! I genuinely don’t mind at all, as long as you’re not being a dick. I’m also willing to elaborate more on certain points that didn’t make sense, just ask!! Only thing I want is respectful comments and conversations that’s pretty much it. I also might add more as I think of it, but it’s early where i’m at and i’m tired so this is all i’m gonna say for rn. TY FOR READING!!!

[leseigneurdufeu]

Imagine, if you will, a young man taking on the most self-sacrificing job of his time period, namely not only soldier, but soldier on the navy, which adds to all the sacrifices of soldiering the solitude, the bad food, the sea sickness, the promiscuity, the loneliness among many that is brought by the sea. And obviously, the everpresent danger that is the ocean, when other soldiers generally face the danger only in battlefields.

Now, this young man is a man of duty. Of honor. But he falls in love with a young woman, who would, apparently, be the perfect pick: adjacent social standing to his, nice, well-educated, a bit fiery maybe but if he didn’t like adventure he wouldn’t be a sailor, and also beautiful but that’s very secondary to him. He almost grew up with her despite their, what, five-ten years of difference maybe (also he isn’t shown to have any romantic interest in her until they are both adults, which is appreciable in modern media)? Anyway he knows her, he doesn’t like her for her beauty but for her character. I wouldn’t have called it a highly healthy couple but at some point he realizes they lacked communication on a matter and from then on tries to communicate and particularly to trust her more, so he even trusts her when she doesn’t tell him why she’s acting weirdly.

The young woman, however, is not in love with him. She might have settled for him however, because she doesn’t dislike him, but she fell, long ago, for another young man, who’s her age and who almost grew up with her, too, but is far below her standing. Let’s call him Smith, because he is, in fact, a smith.

The soldier, who is now not exactly upper-class but still one of the upperest of the neighbourhood they live in, has no qualms with the smith. He treats him an equal despite both their social difference and the fact they both love the girl (and are both aware of the other’s interest in her).

Oh, it’s not a love triangle, or not what we understand by the term, because the girl doesn’t reciprocate the feelings of the soldier. Despite knowing that (or, rather, dreading it without proof at first) the soldier lays his life for her or tries to before being prevented to, multiple times.

Then he is torn. The safety of the girl can only be ensured if he breaks his duty, if he relinquishes his honor. And he does. He puts her first in his priorities.

It’s not enough, although it’s not connected to the prior incident, because she is then put in even more danger. The smith threatens the soldier, probably without realizing it, while demanding that everyone gets to the girl’s rescue. And the soldier? He contains his grief and anger, the very grief and anger the smith is unleashing upon innocent bystanders, and doesn’t get mad at the smith for threatening him or for insinuating he doesn’t care about finding the girl. The soldier ensures the smith that he’s doing everything he can, and he is! All his reasonnings are logical! But the smith does something that is quite illogical, and that works. That works better than the logics of the soldier, but the soldier doesn’t know, because the smith is captured too. And the soldier finds the girl, and despite his best judgement, because she’s asking him to, he sends all his forces to rescue the smith, too, even if the smith put himself in this dangerous situation.

The soldier loses men in the attack. But the smith and the girl are safe and sound now. The girl bargained to marry him if he helped the smith, and quite frankly, he accepted. Because after all he did deserve to get something going his way for once, even if it’s not very noble of him to accept the terms when he has so much leverage against the girl. But again, she offered first. He never would have thought to ask that of her against his help.

Anyway, because of his love for the girl, when she elopes with the smith and a group of the ennemies the soldier is supposed to fight, he leaves them a head start. Because he still loves her despite the treasons she inflicted on him, despite his ego, his heart, his love, his honor, everything he gave to her, trampled.

This headstart, tho? It’s a fatal error. He loses everything. A battle. A battle against the ennemies, one against the sea itself. He loses his title, his position, his job, his family if he had one? He loses everything. He goes into forced exile to atone. And the most cruel is that the only person to give him a hand is one of his former ennemies. Why does he give him this hand? Because the girl needs people to do her bidding. And once more, he is doing everything he can for her, but this time, he is degraded, dirty, dressed in rags and lost. Lost in alcohol. Lost in regret of what could have happened. Lost in a crow of strangers, in a cruel sea, lost but so close to her...

When he is torn again. Loyalty to her, who has changed, who is unrecognizable, who doesn’t need him anymore, and who betrayed him so many times? Or loyalty to his duty? Last time he chose her. It ended badly. So badly. So many times. So he choses his duty.

And everything goes well again. Oh, she sees him as an ennemy, but it doesn’t really matter anymore. All that matters is that he is back to his former life. Without her, but she was no good. So he regrets her. But he goes on with his life.

And on a battlefield, one day, he starts doubting orders again. And indeed those are quite sketchy. But the management has changed. It’s not like his whole life had been a lie. He had always served an honourable duty. The way it was asked from him to perform it had changed. He still did it.

Then he met her again. On a battlefield.

And he was torn.

And he chose her.

And that got him killed.

And he didn’t regret it.

That man is James Norrington.

I could go on and on how Pirates of the Caribbean’s characters are sometimes too tragic to be part of the cast of a supernatural comedy pirates movie, but I already did just here so I’ll stop there.

[whimsicalmeerkat]

I posted 3,070 times in 2022

That's 3,017 more posts than 2021!

56 posts created (2%)

3,014 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@nour386

@pterawaters

@alondradina

@cuteasamuntin

@elytrians

I tagged 2,263 of my posts in 2022

Only 26% of my posts had no tags

#queue all the things! - 2,047 posts

#ofmd - 79 posts

#fanfic - 71 posts

#our flag means death - 69 posts

#teen wolf - 59 posts

#ao3 - 54 posts

#sterek - 51 posts

#derek hale - 45 posts

#deadpool - 44 posts

#writing - 41 posts

Longest Tag: 122 characters

#(which ooh pain bc you had to have multiples bc a. there weren't enough older teen witchers b. they were gonna lose a few)

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Fucking evergreen tweet

15 notes - Posted April 7, 2022

#4

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson Characters: Peter Parker, Wade Wilson, Weasel, Gwen Stacy, Michelle Jones Additional Tags: AU - Mermaids, Hand Job, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, fluff and smut and angst, Angst, Happy Ending, fluff and nonsense, Wade is Sane, for an immortal pirate anyway, Peter isn’t Spider-Man but he is a black widow, thank goodness Peter is pretty, Peter is a disaster, Insecure Peter, Weasel’s life is hard, this gets sad but it gets better, Near character death, but not really because it’s Deadpool, dead boyfriend ossuary, no beta we die like warriors Summary:

“Stop sulking,” MJ ordered, tugging the skull out of Peter’s hands.

“He didn’t really love me. None of them ever love me,” Peter said glumly.

“Hey,” he protested when MJ tossed the skull further into Peter’s memorial cave. “You’ll get them mixed up.”

~

Peter keeps accidentally drowning his boyfriends. Luckily, ye un-killable pirate Wade Wilson is made of stronger stuff.

26 notes - Posted April 10, 2022

#3

Opening Lines

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Tag some people to play the next round!

Thanks to @somekndofnature for the tag! I just went backwards through my AO3 posted works that aren't hockey RPF, so the order isn't particularly meaningful. I love talking about my stuff, so questions are welcome. I'll try not to scream about it too much.

Eric dodged a giggling girl in cat ears and some frankly terrifying shoes.

Alexei stepped as quietly as possible into the bat enclosure.

“So long, Rodney? So long, Rodney?”

Enkidu lay in the bed he’d been directed to earlier in the evening, and tried to understand why people liked them so much.

John had to suppress his groan when he heard his radio crackle.

Geralt was relaxing after dinner when his life went to hell.

“Hello, Bastard,” Lucivar said, walking out into the gardens and finding Daemon on his own.

Geralt stared up at the clouds that obscured the stars, and sighed nearly silently as his traveling companion sighed again, very much not silently.

Geralt submitted to being forcibly shaved with what he was willing to admit was ill-grace.

“Highland Park, neat,” Geralt told the server, then settled in to wait.

Lucivar leaned back in his chair in front of the fire and watched his brother.

{We feel funny.}

Lucivar pushed his way through the door of the Kaleer Hall, his favorite tea shop, and raised his hand to greet a few fellow regulars.

Lucivar regularly came across his brother out in the gardens without considering, even in passing, that he wanted him.

Lucivar jolted awake.

“You were right.”

“Stop sulking,” MJ ordered, tugging the skull out of Peter’s hands.

Sometimes having a secret identity is hard.

Wade was bored.

Oops, edit to add that my favorite of these lines are a toss-up between 7 and 17. I've also learned my 2nd and 3rd lines tend to be more interesting than my first.

Gonna tag some lovely people, if any of you want to play along. Tag me if you do, please! @mrs-steve-harrington @pterawaters @alondradina @mrpinniped @ghoste-catte @bad-at-names-and-faces @only-here-for-the-star-wars @calenlily @shadow-wasser @torrefaction-of-silver @thisdamnwasteland

29 notes - Posted April 3, 2022

#2

@calenlily tagged me in this days ago, but I couldn’t decide which WIP to pull from. The idea is to pull the last sentence from a WIP and tag the same number of people as there are words in the sentence. I’m not tagging that many people, because I’m a rebel like that and it’s a lot of words, but here’s a sentence:

“He was realizing he wanted the other man fiercely, with a need that felt both new as freshly healed skin and as deep as a scar so old you didn’t even notice it was there.”

@cuteasamuntin @alondradina @lunastories @sassinake @bad-at-names-and-faces @dreaminghour @girlwithakiwi @mrs-steve-harrington @raeality

31 notes - Posted February 24, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Stiles' Wiles by whimsicalmeerkat

On AO3

Stiles retracted his finger and took a sip of his coffee. “No, no, this is good. You’re the perfect person to test this on. I would be spending time around you anyway, and the fact that you’re entirely out of my league means there’s no risk of leading you on, especially since you know the plan, and yes, yes, this is perfect!” * Stiles wants to be sure his next relationship is bulletproof. Derek just wants Stiles.

Featuring pining Derek; oblivious Stiles; and a plan where Stiles fails to be wily, but Derek is still charmed

Written for Unconventional Courtship 2022 based on Intent to Seduce by Cara Summers.

Beta by DerRumtreiber (@krabraccoon).

48 notes - Posted June 27, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[elmendea]

"butchered charas, cheesy dialogue, lazy linguistics, rubbery CGI, & subpar costumes"

YOUR WORDS YOU CLOWN

Sanctus fæx, spare me. But okay, let’s break this down, shall we? I’m in serious pain and a vile mood to boot. Let’s have at it.

Firstly, I have, do, and will continue to critique the show on all these points. To wit:

1. butchered characters -- I won’t really be able to tell if a character has been chewed up and spat out and turned into someone else until I watch the actual series. And no, “Galadriel being a warrior” does not count as this, to me. I’ve read enough of the lore to see where that concept could be extrapolated from, and frankly? Galadriel is not actually just a holier-than-thou mystic sorceress we get shown primarily in the Jackson films. By the end of the Third Age she’s been fighting the long defeat and she’s tired. In the Second Age? She still has plenty of fire in her belly and it’s not a leap to imagine she had an axe to grind. Her life during the First Age was a little tempestuous, to put it lightly. When the Valar offered safe passage for the Eldar to get themselves (back) over to Valinor, Galadriel’s response was essentially “nah fam I’m good”. This is a whole post in itself, though, so I’ll leave this here until Friday.

I don’t think a character’s aesthetic can be butchered, technically, since I find it less important than the character’s personality -- see Elrond, for a prime example of my thinking, here. I still have gripes about some of those aesthetics  for more-than-aesthetic reasons (the short hair on male elves bothers me a little, not just because I don’t like short hair personally, but because I think it adds to the ever-so-slight gender ambiguity and largely feminine [in a non-gender-essentialist context, and for lack of a better word -- maybe “yin” fits more?] energy of the elves; but using Elrond as an example again: Rob Aramayo’s performance shows this energy, which is what allowed me to set those preferences aside.)

2. cheesy dialogue -- I have called it out when I heard it. Nori’s “there’s wonders in this world beyond our wandering, I can feel it” still makes me cringe. Again, for a more thorough judgement, we’re going to have to wait until Friday. But also, at the same time -- cheesiness can be highly subjective. I’ve had differences of opinion with people who found that line perfectly acceptable.

3. lazy linguistics -- still call it out and always will. To a pernickety point, I’ll readily admit. I still think “Elanor Brandyfoot” is the laziest effing name anyone could come up with (no hobbits had been named Elanor BEFORE Sam and Frodo visited Lothlórien, that’s kind of the whole thing -- and Elanor Gamgee’s nickname was “Elanorellë”, not Nori, which has obviously already been used for a dwarf), hobbits didn’t seem to use surnames or clan names before the settling of the Shire anyway, “Bronwyn” and “Theo” are so incredibly primary world-esque that it actually teeters on breaking immersion (and the “they might be ancestors of the Rohirrim” doesn’t really fly, either, as the Rohirrim are canonically descended from the Northmen). Lissincë, I’m a linguist in training, and that is ENTIRELY the fault of Tolkien’s Legendarium. This is my jam. You think for one minute that I won’t be annoyingly nitpicky about names, even if I enjoy the show?

4. rubbery CGI -- have called it out and will continue to do so. The first trailer, to me, was not their finest offering in the CGI department. The subsequent teasers and trailers have improved vastly, but I’ve never hesitated to point out what seems a little too CGI-heavy for my own liking. But again: this can be quite subjective. A lot of people hated the use of heavy CGI in The Hobbit films; I personally wasn’t terribly bothered by it.

5. subpar costumes -- not once, not once, have I been impressed with the show’s costuming. I have made that blazingly obvious, repeatedly. The closest I can come to actually liking the costuming choices is thinking the dwarvish costumes seem fairly solid and Dísa’s makeup is actually flawless for a dwarf princess. As I said above, I still dislike short hair on male elves. I was astonished in the worst way when I first saw pictures of Charles Edwards as Celebrimbor -- how they made such a ridiculously handsome man look so utterly downright dowdy is beyond me. I stand by that. I continue to be unimpressed with the costuming on this show. I really, really hope in later seasons (or even episodes) it improves.

I hope that was elucidating for you. 🙄