#hidden layer strategy

[leonbasinwriter]

The system is moving. Not just AI, not just business—intelligence itself is in play.

[moonmaiden1996]

The Monster Maomao Created Part 3

Your father had not returned that night.

Part 4

These things took time. Time to orchestrate, to implement, to get right. Time you, unfortunately, did not have.

In truth, you had seen him only in passing for weeks now. One glimpse from a corridor, another when he handed off urgent reports to aides as he rode through the outer gates. Between strategy councils and leading drills with the troops, he seemed more like a ghost than man lately. The latest dispatches from the northern border had stripped away ambiguity—rumors turned to warnings, warnings into facts. War no longer loomed like a distant shadow. It advanced—quiet, steady, inevitable.

And with it, your father had vanished into his duties, leaving you alone in the palace with your own battle to wage.

This was not the battlefield he knew—no clash of swords, no banners raised to the wind. This war wore rouge and whispered behind fans. It traded in glances, not arrows. And you had to fight it without him.

Which is why you had done the unthinkable: stepped directly into the lair of one of the most powerful women in the palace—alone.

The private chambers of Empress Gyokuyou were a place of cultivated tranquility, where even silence felt intentional. Amber light spilled through silk-paneled screens painted with cranes in mid-flight and branches of plum blossom that never faded. The delicate scent of camellia oil lingered in the air, subtle and clinging. Toys rested in artful corners—a carved rabbit, a painted drum, a silken ball—placed not haphazardly, but with care. Even innocence was curated here.

The Empress sat before you on a raised cushion of brocade, her robes a symphony of reds and pinks, her posture as precise as calligraphy. Her face was unreadable, carved with years of composure. She watched you with jade-colored eyes. Her lips curved into a faint smile—not cold, but not warm. Perfectly balanced.

"I do not want us to be enemies," you said softly, voice clear despite the weight of the moment. "My path seems already set. I must walk it, whether I would or not."

She lifted her cup and sipped slowly. The soft sound of liquid moving was the only reply for a long moment.

"I have always admired your father. He is an honorable man. Loyal beyond question. He has supported the Emperor since the beginning of his reign."

"It is true," you said, nodding. "My father respects and loves the Emperor deeply. And he holds equal respect for you, and for your children."

Her gaze lingered, searching, as though peeling layers you had thought well hidden.

"And you?"

You bowed your head, the jeweled hairpin in your crown catching the midday sun. Light glanced off it, a deliberate gleam—subtle, but unmistakable. A token from him.

Everyone knew what the pin meant. The pin had been given months before, hidden away in your dressing box, ignored. It was beautiful—carved of white jade and inlaid with white gold—a design too fine, too significant to be random. The Moon Prince's pin. In the court, such a gift was no mere ornament. It marked imperial interest. You were being chosen. Endorsed. And by wearing it now, you stated the choice you had made to the Empress herself.

"I came here because I wish to affirm my devotion to my empress. If this marriage… if it comes to fruition might cause some upset. I wish to ensure that doesn't happen" You straightened your posture as you met her gaze.

She paused. The silence was long, but not empty. Her eyes flicked once to the toddler nestled against her side, to the baby in her arms, before she turned her gaze back to you.

"Would you care for more tea?"

You had not been dismissed. That was something. A small victory, in a place where such things mattered. If you made an enemy of her now, you could very well be suffering the death by a thousand cuts.

"Yes, please." You smiled, demure and serene. A smile shaped not for affection, but diplomacy. You had long ago learned how to wield your expressions like weapons, same as the Empress in this you were equal.

At her signal, her ladies-in-waiting quietly stepped forward, bowed, and disappeared through a side door, their silk robes whispering as they moved. The hush that followed was deeper now, the room emptier. Just the two of you—and the Empress’s children, her preoccupied daughter and son, tucked against her side.

The children were the reason for everything. The reason for Jinshi—or whatever his name was to be in the rear palace, the reason for you needed to be here. Children were always sources of trouble—the need to secure their future, to keep them safe, to even have them. You did not know the Empress well, but you knew she was a good mother, and despite her kindness she would be as savage as any bear to protect her children. You appreciated that. You would be the same. But it made this even more difficult.

Then, without warning she spoke again.

"Could you love him? Truly?"

Your fingers hesitated on the rim of your cup. The question hung in the air. Did you? No. Could you? Maybe. As a young girl you might have been giddy, gushed around the Prince—but as a women you know how truly dangerous it was .

"I think… I could." You pondered. "I know I will be a good wife."

She looked down into her tea. "Jin... Ka Zuigetsu is shy after being isolated from much of court life due to his...illness. He... lacks confidence, even despite the front he wears. He is dear to me… I owe him much. I only want him to be cherished, as I cherish the Emperor."

"I can only try." You offered the words carefully, letting your tone soften just enough. A small show of sincerity—but never vulnerability.

She studied you again, not with suspicion, but with calculation—the kind that had become second nature to women like her. "You would be a fierce wife. Sharp. Loyal. Intelligent. The court would do well to fear you. And you would make a strong mother, no doubt."

Her hand moved gently, almost absently, to brush a lock of hair from her son’s face. He shifted slightly but didn’t wake, safe and warm beneath his mother’s arm. "This war comes too soon, when everything is unsettled.,. It gives people ideas," she said quietly.

You shifted slightly on your cushion. The Empress rarely spoke carelessly. But she was right, the prince was still a babe and with the war, it meant power struggles . And "ideas" could be the most dangerous thing of all in a place like this.

"They wouldn’t dare," you said, voice firmer now. You leaned forward, ever so slightly. "Your son is the only rightful choice."

Her gaze narrowed, not with anger, but with testing intent. "He is young. And there is no guarantee…"

"You will be blessed with more sons. All destined for greatness," you said quickly. It was true the young prince was young, and there were many dangers in the palace.

"And you? You want children, do you not?" Her eyes lifted sharply to yours.

Here it was—the threat. If you bore Jinshi children, they would not be minor princes to be married off to distant provinces. They would be born of imperial blood and martial lineage, noble on both sides. Children with your father's steel in their veins and your mothers connections to the western world, and Jinshi's royal blood, court-born charm and beauty and in anyone's eyes a dangerous weapon. Any child would be a threat that no amount of diplomacy could ignore.

Even now, the Empress must have seen it. How could she not? She was no fool. Her smile had been warm, but beneath it there had been calculation. The measured look of a woman who understood all too well how easily people turn.

You were not the enemy today. Not yet. But if you could establish a truce or an understanding, you and your family might just survive.

"I do." You held her gaze. No point lying. "But… these things take time. I doubt I will be blessed until there is a strong second born to bare the weight of the Emperors legacy."

You hated these layered words, this careful game of hint and half-meaning. Even if you did have a whole brood of strong boys, you would never let them near the court. It was too dangerous. You wanted a safe and happy family. Give them a childhood like you had. But that was not the game. No one would believe you. Why should they? So you played the game anyway, as all women at court did.

"You cannot know that," she said, though her voice softened around the edges. Her daughter toddled past the table, chubby legs wobbling slightly as she made her way toward her mother, giggling.

"There are ways," you replied. "Women have known them for centuries."

She understood. The knowledge passed between you, wordless but potent. Until the heir was secure—until a second son was born—you were not to conceive. It was easy enough to do. The safest thing you could do.

"It would be safer not to have children," she murmured, almost to herself.

A ripple of chill traveled down your spine, though you didn’t let it reach your face.

"I am still young. I have time to take a more leisurely approach," you said, still smiling, lifting the teacup with steady hands. "Though you do tempted me, especially when you show me your beautiful children to sway me into motherhood.'' You smiled the toddler as it chased a rather bashful cat across the room. ''Besides, I do not think you are cruel. You would not ask me such a thing."

"I would never ask that of a woman." Her voice shifted, and then, unexpectedly, laughter slipped from her lips. Not sharp, not mocking. Laughter that came too freely to be false. "I suppose that means you’ve thought about your future with the Prince… He is pleasing to the eye and kind… so kind… If he’s anything like his brother, he’ll certainly enjoy the act of making children." she teased.

Heat crept up your neck, though your smile remained composed.

"I’ll do my best."

"I'm sure you will—if the apothecary has anything to do with it. She has taught me more in keeping the Emperor happy than any other." More laughter, lighter this time. ''I am sure he wont know where or what to do with himself when he finally has you all to himself.''

You paled. For now you did not want to think about what or where he would put himself. Instead you would return home to your home. A tantrically retreat to regroup and plan your next steps. The hairpin shimmered again as you lowered your head, rising to stand.

"Then I think we understand each other. I look forward to our friendship. I will take my leave of you." You smiled and left.

Moments later, the lady-in-waiting returned with a steaming porcelain pot, blinking at the now empty spot.

"Your guest has gone, my lady. Is everything all right?" Hongniang whispered as she poured her lady a fresh cup of tea.

The Empress didn’t answer right away. She watched the steam curl from the teacup in her hand.

"I think so," she said quietly. "I hope so." Brushing her fingertips across her son’s soft cheek.

Xxxxxxxxxx

For now, you had the Empress on your side—tentative though her support might be. Still, it was something. In a court built on hidden knives and folded fans, the smallest alliance could mean survival.

Outside, the sun filtered through the latticework of the garden pavilion, tracing delicate patterns on the polished floor. The boys played among the chrysanthemums and peony bushes, their laughter echoing across the stone paths as they chased each other. When the food was laid out on the low lacquered table, the children rushed over like hungry foxes, settling onto the woven mats with eager hands.

Then—

“My lady, are you well?!”

Jinshi, his cheeks flushed the color of plum wine, his voice rising in panic. You really hoped none of the younger servants were nearby. The last thing you needed was a chorus of swooning girls gossiping about a blushing eunuch fluttering over your well-being or in his current state of dishevel. If one gushing girl saw the sight of his flushed skins you might have a riot on your hands.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he said, kneeling beside you, eyes darting over your form like a physician’s apprentice. “Should you be out of bed? Where is the physician? I—I’ll get you some congee, or ginger tea while you wait. You’re pale—too pale.”

Your brothers froze mid-bite, dumplings still in their mouths. A moment passed—then they burst into peals of laughter, delighted by the spectacle of the flustered young man circling you like a worried crane.

“I…” You blinked up at him, unsure whether to laugh or scold.

“Let me carry you to your chambers,” he continued, voice thick with concern. “The apothecary was right behind me. Apothecary! Where is she? Does your sister have a fever? I’ll send for herbs—a hot bath— maybe your father should be called he —”

Maomao entered just then, a little breathless and very irritated. “I told him not to come,” she muttered with a bow, “but he wouldn’t hear a word of it.”

“How can you say that right now? Tend to her!” Jinshi snapped, hovering so closely you could smell the faint trace of floral incense on his robes.

You sat still, trying not to laugh, as your brothers giggled behind their sleeves.

“Master Jinshi,” you said calmly, placing a steady hand on his arm. “Please calm yourself. I fear your concern is misplaced. I’m quite well.”

His eye twitched at your words. Something like frustration—or maybe embarrassment—flashed across his face.

“If you’re well… then why did you call for my apothecary?” His voice dropped. Behind him, Maomao tensed, her eyes fixed politely to the floor.

You hesitated, realizing your simple request for her to join you had been intercepted by a very nosy eunuch which could unravel far more than you intended. Damn him. You could not tell him your real desire to see his servant. 

“I… I have been having trouble sleeping,” you said gently. Not a lie, but not the truth “Yes… And I thought your apothecary might have a remedy to ease my rest. I didn't mean to trouble you… I didn’t think you would get the message.” You eyed him as he blushed bashfully at you. “Please forgive me. That was not my intention.”

You bowed deeply, and when you lifted your gaze, Jinshi’s expression had softened.

“My lady… you need not apologize. I’m only glad you’re well.”

“I’ll prepare a medicine for My Lady,” Maomao added quickly, already making her exit with swift, efficient steps.

Coward, you thought, glaring at her back.

Jinshi, meanwhile, was staring at you again—moonstruck, dazed. His beauty was… unfortunate. Smooth skin, lashes long enough to shame a courtesan, the gentle slope of his nose too perfect for a man. Even his robes did nothing to hide his physique. Too perfect for your peace of mind.

Handsome husbands cause problems. But perhaps, you considered, they were at least easier to bed—easier to maneuver once there. You had heard tales and tricks from women in the bathhouse of all the methods and positions they used to avoid looking at their husbands while they gave them pleasure. At least you would not have to deal with that. It would make taking him to your bed as a husband and a lover easier. You wondered how he would be as a husband. Would he even be interested in that? Perhaps only one way to find out.

“Please,” you said, composing your features into something soft and sincere, “won’t you join us?”

“I… I couldn’t possibly—”

“Please, Master Jinshi,” you interrupted, leaning closer. “As an apology. For troubling you.”

You smiled—not a practiced court smile, but a coy smile, not seductive, but warmer than you had given him before. You regretted it immediately.

Jinshi blushed violently and seemed to melt into his own shadow. “It would be… my pleasure,” he managed.

“Then please,” you said, bowing your head slightly, “sit beside me. Let me serve you.”

xxxxx

The food was a masterpiece of imperial luxury. Steamed buns puffed like clouds, glossy with sweet glaze. Thin slices of roast duck curled atop a bed of lotus root. Tofu steeped in a spicy sauce shimmered beside bowls of pickled cucumber, delicate and pale green. Long platters bore fish dressed in ginger and spring onion, while bamboo baskets steamed with dumplings stuffed with shrimp, pork, and wild chives. Fragrant jasmine rice steamed beside braised mushrooms glistening with soy and sesame oil.

Jinshi writhed—visibly—when you plated his meal with your own hands. He peered down into the soup you poured him with hesitant suspicion.

“I assure you,” you said with a sly smile, “the food is quite safe. All prepared by the palace kitchens, and my servants are thoroughly trustworthy.”

Your eyes flicked toward the silk screen, behind which a couple of blushing maids giggled uncontrollably.

“I… I’m sure,” he said weakly.

You lifted your spoon, plucked a glistening slice of mushroom and broth from his bowl, and slipped it into your mouth. Chewing slowly, you stared directly at him.

“I promise,” you murmured, “you are safe here. No women will chase you.”

You plucked another bite—tender chicken, still steaming—and held it to his lips.

He stared at you, eyes wide, wild, and a little glassy allowing you to bring the spoon to his lips— directly to where you put your lips. His eyes never left yours as he drank greedily, lips lingering too long on the spoon. You might have giggled had it not been so thoroughly satisfying. It would seem he was very interested in you. 

The meal continued in lively spirits. Jinshi proved himself surprisingly charming, if a bit overly fawning. But he was attentive to your brothers, which you rather enjoyed. He was good with them, he might be a good father, if the time came, if not a bit of a pushover.

“I want sesame buns!” your youngest brother pouted, lower lip wobbling, while the elder had already begun to sniffle.

“I—I will ask the kitchen!” Jinshi blurted, starting to rise from his seat in panic.

“You will get sesame buns when you finish your vegetables,” you said, voice calm but cutting. “And don’t even think about hiding them in the plant pots again like you do with Father.”

Your brothers flinched, wilting a little under your stern gaze and they weren’t the only ones. 

Jinshi  went scarlet—and then pale. A thin stream of blood trickled from his nose. It would seem Maomao was right—he did like to be told off.

“Master Jinshi—are you well?” you asked, arching a brow.

“A-ah! Yes!” he coughed, dabbing at his face with his sleeve. “A piece of sweet potato went the wrong way…”

He tried to compose himself with a cough and a dazzling smile, but his eyes flicked up—locked on your hairpin.

“That pin…” he said quietly.

You were surprised it took him this long to recognize it, but glad. If he was to interrupt the evening and spoil a chance at speaking with the indebted apothecary, you were going to make the most of it.

“It was a gift,” you replied, lowering your gaze modestly.

From the corner of your eye, you saw the bob of his throat as he swallowed.

“…It suits you,” he murmured, eye transfixed on you.

You smiled. Yes. Handsome husbands were trouble. But trouble could be useful.

So let me know what you think of this chapter and the concept in general. The reader is going to play hard and dirty but she has a way to go. I would love to know your thoughts on the reader or Jinshi

LIKE> COMMENT> REQUEST

More to come soon

@one-piecelover

[astrologydray]

Mercury Through the degrees🧠🗣️

Mercury rules the mind, communication, thoughts, speech, learning, and processing. It governs how you think, speak, write, observe, and make sense of the world. It’s the inner narrator, the mental vibe, and your style of expression — from texting to teaching to talking sh*t😭. Key themes: Intelligence, humor, curiosity, analysis, communication style, how you learn and connect ideas🤌🏾.

Mercury Through the Degrees:

0° – Raw intellect. Learning through instinct. Speaks first, processes later.

1° – Curious to the point of obsession. Constantly asking “why?”

2° – Grounded thinker. Speaks with purpose, rarely wastes words.

3° – Fast-talking, fast-thinking. Scans a room like a radar.

4° – Emotionally intelligent. Communicates with care and subtlety.

5° – Witty and theatrical. Natural performer with words.

6° – Sharp, precise, detail-obsessed. Grammar police energy.

7° – Charming AF. Talks their way into (and out of) anything.

8° – Deep thinker. Obsessed with the truth beneath the surface.

9° – Bold speaker. Unfiltered, philosophical, and blunt.

10° – Strategic communicator. Knows what to say and when to say it.

11° – Quirky, original voice. Thinks ahead of the curve.

12° – Gentle tone but potent messages. Low-key psychic communicator.

13° – Unapologetic thoughts. Mischievous, clever, and cutting.

14° – Smooth talker. Can sell an idea like it’s gospel.

15° – Balanced thinker. Knows both logic and vibe.

16° – Obsessed with patterns. Memorizes what most overlook.

17° – Highly persuasive. Voice carries weight and conviction.

18° – Thinks like a poet. Expresses the soul, not just the facts.

19° – Speaks in codes. Hidden meanings, inside jokes, layers.

20° – Calm and collected. Rarely speaks without purpose.

21° – Inventive mind. Constantly creating new ways to say old things.

22° – Mastermind energy. Dangerous if underestimated.

23° – A little chaotic, very iconic. Communicates with flair.

24° – Soft-spoken rebel. Says radical things in a chill tone.

25° – Talks in timelines and long-term strategy.

26° – Wise beyond their years. Spiritual insight mixed with logic.

27° – Manifestor with words. What they say often becomes real.

28° – Stubborn mind. Doesn’t adapt easily, but once set — unshakeable.

29° – The communicator who’s lived lifetimes. Final boss of the mind. Speaks with power and presence.

[lotuswish]

˗ˏˋ what loving you feels like to them (pt. 6 - octavinelle) 𓆝 .ᐟ

synopsis: have you ever wondered what falling in love feels like for each twisted wonderland boy? this series explores love from their perspective—how their personalities, experiences, and desires shape what loving you means to them.

featured character(s): azul ashengrotto, jade leech, floyd leech.

content warning(s): none.

a/n: what loving you feels like to them might occasionally use the same words, but those words mean something a little different for each of them. it might sound familiar, but it's still their own!

link(s): (masterlist) (pt. 1 - scarabia) (pt. 2 - savanaclaw) (pt. 3 - heartslabyul) (pt. 4 - ignihyde) (pt. 5 - pomefiore) (pt. 6 - you are here) (pt. 7 - diasomnia)

azul ashengrotto

loving you feels like being swept away by an unstoppable current for azul ashengrotto—inevitable, overwhelming, and carrying him to places he never dared to dream of. for someone who has spent most of his life meticulously planning, calculating, and staying two steps ahead, love is a variable he cannot fully predict or control. it’s both exhilarating and unnerving, a kind of risk he would never have dared to take before you came into his life.

azul has always carried a deep-seated insecurity beneath his polished exterior. years of being ridiculed as a child for his appearance have made him fiercely determined to prove his worth through power, success, and control. yet loving you doesn’t feel like a negotiation or a transaction—it feels like surrendering to something he can’t quantify. it’s raw and messy and completely unlike the smooth, calculated persona he presents to the world. you don’t look at him for what he can offer, for his intellect or his business acumen; you see him, the parts of himself he tries to hide, and you love him for them. that terrifies him. but it also makes him feel something he’s never felt before: truly enough.

loving you feels like the gentle pull of the moon on the tides, constant and inescapable, drawing him toward something he never thought he could have. it’s the way you make him feel safe enough to lower his walls, to let go of the mask he’s worn for so long. around you, he can be vulnerable without fear of being judged. you’re the one who notices when his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes, the one who knows when he’s tired of putting on a show. with you, he doesn’t have to be the untouchable azul ashengrotto; he can just be azul.

at the same time, loving you stirs a fierce protectiveness within him. he’s spent years honing his ability to turn the tables on anyone who dares challenge him, but with you, it’s different. he doesn’t want to shield you out of strategy or obligation; he wants to protect you because you matter to him in ways he’s still learning to put into words. you’re more than a part of his world—you’ve become his most cherished treasure, something he would protect with everything he has.

for azul, loving you feels like finding a pearl in the depths of the sea—a treasure so rare and precious that he can hardly believe it’s his. it’s a reminder that even in a world driven by deals and ambition, there are things that can’t be earned or bargained for, things that simply exist in their beauty. loving you is terrifying and freeing all at once, and though it challenges everything he thought he knew about himself, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. you are the one thing he never saw coming, the one thing he never wants to lose.

jade leech

loving you feels like curiosity turned obsession for jade leech.

to jade, love is something foreign and utterly fascinating. it’s a deep ocean he’s never fully explored, and you are the mystery hidden beneath its surface. his love for you isn’t loud or obvious; it’s quiet, calculated, and deliberate, like the way he nurtures rare plants in his terrariums. loving you is a process, one he savors as much as he analyzes, peeling back the layers of who you are, uncovering your quirks, your fears, and your dreams. for jade, this discovery is intoxicating, a puzzle he never tires of solving.

and yet, it’s not just fascination. loving you feels like control slipping from his grasp in a way he never anticipated. jade is meticulous, always composed, always in control of himself and his surroundings. but with you, there are moments when he feels unbalanced, when the depth of his emotions surprises even him. it’s as if the current is pulling him somewhere unknown, somewhere dangerous, yet he can’t resist being swept along. loving you is a contradiction: it makes him feel both completely exposed and utterly alive.

for someone who rarely shows his true intentions, loving you feels like a quiet surrender. you see sides of him no one else does, the softness beneath the sharp edges, the warmth behind the cold, polite exterior. it’s disarming and thrilling all at once. you make him feel seen, not just as azul’s clever right-hand man or as the more composed leech twin, but as jade. you notice the details no one else bothers to see, and in return, jade finds himself wanting to give you everything, to open up the world to you as if you were the only person in it.

yet, there's also a possessiveness to his love, a quiet but unyielding need to keep you close. jade is not one to display his emotions openly, but beneath the calm exterior lies an intensity he keeps carefully hidden. loving you is like uncovering a sunken ship filled with untold treasures—a rare discovery he'll guard fiercely, no matter what. his protectiveness is subtle, woven into the fabric of his interactions with you, but it's unshakable all the same.

loving you feels like tending to a rare and delicate flower—something beautiful that requires both care and patience. you are the one thing in his life that cannot be manipulated or controlled, and instead of frustrating him, it fascinates him. he finds joy in watching you bloom, in learning how to nurture the connection between you. loving you is more than fascination; it’s a game he never wants to win, a puzzle he never wants to solve—because the joy isn’t in the answer, but in the endless discovery of you.

floyd leech

loving you feels like chaos and calm all at once for floyd leech.

floyd’s life has always been shaped by his whims, his moods, and his insatiable need to avoid monotony. to him, the world is a game, and people are pieces he moves and discards when they stop being interesting. but you? you’re different. you’re the one thing he can’t figure out, the one person he doesn’t want to toss aside. loving you feels like the kind of chaos he craves, but it also unsettles him in ways he’s never experienced before.

floyd thrives on extremes. he’s not used to balance or moderation, and his feelings for you are no exception. loving you is all-consuming—intense, raw, and sometimes overwhelming. it’s like the ocean at its most turbulent, waves crashing against his heart with a force that leaves him breathless. you challenge him, intrigue him, and keep him guessing, and that’s what he loves most. with you, there’s no risk of boredom, no stale routine. every moment feels alive, charged with a kind of energy he thought only existed in fleeting thrills.

loving you is something he never thought he’d allow, something that sneaks past his defenses and takes root before he even realizes it. floyd has never been one to settle down or feel tethered to anyone, yet with you, he doesn’t feel trapped. he feels seen. you don’t flinch at his unpredictability or try to smooth out his rough edges. you accept him as he is—moods, sharp teeth, and all—and that makes him want to keep you close, tighter than he’s ever held (squeezed) anything before.

it’s not easy for floyd to process emotions like this. he’s used to acting on impulse, but loving you makes him hesitate. it makes him think about what it means to want someone so deeply, to be afraid of losing them. it brings out a possessive side of him, but it’s more than just wanting to keep you close. it’s the fear of you walking away, of you deciding that the chaos he brings isn’t worth it. the idea of losing you is one of the few things that can genuinely make him feel vulnerable.

for floyd, loving you feels like a temptest—untamed, intense, and utterly consuming. it’s a force of chaos that turns his world upside down, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. you’re the only one who can keep up with him, the only one who doesn’t try to dull his edges, and for that, he loves you with every ounce of his chaotic, unpredictable heart. you’re his favorite thing in the world, the one person he never gets tired of, and he’ll make sure you know it every single day.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

[bunji-enthusiast]

hello Benji , first time requesting and I wanted to ask if you could please do a peni parker from marvel rivals inspired reader in the invincible. Peni parker!reader as mark grayson superhero friend .and just anything really about her in the invincible universe.

𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑮𝒊𝒓𝒍

Peni-Parker!Reader

Summary || hero friend to Invincible himself, technological genius and your this universe’s one and only spider-woman!

Note // I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that Peni is very precious to me and deserves a good life. wrote it from second person this time around.

Let’s just say "Invincible" is no longer flying solo.

Ever since [Name] joined the roster, Mark's chaotic, high-stakes, punch-first-ask-later lifestyle has gained a layer of tactical brilliance and cyberpunk finesse. Together, they balance each other out—Mark brings the raw strength, emotion, and overwhelming power of a Viltrumite, while [Name] delivers methodical strategy, defensive control, and precision takedowns with her Cyber-Web tech and SP//dr.

Mark might barrel through starships, but when he’s grounded—literally or emotionally—[Name] holds the line. She doesn’t just back him up; she orchestrates the battlefield. Her Cyber-Webs control the flow of combat, slowing enemy movement and giving Mark time to strategize or recover. And when he’s overextending himself (again), she’s right there snaring enemies mid-charge or unleashing a Bionic Spider-Nest to create a killzone.

While Mark punches holes through buildings, [Name] is crawling up the walls—vertical wall-running at 90°—flanking, sniping from odd angles, and setting up Arachno-Mines in his wake. If a fight’s about to go nuclear, she pulls him out of danger using her Cyber-Bond web-strand. Mark calls it “getting yanked by Spidey-Sis,” which she rolls her eyes at but secretly finds kind of sweet.

Mark’s powers are boosted by emotion, but they also cloud his judgment. He goes too far. Pushes too hard. [Name] doesn’t just patch up the battlefield—she patches up Mark. She sees his grief. His doubt. She’s lost a father too. So when the weight of being “Invincible” nearly breaks him, she reminds him he doesn’t have to carry it alone.

During a mission against a rogue Viltrumite using echo-frequency tech, Mark was grounded, screaming in pain. [Name] singlehandedly web-snared the enemy mid-air using a trick shot with her Cyber-Web Snare, then surrounded them with a Cyber-Web zone laced with hidden Arachno-Mines. The explosion? Minimal. The impact? Lethal.

After Mark was critically injured fighting Conquest’s backup clone, [Name] activated her SP//dr’s emergency override, placed a Bionic Spider-Nest to deter enemies, and web-slung Mark out of a collapsing space station. She didn't say a word. She just saved him. And he’s never forgotten it.

During a cross-reality incursion, they defended the Web of Life and Destiny from multiversal threats. Mark, for once, wasn’t the one calling the shots—[Name] led the charge, weaving strategies like her webs. She even inspired Mark to call her the “Webwarden.” She kind of liked that one.

What Mark thinks of [Name]:

“She’s not just smart—she’s brilliant. And tough. And scary in the best way. I’ve seen her stand toe-to-toe with things that made even me flinch. She doesn’t flinch. Not for anyone. I might be ‘Invincible’... but I’m only alive ‘cause she’s got my back.”

And yeah, Atom Eve gave her the stamp of approval too. That’s not easy to get.

From a villain's perspective?---

“If you see a cyber-web at your feet, pray it's just her. If Invincible’s flying in behind it? You’re already done.”

So yeah, with [Name] Parker by his side, Mark’s not just a powerhouse anymore—he’s a tactical nightmare for anyone dumb enough to mess with Earth, the multiverse, or the people they love.

Mission Log: "Threadline Protocol"

Date: April 11th, Earth-Time Location: Sector 019 | Interstice between Earth-616X and Webworld Prime Subjects: Agent Invincible (Mark Grayson), Cyber-Operative [Name] Parker (SP//dr Unit Alpha) Mission Objective: Prevent the unraveling of the Web of Life and Destiny due to a multiversal breach by rogue Viltrumite dissident factions allied with Angstrom Levy.

[MISSION START - AUDIO RECORDING]

MARK: (breathing hard) "Okay. I’m here. I got eyes on the breach. Or, uh... the ripping hole in reality the size of Texas. You seeing this too, [Name]?"

[NAME]: (calmly) "Confirmed. It’s a quantum destabilization spiral. Webline fibers are detaching. If it expands further, we’re talking multiversal collapse. And it’s not just a tear—it’s a trap."

MARK: "Of course it is."

[NAME]: (typing rapidly into SP//dr’s HUD) "Tracking three hostile Viltrumite signatures… wait—scratch that. Five.They’re masking their presence through Levy’s tech."

MARK: "He just had to show up again..."

[MISSION PHASE ONE: Breach Defense]

As Mark launches into the air, five Viltrumites emerge from the rift. Meanwhile, [Name] deploys from a vertical surface, crawling 90° up a fractured monolith, Cyber-Web Cluster primed.

[NAME]: "Mark—dive right! Now!"

A Cyber-Web Snare lashes through the air, catching the lead Viltrumite mid-charge. He’s immobilized instantly, crashing into a building-sized thread of Webline.

MARK: (grinning) "That never gets old."

[NAME]: (smirking through the comm) "Try not to get disemboweled this time."

MARK: "No promises!"

[MISSION PHASE TWO: Crowd Control / Nest Deployment]

As chaos erupts, [Name] drops a Bionic Spider-Nest at the rift perimeter. The glowing device anchors itself and spins a wide Cyber-Web dome. Hidden Arachno-Mines skitter out and vanish into the surface of the Web.

[NAME]: "Perimeter secured. Engage but pull hostiles into the web zone—I’ve turned the battlefield into a minefield."

Mark crashes two Viltrumites through the web line. Seconds later—click… boom. They vanish under a precision detonation.

MARK: (laughing over the comm) "You seriously scare me sometimes."

[NAME]: "Good."

[MISSION PHASE THREE: Mark Down]

A surprise ambush hits Mark from above—another Viltrumite, enhanced with Levy’s tech, drives him into the ground hard enough to crater the Webfield. He’s bleeding, coughing, barely conscious.

MARK: (strained) "Took… a hit. That one’s faster."

[NAME]: (tone shifts instantly—urgent but focused) "SP//dr—tactical override. Deploy rescue strand."

A Cyber-Bond web-line fires, latching to Mark’s armor and pulling him out of the blast radius. [Name] swings in mid-air, body spiraling like a silk thread in wind, grabbing him mid-pull.

[NAME]: "Told you: no disembowelment today."

MARK: (choking on a laugh) "I owe you… like... a thousand burgers."

[MISSION PHASE FOUR: Finale — “Threadline Protocol”]

As the rift begins destabilizing further, Angstrom Levy himself appears, surrounded by ghost-versions of Earths destroyed by alternate Marks. The Web shudders.

LEVY: "Too late. The collapse has already started. The Web of Life unravels now."

[NAME]: (voice low) "No. It won’t."

She activates the Threadline Protocol, fusing her SP//dr core with the breach’s epicenter, becoming a living conduit of cyber-web strands across realities.

[NAME]: "Mark—fly. Push the rift closed. I’ll hold the lines."

MARK: (furious) "No! You’ll be torn apart!"

[NAME]: (softly) "So were our fathers. This is our fight now."

Mark’s power surges, eyes glowing. Rage. Grief. Love. All of it. He flies harder than ever before, punching through the collapsing rift. Meanwhile, [Name] is a storm of webs, strands, code, and resolve, her SP//dr glowing like a spider-star.

[MISSION END]

Status:

Rift sealed.

SP//dr intact.

Mark sustained 2nd-degree internal trauma.

[Name] offline for 8 minutes post-merge, recovered at 93% functionality.

Final Notes (via Mark):

"She’s more than a teammate. She’s the net that keeps me from falling. You ask me what it’s like fighting beside [Name] Parker? It’s like having a second heart. One made of steel, silk, and stubborn fire. And I’d follow her into any reality."

MISSION LOG: "Web of Stars" Date: April 11th Location: Earth-919 / Outer Expanse of the Life Thread Conduit Operatives Deployed: Invincible (Mark Grayson), SP//dr Pilot [Name] Parker, Atom Eve (Samantha Eve Wilkins) Mission Directive: Investigate and contain anomalies in the Life Thread Conduit—a cosmic artery of the Web of Life and Destiny intersecting unknown galactic ley lines. Reports indicate a hostile biosynthetic consciousness consuming molecular threads from multiversal anchors.

[MISSION START - MULTI-CHANNEL RECORDING]

[NAME]: (sliding along a sheer crystal wall with that clean 90° crawl) "Looks like our weird thread-snake problem just got friends. I'm counting at least three biomatter distortions wrapped around the conduit… feeding off it."

MARK: (hovering, fists up) "Guess we’re interrupting dinner."

EVE: (descending in a swirl of pink light, calm but sharp) "Let’s make them choke."

[PHASE ONE: Coordinated Strike]

Eve extends both hands—matter around her vibrates, shimmers, and instantly reconstructs into massive crystalline pillars slamming through the feeding nodes of the anomaly. It shrieks, recoiling. Mark rushes in, his punch detonating shockwaves through the exposed neural core.

[NAME]: (drops a Cyber-Web Snare on the left flank) "Snared the neural tendril! Mark—go!"

Mark shoots past Eve, launching a meteor-blitz uppercut into the core’s heart. Eve’s constructs encase it, locking it down like a glittering cage of molecular bonds. Behind them, Arachno-Mines crawl silently across the now glowing web.

[PHASE TWO: The Hive Wakes Up]

Suddenly, the conduit pulses—and the feeding anomalies split. The three become fifteen, glitching and reforming like broken digital gods. They surge toward Eve.

EVE: (calm despite the chaos) "Yeah, no. That’s enough."

She lifts both hands—and instantly reconfigures the broken asteroid field around them into a massive energy-based ecosystem, complete with defensive flora and terrain made of restructured carbon.

[NAME]: (in awe) "Did you just build a living terrain during a fight?"

EVE: (grinning) "I multitask when I’m mad."

[PHASE THREE: SP//dr Unleashed]

As Mark tank-brawls the biggest hive-entity, [Name] deploys her Bionic Spider-Nest inside Eve’s crystallized environment. The entire battlefield becomes a maze of glowing cyber-webs and invisible mines.

MARK: (throwing a bleeding tendril into the web) "[Name], now!"

[NAME]: (from above, voice cold) "Weblock engaged."

The nest pulses. Dozens of mines detonate in chain precision, ripping apart the swarm. Glowing fibers snap together midair like fangs sealing a trap. Eve reorients all matter into a bio-lock cocoon, and Mark hurls the remaining core into the cage.

[FINAL PHASE: Web Singularity Detected]

Just as they begin to regroup, a deeper hum resonates. The anomalies weren’t attacking randomly—they were installingsomething. A dark sphere begins forming. Time dilates.

EVE: (a bit breathless) "They’re seeding a singularity into the Web’s backbone. If it ruptures, this reality will fragment."

[NAME]: (focused) "Mark, fly. Eve—back me up. I can link SP//dr to the webline. We might… rethread it. But I need you both to cover me."

SP//dr’s chest opens. The Cyber-Bond cable fires out and hits the core web—[Name] jerks as the suit lights up like a neural star.

MARK: (teeth gritted, shielding her) "You better not die, Parker."

[NAME]: (grins through the surge) "Only if you let anything touch me, Grayson."

EVE: (hovering behind them both, eyes glowing) "Try and stop me."

Eve ignites. Her powers shimmer to near godhood, her constructs fractalizing space itself—redirecting gravity, rerouting energy. Mark flies loops around them, punching anomaly cores out of the air like a cosmic wrecking ball.

SP//dr floods the webline with stabilizing pulses. Slowly, the singularity folds inward, sealed beneath layers of matter-energy coding woven by Eve and solidified by [Name]’s cyber-architecture.

[MISSION END - DEBRIEF]

Status:

Conduit sealed

Singular anomaly terminated

Mark exhausted, hair singed

Eve elevated energy saturation; temporary power cooldown initiated

[Name] stable; SP//dr at 87% system load

POST-MISSION VOICE CLIP — Mark Grayson

"How did I get so lucky? Two of the smartest, strongest, most badass women in the multiverse watching my back? I don’t know. But I’m not letting either of them go. Not now. Not ever."

It was a rare moment of peace, the kind that didn’t come often for people who routinely saved cities—or timelines. The backyard of the Grayson house had become a makeshift recovery zone, with Mark flipping pancakes on a griddle that clearly wasn’t cooperating, and [Name] reclining upside-down in a lawn chair like gravity was optional. Eve hovered lazily a few inches above the grass, sipping coffee, looking as serene as ever—until the topic of conversation took a sharp turn.

“I still can’t believe you, Eve,” [Name] said, tapping her smoothie with a straw like it owed her answers. “You, of all people, Ms. Rewrite-Reality-With-Your-Brain, prefer fantasy over sci-fi?”

Eve raised an eyebrow without breaking her meditation float. “Because dragons have soul, [Name]. They have personality. You can bond with a griffin. Try having a heart-to-heart with a neural interface.”

[Name] gasped dramatically. “You take that back. Sci-fi has stakes, consequences. You build a giant spider mech and earn your victories. Fantasy just... chants gibberish and wins.”

Mark, hunched over a plate of increasingly burnt pancakes, muttered, “Still better than these pancakes obeying the laws of physics.”

“Fantasy is hope,” Eve said, now gently lowering herself to the grass to retrieve a fork. “It’s about becoming more than what you are. It defies logic on purpose.”

“Sci-fi is imagination with a brain,” [Name] countered. “It says, ‘what if?’ and actually answers it. The multiverse is real, I have a psychic bond with a radioactive spider, and you're telling me elves are cooler than that?”

Eve took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Your giant spider mech couldn’t even get us out of that web singularity without my ‘fantasy nonsense,’ remember?”

“That was a team effort, and my emotional support stat carried us,” [Name] said, sticking her tongue out.

Mark finally sat down between them, his plate full of charcoal-scented regret. “Can’t we all just agree the best genre is one where both of you exist and somehow still talk to me?”

They both turned to him in unison.

“No,” they said flatly.

Silence fell for a moment. Then a gentle chirp came from the SP//dr parked nearby, the cockpit lights flashing as it projected a small holographic speech bubble:

“QUERY: Why not cybernetic dragons with neural-linked magic cores?”

Eve squinted. “Okay... that’s actually pretty cool.”

[Name] smirked, sipping her smoothie like it was a victory toast. “That’s called science fantasy, and guess what side that leans toward.”

Eve rolled her eyes, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she nudged Mark’s plate. “You really gonna eat that?”

“...I tried my best.”

[Name] gave a sympathetic pat to his shoulder. “At least in fantasy, the food magically turns out edible.”

Later that afternoon, Mark sat cross-legged on the garage floor, surrounded by scattered tools, half-disassembled power cables, and the ever-present aroma of engine grease and strawberry smoothie. SP//dr stood idle in the corner, its eight sleek legs tucked neatly beneath it like some industrial-grade arachnid in meditation mode. Its single eye pulsed softly with cyan light. [Name] was half inside a maintenance hatch, her legs kicking lazily behind her while synth-pop music played faintly from a speaker that may or may not have been jury-rigged to a toaster.

Mark squinted at SP//dr. “Okay, so I’ve got to ask—how exactly do you two talk?”

A quiet whrrp came from SP//dr. A small digital heart emoji appeared on its outer display. [Name] snorted from inside the hatch.

“We just do,” she said, voice echoing slightly as she reconnected a few neural relays. “It’s a psychic link. Thought-based. Emotion-coded. Intuition-forward. Kinda like... feeling in full sentences.”

“That means nothing,” Mark said, genuinely confused but trying not to sound defeated. “Is it like... telepathy?”

“No,” [Name] said, sliding out on her back and blinking up at the ceiling like it owed her rent. “Telepathy’s like listening to someone in your brain. This is more like... feeling what they’d say before they do. It’s real-time understanding. Like an instinct you trust.”

SP//dr emitted a soft hum of agreement, its eye blinking twice in a way that [Name] immediately interpreted as “Yep, he’s lost.”

Mark stared. “So, what, you’re telling me you can look at that thing”—he gestured vaguely toward the glowing mech—“and know when it’s mad at you?”

“Absolutely,” she said without hesitation, now wiping grease off her hands with the leg of her suit. “And it gets verymoody when I ignore its diagnostics for too long. You ever been guilt-tripped by a spider mech? It’s brutal.”

SP//dr rotated slightly and projected a tiny hologram of a sad face with big sparkly eyes and the words:

“❤️CHECK MY COOLANT LEVELS, I AM DYING INSIDE❤️”

“Oh my god,” Mark said, slowly turning back to [Name]. “You trained it to be dramatic.”

“I didn’t train it. It inherited that,” she said, smirking and patting the side of SP//dr’s chassis affectionately. “My dad coded the emotional response matrix before I even bonded with it. SP//dr’s always been... expressive.”

“And this is what counts as normal for you two?”

“Normal’s a sliding scale. You should see what SP//dr thinks of your sense of fashion.”

SP//dr chirped again, this time projecting a low-res animation of Mark’s yellow-and-blue hero suit, now with added glitter, an oversized bowtie, and a cape that said “STYLE ICON.”

Mark groaned. “I saved the galaxy in that.”

“Exactly,” [Name] said. “You peaked.”

Mark leaned back on his hands, watching the banter bounce between girl and machine like it was the most natural thing in the world. He still didn’t get how it worked—how two beings so completely different could move in perfect sync. But he figured that’s what made them a great team. They didn’t need words. Just trust, instinct, and a little sarcastic flair.

“Okay,” he said at last, “but if SP//dr ever starts talking in my head, I’m moving to Mars.”

SP//dr slowly rotated to face him. A digital graphic of a rocket taking off appeared.

“🚀Bags packed.”

[driverlando]

🗞️ EXTRA EXTRA !! charles leclerc has a secret wife of five years and a 1 year old son, rumor has it they got married after 5 months of knowing each other

Congrats of 2k 💗💗💗

EXTRA EXTRA!! Charles Leclerc’s Secret Life Revealed: A Wife of Five Years and a One-Year-Old Son!

In a surprising twist worthy of a blockbuster film, the Formula 1 world has been shaken by astonishing news: Charles Leclerc, the talented Ferrari driver and Monegasque star, has reportedly been married for five years and is the father of a one-year-old son!

According to a flurry of rumours that have quickly gained traction, Leclerc, known for his composed demeanour on the track and spotless public image, has kept a significant part of his life under wraps. Sources close to the situation claim that Leclerc married his wife in a secret ceremony just five months after they first met.

A Secret Romance

The romance, described as whirlwind, reportedly began in 2018. At the time, Leclerc was emerging as one of Formula 1’s rising stars, having just secured a seat with Sauber. In a classic tale of love at first sight, the couple allegedly met at a mutual friend’s private gathering in Monaco. “It was electric,” an insider close to the couple shared. “They were inseparable from the moment they met. There was just an instant connection that no one could ignore.”

Despite the rapid pace of their relationship, sources say the couple chose to keep their love affair under the radar, a decision likely influenced by Leclerc’s burgeoning career and the intense media scrutiny that comes with it. The pair reportedly tied the knot in a private ceremony, attended only by their closest friends and family, with no hint of the event leaking to the public or the press.

The Hidden Family

For years, the Leclerc family has managed to stay out of the limelight. The couple’s close-knit inner circle respected their wish for privacy, allowing them to raise their child away from the public eye. The existence of their son, who just turned one, has only recently come to light, sending shockwaves through the motorsport community and beyond.

The secrecy surrounding their family life raises questions about how they managed to keep such significant personal milestones hidden from the media. Speculation abounds that the couple may have used their connections and resources to maintain their privacy. “It’s a classic case of the rich and famous living by their own rules,” one gossip columnist quipped.

A Perfect Storm

The timing of this revelation couldn’t be more dramatic, coming just as Leclerc is battling for a strong finish in the current Formula 1 season. The news of his secret wife and child adds a fascinating layer to his already intriguing narrative. Fans and media alike are now buzzing with questions: Who is this mystery woman? How did they manage to keep their relationship so secret? And, perhaps most intriguingly, why?

Some speculate that Leclerc’s desire for privacy might stem from a wish to protect his loved ones from the pressures of fame. “Charles has always been very private about his personal life,” a source close to the driver revealed. “He wanted to ensure that his family could live as normal a life as possible, without the constant scrutiny and intrusion that comes with being in the public eye.”

The Rumour Mill

As the world eagerly awaits more details, rumours and theories are flying thick and fast. Some suggest that the secretive nature of Leclerc’s personal life could be part of a broader strategy to maintain focus and control over his public image. Others believe it’s simply a case of a man wanting to keep his private life separate from his professional achievements.

While the identity of Leclerc’s wife remains a closely guarded secret, there are whispers of her being a non-celebrity, which could explain the lack of public interest in her identity until now. “She’s not someone from the limelight,” another source added. “They have been careful to avoid places and events where they might be spotted together.”

What’s Next?

As this story continues to unfold, one thing is certain: Charles Leclerc’s secret family revelation has set the gossip columns alight. The world will be watching closely to see how this revelation impacts his career and public persona. Will Leclerc finally open up about his personal life, or will he continue to keep the world at arm’s length?

For now, the Ferrari driver remains tight-lipped, with no official statement from his camp. However, fans and commentators can’t help but wonder how this will affect his future both on and off the track. Will this revelation prove to be a distraction, or will it humanise the driver, making him even more relatable to his fans?

Stay tuned as we delve deeper into the mystery surrounding Charles Leclerc’s secret life. The racing season just got a whole lot more interesting, and this is one story that promises to keep the paddock buzzing for a long time to come!

For more breaking news and exclusive gossip, keep your eyes on our feed. You never know what high-speed secret might come to light next!

[mellosdrawings]

Not sure if it can be done but a tutorial on glasses (like with Azul) would be fantastic. Also one on the nightmare that is Azul's hair. Please and thank you in advance.

One tuto for glasses!

I will do Azul's hair in another post :3

Warning: I don't have the vocabulary for glasses at all. I did my best to make it understandable but don't hesitate to ask for clarifications if you need TwT

Here's our two glass boys. I looked for mostly similar glasses online to use as reference.

Azul has thin frames, rectangle glasses. Trey has heavy frames, square glasses with rounded edges.

Glasses have a LOT of different shapes. Don't hesitate to look online for references on round/oval/etc glasses to help yourself. Website that sell them tend to have pics of the glasses under several angles, which is very practical when you draw anything that isn't front facing.

Step 1: drawing zone

The most important thing to figure is where to place your glasses. Anything else can be yolo-ed and still work, but badly placed glasses will make everything look weird (though it can be used for comedic effect).

Simply put: the higher part of your glasses should reach right below your eyebrows (on realistic proportions). Otherwise, use your eyelids as ref. Place your frames a bit above your eyelids. The sides of the glasses will (usually) reach the sides of the face. That's the case for both Azul and Trey.

The bottom part is where you get to choose the size of your glasses. That's where you decide to elongate them to get square/round glasses instead of rectangle ones.

Step 2: Tracing the glasses

Within the drawing zone, simply draw the general shape of the glasses. A rectangle, a square, a circle. Keep about a finger-width size gap between your two glasses.

Step 3: Details

Draw your main shape first (rectangle, square, oval). Then remove space for your nose. The glasses will tend to leave a triangular zone free in most shapes to make space for the nose (except on round glasses). Here you can add the bridge and where the arms of your glasses connect with the actual glasses.

Step 4: Frames width

Now that you have your elements placed, you only need to draw the actual frames. In most glasses the upper side will be slightly wider than the rest. Don't hesitate to only draw one side and simply copy paste and flip it to get the other side. Glasses are symmetrical so it can be a hassle.

Once there you can decide to add the thingies that keep the glasses secured on the bridge of the nose. This step can be optional if you don't go for hyper realistic glasses.

3/4 and side view

3/4: The same steps from before can be used here. Put your drawing zone first, upper frames right under the eyebrows. The side farthest from us should reach the bridge of the eyebrow (for realistic proportions). Otherwise, leave about a finger-wide space between the face and the glasses. The side closest to us will depend on how much the character looks to the side. On regular 3/4 views you can place it right on the side of the eye. For the center part, follow your nose and place the triangular hole on top of it. Part of your glasses will be hidden by the nose.

You can decide to draw your glasses in front view on another layer first to get the symmetry right, and then to move and stretch your layer until it fit in front of the eyes. It's a perfectly valid strategy!

Side view: Here the only thing you need to draw is the side of the frames and the arm reaching to the ear. You can place the arm first, mostly parallel to the ground. The frames should be put right in front of the eyebrow bridge and at least cover the whole size of the eye. For bigger glasses, add volume on the bottom.

And that is mostly that? Glasses are mostly about where you put them and giving the illusion of symmetry.

After that you can have fun with the shapes (personally I love drawing round glasses), the size, you can decide to draw the thingies that hug the nosebridge or not, you can decide to draw the arms or not, you can add accessories, etc.

You can even decide not to draw parts of the glasses to keep a clear view on your eyes. Yana has a note for Azul and Trey that the glasses should always be full even if they hide the eyes. For me it depends on my mood and what is most important in the current art.

As you might see here, I tend to add a white edge to give actual presence to the lenses and separate the eyes (or hair) from the frames. It's your choice whether you want to erase anything to make things clearer or to keep it all as is to make it realistic.

And I guess the last thing I have to say is... look at refs online. I think that's how I finish most of my tutos lol

[all-things-are-nothing-to-me]

Left to right. First row.

1. The Faggots and Their Friends Between Revolutions by Larry Mitchell.

In a joyous and perverse intermingling of fable, myth, heterotopian vision, and pocket wisdom, The Faggots & Their Friends tell us stories of the 70s gay countercultures and offer us strategies and wisdom for our own time living Between Revolutions. These pages sketch a different shape to time and offer instructions for living within it. This story, like our own, plays out in liminal time. Not the time of revolution, and not after-the-revolution, the story occurs between revolutions. Being between revolutions: being enmeshed in slow entropy, in abandoned spaces, in lives forged without recourse to “winning” or “after.” The faggots feel this disintegration, and live best when empires are falling.

2. Be Gay, Do Crime by The Mary Nardini Gang.

Among the discordant chorus of anons who penned the defining texts of the queer anarchist network Bash Back!, none was more fervent in its glorification of criminal desire, decadent hedonism, and social undoing than the Milwaulkee-based Mary Nardini Gang. Their fiery “Towards the Queerest Insurrection” still circulates as an integral manifesto of riotous queerness, while the “Criminal Intimacy” and “Whore Theory” have made their more subterranean way into innumerable conversations and correspondences.

Ten years later, the secretive group supplements these collected writings with a subtle retrospective. Carefully unlocking the hidden layers of their theses on insurrection, they face up to what they got wrong, concede that the world ended somewhere between the Greek insurrection of 2008 and now, and insist upon the vital task of ushering new worlds into being as we live amid the decomposition and cataclysmic death throes of the old one. To their theses on insurrection, they prepend a new arcana tooled for opening onto the queerest of outsides.

Dedicated to their friends among the dead, this pocket edition is a necromantic mirror, an encrypted message to old loves, and an invitation to those finding these words for the first time.

3. The Criminal Child by Jean Genet.

“As for me, I have chosen: I will be on the side of crime. And I will help the children, not to win back access to your houses, your factories, your schools, your laws, and sacraments, but to destroy them.”

So reads this new clandestine translation of a previously censored and unavailable text by Jean Genet. “The Criminal Child” is a critical engagement with the French youth prisons, a reflection on Genet’s formative years within them, a document of hostility towards society and its benevolent reformers, and – as argued by the anonymous afterword – an initiatory magical system.

5. Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture by Arthur Evans.

This radical faerie classic, first published in 1978 by Fag Rag Press, uncovers the hidden mythic link between homosexuality and paganism in an elegy for the world of sex and magic vanquished by Christian civilization. From Joan of Arc to the Cathars and the underground worshippers of Diana, the author shows how every upwelling of gender transgression and sexual freedom was targeted by the authorities for total and often violent repression or appropriation. The concluding manifesto calls for pagan reconnection with the living world, the creation of armed anarchist cells, and the destruction of industrial civilization.

Left to right. Row 2.

1. What is Gender Nihilism? A Reader.

A collection gathering readings for discussions on an end to gender: not the proliferation or liberation of gender, but its catastrophic cancellation. The reader brings together writings as old as 1883 and as recent as 2015, juxtaposing nihilist, radical feminist, queer, trans, anticolonial, communizing and insurrectionary approaches with other unclassifiable textual/existential disruptions. Many of the readings are out of print or have only appeared online or in zine form, and include: Adrienne Rich, Monique Wittig, Michel Foucault, Judith Butler, A.R. Stone, Paul B. Preciado, the entities known as Radicalesbians, Gender Mutiny, Baedan, Ehn Nothing, Laboria Cuboniks and, as always, Anonymous. Also includes “My Preferred Gender Pronoun is Negation,” “Gender Nihilism” by Aidan Rowe, and the gender nihilism anti-manifesto that inspired the collection.

2. Baedan 1 – journal of queer nihilism.

3. Baedan 2 – a queer journal of heresy.

If the first issue of Baedan was a knife thrust wildly in the dark, the second is an effort to examine our enemies in a new light; enemies who bear scars yet endure. In a sense, this issue follows through our initial attack and pushes beyond our own horrors at the consequences of words. We write at a time when everything which seemed slightly possible two years ago has borne its rotten fruit; when queer recuperation has become more powerful and accepted than ever, while the fetish for technology has reached an unprecedented frenzy; when so many efforts at subversion languish under the tyranny of cybernetic identity and aesthetics (even our own etymologies have become identities!); when friends turn away out of fear of the unknown, turn toward all the comforts and certainties of the past (identity politics, traditionalism, religious morality, activism, et al). The old enemies rear their heads and the terrain is as bleak as ever. And yet we take seriously that adage: “There’s no need to fear or hope, but only to look for new weapons.”

4. Baedan 3 – journal of queer time travel.

Bædan: journal of queer time travel marks a further attempt to pose and to flesh out a queer critique of civilization. Queer not only in the sense of coming from those outside and disruptive of the Family, but also in the sense of a critique weirder than its more orthodox cousins. We imagine the Bædan project as an effort to pose the critique of civilization otherwise, to begin from another place. In this issue (and beyond…) we have conjured a strange bestiary of thinking, trying to unearth and trace the tradition of anti-civilization thought in the literature of queerness and in queerness as immanent critique.

*I couldn't find this one online*

[t-horn-n]

— waterstrider

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x reader (female) 

genre: fluff ?

summary: watching you and ghost become you and ghost.

word count: 1 158

There is a certain inconsistency with you that Ghost is able to sense but not quite place when you first join the task force.  You’re the sort that wears her heart upon her sleeve.  You like to fill the room with your jokes and anecdotes and quips.  You spill your guts to the point that Ghost knows more about you and your idiot brother and how your parents have just retired) in the first six months following your arrival than he knew about the Captain in the first three years of knowing him.  On the internet, they would call you one of those people who can’t be mysterious because you yap too much.

Still, there is something that sets you apart from just any old civi.  And it is not simply that you’re good at staying calm in stressful situations, nor that you’re not half bad at military strategy.  Rather, it’s that you’ve compartmentalised yourself into the part that you offer to people (your brother, your parents’ retirement) and the part that you keep tucked into your chest, hidden beneath your ribs.  It’s an illusion, you see, that sense of complete transparency that you project.  

It was years ago, now.   When the scent of high school still clung to you and you were marginally more stupid than you are now.  You got yourself ensnared with the wrong, mean, borderline sociopathic sort of people so quickly that it was a real life example of the snowball effect.  Initially, it was just one time you brushed off your last period class to go around town with these guys you met at the convenience store to get back at your brother who, at the time, had a habit of being overprotective.  

Long story short, the whole situation ended with fingerprints around your neck and your head held down in the river behind the grocery mart that everyone was sure was a mafia front.  You remember being hauled out of that river with astonishing accuracy.  You remember the temperature of the water and the exact thoughts that raced through your mind.

Of course, over the years you recovered, squeezed the silty water from your lungs and learned some common sense.  But events like that are somewhat sticky.  

One of your motivations to join the military was to find the self-confidence to never feel like you did coughing up water and dirt, after all.  

You were wary—cat-like—when you first joined Ghost and the rest of the 141, but that’s just how it is in the military most of the time.  And after a few weeks you were bantering with them like you had known them for years.  Truly, it seemed as though you were the most normal one out of them.

What they don’t know is that you don’t like showers.  Or at least, you don’t like the sensation of the water beating on your face.  It feels like you’ll just forget how to breathe and the water will fill your lungs again.  So instead you’ll stand at the edge of the shower, wetting a soapy washcloth every evening after training.  

You’ll never go swimming, of course.   You won’t take the chance.  Even when you can see the bottom, an irrational, bone-deep paralysis traps you in this space where your thoughts are very loud and your body feels very far away.  It’s fine, though.   There isn't a great deal of demand for aquatic soldiers.  

You don’t like sleeping under a lot of covers either, but you’re a cold sleeper and you don’t have control over the temperature on base, so you layer hoodie over hoodie at night.  Inevitably, you look like a mass of sentient fabric if you ever  encounter one of your  peers in the kitchen late at night.  

Talking is how your little dance with Ghost started, though, late night encounters aside.  Sometimes, you would open with a joke on the way back to base from the training grounds and he would reply with his own and you would both feel a special sense of connection that is a little different than that most often found in  military task forces.  It wasn’t brotherhood, like what linked Ghost to Soap and Price and Gaz.  

On other occasions, you all would be at a bar on the weekend, making the cheap beer taste better with each other’s company.  You and Ghost would be perched on your barstools and he would be telling you about some stunt Soap pulled years ago while the other three men kept each other entertained.  You two would still be there after Price, Soap, and Gaz sobered up in the late night air on the way to the bus stop that took them back to the base.  You would blink and then it was midnight and you were on the bus with all of the other witching hour vagrants that got on after spending too much time staring at the bottom of a glass, but you wouldn’t even see them because you were too busy listening to Simon and his wonderfully deep, tired voice.  You would be pressed shoulder to shoulder, each staring at your feet or your hands.  

There are very special times, too.  The kind that you will remember the sensation of—the moment’s taste, its colors, its imprint on your mind—even after you’ve forgotten the time and place and the words said.  Like when Ghost becomes Simon.  Like when he tells you about his mother and the man she was married to.  Like when he presses his lips to your neck and instead of feeling cold and wet and gross like you expect it to, he just sighs, warmly, in a way that makes you feel like you’ve been filled with helium.

Then, when that dance you were doing becomes more confident, when you start pulling and twisting each other about the dance floor rather than just hoping you’ll brush the other’s hand as you glide aimlessly around, those compartments that you have successfully preserved for the last decade shift, somewhat.  They don’t break, by any means.  Simply, they are rearranged.

Simon runs hot.  Especially when he sleeps, which means that when he crashes in your quarters you de-layer and tuck your cold feet between his calves.  Simon is also a big man, though.  So when he rolls over on to your chest in the middle of the night, you are startled awake.  You remember the pressure as the air in your lungs was replaced by something denser.  While he sleeps—deeply, as he always does in your quarters—you stare at the ceiling, watching the fuzzy darkness undulate over and around itself.

Eventually, you will tell him why you can’t tolerate your face being covered while you sleep.  You’ll divulge the contents of your nightmares.  Someday, his past and yours will be murmured into existence whether on a late-night bus back from town or in his bathroom as you brush your teeth together on some random Thursday night.

— m. list

[aventurineswife]

Hello, hello! How's your day going? Could I request Aventurine with a lover who loves making and gifting him jewelry and accessories?

Chained in Gold

Summary: Aventurine finds himself enamored with a lover who has a unique talent for crafting jewelry and accessories. As you gift him pieces that reflect his personality, Aventurine begins to realize that beneath the high-stakes games and carefully constructed charm, there’s something far more valuable at stake: his heart.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Jewelry-Making, Established Relationship, Vulnerable Aventurine, Banter, Tender Moments.

The sun filtered through the massive glass windows of the IPC headquarters, painting the dark wood and polished floors with golden light. Aventurine sat at his desk, lounging as if the towering pile of investment documents before him was no more stressful than a light breeze. His eyes scanned over a datapad, but his mind was elsewhere.

Specifically, it was on you.

You had shown up this morning in his office as you always did, bearing a little box wrapped in shimmering paper. Inside was a bracelet: delicate chains of gold intertwined with tiny gemstone chips that sparkled like stars. You had said it reminded you of him—his shine, his brilliance, his ability to make even chaos look beautiful.

And now that bracelet sat snugly on his wrist, hidden beneath the cuff of his blazer sleeve. No one would know it was there, but Aventurine could feel its weight.

The thought of you crafting it made his chest ache with an emotion he often buried under charm and strategy. It was vulnerability—a sensation far more dangerous than any bet he had ever placed.

That evening, you sat cross-legged in your little workspace, a tray of tools and half-finished designs spread out around you. Aventurine had slipped away from his work early and stood quietly in the doorway, watching as your fingers deftly threaded silver wire through a small emerald bead.

"Do you ever rest?" His smooth voice broke the silence, making you jump slightly.

You looked up, smiling as you placed the half-finished earring on the table. "Rest is overrated when inspiration strikes. Besides, I have a certain someone who keeps my creativity alive."

He chuckled, stepping into the room and inspecting the scattered pieces. The light glinted off the glasses perched on his nose, their rose-tinted lenses casting a faint glow over his cheekbones.

"You spoil me," he said, picking up a necklace draped with charms shaped like playing cards. "This one’s new, isn’t it? A touch of luck for your favorite gambler?"

"Luck and love," you teased, standing to face him. "But I don’t think you need the former when you’ve got the latter."

The words caught him off guard, his usual quick-witted responses faltering. You were one of the few who could do that—strip him of his carefully constructed layers and make him feel seen. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing a stray hair from your face.

"You make me reckless," he murmured, his smile softer than usual. "And I think I like it."

A week later, Aventurine sat across from you at a bustling café. The world outside was cold and dreary, but here, the warmth from the drinks and the glow of your presence made it feel like summer.

You handed him another little box, your grin playful. "Go on, open it."

Inside was a set of cufflinks shaped like tiny roulette wheels. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the enamel shimmering in shades of black and red. He held one up, his lips quirking into a smile.

"Let me guess," he said, "you’re trying to rig my odds?"

"Only in your favor." you replied.

He leaned back, twirling one cufflink between his fingers. "You’re dangerous, you know. Giving me trinkets like this—it’s like you’re branding me as yours."

"Good." you shot back, sipping your drink with a wink.

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze steady and intense. Then he reached across the table, his gloved hand covering yours.

"I’ve lived my life on the edge of losing everything," he said quietly. "But you... you make me think there’s something worth keeping."

Your cheeks flushed at the rare sincerity in his voice. "Then hold onto me." you whispered.

He didn’t need to say anything more. The look in his eyes—the same daring, confident glint he wore in the heat of high-stakes deals—said it all. Aventurine wasn’t a man to gamble on something unless he believed he could win. And with you by his side, he felt invincible.

[audliminal]

It's Just a Game, Right? Pt 3

Masterpost

"You still good?" Sam's voice crackles through the walkie talkie, as Danny flies erratically through and rooms. Danny ignores it for the moment, focusing on his current task. Their distraction plan had certainly worked, but now Danny has to maintain his balancing act, keeping the giw agents engaged without actually getting himself hurt. "Danny?" Sam asks again.

"Real great timing, Sam." Danny mutters, changing his tragectory to straight up. He's on the roof in moments, and allows his body to slip back into tangibility without dropping his invisibility.

"I'm getting a workout for sure, but they haven't hit me yet." Danny says, the moment he has the walkie talkie in hand.

"Good." Sam's relief is clear. Sam was the least enthusiastic about this arg idea from the start, but this current plan, with Danny acting as a distraction had driven her almost frantic with frustration. "We're almost done filming, so you can probably start trying to lose them. And let us know if you need help."

"Yeah? What, are you gonna go ghost and come distract them too?" The joke comes out a bit harsher than intended and Danny immediately winces. "Sorry. Sorry that was supposed to be a joke."

Sam doesn't immediately respond and Danny hears footsteps on the stairs, so he jams the walkie talkie back in its holder and takes off, making sure to fly away from where his classmates are working.

Moments after he drops back into intangibility, the door to the roof slams open and three giw agents rush out, already taking shots in his direction. By now their strategies are familiar though, and Danny is already making evasive moves as he flies off.

"Straight lines are boring anyways," he snickers, dipping down, so he can fly directly through the floor of another building, and then shooting straight up for a moment before continuing on. "Though it would be nice if their damn sensors could stop improving..."

On the other side of town, Danny's class has just finished recording footage of their school with untreated tech. Tonight, Wes and Tucker will start adding the dozens of layers of encryptions and hidden messages that they've been layering their project with.

A surprising number of people have already followed their channel, but so far they've only broken through around two layers of the content they've posted, and certainly haven't even come close to finding the encoded file drops, where they've actually hidden the bulk of the information.

That's the reasoning for this latest idea. As far as the plot of their series so far, the green-tinted, garbled footage won't make any sense. So, if they can get this out there without getting caught, it might help queue the people investigating their videos to dig a little more in search of an explanation.

"Halt, ghost scum!" The booming voice below Danny is immediately recognizable as his dad, and he just rolls his eyes and groans, without slowing. The good news about his parents joining the hunt is that they'll likely distract the giw's own efforts. But it also means they're gonna be extra annoying when he gets home tonight. It's the kind of trade-off that Danny will take every time, but he reserves the right to be annoyed by it.

Danny's parents, like everyone else, are far from happy with the giw's occupation and quarantine of Amity Park. Jazz should be heading off to college in a matter of months, but instead she's going to be stuck here. Jazz hadn't even bothered sending off applications this year - a matter than had been the target of much distress by their parents, and the first thing that got them to really stop and think about what the giw were doing.

Recently, they'd even considered shutting down their portal, but unfortunately that had proved more complicated than would be reasonable. So ghosts continued to drift through, and Danny continued to swiftly catch them before the giw or his blundering parents could show up to cause problems. Most days he managed to get the ghosts captured and himself out without serious injury but, well, even if his parents had stopped developing new weapons, lately, the giw had only ramped up their efforts.

And Danny was stuck in the middle of it all.

"We're done and out, Danny. Please tell me you haven't gotten yourself hurt." Sam's voice comes through again, startling Danny away from his thoughts. He glances back behind him, and is relieved to see no signs of chase behind him.

"Yeah, we're good. My parents showed up with some real clutch timing. Maybe if we're lucky, they crashed into each other and they're out a vehicle or two."

"Yeah, if we're lucky." Sma laughs. "Meet up at the arcade?"

"Sure thing." Danny says, ducking into a nearby store and dropping his ghost form safely in the bathroom.

[mistakenot4892]

Disclaimer that this is a post mostly motivated by frustration at a cultural trend, not at any individual people/posters. Vagueing to avoid it seeming like a callout but I know how Tumblr is so we'll see I guess. Putting it after a read-more because I think it's going to spiral out of control.

Recent discourse around obnoxious Linux shills chiming in on posts about how difficult it can be to pick up computer literacy these days has made me feel old and tired. I get that people just want computers to Work and they don't want to have to put any extra effort into getting it to Do The Thing, that's not unreasonable, I want the same!

(I also want obnoxious Linux shills to not chip in on my posts (unless I am posting because my Linux has exploded and I need help) so I sympathise with that angle too, 'just use Linux' is not the catch-all solution you think it is my friend.)

But I keep seeing this broad sense of learned helplessness around having to learn about what the computer is actually doing without having your hand held by a massive faceless corporation, and I just feel like it isn't a healthy relationship to have with your tech.

The industry is getting worse and worse in their lack of respect to the consumer every quarter. Microsoft is comfortable pivoting their entire business to push AI on every part of their infrastructure and in every service, in part because their customers aren't going anywhere and won't push back in the numbers that might make a difference. Windows 11 has hidden even more functionality behind layers of streamlining and obfuscation and integrated even more spyware and telemetry that won't tell you shit about what it's doing and that you can't turn off without violating the EULA. They're going to keep pursuing this kind of shit in more and more obvious ways because that's all they can do in the quest for endless year on year growth.

Unfortunately, switching to Linux will force you to learn how to use it. That sucks when it's being pushed as an immediate solution to a specific problem you're having! Not going to deny that. FOSS folks need to realise that 'just pivot your entire day to day workflow to a new suite of tools designed by hobby engineers with really specific chips on their shoulders' does not work as a method of evangelism. But if you approach it more like learning to understand and control your tech, I think maybe it could be a bit more palatable? It's more like a set of techniques and strategies than learning a specific workflow. Once you pick up the basic patterns, you can apply them to the novel problems that inevitably crop up. It's still painful, particularly if you're messing around with audio or graphics drivers, but importantly, you are always the one in control. You might not know how to drive, and the engine might be on fire, but you're not locked in a burning Tesla.

Now that I write this it sounds more like a set of coping mechanisms, but to be honest I do not have a healthy relationship with xorg.conf and probably should seek therapy.

It's a bit of a stretch but I almost feel like a bit of friction with tech is necessary to develop a good relationship with it? Growing up on MS-DOS and earlier versions of Windows has given me a healthy suspicion of any time my computer does something without me telling it to, and if I can't then see what it did, something's very off. If I can't get at the setting and properties panel for something, my immediate inclination is to uninstall it and do without.

And like yeah as a final note, I too find it frustrating when Linux decides to shit itself and the latest relevant thread I can find on the matter is from 2006 and every participant has been Raptured since, but at least threads exist. At least they're not Microsoft Community hellscapes where every second response is a sales rep telling them to open a support ticket. At least there's some transparency and openness around how the operating system is made and how it works. At least you have alternatives if one doesn't do the job for you.

This is long and meandering and probably misses the point of the discourse I'm dragging but I felt obligated to make it. Ubuntu Noble Numbat is pretty good and I haven't had any issues with it out of the box (compared to EndeavourOS becoming a hellscape whenever I wanted my computer to make a sound or render a graphic) so I recommend it. Yay FOSS.

[fannedandflawless]

Master of the Mind: What it Took for Severus Snape to Survive

Let us speak plainly—Severus Snape did not survive because he was lucky, or gifted, or helped. He survived because he trained his mind into steel, and paid for it with every breath. And we have not talked about that enough.

From Spinner’s End to the dungeons of Hogwarts, Snape’s life was not a tale of triumph—it was a study in endurance. Born into neglect and raised in an environment of hostility, he learned early on that the world would not protect him. So he became his own shield.

But how does a boy who was starved of safety and affection become the man who fools both Voldemort and Dumbledore? How does someone so chronically unloved become the most crucial double agent in a war that demanded perfection?

The answer: He mastered his mind.

🩸 Occlumency and the Fortress of the Self

Occlumency is not simply the art of resisting Legilimency. It is the discipline of burying your entire emotional landscape beneath a layer of calculated silence. To succeed at it means not only shielding your thoughts from intrusion—it means silencing your own mind, even in solitude. Especially in solitude.

Snape lived in Occlumency. He wore it like a second skin. There was no room for error when both Voldemort and Dumbledore were looking directly at him, always. He had to be unreadable, unbreakable. One misstep and everything he fought for—everyone he tried to protect—would vanish.

He didn’t rest. He didn’t flinch. He stayed quiet even when screaming would’ve been easier. And he was just a man. Not a god. Not some emotionless machine. Just… so very disciplined, even when it hurt.

🔍 Legilimency: The Curse of Knowing

If Occlumency was armour, Legilimency was the weapon he wielded—but not without cost. Snape didn’t use Legilimency for pleasure or power. He used it to navigate a war he could never afford to lose.

He read his enemies. He read his allies. He read students—because even they could be conduits for danger. He read the people he loathed and the ones who reminded him of everything he lost. And every time he reached into someone else’s mind, he had to leave his own unguarded for a moment.

It was agony. And he did it anyway.

💔 Exhaustion Hidden in Robes

Snape’s legendary snappishness was never about cruelty. It was the exhaustion of a man running on vigilance and grief. While others wore night robes, he wore full teaching attire in the middle of the night. Always patrolling. Always ready.

Why?

Because he couldn’t afford to sleep deeply. Because he couldn’t afford to be unprepared. Because when the war lives in your skull, there is no such thing as rest.

It wasn’t just trauma. It was strategy. It was survival.

🧪 He Could Heal, But Nothing Held

With his talent as a Potions Master, there’s no doubt Snape could have brewed elixirs to counteract his own exhaustion, his malnourishment, the physical wreckage of childhood neglect.

But when your days are spent wearing down your soul with lies, grief, and unrelenting mental shielding—what good is a potion? He could heal the wound, but the world would rip it open again the next day.

It became something like penance. Like someone dependent on medication just to function who, one day, stops—not because the medicine doesn’t work, but because life has worn them down to the point where even temporary relief feels futile. Because he knew the healing wouldn't last. Because it never reached the root—only hovered at the surface, delaying the inevitable.

And there’s another weight we rarely account for: ingredients. While his financial state remains ambiguous, I’ve made some assumptions about this in [a previous post]—and it stands to reason that brewing consistent restorative potions would be costly. Not just in coin, but in time, privacy, and rare materials. Even with access, it may have felt indulgent—wasteful, even—to use them on himself when the war demanded he ration everything.

You cannot pour rest into a man who lives as a dam. And if he ever tried to help himself—truly—what chance did it have against the weight he carried? Relief may have flickered, but it could never root itself. Not when every hour of vigilance, every silent war fought in his mind, drained the effect before it could take hold. It was easier, perhaps even more just, to stop trying.

🛡 Forbearance, Not Just Patience

Snape’s survival didn’t hinge on mere patience. It demanded forbearance—a rarer, deeper discipline: the ability to endure provocation, injustice, and suffering without retaliation. Without complaint.

He didn’t strike back when students mocked him in his own classroom. He didn’t defend himself when the world misunderstood him, again and again. He didn’t lash out when Lupin returned to Hogwarts. He didn’t scream when Harry looked at him with Lily’s eyes and saw only hatred.

He suffered with dignity. He let the world misread him rather than betray the truth he carried. Forbearance is not weakness—it is strength restrained for the sake of others.

His life required so much just to be alive. To remain standing meant resisting every urge to collapse, retaliate, or justify himself. And still, he stayed upright.

🗡 And Still, He Endured

He endured Lily’s death—the one he tried to prevent. He endured serving Voldemort—the very monster who killed her, and the one he once begged for her life. He endured looking into the eyes of her child every day—eyes that mirrored Lily’s exactly, set into a face that resembled James Potter's like a copy from a cruel spell. The double torment of seeing the one he loved and the one who took her, every single day, demanded not just strength—but restraint beyond comprehension. And he bore it, knowing the boy would never understand. He endured watching students suffer under the Carrows' cruelty—hexed, tortured, humiliated—and was forced to do nothing visible to stop it. He endured seeing a colleague—Charity Burbage—killed before his eyes at Malfoy Manor, unable to intervene without destroying everything he'd risked. And still, he carried on.

He made an Unbreakable Vow. He killed the only man who ever trusted him—not with warmth, but with the strategic confidence one places in a pawn they believe will reach the end of the board. Dumbledore's trust was not affection. It was calculation. And Severus bore the weight of it like it was honour. He protected the school when Death Eaters took control. He guided Harry to the sword. He died with the trio present—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—but no comfort, no hand held in return. His final act was not to reach out for salvation, but to offer truth through a memory. Even at the end, he gave more than he received.

And through all of it? Not a single soul asked him how he was holding up.

🖤 He Didn’t Go Mad. He Just Went Silent.

In the end, what’s most terrifying is not that he died. It’s that he lived that long.

He lived through things that would have broken anyone else. He walked through war with no banner. He bore betrayal and brutality with no promise of redemption.

He didn’t survive because he was loved. He survived because he refused to shatter.

And that, above all, is what made Severus Snape the strongest mind in the story. A mind we should honour. A man we should have seen sooner. Someone who didn’t need the world’s forgiveness—just one person to see the ruin, and say: “You stayed. You suffered. And I see you.”

And in the end, it wasn’t just death that found him—it was something quieter. Something that finally let go. Nagini didn’t simply kill him—she may have released him. From burden. From despair. From agony. Her bite ended his service, yes… but perhaps, it ended his suffering too.

[earthlybeam]

hewwoo~ long time enjoyer here! very excited to see someone writes for celeborn. I just love that malewife elf <3

could you do a cheeky/snarky!reader flirting with celeborn, gil-galad and thranduil please? these are my top 3 elves rn and your writing is soooo dreamy :3

how would the elves react to this?

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Celeborn, Gil-galad, thranduil Versions are below. They are two versions of each.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

First one

𖣂 The tranquil beauty of Lothlórien surrounds you, the golden light of the mellyrn trees filtering softly through their shimmering leaves. The ethereal air of the Golden Wood feels almost otherworldly, a quiet calm that speaks of the millennia of wisdom and magic that have shaped this realm. In the center of it all stands Celeborn, a vision of elven grace and nobility. His silver hair glows faintly in the dappled light, his piercing eyes reflecting a serene yet sharp intelligence. He exudes a quiet dignity, a presence that commands respect without arrogance. You approach him, feeling a flutter of nerves—after all, it’s not every day you stand before the Lord of Lothlórien. But instead of bowing in formality, you decide to take a different approach, a playful glint in your eye. You mocking awe “So this is the great Lord of Lothlórien. Wise, graceful… and probably the reason half the elves here are swooning. Is there a waiting list to get your attention, or do I have to bribe someone?”

𖣂 For a moment, Celeborn’s serene expression doesn’t change, and you wonder if your playful tone has fallen flat. Then, his lips curl ever so slightly into a small, amused smile. His gaze meets yours, steady and unflinching, but with a hint of curiosity. Celeborn slightly amused. “You seem resourceful. I imagine you’d find a way without resorting to bribery.” His voice is smooth and measured, carrying a subtle warmth beneath its calm surface. He tilts his head ever so slightly, as if studying you, his amusement flickering like a spark behind his eyes.

𖣂 You take his response as an invitation to continue the playful banter, stepping closer and lowering your voice conspiratorially. You grinning “Oh, I don’t need to bribe anyone. I’ll just charm you into skipping the line.” A soft chuckle escapes him, rare and quiet, but genuine. He regards you for a moment longer, the faintest trace of a smirk lingering on his face. His demeanor remains composed, but there’s an undeniable twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Charm, is it? A bold strategy, but one that requires confidence… and no small amount of skill. I suppose you believe yourself well-qualified?”

𖣂 You feign offense, placing a hand dramatically over your heart. You mock indignation. “Well-qualified? My lord, you wound me. I’ll have you know my charm has been praised by elves, men, and hobbits alike. But if you doubt me, perhaps I should prove it?” The slight upward twitch of his eyebrow tells you he’s enjoying this far more than he’s letting on. His voice lowers, adopting a playful edge that’s rare for someone so reserved. “Prove it? A dangerous proposition. If I find your proof lacking, I may be forced to remain unimpressed.”

𖣂 The challenge in his words is subtle, but it’s there, hidden beneath layers of calm composure. His tone is light, but his gaze holds yours, unyielding yet inviting. You leaning in slightly. “Then I’ll just have to ensure my proof is flawless. Though, if I may say so, my lord, you don’t seem the type who is easily unimpressed.” For a fleeting moment, Celeborn seems to weigh your words, his expression unreadable. Then, his lips curve into a small, genuine smile—a rare and dazzling sight that takes you by surprise. “Perhaps I am not. But you certainly have a… unique approach. Let us see if your charm is as formidable as you claim.” There’s a softness in his voice now, almost teasing but still restrained, as though he’s testing the waters of this exchange. The quiet Lord of Lothlórien, it seems, is not entirely immune to the art of playful flirtation.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Second one

𖣂 The golden light of Lothlórien dances across the delicate leaves of the mellyrn trees, their quiet whispers filling the tranquil air. Celeborn stands at the edge of a silver fountain, his tall figure radiating an air of timeless grace. His silvery hair catches the light, and his calm, thoughtful expression seems almost impenetrable—a mask of serene composure hiding layers of complexity. There’s something undeniably magnetic about him, a mystery you can’t quite resist unraveling. You approach with a playful smile, deciding to push past his reserved demeanor. After all, who can resist a bit of teasing? You playfully, with mock thoughtfulness. “You know, Celeborn, you’re like a riddle wrapped in an enigma… wrapped in very nice robes. Care to unravel yourself for me?”

𖣂 For a moment, he doesn’t respond, his sharp eyes studying you with quiet intensity. Then, the corners of his lips lift in the faintest hint of a smile—a rare gesture from the ever-composed Lord of Lothlórien. His gaze flickers with subtle amusement as he tilts his head slightly. Celeborn calmly, with a touch of humor. ”Perhaps some mysteries are better left unsolved.” His voice, smooth and rich like a stream gliding over polished stones, carries the faintest undertone of mischief. He clasps his hands behind his back, watching you with that infuriatingly composed expression, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing.

𖣂 Not one to back down, you step closer, your smile turning into a confident grin. “Oh, don’t be shy. I’m very good at solving puzzles. Especially handsome ones.” He lets out a soft chuckle, the sound low and rare, like a secret shared in the stillness of the woods. His eyes meet yours, holding your gaze with a quiet intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. For a moment, his hands shift slightly, as if he’s about to reach for the clasps of his robe. Celeborn with a playful glint in his eye. “You’re certain you’re prepared? Unraveling a mystery often leads to more questions than answers.” For a heartbeat, you freeze, caught off guard by the sudden flicker of teasing in his voice. His fingers hover near the clasp of his elegant robes, and you swear there’s a flicker of humor in his otherwise serene expression. Then, just as quickly, he lowers his hands again, his composure fully restored, as though he’s never broken it.

𖣂 Celeborn with a quiet smirk. “But I fear you’ll have to be content with the mystery for now.” Your jaw drops slightly, and he watches your reaction with subtle amusement, clearly pleased with his ability to turn the tables. His serene demeanor may have returned, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes now—a rare glimpse of the playful side hidden beneath his reserved exterior. You laughing, shaking your head. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. But don’t think this means I’m giving up. I’ll unravel you yet, Lord Celeborn.” His gaze softens, his smile lingering just long enough to make your heart flutter before he speaks again “Persistence can be a virtue. Perhaps, in time, you may find the answers you seek. Until then… I shall enjoy watching you try.” With that, he turns, his silver hair catching the light as he walks away with the same composed grace that drives you both intrigued and infuriated. You can’t help but grin to yourself, already planning your next move.

👑𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

First one

🜲 You leaning casually against one of the smooth marble pillars of Gil-galad’s study, your posture relaxed yet deliberate. A mischievous glint dances in your eyes as you tilt your head slightly, watching him pour over a parchment with that signature air of kingly focus. Your voice cuts through the serene quiet, light and teasing, deliberately challenging the stillness of the room. “Is it exhausting being the High King of the Noldor? All that responsibility, all those admirers…”

🜲 Gil-galad His quill pauses mid-stroke, hovering above the parchment as the corners of his lips twitch ever so slightly. He doesn’t respond right away, instead straightening slowly, his head tilting with an expression that borders on amused curiosity. His sharp blue-gray eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, he studies you as though he’s weighing the best course of action. With quiet deliberation, he sets the quill down and moves the parchment aside. His gaze lingers, his regal composure softening just enough to betray a flicker of playfulness. Finally, his lips curve into a small, knowing smile—a smile that feels rare and deliberate, as though meant just for you. “The burden is lighter than it seems.” You pushing off the pillar, your steps slow and deliberate as you cross the room toward him. The marble floor cool beneath your feet echoes faintly with each step, but your focus is entirely on him. Your voice drops slightly, playful and edged with a hint of challenge, your eyes locked onto his as you draw closer. “Good. Wouldn’t want you too tired to pay attention to me.”

🜲 Gil-galad His smile widens slightly, though it remains subtle, restrained. He’s a king accustomed to holding himself in check, to hiding emotions beneath layers of composure, yet the faint glimmer in his eyes reveals far more than words could. He leans back in his chair with deliberate elegance, folding his hands in his lap as though truly considering your words. For a brief moment, he remains silent, allowing the weight of his gaze to settle on you, his expression one of thoughtful amusement. When he speaks, his voice is low and smooth, steady as always but carrying a faint undercurrent of dry humor. “I fear that might be the greatest burden of all,” he muses, his tone calm yet laced with subtle warmth, “To balance the weight of my duties with the demands of someone as… captivating as you.”

🜲 You laughing softly, the sound light and genuine, unable to resist the warmth blooming in your chest at his carefully chosen words. You feel your cheeks flush despite yourself, though you try to mask it with an exaggeratedly skeptical glance. “So you do pay attention, after all.” Gil-galad His gaze softens, and for a moment, the High King standing before you seems more man than monarch. There’s something deeply personal in the way he watches you now, the faintest trace of warmth lingering behind the carefully composed exterior he so often wears. Rising from his chair, he moves toward you with the measured grace of a ruler, each step deliberate, each movement carrying an unshakable authority. And yet, as he closes the distance between you, there’s a subtle shift in his demeanor—a slight easing of the ever-present weight on his shoulders. He stops just a pace away, his posture relaxed yet still commanding.

🜲 “I could hardly afford not to,” he replies smoothly, his voice quieter now, edged with sincerity. “You have a way of ensuring no one forgets your presence.” You crossing your arms, your lips quirking into a playful smile as you tilt your head, pretending to study him with exaggerated seriousness. Your tone takes on an air of mock suspicion as you raise an eyebrow. “Was that a compliment or an accusation?” Gil-galad A low chuckle escapes him, the sound deep and warm, carrying the kind of richness that feels rare, a private melody meant only for you. His usual stoic mask cracks slightly, replaced by an expression of quiet amusement. He leans in just enough to close the space between you, his voice lowering to a tone reserved only for these rare moments—intimate, yet measured in its affection. “Whichever pleases you more, my heart.” As his words hang in the air, there’s a quiet sincerity beneath the teasing tone, a depth to his gaze that speaks volumes more than he says aloud. His presence, as always, is commanding, but in this moment, it feels as though the weight of his kingship has been set aside, leaving only the man beneath.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Second one

🜲 You leaning back against the edge of the grand oak desk in Gil-galad’s study, your fingers lightly brushing the polished surface as you fix him with a teasing smile. The golden light of the setting sun filters through the tall arched windows, casting a warm glow over the room. Your tone is light, playful, but edged with a challenge as you let your words hang in the air for a moment. “Do you always get your way, High King? Or is that just with the elves?”

🜲 Gil-galad Seated across the room, his tall frame is poised in his chair, one leg crossed over the other with effortless elegance. He has been reviewing a series of maps and reports, but at your words, he pauses. His sharp blue-gray eyes lift to meet yours, a flicker of amusement dancing in their depths. The faintest trace of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, one of those rare, restrained smiles that carry far more meaning than they let on. Setting the map aside, he leans back slightly, his hands resting lightly on the armrests of the chair, his tone calm but laced with playful humor. “I like to think my influence speaks for itself.” You pushing off the desk, you take a slow step toward him, your eyes sparkling with mischief. Your voice drops just slightly, a touch more challenging now, as though daring him to rise to the bait. “Mm, I’m not so easily influenced. Care to try your luck?”

🜲 Gil-galad His expression shifts subtly, the amusement in his eyes deepening as his smile widens just a fraction—a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but one that carries a quiet confidence. He remains seated, perfectly composed, though there’s a distinct shift in his demeanor now, an energy that feels both commanding and utterly unhurried. His gaze never wavers from yours, as though he’s assessing you with the same precision he would an opponent on the battlefield. When he speaks, his voice is smooth, steady, and just a little too calm, as though he’s already several moves ahead in the game. “You underestimate me,” he says, his tone light but carrying a faint, teasing edge. “I’ve persuaded kings, warriors, and even dwarves to see things my way. Convincing you, I suspect, will be far more rewarding.”

🜲 You laughing softly, you step closer still, your hands coming to rest lightly on the back of the chair he’s seated in. You lean forward just slightly, close enough now that you can see the fine details of his features—the faint lines of wisdom and wear, the undeniable sharpness of his gaze. Your tone is playful, but there’s a spark of genuine curiosity beneath it as you tilt your head “Rewarding? Now I’m intrigued. What makes me such a challenge, Your Majesty?” Gil-galad For a moment, he allows the silence to linger, his gaze fixed on you with a kind of quiet intensity. His fingers drum lightly against the armrest of his chair before he finally stands, his movements smooth and deliberate. Rising to his full height, he steps closer, closing the distance between you with a measured confidence that feels almost magnetic. His voice lowers slightly, though it remains as composed and calm as ever, the weight of his presence filling the room. “Because you’ve already decided not to make it easy for me,” he says, his tone laced with a warmth that hints at the depth of his amusement. He leans in just enough to meet your gaze directly, the faintest trace of a smirk playing on his lips. “And something tells me you enjoy watching me try.”

🜲 You grinning, your heart skipping a beat at the way his voice dips just enough to send a thrill through you. You lean back slightly, folding your arms as though to regain the upper hand, though the glint in your eyes betrays your delight. “Well, you’re not wrong. But you’ll need to do better than charm if you want to win me over.” Gil-galad Chuckling softly, the sound low and velvety, he straightens, his posture once again effortlessly regal but with a relaxed air that makes him seem a touch more human. His gaze remains steady, filled with that same quiet confidence that somehow manages to disarm you without him needing to say another word. Finally, he tilts his head slightly, his tone light but edged with unmistakable challenge. “Then I’ll just have to prove that my charm isn’t the only weapon in my arsenal.” There’s a moment of tension, warm and playful but charged with the kind of energy that leaves you breathless. As the silence stretches between you, his expression softens just slightly, the teasing fading into something deeper—more genuine. His next words, when they come, are softer, more sincere. “But I think you already know that, don’t you?” Would you like to expand on this dynamic further or explore their growing connection?

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

First one

𐂂 “Is it a requirement for Woodland Kings to look this good, or are you just an overachiever?” The moment the words leave your lips, Thranduil’s gaze sharpens, his sharp features softening just slightly as his eyes lock onto yours. There’s a quiet intensity in his expression, like a king accustomed to being admired yet intrigued by your boldness. He stands tall and unshakable, draped in the finest silks and delicate leathers that reflect the light of the dim torches around him, his crown—woven from intricate threads of ivy and moonstone—sitting like a regal crown atop his silvery hair. Every inch of him seems to radiate an ethereal, otherworldly charm, and you can feel the weight of his presence even before he speaks. He takes a slow, measured step closer to you, the long folds of his cloak trailing behind him, creating a slight rustle that adds to the tension of the moment. His gaze remains steady and unwavering as he tilts his head slightly to the side, lips curling into a smile that is both knowing and a touch condescending, but with a flicker of something more—amusement, perhaps, or even admiration.

𐂂 “It is my duty to embody the finest qualities of my people,” he replies, his voice as smooth and velvety as the finest elven fabric, laced with a sense of quiet authority. His eyes glint with the centuries of wisdom he carries, as if every word spoken is as deliberate as the actions of a seasoned ruler. The corners of his mouth twitch upward as he watches you, clearly amused by the impish challenge in your tone. His presence fills the space, and the air seems to thrum with an ancient energy, a reminder of the weight of his lineage and the depth of his experience. Yet, his response is not one of arrogance, but of confidence—Thranduil is not a man who feels the need to boast because his actions speak louder than any words ever could. You find your heart skip a beat, even as you try to maintain your composure. Thranduil doesn’t break eye contact as he waits for your next move, and you can tell that he’s enjoying this back-and-forth. “And here I thought your finest quality was making my heart race. My mistake.” The words leave your lips with just a hint of teasing, and the moment they do, Thranduil’s smile deepens, the cool elegance of his demeanor shifting, ever so slightly, into something more playful. His eyes narrow, but it’s not in a way that suggests offense—it’s a look of someone who’s been caught off guard but enjoys the challenge.

𐂂 He takes another step closer, his height making you feel small, but not uncomfortable—more like a willing subject in a game with a ruler who knows all the rules. His voice, when it comes, is low, warm, and rich with amusement. “Your heart races, you say?” His voice is almost a whisper now, a quiet challenge. His gaze flickers down to your lips before returning to your eyes, and for a moment, he seems to enjoy the effect he’s having on you. “I suppose it’s not entirely unexpected. I am, after all, a king. Kings tend to have that effect on those in their presence.” You feel a warmth rise to your cheeks, but you hold his gaze, refusing to show any sign of retreat. Thranduil leans in just slightly, his proximity sending a quiet, almost imperceptible thrill through your body. His hand rests lightly on the back of his throne, the fingers elegant and graceful, a reminder that every movement of his is deliberate, every action measured.

𐂂 “But I wonder,” he continues, his eyes now twinkling with a mix of mischief and intrigue, “how much longer your heart will race, once you realize the full measure of the danger in such words.” It’s a teasing warning, yet you can’t help but feel the pull of his presence—the way his every word seems to carry weight, but still, there’s a softness behind it, a reminder that despite his regal persona, there’s more to him than just the king. There’s a man, a father, a warrior, who’s just as capable of feeling as he is of ruling. He straightens, his posture as dignified as ever, though the smile still lingers on his lips—one that tells you this game is far from over. The flicker of warmth in his eyes betrays that, despite his cool exterior, you’ve captured his attention in a way few others have.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Second one

𐂂 “You’re so tall and elegant, Thranduil. How do you manage to stay grounded with all that perfection?” Thranduil’s eyebrows arch slightly, and a knowing smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. He leans back in his throne, one arm draped elegantly over the armrest, his fingers idly brushing the stem of a goblet. His piercing, ice-blue eyes sweep over you with the air of someone both amused and intrigued, as though he’s indulging in a game he didn’t expect to find entertaining “I do not concern myself with trivialities,” he replies, his voice smooth as the finest elven wine, laced with a soft, amused edge. There’s a flicker of challenge in his gaze, as though daring you to continue this line of conversation.

𐂂 You take a step closer, emboldened by the faintest twitch of his smirk. The warmth of the dim torchlight flickers against the intricate carvings of the throne room, but nothing compares to the heat that rises to your cheeks under his penetrating gaze. “Oh, I don’t know,” you say, tilting your head and letting your own smirk bloom across your lips. “I think you should concern yourself with me.” For the briefest moment, a flicker of surprise crosses his features, though he recovers quickly, tilting his head ever so slightly to regard you with renewed interest. The playful amusement in his eyes deepens, like sunlight glinting off the sharp edge of a blade. “Should I?” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a lower register, laced with feigned indifference. Yet, the faint curl of his lips betrays his curiosity. “And why, pray tell, should I entertain such… boldness?” His words are clipped, deliberate, but there’s no mistaking the hint of a challenge—an invitation for you to prove yourself worthy of his attention. His gaze is steady, unflinching, and yet you can sense that beneath the stoic façade, you’ve intrigued him in a way he finds both unexpected and irresistible.

𐂂 You draw closer, your confidence unwavering. “Because, my king,” you say, holding his gaze as if you were his equal, “perfection such as yours deserves to be admired by someone who knows how to appreciate it… thoroughly.” For a long moment, there’s silence in the room, save for the faint rustle of the forest beyond the stone walls. His expression is unreadable, save for the faintest narrowing of his eyes, and the flicker of a grin that he doesn’t quite suppress. “It seems,” he says slowly, his voice laced with wry amusement, “that you possess the audacity of a dwarf and the finesse of an elf. A most… peculiar combination.”

𐂂 You laugh softly, undeterred. “I suppose it’s only fitting, my king. One must be bold to catch your attention.” He leans forward slightly in his throne, the golden light catching in the silver strands of his hair and illuminating his face like a carved statue brought to life. The faintest flicker of warmth touches his otherwise icy demeanor as he studies you. “Consider it caught,” he says finally, his voice smooth as silk, though the subtle arch of his brow reminds you that he will not be easily won. “But beware, little mortal. Tread lightly, lest you find yourself entangled in matters far beyond your comprehension.” And yet, the faintest smile plays on his lips, an unspoken promise that he finds the prospect of this game far more entertaining than he cares to admit.

[aspenmissing]

hope you are doing well!!! i’ve missed your writing so much i love reading your stuff before going to sleep 😭🫶. would you maybe mind writing silcoxreader where they meet when they are younger (like freedom fighter silco) and reader is like a musician, a singer to be precise (a lucy gray type of person). they have this complicated relationship bc they love each other but bc they are young, but most importantly have bigger things going on (fighting for a free zaun through fight and music respectively) they kind of forget to emotionally mature and communicate their feelings properly. then maybe it cuts to them in the future as chem baron silco and reader as a very successful singer crossing paths again, now that they have both matured

ꜱᴏɴɢꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴄɪᴛʏ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ || 3846 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ?

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ! ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ, ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏᴏ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ɢʟᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ʜᴇʟᴘꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴀʟʟ ᴀꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ (ʜᴏᴘᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ!). ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ꜰᴀɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴘʟɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴜɴꜱᴀɪᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

The sounds of Zaun were alive in a way few could understand—an eternal cacophony of clashing gears, groaning pipes, and the hum of restless energy that filled the air like smoke. Beneath that constant buzz, the city’s heart beat not in rhythm but in survival, in survival at any cost. Yet amidst the ceaseless grind of machinery, there was a quieter pulse—a heartbeat, steady and resilient—that belonged to the few who still believed in something beyond the steel and smoke. For Y/N, that pulse was music. Her voice rose above the noise, cutting through the grime and despair, a melody woven with dreams of freedom and hope.

She would sing in the shadowed corners of Zaun’s hidden taverns and underground gatherings, where the only light was the flicker of candles and lanterns struggling to stay alight. Her songs were both a tribute and a weapon. A tribute to the resilience of the downtrodden, a weapon aimed at those who sought to silence them. She sang for the broken, the forgotten, and the dreamers. Her voice echoed down the alleyways, weaving through the air like the last vestiges of sunlight breaking through the smog.

=

One evening, when the dim light from the lanterns cast long shadows across the floor, Silco first found her. He had heard whispers of her—a singer whose voice could stir the soul, whose presence could quiet even the most hardened hearts. But nothing could prepare him for the raw power in her music. He had never been one to care for sentimentality, for dreams or idealism, yet as he stood at the edge of the crowd, watching her with an intensity that seemed to cut through the haze of his own thoughts, he felt something stirring inside him. Something he could not name.

He had been fighting for Zaun’s freedom for so long that he no longer remembered a time when he had a purpose beyond it. It consumed him—every strategy, every attack, every sacrifice. But here, in the presence of her music, he remembered something else: hope. Not the naive, ungrounded kind, but the kind that had long since been buried under layers of bloodshed and broken promises.

When their eyes met, there was no instant understanding, no sudden connection. She was too absorbed in her music, in the passion of her performance, and he was too wrapped up in the endless cycle of his revolution. But something about her presence unsettled him. She was a distraction, he knew that. Yet every night he returned to listen, drawn to the music that seemed to call to a part of him he had long since abandoned.

It became a routine for him. The secret underground tavern, dimly lit and filled with smoke, was where he found her every week, every time he could steal a moment away from the fight. She would be there, standing in the center of the room, her voice raw and beautiful, her eyes closed in passion, as if she was pouring out everything she had into each note.

=

One night, after a particularly fiery performance, he found himself closer to the stage than usual, his eyes fixed on her. Her music made his chest tighten, a feeling that had no place in his hardened existence. The crowd thinned as her song ended, but she lingered in the silence, her gaze catching his from across the room.

"You're always here," she said, her voice low, but it carried a softness to it that caught him off guard. There was no accusation, just curiosity.

“I find your music... stirring,” Silco replied, his voice measured, as if he was speaking to a potential ally, though he wasn’t sure why he added the latter.

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys something as... fleeting as music,” she said, tilting her head with a soft smile, though her eyes were full of an understanding that made him pause.

“It’s more than that,” he answered, and then, sensing his words falling short, he looked away. "Sometimes, it's the only thing that makes sense."

She hummed a soft tune under her breath. "I understand," she said quietly. "Zaun is... many things. But it doesn’t have to be all noise." She set her guitar down, leaning on it as though it were the only thing that kept her grounded. "What’s your name?"

"Silco," he said, no hesitation in his voice. Names didn't mean much these days, but something about her made it feel like she deserved to know.

"Silco," she repeated thoughtfully. "Why are you really here, Silco?" Her voice, though gentle, carried an edge to it—a challenge.

He shifted, feeling the weight of her question press down on him. "Fighting for a future. A better Zaun," he said, his words clipped, careful. The city he fought for was a world away from the music that filled this room, and yet it all seemed to hang together in a strange kind of harmony.

"That’s all?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I think you’re here for something more.”

His gaze snapped back to hers. There it was again—the sense that she could see past the surface, deeper than anyone ever could. It unsettled him, but it also intrigued him. “Maybe,” he muttered, unsure of himself for the first time in a long while.

The tension between them was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words. He wasn’t sure if it was the quiet understanding between them or the sharp intensity in her eyes, but there was something drawing him closer.

But just as he took a step forward, a shout broke the moment. The tavern door flew open, a man barging in, calling for Silco. Without missing a beat, Silco turned away, his duties pulling him back into the harsh reality of Zaun’s underworld.

The days continued to blur together, their meetings growing more frequent but no less complicated. Silco would walk into the tavern, his footsteps quiet yet purposeful, and find her there—always singing, always in control of the space. Each time he arrived, he found himself drawn to her, to the way she made the chaos around them seem less overwhelming. He never fully understood why he couldn’t stay away, but he couldn’t fight the pull either.

Y/N, for her part, had grown used to his presence. She’d begun to expect it, and yet, the uncertainty between them never quite faded. They never spoke of the growing tension, the attraction that seemed to hover just out of reach. Instead, they spent their time in quiet conversation, sharing moments of silence that spoke louder than words.

=

One evening, as Silco entered the tavern, he noticed a different energy in the air. The usual din of conversations and laughter seemed distant, muted. Y/N was sitting at the bar, a glass of water in hand, but her eyes were distant, as though she were lost in thought. He approached cautiously, his gaze drawn to her.

She looked up when he reached her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them felt heavier than usual, more palpable.

Finally, Y/N broke the stillness. “I have something to tell you,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

Silco regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “What is it?”

She hesitated, but then let out a breath, as though she were gathering the courage to share something important. “I’ve been offered a deal,” she said quietly, eyes meeting his. “Piltover wants me to sing at one of their high-profile events. They want me to perform for their elite, for a price that... well, let’s just say it’s more than I’ve ever imagined.”

Silco’s brow furrowed, his gaze hardening. “Piltover?” He couldn’t mask the scepticism in his voice. He knew what Piltover represented to Zaun—oppression, control. He didn’t trust them, not one bit.

Y/N nodded slowly, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass. “I know it sounds like a dream, a way out, but it’s not just about the money. It’s a chance to make a name for myself, to reach a wider audience. Something bigger than this... than all of this.” She paused, her voice growing softer. “But the thing is, I don’t want to go alone.”

Silco’s gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, she could see something unguarded in his eyes. “You want me to go with you?” he asked, his voice low, the weight of his question hanging between them.

Y/N took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to come with me, Silco. Not just to Piltover, but to something more. I don’t want to keep doing this... pretending like everything is just business, like we don’t feel what’s between us.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Silco couldn’t speak. His mind raced, thoughts swirling with the weight of the decision she was asking him to make. Piltover, the city that had never given Zaun a second thought. How could he, the leader of Zaun’s revolution, abandon his people for a life of luxury and fame? He’d always told himself that he couldn’t afford to care about anything beyond the revolution, but now, faced with her words, he wondered if he’d been lying to himself all along.

Y/N’s eyes were searching his, hopeful but uncertain. She could see the conflict in his expression, the way his mind was torn between two worlds.

Finally, Silco spoke, his voice rough, as though the words were difficult to shape. “I can’t. I can’t leave Zaun, not like that. Not for a life of... comfort, no matter how much it might offer.”

She swallowed, a wave of disappointment crashing over her. She had known, somewhere deep down, that this was always going to be the answer. But hearing him say it, hearing the finality in his tone, still stung.

“You have your revolution,” she said softly, her gaze dropping to the table. “And I have my music. I guess that’s just how it’s meant to be, huh?”

Silco didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t deny the truth in her words, but it didn’t make the pain any easier to bear. He couldn’t explain the emptiness that filled him as she spoke—empty, yet full of longing, like a part of him was already slipping away.

“You don’t have to make a choice between those things, Y/N,” he said quietly. “But I’ve made mine. This city... it’s everything to me. I can’t just walk away, not now.”

There was a long pause before she spoke again, her voice tinged with sadness but resolute. “I understand. I knew, deep down, you’d choose Zaun over everything else.”

He didn’t reply right away. He couldn’t. The words felt like they’d get stuck in his throat. Instead, he reached for her hand across the table, a rare gesture of tenderness. “But I’ll always be here,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on her. “In my own way.”

Y/N met his gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause, as if the weight of everything they had shared was hanging between them, suspended in time.

“I’ll be here too,” she whispered, though there was a sense of finality in her tone. She would leave for Piltover, pursue her dreams, but she would never forget this—never forget the connection they had. It would always be a part of her.

And so, they sat there for a long while, the space between them both tender and painful, as the world outside continued to move on.

The years had carved their mark on Zaun, and even deeper on its people. The streets, once full of hope, were now a patchwork of broken dreams, dark alleys, and the bitter scent of lost possibilities. Silco, the man who had once fought for the freedom of his people, had become something darker—a king in the shadows. The fire that had once burned in him for a better Zaun was now a cold, calculating flame, fueling his hunger for control. The ideals of revolution had become a distant memory, replaced by the harsh reality of power. His vision for Zaun had transformed into a kingdom built on fear, a system in which loyalty was purchased and trust was a currency few could afford.

Y/N, too, had changed. The girl who had once dreamed of music as a means to heal the broken city had grown into something far more complicated. She had become a celebrated voice, not just in Zaun, but in Piltover as well. Her songs, filled with the cries of the oppressed, had spread like wildfire through the streets, reaching ears in both the gilded halls of Piltover’s elite and the crumbling tenements of Zaun. But as her fame had grown, so had the distance between her and the world she once fought for. The songs that had once been her lifeline, her way of connecting to the people of Zaun, now felt like an echo. The fire in her heart that had once burned with passion had long since dimmed, leaving behind only embers of a love she could never fully shake.

Despite her rise to fame, the city she had once sung for felt increasingly distant, as if it belonged to someone else. She was a symbol, a figurehead of resistance, but she no longer felt that spark of hope she had once had. Her lyrics, filled with the same yearnings for freedom, seemed hollow now. She had become a voice for the voiceless, but even her own voice felt like it was starting to fade into the background of a world she no longer understood.

It was at one of the grandest galas Piltover had ever thrown—a celebration of the wealth and opulence that kept the divide between the cities wider than ever—that Y/N would once again cross paths with the man who had been the fire in her life. The room was glittering with jewels and expensive perfumes, filled with the laughter and chatter of Piltover’s finest, while the streets below pulsed with the ache of injustice. Y/N stood at the side of the stage, her heart heavy as she prepared to perform. The music was her escape, her way to reach across the divide between herself and a world she no longer recognized. But tonight, it was different. The weight of the city, the weight of her past, was pulling her down.

She had known she would be performing at this gala, but she hadn’t expected to feel this pulled, this disconnected. The spotlight was on her, but her mind kept drifting elsewhere—back to Zaun, back to the past she had tried so hard to leave behind. And then, as her voice began to fill the room, her eyes landed on him. Across the hall, standing near the back, was Silco.

He was impossible to miss. Even in the opulence of Piltover, his presence cut through the room like a knife. He stood apart from the crowd, his posture rigid and his eyes cold and calculating. He hadn’t changed much. The sharpness of his features was still the same, though they had grown more weathered over the years, his face harder, as if time had sculpted him into something more unforgiving. The fire that had once driven him to fight for Zaun’s freedom had been replaced by a cold, unyielding resolve. He was no longer the passionate leader of a revolution, but a ruler of something far darker.

For a moment, Y/N faltered, her voice catching in her throat. The lyrics to the song felt heavier, more poignant, as if they carried the weight of everything that had passed between them. She tried to focus on the crowd, to lose herself in the music, but Silco’s gaze burned into her. It was the same gaze he had given her all those years ago—the same look that had once ignited a fire within her. But now, it felt like a distant memory, a ghost of something long lost. The song spilled from her lips, but the words felt different now. They carried the ache of her own yearning, the heaviness of a past she could never escape.

When her set was over, Y/N quickly retreated backstage, her breath shaky. The song had been harder to sing than she’d expected, and the moment she had locked eyes with Silco had only intensified the weight on her chest. She tried to steady her hands, to shake off the remnants of the emotions that still clung to her, but it was impossible. Her heart was still racing, her mind still reeling from the brief moment of connection. She had hoped—no, she had convinced herself—that she could move on. That she could forget him, forget Zaun, forget the dreams they had shared. But seeing him again, standing there as if nothing had changed, shattered that illusion.

She couldn’t ignore it any longer. She had to see him.

=

Later that evening, as the gala continued in full swing, Y/N slipped away from the festivities, her movements quiet and deliberate. She had always been good at disappearing, at slipping into the shadows when she needed to. She made her way through the corridors, away from the prying eyes of Piltover’s elite, and found herself in a quiet, dimly lit alcove. And there, in the half-light, stood Silco.

He hadn’t moved from his spot, and he didn’t seem surprised to see her. He stood as if he owned the shadows, his dark eyes scanning her with that same unreadable expression. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but she could feel the years of distance between them in the silence. It wasn’t the reunion she had imagined. She had thought there would be words, maybe anger, maybe even reconciliation. But it was only the weight of what had been—and what could never be again.

“You’re still here,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. There was a touch of surprise in her voice, but more than that, there was a tinge of something old, something that never quite left. A reminder of the woman she had been before she had let the world break her.

“I never left,” Silco replied smoothly, his voice still as cold as she remembered. “I just changed the way I play the game.”

Y/N’s heart tightened at his words. She had expected bitterness, maybe even anger, but his calmness felt like something else—a finality, a resignation. He had moved on. He had become something else entirely, something she no longer recognized. She had expected to find a version of Silco who still fought for Zaun’s freedom, a man who still cared for the city they had once dreamed of saving together. But instead, she saw a man who had become lost to it all. The revolution was over. The dream had died, and Silco had buried it along with everything else.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of all those years she had spent trying to forget him. She had left Zaun, left him, and in her mind, she had thought that would be the end of it. But here he was, standing before her like some ghost of her past, and the truth was—she hadn’t ever really left him behind.

Silco’s lips curled into a half-smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “You left Zaun behind. But Zaun never really leaves anyone, does it?”

Her chest tightened. He was right. No matter how far she had gone, no matter how much she had changed, Zaun was still there. It was in her music. In the air she breathed. In the choices she had made. She had tried to outrun it, to escape the city and the people who still haunted her, but Zaun was never far behind. She had tried to outrun the woman she had been, but the past always had a way of catching up.

“You’re still the same,” she said softly, the bitterness creeping into her words. “You still think you can change the world by controlling it.”

“And you still think you can change it with songs,” Silco retorted, his tone sharp but not unkind. “But what good are songs when they’re only heard by those who already agree with you?”

Y/N flinched, the words stinging more than she cared to admit. But the truth of them struck deep. What had she been singing for? Who had she really been singing for? She had tried to fight for a better Zaun, but now, after everything, she wasn’t sure what she was fighting for anymore. What had once felt like a cause worth dying for had become a hollow echo of itself.

“You’ve changed, Silco,” she whispered, her voice softer now. “You’ve become something else. Something I don’t know if I can still reach.”

Silco stepped closer, his eyes darkening. “I’ve always been something else, Y/N. I just didn’t know it until I had to.”

Y/N shook her head, the memories of what they had been—what they had meant to each other—flashing through her mind. “I wanted to believe in you,” she admitted quietly. “I wanted to believe in us. But we were never what I thought we were.”

Silco’s gaze softened for the briefest moment, but it was gone just as quickly. “What does it matter now?” he asked, his voice low. “We’ve both sacrificed. We’ve both made choices. There’s no going back.”

A silence fell between them, heavy with the years of distance, the unspoken words, the pain of everything left unresolved. Y/N felt the weight of it press down on her chest, the realization that they were both no longer the people they had been. There was no turning back. There was no way to recapture the dreams they had shared, no way to fix the broken pieces of what they had lost.

But then, as if the years of silence between them had suddenly shifted, Y/N took a step forward, her voice trembling but steady. “I don’t know if I can let go of what we were. What we could have been. I don’t know if I can forget you.”

Silco’s expression faltered for the briefest of moments, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “I never wanted you to forget me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I never wanted to lose you.”

For a long moment, they stood there in the quiet, two people caught between past and present, torn between what they had once been and what they had become. There were no more words left to say, no more promises to be made. The past was gone, and with it, the hope they had once shared.

In the end, all that remained was the weight of their choices—and the silence that had grown between them.

[untoldreader]

Arrival at the Hydra base

Natasha Romanoff x Peggy Carter x Maria Hill x Reader

Summary

Y/N was transported to the Hydra base under the control of the Red Room and Hydra. The Avengers arrived, disrupting their plans and uncovering Y/N's involvement in the "Red Soldier" project as "The Executioner."

Warnings

None?

[—Chapter One: Arrival at the Hydra Base—]

The cold metal chains chafed against my wrists as I was escorted by the Red Room operatives towards the awaiting transportation to the Hydra base. There was no escape for me, as both organizations held ownership over my very existence. My heart pounded with a mix of fear and determination as I prepared myself for the unknown challenges that awaited me at the Hydra facility.

The journey to the Hydra base was shrouded in secrecy, with the Red Room operatives ensuring my compliance through subtle threats and promises of power. The vehicle that carried me was unmarked, its windows tinted to conceal the outside world. My thoughts raced as I tried to piece together what my future held in this new environment controlled by Hydra.

As we approached the Hydra base, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense. The air was heavy with the weight of darkness and oppression that permeated the very walls of the facility. The sight of armed guards standing at attention sent a chill down my spine, reminding me of the danger that lurked within these walls.

The gates of the Hydra base loomed before us, opening with a sinister creak that echoed through the silent night. As I was led inside, I couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding wash over me. This was a place of secrets and shadows, where loyalty was bought with blood and betrayal lurked around every corner.

I steeled myself for what lay ahead, knowing that my survival depended on my ability to navigate the treacherous waters of Hydra's domain. Little did I know that my arrival at the Hydra base would mark the beginning of a journey that would test my limits and push me to the brink of darkness.

The sudden arrival of the Avengers at the Hydra base sent shockwaves through the facility, catching the guards off guard and throwing the carefully laid plans of the Red Room and Hydra into disarray. The sound of screeching tires and the roar of engines filled the air as the Avengers' quinjet touched down outside the base, a symbol of hope and resistance against the darkness that lurked within.

Iron Man's suit gleamed in the dim light as he led the charge, followed closely by Captain America, Black Widow, Thor, and the rest of the team. Their presence was a beacon of light in the shadowy depths of the Hydra base, a reminder that justice would prevail against tyranny and oppression.

As the Avengers stormed the base, their weapons at the ready, chaos erupted in their wake. Hydra agents scrambled to defend their stronghold, while Red Room operatives fought tooth and nail to protect their secrets. The clash of metal and gunfire reverberated through the halls, a symphony of battle that echoed the fierce determination of those who fought for freedom.

Peggy Carter and Maria Hill, seasoned agents in their own right, joined forces with the Avengers, their expertise and skill adding an extra layer of strategy to the assault on the Hydra base. Together, they navigated the labyrinthine corridors, searching for the hidden files that held the key to unraveling the dark web of Hydra and the Red Room.

As they delved deeper into the heart of the base, the Avengers and their allies uncovered a trove of classified documents and encrypted files, each one a piece of the puzzle that would expose the true extent of Hydra's influence and the Red Room's insidious machinations. The truth lay buried within those files, waiting to be brought to light by the heroes who stood against the forces of evil.

As the Avengers sifted through the classified files they had recovered from the Hydra base, a particular document caught Black Widow's sharp eye. She carefully scanned the contents, her expression darkening as she realized the implications of what they had uncovered.

"This is it," she murmured, her voice low yet filled with urgency. "This file details the project known as 'The Red Soldier'... and it appears that Y/N is at the center of it all."

Captain America and Iron Man gathered around as Black Widow continued to read, her brow furrowed in concern. The revelation that Y/N had been subjected to such a sinister project sent a shiver of anger down their spines. But what truly chilled them to the core was the discovery of Y/N's code name: "The Executioner."

"Y/N... The Executioner," Captain America repeated, his jaw clenched in determination. "We need to find them and put an end to this madness once and for all."

The Avengers shared a collective resolve as they realized the gravity of the situation. Y/N, their friend and ally, had been weaponized by Hydra and the Red Room, transformed into a lethal force to be reckoned with. But they knew that beneath the code name and the sinister project lay the true spirit of Y/N, a person of courage and strength who deserved to be liberated from the shadows that had ensnared them.

The journey ahead would be treacherous, but with their combined strength and unwavering resolve, they knew that they would stop at nothing to save their friend and bring justice to those who had sought to manipulate and control them.

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Hydra file->