#it is not your fault your explanation was gold

[tennessoui]

so two more of my dnd friends announced that they were dating each other recently and i had the thought,,, dnd could fix him(anakin) so like. imagine he has a huttese only game that he dms going on throughout his teenage years (maybe with childhood friend kitster) and then that friendship group implodes thanks to teenage drama. so then he gets into a group playing in basic (whether or not they meet due to dnd or this is canon au and so obi wan spends anakin’s teen years pretending he’s not jealous of the attention anakin gives to his dnd game is variable) and boom! this game has obi wan in it. and dnd has a lot of improv and acting so if their characters fall in love it doesn’t mean anakin and obi wan are in love, even though anakin having a fake sibling relationship with kitster or someone does mean that the two of them think of each other as kind of siblings. but obviously the only person allowed to be in love with anakin’s character is obi wans character. if anakin’s the dm then that means no one but obi wan is allowed an npc flirt so obi wans character has to be the Biggest Slut, but if anakin’s another player than that means anakin’s character is absolutely Not Allowed to Be A Slut and neither is Obi-Wan’s because the only one for him by now is anakin. (bonus points if it’s a dnd podcast like critical role so obi-wan sees shipping fanart of characters) for once anakin is not the crazy jealous one because he’s played dnd long enough that he knows any flirting is just practice for obikin. anakin is more worried about his friendship with vos than obi wan being an in game slut.

(publishing follow up ask for dnd context)

sorry, dnd anon here, forgot to let u know the basics of the game. basically, one person gets really into it and world builds a whole world with npcs and politics and a villain (bbeg) and becomes the dungeon master (dm) for either a single session (one shot) or a whole multi session story arc (called a campaign) while everyone else plays one single character and rolls the dice that the dm tells them to to see if they succeed or fail. sometimes the players come up with really wacky shit that the dm just has to like. deal with, and other times someone says something like “life needs things to live” and everyone lovingly mocks them for it. podcasts of people playing exist, and some of them have huge fandoms with while shipping cultures, and if u want to watch one to get familiarized with the game, i would recommend dungeons and drag queens by dimension 20 (2/2)

i need to preface this by saying i really don't know anything about dnd and the explanation you sent is really great but i still don't think i know anything about dnd. also i feel like a little part of anakin has to always have a crazy jealous inclination because (gestures to mustafar anakin rots scenes) that was formative to me when i watched it

maybe obi-wan's letting all of his jealousy flow into his character so he's being sorta unhinged in the game while anakin is being unhinged in real life. compromise!

this isn't dnd necessarily, but your ask did remind me of this fic by @intermundia where they play world of warcraft

and i absolutely remember reading a fic where they play dnd in a modern au and that's their whole basis for a relationship but i really cannot remember it for the life of me. or find it.

[iamthepulta]

wait no please explain mineral processing!!!

I gasped in delight at the ask, haha. I love mineral processing.

Mineral processing is the theory of economically getting your desired element out of whatever it naturally comes in. So Li out of spodumene, or Cu out of chalcopyrite. It's usually split into hydrometallurgy and pyrometallurgy (liquid chemistry and melting the fuck out of it, respectively), and often taught as hard rock extraction, but you need it for Every Element, really. So you can also focus on extracting phosphates, or nitrates, or uranium! It's chemistry++~

Personally, I know the most about copper extraction and my focus is on hydrometallurgy/geometallurgy, although pyrometallurgy is near to my heart. Copper is coincidentally a really good example of how the two work because it comes as so many natural minerals. (Further explanations under the cut...)

So for copper minerals! You have a whole slew of oxides and sulfides. They occur in different part of your orebodies under different states of oxidation/sulfidation. Take Chrysocolla, Malachite, Chalcocite, and Chalcopyrite. (Cu-silicate)(an oxide), (Cu-carbonate)(an oxide), (Cu-Sulfide), and (Cu-Fe-Sulfide).

Mines usually use hydrometallurgy for oxides by sticking them in a leach heap and pouring sulfuric acid over the whole thing. The acid selectively picks up the Cu ion from silicates and carbonates, leaving the primary tetrahedra alone. The sulfides can work with this chemistry if the mineral's comfort zone is outside of the current conditions (Chalcocite does leach, but usually leaves a Cu ion in the structure as CuS) but minerals like Chalcopyrite are very poor leachers because the outer rim of ions are ripped away, leaving a somewhat-hypothetical "passive layer" of Fe/S that won't react with the acid. So if you have a mine with a lot of Chalcopyrite, you'll be leaving money on the table unless you do something.

So people use pyrometallurgy! Which is what we've been using since the Bronze Age, really. You crush the rock to micrometer grains, use the hydrophobic properties of sulfur to "float" the sulfides in water, then send all of it to the smelter and melt the shit out of it, while adding particular chemicals and minerals to enhance copper recovery while suppressing sulfides you don't want, like sphalerite and galena.

It's REALLY cool. I'm biased of course, but I absolutely love the whole cycle. xD Being in mineral processing also gets you on the backside of geopolitics because you're the only person who understands how to GET things and WHERE to get them and why it's not as simple as pulling Cu out of the ground.

Feel free to ask questions!! I love processing so much, and mining in general, even though I'm only a master's student.

((And NO STUPID QUESTIONS. The mining industry is a goddamn black box DO NOT feel bad if you don't know what stuff means or formulas, or processes. I swear I learn one new word a week. They also have fifty names for everything too because 50 names are always better than 1. 👍)

[mephisto-reporting]

Silk, Satin and Sensual

Premise: Headcanons on his preferences for lingerie and his reaction when he sees you in them. Based on this request. Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. This is suggestive. Please do not interact if you are a minor. Caleb version is out!!. If you wanted to be added to my taglist, please DM, ask or comment :D Content warning: Suggestive. MNDI.

XAVIER

Xavier has a thing for soft, celestial tones like white, cream, silvers and muted golds. He’s drawn to fabrics that shimmer faintly, almost like starlight against your skin. He has a thing for delicate patterns, like lacework.

Sheer materials like mesh and chiffon drive him wild, especially if they reveal just enough to leave him craving more. He prefers the balance of teasing and revealing, where the fabric hints at your curves without fully exposing them.

He’s absolutely obsessed with your thighs and prefers lingerie that accentuates them. Garter belts, thigh-high stockings, and intricate lace shorts are his kryptonite.

If you have small celestial accents like tiny golden stars or moon charms hanging from the garters… good fucking luck. You are not walking the next day.

He has an unapologetic habit of tearing your lingerie when he loses control, so he’s constantly replacing your wardrobe. His explanation? “It’s not my fault they’re made so fragile. I’ll get you something sturdier—next time.”

Once the damage is done and your new lingerie is in shreds, Xavier looks annoyingly unbothered. He’ll casually toss the ruined piece aside and murmur, “Guess I’ll have to buy you another.”

He’ll commission a lingerie set made of delicate ivory lace with gold threads woven into it, shaped to mimic constellations. He’ll surprise you with thigh-high stockings that have faint, shimmering patterns running up the sides. These are always paired with garter belts because he loves tugging on them when he is intimate with you.

He’ll leave the box on your bed, wrapped in soft cream paper with a gold ribbon. Inside, there’s always a handwritten note in his steady handwriting. “For you. You’re too beautiful not to be dressed like the stars themselves.”

His reactions:

The moment he sees you in lingerie, his carefully composed demeanor melts away, replaced by an intense, almost predatory focus. His eyes lock onto your thighs, and his voice becomes a low murmur laced with want. He is the definition of: his eyes darkened.

Xavier likes the idea that these pieces are chosen specifically for his eyes. If anyone else saw you in them, even accidentally, it would ignite a streak of jealousy.

If you walk past him too many times, deliberately flaunting the look, he’ll finally snap. One moment, you’re teasing him; the next, you’re backed against the wall with his hands tracing the garter straps. “Do you want me to tear this off?” he’ll ask, his voice soft but carrying that dangerous edge. Spoiler: He’s already decided the answer.

ZAYNE

Zayne prefers earthy tones—rich browns, deep greens, warm ambers, and muted burgundies. These hues remind him of natural beauty, grounding yet alluring. He loves subtle details like lace trim, delicate straps that crisscross your back, or a ribbon that ties just above your hips—small elements that add to the allure.

Zayne is drawn to pieces that accentuate your waist. Corset-style lingerie, high-waisted panties, or teddies with cinched designs are his favorites. He admires the way they create an hourglass effect, appreciating your silhouette.

He has a thing for materials that feel good to the touch: silky satins, fine lace, and soft mesh. The tactile experience is as important to him as the visual.

Zayne has impeccable taste, selecting pieces that balance seduction with sophistication. Think satin teddies with plunging necklines or lace bodysuits with subtle, sheer paneling. He gravitates toward lingerie sets that emphasize your natural beauty rather than overwhelming it—clean lines, elegant accents, and designs that celebrate your form.

When Zayne gifts you lingerie, he makes it an intimate experience. He’ll lay the gift on the bed, wrapped in tissue paper with a single dried flower,something earthy and subtle, like a sprig of lavender or rosemary. His note is direct: “For when you’re ready to let me admire you properly.”

Zayne picks quality over quantity. He’d rather gift you one stunning, well-made piece than several forgettable ones. His selections are designed to last—not that he always gives them the chance to.

His gaze never wavers. When you wear lingerie, Zayne’s eyes lock on yours before slowly traveling down your body, making you feel like the most captivating thing in the world.

There’s no ripping it off, but it won’t take long before he’s slipping the fabric off. He’s not gentle, but he’s not reckless either. There’s a certain hunger in how he undresses you.

His Reaction:

When you walk into the room wearing one of his carefully chosen pieces, Zayne’s reaction is immediate. His calm is replaced by a sharp intake of breath, his eyes trailing over you with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier.

Zayne’s fingers brush over the fabric with deliberate slowness, his palms lingering against the soft satin at your hips. “Feels even better than I imagined,” he murmurs, his lips quirking into a heated smirk. “But I think it’d feel better on the floor.”

If you tease him, letting a strap fall off your shoulder or adjusting the lace just so—Zayne’s control begins to crack. His hands are on you instantly, his voice dropping to a growl. “You like testing me, don’t you? Keep it up, and you’ll see what happens.”

RAFAYEL

Rafayel is drawn to soft, pastel shade like gentle blues, lavender, and delicate purples. He prefers lingerie that’s sweet and soft, evoking a sense of innocence while still being sensual.

He gravitates towards cuter lingerie like bralette sets with flowing chiffon accents, babydolls with sheer overlays, or high-waisted lingerie shorts. He likes pieces that don’t reveal too much but are so alluring that he cannot keep his eyes off you.

Rafayel is obsessed with fine details such as silver waistbands that drape lightly like jewelry, chokers that gleam with tiny pearls, delicate chain straps on your bra, tiny dangling gemstones, or trims that sparkle subtly in the light.

Sheer robes, flowing fabrics, and fluttering hems draw his gaze as they cling to your skin over your lingerie like water waves. If you are wearing a lingerie, fresh out of the shower with your hair still wet, it is game over for this man.

Rafayel treats every moment with you in lingerie as sacred. He doesn’t rush; instead, he takes his time, savoring every detail like an artist admiring their finest work

Rafayel is the kind of person who doesn’t just buy off the shelf. He’ll have something specially commissioned for you, likely a set of lingerie that reflects your personality and his artistic sensibilities. His commission might even include small charms that are Lemuria inspired.

Rafayel, though loving, is bashful when it comes to gifting lingerie. He would likely have the lingerie sent to you without a grand reveal, perhaps bundled with other gifts like chocolates, perfume, scarves that might distract from his true intentions. His note will be brief, almost casual: “Some pieces I thought you'd appreciate, seeing as you're always so fashionable.”

His Reaction:

The first time you step out wearing one of his custom sets, a soft lavender bralette with delicate gold chain accents and a matching choker—Rafayel freezes. Rafayel can’t stop staring, though he tries to look away, his hand rising to cover his mouth as his blush deepens. “I-I didn’t think it would suit you this perfectly…” he stammers, his gaze flicking back to you despite himself.

“I… I didn’t mean for it to be so… um… revealing,” he stammers, eyes lingering on the intricate lace and the subtle gleam of the small jewels. “But… you look… divine.” When Rafayel touches the fabric, his fingers tremble against your skin. He’s so gentle, almost reverently so, as though touching you in this way is an act of worship.

"It’s like you’re wearing my art… and I can’t stop admiring it." His gaze will flicker between your face and the lingerie, doing his best to hold himself together. “Why are you doing this to me?” he’ll murmur with desire. “I just want to keep you here... like this... for as long as possible.” he whispers, voice barely audible, as though if he spoke louder, he might break the spell.

SYLUS

Sylus gravitates toward bold, classic colors like deep blacks, rich reds, and occasionally luxurious whites, midnight blues or dark emerald greens. These colors resonate with him. He appreciates the elegance of these shades, as they exude sophistication and bold sensuality.

He’s a silk and satin man through and through. These fabrics are smooth, luxurious, and irresistible to his touch. He loves how they glide over your skin and how they feel beneath his fingertips.

He loves classic, timeless lingerie: lacy bras with garter belts, high-cut panties that highlight your legs, and elegant teddies that hug every curve. Think luxury brands and couture pieces that scream sensuality.

Occasionally, Sylus surprises you with bolder, risqué styles: Cage-style bras with open backs, strappy bodysuits that playfully expose just enough skin, lingerie with sheer panels, leaving little to the imagination.

He doesn’t tear or rush; instead, he carefully folds each piece, placing it aside after everything is said and done. “I’ll want to see this on you again.” he explains with a sly smirk

Sylus doesn’t stop at gifting you a single set. Every outfit in your closet has a matching pair of lingerie. You’ll find lingerie for every occasion. Sylus alwayssurprise you with a box containing lingerie hidden among other extravagant gifts—fine jewelry, luxurious robes, or even a custom-made vanity to store your collection: “Maybe my luck is not be so bad if I am the only man who gets to see you in these, sweetie.”

For Sylus, lingerie isn’t just for the bedroom. He loves seeing you lounge in one of his tailored sets, reclining on his sofa as you read or listen to music together. Sylus is content to let his hands roam over the satin, enjoying the feel of it warmed by your skin. “Stay like this,” he’ll say softly, his voice a mix of command and yearning. “I want to keep you close.”

True to his nature, Sylus has a habit of keeping little trophies. He has a drawer in one of his private residences dedicated to these keepsakes  as a reminder of your shared moments. If you ever catch him in the act of placing something there, he’ll simply shrug with a sly grin. “Can you blame me? I keep what’s mine.”

His Reaction:

When you step into the room wearing something he’s chosen for you, Sylus’ composed exterior falters, just slightly. His gaze darkens, and his lips curl into a small, satisfied smirk. He’ll take a slow step toward you, one hand tucked casually in his pocket, the other reaching out to trail a finger down the silk, letting it rest against your hip.

Without hesitation, he’ll scoop you into his arms, carrying you effortlessly to where he wants you—be it the bedroom, his grand leather chair in the study, or even the chaise lounge in front of the fireplace. “I’m not letting you out of my sight when you like this.”

Sylus never tears your lingerie—he unwraps you like the most precious gift, his hands moving with reverent care. “You deserve to be savored, not rushed.” he whispers, his gaze locked on you. He’ll seat you on his lap or lay you down, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate movements along the fabric. The lingerie is not just for his pleasure, it is for yours as well.  

CALEB

Caleb prefers lingerie that’s just for him—sexy yet teasing, revealing enough to drive him mad but covering just enough to make him desperate.

Caleb gravitates toward sleek, understated sensuality. He favors deep, alluring colors like navy, black, and dark burgundy, shades that hint at elegance but still feel undeniably intimate. However, he has a soft spot for delicate lilacs and soft purples, especially when they complement your skin.

Minimal but devastatingly effective designs have him on edge. Thin straps barely holding everything together, high-cut panties that accentuate your legs, delicate bralettes that are more about aesthetics than practicality. He loves when the details like lace appliques or ribbon ties demand his attention. Anything he can tug, unravel, or ruin.

Let’s be real. Caleb is not a man who delicately undresses you. He’s been patient his entire life, watching, waiting, restraining himself. The moment you’re finally his? He’s not taking his time. “You knew what would happen when you put this on, didn’t you?” His voice is low, rough—before the sound of tearing lace fills the room.

If you ever wonder why pieces of your lingerie mysteriously disappear, don’t. Caleb takes them when you’re not looking, slipping them into his uniform pockets or luggage when he’s preparing for deployment. He’s possessive, obsessive, and when he’s away on fleet missions, he wants something of yours to keep with him. A delicate lace garter? A silk chemise you once wore to bed? He’ll tuck them away like trophies, running his fingers over them late at night, mind filled with thoughts of you.

He’s a man who gives gifts with purpose. He knows exactly what you want, and he knows what he wants. If he’s getting you that plushie you mentioned offhandedly, or the book you’ve been dying to read, you will find a carefully wrapped lingerie set alongside it. Every gift is a two-for-one deal—his way of spoiling you while satisfying his own desires. Tucked inside, there’s always a note with cheeky messages: "Making dinner tonight. But if you wear this, you'll be the dessert."

Caleb is the picture of patience in public. He knows what you’re wearing underneath your dress—he saw you put it on, watched every slow movement in the mirror. But he doesn’t let it show. Not a single twitch of his lips, not a single shift in his stance. He leans down, lips brushing your ear, his voice impossibly calm: “You’re going to regret this later.”

There is one thing that drives him past the point of no return— his clothes on you. Seeing you in his oversized shirt is one thing, but if he catches you lounging in his boxers? He’s done. His fingers dig into the waistband, his voice a rough whisper against your ear. “You must really like testing me, huh?” His breath is hot against your neck, his hands already tugging the waistband lower. Any plans you had for the day? Gone.

His Reaction:

When you step into the room, wearing something meant just for him, his expression darkens immediately. There’s a brief flicker of something feral in his purple eyes—desire, possessiveness, raw hunger. He doesn’t say a word at first, just stands there, his breath held. “You expect me to behave after this?” His patience is frayed, and it's clear he’s barely holding onto his composure.

Try to tease him, make him work for it and he’ll let you, for a moment. He enjoys the chase, the way you think you’re in control. But the moment he decides he’s had enough? You’re done for. One second, he’s watching you with quiet intensity, and the next, you’re beneath him, your wrists pinned, your breath stolen by the sheer force of his presence.

When he touches you, it’s as if he can’t get enough—his fingers move with purpose, reverence, but there’s an undeniable urgency. “You’re mine. Always.” And with that, his lips crash against yours, taking what’s his. There’s no gentle teasing here—this is pure, unfiltered desire. It’s clear there’s no going back now. You’ve pushed him past the point of no return. The soft, teasing lace may have been your choice—but now everything that happens from there is his.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

taglist: @cordidy

[im-so-normal-iswear]

Hello! It's me the one who requested reader sleepwalking. Can I be sleepwalk anon?

Sorry I didn't know you were overwhelmed by my request yesterday, I was reading the rules carefully and I was like— "ah ok so meaning they can write 4 or more characters, imma request!"

You can do the main sss hedgehog boys for sleepwalking reader or just sonic and shadow, is that makes you comfortable.

Again, sorry for making you overwhelmed!

A/n: yeah, sorry, it's my fault for not making it clear to begin with.

Triple S x reader who sleepwalks

Sonic:

Sonic has a habit of staying up late, so it’s no surprise he’s awake when you begin your sleepwalking. He’s lounging on the couch, watching a movie, when you shuffle out of your room, arms slightly outstretched, your face completely blank.

At first, Sonic thinks you’re just messing with him. Talking to you as if any other normal day. But you don’t respond. Instead, you march straight past him and bump into the coffee table.

Sonic’s grin falters when you mutter something incoherent under your breath, rubbing your knee absently before walking into the wall.

“Wait… are you sleepwalking?” Sonic whispers to himself.

He jumps up and jogs over to you. "Uh, Y/N? You good there, buddy?" He waves a hand in front of your face, but you only mutter again, turning sharply and walking toward the kitchen.

"Alright, this is either going to be really funny or a disaster waiting to happen," though hes not gonna stop you now as hes genuinely curious, so he just continues following you.

He watches in silent amusement as you open the fridge, stare at its contents for a solid thirty seconds, then grab an apple, only to drop it immediately and shuffle away. You make a beeline for the sink, turn on the faucet, and start washing the counter.

"Okay, yeah, this is gold," Sonic mutters, pulling out his phone to record the scene.

When you bump into the kitchen table, mutter again, and sit down in the middle of the floor like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Sonic finally intervenes. He gently steers you back to your room, all the while stifling laughter.

The next morning, you wake up to sonic all up next to you, shoving his phone in your face as you groggily watch the video of yourself sleepwalking, complete with Sonic’s commentary.

"And here we have the rare Sleepwalking Y/N in their natural habitat. Truly majestic. Ten out of ten entertainment."

Silver:

Silver is a light sleeper, so when he hears footsteps at three in the morning, he immediately bolts upright. He’s halfway to activating his psychokinesis when he realizes it’s just you, wandering around aimlessly.

At first, he’s worried. Very worried. Did you have a nightmare? Are you okay? But then he notices your vacant expression and the way you keep bumping into furniture without reacting.

"Wait… are they sleepwalking?"

He watches as you stumble toward the bookshelf, run your hand along it like you’re looking for something, and then pull out a random book. You open it, flip a few pages, and then hold it upside down, muttering something under your breath.

Silver doesn’t know whether to laugh or try to wake you up. Instead, he decides to quietly follow you, just to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. He uses his powers to move objects out of your way as you shuffle around the room. When you trip over your own feet and fall onto the couch, Silver gently places a pillow under your head with his powers, smiling softly.

"You’re so weird," he mutters, sitting down to keep watch.

When you eventually get up and start wandering again, Silver patiently just follows you around the house. Waking up to Silvers sheepish explanation on what happened.

"You were, uh, walking around and muttering stuff," he says. "I didn’t want to wake you up, so I just made sure you didn’t, you know, fall down the stairs or something."

Shadow:

Shadow is not amused. He’s a heavy sleeper, but even he can’t ignore the sound of you knocking over a lamp at three in the morning. He storms out of his room, fully prepared to scold whoever’s causing the commotion, only to freeze when he sees you standing in the middle of the hallway, staring at the floor like it personally offended you.

"Y/N," he says sharply, but you don’t respond. Instead, you turn and start walking toward him, your steps uneven and your expression blank.

"Y/N?" he tries again, still no answer.

You brush past him, muttering something incoherent, and head straight for the couch. You sit down, pick up a throw pillow, and hug it like it’s the most important thing in the world.

Shadow, upon peicing together your sleep walking, stares at you for a long moment, his arms crossed. He debates whether or not to wake you up but ultimately decides against it. Instead, he sits down in a nearby chair and watches you closely, making sure you don’t do anything dangerous.

When you eventually get up and start wandering again, Shadow follows you with a deep scowl. When you try to open the front door, he steps in front of you, his arms crossed.

"You’re not going outside," he says firmly, even though he knows you can’t hear him.

The next morning, he confronts you over breakfast.

"Do you have any idea how much noise you made last night?" he asks, glaring daggers at you.

When you look at him in confusion, he sighs and explains. "You were sleepwalking. You almost walked straight out the door at three in the morning."

In short terms bro is done with you /j

[dollivication]

being a cat hybrid and having to deal with re2r!puppy!leon…except he’s mean and yucky.

tw: noncon, piss, forced breeding, manipulation, leon victimizing himself. dead dove. mdni.

re2r!puppy!leon who stole all the attention from your owner. him knocking over items and breaking them only to whimper and point his finger at you when your owner demands an explanation, ultimately resulting in you getting tossed out into the backyard to “reflect.”

re2r!puppy!leon who eats from your plate, giving your owner that pitiful little look that makes their heart melt everytime and any reprimands fall flat. telling you that leon is only a puppy, constantly justifying leon’s actions under the reason of him not knowing any better whilst doing jackshit to correct his behavior.

re2r!puppy!leon who scratches himself up and runs to your owner sobbing, recounting a fabricated tale of woe of how cruel you had been to him when he only wanted to “play.” you’ll see the slightest twitch of his lips, hinting at a smile as your owner raises their voice at you, forcing you to apologize to leon and threatens to give you up to a shelter if you don’t “start acting right.”

re2r!puppy!leon who weaponizes the fact that you’re on your last strike with your owner. knowing very well that you’re walking on eggshells and can’t do anything to defend yourself when he mounts you and lowers your panties, not unless you wanted to go back to a cold and cramped cell and start from square one again.

re2r!puppy!leon who whines as his cock finally settles into your depths, his balls drawing up as he fought off the immediate urge to cum inside you then and there. it’s uncertain who’s more pathetic at this moment—you, for being forced to let this happen, or him, for not being able to handle the simple warmth of a tight cunt.

re2r!puppy!leon who starts off rutting slowly into your pussy, soon picking up speed as his thrusts begin to lose a proper rhythm and become unceremonious. his ears flop with every harsh thrust into you, his tongue rolling out just a little to lap at your face like a true mutt.

re2r!puppy!leon who begins to blabber incoherently about fucking a litter into your womb, his hands going to squeeze at your tits haphazardly as he smears his saliva all over your mouth and cheeks. his tail wags frantically behind him, his sounds only growing higher and higher in pitch before he suddenly gasps.

re2r!puppy!leon who releases piss into your awaiting pussy, pulling back slightly to watch the stream be partially consumed by your greedy cunt and puddle on the floor beneath you. he gives a boyish chuckle, starting up his hips once more as the filthiest slick sounds fill the air accompanied by the sound of skin against skin.

re2r!puppy!leon whose collar’s pendant dangles above your head almost mockingly. the light occasionally getting caught in the bone-shaped gold where his name was embedded, reminding you of the disgusting dog that’s currently using your body as a fleshlight and urinal. the one your owner would sell a kidney for and die before faulting.

re2r!puppy!leon who mocks you breathlessly and brags about his untouchability, high on the power trip and the feeling of your gummy walls surrounding his dick. his back arching as he finally pumps ropes of hot cum into your womb, his cock inflating to make sure his semen stays inside you and hopefully takes root soon enough.

re2r!puppy!leon who nuzzles you, smiling brightly as if his hands were clean of any cruelties and this were a mutually consensual affair. not only having forced you to take his seed, but also having you bask in the sickening afterglow with him.

whatever he says goes. he’s got your owner wrapped around his finger, and you right under his thumb. and he’ll make sure you know that very well.

a naive re2r puppy leon is nice but what if he was a little fucked uph..

[getouyuri]

‘every single song is about you!’

pairing — gojo x reader x geto, poly satosugu x reader

summary — SPECIAL GRADE, a band consisting of four powerhouses, takes the world by storm. after geto quits, you, gojo and geto’s childhood friend, take his place— and their hearts.

word count — 3k

content & warnings — sfw, suggestive at the end, m4a, gender neutral reader, gn!reader, angst, pining, normal modern au, band au (aka the SPECIAL GRADE au), frontman!gojo, rhythmist!reader, producer!geto, alcohol, cigarettes, eventual poly / eventual polyamorous relationship

author's note — thought about mari’s ask while I pondered this (this is your fault 🫵🏽🫵🏽 I heart you) but producer!geto x rhythmist!reader x frontman!gojo is on the mind. quick drabble to get this out of my headddd but i lowkey wanna write a long fic about this. this was proof read only Once so I hope there’s no mistakes 😭🙏🏽

writing © getouyuri. fanart © satosugu572. dividers © bernardsbendystraws.

‘gojo and geto,’ two halves of the whole of SPECIAL GRADE.

there’s their killer bassist of course, yuki gold and glistening like the sun in the rearview mirror, adored by all but especially by the girls who love girls. she’s praised endlessly for her occasional bass solos that are as rare as they come and her background vocals that make gojo’s shine that much brighter. their drummer, sukuna, is in his own tier, heavy and loud, weighty boots announcing his presence if that cackle of his doesn’t broadcast it first. fawned over by the girls and guys who like ‘em mean, he beats his drums black and blue, all rough and tough and untouchable.

but it was always ‘gojo and geto’ in interviews following their big break. the two who started it all in geto’s garage with a rat trap in the corner, a worn-down karaoke machine that gojo wielded the plastic microphone of, garageband at geto’s fingertips and guitars in both of the boys’ hands. they could laugh it off as much as they wanted to, seamlessly interject that they’re four, not just two, yuki and sukuna deserving recognition as much as they do, but even the other band members credit everything to them and wait their turn for questions.

‘gojo and geto,’ the indomitable duo. calm and chaos that go hand in hand.

but before gojo and geto, it was always geto and gojo and you.

you, with your bright smile and encouraging words that pushed them to greater heights. you, who tried and failed to make sure gojo’s ego didn’t get too big for his britches (and giggled whenever gojo peacocked around, singing that he’d wave at you from the TV screen some day) and reasoned that geto’s reserved and calm nature could be harnessed for not just peacemaking, but glueing together a group of musicians and standing as a vision of dark, untouchable beauty that his future groupies would chomp at the bits for for years to come.

you, who laughed with geto and gojo, busted them out of trouble and shopped with them and tagged along to study at their sides over candy and soda, who carved your name into a tree in your neighborhood alongside theirs.

you, who buried yourself in high school and college textbooks as the boys threw themselves into making music with yuki and sukuna, becoming smaller and more distant but promising you’d always be there when it mattered. when they needed home and not a crowded venue.

geto thinks of you a month into his departure from SPECIAL GRADE. the internet was still in tears over the quote unquote breakup. everyone zoomed in on the grainy photos of geto’s smoothened brow and gojo’s twisted, hurt frown outside of the KFC they fought in front of, trying to read lips and find an explanation that wasn’t geto’s plain tweet of ‘i’m tired of it. i’m tired of it all.’

as if cutting out his piece of the pie from the whole of it would have a grander, more explosive reason than just… exhaustion. a healthy dose of paranoia and a bone-deep want to find himself outside of the glaring spotlight.

the industry and their record label fought to mold SPECIAL GRADE into something generic. a product to drain dry, pluck off the shelf and sell, exploit until there was nothing left. geto couldn’t take it— he wanted to make music from the heart, not because of some corporate bottom line. even worse, the attention from the media and fans made him feel like a mouse in the spotlight of a thousand cats’ eyes. the pressure closed in on him, fangs to his throat, until he squealed.

geto tried to drown it out, convince himself that everything else was just noise, but he knew he had to make a hard decision. to leave for his own sanity— so he did. breathing comes easier now that he’s sitting in his own corner out of the way without the shackles that used to tie him down.

geto texts you while drunk, eyes growing hot over your simple ‘u okay?’ instead of a ‘are u guys okay?’, your follow up of ‘ur still the greatest. don’t listen to anybody else but urself and everyone that cares for u. i’ve got ur back.’

gojo thinks of you, too, not even an hour after geto does— as if their brains are linked.

gojo still doesn’t get why geto walked off. like, he does, because even he gets fed up with all of it. but he pushes through it and ignores what people expect from him and the other members of SPECIAL GRADE.

music is a form of self-expression, an outlet to let oneself go and bare one’s soul through lyrics to the beat of the accompanying piece. a way to connect with others on a level deeper and more complex than the anatomy of a singular cell. the energy of the crowd that screams their songs back to them, the high of playing with the three people he considers his family, it’s all gojo’s ever wanted. everything is at his fingertips when he grabs his mic and presses his palm to the throat of the world in warning, reminding it that this? this is all his. he could never give it up.

music has always been their thing. geto’s and gojo’s, gojo’s and geto’s. watching his partner leave him felt akin to someone clawing gojo’s kidney out with their bare hands.

yuki’s been pushy in that caring way of hers and sukuna just grinds his jaw and stares him down, saying more with his eyes than that fiery mouth of his. their record label and manager demands he fix what gojo swears he didn’t break, his fans tweet at him constantly and chase him down in public for answers, the media is up his ass… but you’re not.

you’re patient and kind when he knocks on your door, feeling small on your doorstep without another shoulder brushing his and deep purple eyes flickering over at him as the boys share twin smiles. you let gojo in. you make him tea and set his head straight. you call them both idiots and gojo finally smiles.

“i’d die without you. really,” gojo tells you earnestly, fully convinced that it’s true.

you laugh it off. “you wouldn’t. now shut up and let me help you compose a text to geto,” you say, making grabby hands at him.

you’ve always been the one that glues the three together. you’re indispensable. a priceless treasure without a tag.

you were never one for stardom. you were content to follow your own path that lingered in the shadows. but a year after geto shakes off his woes and discards his cigarettes and bottles and becomes a producer, you visit his home studio with half-finished tracks downloaded onto your phone.

“can you help me out?” you ask from your spot on geto’s doorstep, scratching the back of your neck. “i know you’re super picky with your clientele and you’re probably gonna think this is ass— oh my god, wait, I didn’t even schedule an appointment with you—“

geto raises a hand and you quiet down. “come in,” he invites with a smile.

he helps you beat your songs into shape and properly walks you through music theory for months. you mess with his old rhythm guitar, the one he played in his parents’ garage until the neighbors would shout at him and gojo for the racket, and he finds you’re not half bad at thumbing the strings and learning rhythm guitar licks. so he opens up the glass case on the wall of his studio and hands you uzumaki— a beautiful, dark blue guitar with lazy swirls drawn into it— and lets you make magic.

you blow geto’s mind. and your debut single, produced by no one other than himself, blows up the internet.

it’s a little unusual for a newly fledged popstar like yourself to eventually go from manning the stage on your own to joining a goliath of a pop rock band, but it’s you. you’ve always been unpredictable, even if you hid it behind years of being a steady presence in geto and gojo’s lives. you hop in the deep end with SPECIAL GRADE, taking geto’s former spot that multiple contenders dipped in and out of because gojo, yuki, and sukuna could never find someone as good as geto.

you mesh with the band in a crazy way. you play rhythm guitar with the energy of a musical savant, graceful fingers darting up and down the fretboard like the devil itself is sitting in on your performance and you have something to prove. you press your back to gojo’s as he sings with the voice of an angel and brings entire stadiums to their knees, provide chord progressions and harmonic supports and rhythm that intertwines with yuki’s bassline, perfectly follow the beat and tempo that sukuna paves for you with his drumsticks.

it’s like you were meant to be part of SPECIAL GRADE.

the band seems so much brighter with you now in it. especially gojo himself— he turns into the summer sun incarnate when you smile at him and teasingly flutter your lashes mid-interview or during shows that are broadcasted to millions. people talk about their chemistry on and off stage as much as they did geto’s and gojo’s when geto was still in the limelight.

geto doesn’t necessarily feel left behind, per say, but he feels something akin to it watching you and gojo playfully squabble in the live room of geto’s home studio while geto sits at his soundboard in the control room. you bounce off of each other perfectly, complimenting one another like red and blue and shading in the spaces that the other doesn’t fill with different ideas for this song and that song, x and y. yuki beams, feeding off of yours and gojo’s energy as she tunes her bass, and sukuna hides a half smirk, half genuine grin when he barks at you to hush up and get to playing.

is this how you felt when you pursued your degree and watched geto and gojo’s backs get smaller and smaller as they ran off into the sunset, searching for their place in the world with gojo’s guitar on his hip and geto’s slung over his shoulder as their story unfurled? geto isn’t sure, so he sits back at SPECIAL GRADE’s third album release party with a red solo cup in hand, purple eyes trained on you and gojo as he tries to unravel what must’ve been on your mind all those years ago.

it plagues him. eats at him like maggots to a corpse.

one night, geto dreams of performing again.

he misses playing with the band, with gojo and off of gojo’s boundless energy, matching that mad genius stride for stride, even though geto’s never regretted taking a step back. they stand shoulder to shoulder before a sea of nothingness that drops off the stage, the frontman with his rhythmist and backup singer. the indomitable duo. uzumaki is warm and familiar beneath his fingertips as geto breathes life into the strings until they’re vibrating with kinetic energy. behind them, yuki wields her bass like a weapon. sukuna’s arms flex as he slams away at his drums.

inexplicably, you’re there too even though you joined long after geto exited stage left.

your rhythm guitar is no uzumaki. it’s beautiful and sleek but chaotic— frantic paint streaks racing along and around it, twisting and coiling. the color of it shines brightly. you take geto’s other side, sandwiching him between you and gojo, who happily hoots before throwing himself back into singing the lyrics that boom through the empty stadium.

it’s perfect.

geto’s left breathing heavily in the wake of the dream after waking up with a start, smiling stupidly in the dark and holding his heaving chest. his heart thrums beneath his palm.

that feeling that he felt before in the control room morphs into something else, a caterpillar formerly cocooned emerging as a butterfly, when he cracks on the last night of SPECIAL GRADE’s tour. the band spent the whole summer overseas, bouncing from city to city and performing with everything they’ve got— geto heard all the funny anecdotes and shit while on call with gojo, you chiming in from time to time in the background.

but he hadn’t actually seen concert clips until tonight— a quiet, lonely night that he spent on his couch answering emails on his laptop until he got bored and opened twitter. an app he never really checks unless he needs to retweet promotions that the many artists he produces music for post.

he hits the trending tab, fingers stalling when he sees rows upon rows of similar results that are up in flames. you and gojo. you. gojo. SPECIAL GRADE. #1 on the trending page is a quote: ‘i’m sorry, every single song is about you.’ when geto checks out the tag, briefly avoiding videos in favor of staring in befuddlement at all the fans tweeting out the quote like rabid dogs, he sees it. a name.

geto. geto suguru. suguru.

suguru.

suguru.

suguru.

he’s so distracted by his name that he doesn’t register the all-caps tweets saying ‘OH MY GOD THEY’RE DOING IT AGAINNNBTKAHRKSJQ’

(little does he know, you and gojo do this every show.)

heart in his throat, geto finally checks out the first video in the tag. it’s perfect quality, shot up close and personal from the VIP section. he can practically smell the sweat lathered on gojo’s face and neck and collarbones that makes him glisten beneath the wild lights, feel the raggedy gasps that puff out from your lips that are quirked up in a brilliant grin as if you’re breathing into geto’s neck. yuki’s waving at fans and blowing kisses to them. sukuna’s in the background spinning his drumsticks, keyed up and waiting for the next song. they all look perfect.

for some reason, though, yuki’s disassembling the formation, backing up until she’s near sukuna and leaving you and gojo center stage. that makes geto sit up a little straighter.

gojo turns as if searching for someone. his magnetic blue eyes land on the phone camera in the hands of the fan, and he’s laughing as he strides forward with a crooked finger before swiping up the phone with a promise to give it back. he holds it up high above his head as if readying himself for a selfie and ushers you into the frame. gojo squishes your sweaty cheek against his and holds the microphone between them.

yours and gojo’s voices paired together are devastatingly clear and rife with longing. “i’m sorry, every single song is about you.”

the responding roar of the fans nearly blows out his eardrums. they kick off their next song with that earth shattering bang as gojo relocates the fan and hands them their phone.

geto immediately knows what they’re talking about. who they’re talking about. and he spirals.

what songs are about geto?

all the ones that SPECIAL GRADE released after you joined them?

the ones released following geto leaving SPECIAL GRADE when it was just gojo, yuki, sukuna, and some unnamed rhythmist?

the first song that he and gojo ever constructed in geto’s garage, when gojo penned the lyrics with a hopelessly sweet smile on his face? “i guess you could call it a love song,” gojo mused at the time while tapping the eraser of his pencil against a stray piece of paper, blue eyes alight with something profound.

does geto have to go through their entire discography again and read further into the lyrics, seeking out which ones could be a call to him? yeah, yeah he will. geto’s already opening spotify, hitting the first SPECIAL GRADE song that pops up and reading the lyrics as gojo’s voice fills his living room.

fuck, did geto unknowingly produce any songs that you or gojo wrote about him?

geto doesn’t know.

he calls you. it goes to voicemail. he hangs up before he can hear the obnoxious beep that signals his time to speak. he hovers over gojo’s contact but doesn’t press it.

geto ends up leaving a few voicemails for you and for gojo respectively after a few drinks because he needs to get borderline shitfaced before he can speak his truth, desperate and shaky but gentle. reverent.

wine is good, he thinks as he drinks more of it. wine will make geto forget.

not that you let him. geto jolts awake at dawn to banging on his door, picks himself up from where he was curled up like a cat in his cool, lonely silk sheets, and stumbles to go answer it.

you and gojo are bright and alive on the other side of it. “took you long enough,” gojo sighs as if he’s been waiting for this, sweeping in with the self-importance of a storm that you can’t avoid, kicking his shoes off and carelessly tossing his jacket aside. an arm slings around geto’s shoulder, warm and welcoming, a sweet kiss pressed to his cheek.

you’re immediately at geto’s front, binding the three together with a hand on geto’s waist and your other arm atop gojo’s. “hush,” you click your tongue at gojo, but your eyes are full of adoration as you gaze at the grinning frontman. that adoration doesn’t leave as your gaze tilts up to meet geto’s star struck one. “it’s okay, though. we would’ve waited forever for you.”

“yeah. we would’ve,” gojo agrees. fully sincere.

eventually someone, and geto doesn’t remember who (maybe it was him. maybe it was you or gojo), murmurs, “we need to make up for all that lost time, though, don’t you think?”

“how many songs are actually about me? surely not all of them,” geto finds it in himself to say a few hours after he was pinned against his mattress, his hidden-away insecurities plucked apart by yours and gojo’s fingers. they replanted love deep into his marrow.

gojo, in all his naked, cat-like glory, is heavy atop geto’s prone form, snuggling into him. you’re glued to geto’s side, using his forearm as a pillow, one hand ghosting along gojo’s bare back and making his fine white hairs raise and the other tracing hearts into the centers of the hickeys dotted on geto’s skin like notes on sheet music.

you and gojo share a look. “all of them.”

author’s note: who up feeling insane (meeee)

tags: @libr4sonsa @spirit-kat @kaitospo @m1nrrva @enchantinghonymoon @exc3llentshot @dairyfaerie

i love u stsg poly i love u band aus. ARGH

how i felt writing this nonsense in less than 2 hours:

[captain-huggy-bear]

Um, was writing a fic, had a thot, this is my explanation why sometimes Clayton seems to only wear one chain and other times two... Thot: Clay giving you one of his chains, hence why he now only wears the cross. Possessive little thrill going through him because you never take it off and that's his. 18+ MDNI: Possessive Clayton because I would set Feminism back 100 years for him...but I know he wouldn't ask me to.

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

It starts as a little thought, a little thought that grows until he can't get it out of his head. Niggling at him, goading him, following him everywhere he goes until it's not so little anymore, until it's large and loud and far too proud for what it is.

Just a little thought he has when he's leaning over you, your legs tight around his hips while thrusts into you, hips pressing into your own, sweat beating on his forehead. Just a little thought as one of your hands reaches up and grasps as his chains like they were made to be tugged on, pulling until he slants his mouth over yours in an all consuming kiss that's harsh and hungry. Just a tiny little thought that one of his chains would look so fucking good on you, that it would be so good to see you wearing his chain, showing everyone who you belonged to. That it would look so good round your throat while he fucked you, even better if he tugged on it the same way you do now.

That little thought spirals out of control. Your neck looks so bare without it, cold and lonely, a blank canvas. His marks aren't enough, the hickeys littering your skin not enough of a claim staked. It has him taking off the plain chain he wears, leaving his cross around his neck, and slipping it around your neck one evening after he's cum inside you, when the two of you lay there coated in sweat, chests heaving. Has him caressing the length of white gold against your skin and while yellow gold is your preferred colour he knows, can already tell, you'll never take it off.

It looks so fucking good on your skin, his chain around your neck, almost as good a look as when his hand gets to rest there, but better in some ways. Better because it's always there. You don't take it off. It's on when you shower, it's on when you sleep, you wear it all day every day. Every man who looks at you sees his chain. Every time you reach for it he knows it reminds you of him. He's with you whether he's there or not and it strokes a possessive sort of need in him to see you covered in him from head to toe.

It's only made worse when you combine it with a jersey with his name across the back, number 9 big and bold on the back and both arms, Keller in bold font that's unmistakable. You come to one of his games like that, jersey on, chain visible around your neck, cutesy little skirt on and big boots and it's not his fault he can't wait till you get home to get his hands on you. Not his fault that he pulls you into a little cleaning closet to bend you over and pull that skirt up, not his fault his hand finds that chain, tugging just a touch and makes you keep the jersey on so he can stare at his name across your back.

He wants to think you don't realise, wants to believe you're so innocent in this whole thing, oblivious and ignorant of the effect you have on him, but that is so far from the truth. You've seen the way his eyes darken, heavy lidded and blown out at the sight of the chain around your neck, at his jersey on your back. You know what you're doing and you'll keep doing it because you love being his, being consumed by him as much as he's consumed by you.

The only way to make it any better is a ring around your left ring finger, one more pieces of jewellery that screams to Clayton 'mine'.

[glitch-but-ya]

The echo of who I once was. II

"Let your memory of me fade with time" II

TAGS: Mentions of violence and death, dysphoria, mental health struggles.

WORD COUNT: 2,543 words Tag list: @withering-dream , @moonlight-inthe-sea A/N: For better understanding, I’d recommend reading Sylus’s anecdotes.

PART 1 PART 3

!THIS STORY IS HEAVILY DEPENDENT ON "BEYOND CLOUDFALL" AND MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS!

Memories are both a curse and a blessing, don’t you think? That which gives us strength to push through the darkest parts of our lives can also be the one to drive us to the very edge of the cliff. The weight of them feels like a chain coiled around your throat, binding you to your past. Neither of us can escape destiny. But still, I wonder what would happen if neither of our memories were restored. Would you love me then? Or was I destined to never be yours?

Sylus didn’t know the answer. He kept reading.

When you told me that you loved me, I felt happy. I know how mundane that sounds. But when you said that I was yours, I felt as if my life suddenly had purpose. All my years of hardship had led me to you, and I was content. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was worth something—worth someone’s attention, worth living for. That’s why I couldn’t let you go—I couldn’t let go of the chance to live. I’m sorry.

He knows.

My selfishness, combined with this newfound sense of euphoria, led me to cling to you desperately and overwhelm you with my presence. I completely overlooked the obvious hints you threw at me occasionally, all because I wanted to believe that you loved me. I was scared. I thought that if I were to take notice, you’d abandon me, and I’d lose you. This is not an excuse, but simply an explanation. Whether you forgive me or not, well… I wouldn’t know anyway.

Sylus took a sip from his glass.

I don’t expect us to meet again.

He doesn’t either.

And that’s why, I want to tell you everything, so I can leave without regrets. Forgive me. This is the last selfish act I’ll perform.

Sylus set the envelope down, sealing it back with admirable precision. He threw his head back against the headboard and sighed. He couldn’t believe he let the aether core slip away. And he couldn't believe he couldn't find it in himself to reshape you into another form. In every possibility, you'd come around eventually. So why did he feel as helpless as a sculptor standing before his own crumbling statue? A part of him knew that you couldn't be changed. You loathed your former self, he could tell.

And to add to his frustration, he simply did not have time for this. He was due to a ‘business’ trip within the N109 zone—his presence was required at a seemingly ordinary auction trafficking illegal protocores. The leader of Onychinus was a busy man, after all. How could he let emotions overwhelm him when so much in his life depended on his nonchalance? He was a fool for thinking he could reform you. He had mistaken you for gold. Unfortunately, as softhearted as you were, you couldn’t be molten and hammered into what he wanted you to be. But he couldn’t deny that it was also partially his fault because he knew.

‘Please kill me.’

From the moment he used his aether core to listen in on your desires, he knew that you’d already lost what made you his sorceress. The heart that once yearned for bloodshed and vengeance was now reduced to a blubbering mess, waiting for the day it’d stop beating. The voices that once wished to claim his authority were replaced by a feeble, pitiful voice. You were weak and untainted, like the humans he hunted down for a couple of gold to add to his collection. And yet, a part of him held on. He didn’t know what it was. Denial, he assumed. The inability to accept that his beloved was no more. Or perhaps it was the guilt of injustice being done upon you. He had barely scratched the surface of your desires, after all. Perhaps there was more that lay beyond your wish to die. But whatever it was, it wasn’t her. Listening to your voice for longer wouldn’t bring her back. Even so, letting you go wasn’t the wisest choice either.

After all, his relationship with you served two purposes: love (formerly) and the aether core. Now, he’d lost the chance to claim both. All because he let his emotions take hold. Sylus felt pathetic. And for the first time, he doubted his own abilities. He was torn between the choice of taking the leap and bringing you back, and staying on the other end of the crumbling bridge to wait and see how things would unfold from here. The chance of another aether core existing on this planet was slim.

But not entirely impossible.

Sylus’s form loomed over the city below, his crimson eyes gazing into its depths. Lights dotted the cityscape in irregular patterns. A full moon hung proudly in the sky, almost as if welcoming his arrival. There was a crow perched on his shoulder. The crow had ruby eyes, quite similar to his own. Behind him stood two smaller, masked men, ready to obey his orders. A familiar wind howled past them—a dry breeze lacking warmth and life, carrying nothing but dust, reminiscent of the way you had hollowed out something within him. He stood, eyeing the crowds below. Not long after, he raised his head, gazing at the sky awash in hues of red. This auction was an incubator for human desires—greed, gluttony, and lust.

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes, boss!”, they chanted in unison. A slight smirk tugged at Sylus’s lips. Of course, he wouldn’t have attended such a low-class auction if something hadn’t caught his watchful eye. This time, what appeared was exactly what he sought. A valuable gem, a treasure eclipsing the finest of its kind—a certain aether core had been passed around insignificant auctions under the guise of an ordinary protocore. It had caught the attention of several other corporations, excluding his own. This time, the stakes were high, and failure could have severe consequences. He could lose everything. But did it really matter anymore? The only reason for his stay in this world was you. If he simply wished, he could start over on a planet far from yours, where he could live his life as a relentless conqueror, unbothered and undisturbed by your curse.

Sylus's hand unconsciously traveled to his eye—the very eye 'you' wished to claim so dearly. He grazed it with his fingers.

Sylus... I curse your soul...

He clenched his eyes shut.

Only I can grant you a true death.

He knew that the aether core in your heart wasn't the only one of its kind aside from his own. Surely, there existed another one somewhere across the cosmos. But that was the problem. Throughout the endless tapestry of planets, universes, and possibilities, where would he search? And amidst the legion of life forms across worlds, how could he be sure that his sovereignty surpassed all others? Earth was, by far, the easiest land to graze. So he couldn’t let go of this opportunity. Not yet.

If it were him a few months ago, the mere idea of leaving Earth would have torn him apart. But now, if the aether core slipped from his grasp, he would wander aimlessly until he caught wind of a new sighting. Perhaps, it was all a grand scheme of his own to escape you. Sylus had never fled from anything before.

His hands gripped the railing. It wasn’t the time to daydream. There was an opening laid out for him in plain sight. One rightfully timed strike and the aether core was his. His gaze scrutinized the large building before him, where the auction would take place.

Your words both held him back and urged him forward. A lovesick side of him cried out, begging him to open his eyes and try to understand the changes that had occurred. But his wrath would not let him. How dare you? After all these years of searching, after all the sacrifices he'd made, after all the pain he had endured in your place—how dare you betray him like this? Eventually, one arose triumphant. Very well, then. If you were going to leave, then so be it. He would let you have your way.

Taking a sharp breath, Sylus descended.

A sigh escaped your lips. You eyed yourself in the bathroom mirror, your hair falling like a veil over your face. Tracing the dips and curves of your body, you felt alien to yourself—flawed, unfamiliar. The incessant drip of water trickling down played monotonously in the background of your thoughts. You felt flawed. You couldn’t recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your hand shot out. Your fingers caressed your own figure, who stared back at you. "Who was I before this?" you whispered, your head tilting slightly. "You were me, weren't you? Then why…" Your hand stilled. The finger pressed down on the reflection of your face with increasing pressure. "I hate you. So why do I wish to be you?"

That night, you couldn’t squeeze in even a second of sleep. Something within you ached. You didn’t know if it was the wrathful throb in your head or the melancholic sting in your heart. Every time you shut your eyes, a figure emerged from the darkness. A white-haired woman with scarlet eyes and sharp features. She looked nothing like you. The mere sight of her formed a lump in your chest. Her face radiated mock cruelty and greed, like a simmering pot of rotting wine; disgusting and bubbling. Her form was hauntingly elegant, almost ethereal—if not for the maggots writhing beneath her skin. An ever-present source of desire seethed from within her soul. It stank like the decaying flesh of a dead rabbit. Her soul reeked of the miserable fixations of humanity, the same delusions that transformed humans into harbingers of destruction. She was the type to bring death upon those she deemed unworthy, to burn whoever she pleased, and to warm the few who stood by her side. She was like a blazing, crackling fire that emerged from a hearth set alight by its own gluttony and greed. She was utterly human. There was no other word to describe it. She was exactly who you loathed: an usurper wrapped in a cloak of fragile beauty.

She didn’t just occupy your sleep. Even at work, you found yourself subconsciously drawn to the thought: How could she ever be you? You couldn’t fathom it. Even in a past life, the thought of yourself turning out like her seemed inconceivably alien. You figured that if there were a past incarnation of you, she would resonate with you as if she were an extension of yourself. But every time you lingered on her memory, you felt increasingly isolated. The harder you tried to reach out, the further she drifted—like a small boat being pushed farther from a warship. The larger ship's mighty waves pushed the boat farther and farther, no matter how desperately the boat rowed toward it. Although, the main concern was staying afloat. Your main concern should’ve been the aether core. Wasn’t that why you stayed? Was it truly because of love, and not the opportunity to extract information about the aether core from Sylus? You couldn’t believe yourself. For a moment, you wondered, how could you let the aether core slip away?

Your grip on your desk tightened, your knuckles turning white. The voices around you blurred into one until the only thing you could hear were the whispers of your own destructive mind spitting venom into your ears. Captain Jenna’s voice diminished in importance, and you found yourself focusing more on the thought of her.

After experiencing the dream of your past, her sight plagued your mind. Sometimes, she was clad in jewels (all while she reeked of greed). Other times, she was driving the greatsword into the dragon's chest. You couldn’t deny that if she hadn’t fought back, she probably wouldn’t have lived long enough to become the dragon's beloved. Whereas you would’ve been killed taking a different approach. You are grateful for her unwavering will to live, and you are grateful that she brought Sylus into your life.

But what you could never forgive was the image of herself she carved into his heart. The powerful ‘sorceress’ feared by all, the young dragon fledgling whose horns had just begun to sprout—how he could worship that, you wondered. She was just a weaker version of himself. Perhaps she possessed something you couldn’t see. Either way, what was the point of lingering on this matter? There’s no use in assigning blame. No matter how ferociously you loathe her, she will always occupy his heart. Revenge has no purpose. It only initiates endless suffering and a cycle of inflicting pain. All you could do was move on with your life. You weren’t going to meet him again, anyway. Or so you thought.

"And you will be going to the N109 zone," Captain Jenna began, breaking your trance with a simple sentence and jolting you awake. "Any queries?" she concluded. You weren’t sure how you looked. Looking back, you probably should’ve asked Tara to hold a mirror to your face. You must’ve looked aggravatingly stupid. Like an imbecile who had just hopped into the wrong room. Perhaps Sylus's talk about "destiny" and "fate" wasn’t just to sound wise and philosophical. You were seriously wondering how fate could’ve stabbed you in the back like this. Your vow to Sylus would be broken due to a silly mission. How comical.

But you couldn’t just accept this, of course. So, after the meeting had ended, you walked into Jenna’s office.

"There is nobody more capable of pulling off this mission than you." Fate must really be playing games with you, huh? "But, Captain…" you opened your mouth to protest, but were quickly silenced by Jenna’s sharp gaze. "You’ve been to the N109 zone, haven’t you? And you came back alive. This isn’t just any mission—it’s critical. We need someone who can handle the pressure. Someone familiar with the dangers." Her gaze scanned your form. "This mission is not only dangerous but extremely vital. That is why I will be pairing you with Xavier. Only the two of you can execute this mission flawlessly." You tilted your head curiously. You zoned out during the meeting, so you could only assume it was something related to the aether core. What else could be so vital as to require the best hunter on board? But if Xavier is with you, perhaps you can find an excuse to steer clear of Sylus. Not that you expect him to show himself to you openly, but letting him know that you’re here with a hunter only accentuates that you are here strictly for business. Although you don’t want Xavier to be caught up in this, this mission may lead you to crucial knowledge about your very own aether core. You looked down and placed a hand where your heart would be. You couldn’t let this chance slip away.

"So, I believe the two of you won’t disappoint," the Captain said, turning to you, her chin raised high. You immediately straightened your posture and cleared your throat. "Yes, ma’am."

Hello!! I wanted to say: thank you so much for your votes regarding the previous fic! Although I’d intended to keep it as an ‘angst-with-no-comfort’ oneshot, I decided against it due to some people commenting on how a part two would be great (I couldn’t resist writing the story anyway. I had a plan for it in my head beforehand which I’d intended to keep to myself. The comments only fuelled that desire further). I do hope this doesn’t end up becoming a major flop. I apologize for the time it took to write this much. I’ve been very busy lately; unfortunately, I do not see myself having free time in the future either. But I’ll try my best to keep up with this! Oh, and, for the people who want to keep viewing the initial ending as it was, you can! I understand that some people may not be happy with this series. So, you are free to interpret it as you wish! I had multiple endings planned for this anyway. And, YES! The title of the series has officially been changed.

[perseephoneee]

ice skating [ficmas day 7] [isaac lahey x reader]

↳ masterlist ↳ ship exchange ↳ taglist ↳ ficmas 2024

anonymous: I saw your post about ficmas 24. can you please write smth with Isaac and ice skating?

author's note: i went ice skating with @muffinbeliever and it was so terrifying all i did was almost cry

playlist:

the moon will sing -- the crane wives

i'll be home for christmas -- she & him

gold rush -- taylor swift

Beacon Hills officially had a high school hockey team.

You don’t remember when Coach Finstock lost his mind, but you assume it’s been a long time coming. It’s the only explanation for why he thinks this would be a good idea.

Especially since his ‘hockey team’ is just his lacrosse team on skates. Many of them can’t even skate. You’re unsure how he coerced the team to even participate. 

“This is painful,” Allison commented, and you had to agree. You both accompanied Scott and Stiles to hockey practice, Allison to see her boyfriend, and you to get a free ride. You still didn’t have a car (you hoped to fix that soon).

You watched Stiles fall face first.

“It’s pretty awful,” you hissed, watching another teammate crash into the wall. “I kinda want popcorn.”

“Me too.”

You both were heathens.

Danny was reasonably competent and would be very solid with a few more practices. The other surprising one was Isaac, who was skating laps around everyone. Scott wasn’t falling, but he wasn’t confident either. Werewolf instincts meant jack shit in the face of skating.

“Did he just do a little hop and a skip?” You remarked as you watched Isaac. You couldn’t help but watch Isaac. He was aloof and not amazing at conversations, but he was alluring. Maybe it was the jawline or his eyes. You were unsure. Sometimes, he’d take Scott’s bike to school when Scott rode with Stiles, and sometimes, he’d drive you home. Those were your favorite days.

“He’s ridiculous,” Allison chuckled as Isaac continued to show off. He and Danny were playing their own game of hockey at this point. You didn’t want to look at what Stiles was doing; it made you sad. Allison turned to you. “Ten bucks says Stiles, knocking over Scott.”

“You’re on, Argent.”

You were $10 richer by the end of practice, in large part thanks to the fact that a conga line of lacrosse-turned-hockey players took out Scott, who then wiped out Stiles. It was inherently painful but insanely funny. At least the ice rink had concessions. You were sipping a blue slushie when the boys came out, broken and battered.

“I want to be eaten by a wolf,” Stiles sighed. A bruise was forming on his arm. 

“Sure, but it’s not going to remedy the fact you can’t skate,” you chuckled. He glared at you.

“You’re not funny.”

You sipped your slushie, hiding your laugh. Isaac came out a few seconds later. His hair was slightly damp, and it looked like he had run through the rain. It was way too sexy and made your stomach turn. He waved in greeting.

“What flavor?” He inquired, pointing to your cup. You stuck out your tongue to show the blue dye. He just nodded. 

“Isaac, can you take Y/N home? Allison and I were heading to Stiles,” Scott asks, tossing his keys to the beta. He catches them quickly. Isaac nods, not bothered, but it doesn’t stop you from worrying you were a burden. Not that he’d ever tell you that you were. 

The night air was crisp as you climbed behind him on the bike. He always gave you the helmet, even though you should both have them. He argued he could heal. You couldn’t fault his logic. 

You were on your way a little later, arms tight around his middle as you savored the few moments you could pretend to be his.

Isaac started to slow down, and you lifted your head to ask why, but he shushed you. You slowed to an idle, barely fast enough to stay up. His proverbial wolf ears perked up. He decided a split second later, quickly swinging the bike around and taking off much quicker than before. 

You yelped as you gripped him tighter. You could hear engines behind you, which did not bode well. He went off-road, starting to serve through side streets in a way that made you nauseous. A shot rang out.

You had nowhere to hide as more bullets were fired. Isaac quickly turned, the bike screeching. He launched you both off of it, covering your body with his as the asphalt cut into your skin. You wanted to cry out but didn’t. Not when you were more concerned about finding safety. Isaac gripped your hand, dragging you to the backdoor of a building. He tore off the handle and shoved you in.

The alcove was small, and you pressed up against him as he looked out the window, watching your pursuers run by. A few seconds later, you both let out long breaths. 

Isaac relaxed against the wall, grimacing. That’s when you noticed the patch of blood blooming from his flank. You stifled a screech.

“Isaac—“

“Is there first aid?” He coughed, looking around the room you were in. It was the kitchen of a diner. You went through five cabinets before finding first aid. It wasn’t much, but you made do. You were too distracted by his wound to process his shirtlessness.

The bullet wasn’t deep, or maybe it had been, and his healing pushed it out. You weren’t sure. Your minimal nursing skills came in handy as you bandaged him up. He might be able to survive, but it wasn’t painless. 

When you were done, you made him swallow some ibuprofen. Your hands wrapped gauze around his middle, hiding an obnoxiously sculpted chest from you. Fucking werewolves.

Isaac’s eyes traced your face, a frown marring his expression. He traced your arm with a finger, and you hissed in pain as he found the fracture that you had been trying to hide. He was on you in a second.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“My wound isn’t bad like yours,” you protested. Isaac took his discarded shirt and tore it into cotton strips. He fashioned a makeshift cast for you before cleaning up your arm. You realized it was the most tender moment the two of you have had. He took some cotton balls and wiped some blood off your temple. 

“I didn’t know you could skate,” you murmured, breaking the silence. Isaac’s mouth quirked up. 

“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Kind of,” you tried to shrug, but it just hurt your arm. 

“My brother was a hockey fan. He’d take me to the rink,” Isaac answered, applying a small bandaid. He never talked about his brother; you didn’t want to push. “Derek mentioned there might be some bounty hunters. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

“It’s fine, Isaac. Really.”

“You should come back to see Melissa for that arm,” Isaac moved to put his shirt back on, and you bit back disappointment. He glanced outside and, feeling safe, led you both out and back to the bike. It was scraped up but still worked. Isaac put you on the front of the bike since his torso was still healing. He wrapped his arms around you to grab the handles, and you couldn’t help but inhale his smell of petrichor and pine. You wanted to lean into him and never leave. 

You could’ve fallen asleep like this, even with the wind biting into your skin. Fortunately (for your sanity), you pulled up the McCall residence no longer after. Isaac helped you off the bike and led you up to the front door. 

You’ve been to the McCall residence a few times, and each time were struck by how much warmth Melissa had managed to infuse into the place. She came out of the living room when you both entered.

“What the hell happened?” she inquired, coming to you first. 

“Bounty hunters,” Isaac said matter-of-factly. 

“Why do I let any of you outside,” Melissa mumbled. She took you to the bathroom to take a look at your arm. You were happy to hear that your arm wasn’t broken, but there was lightly a fixture that needed to be watched. She gave you pain meds and redid your cast. 

“Do you think I could stay here tonight?” you asked, adjusting your arm in its cast. “I just don’t feel like going home right now.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Melissa smiled, kissing your head. She felt like your other Mom. 

She gave you some of her pajamas and a toothbrush so you could get ready for bed. You were thankful she was there to help you maneuver out of your clothes so you could put on the pajamas. You tried not to think much about Isaac in the next room. When you were all done cleaning up, you went to the living room to get situated on the couch but found Isaac already lying there on his phone. He had also changed into sleepwear. 

“I was going to sleep here,” you stated. He glanced up at you, jawline and all. You really needed to get your priorities straight. 

“You should take my room; it’ll be more comfortable.”

“You got shot.”

“I’m already almost healed, and you’re in a cast,” Isaac pointed out. “Trust me, you’ll want a bed.” You didn’t ask if it was a sports injury that let him know that or something his Dad inflicted. Isaac, when he wanted to be, could be frustratingly stubborn. You took your leave to his room.

You had never been in Isaac’s room, and you took the opportunity to do some high-level snooping. No judgment; you weren’t perfect. There wasn’t much snooping to do, though. The room had minimal decorations. There was a ball poster that was so utterly stupid you had to hide your laughter. There was also a snoopy ornament on his desk. That fact made you smile. 

Sleeping in Isaac’s room was already going to be a bad idea. The sheets smelled like him. The room felt like him. You were one delirious episode away from stealing his shirts and pretending like you were waking up next to him. You would call Allison and freak out, but that would involve admitting that you found the beta wolf attractive. 

The pain meds plus Isaac’s bed made your insomnia take a back seat, allowing you to fall asleep. You woke up in time for school, only because Scott is one of the loudest people you had ever known. He stumbled into everything and slammed open every door. 

You got dressed in your clothes from yesterday and made Isaac’s bed. You brought the folded pajamas downstairs. Isaac and Scott ate all the pantry food while Melissa downed a cup of coffee before her shift. 

“Thanks for letting me stay, Ms. McCall,” you smiled, voice quiet.

“Nonsense, you’re always welcome. I’d offer you breakfast, but I think they ate it all,” Melissa nodded towards the two boys. You stifled a smile as she rummaged through the pantry again. “Actually, I found an apple. And peanut butter.”

“That’s usually what I have,” you shrugged, taking the granny smith from her and finding a cutting board. You ate your breakfast and sipped some coffee with milk while observing everyone run around the kitchen. You grabbed Isaac’s sleeve right before leaving the kitchen. “Thanks for letting me use your room,” you muttered. “And for yesterday.”

“No problem,” he shrugged. He paused, shifting his feet. “Have you ever skated before?”

You shook your head.

“I could teach you…after hockey practice.”

“In case I get shot on the ice?”

“Yes, for that,” Isaac smiled. You felt your heart drop into your stomach, butterflies filling the now-empty cavity. You don’t know what Hallmark movie you were in, but you liked it. 

School couldn’t go by fast enough. You had to come up with a plausible excuse for your arm around teachers, but the pack immediately jumped on the case. Stiles was itching for some snooping work, and you think you just gave him a good reason to break into his Dad’s safe again. You made a mental reminder to send an apology to Sheriff Stilinski. 

You told Allison about your night over lunch.

“You have a date with Isaac Lahey,” Allison gushed, passing you a potato chip.

“I do not,” you responded, mouth full of crunch. “He probably just feels bad about me getting hurt and just is trying to make up for it.”

“So he could buy you lunch, give you rides to and from school,” Allison responded. “Not take you ice skating, just the two of you. It’s a Hallmark movie.”

You put an apple slice in her mouth before she could say anything else. 

“I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“That’s fine,” Allison chewed, the words garbled from the bite. “I’ll get my hopes up for you.”

Allison accompanied you to hockey practice, but not before giving you some of her clothes and lipgloss. While you grumbled, you were thankful not to be wearing the same clothes you got shot at. The sweater she lent you was soft, and the leggings were comfortable and stretchy. Perfect to fall on your ass in. 

Hockey went as well today as yesterday. Danny and Isaac continued to have a squirmish of their own while the other players tried to remember what a skate was. A few of them were getting better; you could see a small team starting to form. None of the players getting better were Scott and Stiles. Scott’s werewolf reflexes did not translate to the ice. 

“Werewolves on ice, coming to a theater near you,” you mumbled. Allison was hiding her eyes at their skating. You were fighting the urge to do the same. Fortunately, your torture came to a halt as Coach fell on the ice and canceled the rest of practice out of anger. You waited till everyone was gone to bother approaching the rink, the feeling of drums in your heart matching each step. Isaac skated around the rink and came to a stop by the entrance. 

“I want you to know I’ve never skated, and I’m very, very scared,” you gulped, your healthy arm holding your fractured one against your chest. Isaac smirked.

“I won’t let you fall.”

Your fingers shook when you went to grab rental skates and even more so when you put them on. You had to do a sort of waddle across the padded floors to the entrance, and you looked at the ice like it was the deep ocean. Unknown and utterly horrifying. 

“You won’t get hurt, I promise,” Isaac chuckled, holding out his hand. You stared at it. 

“What if I trip and pull you down?”

“You won’t.”

“I’m very good at hurting other people,” you whispered. Isaac skated closer to you, a towering figure. He grabbed your hands, unclenching your fingers. Your breath caught as he pulled you onto the ice. It was slippery, and you didn’t like how your feet slid across it. Isaac held you steady, correcting your weight if you started to wobble. He skated backward, going slow as you tried your best to calm your breathing. 

“Look at me, don’t look at your feet,” he said. You looked at him, his gaze intense, and you forced yourself to not break. You listened to his every instruction, bending your knees slightly, pushing out instead of forward, until you started to feel somewhat more solid. Isaac noticed when you began to relax more. “Do you trust me?”

“No,” you answered, still not trusting of the ice hell you were in. Isaac laughed. 

“I won’t let you go,” he muttered before doing exactly what he said he wouldn’t. He let one of your hands go, twirling you. You stifled a scream as your feet slid across the ice, but he kept his initial promise and didn’t let you fall. He pulled you back into him, closer than before. You stumbled and fell into his chest; he skated you both to a stop. You tried to push back before you made the situation more awkward, but he kept you close, his hands on your back. 

You kissed your teeth. 

“I’m terrible at skating,” you murmured. You felt the vibrations of Isaac’s laugh. 

“That’s okay,” he smiled, that crooked half-smile you often long for. You tilted your head up, Isaac’s nose nudging yours. Your body felt hot, even in the cold room. Still, you shivered from his touches, proximity, and everything. He looked at you through his lashes, his eyes the color of sea foam and lakesides. Your eyes fluttered closed when he brushed his lips over yours. It wasn’t enough, so you pushed closer. His mouth was firm, and you wished you could go on your toes to get closer. The only thing keeping you stable was Isaac. His hands roamed your sides, your neck, everywhere he could hold. He deepened the kiss, and you sighed. It was too soon when he pulled away, even as you realized you forgot to breathe. 

“Do you still want to skate?” he murmured.

“Will you kiss me if I fall and embarrass myself?”

“I’ll kiss you even if you do a good job.”

“Then I most definitely still want to skate,” you grinned. 

You did fall later on, but you weren’t in pain. Isaac was able to catch you. 

taglist: @alice3612 @rafecameronswhore @evasmlp @awnmaknees

[hokusu]

#DabiHawks Thinking about Hawks posting a snapshot of his hand holding purple scarred ones to his socials with matching bracelets on April 1st.

Multiple outcries break out:

1. The public has only ever seen Hawks with gloves on before & yet here is a clearly defined naked wrist decked only in trademark Hawks jewlery and a blue bracelet

2. Is that red bracelet against those scars and staples notorious villain Dabi's hand?

And finally,

3. Surely that's not a relationship going public... right? Right? It's gotta be an April fools joke.

The joke isn't really a joke, even with Dabi's raised brow at the antic that he's pulled, the lazy drawl of, 'And what of your reputation, little bird?' that he throws behind the pretense of uncare.

Hawks hides a smile against his skin, face burried against Dabi's neck and all the warmth and smoke that he inhales. It's so cute when Dabi pretends not to care, when he does always care—so, so much. Maybe he fooled him once before, twice, but never again.

Hawks brushes it off, mouths a kiss against his jawline, careful fingers pulled across his back as he pulls him closer, and exhales out a laugh, breathlessly hot against his ears, the promise that he's got it all under control.

"Nothing to worry about, hot stuff," Hawks murmurs, like he sees right through him, the brush of his wings encasing him too. Like this is all part of some plan.

So who is Dabi to complain about being claimed for the world to see by Hawks himself, when the most eligible bachelor of Japan has him all wrapped around his feathers?

He's never shied away from attention, he's not about to start now.

The aftermath never really settles. The drama, the mystery, the uproar never answered. Hawks dodges a real answer in the way he does best — the glint of his eyes bright and full of mischief, charming little smile against his lips as he tilts his head and hums like he himself doesn't have the answer.

"I wonder," he muses, every time he's asked—does he have a boyfriend? Is he taken? Is it, against every impossibility, Dabi?

Hawks laughs his way through every reporter and scheduled interview, the joke that isn't a joke, that he carries on and no one can ever tell if he's serious, if he's just hard set on selling the joke.

But this is Hawks' persona too, always has been, so there's no fault they can find with him. No further evidence, no signs that point them to any truth.

And if every "What's on the agenda today, Hawks?" that turns into a curl of a grin and "Dabi" as an answer, that's just his little secret that the public has to speculate on, the meaning of Dabi's name thrown around.

They almost expect, any day now, for the villain Dabi to come around and reclaim his name, to set them all on fire—the joke on them.

But whatever it is meant to happen, whatever pro-hero Hawks throwing Dabi's name around is supposed to mean, the public will just have to wait and see.

Exactly a year later, on the first of April hits again. There's another post on Hawks' official. Another snapshot.

The same pair of hands entwined, the same bracelets a little worn with love and time, but there's something else to the image. Something different than the backdrop of passing time. Something more than another shot of allegedly, Hawks' bare hands exposed for the world.

An innocuous little band of metal sits on his ring finger. Blue flame gem against silver that matches the exact shade of staples against scarred hands and its complimentary ring. All gold, red wing gem at its center.

The caption is predictably empty, devoid of any explanation. Devoid of any answers. April 1st.

Two years in a row. Is Hawks just the worlds' most committed jokester? Or is he just indefinitely and irrefutably Dabi's?

The question hangs in the public, louder than any celebrity scandal, louder than any heroic feat.

As loud, as the beat of Dabi's heart thudding against his chest when the ring slips onto his finger. Question murmured against his cheek, Hawks' fingers threaded through his.

A promise to be his.

And Dabi's head spins, noise just as loud as the cry of the public, torn between defending Hawks' happiness and the lost yearning for a love that will never be theirs.

But it is Dabi's. This love will always be Dabi's.

And Dabi doesn't really get how Hawks' relationship—engagement—reveal can go this way. That Hawks has somehow managed to have it all.

But Hawks' feathers preen every time he so much as glances at his hand. Their hands.

The question burns against his tongue as he opens his mouth.

"Baby bird," he exhales, in wonderment, in disbelief. Only a bird with a lifetime of training in deception and calculations could pull this off.

"You plan this all along?"

Hawks turns back to him, dreamy smile against his lips as he tilts his head and Dabi thinks he knows the answer before he even let's it out. Before Hawks throws his head back and laughs, the one just for him.

"Who knows?"

Dabi knows.

[kakuvibez]

wassup, so now that he have cupid reader its time to have at least one story with all 7 dorms, i wanna request a briar reader x scarabia one shot, as for prompt im thinking that kalim asks jamil to use his unique magic on briar so she never falls asleep, jamil does this begrudgingly at first since its an order but then he becames obsessed with briar and starts doing it because he wants to.

⏜︵ yandere one shot ━ Scarabia ও　𓈒

𐂯  . requested by ; anonymous/ @user / none,, 　𓈒

𓏵  . fandom(s) ; Ever After High, Twisted Wonderland 𓈒

𐂯  . fandom master list(s): master | specific　𓈒

𓏵  . character(s); Kalim, Jamil　𓈒

  . 𐂯 outline; " Okay dokie （｡>‿‿<｡ ）!"　𓈒

︵︵ warning(s) ; Yandere behavior, obsession, stalking, isolation, unhealthy relationships, use of magic, forced to be awake, delusional love, manipulation, dark themes, toxic affection.　𓈒

You weren’t quite sure why you ended up in Scarabia—but honestly?

You weren’t complaining.

Golden sunlight danced through ornate windows, warm sands cradled your feet when you wandered outside, and silk cushions piled higher than your dreams waited for you to collapse into them at every turn. Scarabia felt like a mirage in the desert—a palace just for you.

Endless banquets, music that stirred your soul, rich spices that clung to the air… you couldn’t help but live for it.

"If I’m gonna be catching Z’s for a hundred years," you’d say with a laugh, "I gotta live it up now!"

And you did. Maybe too much.

You napped during tea time, snoozed in classes, drifted off mid-laugh during parties. You were soft and dreamy, a breeze Kalim couldn’t catch. A star Jamil couldn't stop watching.

But it wasn’t your fault.

You were cursed.

They called it a Destiny Curse—a sleeping spell that hung over you like a veil. One day, you’d fall asleep for a hundred years. Until then, you were tired all the time. Your body clung to rest like it was trying to delay the inevitable.

But your dormmates?

They didn’t care.

They were obsessed.

Kalim Al-Asim adored you.

From the very first moment he saw you curled up under the palm trees outside the dorm, sunlight in your lashes and the faintest smile on your lips—he knew. You were it. His dream come true. His miracle.

"Name! You’re awake!" he’d cheer every time your eyes fluttered open, as if it was a blessing from the heavens themselves.

He threw parties in your name. Bought you perfumes from the Scalding Sands, gold jewelry shaped like stars, and had fruit carved into your favorite animals. If it made you smile, it was worth it.

"Life’s a dream with you around, Name~" he’d hum, twirling you around the ballroom, your head lolling slightly as you barely kept yourself awake.

But his affection turned sour whenever anyone else got too close.

"Haha! Friendly, aren’t they?" he’d say, wrapping an arm around your waist possessively. "But maybe they shouldn’t touch what’s not theirs, right?"

And if anyone upset you?

They were gone.

No one knew how. Just that they’d vanish from Scarabia overnight. No goodbyes. No explanations. Kalim would just smile, stroke your hair, and whisper:

"You don’t need anyone else. You have me."

At first, Jamil Viper didn’t care.

You were just another mess Kalim dragged into their golden halls.

But you were always… there.

Smiling with drowsy eyes, laughing with a sleep-laced voice. You had that kind of glow that made people want to stare longer than they should.

And then Kalim got frustrated.

"Kalim… you want me to what?"

"Just once! Please! Just use your magic—make them stay awake! Just for a little while! I wanna talk to them—I wanna dance with them—I wanna keep them with me!"

Jamil didn’t like it.

But he obeyed.

He muttered the incantation, whispered your name, and watched as your eyes snapped open, wide and alert for the first time.

And then he saw it.

You smiled brighter. You laughed louder. Your charm hit like desert wine—intoxicating.

"Hey, Jamil! Wanna dance too?" you grinned, pulling him toward the center of the room, twirling, spinning—

It wasn’t like before.

He couldn’t look away.

So he kept doing it.

Even when Kalim stopped asking.

Even when you begged him to stop.

"Jamil, please—I’m so tired—"

"No," he murmured, cold fingers gripping your wrist. "Not yet."

"You don’t understand," he added, brushing hair from your face. "You’re better like this. You shine when you’re awake."

But your curse disagreed.

It started small.

A bit of dizziness. Blurred vision. A sense of floating.

Then your limbs grew heavy. Your mind clouded.

"Jamil… something’s wrong."

"It’s just fatigue," he said. "You’ll be fine. Just stay with me. Stay awake."

But then—one day during a celebration—you dropped your glass and crumpled to the floor like a broken doll.

"NAME?!"

Kalim’s scream shattered the music.

Jamil was at your side in seconds. Your body was warm. Your chest rose and fell. You were breathing.

But your eyes never opened.

You had slipped into the deep sleep.

The one foretold by your curse.

Kalim didn’t leave your side.

He sobbed into your sheets. He refused to eat unless someone brought the food to your room. Every hour, he begged you to wake up.

"Come on, Name… the party’s waiting…" he whispered into your motionless hand. "I miss you…"

But Jamil?

He stood over you. Silent. Still.

Watching.

His guilt had faded. All he could see was your peaceful face.

You looked like a dream.

Untouchable. Untainted. Unreachable.

And the thought burned.

So when your eyes finally fluttered open—weeks later, weak and glassy—he was already there, waiting.

"You scared us, Name," he murmured, brushing his fingers along your cheek.

You blinked slowly.

"Jamil…?"

"Shhh…" His hand slipped behind your neck. "You’re awake now, but… that won’t do."

Your limbs trembled. You tried to sit up—but he whispered again.

Snake Whisper.

And darkness fell.

When Kalim arrived, your bed was empty—but your body was still there, breathing, sleeping.

And Jamil?

He smiled calmly from the corner of the room.

"She’s resting again. Just like she’s supposed to."

Kalim trembled. "But—but she finally woke up…! Why would she—?"

"It’s safer this way," Jamil said smoothly. "She’s too delicate to be awake. We saw what happened."

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his uniform.

"This way… she’ll never leave us."

He placed a kiss on your forehead.

"She’ll always be ours."

Kalim said nothing.

But he didn’t argue.

He took your hand, tears falling again—but this time, they were quiet. Acceptance blooming in his chest.

You’d sleep forever.

And they’d be the only ones watching over you.

Forever.

[abracadav-r]

I'm gonna write a bit today about something I was in @/mystxmomo's dms about last night: a section I do like from the Tome of Foes and some thoughts about those things.

Namely, the talk about the "cycle of reincarnation".

There's been a lot of takes on the War of the Seledrine in the past that I am not fond of. Whether it be "cursing them with black skin to mark their status as traitors" or "gold elves do similar evil to the drow but despite this being known they're not perceived as a problem" or "some that didn't get touched by demon blood (none of those red eyed ones gross) can be allowed to do a special magic that allows them to be treated like people again rather than npcs you can freely kill without feeling bad about it (they get to go to elf heaven)."

Another lack of fondness is the cartoonish level of evil that Lolth is ascribed to in those lines of thought. It is her fault this war is still going, everyone's mad she's cavorting with demons. Ignore our gold elves doing the same and wracking the entire world multiple times about it. And trying to counterbalance it with "the one good drow god" who is pretty much described from the get-go as seeing her brother irrevocably corrupted and evil for the Ilythiiri kingdom, despite most of its evils being done after Lolth takes over. There's a whole period there of several thousand years that the Ilythiir were entirely in their own lane with their biggest evil being "expanding a bit too much". They were trying to get along with the dragons!

Images from the Tome of Foes begin under the cut.

As you can read, Mordenkainen takes a different tack than we've seen before in the oft-quoted Evermeet (without context that this may simply be a bardic interpretation of things). It focuses in on this as more of a "Garden of Eden" myth, where there is an irrevocable sin (a hunger for power) that is what Lolth grasps onto to try and overthrow Corellon. But what differs is that this crime falls upon all of the elves, executed as reincarnation.

In that sense, it loops back to the "eledrin" elves of 4e and the "unwilling to be resurrected" elves of 2e (Complete Book of Elves). These elves reincarnate. Sometimes immediately, sometimes after chilling in a god's realm, but they always come back and are ultimately some of the same souls that were part of the "original sin".

It goes on to discuss some caveats that might immediately pop into your head like "what about half-elves" and offers multiple explanations for that depending on your goal with flavor. There's even (see above) a section that discusses that some of those original "primal elves" left over from these creatures after some became gods may come back about. There is a direct line from then to now.

While some "fantasy racist" bits are offered like "drow don't have these dreams in trance and we think that's because they don't have souls actually" it's pretty easy to just ignore it and go to a softer version like "this is why drow choose to sleep more than their kin, they learn to as children to avoid seeing any of these visions that might sneak through Lolth's web."

This book also confronts what comes across after all these editions: it's fact that there are evil surface elves and good drow. You can't avoid this. You can't merely say "the guy with purple eyes and two scimitars is an outlier and shouldn't be counted". You can easily look around him and see that RAS confronts this nature vs nurture, coming down firmly on the side of nurture. His father, his friends, they're all not "evil" either. Jax even swaps from an evil alignment to a neutral alignment over time!

OK. Framework down; on to why I think this is actually a good thing for elven writing going forward:

This helps elves return to something that feels like a distinct species, rather than a pointy-eared human with different stat modifiers and a perk. 2e's rules about resurrection were there since that edition tried to do that sort of thing, make these species feel very distinct from each other and a meaningful choice. But the "no resurrection" thing feels like a punishing detriment in tabletop play, lore flavor is better than mechanical flavor in that sense.

Regarding the "cold war" after the War of the Seledrine, this shows why the conflict continues. Former editions leaned very heavily into "Lolth's evil" as the reason. But that falls flat when faced with the Sundering, Myth Drannor, etc. Why would Corellon allow that to exist? This offers a possibility: it's merely because their ancestors made the right choice, to stay at his side.

Further motivation is given to Corellon's role in this war. He's Zeus-like, full of rage at being pulled down with them. He's not immutable anymore, able to easily shift between all genders and forms that exist. He wants that back. His war with Lolth must continue, even if she's not directly fighting him. Because she hasn't in a while, Lolth's usually more busy antagonizing her own pantheon or trying to sockpuppet gods like Moander. Arguably, this is all for "the main course" later of this war but in terms of desire to follow through on it there's genuinely very little. With this, it's Corellon that keeps the conflict going. Even if Lolth became good, the issue still remains. The god's demand remains. They're simply anathema to each other. The war continues.

This also addresses the twins, changing the established vibe. There's a reason why she chose "father" and he chose "mother". It wasn't a choice made for them, they made it themselves. And this explains why her and her followers are still held without and punished: rather than being something that can be cleansed, it's simply something out of their power. Every elf endures this, but they still have the blessing of Corellon and his love in the form of being an elf, the closest thing to him. She didn't become a martyr that exists to go save them, because she can't. Father's angry and she can't fix it either until Lolth is dead. Maybe this will be good against their backdrop in 5e: they've communed. Accepted the other is right about some things, actually. Now they can lock in and focus on mom, rather than backstabbing each other... Assuming, of course, that the respect remains for a while.

This also explains why the Seledrine/Dark Seledrine behave rather differently than the human gods of the Realms, for example. They've always felt "closer", despite their age. Old, but more like the "new gods" of elevated mortals. It's because they were once the same as them! Every elf god can look at their elf followers and see familiar faces in their souls. They can remember living with these souls in some fey psuedo-mortality before "godhood".

Lolth can have some more realistic motivations, not the motivations of "the Big Bad". RAS having the priestesses ponder why she didn't kill purple-eyes and there being implications offered about why she doesn't crush her enemies even when presented a chance. She doesn't have to be evil manifest anymore, even if you still hold to her turning into a demon herself. Sure, she's evil, but you can find reasons that feel like "human" motivations for it. Power, since that was the promise she made to them. Rejection of the elven ways in rejection of Corellon. No "evil for evil's sake" but careful machinations in a web. She's playing the long con, or she's happy playing dolls with "her" souls because they were the ones willing to listen to her, defend her, have the same moral priorities as her. Maybe she doesn't even care for Corellon's spot anymore, he's the one keeping the war going! It's less good vs evil and more two horribly flawed and petulant, petty gods entrenched into their position that keeps them at war like this forever. Not like she's going to simply let her ex-husband kill her.

[hiraethwa]

one summer day

06 saturn ii. where ushijima’s words take you by surprise. 

<< 05 saturn i. | >> 07 sun and moon.

pairing: ushijima wakatoshi x reader a/n: i am back from my trip now, i will be posting more regularly again, thank you for staying! i loved reading the tags on your reblogs of one summer day, they make my heart go WAHHH! my inbox is always open if you want to chat <3 - ave word count: 1.5k warnings: angst, childhood trauma, parental neglect/verbal abuse, past death of a family member

april, second year

“you don’t have to be the person in your house with me.”

since he stayed with you that night, there has been a medley of conflicting feelings swirling in you. you had felt embarrassed in the morning, but also relieved for his presence. and this burning shame in your chest whenever you see him and his eyes seem to ask, are you alright? 

you could tell he wants to ask so many questions, but he is holding himself back, waiting for you to tell him yourself. worst of all, you wanted to tell him, consequences be damned. but you were afraid he would see you differently. you don’t think you could bear the person who’s seen you at your worst decide you were not worth his time. but if you wait any longer, perhaps he would decide that anyway. 

“what i mean is, you can be yourself around me, always.” you know that. deep down, you feel it. 

“ushijima–” you start, staring down at your shoes, thinking about how to explain that day to him without trauma dumping on him. 

he corrects you, “wakatoshi”

your cheeks color, testing the way his name rolls off your tongue, “wakatoshi… i owe you an explanation…”

you decide it is easier to start from the day everything changed. so you tell him what you haven’t been able to tell any of your friends since that day eight years ago. about your sister, akiko’s death anniversary. that she passed away in an accident, and that it was your fault for leaving her outside the house when your mother tasked you to look after her. that even though eight year old you went in to get some water for the both of you playing outside, it was still your fault. that she had ran out after a stray cat and did not see the car coming. that it was your fault. 

“am i a terrible person?”

and then you hold your breath, knowing there is a possibility that he would have that accusing look in his warm brown eyes. beautiful with tiny flecks of greens and golds. you think those are your favorite features of him. and fuck, it would hurt like hell if that is the way he looks at you from now on. but you had taken a leap of faith, all you can do is hope for the best. hope that the feeling in your gut is not wrong.

“and your parents, why weren’t they around?” for their daughter’s death anniversary goes unspoken. of all the questions he could have asked, he sure did pick the most difficult one, you thought. 

“let’s just say we all cope in our own ways. akiko’s death… it changed our family for the worse. my father threw himself into work to forget about it… my mother… her grief made her meaner, colder, it changed her.” 

he gives you a concerned look, causing you to hurriedly explain that your mother is not abusive. “she’s just different than the mother i had when akiko was still here. she cared less about us, her words became sharp, like knives designed to hurt, especially when it comes to me, but she never laid a hand on us. i think her grief morphed into anger, and she never stopped blaming me for that day.”

“it isn’t your fault, you know that, right?” he grabs your wrist, turning you around to look at him. 

your next words comes out in a whisper. “i know, but if i hadn’t left her, akiko would still be here. if i had done what i was supposed to, my parents wouldn’t have lost their daughter, and we could have been happy,” your voice cracks. 

“you were a child. it wasn’t your fault. do you understand?” his strong grip on your shoulders forces you to look into his eyes. there was no judgement in them. no accusing look, no blame, only resolution. and they made you feel safe. “you cannot be blamed for your parent’s decisions, and it was their responsibility to look after their children’s well-being, not an eight year old child. your only duty was to grow up.”

an unidentifiable feeling overwhelms you, welling up tears in your eyes. what is it about me and crying in front of ushijima? you had been fine, just fine before he came along and messed up your coping system. every year before this on that day, you wouldn’t even cry, believing that all your tears had been spent when you were eight. that all you could do is feel empty and sad and self-destructive on that day while lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling until the sun comes up. 

oh gods, you were eight, and you had believed that it was your fault your family lost a sister, a daughter, and your mother let you believe it. she never let you forget it. all the hurtful words hurled at you. all the pain you swallowed and carefully locked away in a box. 

your home stopped being a home that day. 

home should feel safe. home should be a place you long to be after a long day, not somewhere you dreaded. home should feel like a warm blanket on cold winter days, not a house that is a place to eat and sleep. home should feel safe. but it doesn’t.

you had known it for a long time. but you had been running away, refusing to face the fact. that maybe if you pretended hard enough, it would all go away. all this heartbreak that you had hidden away would vanish. 

“i don’t think my mother fully forgave me for it. i don’t think she forgave herself either.” but you were only a child. and all you wanted was her love, and approval, and support, and presence in your life. 

you look up at the stars shining in the dark sky, wondering if your sister is one of the millions smiling down at you from a far away distance. “she would have been in junior high if she was still here.” you smile sadly at the stars, thinking of the life that she could have had ahead of her. all taken away in one unfortunate moment. 

“your sister would want you to be happy, to live for yourself. i think she would find solace in that.”

you turn sharply to look at ushijima. “i–i have been doing my best to survive.”

his voice turns gentle, “but not truly living.”

“have you spoken to anyone about this?”  he inquires, though you think he knows the answer.

you clench your fists, looking away, a rising feeling in your chest that you identify as discomfort. oh, he is safe, but he is not afraid to tell you the truth, no matter how much it hurts. “you’re the first.”  

no one would understand anyway. not your parents, if they even cared enough to listen to you. not your brother, who had pushed you to open up, he lost his sister that night too. 

“then you no longer carry the burden by your lonesome. live, y/n, for you and your sister.”

live. he says it like it is so easy. as if living in that house doesn’t make you gasp for breath. if only your house did not also feel like your prison. if only being alive when your sister no longer breathes does not feel like a sin. as if everyday does not feel like being trapped in the past. 

and then with excruciating realization, you admit it. “i don’t know how.” 

the recognition leaves your head spinning, and you seek the comfort that you had felt in his arms. looping your arms around his torso, you bury your head into his chest. how do i do this how do i do this how do–

“you take it day by day. one foot in front of you at a time. and you keep looking forward.” he tilts your chin up, searching your eyes. “i will be right next to you.” he promises. 

“don’t say things you don’t mean.” please don’t make promises you can’t keep.

“y/n, i only say things i mean.” you hope he sees the gratitude in your eyes. you really hope he means it. because you think you can make it, with him by your side. when you’re with ushijima, you can truly breathe. with him by your side, you can see a glimpse of your future tonight. maybe not tomorrow, not a month from now, but one day, you could be happy. 

akiko, did you send him to me? thank you. i love you. i miss you. i miss you so much. but i think i need to learn to let you go now. 

reblogs and comments are appreciated!

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[misc-obeyme]

Okay, as requested by @obeymewanderer, here are the dateables turning into cats and needing true love's kiss to turn them back!

I included Luke, but the cure for him is just a counter curse for obvious reasons. I just thought it'd be fun to write about him turning into a cat, too lol.

Anyway, thank you for the request, I'm glad you enjoyed the first part!

dateables turn into cats and need a true love's kiss from GN!MC to change back

Warnings: none!

Diavolo

You don't have to find him. There's a knock on your door and when you open it, you find Barbatos holding an adorable cat with orange-red fur and bright gold eyes. He's got mischief on his face and Barb has fatigue on his. The Young Master cannot stay like this, he has far too much paperwork to do. Your assistance is needed.

Diavolo as a cat is absolutely precious. Wants to sit in your lap all time, constantly purring at you. When he's not cuddling with you, he's getting into things. Climbing under things, climbing over things, just being a general menace. It's not malicious, he's just intensely curious. He's not used to being this small! Despite his tendency to wander off, he always comes back if you or Barbatos call his name. Keep him away from Lucifer's office, please. He's going to get right up on the desk and mess up all the papers. Gets ink on his paws and walks across some important documents.

Together with Barbatos you figure out that he accidentally tripped one of Thirteen's traps that was meant for Solomon. You're actually relieved that it resulted in something so harmless as turning him into a cat. He's a really cute cat, after all. A quick message to Thirteen reveals the cure to the curse.

Take him back to your room, hold him in your arms, and kiss his furry head. He returns to normal still in your arms and he puts his around you before you even realize what's happening. Oh, MC. What a glorious time he had as a cat! But he's eternally grateful that it was your true love's kiss that turned him back to normal. Please kiss him again.

Barbatos

You're headed to the Demon Lord's Castle to have tea with Barbatos, but Little D No 2 greets you at the door instead and he looks worried. You can tell right away that something is wrong, so you follow him to Barbatos's room where you find a black cat with bright green eyes. You are far more amused by this situation than he is, but he's staying calm.

He's a pretty chill cat. He's gonna let you do whatever you like. Pick him up, carry him around, pet him, whatever, as long as you're working quickly to find a way to fix him. Won't let you slack off on that front. If you get even a little bit distracted, he will bat at you with his paws. Only hisses at you if you ignore him. Won't let you take him out of his room, though, so you're going to have to figure out what happened on your own.

It turns out that Little D No 2 is able to fill you in on some of those details. His explanation is questionable at best, but it sounds like it was actually his fault that Barbatos is now a cat. Something to do with some spilled magical potions or something. It's not really enough for you to figure out what you need to do and you're about to resort to well known curse breakers when kitty Barbatos starts licking your hand.

You finally figure out that he's trying to tell you that you should try true love's kiss. He's sitting on his bed and you bend down to pick up one of his paws, kissing the little paw pads which are all pink. He turns back immediately, his hand in yours. He pulls you down into his lap, his own lips by your ear. Without your hard work, he would still be cursed. Let him thank you properly, MC.

Simeon

You show up at Purgatory Hall to find Luke in an absolute panic. He's holding the cutest little brown kitty you've ever seen with the brightest of blue eyes. You're gushing about how cute this cat is - he's so pretty! - while Luke is on the verge of tears. This is not a cat! This is Simeon! Okay, okay, you gotta calm Luke down. Simeon himself seems pretty chill about the whole thing. No doubt he's just amused.

He's incredibly sweet as a cat. A lot of purring, a lot of sitting in laps, a lot of head butting for pets, and a lot of slow blinks. He has one of those cat faces that makes it look like he's always smiling. Likes to rub on people's ankles, which always seems to result in them tripping over him. You're not sure how purposeful this is. Stays by your side most of the time, content to watch you try to figure out how to fix him.

You don't even have to ask what happened because Luke is telling you all about it. It's pretty predictable, Solomon tried to cook something again and Simeon made the mistake of agreeing to try some. He couldn't find a way out of it that time, so this was the result. Solomon himself had left to see if he could find a cure. So Luke was just sitting around at Purgatory Hall, freaking out, until Solomon came back.

Turns out you don't need Solomon to figure this one out. You're a sorcerer, too, and a good one. You examine the food in question and while it's hard to tell what exactly the cure for some of Solomon's food is, you decide on true love's kiss. This is based entirely on your expertise as a sorcerer. Standing in the kitchen, you pick up Simeon and kiss his fuzzy cheek. He turns back into himself, smiles at you, and kisses you back. What a sweet way to be cured. But he's going to need a little more of your time, MC.

Solomon

You show up at Purgatory Hall for your usual magic lesson only to find that your teacher is nowhere to be seen. You look around his room and research area until you find a cat with silvery fur and grey-blue eyes. You can tell just by looking at him that this is Solomon. Not only because of his coloration but the fact that he has the expression of an absolute menace while somehow still being a cat.

You're about to grab him, but he's off, running around the room, climbing on things, just generally experiencing life as a cat. You're sure he already knows what to do to fix himself, so you almost just turn around and leave him. But when you're at the door, he meows plaintively, so you sigh and turn back. He's already trying to do magic in his cat form and failing miserably. You better change him back quickly because who knows what this guy is going to get up to like this.

It doesn't take long for you to see that this was the result of an experiment. All the evidence is laid out on the table - books and various magical implements and a notebook full of Solomon's handwriting. You read through it and find that he has already figured it out. In fact, you're thinking he might have done this on purpose. He knew you were coming, after all. And he knew what the cure was, too.

You're going to need to call him over sternly. He'll come and act all sweet about it, rubbing up against you and purring. You pick him up, put him on the table in front of you, and kiss his nose. He turns back into himself, sitting on the table, legs on either side of you. He laughs. He knew you could do it, MC! He knew you would figure out the cure. You get to decide if you're angry with him for doing this on purpose or not. Either way, you won't be able to stop yourself from kissing him again.

Luke

You're sitting in your class, minding your own business, when something small comes bolting in, followed by a couple of concerned looking demon brothers. The small thing stops at your feet, clinging to them desperately. This is painful because claws. You demand to know what's going on, picking up the shivering fluff ball. It's a little cat with white-blond fur and blue eyes. It's the halo in the eyes that gives it away. This is obviously Luke. It's Beel who tells you what happened - they were working on curses and this one accidentally hit Luke.

He's absolutely freaking out. Now that he's in your arms, he's clinging to your uniform like his life depends on it. He's doing that low mewling growl as he glares at the demon brothers standing nearby. His tail is twitching fast in irritation. If anybody else tries to get close to him, he hisses.

You hold onto him until school is over and then you take him to Purgatory Hall. Once there, you explain to Simeon and Solomon what's going on. Simeon takes Luke into his care, since he's the only one who can do so without getting bitten. You and Solomon then work to find a cure for this predicament.

Solomon finds a spell he can use as a counter-curse and casts it on Luke. He turns back into himself, clearly still extremely stressed. Won't you stay for a little bit, MC? He's had a rough day. Give him a hug and promise to stay by his side for a little while as he recovers from this mortifying ordeal. At least he was turned into a cat and not a chihuahua, right?

masterlist | part 1 with the brothers | Thank you for reading!

[justwinginglife]

Destiny Written In The Stars

@imthecosmicbasball, I wrote this today for your birthday, I know that it's not your birthday anymore in your timezone, but IT IS STILL YOUR BIRTHDAY IN MY TIMEZONE SO HERE- HAPPY BIRTHDAY, THIS IS MY GIFT TO YOU.

Shooting stars streaked across the night sky, trailing shades of gold and white through the long expanse of velvet blue. Spectators gaped as they bore witness to this beauty, mesmerized by the marvel of the cosmos. The young and old alike bestowed their wishes upon each passing star, melding their hopes and dreams to grains of stardust. 

You weren’t paying attention. You were rewatching Kaiju No. 8- AGAIN. Correction- you were watching Hoshina’s scenes again. 

As your eyes traced his figure, as you murmured his lines back to him (you had them all memorized at this point), you made a silent wish that he could be real, that he could be yours, that he could be here. 

So the stars glimmered bright and Hoshina fell through the screen. 

Landed right in your lap.

For all your boisterous talk to all your friends about what you’d do if he ever came to life, you suddenly found yourself silent, found yourself shocked, found yourself shy. So when he quickly pulled himself off of you, your words of protest died on your lips before ever reaching his ears. 

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” He asked earnestly, hands hovering over you with concern. He’d just been ripped from everything he’d ever known and he was asking how you were. God, you loved this man.

“I-I’m f-fine.” You squeaked out. You cleared your throat and tried again. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

He took a moment to survey his surroundings. “I’m… I’m not sure what I am. Or where I am.”

You bit your lip. “Japan. You’re in Japan. Just not… not your Japan.”

His brows furrowed. “Not… my Japan?”

You nodded slowly, uncertain of how to properly explain all of this to him when you had barely grasped the situation yourself. 

He hesitated before finally tugging the curtains open and peering through your bedroom window. He inhaled sharply at the sight before him. The sight that was both familiar and alien, all at once. 

You joined him at the window, eager to provide some sort of support, but while he was taking note of every missing landmark, of every difference between your world and his, you couldn’t help but be entranced by the stars that were still blazing their way across the sky. As you watched each one with awe, the thought occurred that maybe you’d wished him into existence. There was no other explanation. You’d wished and he’d appeared.

“So in your… your Japan. Are there Kaiju? I mean, I don’t see any Defense Force Bases, I don’t see any soldiers patrolling the streets.”

You shook your head and he exhaled. 

“No Kaiju. No Defense Force. Am I… do I even… should I be here?”

You shook your head again, slowly.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Alright. So I don’t exist in this world. Why am I here? How am I here?”

You coughed and raised a hand. “That would be my fault. I’m sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking you up and down. “You don’t really seem like an all-knowing, all-powerful sorcerer who could summon me through time and space.” A smile tugged at the edge of his lips. 

You laughed at that. “I’m not. Just a girl. With a crush.” You suddenly felt the need to avert your gaze and you fidgeted with your fingers as you waited for his response.

He blinked. “I’m sorry, how is that related to this?”

“I may have…” You cleared your throat awkwardly, “Wished you here? Because I’m… in love with you?” Your ears tinged red at the sudden confession. 

You’d always known you loved him but it sounded strange to admit it now. You knew everything about the guy but you barely knew the guy. He must’ve thought it bizarre to be receiving a confession from a girl he’d never met before, who was now claiming to know and love him intimately.

But as shocked as he was, he still listened respectfully as you explained to him the peculiar situation you both found yourselves in, and when you finished, when your hands shook to the point of needing to shove them in your pockets to hide your nerves, he took them in his and held them until the shaking eased. 

“Y-you know, if you keep being sweet to me, I’m never going to stop loving you,” You joked, but you were only half kidding. 

He grinned. “Ahh, a beautiful, all-knowing, all-powerful sorcerer is never going to stop being in love with me? Doesn’t sound too bad.”

You blushed, eager to change the topic. “So what’ll you do? I mean, will you look for a way back?”

He paused to think for a moment before he finally shrugged. “Well, I’ve got no leads for now, so I may as well enjoy my time with my number one admirer.” He winked and your heart almost stopped. 

“Soshiro, you can’t just do things like that, you’ll give me a heart attack,” You whined as the heat buried itself deeper into your cheeks.

His eyes widened. “Did you just… did you just call me Soshiro??”

Your eyes shot to the ground, drilling a mental hole through the carpet as though you were imagining yourself up an escape route. “S-sorry! Sorry. I’m just so used to… I just, that’s just what I call you.” You shrunk as you spoke, wishing your shirt could just swallow you whole.

He laughed awkwardly. “Well I uh… I guess you… I guess you could call me that. If you’re, if you’re already calling me that, I don’t want to impose. And we are… we are kinda roommates now. So I guess you can call me Soshiro.”

You shook your head quickly. “Absolutely not, we barely know each other, it’s not right, I don’t want to disrespect you, I’ll just call you Hoshina.”

He laughed again, this time the sound was soft and reassuring. “Well you seem to know everything about me already, that just means I need to catch up and get to know everything about you. So call me Soshiro and let me earn your name.”

So you laid on the floor together, trading favorite foods and favorite songs, debating favorite books and favorite authors, confessing dreams and confessing fears, all through the night, until your friendship made its way into the daylight, with the sun marking a new day and the start of something special. 

Still abuzz with adrenaline, the two of you dismissed any notions of sleep, and you decided to take a tour of the town together. You indulged his every whim and soon you found yourself ducking in and out of shops you’d never frequented, stuffing yourself full of food you’d never tried, and enjoying every moment of life like you’d never lived before. Somehow, in all the years you’d been in this neighborhood, it’d never felt like home until he was right beside you, until he was racing bikes with you down the street, until he was daring you to chug your fresh coffee, until he was nudging you into a river for a “quick swim,” until he was laughing on the ground at your feet and brightening up your day with his smile. 

You hoped he’d stay. 

And then, after exploring every inch of the town to his satisfaction, when you finally dragged your exhausted selves back to your apartment, when you offered him the bed, planning to sleep on the couch, when he sleepily mumbled something about “a one bed trope” and pulled you into bed with him before passing out, you begged to any god who would listen that you could keep him. Then you fell asleep in his arms. 

When you woke up with his arms still tight around you, like he’d needed you his whole life, like he hadn’t got one proper night of sleep without you by his side, like you were his whole reason for living, you prayed to the gods again. Please let him be mine. Please.

When you spent yet another evening in his arms, yet another morning waking up to his smile, another day by his side, another night wrapped around him, when your every night became his, when your every day became his, when you could memorize the way he flipped eggs to make you breakfast, when you knew his favorite song to sing in the shower, you thanked the gods. 

Some days, you’d test your luck and ask if he was still planning on going back. He’d say “Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it, I’m working on it,” and then he’d grin at you and go back to drawing up your bath, or go back to massaging your shoulders, or go back to looking up rings, to looking up houses, and you’d love him more than you did the day before or the day before that.

And when he murmured his confessions of his love to you over and over again, when he loved you more than he did the day before, or the day before that, you thought to yourself that maybe the stars weren’t shooting aimlessly into the sky that night you’d both met- maybe they were aligning, maybe they were finding each other, maybe they were right where they were supposed to be, maybe you were right where you were supposed to be, maybe this was destiny.

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***Author's note: YES I know it's OOC for him to stay, in actuality, he probably would've found some way to get back home, I KNOW he got his duty, I know he wouldn't leave Mina high and dry like that when she is depending on him, but I choose to be delulu and I choose to use the excuse that it is someone's birthday and I can write whatever the heck I want for said person's birthday (let's be real, I prob would've written it this way anyway, birthday or no birthday but it's FINE)***

[suniwrites]

Hello! Please describe in detail how Lucius would react to Narcissa giving him a new cravat.

-Your Biggest Fan

The lid lifted, tissue paper crinkled, and Narcissa held her breath.

Lucius fingered the cravat folded inside the giftbox Narcissa had pressed into his hands. A lustrous sheen glinted off its threads. She had agonised over the endless options in the shop—to guess at Lucius’ preferences was madness. His chambers were bathed in emeralds, but his shelves brimmed with golds, and as for his garments, he only ever wore black. In the end, she had dared to be bold and select a green.

But with her eyes fixed attentively to his expression, she failed to notice a single twitch of his lips that might indicate she had chosen correctly. Her stomach sank.

“Thank you.”

Lucius shut the lid back over the box, and then he pecked her cheek in a perfunctory kiss.

“Shall we?”

He held out his arm, and she forced herself to take it. Her hand slid over the crook of his elbow, and they walked out to the carriage that would take them to Lucius’ birthday party. Her blurring vision made it difficult to see the path, but she musn’t reach for her handkerchief or Lucius would see, and she had no wish to draw his attention. Forget the color—how foolish it was to choose a cravat at all! Lucius’ drawers burst with cravats; he hardly had need of another. There was nothing special about it. She had failed to weave in spells or to have a runemaster enchant it, for it simply hadn’t occurred to her, but as she thought back to Lucius’ last gift to her—a lovely dragonpearl pin brimming with protection—her heart shrivelled in on itself. It was far too late to enchant it now; he had seen it, how plain it was, how it would fit seamlessly into his cravat room among the hundreds of other cravats to be hung off a rod and never touched again. Stupid, miserable, selfish girl. She could hardly prove herself to her new family if she failed the simplest of tasks: to procure a birthday gift for her husband.

The carriage door swung open, and Lucius grasped her hand to help her up the steps. Though she turned her face away, she must have been too slow, for a frown graced his face.

“What is it, darling?”

“There’s dust in my eyes.”

A lady did not fling herself into carriages to escape uncomfortable questions, she reminded herself. Up the steps she went, one by one, calmly, gracefully, with a spine her mother would be proud of. If she settled closer to the window than she ordinarily would, that was no one’s business but her own.

She did not see the door shut behind him, for her eyes were pointed at the riveting landscape out the window—black, black, and more black, with possibly the outline of the withered coachman shuffling around the other side. Yes, a stunning sight that Lucius could not fault her for being turned towards.

“There must be a fair bit of dust.”

“Thestral hooves, I imagine.” Her voice wobbled only a little.

“Narcissa …”

Sod it all. She snatched the handkerchief from her purse and smothered her face. One day, she might be a flawless Malfoy wife, but clearly it would not be that day.

A hand brushed down her back, and then she was pulled into his side. Her face met the thick robes draped across his shoulders, likely spelled to perfection, unlike the pathetic cravat left to rot in its box beside him. Her breath hitched.

“It’s only for a few hours,” his low voice murmured into her ear. “We’ll have a drink, and mingle with our guests, and be home before midnight—”

“I’m sorry,” she croaked into his shoulder. “I should have gone to Borkins, but your father refused to loan me his signet ring, and they turned me away at the door—”

“Ah, is that what this is about.”

That his arm held her in place was the only reason she didn’t wrench away. No, she was forced to confess her idiocy underneath his exacting eyes, to scramble for a semblance of explanation for her paltry gift.

“I … I should have enchanted it or … I fail to understand what crossed my mind—you have a thousand cravats already …”

The more she rambled, the more her voice dwindled, until she lapsed into tremulous silence against his robes.

Lucius huffed—an amused sound that vibrated through his chest. She felt it, pressed against him as she was.

“If my father had lent you his signet ring, we would have had words. Dark artifacts are dangerous to handle without the knowledge. I don’t expect extravagance from you, Narcissa, you don’t possess the resources to impress me. Rest easy.”

His words were meant as reassurance: she would never be able to impress him, because she was incapable of such a feat. Cease your foolish tears, Narcissa, he’s being kind to you.

Never in that moment had the gulf between them gaped wider. He was surrounded by greatness, by the brilliant minds of their generation, and witnessed feats of impossibility every day. Rest easy. No matter how she could have tried, it would have been in vain, for she was a speck on the parchment compared to the Dark Lord and his savants.

“I understand.”

Her dull words were muffled by his robes. He didn’t like her gift, and he never would, no matter what she picked. She would simply have to accept it, along with the dozens of other things her new life had crushed beneath its gleaming marble floors.

“Don’t despair, my little daffodil. Your gift has its uses.”

A sensation slithered against her wrist. She jerked her hand away, but when she looked down, it was the familiar green sheen of the cravat she’d fretted over for days.

“It looks lovely against your wrists.”

Flames burst across her cheeks and incinerated her thoughts to ash. She dared to peek up at him, and found him gazing back at her in that way he did when he wanted … when he desired … when he …

“We’re in the carriage,” she whispered.

“It’s a fine day for a scenic route.”