#like first of all it’s tradition so jot that down

[thekintsugikids]

saturday might not be my favorite fob song but it is Thee FOB Song of All Time and it’s arguably the most important song they’ve ever made…like, andy credited that song as being the One that made him believe fob was special enough to stay, patrick would’ve never let it be heard in a world without pete, it’s the song that made them feel like they were doing something good and special and worthwhile and without it we probably wouldn’t have fall out boy. the band would’ve just been a fun little summer thing and they would’ve all gone in separate directions…but patrick wrote saturday instead

[mochinomnoms]

If Floyd and Jade separate with the "Mate for life" scenario are crazy.. Imagine somehow bagging the two of them.. Oh man

-Vaquita

Well, your walking abilities are revoked the morning after, so jot that down.

Jade's carrying you to the bath, all sore and confused, as he and Floyd discuss who should be in charge of what for the upcoming wedding.

"Pops likes you more, you should call and tell him instead, I'll tell Mama."

"But Mother will be upset if we don't both tell her at the same time, and I think she'd want to know first—"

"Yeah, but you know how Pops is about tradition and stuff, he'll get pissed if he finds out we mated before giving them the mating gift."

"Actually, Mother will probably be angrier that we mated before introducing them to her. Perhaps you should be the one to tell her!"

"Aw shit, wait no I change my mind—"

They're discussing this, like they're discussing the weather as you're being washed up and hand-fed. You're so confused, what's going on? Marriage? Mating? You just got your back blown out, you need a sec to recuperate!

(You love them very much, and it seems that you've found a place that you fit into in Twisted Wonderland. How wonderful for you!)

[meanbossart]

Another much overdue ask compilation! Some short-ish lore asks (Gale, Gort, DU drow relationships and pet-companion preferences) and a couple of art/advice ones sprinkled in. THIS IS BY NO MEANS ALL OF MY ASKS so as usual I appreciate everyone's patience!

I actually think he'd give them a pass entirely as soon as he noticed. Correct me if I'm mistaken but half-drow get No love from underdark drow and are usually surface babies right? So that fruit is miles away from the tree lol. I think he generally has a bit of a soft spot for mixed kinds since he himself feels like an amalgamation of sorts.

Thank you! They're kind of a pain in the ass to draw at times for that very reason but man I do like the look 😩if other people like it too then that makes it all worth it!

THAT'S TRICKY TO ANSWER BECAUSE OFTEN TIMES I'M NOT... REALLY TRYING. I've draw a ton of horror comics for mine and my partner's series' SAD SACK and SORTIE, so I think it just comes naturally to me 😅 also I do genuinely find expressive and, uh, rugged faces more attractive? (I think they look rugged, again that's what people tell me at least.)

I think the secret might be adding bits of realism in there. I get a lot of comments about the wrinkles and eyelashes I add to my art, as well as the way I draw individual teeth (though I've lately been making an effort to simplify my style in favor of drawing faster, so I haven't done that as much or in as much detail.)

Both symmetry and the lack of it can also add to that effect. I have employed both facial unevenness and almost point-perfect symmetry to achieve something a little frightening or otherworldly in my work. [MORE UNDER THE CUT]

Thank you so much!!! The contrast is very much intentional, that's what DU drow's character is all about ;)

Hahah well I somewhat doubt Bhaal would care that his spawn gets named, but either way he stripped himself of his name as soon as he killed his foster parents and abandoned the Underdark. He had a drow name that I jotted down somewhere but it's completely irrelevant because nobody has used it since he was a child, and he doesn't remember it (even pre-tadpole/having his brain scrambled.) Here's a little write up about his origins that might shed some more light on that: https://meanbossart.tumblr.com/post/739688837431836672/did-drow-ever-have-a-childhood-before-the-temple

And about his original drow-given name and the reason behind it: https://meanbossart.tumblr.com/post/741350986692591616/drow-had-to-have-been-given-a-name-by-his-adoptive

Everyone just referred to him as his supposed race, or as Bhaalspawn or Bhaal's child, and any other similar titles. Orin called him "kin" and "brother" and Gortash likely called him his associate. Post-tadpole the camp grows entirely used to calling him "the drow" and he has no desire to change that or to choose a proper name.

THANK YOU BOTH SO MUCH😭 no reason to be intimidated, I'm just some rando drawing BG3 fan art LOL I've been drawing since I was a child, and started taking it semi-seriously when I was 16 years old, so twelve years ago! That's around the time where I got my first non-display tabled and used that well into my twenties, prior to that I only did stuff on paper and liked to do inks color with pencils. I never really ventured into traditional painting at all except for a little bit of water-coloring in college.

Traditional and Digital art are very much different beasts. Which one you want to start with is, in my opinion, just dependent on what you want to do. Digital art gives you a lot of tools that makes learning easier, but you might find yourself having much steeper of a learning curve if you ever decide to do traditional art instead. If you want to be good at both, you need to practice both, since the skill doesn't entirely translate from one medium to the other.

Naturally you will be able to draw well on either, it's just... Different. I will say though, that I think if you're still learning you should use whatever allows you to look directly at what your hand is doing, so either traditional or display tablet/Ipad. I have no idea what a non-display tablet would do to a beginner, but remembering my experience with it I feel like it might be a huge detriment to developing the skill (feel free to share your experiences in the replies if you disagree, as I would definitely be curious to read them!)

YOU KNOW ME BABY IT WAS MESSY AND COMPLICATED the tldr.: is that they were "buddies", absolutely no romance intended there on either mine or DU drow's part, but due to his nature the friendship was extremely weird.

Here's a couple of replies where I go into more detail about it: https://meanbossart.tumblr.com/post/739191190871818240/i-dont-have-a-particular-question-in-mind-sorry

https://meanbossart.tumblr.com/post/744952815768764416/so-not-sure-if-youve-covered-this-but-i-thought

That's definitely reserved for the vamp LOL DU drow very much enjoys when Astarion teases and fusses over him, and while Astarion probably got a kick out of acting that way around such a big and scary looking guy at first, I think by "now" (later and post-game) he's pretty much immune to DU drow's looks and just enjoys doing it in earnest.

He's not at all averse to being touched (even rather intimately) by close friends, but he wouldn't be quite THAT vulnerable with anyone else.

HE REALLY DISLIKED GALE... He irked him out by seemingly fostering a rather persistent romantic interest in him for at least half the time they spent together (very much based on my interpretation of their in-game interactions at the time, though my Gale might have been a little bugged.)

But also they had a... Fairly in depth relationship still? Gale was a staple in my party, and even though I antagonized him constantly by the end of the game it still felt like they had so much weight in each other's lives, if that makes sense. I might need to do a bit of an "update" on the DU Drow/Gale lore sometime, I feel like I've had some thoughts since that warrant more exploration of their dynamic (you can find a lot of old asks about it if you just search the Gale Dekarios tag in my blog though).

The gist of it is that DU drow found him arrogant and duplicitous, his constant optimist irritated him to no end and felt like it veiled a stream of self-pity (two things DU drow despises) Gale's attempts to get through to him only added insult to injury. By the end of the game he decided to pursue the crown of Karsus and this only lost him even more respect in Drow's eyes, seeing as he doesn't value godly power at all.

I was pretty overwhelmed by the game at the start so I actually missed a lot LOL including Scratch. I did get the owlbear cub though, which DU drow gladly welcomed into camp since it was injured - but I think he would have wished for it to remain a wild animal and to return back to it's home after it had grown up a bit. He didn't really make a "pet" out of it more than he just looked after the little guy in the way it's mother might have, probably with Shadowheart's help.

He wouldn't be opposed to proper pets though if one were to stumble into his life. He'd definitely be more of a cat guy because of their independence and strong little attitudes.

It is very hard to build proper rapport with him. He will be "friendly" to most people who have a good sense of humor about them, but friendSHIP is another thing entirely.

I think it's kind of circumstantial. He's very economical in his relationships and doesn't really seek them out at all - so a situation where he's forced to be in someone's company might be the only way to develop a bond with him, as he doesn't appreciate insistence either and that's more likely to push him away. He doesn't value status or titles either (kind of looks down on them really) so that won't help.

I think he just likes people who are true to themselves and their nature, sometimes even if the nature is one he disagrees with at it's core. This is why he liked Gortash, why he and Shadowheart got along so well, and why him and Astarion fit together so seamlessly despite seeming so different. Likewise I think it's why he didn't jive with people like Gale or Wyll, because they seemed to be rather... Dishonest with themselves and their own end-goals.

[blood-red-ocean]

New Year at the Castle - Alcina x Reader

A/N: Happy new year! Please enjoy this oneshot of a celebration at Castle Dimitrescu - this one is a long one, so if you would rather read it on AO3, click here! <3

A/N 2: The reader is wearing a tux <3

Category: Fluff/Romance Warnings: None Word count: 3.1k

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

“The new year will be upon us soon, I think.”

The Lady’s voice brought you out of the world of the novel you had plunged yourself into. After her daughters had settled into bed for the night, the two of you had retired to the library where, such as was your tradition every night, you stoked the fire while Alcina piled the couch opposite with pillows and fluffy blankets. There, with the fire roaring and the snow falling gently against the library windows, you would spend hours upon hours reading, until you fell asleep with your head on her shoulder and woke up curled up beside her in her bed.

At this moment, though, she had lifted her gaze from the pages of her novel – an ancient tome written solely in Romanian – and was gazing pensively out of the nearest window.

“My love? Are you okay?”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m fine,” She responded, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s just… An emotional time of year for me.”

You placed your book down to your side, folding your hands in your lap. You looked up at her and ventured, “Would you like to talk about it…?”

Alcina started to shake her head, then paused, thinking. “That would be… Nice,” She admitted. She placed her book to the side and held her arm out to you, inviting you to nuzzle up against her side. She pulled one of the fluffy blankets over you and tucked it in, idly trailing her thumb across your skin. “New Year’s celebrations were a rather grand occasion, back when… Well, back before I met Miranda.” She sighed dreamily, letting her head fall back as she spoke. “Grand parties and balls, elegant gowns, smoking lounges, and of course, the singing. Oh, the singing. I haven’t sung since…” Alcina trailed off, then shook her head a little before continuing. “And the fireworks, of course. They were magnificent.”

She gazed into the fire with a faraway look, falling silent. You let the silence stretch on for a while, and then, your voice barely above a whisper, “Well… Maybe we can celebrate together, sometime.”

Alcina’s husky laugh reverberated through your chest. “That is sweet of you, draga, but we simply don’t have the space or resources for such an undertaking.” Her gaze fell back to the book in her lap, and that was the last she spoke of it. Book long forgotten to your side, you gazed into the flames of the fireplace, mind whirling with ideas. For the first time, you weren’t the first one to fall asleep. In fact, sleep evaded you tonight, as you laid beside Alcina and stared up at the ceiling. Her arm was thrown over your torso and her soft, purr-like snoring vibrated through you and while it would normally soothe you into a slumber, you were restless. Taking care not to wake her, you slid out from under her arm and softly padded to the door, heading towards her daughters’ rooms.

***

“A New Year’s Eve party?” Bela asked, her eyebrows raised. “Here, in the Castle?”

“A party sounds amazing!” Cassandra was practically bouncing off of the walls with excitement. “We’ve never had a party here before! Just dull meetings with Miranda.”

As you had hoped, the three girls were still awake in their respective rooms. It hadn’t taken much convincing to corral them all into Bela’s room, where the four of you now sat cross-legged on the floor.  Papers were strewn before you, some scribbled with brainstorming notes.

“Do we even have anywhere where we could set something like this up?” Bela asked. She picked up one of the pieces of paper, on which you had jotted down the key elements of a New Year’s celebration. “Food, we can do. Music, too. But… Fireworks? We would need to be outside for that. We can’t go outside in this weather.”

Your shoulders sagged a little. “Right. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Wait,” Daniela piped up. She scooched over to Bela and read over her shoulder, chewing her lip in thought. “Not necessarily. There is one place in the Castle where we could do this. It would be like being outside without actually being outside.”

Bela’s eyes widened slightly. “You mean…? No, it won’t work. That place is a mess!”

“What? What place?” You looked between the three of them, hoping for some elaboration.

“The atrium.” Cassandra, who had been trying to do handstands against the wall, fell to the floor with a thud and a soft oof before coming to join the three of you again. “We haven’t used it for decades. It’s so dusty, and full of boxes, and probably spiders—”

“The new year is a week away, though,” Daniela interjected. “If we’re quick, we can get it cleaned out in a few days, and have the rest of the time to set everything up.”

The sounds of a pencil scratching quickly over paper joined the chorus of their overlapping voices as you hurriedly tried to jot down everything they said. By the time you had left Bela’s room and settled back in Alcina’s sleeping arms, the four of you had hatched a flawless plan to ring in the next new year with a bang. As your eyelids grew heavier, you gazed at Alcina’s sleeping form and your heart swelled with excitement and love as you imagined the look on her face when she walked into the biggest celebration the Castle had ever seen.

Over the next week, you and Alcina’s daughters worked hard with clearing out the Atrium. You didn’t even know the Castle had one – the door to it was hidden down the far end of a cobweb-covered hallway, and your feet kicked up dust from the carpet runner with every step. There was a moment of uncertainty when it seemed that the four of you might have to work around Alcina’s presence, but thankfully, Bela managed to talk to Miranda, who requested Alcina’s ‘invaluable assistance’ at her estate. You felt bad, in a way – you would normally never try to get Alcina out of the house for a day, let alone a week, but the thought of her joy as she walked into the party made it all feel worth it. With that in mind, the four of you worked as a team of sorts – Daniela carted old boxes and wooden crates from the atrium into the Castle’s dungeons, Cassandra and Bela dusted, swept, mopped and cleaned the large glass panels, and you walked around the space as it cleared out, jotting down notes and quick sketches as you planned out where to put what.

After three exhausting days, you found yourself laying on the floor of the atrium, staring up at the stars through the glass. Cassandra and Daniela were curled up together, Cassandra’s snoring echoing around the empty space, while you and Bela passed a bottle of water between the two of you. There was still much to do before the turn of the year, but the pride you held for the four of you clearing out this space was immense.

“So, hey, I’ve been meaning to ask… Where did this idea even come from?” Bela asked. She took a gulp of water and continued, “We’ve never had a celebration here, at least not for as long as I can remember.”

“Your Mother told me,” You responded. “She seemed kind of sad that she hasn’t celebrated for so long, and I wanted to surprise her. So don’t tell her, okay? Please?” As you grabbed the water bottle from Bela’s hand, there was something indecipherable in her eyes. She nodded, a small and rare smile on her face.

“I won’t. Promise.”

***

The Duke’s carriage was parked in its usual spot just outside the Castle’s doors, the doors closed tight against the chill of the snowy weather. Paper in hand, you rapped on the doors with your knuckles and stood back to wait. There was a shuffling and a clattering inside, followed by a long, pretentious, “Yes?”

“I have an order request.”

“I’m not taking orders until the snow thaws, I’m afraid. Too hard to get the carriage—”

“It’s for the Lady.” The clattering and shuffling noises became louder, almost frantic, and the doors to the carriage slammed open. The Duke poked his head out and looked directly at you, his usual smarmy grin pasted on his face and making you shudder with discomfort, just the very same as every time you saw him.

“An order for the Lady, you say?” He drawled. “Well come on, come on then, let me see.” You had barely held the list out to him before he snatched it from your grasp, eyes scanning the scribbled contents. “Hmm, I see… This won’t be easy to retrieve, not easy at all, and especially not before this date you’ve written here… Are you absolutely certain you need this?” The Duke’s eyes widened in glee at the bulging bag you thrust towards him. It was filled to the brim with packages of meat, Lycan teeth, some golden goblets from the village, and some harvested wheat from the nearby farm, along with some choice herb mixes from Donna. The Duke snatched it from you and slammed the carriage doors closed again, calling out, “I will return with the items you requested in no more than two days! Cheerio!”

An unpleasant shudder shot through you at his departure and you turned, not at all expecting to run directly into Donna as she stood silently behind you.

“Jesus!” You yelped. “Donna, hi. I need to put a bell on you.” The faintest of smiles flickered across her face, before she beckoned you into the Castle with you. You followed her unquestioningly as she strode through the Castle’s doors, winding her way through the halls.

“Dani told me about your plan,” She spoke over her shoulder to you, her low and husky voice barely louder than a whisper. “I hope you didn’t mind me adding a floral touch.” She led you to the atrium and pushed open the door, and the sight inside made you gasp. Gazing around in utter awe, you had to remind yourself to breathe as you admired her work. You looked at her, shyly standing near the door and awaiting your feedback.

“It’s beautiful.”

***

“Draga?”

While the last few days had been busy, they had been, admittedly, rather lonely. You missed feeling her presence beside you in your shared bed, you missed reading with her until you fell asleep, and you missed the click of her heels as she strode the Castle halls. At the sound of her voice, you sprinted out of your room and barreled into her, wrapping your arms around her. She let out a laugh, a sound that was rare to grace your ears but never failed to make your heart skip beats.

“I missed you!” You said brightly, relaxing into her embrace. “Gods, I’m glad you’re home. How was your time with Miranda?”

“Exhausting.” Alcina pulled the woolen scarf from around her throat and hung it up beside the door, her coat following suit. “I’m not even entirely sure what Miranda required my assistance with. It was all very disorganized. It was as if she simply just wanted me around.”

“Careful, love,” You teased her. “I’ll get jealous.”

“You know that I have eyes only for you, draga mea,” She responded, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Her eyes roamed over you, drinking you in, before she added, “What in the world are you wearing?”

You blushed, completely forgetting for a moment that you were clad in a white tuxedo, something looking like it was straight out of the 1940’s. On the lapel was pinned a brooch, the three metallic flowers mirroring the three black roses she wore on her shoulder every day. The tux had a golden trim, and it shimmered under the flickering light of the torches that lit the entryway. Heart racing in your chest, you took her hand and slowly led her towards the bedroom.

“Oh, my,” She chuckled. “You really did miss me, hmm, draga?”

“I did, yes, but there’ll be time enough for that later,” You teased, blushing deeply. “No, there’s another surprise in there. I’m very excited to see your reaction.”

With a quirk of an eyebrow, Alcina entered the bedroom, closing the door behind her. You leaned against the wall beside the door and took a deep breath. Out of the corner of your eye you could see Daniela at the end of the hallway, giving you a thumbs up and a goofy grin. You flicked your hand at her in a shooing gesture – and just in time, too, because just at that moment Alcina emerged from the bedroom, and gods, was she a sight. Your eyes widened and your lungs forgot how to function as she towered over you, her golden dress clinging to her. It shimmered with her every breath, the gold the same colour as the trim on your tux and the white trim on her gown matching with you. She gazed at you quizzically, and it took immense effort to pull yourself out of your trance.

“You look absolutely breathtaking, my love,” You murmured. And then, more playfully, “And, if I may say, absolutely ravishing.”

Alcina chuckled at hearing the line you stole from her, reaching to take your outstretched hand. “This is lovely, draga, but I don’t quite understand.”

“Oh, but you will.” You took a few steps back, leading her along the hallway. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then close your eyes,” You whispered. “And trust me.”

As much as she knew the layout of the Castle like the back of her hand, you still made sure to say ‘doorway’ every time, just out of courtesy. There was a faint smile on her lips as you led her through the winding hallways, eventually reaching the atrium doors. Alcina hummed thoughtfully, brow furrowed. “Draga—”

“You can open your eyes now, my love.” She did so and gazed down at you with intrigue and confusion. She glanced around the hallway, behind her, and then back at you.

“Beloved, you do know this leads to the atrium? This part of the Castle hasn’t been used in—”

“Decades.” You smiled up at her and rested your hand on the door handle. From behind the closed doors you could hear the faint sounds of music and chatter, but you hesitated, gazing down at your watch. It was almost time. “Until tonight. I think it’s about time that my beloved Lady sang once again.”

And with that, you leaned back, pushing the doors open and stepping though, Alcina in tow. The chatter died down, everyone in the space turning to look at the two of you with bated breath. Alcina straightened up after going through the doorway and stopped in her tracks, looking around, her lips parted very slightly in surprise.

“Draga…” She breathed.

The atrium was glowing with the light of elaborate lanterns and sconces, the ceiling of stars visible through the glass covering of the atrium. Bundles and bouquets of flowers and vines donated by Donna lined the walls and decorated the tables and stage, their sweet scent permeating the air and strong enough to make one dizzy. The stage itself was adorned with gold and silver ribbons, and the jazz band that was playing onstage wore golden outfits that perfectly complemented Alcina’s. Everyone had arrived to join the celebrations – even Moreau had managed to swap out his usual green-grey attire for a formal emerald green tailored suit. Alcina looked as if she might fall as she took everything in, and you reached up to place your hand on her hip to steady her, drawing her attention back to you.

“Draga, it… how…?” She gazed down at you, her eyes filled with emotion.

“You told me that you hadn’t celebrated New Year’s for a very long time,” You began. “And I know that you said I didn’t have to, but, well… You looked like you really missed it. I got Bela, Dani and Cass to help me clean out this place – which, by the way, now its cleaned out we are definitely going to use this place more often—” Alcina laughed at that. “—and Donna brought the flowers. Everything else I got with the help of the Duke. Which reminds me…” You glanced at your watch again and hurriedly tugged Alcina’s hand, pulling her to the center of the room. “Right about… now.”

High in the night sky, there was a trail of sparkling light soaring towards the stars. As you all watched, it exploded into a ball of gold and white, fading shimmering lights falling to the earth again as another trail of fire zoomed into the sky, and another, and another. Alcina’s arms wrapped around you as you watched the fireworks, and as you glanced around at the small crowd, you felt a sense of pride and accomplishment – it was all worth it. All of the work, the long week of organizing and tidying and cleaning and decorating – all of it was worth it.

As the fireworks whistled and popped high above the atrium, you felt gloved fingers on your chin, turning your head sideways and upwards. Your lips met Alcina’s in a sweet, tender kiss, and when you pulled away you could see the barely contained emotion shimmering in her eyes. You kissed her again, and again, the fireworks in your sky becoming fireworks in your chest.

“Happy new year, my love,” You whispered when you finally broke apart, breathless and lightheaded, lips tingling.

“Thank you, draga,” Alcina whispered.

You could get lost in her gaze in this moment, and you very nearly did, until footsteps to your left caught your attention. Miranda, normally cold and impassive, had a smile on her face as she held something out to you. You took it with a nod of thanks and turned back to Alcina, holding it out to her.

“Now,” You murmured. “I do believe it’s time for you to reclaim your glory, my love. It’s long overdue.”

Alcina took the microphone from your hand with a smile, and kissed your forehead before turning to the stage. You fell in love with a new of her that night, somehow even more confident and bold than usual, as she led the band in a jazzy rendition of Auld Lang Syne. She sang long into the night, and looking around at the small crowd as the atrium filled with her throaty, husky voice, you knew all over again that this is where you were meant to be.

You were home.

[mamoonde]

i really really really love the idea of wei wuxian revolutionizing modern cultivation over breakfast and conceptualizing these different theories simultaneously because the adhd brain has no brakes and the only reason it took him a decade to publish all these ideas was because he could not stick to a single train of thought long enough to finish (verbalizing) it, let alone put it down on paper coherently.

the only reason he even got to publishing them eventually (and enrolling to cultivation theory grad program to get on that track) was because one morning, his undergrad thesis advisor, lan qiren, finally got fed up and sat him down for an early morning progress check-in because it was midterm season and wei wuxian still hadn't decided on a topic.

wei wuxian, fueled by an unhealthy amount of redbull and three all-nighters, finally word vomits all his 'convoluted' ideas which he'd thought were uselessly obvious and redundant (because he's gone over these like a bajillion times, it's very plain-as-day to him, so he probably just hasn't read the articles that say these exact things).

lan qiren, teacup frozen halfway to his mouth: ...first of all, i only understood half of how you got to these conclusions, which only means they are indeed too convoluted and will need to be pared down; secondly: you have never mentioned any of these ideas before. why.

wei wuxian: oh. haven't i? oh well, i just thought, xyz, because, obviously, abcde. which is really what the 2 centuries old law on ghjkl was alluding to, right? and so, logically, xyz.

lan qiren: [mind blown, screaming, good gods this is the same child who's always tardy and spent freshman year pulling on the metaphorical pigtails of my straight-laced nephew?!?!??!??!?!] ..again, why...how have you never even spoken or submitted these ideas?

wei wuxian: because!!! they're so obvious!! surely, it's been published somewhere already? i can't be the only one to connect these dots, surely??

lan qiren: incredibly, you are. no one else has even thought to question tradition nor pursued more thoughts on the law of ghjkl, with half as much...sound arguments as you seem to have. in the past century, the focus of modern cultivation has tended towards practical uses and tools, some fine-tuning, perhaps. not entirely new theories.

wei wuxian: huh....

lan qiren, sighing, feeling a migraine: your problem with your thesis is not a lack of focus or ingenuity, but likely to be more a lack of recent, evidentiary sources. you will need to become very familiar with the university archives and dig deep for sources that will back up every argument you make.

he jots down notes on a paper. "you will also need to strictly adhere to the structure and methodology of these articles, especially given how radical your thesis will be. if you are diligent enough, you may just be able to submit your thesis without too much of a delay." he slides the list of materials to a gaping wei wuxian. "depending on your output then, we can discuss the possibility of submitting this for peer review."

"peer review." wei wuxian repeats. "as in, that thing where some uppity committee of old coots put their stamp of approval for it to become the reading materials of undergrads like me. you're joking."

lan qiren chooses to ignore the sentiment about peer review committees being uppity old coots, especially considering how he can't completely deny it on account of some of his colleagues, but also as a member said peer review committee, he isn't exactly pleased about being lumped in the same category.

wei wuxian backtracks at his unamused look. "right, you're not joking, of course you're not." he slowly inches the list towards himself. "right, yes, i guess i'll uh, get to it then. ok bye."

----

idk, just, waves hand at wei wuxian candidly explaining new modern cultivation theories over cheerios at 2 in the afternoon to lwj who's trying to help him structure his grad thesis, getting mind blow dick hard at how this messy genius who's talking with his mouth full of half eaten cereal is the object of his affection....

wwx: --oh, oops, your highlighter fell

lwj: mn

wwx: ...aren't you gonna get that?

lwj: it's fine; i'll pick it up later. finish your thought.

wwx: right... i'll pick it up for you!

lwj, fighting for his life, trying to think unsexy thoughts: NO! sit. finish your meal, and then your thought.

[ilguna]

☼ sensitive (Katniss Everdeen) ☼

summary; as part of Katniss' prep team, you hoped you had more time with her.

warnings; swearing,

wc; 1.6k

prompt: 29. "If you're going to cry, I'm going to punch someone."

–

In the Capitol, there’s a tradition for the prep teams and the stylists of the same District to gather together on reaping day. You all will go to the apartment where the tributes will be staying, and prepare to get your first look at the tributes that you’ll be taking care of for the rest of the week.

The avoxes will prepare the food off of the predetermined menu and serve drinks while the rest of you will wait in the living room for it to be time. The stylists for both genders will bring the designated closets for the tributes, and stock the rooms ahead of time. 

When they’re done, there’s a lengthy discussion on theme ideas for the tribute parade and the interviews to make the tributes stand out. Typically, it’s preferred that the tributes have matching outfits to give the illusion of unity, even if they’re not allies. On the chance that it’s too obvious they can’t be matching, you’re forced to come up with two different outfits that fit their personalities but fall under one idea.

It’s an exercise to get the creative juices working. And between the two prep teams and the stylists, there’s enough ideas to fuel the next few years. They jot them down, and in the case of an emergency, they’ll be used.

This was new to you last year. 

The year before that, you were training underneath Flavius, Venia and Octavia, working as an assistant to train you to work with a better district later on. It was fully intended for you to get moved to one of the careers, because you had the abilities. District Twelve was just supposed to be a stepping stool for you to get the experience for the better job.

Only, that opportunity never came, because each spot that became available at the end of the year, were continuously filled. You weren’t the only assistant that was waiting to be a prep team member. It’s a long wait list, and an even longer one if you want to be a stylist.

You were afraid that you were going to be forced to start over completely, until Cinna came to fill the District Twelve stylist spot. As a new stylist, he had many ideas, and he purposely chose Twelve because he wanted to evolve them from just coal miners to something eye-catching.

When he saw that you were in danger of being stuck as a floating assistant between his three helping hands, he managed to appeal to President Snow to let you become a fourth member. 

Since you had been bouncing between Venia, Flavius and Octavia, you had an eye for every element that they did. It was to see where you flourished the most so that you could focus on that, but nothing ever spoke out to you. The only thing that you seemed to be able to do was spot the mistakes they often left by accident, because they would overlook those small details after working for so long. With your fresh eyes, you could go in and point out every mistake and by the end, the tribute could be flawless.

Cinna saw that, and ran with it.

Despite having a new role made for you, your friends were nothing but supportive, telling you that you’re made for a position like that. The only issue that sprouted was when Cinna informed you that you could be the blueprint for the other prep teams, if you succeed.

Hypothetically, it should’ve been relatively easy, because it’s what you had been doing anyway. Your friends saw your anxiety, so they walked you through what you should expect during the reaping, because it’s almost always the same pattern. If there’s any District to test on, it’s yours, the tributes aren’t focused on from day one.

What they had prepared you for was completely thrown out the window the second Katniss Everdeen volunteered over her younger sister. The silence in that apartment was deafening, as everyone tried to overcome their shock.

There were a lot of mixed reactions. It would be the ultimate test to see where you all were standing skillswise. With a new stylist, and a prep team that had been working their ass off to catch you up on everything they knew. Everything that you had been working for in the winter would be put to the test.

It didn’t help that it was history as well, District Twelve had never seen a volunteer in their life, which meant that the pressure was on.

The moment Peeta was drawn behind her, their fate was sealed. The Capitol finally had a pair of solid tributes from Twelve, and everything was going to be put into them to prove it.

Now that you’re sitting here, an entire year later, waiting for it to be your turn to talk to Katniss before you send her into the tribute parade with the other victors, you can’t help but to wonder if you cursed her instead.

You didn’t think you’d grow this attached to Katniss. You don’t think that the others had the same intention either, but after spending the last year and a half watching her, checking on her, ensuring that she’s set up for success—it sort of happened.

In six days, you will be forced to say goodbye and watch her go into an arena, again. This time, with twenty-two other skilled victors, in an arena that will be specially engineered to keep her on her toes every second of the day. This time, with lower odds of making it out alive.

You wish it didn’t have to be this way.

The door to the room opens, revealing a tearful Venia and Flavius. Octavia isn’t in the same state that they are, she seems to have just pulled herself together. You slide off the stool, catching the door as you go through, and shutting it tightly behind you.

“If you’re going to cry, I’m going to punch someone.” Katniss warns you.

You look up from where your eyes have fallen to the floor, finding a pointed look on her face. Just by looking at her, you can tell her whole body is tense. She must not take tears very well then. Venia and Flavius have a tendency to lay it on thick, too. It must’ve been a long morning for her.

You shake your head, go over to the table of supplies, and grab the flashlight that you’ll shine on her body to catch any stray details. “Katniss, name one time I’ve cried in front of you.”

She lets out a breath, one of relief. She slides off the metal table, holding her arms out without being asked. She knows the routine of you doing the body examination, “Never.”

“Then why are you worried?” You smile, shaking your head.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting them to cry the whole morning, so you might’ve had surprises for me.”

“If it’s any comfort, I wear my emotions on my face.”

“You and everyone else here.” She mutters.

The first time you were left alone in a room with Katniss to inspect her, you almost broke down. You were so used to someone else being in the room to help guide you through each step. The idea of the tributes having a tendency to be standoffish, meant that the pressure to succeed without looking like a moron was crushing.

The one thing that worked for you was talking to someone, it allowed you to take your mind off of what they really must be thinking. It’s hard to be mean to someone that’s making an effort to make both sides comfortable, right?

You remember the way Katniss didn’t say a single word to you the entire time, letting you talk her ear off while you went over every inch of her body to make sure that it was properly done for Cinna. And at the very end, you let her put an extra layer of the cooling cream on her body for putting up with your anxiety.

The next time you saw her, after the tribute parade, she struck up a conversation with you.

You found out that Katniss is only a few years younger than you are, and she has a lot of shared interests as you. You didn’t think that it would be possible for you to make a friend out of her, because of how intimidating she could be at times. Yet, here you are, not an ounce of tension between the two of you, and she feels comfortable enough to complain to you. 

When you’re done, you pull the silk robe off the hook and hand it to her. She pulls it on immediately, and then takes a seat back on the metal table. You take in a breath to speak, and she waits expectantly, but you can’t force any words to come out. 

What’s there to say? Your friends cried it out, all that’s left are apologies.

You try again, “You know, I was really looking forward to working with you and Peeta as mentors. It sounds selfish, but—”

“We’re friends, (Y/n).” Katniss says, “I was hoping we’d have more time, too.”

You don’t say anything for a long moment, “Maybe we will.”

Katniss gives you a knowing look, because you both know that it’s not going to happen.

[zippidi-dooda]

"We can have breakfast at eight and bed at eight. Normally I tale my showers right before breakfast, so we can push it to nine that way you can wash up too ...."

Rollo drawled on about the schedule he had down in his notepad, jotting down adjustments he thought would be best to accommodate for you.

You sat on the couch, pillow on your lap, watching him with a taught smile on your lips.

He wore a cream colored tunic and pressed trousers, a red and purple sash wrapped around his waist. He had long ago gotten ready for the day, hair fluffy and downy soft. The first round of chores for the house had already been completed before you had a chance to wake up and food was being prepared as you spoke.

You always knew he was an oriented person, but till now, you had never seen to what extent. Already you could tell this "arrangement" was going to be a tad overwhelming.

"Rollo, we really don't need to worry about small details like that."

He looked up at you.

"Well I understand the meal schedule will have to be flexible since you'll be getting cravings at random times. But the rest I think should be easy to stick to."

"It's not that." You put the pillow to the side, going over to lean against the counter. "It's just I don't think a tight schedule will work for me."

"Oh, nonsense. It won't happen the first few days, but you'll get into the flow of it in due time. This'll be good for you, trust me."

"Rollo."

He hummed, turning to tend to the stove.

"We really don't need a schedule."

"'Don't need a ...?'" He faced you, brow furrowed as if you had said the most ridiculous thing in the world. "Y/N, a schedule is necessary so as to not fall into temptation again. We can avoid more trouble this way."

Slowly, you frowned, placing a hand over your stomach. "Are you saying I caused you trouble?"

"That's not-"

"You know, it wasn't just me who went out to the pier every night. You had a hand in this too."

"Y/N, I-I'm not ... I know how we got here. I just think ... that planning it would have been more ideal."

Your brow curled.

"This came unexpectedly and we can't fix it. But we can, and should, make adjustments so we aren't burned by the fortuitous again. That's the only point I'm trying to make."

You glared at his turned back, chest feeling tight.

"Do you regret doing all of that with me?"

"That is not what I said."

"Well it sure as hell sounds like it." You murmured leaving him in the kitchen, stowing over his words.

"Y/N ...," he called, exasperated.

He looked between you and the meal on the stove, sucking in a breath before deciding to finish the food first.

His eyes were a stormy gray, lingering on the circular tan on his finger that had been left behind after years of having a ring shielding it from the sun's rays.

The same ring had been placed upon your hand not even a week ago and he could still feel the ghost of it on his finger.

He hadn't had quite enough to buy you an actual engagement ring yet, so you wore the ruby jewel even now.

It's absence on him meant the definity of the situation.

You and him had shared those passionate moments under the cover of night. He hadn't wasted those days agonizing over having given in to his desires. You were going to be here now. The two of you were now going to do this the traditional way. He was going to be a father. He was going to be your husband. You were going to be his.

His wife.

Eyes closed, he let out a sigh, and tucked his handkerchief to his lips.

Usually he always led things, arranged, planned, ordered them. And people were expected to, and would, follow his decisions no questions asked.

From the start, you weren't the type to mindlessly go along with him. But it had never caused any major problems for you two.

It was only now he could foresee this being an issue.

And he wasn't entirely sure how he'd be able to handle it.

But in hopes to attain that picturesque life, he conceded that perhaps he could stand to leave some slack between his reins.

Finished cooking, he turned off the stove, grabbed a tray, plated the food nicely, poured some café au lait, and headed towards the room you were staying in.

You were curled up on the bed, back facing the door, ire thick in the air.

His foot tapped the doorframe in a knock, announcing his entry.

He sat at the corner of the bed, mattress dipping under you, and placed the tray on the bedside table.

"You know, breakfast is an essential meal for your day."

"..."

"I hope you don't mind what I prepared. It's what I eat everyday." He took a sip from his cup.

"..."

"Y/N, I ... don't regret how we got here. And I apologize if that's how you heard it. We can discuss routine another time if you'd like."

You looked at him from over your shoulder.

"The officiant says he'll be there at midnight. If you are still agreeable to my proposal by then, I'd be most relieved. But if not, tell me so I can save him the trouble of waiting in the dark."

You fully turned over, head resting between your arms.

"Of course I want to go through with this. It's just you're very ... detailed. You thrive with repetition. I want to align our schedules, really, but I'll go mad if I do the same thing at the same time every single day. And the way you're saying things makes it seem like you wished things were different. It's upsetting."

He stared into his cup for a moment, carefully trying to pick his next words.

"I am greatful for this ... opportunity. You and I pair wonderfully." He looked at you with a smile, "I'm only trying to protect you is all."

You took one of his hands in yours, him angling his face away from you.

"I appreciate it. But I really will be fine Rollo." He hid a frown. "I haven't experienced any big changes yet anyway, we don't need to fuss too soon."

You sat up, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

"So, tell me what exactly it is you made here."

***

That night ended up being the best in your entire life.

The marriage had been swift, no room for invites or even tears.

Both of you had dressed up in your nicest clothes, Rollo in a suit freshly steamed and pressed, you in a simple white dressed.

You met up with the officiant down by the same river your journey first began, moon sparkling beautifully against the water's surface.

Very little was spoken beyond the usual vows and pronouncement, but you were in a daze.

Your heart fluttered blithely as Rollo held your hands. His eyes locked onto yours as he stated his vows, voice calm and steady as if he had nary a worry in the world. But his hands were clammy, holding yours tightly, and he was unable to hide the deep rouge coating his face behind the delicate violet fabric he so loved.

And your breath stilled as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours, sealing in your shared promise, bonding you together till the day the other was was no more.

You returned home that day, glowing smile impossible to wipe of your face, pulling him in for kiss after kiss, christening the house under your unity of love, and truly believing that two of you could get through any issue that may be thrown your way for the first time

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[monsterfuckerconfessions]

i have many monsterfucking fantasies (werewolf dilfs, dragon dilfs, alien dilfs...i have a type) but one consistency between all of it (beyond middle-aged dadbod monster men) is the worldbuilding surrounding it. i just love creating different ideas for settings and worlds to build these fantasies in.

the fantasy alone is hot as hell, but when i can fully immerse myself in the story im creating in my head it takes it to a completely new level.

in an alien mood? well lets first figure out what scenario im in to where i'd even encounter an alien. perhaps im in a time where intergalactic travel is as easy as driving down the highway, my own ship (analogous to a car) and all. is it one massive intergalactic nation? or more of an alliance between different groups?

maybe i need a werewolf? okay is it more of a traditional werewolf setting with werewolves in hiding and being worried about getting caught and hiding in the shadows and all that? or is it a more harmonious world were werewolves and non-werewolves live openly? can i walk out of my door and see my werewolf neighbor in a tartan robe absentmindedly watering the grass while drinking his morning coffee? if it's the latter, what sparked this development? how does it resemble our irl cultures and how does it differ?

i like to jot these ideas down for future reference. so i have a bunch of documents on my computer that is just a bunch of lore and worldbuilding that i came up with just cause i wanted to suck monster dick.

.

[justlemmeadoreyou]

Thanksgiving

Summary: this ask

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: none; thanksgiving fluff, if you will

Harry and you enjoyed a lazy morning together, cocooned in the warmth of soft blankets and each other's company. The sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a gentle glow on your intertwined fingers. You nestled against Harry's chest, traceing lazy patterns on his chest, your eyes filled with contentment.

“You know what today is?” Harry broke the silence, gently cooing into your ear.

You looked up from your relaxed position, your gaze meeting Harry's with a curious smile. "What's special about today?"

Harry grinned, his eyes reflecting the warmth of the moment. "It's Thanksgiving, love."

Raised in a country where this tradition wasn't celebrated, you found yourself engulfed in curiosity as the leaves turned shades of gold, and families prepared for a day of gratitude.

Your brows furrowed slightly, a hint of confusion in your expression. "Thanksgiving? I've heard about it, but I'm not really sure how it works. In my place, it isn’t celebrated"

Harry chuckled, running his fingers through your hair. "No worries, babe. It's all about being grateful and spending time with loved ones. And since it's your first one, how about we make it memorable?"

Your eyes sparkled "Memorable how?"

Harry planted a soft kiss on your forehead. “How about you and your family join me and mine for Thanksgiving dinner? My family would be thrilled to have you, and it's a perfect way for you to experience the joy of this holiday...”

"You'd do that? I'd love to, Harry! But, are you sure your family wouldn't mind?"

"They'll love having you, just like I do. Trust me, it'll be a day filled with love and warmth."

You slid up his arms, smiling down at the perfect face beneath you. Leaning in, you kissed him softly on his pink, soft lips.

“But…how is it celebrated?”

Harry was so glad that he got to give his love your first thanksgiving experience. He shifted into a sitting position, bringing you with him. "Well, Thanksgiving is a time when families come together to express gratitude for the good things in their lives. It's a day filled with love, food, and appreciation."

"It's different for everyone, but the main event is a big family dinner. People often cook a special meal, including a roasted turkey, stuffing, and various side dishes. It's a time to share stories, create memories, and, of course, enjoy some delicious food."

You nodded, absorbing the information. "It sounds beautiful, Harry. I'd love to experience it. But I don't know how to make any of those dishes,"

"That's where I come in; we’ll make the food together. Or we can do the preparations first. When my mum and sister will come, maybe they can help us”

“Okay!” you nodded your head in excitement, and Harry grabbed you, pushing you down on the bed. He started to tickle you ferociously, and the room echoed with your laughter. The playful wrestling continued for a moment until Harry finally relented, allowing you to catch your breath.

"You're too adorable, love," he teased, his eyes gleaming with affection.

>>> 

As you both settled down, the planning for the Thanksgiving feast began. Harry explained the traditional dishes, and together, you both  started jotting down a list of ingredients needed for the magical feast, before ordering all that was needed.

While immersed in planning, the door creaked open, revealing Harry's mum, Anne, and his sister, Gemma

"Hey, you two. What's all this excitement about?" Anne asked with a smile.

Harry smiled "We're planning a Thanksgiving feast. Y/N’s family will be joining us."

He washed his hands and walked to his mum, hugging her tightly. "It's going to be a proper celebration, Mum."

Anne beamed, returning the hug. "I'm thrilled, love. It's been a while since we had a full house for Thanksgiving."

Harry nodded, before pulling back from the hug, and his mum walked to the kitchen, where you had been washing the vegetables.

Harry hugged Gemma next, and they both walked into the kitchen.

As the preparations unfolded, everyone contributed to the festive atmosphere. Anne was so great at cooking; you made a mental reminder to ask her to teach you some of Harry’s favorite dishes.

The kitchen buzzed with activity. Laughter, stories, and the clattering of pots and pans blended into a symphony of family bonding.

As the aroma of delicious dishes wafted through the house, you were in awe of how much food you had prepared. Harry stole glances at you, appreciating how seamlessly you merged with his family.

When the table was finally set, Harry squeezed your hand. "This is going to be a Thanksgiving to remember."

And indeed, it was. Your family arrived soon, and everyone sat at the table, waiting to say the things they were thankful for, one by one.

“Can I start?” Harry chirped in excitedly.

You all agreed, and Harry lifted his champagne, “I am truly grateful to have each and every one of you gathered here today. Your presence adds so much joy to this Thanksgiving celebration. I'm thankful for the unwavering support of my family, always. My mum and gem, you are the biggest pillars of my life. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me." He smiled at them both, and turned to your parents, “Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N, I’m so thankful to you for being here today. It’s been so long since we have had a table full of people. Thank you for making my mum happy. And thank you for Y/N; she is the love of my life. I’m so grateful to her, for being in my life. Ever since we met, she has made me so so happy. She is the sunshine for my darkest days, and I cannot thank her enough for all the support she gives me. She’s by my side every time I need her, holding my hand in hers. I love her so much” Harry teared up towards the end, and you held his hand, intertwining your fingers. “To love, to family, and to the beautiful moments we share together. Cheers!”

Glasses clinked, and more toasts followed, each thanking for the cherished memories, the warmth of friendship, and the love that bound them together. Anne raised her glass, expressing her gratitude for the joy your family brought them and the new additions that enriched their lives. Gemma, with a smile, toasted to the enduring strength of family bonds and how happy she was for the great year she had, and how she looks forwards to so many more.

Your parents, new to this Thanksgiving tradition, joined in the toasts, expressing their appreciation for the welcoming atmosphere and the joy of being part of this loving family. As the glasses touched, the room resonated with the collective warmth and thankfulness that Thanksgiving was all about.

The evening unfolded with warmth, laughter, and an abundance of delicious food. As you all gathered around the table, sharing stories and expressing gratitude, you realized that family wasn't just about blood; it was about the love, acceptance, and joy shared around a festive table.

The night concluded with hugs, thank-you’s, and promises to make this an annual tradition. Harry walked to stand by your side, whispering, "Thank you for making this Thanksgiving so special, love."

You smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "Thank you for welcoming me into your family, Harry. I wouldn't have wanted to spend it any other way."

a/n: i'm sorry if i made any typos or mistakes! thanksgiving is not celebrated at my place, and so i researched a bit!

lovely divider by @cafekitsune

i hope you like this! please don't hate me

here's my ko-fi if you feel generous

requests and feedback is welcome and much appreciated!!

>>>

general taglist:

@freedomfireflies @gurugirl @thechaoticjoy @styleslover-1994 @gem1712 @ellaorchard @bxbyysstuff @opheliaofficial07 @rafaaoli @tchlamqtsgf @the-mouse27 @indierockgirrl @vrittivsanghavi @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @drewrry @babyiamperfectforyou @me-undiscovered @tbsloneely @whoreonmondays @kathb59 @avalentina @kittenhere @speedywritingharrystylesjudge @mypolicemanharryyy @theendx888

let me know if you want to be added, removed

.

[hellohiyoko]

Danganronpa Characters Who Would've Been Unlikely Friends If They Were In The Same Killing Game (Part 1 of ?)

While working on my ambitious, 48 character killing game WIP that includes the whole cast of Trigger Happy Havoc, Goodbye Despair, and V3: Killing Harmony, one very important aspect came to mind. How would some of these characters, who have never interacted in canon, respond to one another? What friendships would form from this? What rivalries could develop from this? Quite a few fics and people have managed to put a lot of thought into this concept (one of my favorites being the friendship between Kaito, Kaede, and Mondo, the rivalry between Kaede and Celeste, and/or the "friendship" Kaito and Gundham portrayed "Blackened Skies" by CSpratt and MrCynical on AO3, or the relationship between Angie Yonaga and the Warriors of Hope as discussed by one of my mutuals, @/theamityelf), so I couldn't help but feel inspired.

Thus, this post was born! So, let's begin!

Spoilers of the main three games below, you've been warned.

#1. Kaito Momota and Aoi Asahina

Hear me out. First and foremost, just because Kaito has some traditional views on what it means to be a man doesn't mean he's this sexist, perverted, transphobic, homophobic incel of a loser some of you make him out to be ("That could've been me walking around in women's underwear"), so jot that down. Secondly, these two being friends would make SO MUCH SENSE if you think about it. They're both very optimistic (almost naively) about the circumstances, they both like to work out (Hina moreso than Kaito but I give Kaito a pass considering his condition), they both were willing to go to the extremes to end their respective killing games, and they both get so fed up with their respective antagonist-of-the-game that they decided to rock their SHIT. I can picture Hina deciding to invite herself to Shuichi and Kaito (and Maki)'s workout sessions and showing up all the boys. I'd imagine their dynamic would be pretty similar to the dynamic Hina has with Hiro, but much friendlier. They both are also willing to put trust into women that could kill them and are deemed dangerous among the rest of the cast.

I could also see Kaito being friends with Mondo and throwing himself into the sauna contest with Taka but given the events of Danganronpa S, that feels a bit obvious.

#2. Kiyotaka Ishimaru and Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu

Fuyuhiko and Taka definitely start off on the wrong foot; Fuyuhiko won't open up and Taka initially wouldn't approve of Fuyuhiko's yakuza background. As Fuyuhiko's shell softens, Taka sees Fuyuhiko's own moral compass such as how he's against underage drinking, driving without a license, or underage sex. That, mixed with Fuyuhiko's more cooperative nature could make for a rather interesting friendship between the two.

BUT THAT'S NOT ALL FOLKS!

The familial pressure both Taka and Fuyuhiko deal with could be a great bonding moment for the both of them, especially since they're dealing with it in similar ways.

#3. Gundham Tanaka and Himiko Yumeno

God, Spike Chunsoft, and Kazutaka Kodaka all knew not to put these two in the same game or they'd become an unstoppable duo. With Himiko's persistence of being a "mage" and not a "magician", there's only one other person who'd go along with the act and play along. And I can hear him now: "You've proven yourself to be a capable mage. But your spells are no match for the Supreme Overlord of Ice and the Four Dark Devas of Destruction". Eventually, I could see Himiko getting tired of Gundham's antics, before immediately backpedalling and continuing the bit if a character such as Kokichi called her out on it, and I think it'd be hilarious. Bonus points, Gundham becomes immediately obsessed with Himiko's tricks that involve her "familiars".

[runariya]

Drive to Survive (JJK POV) • Chapter 1

pairing: F1driver!Jungkook x female race engineer!reader genre: colleagues2L, formula1!AU, racing!AU, drama, kind of fantasy/cyborg!AU fic rating: rating: 18+, MDNI warnings: Jungkook is hopeless...and a simp...and stupid, Trish is a B, foul language, lmk if there's something missing word count: ~ 2.690

a/n: surprise, surprise! Super excited to share the first Chapter in JK's POV - it's here! YEY! I had a blast writing it and can't wait for you to read it. Get ready for more chapters from his POV because he's just too precious not to be in the spotlight!👀

series masterlist

I sit in the meeting room, waiting for the new race engineer to arrive so we can finally start. The air feels thick with anticipation, and I’m hyper-aware of George, who’s sitting beside me. He’s talking my ear off about some nonsense I can’t even begin to focus on. Something about his playstation racing session with Max Verstappen and his latest lap times, maybe, but his words blend into a dull buzz in the back of my mind.  

I lean back in my chair, trying to shake off the remnants of last night. I made the mistake of going to that party of this douchebag I don’t even know the name of, and now I’m paying for it with a migraine that throbs at my temples. 

Trish had clung to me all night, her flirtatious shrill laughs echoing in my head even now, hours later. Her touch was persistent, unwelcome. I can still see her manicured nails brushing my arm, lingering too long, ignoring every polite boundary I’ve set. She’s just my physiotherapist, and I’ve tried so many times to make it clear that all I want from her is friendship. Professionalism, at the very least. But she doesn’t seem to understand, or worse, doesn’t care.  

I exhale deeply and drag my focus back to the present. Around me, George is still talking, Joongki is tapping on his phone, James is jotting something down in his notebook, and Toto is checking his watch, probably planing every minute after the meeting is over. 

I can’t sit still, and my knee bounces under the table with restless energy. I think back to Hans, my last race engineer. He stepped down to spend more time with his family, and I admired that decision. One day, I want that for myself too—a family, children. I’d probably make the same decision as Hans if I were in his shoes. Probably a lot sooner than he did. I know his wife begged him for months to spent more time with them. 

Suddenly, there’s movement outside the door, and I sit up straighter, watching as you walk along the corridor. 

My heart stops. 

It can’t be. 

My request for you to replace Hans was a joke, a whimsical suggestion thrown at Toto in passing. Never did I imagine they’d actually choose you, let alone allow a female race engineer into the notoriously traditional world of Formula 1.  

Yet here you are.  

No. No. No, no, no, no.

Your eyes meet mine, and disbelief washes over me, leaving me momentarily stunned. How could this be happening? Please, no.

You’re beautiful, as always, your dress flowing effortlessly around your long legs, and the sunlight streaming through the window, casts a halo around you. 

Ethereal. That’s what you are.  

You’ve always been my dream girl, now woman, ever since I first saw you on track, your passion for racing as fierce as your smile is bright. I’ve spent countless days, no years, drooling over you from a distance, like some lovesick puppy, admiring you in secret. Every attempt of getting closer to you smashed with ease from you. As if you couldn’t care less about me. But now, reality crashes in—I’ll have to work with you, be around you, keep everything professional.  

Panic grips me, a cold sweat prickling at my skin. How am I supposed to maintain an emotional distance? The answer is simple yet infuriating—I can’t. There’s no way. 

My stomach twists with the realisation, and the panic quickly turns into anger. Anger at myself for feeling this way, anger at you for being so...perfect. How dare you show up and upend my world like this?  

I struggle to keep my expression neutral, even as a storm brews inside me. I latch onto the anger, let it fuel my resolve. I have to keep my distance from you, keep everything strictly professional.  

After a soft knock on the door, you stride into the room with a confidence that captivates everyone. “Good morning.” Your angelic, soft, beautiful voice swirls around the room like a spring breeze in a field full of flowers. It momentarily suffocates the anger within me and caries me away in a dream where’s only you.

George’s elbow hitting my shoulder shatters everything within seconds, only now realising everyone except from me got up to pay the deserved respect for you. “Don’t be a dick.” George scolds me silently before I school my features back to annoyance and pure indifference. 

“Good morning,___. Thank you for being here.” Toto says, breaking the silence, his tone cordial and welcoming. “Everyone, this is our new race engineer.”  

The room turns to you, offering polite nods and greetings. I force myself to join in, though my voice feels detached, a million miles away.  

“Hi, I’m Jungkook.” I manage, the words tasting strange, as if uttering them is an admission of something deeper.  

You smile, and it’s like a punch to my gut. It’s disarming, and I feel my defences crumble a little, despite myself.  

The meeting starts, discussions swirling around the expectations from you, upcoming races, the new car setups. I try to focus, thinking I’m nodding in the right places, but my mind keeps drifting back to you. I watch you interact with the others, handling each question with poise and insight. You’re so competent, so sure of yourself, and it’s maddening. Truly devastating. 

I sneak glances at you when I think you’re not looking, totally not staring at you while the time, studying the way you tilt your head when you listen intently, the slight furrow in your brow when you consider a tricky question. Every little detail pulls me in deeper, against my better judgment.  

Focus, I scold myself. Get a grip. I’m here to win races, not get caught up in some hopeless infatuation.  

As the meeting progresses, I try to find something, anything, to criticise about you. A flaw, a mistake, a reason to justify the distance I need to keep. But you handle everything flawlessly, and it only fuels my frustration.  

George leans over, whispering something about how impressed he is with you, how refreshing it is to have someone like you on the team. I grunt in agreement, unwilling to give voice to the swirling mix of admiration and annoyance I feel.  

And god, as my name falls over your perfect lips, I’m done. I’m dead. Finito. I’ve died, resurrected and died again. 

“Not yet, but I’ve prepared a setup proposal based on our simulation and historical data. I plan to discuss it with Jungkook later today, if he’s free.” 

Your voice is like a drug to me, intoxicating and addictive, leaving me in a daze where coherent thoughts slip through my fingers like sand. The fact that we’re going to spend time alone to discuss the data sends my heartbeat pounding in my ears, drowning out everything else. My eye twitches with the effort to maintain my composure. I force myself to nod once, desperately hoping it looks natural, but deep down, I know I’ve failed miserably to hide the effect you have on me. It’s the worst. 

A little while later, you meet my gaze directly, and I’m taken aback by the sincerity and fire in your eyes. “I believe in open communication and transparency," you say, your voice steady and sure. "I aim to build a strong working relationship with you based on mutual trust and respect. I’ll be proactive in seeking your feedback and ensuring you feel fully supported.”  

Your words strike a nerve, and I feel my irritation growing, though I can’t quite put my finger on why. Maybe it’s because your earnestness is disarming, making it hard to maintain the annoyance I’m clinging to. Or perhaps you highlighted the working relationship when I’ve longed for you since ever. 

There’s a short silence that stretches out awkwardly in the room, and I’m aware of George discreetly kicking me under the table when he hits a nerve with a sharp pain. I cough, masking the wince from the kick, and force a smile that I know doesn’t reach my eyes in the slightest. “I appreciate that approach. Communication is key during the race weekend, especially with strategy adjustments and car performance updates.”  

My response feels stiff, not quite reflecting the turmoil inside me. I’m annoyed, sure, but there’s also something else—a pull toward you that I just can’t mask, no matter how hard I try. Your confidence and professionalism are driving me nuts, and yet they’re exactly what draws me to you.  

Finally, the meeting wraps up, and everyone starts to disperse, heading off to their respective tasks. 

Everyone, except of George, who has the audacity to wrap his slimy, bony arms around you. “Oh, please, call me George.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see you smile at him, and I roll my eyes, throwing my head back in annoyance. Great, just what I need—a charming, smiling George.

“Oh wow, you’re taller than I thought,” you say, pulling away from George. I can’t help myself and make a fake gagging sound. He’s not that tall, jeez. Okay, maybe he is, but still.

George laughs and I think I’m going to kill him this instant. “And you’re so tiny.” How dare he ruffles your hair. “Anyway, I’ll leave you both to it. See you tomorrow.” Why the fuck is he winking at you?! But when he finally heads out, I let out a relieved breath. But then his head pops back in, and he points at me. “You, behave.” With that, he’s gone and with him my resolve to not kill him the next time I see him.

Silence stretches between us as we lock eyes, and neither of us dares to look away. Is this a game? Am I supposed to do something? I didn’t even realize it was a challenge until you blinked, and I couldn't help but burst out, “Ha! You lost.” 

You blink again, slower this time, confusion all over your face. Oh no. I cringe internally. You idiot. It’s absurd and dumb, I know, but there’s something strangely satisfying about winning that ridiculous staring contest.

“Okay, now that that’s settled, let’s get down to business, shall we?” you say, your voice steady as you dive into the details. “So, the Hockenheimring was dropped from the calendar for the last few years, so it’ll be not only new to me but also to…”

“Why are you so obsessed with me?” The words spill out before I can stop them. Fucking hell.

You slowly turn your gaze from your tablet to me, blinking as if to compose yourself, and I think I might cry. It’s not only others who suffer from my stupidity. No, I’m right there with them.

“We should obviously review the track,” you continue, unruffled. “I’m sure you’re aware of its tight hairpins and long straights. Also, I’d like to know your preferred tires so the technical sectors don’t…”

I scoff, cutting you off. Just because I’m clearly a moron doesn’t mean you can dodge my question. My arms cross as I give you a challenging look. “It all makes sense now. You’ve been obsessed with me since the first time you saw me. Doing everything in your power to work with me. Even graduating ridiculously young and declining the offer from Haas.”

Your irritation is oozing from you now, and you fire back without hesitation, “I think it’s funny you’ve kept tabs on me for all those years.”

Fuck. How do you know? “No, I haven’t.” I lie, trying to bullshit you. “It’s common knowledge. You’ve always wanted a piece of me. It’s flattering, really.”

“I can assure you, my interest has always been in the job, not in you. And it’s flattering to know that my vitae seems to be common knowledge to you.”

Shut up, Jungkook. Don’t make it worse. But of course, I can’t stop now. “Sure, sure. You don’t have to play coy. It’s perfectly natural to be drawn to someone as experienced as I am. But let’s keep things professional, alright?” Yep, I hate myself, and now you probably do, too.

“Fine by me.” You smile, and I can’t understand why. I clearly tried to gaslight you here. “So, yes. The tires you’d prefer to—”

„It’s,“ I interrupt again, unable to help myself, and you slump defeatedly into your seat, looking at the ceiling. It’s kind of cute, “just that your enthusiasm to work with me comes off as a bit… personal. But don’t worry, I can handle it.” No, I obviously cannot.

You’ve clearly had enough of my antics, your tone flat as you counter, “If anyone’s having trouble handling things, it seems to be you. Your comments suggest you’re projecting your own feelings onto me.”

“Projecting? That’s a bit of a reach. I’m just stating what I’ve observed.” I try to act surprised, an exaggerated hand on my chest, but inside, I’m crying. Crying over being the dumbest man alive, who’s going to be hated by the only woman I ever wanted.

“What you’ve observed is likely coloured by your own assumptions. I’m here to work. If you feel uncomfortable with my presence, perhaps it’s your own obsession that’s the issue.”

My ears heat up, and I feel a flush creeping up my neck. “My obsession? That’s absurd. I’m perfectly professional.”

And it’s the nail in my coffin when you push further. “Yet you seem fixated on making this about something other than work. It’s almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself of something.” A twitch of amusement plays on your lips, your perfect kissable lips.

“I… No, that’s not it at all. I’m just pointing out what I’ve noticed.” I feel the embarrassing red tint spread from my ears to my cheeks.

“What you’ve noticed is a fabrication of your own making. Let’s stay focused on the race. If you can’t handle working with me professionally, that says more about you than it does about me.”

“I’m completely professional! It’s just… Look, let’s just get this done.” I’m flustered, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity. I’ve royally messed up. And I know there’s no coming back from this. I’ve lost you for good.

“Exactly. Let’s focus on the tires for now and leave personal assumptions out of it, hm?” Your smile is practiced, and it frustrates me that I’ve let this conversation get so far out of hand.

The tension between us isn’t good, and I’m acutely aware of how much I’ve let my emotions cloud the discussion. But as you start talking about the race, I know there’s nothing left to do but focus.

“The Hockenheimring has a mix of high-speed straights and tight hairpins, so we'll need a tire that offers a balance between grip and durability. What’s your preference?” you ask, your voice clear and professional.

Finally, I get my head back in the game, my mind becoming more focused. As we delve into the technical details, I try to settle with the thought that if there’s no future for us as a couple, then a future as colleagues needs to suffice. Somehow.

“Alright, I think we’re set for now,” you say after we’re done discussing, shutting off your tablet. Your smile is genuine, and I can’t help but falter a bit as I pack up, noticing how your demeanour has shifted. Shifted like the shards of my heart on the floor while I stand up as well. “I’ll finalise these settings, and we’ll review them again on Friday.”

“Thanks for the detailed rundown. I appreciate it.” I appreciate you. Always.

You offer me a genuine smile, and I hope it’s never going to vanish when looking at me. “No problem. Let’s make sure we’re both on the same page from here on out.”

I nod, even though I know we’re never going to be at the same page when it comes to us. With a final, respectful glance, I leave the room followed by a long silent exhale, trying to push the defeat as far away as possible.

series masterlist • JK 2

a/n 2: lmk what you think in any way you like! what was your favourite part of this chapter?

a/n 3: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

Like what you read? Check out my other work here!

taglist: @jksusawife

[bloodtwin]

Name: Puck Darlington Nickname(s): The Dark Urge, Dandelion, Dandy, Pucky, Pooch, Pookie Relationship Status: Single (Default) Gender: Born to be a dog, forced to be a “man” Romantic Orientation: Bisexual, Polyamorous Preferred Pet Names: For himself? His name LOL but you could get away with calling him “pup” or “puppy.” He likes those, of course. You can call him other pet names, but he may get shy about it or try (and fail) not to grimace. For his partner, he’s partial to “sweetheart.” He'll call you “babe,” if you’re Babsi. You might get called “dear” once or twice. 

Opinion on True Love: “As far as I’m concerned, all love is true.” That is to say, Puck is the most earnest man alive. He sees love as an action more than a feeling, and he gives it to everyone he meets because it is what he would like to receive himself. If you are willing to put in that same effort for him then he considers your love to be real and true, yes. Romantically or otherwise, really. Opinion on Love at First Sight: Based on his own experiences, he doesn’t believe romantic love at first sight exists because, as mentioned above, love is very much something you do rather than feel. He would say that people can become infatuated with someone at first sight because he certainly has.  How ‘Romantic’ Are They?: In a traditional sense, not very. He won’t court you intentionally. Romance tends to start and end with sex for him, unfortunately. I think he sees a partner as a friend who he happens to be physically intimate with, at least at first. He won’t read you love poems, won’t surprise you with elaborately-planned dates, or even think to give you flowers… unless, of course, you happen to mention that you like a certain kind of flower and he also happens to stumble upon said kind of flower in the middle of a shadow-cursed wasteland. That’s where his romantic side lies, really. In the details.  - He pays attention to you and remembers the little things. He will notice when you’re tired and offer to carry you. He will take care of you when you are sick. He will protect you fiercely and with reckless abandon, and he will never leave your side. But no, he probably won’t buy you chocolates and whisper sweet words of love in your ear. He will get tongue-tied then ask very politely but also very bluntly if he can eat you out or something. 

Ideal Physical Traits: See, this is interesting because “ideal” and “preferred” are not the same. Puck would say his “ideal” partner would be someone physically strong. Someone muscular, tall, and capable of holding him down if necessary. Or killing him. However, he is naturally drawn to and seems to prefer people who are much, much smaller than he is. He likes having a size difference, but he would never admit this.   Ideal Personality Traits: Again, “ideal” vs. “preferred.” Ideally, he would say he’d like for his partner to be empathetic and patient, which is true. He would like that. However, I’ve noticed that he is mostly attracted to the very catty and the very abrasive. Opposites attract, I suppose. He also likes people who are shy or quiet. The thing is, Puck is a very agreeable guy, so he gets along with all kinds of people and he genuinely likes all of them. Unattractive Physical Traits: He doesn’t think any physical traits are unattractive, so jot that down, but I will say that he would prefer to avoid people that are weaker or smaller than he is because that wouldn’t be safe for them. Alas, his tastes and preferences. Unattractive Personality Traits: Self-importance to the point of belittling others. He thinks confidence, even if more on the arrogant side, is attractive but not at the expense of others. He also doesn’t like cowardice. 

Ideal Date: Cemetery sex. :/ I don’t think Puck knows what a “date” is. He’ll just ask if you want to go on a walk with him. Do They Have a Type?: I like to joke that he has a thing for people with white hair, but it’s really just a coincidence that most of his main ships happen to be with people who have white hair. In truth, Puck is very much My Type by Saint Motel. You know, “You’re just my type / Oh, you got a pulse and you are breathing.” That’s his type. And sometimes even when you don’t have a pulse… Average Relationship Length: He would have to admit to being in a relationship to measure such a thing, and as far as he is aware this has never happened so I cannot give a real answer. Preferred Non-Sexual Intimacy: Brushing hair or just running his hands through it. If it’s long enough, he’ll braid it. Feels like home to him. He also likes taking naps or bathing together. He’s a very touchy-feely person, so he’ll be all over you the second you’re alone. Commitment Level: This man is akin to a dog. You lock eyes with him once, and he’s loyal to you forever. He will always show up for you; he will always protect you with everything he has. HOWEVER… a dog does not typically limit itself to only being pet by its owner. You need to train him if you want to be the only one he seeks companionship from, or he will show that same loyalty and devotion to others as well. You need to be clear and direct about what kind of relationship you want from him, or he won’t have any clue why you’re sulking about him getting his belly rubbed by someone else. He may be stupid 🫶 - Yes, he pays attention to detail, and yes, he also does not realize it could potentially hurt your feelings that he’s flirting with someone else unless you explicitly state you’d like to be exclusive. His contradictions are numerous and beautiful to me. Opinion of Public Affection: He would rather curl up and die. He is a very physically affectionate person, so I imagine this would maybe surprise his partner, especially because he’s not shy about things like casual sex. It’s when he’s in a committed relationship, or is interested in being in a committed relationship, that he gets quite shy. This is mostly because he’s protective of his partner.    Past Relationships?: There was probably *gestures vaguely* Something going on with Gortash, but it was very undefined and unspoken. Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t, none of my business. Also none of Puck’s business, frankly. When he was a teenager, he had a crush on this cute goth girl named Shadowheart, but she kept forgetting his name so nothing really happened there. Other than those, he’s had a few brief flings that ended very, very poorly. With bloodshed, of course. Writer’s Note: Fuck uhhhhhhhh let’s see. Puck is a very devoted, loving partner. He has so, so, so much love to give, but he will very rarely express it through words or in front of others. Even though he would never hide his love, he will likely not verbalize or flaunt it because he is afraid of speaking it into existence. Being who he is, he knows it’s dangerous for him to have such a deep, intimate connection with another person and doesn’t want to hurt them simply by adoring them so he will avoid outright stating it as if that will stop whatever it is that drives him to do harm.

tagged by: snagged it from @ferinehuntress a while ago :3 tagging: @accultant , YOU !

[torchflies]

Me and anon are onto something here! But after the whole bar serenading thing slider and mav become friends over there completly normal love of TOMMY! I can fully see them in the break room lying on the floor together legs kicking in the air giggling over old posters and like Polaroid they've got and increasingly silly theories as to what happened to Kiaro and who is "Tommy" and why did he eat the drum kit? Sharing story's about when they went to gigs and where this far from Kiaro and how amazing it was.

Goose turns to ice like "you not really care about Tommy!?" ice just like "used to be but not anymore"

(also at one point slimav being horny turns from traditional horny to "he's so skinny it's kind of scary" "yeah like honestly it's his stage presence and voice that's hot not how stick thin he is" "oh yeah totally agree, just makes me wanna wrap him up in a thick blanket and feed him a full meal" and it just becomes what they would do if they meet him and it's just like self care and how jot he would look with a bit of muscle and fat and not on deaths door. Ice takes a rather prompt trip to the loo cuase crying would definitly ruin his while "ice cold no emotions" thing)

You guys have me SCREAMING!!! 😘😘😘😘

Lol, Ice over there is chewing on his pen like a hungry hyena the same way he used to chew on his drum sticks 😉

“used to be but not anymore” I’m BROKEN. Ice doesn’t listen to his own music anymore, it’s too painful. But when Mav or Sli sing along to his voice on the record or the radio, it fixes something in him that was broken a long time ago.

Omg the first time he hears them point out how bad he looked, how sick and sad — he doesn’t know how to react. Then they mention self-care and he has to go sit by himself for a bit. Those feelings, the same ones of self-hatred, no self-esteem and his self-destructive tendencies never really left, he just channeled them into something else. Eventually Sli and Mav start to pick up on the bad days, not that Ice would ever tell them outright — but they know because they love him.

Honestly, a big one is when Nikki Sixx overdoses and “dies” in ‘87 and it’s all over the news. Ice sees so much of himself in Nikki and they knew each other in passing, with MC really looking up to the band Tommy in those early years. He sees his own alternate timeline future displayed back at him and he has to sit down, baby goose in his arms and just staring at the TV in horror.

[blutopaz15]

rayllum week 2023: first kiss (again)

rated t

1k

continued from part 1: flowers

He probably doesn’t want to kiss her, and honestly…it’s okay.

She doesn’t blame him.

Spending her birthday like this—giggling together over each of their silly little traditions, feeling Callum’s lips on her cheek and his breath on her neck, being here in his arms at all—is more than she should hope for anyway, Rayla thinks.

She swallows down the obnoxiously ungrateful prickling wetness stinging her eyes. She should be glad, she tells herself, that he’s holding her like this, long past the limits of any normal hug. She should be satisfied swaying in place with him, like they’d done at that party back at the castle such a long time ago.

She should be happy that he wants her here at all.

She’d left him, she’d hurt him, and he was still here, all wrapped up around her… and that should be enough, she thinks. She should be thankful, not standing here in the world’s longest hug, still wishing for more.

She is thankful…and he should know.

She scarcely more than whispers the words, reluctant to end the silence in case it ends his embrace too.

Callum just shrugs, though, with a nonchalant, hushed answer—like it’s two years ago and holding on to her so tightly is still the most normal, most natural thing in the world—and she can’t help how she sinks just a little further into him, shifting her weight into his shoulders…and, yeah.

This is enough.

Or…at least it ought to be.

She sighs happily anyway, though, breathing in deep against his collar, wanting to be sure he gets every last layer to her gratitude: “I wasn’t sure if you even remembered.”

“Wait, what?” he says, hands at her elbows, and her heart drops for just a second as he pushes her away…before she sees the mixed-up look on his face. He’s…confused, and maybe amused?, she thinks, and the furrow to his brow reads as pity, too. “You thought I’d forgotten your birthday?”

That’s definite and distinct disbelief, she’s sure, and Callum steps away completely then, finding his sketchbook on one of the tables behind them and immediately flipping through. Rayla follows him, and watches as he opens up to a page she hasn’t seen in a long while…that’s even more full-up than she recalls. It’d been just the one sketch of their knit-together hands that she remembers him drawing that night on the ambler…but the same page is covered in more of the same now. He points, though, to the words scrawled all over the spaces between the pictures, which is what she’s meant to see, she realizes, recognizing the answers to all those questions that’d barely kept their lips apart that night in the desert.

purple

Moonberry Surprise (???)

Just me and Ez…

July 31st (16th birthday soon!!!)

“Even if I did forget—”

She follows his tapping fingertip to the end of the list he must have jotted down between the desert and the Spire, heart twisting and thumping in her chest.

“I wouldn’t, though,” he adds, keeping the same smile he’d had looking at these old pages when he blinks over to her. “I wouldn’t forget.”

Rayla bites her lip, hoping there’s not offense she hadn’t meant beneath his reassurances. Telling herself that—that he’d forgotten—had been a bandage, really, for doubts way deeper than any scatterbrained distraction could be, and knowing now that none of her worrying had been warranted anyway…

“Right,” she agrees, looking back down at all their interwoven fingers in his book before admitting the rest. “I guess…thinking you forgot—or that you were too busy to remember—was better than the alternative. I thought maybe…you might be too mad about your birthday to want anything to do with mine.”

Callum’s smile has fallen away when she looks back at him, the candlelight dancing in his eyes now a gentle, low glow instead…and he reaches for her elbow again.

“Oh, Rayla, no, I—” he starts, withdrawing as he amends his answer…but before she can shrink back to match, he’s found his way to her hands again. “I mean, yes, I’m upset still, but…I’m not mad, not like I was, I promise. That’d just make everything worse. I care about you, Rayla—”

His fingers slip lightly around hers, and then they’re face-to-face again, eye-to-eye, practically nose-to-nose, and it’d be so nice if they could just…

“—and I don’t want to hurt you.”

But this is enough, Rayla reminds herself.

She left him. She hurt him.

“I never wanted to hurt you either, Callum,” she starts, those annoying tears burning in her eyes again. “I—”

—but before she can go on, over the same things that she can’t seem to say enough, Callum’s hand squeezes tight around hers.

“I know,” he says, voice as strong as his grip, then slipping to a lower soothing sound. “I know. Look, Rayla…I want to fix—”

Callum pulls their linked hands up between them…and again, she has to stop wishing for more—his lips on her knuckles, his fingers on her face—

“—this. Our…thing. Whatever it is.”

Somehow his lips are closer when he lowers their hands again, and he’s smiling, and—

—and she wants that too.

So badly.

“It’s…whatever you want it to be, Callum,” she answers, speedily, certain of every word. “Whatever you want, I’ll be here, okay? If you need more time, even if you never get there again…I just missed you, Callum. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I couldn’t—”

There’s no time for her eyes to flutter shut or her tongue to wet her lips or her breath to fall against his cheek before he crashes into her just like before—his arms locked around her waist, his heartbeat against her chest—

…his lips soft and gentle and sweet.

“If you’re here…” Callum breathes between them, eyes asking as much as his mouth.

She nods, breathless, fingertips flexing in his scarf.

“I’m here.”

“Then, I’m there.”

…and that’s enough.

[serenefig]

So I did a second part to the Wes is Question post (part 1 link), and I'm going to try to continue. I'm up for concrit if you have it, still new to writing for these fandoms.

Conspiracy of Silence

Part 1 | Part 2

Batman did not take the bait — Question’s reputation worked against him. That was fine. He’d managed this far by himself. He’d only ever had himself here. So Question slowly connected all the dots that built the Anti-Ecto Acts. The wall and string slowly building; always battling his paranoia, always trying to stay one step ahead of Cadmus and the GIW. Until finally the bait he had laid down oh so carefully caught someone. Someone Question did not know.

The Justice League Dark had convened in the Watchtower for the biannual “don’t fuck with the supernatural” safety presentation. Notepads were scattered, and conversations tapered out as the lights dimmed and Constantine stood ready to present — Question absently catalogued his scowl was deeper than normal, most likely due to being “voluntold” to present. Question silently sighed as he settled in for another boring safety presentation. It wasn’t anything he didn’t already know.

“Alright, I pulled presenter this round. I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, so let’s get this over with.” Constantine said. “This year is different. The JLD responded to a summoning incident three weeks ago. A group of presumed cultists were attempting to summon a high leven being from the Infinite Realms.” he stopped to glare at the gathered heroes. “Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to contact beings from the Infinite Realms. Treat them with traditional folklore fae rules. Actually no, you’ll still mess it up. Don’t even breathe in their direction.”

Someone cleared their throat and Constantine huffed.

“They scattered before anything could be done, leaving the summoning in the middle. And this brings us to my first point.” The slide turned and Question felt the blood drain from his face. There on the massive screen was evidence of the GIW.

It wasn’t outright obvious, but to Question, who knew what to look for? It was plain as day. He saw remnants of dismantled and broken ecto-weapons — likely left in their hurry to leave — scattered about on tables. On a wall he saw simplified Spector Deflectors, but to others would look like fancy belt buckles. And perhaps the most damning, a pair of high-tech looking manacles with a barely legible Cadmus logo mostly scratched out. He came to the only conclusion available; the GIW, and by extension Cadmus, were summoning ghosts directly to experiment on.

Question did not hear the rest of the presentation, he couldn’t. His hand flew across the notebook, jotting down as much information as he could glean from the photo. His mind was torn in two. To brave Amity and warn Phantom once more? Or turn his long gathered and unfinished evidence over to his co-heroes? Wes and Question warred at each other, adding to his already high paranoia. How much longer would it take for Phantom to be caught? What if a Parker was found?

His thoughts ground to a halt. Was it possible that Cadmus did find his liminality during his capture? Did they follow him?

Question barely recognised when the presentation came to an end; his body moving on auto-pilot towards his room. Still no decision was made.

He stopped in his tracks at this open door. Someone was in his room Someone was in his things. Question burst in, a taser at the ready, yet no one was there. He turned towards his hidden wall board, in hopes it was not found. And to his horror, his own face was plastered in the middle.

There was a mole in the Justice League. And Wes would find out who.

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I do have a vague plan, but updates will be at the mercy of my ADHD because I have 7 other WIPs. This will go on AO3 and FFN next Tuesday as well (I'll reblog with a link.)

Tags because you expressed interest in the tags of the first

@profounddestinyrebel @stealingyourbones

[searchingforserendipity25]

Experimental Exchanges of Oral Traditions Among the Eldar | On Ao3.

Maglor/Daeron. Explicit fic. For Silm Smut Week @silmsmutweek, prompts from Day 3 and 4 (self & craft/lore, magical and supernatural elements, dom/sub, toys & props, shades of teacher/student).

Their first conversation- discussion, truly - happened very swiftly after meeting, when Daeron asked with his best sly courtesies if there were any texts written on the feats of the Noldor in Beleriand already, and Maglor had barely looked up from filling his brother's wine goblet with an absent-minded, "O, I am sure we will get to it in time; but I am not sure there is much use holding with written memory anymore."

Daeron had set down his own goblet a little more harshly than was polite. Matters had devolved considerably afterwards.

After their Flight - their Siege, their Exile - the Noldor had taken to reconsidering their relationship with material crafts and immaterial memory-keeping. This, Daeron gathered afterwards, varied greatly between those that had crossed the Helcaraxë and those that had taken to the sea on stolen ships. 

Whether it was a deep commitment to vanguardist theory, the wary wisdom of a cavalry chieftain, or pure idleness, Maglor rarely cared to jot down anything of his works to paper. In his father’s Tengwar or Daeron’s Cirth, or the notation systems of his invention he found much to admire unstintingly; but he did not keep diligently to the rituals and methods of writing down his work, either.

He was all for living memory instead, a passionate teacher far more than a careful scribe. Teeth and tongue, memory and enchantment, these Maglor valued far above ink and parchment in his own art. 

The smiling, arrogant warrior that had argued with Daeron on the merits of communal chants over carved walls had been ruined altogether. All the same, he was proven correct in one thing only. Maglor's bone-deep and infuriating certainty that he would live on to remember and keep remembered all the songs and lore of his people proved true at the last, and past the end of all tales he could claim a right to tell.

It was because of his dues owed to minstrelsy that he had not dashed himself against the shore, all the long years of Beleriand’s catastrophic sinking. He had clambered over many a sinking cliff instead - sang the salt-spray away from his path, raised himself up through the torment of the Starkindler's judgment whenever he started to sink into drowning.

 Deliberate, he went up and onward, survived the end of his own lament, and in so doing made certain it would be kept alive always.

 Daeron, however, had spent that time rather busier preserving the ancient waters and forests of the Eldar with enchantments of hiding and protection, and setting down the history and poetry and lore of the Sindar instead. Songs ought to be recorded, deeds fell and great, the voice of the sea put to carved bark before it faded. It was enough that the record existed, he felt; though at times he liked to bring them out and read them to the birds that came to sit as an attentive audience to the recitation, and sang the melodies entangled in the verses backs at him in their own chirping trills.

Daeron was not much impressed with tales kept ever-changing by painful fits of divine madness and punishment , nor the regret that kept Maglor from setting down the last edited version of his laments. Any aimless wandering could be a pilgrimage, if the walking-song was worth singing; but this windswept, sea-bound dedication to mourning rituals was wildly irregular, too.

Daeron, too, was fearful, of the finality of the finished epilogue, the lingering silence and written word. There was great terror to be faced once the ink with all its dear lost names was dried, and not a letter more could be changed nor altered.

That had been no reason not to invent the letters, and was now no reason not to write in it. To sing at all was a fearful vocation; that was why it had to be sang, that was what they were for.

 And that was all the more cause for Maglor to follow his exalted example. Him alone was rightly named Daeron's match in the craft; and the evil of his deeds did not unmake his obligation or absolve him from his duties. To write did not make ancient lore less or more foolish, nor the past kinder; but he wrote so it might be hoarded. If that was greed, then Daeron was covetous indeed, but wise about it.

That was Daeron's covetous demand, when their paths crossed, and their conversation turned once more to familiar lines turned bitter with the alteration of the years.

He could speak with him of the futility of alphabets and records in isolation, the grief that absented itself from any audience and yet demanded to be retold. He could concede to sharing wine and gathered berries with Maglor, to walking in shared purpose for a time. If not, he would not have call him from the through the wrecked shores to the deep forests, and bedded him in the grass.

But he would not, Daeron told him very clearly, keep company to those terms of service to song as Maglor employed. He could not have him truly, and would not, until there was a thing finished and complete in itself to be had.

He had no patience left for anything less than a dedication to perfect records. Differences in stylistic approach and cultural memory be damned - he, too, was a high master of the craft, as high and higher, and remained so as much due to his song being sung and by the fact of his wisdom replicated and captured on wax and parchment, etched his own Cirth upon hollow trees and painting on the walls of dry caves. The alphabet he had designed was a matter of pride, still, and never more necessary, kept alive into perpetuity.

It was all very well for Maglor to argue, high-minded and eerie-eyed, that every living thing was a vessel to the memory of its wounds and loves, and the singer  in exile the living vault of the dead - but he could not be permitted to think to live like this was to do true service to either the dead or the craft.

There were standards, even in exile. Lore and art were their own craft, with their own principles - what were minstrels for, if not to outlast the past and keep it alive in proper and decent fashion? Changing the length of mourning cantos and solemn ballads with every day's new and renewed grief was not tolerable minstrelsy.

That there was nothing decent at all in Maglor was not Daeron's concern, as long as he could still sing.

To sing alone was not enough. Maglor had forgotten it, set aside that vocation in preference of foul, foul works, but that did not mean that it had forgotten him in turn.

To be the best of singers one had to give one's over to be heard, written, read back to him, the principles applied to him still. The thankless sea did not count; and a song had to be heard, even if only by the birds, for it to be made true and final all the way through. Daeron meant to uphold these principles and see them upheld, even if discipline must be called for.

It was not justice, but justice was not his craft. Punishment, absolution, the fate of the many - these things he had only trusted to his ling and the stars. The stars had pronounced their sentence, and Maglor kept himself alive to suffer it; Daeron did not think to contest the matter.

Maglor thought him strange and wonderful for this hierarchy of concerns; but Daeron had never been prince nor warrior chieftain. He, at least, was under no false impression that his worth to the Music rested anywhere else than in preserving it.

Maglor raised up his scorched hands in wry defense and self-accusation: Daeron was not moved. Heavenly punishment was not an excuse to be considered, and if anything only a greater encouragement to perfect his dedication to the art.

"If you cannot decide upon it, nor write it yourself, I can do both with my own hands, " he said dismissively. The offer alone blanched Maglor's cheeks of all colour with shame; but Daeron had not much patience for that, either. "Though you will have to decide upon the final form of your works, and dictate them."

"Dictation alone will not suffice, for such a task," Maglor said, the deep, soft-edged timber of his voice turning softer and rougher. Sea-voiced, he could not hide the tide swell of his desire when he looked upon Daeron's righteous visage, the deep-rooted steadiness of his devotion to lore-craft. "Your demand is just and sensible. I am certain I can find a means to apply myself to the challenge of it at last - under the guidance of Daeron, among all singers the most masterful."

Daeron did agree. It was a sound notion: the means, he felt strongly, were justified altogether by the righteousness of the ends. His lady Lúthien, of whom he sang still with terrible fondness and terrible grief, would be well-pleased. She had always encouraged him to advance beyond the set order of things, to be ever inventive with his minstrel's art.

This work would be burned, afterwards. They had found an uneasy middle ground in that - a final version of Maglor's laments, set down in Daeron's script by Daeron's brush. And then it would be burned: for it had been the way among the the cavalry warriors of the Gap to burn their dead.

But first, the ink had to be crafted, and then ground down. The fur of the brushes hunted, treated, oiled and carefully sewn. The paper was thick, made to last, spread out in a scroll. Daeron had for an archive many dry and enchanted places; this would be but another bound manuscript, kept through the Ages undamaged.

At times he rested, and with the hand that did not hold the brush laid a grounding touch upon Maglor's head. He ran it through his loose curls, touched his cheeks to feel him working to keep Daeron's cock warm and full and well-tended. 

Maglor looked at him desperately, flushed and stuffed. His fingers, clasped tame and terrible behind his back back, clenched convulsively at times; otherwise he was very careful to be still as Daeron worked, and eager to please him as he rested.

Silenced for once, he swallowed hungrily, drank deep of his taste, was eager to have his stifled sounds fucked quiet when Daeron found a moment to ease his eyes and indulge himself in grasping the hair at the back of his neck and forcing himself in deeper into the tight throat that held him.

"Enough," Daeron said gently, drawing away and stroking his taunt neck until the shuddering passed. He was not without pity; the lantern flickered wearily, and the joints of his fingers ached with a steady scrivener's pain. "Not long now to finish for tonight once this lay in complete." 

Daeron brought the tip of the brush to Maglor's mouth, stroked his mouth idly as he wetted the tip in him. Ink-stained, he panted against Daeron's knee, chased after the touch when the brush passed, tender and slick as a kiss, over his lips.

"Daeron," he rasped, entreating. "It is not well done. I have forgotten, I am certain I did it better once. The meter is all wrong: and the version is not that which is ought to be-"

"It is as I set it down to be," Daeron said, and made it a final thing. 

Maglor's protesting mouth swallowed in a gasp when Daeron pressed his fingers into its wet heat, smearing the ink on his tongue, easy and possessing where his cockhead had been.

He held himself uncaring of words spoken while at work, uninterested in red-rimmed glances and shaking whimpers; Maglor knew it well by now.

It inflamed him all the more, fed the rushing dizziness of his mind's work and his body's submission. A fine balance must be kept, to keep him grounded and attentive - the vast scope of his thoughts pliant to Daeron's grasping mind, all the disharmony and force of the voice of the sea studied at length, learned slowly, with science and care.

It inflamed Daeron no less, in truth. He grasped firmly at his hair, pressed back inside his yielding mind, rocked into his mouth, and Maglor sank into his thrust, took him with a moan, rocking on his knees to take him deeper before Daeron grounded him down with a stern hand.

Daeron waited a moment longer before looking into his eyes and heart. His blue-black mouth stretched obscenely around Daeron; but more obscene by far was the bright glint of his eyes, and the gratitude of his savage, aching spirit at being made bare and made tame.

 Kneeling before him and under Daeron's high desk, Maglor gave himself over to translation in surrender. Laid out clear and plain as the paper and the ink, the wide expanse of his mind was singularly open and singularly focused on the words, the tempo, the transcribing of his compositions through hands not his own. 

He waited until the slow, easy rhythm of thoughts and mouth had been found again. When Daeron picked up the brush again, Maglor applied himself likewise, tongue and memory and throat, all joined in purpose. They went at a good pace, all things considered; but Daeron made certain to be thorough with every letter, careful with the lines of his Cirth, for the due honor and dignity of the thing.