#trying to resist being in self pity but falls in it

[thefandomstorage]

A part of me wants to write a fic with Gil-Galad somehow meeting up with an injured and still heavily traumatized Maeglin who now has white hair after the fall of Gondolin and just “Well I obviously can’t just leave you alone and injured in the wild, so I’ll take you with me.”

Gil-Galad then proceeds to lie his ass off to everyone about the strange elf he brought back and is obviously hiding. What elf? Oh that one! He’s just a friend. What’s his name? Uhm...What a coincidence, it seems to have slipped my mind! Gottagobye!

Gil-Galad keeps telling himself that he’ll exile Maeglin or hand him over to the Gondolin survivors, but he keeps putting it off, even when Maeglin is majority healed. Next thing they know, the armies of Valinor have arrived and the War of Wrath ramps up. With nothing left to do, Gil gives Maeglin a disguised name, armor and a sword, and together, they fight. They are quite surprised to discover that they work very well together. That’s probably when they start becoming friends. 

And then Elrond comes in. And Gil is trying so hard to keep his two friends separated. Which is hard when you’re friends with a very curious and nosey peredhel who is very suspicious about the mysterious white haired elf who is always with the king.

It’s even funnier if Elrond is hiding Maglor 

Elrond: Is that Maeglin?! Gil-Galad with an obvious Maeglin behind him: No no no, you’re seeing things. 

*Maglor passes by behind Elrond*

Gil-Galad: Is that Maglor Feanorian?!

Elrond: No, you’re seeing things.

[lovlidollie]

can i request something for crybaby!reader? i love her!!

imagine she finds a skirt in her closet that she bought like 2 years ago. she’s so exited to tell rafe about it and tries it on immediately. but she can’t fit it over her upper legs, let alone her butt. she tries but fails and the tears start welling up so fast! she’s crying about how she gained weight and can’t even fit a simple skirt anymore and rafe has to reassure her that he loves her and that she didn’t gain weight and he just has to hold her tight🎀

of course lovely ! thank u so much for sending through this req, i appreciate your love for crybaby!reader so much ! ended up being a little longer than i was expecting i hope it lives up to your expectations 😓 just wanted to preface this by saying that everyone is perfect the way they are, and that clothes are made to fit you, not for you to fit into <3

the second rafe opens up the door to the house he realises something is wrong. why? well, crybaby!reader wasn’t there waiting for him. it’s something she does, even when rafe tried convincing her that she didn’t have to (he took his words back the second she started crying). she’s an anxious little thing, doesn’t like being away from him especially when he’s out dealing with business. he rubs his face tiredly and starts walking up the stairs, frown growing on his face at the eery silence. “hey, you there, baby?”

she can’t even hear him over her own pitiful sobs. she’s been crying for the past hour, head smooshed into the pillows as she wallows in self-deprecation. wanting to keep herself distracted whilst rafe was gone, she had decided to go through her wardrobe. and there it was. tucked away at the very back, a pretty lace skirt. it was pink and frilly and her heart rose at the very sight of it. she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d worn it, that’s how long it’d been since she’d last seen it. it took her a while to convince herself to try it on, she didn’t want to be disappointed if it didn’t look good ‘n she wanted to look good for her rafey :( she doesn’t even get that chance because the waist of the skirt barely got to her mid-thigh before she heard a sharp rip. immediately she had started crying, big fat globs of tears falling down her pretty face as she realised that she must have gained weight and that the skirt’s seams had ripped because of it.

“hey— what’s wrong?” crying herself into such a stupor, she didn’t even realise rafe had come into her room. he keeps his voice low. sweet. he doesn’t want to scare her off by being a big meanie and demanding why she was crying :( she just whimpers into her pillow, shoulders shaking. rafe sighs, moving over next to her bundle of plushies on the bed. two of them had fallen to the floor (rumplestilskin and bingo; he’d learnt his lesson the last time he’d forgotten) and he’s sure if she was aware it would send her down another spiral. he places his hand over her back, gently rubbing up and down her spine. “c’mon baby, you gotta talk to me. need ‘ya to talk t’me ‘kay? can’t fix none of your problems if i don’t know what’s wrong.”

she wails and it’s like the whole dam breaks free. “f-found somethin’ cute ‘n i thought maybe y-you’d like it — b-b-but it doesn’t fit anymore.” she’s blubbering and her words are muffled but rafe gets the general idea. “gained weight, rafe! i-i gained weight and now the stupid skirt doesn’t fit anymore!”

he understands that this is a delicate situation but he can’t help the incredulous, “what are you even talking about?” slip out. rafe’s eyes are squinted and his brows are furrowed as he tries to understand what he thinks is an utterly stupid thing to be upset over.

she starts crying harder at that and rafe rolls his eyes. “not doin’ this while your mouth is full of pillow, baby. c’mon. up.” there’s resistance on her end and he understands then that he needs to take a different approach. he lowers his voice more, talks slower. “hey — hey sweetheart? can’ya get up f’me? f’daddy? wanna be good for him don’t’ya?”

rafe tries not to smirk when her head pops up without hesitation this time. he frowns when he can finally see the state of her, eyes puffy and red-rimmed, cheeks wet and nose snotty. he gathers her up and drapes her across his lap, fingers softly scratching her scalp. she takes a great heaving breath and sniffles quietly, lips naturally forming a pout. “there’s my girl, there we go.”

he grips her hip gently, rafe’s broad shoulders caging her in. “so jus’ — just lemme get this straight. you’re cryin’ ‘cause an old skirt doesn’t fit anymore?” he feels her tiny nod against his chest and he grunts quietly in response. “well, then there’s your answer, kid. you jus’ grew up.”

“n-no, it’s real obvious that — that i gained wei-”

“uh-uh. you listen when ‘m talkin’ to you.” rafe presses her cheeks together, forcing her to look at him. he tries to keep his tone gentle and airy, makes his expression as soft as he can. “no one cares if you did or didn’t. makes no difference to anyone else, makes no difference to me. y’know why?” he doesn’t wait for a response. “‘cause it doesn’t stop me from lovin’ you any less. weight gain or no, it doesn’t change daddy’s love f’you.”

rafe kisses her head and wipes away her tears. “my girl’s perfect. right? perfect as she is. she’s good.” the praise has her melting, turns her brain into goo and it’s like he’s flipped a switch in her to stop her crying. “g-good?” she stutters out, eyes glassy.

“yeah. good. daddy’s good girl, c’mere kid,” he pulls her into a tight embrace, her legs either side of his hips, with his arms squeezing her waist. he holds her there until her heart slows down, no longer panicked. rafe shakes his head against her neck, scoffing when he sees the hazy, floaty look on her face.

“jus’ gonna buy you more anyway. you got me. you got me ‘n ill get my girl whatever she needs. don’ need to be cryin’ over this stupid shit. we’ll go out tomorrow and find somethin’ even better f’you.”

[therainscene]

It’s funny that Bylers are so often accused of being delusional, because I was at my most delusional when I was anti-Byler.

I spent most of S4 refusing to acknowledge that Will had romantic feelings for Mike, despite knowing damn well what all that love triangle imagery and sad gay pining was implying. I convinced myself it was just bros before hoes drama; that perhaps Will wanted to come out to his best friend but felt nervous after six months of radio silence following “it’s not my fault you don’t like girls!”

The van scene forced me to accept that he really was in love, and it pissed me off because what was even the point of making him fall for a straight boy?

Mike’s bizarre “no homo” behaviour was clearly a symptom of growing up in a conservative 80s household, and witnessing Will’s sacrificial act of love in the van was the shitty lesson he needed to get over his homophobia.

I saw a typical straight male protagonist in an 80s coming-of-age film getting to coast his way to self-actualization on the back of queer suffering; a cruel and homophobic trope I thought we’d moved past by the year 2022.

But then the NINA reunion scene rolled around--

--and I immediately picked up on the heavy parallels between Mike and Will in how they greeted El. The realization hit me like a tonne of bricks: Mike feels the same way about her as Will does.

I thought, “wait, does this mean I was wrong about...? Oh my god. No way.

No fucking way.

Will was in love with El this whole time?? What the fuck, he’s been gay since S1 and she’s his sister this is BULLSHIT I will personally strangle the Duffers--”

Heteronormativity is a hell of a drug, kids.

Let this be a lesson to those of you who think media illiteracy is to blame for Byler denial -- how well someone understands the mechanics of storytelling is irrelevant if they insist on treating Mike’s supposed heterosexuality as an axiom instead of an evidence-based conclusion. The issue lies with bias, not literacy.

I was stubbornly anti-Byler because I knew I’d immediately fall in love with this ship if I allowed myself to have hope it could be canon, and the general state of queer rep in mainstream media meant I was all but guaranteed to get hurt if I was so stupid as to have hope. But in my desperation to cling to the “safe” heteronormative outcome, I only ended up hurting myself with my own silly assumptions.

We’ve seen both canonically gay characters in the show make exactly this mistake, needlessly hurting themselves with their silly but self-defensive assumptions about their love interests.

Stranger Things absolutely nails its depiction of the subtler ways internalized homophobia can manifest -- Will may feel like a mistake and be prone to beating himself up, but he isn’t some pitiful self-loathing queer who wishes he was straight, either. He’s just so crushed by heteronormativity that he accepts it as an inescapable fact of life and lets it guide his beliefs and actions.

Don’t get me wrong: Will, like Robin, is very sensible for being cautious in such a horrifically bigoted environment -- trying to openly defy that level of homophobia by yourself, especially when you’re young, is a bad idea.

But unlike Robin, he clearly struggles to accept that he has the right to chase his same-sex love interest. He's no longer simply exercising caution, but conforming to homophobic standards -- much in the same way I thought I was sensibly refusing to be queerbaited, when really I was just agreeing with the heteronormative status quo.

I realize now that this is the real reason Will was written into a homophobic 80s trope: not to teach Mike an outdated lesson in acceptance, but to maneuver Will into position for the lesson he’s going to learn in S5 about resisting conformity.

Will needs to learn that castrating himself to make straight people comfortable is a bad idea too. Not only is that a miserable way to live his life, but what sort of world is he leaving for the next generation of queer kids if he never questions these homophobic standards?

It’s just the cycle of abuse scaled up to the societal level.

This is what gives me confidence in Byler endgame. Queerness isn’t just an incidental element of Will’s personal arc, but suffuses the show to its very core -- it’s in its themes, its allegory, its characters.

So Will getting the boy isn’t just nice fan-service for Byler shippers, but a necessary ending if the show’s most important lesson is to land:

That it’s rewarding to make the difficult choice of standing up to bigotry in the face of forced conformity. Of choosing love.

Could it be the case that I was right the first time, and Stranger Things is going to turn out to be yet another heteronormative mainstream show that doesn’t commit to its own themes? Sure, maybe. But that wouldn’t invalidate the valuable lessons this show has already -- and apparently accidentally lol -- taught me.

Anyone who calls us deluded for hoping a mainstream show is going to have a gay pairing as its main couple just doesn’t realize -- or doesn’t care -- that they’re contributing to the very problem they’re describing.

[engie-ivy]

(I wrote a 'day-after-Sirius'-birthday' fic! Totally not just me being late for Sirius' birthday. Nope, not at all. This was planned. With a very Fluffy ending, because Sirius deserves happiness for his day-after-his-birthday!)

@wolfstarmicrofic 3rd: gather

862 words

Remus is doing his semester abroad, and Sirius goes to surprise him with a visit and a confession.

At Your Doorstep

Sirius tries to gather his courage. Not for the first time, he curses James Potter's name, while simultaneously thanking his lucky stars to have someone like James Potter in his life.

Yesterday was Sirius' birthday.

His birthday plans consisted of sitting at home playing sad songs on his guitar while wallowing in self-pity. James came to visit anyway. Sirius wouldn't have blamed him if he hadn't, as Sirius hasn't exactly been fun to be around lately.

Remus left two months ago to do his semester abroad. Of course, Sirius knew he was going to miss him, but god, he hadn't expected it to be this bad! He's been a shell of his normal self, acting cranky, short-tempered and withdrawn.

James did, however, manage to pique his interest with his birthday gift: plane tickets to go see Remus.

When Sirius immediately wanted to grab the tickets, James had quickly pulled them out of reach. "Uh-uh, if you want them, you must first accept the terms and conditions."

"And what are those?"

"You can only go if you promise that when you're there, you're going to tell Remus how you feel."

The prospect of seeing Remus again was too much for Sirius to resist, so he had accepted James' terms. He had promised, solemnly sworn even, something they do not take lightly, to confess his feelings for Remus.

Sirius got on a plane yesterday, flew all night, took a cab giving the driver Remus' address, and now here he is, standing on the doorstep of some student housing appartement getting ready to put it all out there for the person he can't deny anymore he's terribly in love with.

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

The door is thrown open and a lanky guy with bouncing red curls appears.

Sirius realizes this must be Fabian, Remus' roommate. Despite never having spoken with Fabian, or even having seen Fabian before, Sirius does not like Fabian. Remus talks about his new roommate just a tad too much for Sirius’ liking. 'I was having dinner with Fabian yesterday… Fabian took me to this coffeeshop the other day… Fabian and I are going to watch this movie…'

Fabian looks Sirius up and down, and then a flirtatious smile appears on his face as he leans against the doorpost. "Why, hi there. How may I help you this evening?"

"I… uhm, I'm looking for Remus?"

"Oh." Fabian visibly deflates and he straightens. "I'm sorry, Remus is unavailable today, I'm afraid."

"Unavailable?" Sirius repeats.

"Yes, he made it clear he is not to be disturbed from his utmost important task of feeling sorry for himself," Fabian says. "Apparently, his guy back home had his birthday yesterday, and when Remus didn't hear from him, he spent the day convincing himself that his crush has forgotten all about him and must have been out partying with other boys all night." Fabian rolls his eyes. "I've tried to get him out of his room, but he has opted to wallow in his misery about his unrequited crush instead."

"His…crush?" Sirius manages to say, his brain still trying to catch up.

Fabian squints his eyes and looks at him more closely. "Wait… 'tall and broad-shouldered', 'Hair the colour of the night sky falling in soft waves over his shoulders', 'bright eyes with an ever-present sparkle'..." He gasps and clasps his hand over his mouth. "Oh my god, it's you! You're Sirius Black!"

Sirius nods dumbly.

"Oh, no, no, no." Fabian hides his face in his hands and groans. Then he looks at Sirius again, pleadingly. "Please, please tell me you're here to confess your undying love for Remus, so that he isn't gonna murder me for spilling the beans?"

"Uhm, yes?"

Fabian's mood changes instantly, and a relieved grin spreads over his face. "Excellent!" He exclaims, and before Sirius can say another word he turns around and shouts "Remus! There's someone here to see you!"

Sirius hears a door open and close, some shuffling, and a moment later, Remus appears in the hallway. He's wearing pyjama pants that are too big and his most worn-out jumper with both old and new food stains, he has chocolate smears around his mouth and his hair is sticking up in all directions.

He looks perfect.

"Fab, I told you, I don't want to see anyone today. I'm-" His eyes fall upon Sirius and he immediately goes quiet, his mouth falling open.

Sirius has spent his whole flight thinking about what to say, rehearsing the words in his head, but now that Remus is looking at him, and he's looking at Remus, he's overcome with just how much he missed him. Words suddenly don't seem necessary. He rushes towards Remus, and Remus snaps out of his daze just in time to take a step towards him, before Sirius gathers him in his arms.

"What are you… How are you… Is this real?" Remus stammers, clinging to Sirius' shoulders.

"I missed you," Sirius whispers into Remus' hair. "I missed you so much. I just had to see you."

Remus lifts his head and searches Sirius' eyes, and what he finds there is really all he needs to know.

[mangoshorthand]

five hargreeves as a dad? Him being a single father and taking care of his daughter; she could be adopted too

(Not his dinosaur age but if he was still a younger adult would be great thanks!)

more on fluff please!

I thought this request was a good opportunity to write a situation I referenced in After We Fall (Hard Feelings part 6) which has been playing on my mind. I went slightly off-book with the request: Five is not a single dad, but he's a SAHD and his wife is only referenced a couple of times. It's not necessary to translate the Italian lines to enjoy the fic, but you might like to. Hope you enjoy.

No Blinking! | Five Hargreeves & 3 y/o daughter Words: 3k

Some parts of the apocalypse were nice. 

Sometimes, when the sunrise hit the earth in just the right way, everything would be bathed in this sweet, rosy glow. He’d lie there, facing the sunrise, and watch the progress of the long shadows thrown by the debris; abstract shapes at his toes which retreated further and further away, the tiny pieces of surviving glass twinkling in the light. 

Every morning, the sunrise fascinated him. It was the middling time between sleep and waking, when his thoughts had not yet formed into coherence. It was evidence he had survived another night. He never knew whether that was a good thing or not: this fact, proclaimed by the sunrise, held both pain and promise. 

On the one hand, another day alone was dawning and another day had gone by in which he’d failed to calculate his way home. On the other hand, there was today’s possibility of success, glimmering illusively in the new light. 

It was impossibly lonely, but it was peaceful, and blessedly quiet.

And, sitting there with blood-curdling screams echoing off the high ceiling, Five couldn’t help but miss that time. 

He was looking down into his sour coffee and trying to imagine being back there, the sun gently warming his cold bones, when a small, familiar voice reached him amidst all the other shrieks. 

“DADDY!”

Five looked up to see his daughter waving at him from the very top of the soft play apparatus. She was waving and smiling at him with the sort of deranged glee that only a little kid can muster. The sight immediately broke through his self-pity and misplaced nostalgia: he smiled and waved back at her, a more pleasant warmth than the apocalypse sun filling him now. 

In a flash of blue light, she appeared at his elbow. 

“Jesus, Aoife!” 

He put a restricting hand on her shoulder and looked around surreptitiously, to check that nobody was watching. There were two moms at the next table, but they were too engaged chatting between themselves and watching their kids. 

“No blinking outside the house! Cosa ti ha detto papà?”

She was looking up at him with his own eyes and his own pout. Her pigtails were loose, hair awry and her upper lip crusty with the ubiquitous snot that always seemed to gather there.

He sighed, grabbed the slightly moist napkin that he picked up with his coffee and wiped her nose.

“No blinking, okay?”

“No.” she said, stubbornly, wriggling away from the napkin. “I’m a big kid now. I’m in charge.”

Five suppressed a smile.

“Oh, okay. That sounds nice. If you’re in charge, then are you going to drive me home?”

“No, papà ” she scoffed, “I can’t drive.”

Five couldn’t keep up the pretense of sternness, unable to resist her little face. 

“Oh,” he said, in mock confusion, “well if you’re in charge and you can’t drive, how do we get home?”

“We get the bus.” she said, decisively.

“We'll get the bus?” he repeated, “Okay. You got the money to pay for the bus, Rockefeller? If you’re in charge then you have to pay, right?”

She considered it for a second or two, and then seemed to decide it wasn’t worth it.

“You know what,” she said, “I was just kidding.”

“So is papà in charge?”

She didn’t answer, but the pout’s return let him know he’d won the argument, (and yes, he did congratulate himself on this. She might be tiny, but she was already a formidable interlocutor). 

“So: no blinking, right?” he said, holding up a single, authoritative finger. 

She nodded and gave a theatrical sigh. 

“That’s a girl,” he said, leaning over and kissing play-warmed head, “now go play.”

“Will you come and play with me?”

“No sweetie,” he said, “Daddy’s too big. And I'm having a sit down.”

She threw back her head with a flourish, all abject frustration and pure drama.

“What the HELL?”

He suppressed a laugh and dismissed her, watching her run back to the play area with a whoop that made it clear his refusal to join her had by no means spoiled her fun.

The attention of the pair of mothers on the table beside him had been attracted at some point during this exchange. They were smiling at both Aoife and him with a strange look of adoring pity.

He noticed it on women’s faces often when he was out with his daughter. He had once, foolishly, imagined that being a seemingly young dad instantly boosted his fuckability by about 300%, but he learned quickly that the real reason was far less flattering. 

He picked up a newspaper probably left by the previous parent sitting here, slowly losing the will to live. The front page yielded nothing interesting: a politician had been up to something sleazy, but what was new? “PAPÀ, GUARDAMI!”

He glanced up to where Aoife had grabbed a tiny, smiling boy by the hand.

“ME AND NOAH ARE GOING DOWN THE SLIDE!”

“Good for you.” he called back, “You and Noah be careful, piccolina.”

He watched as they shuffled their way, beaming, into the tube slide and then emerged at the bottom after lots of giggling and thumping from within. He applauded politely and Aoife, hair flying, grinned back at him, showing all her sharp little teeth.

He tried to return to the newspaper, but could no longer pretend to ignore one of the women from the next table over, trying to catch his eye.

He looked up and gave her what he hoped was a polite but quelling smile.

His hope was not answered.

“How old is she?” the woman asked, smilingly, jumping on his acknowledgment.

She was thin, blonde and green-eyed. Mid thirties, he’d guess. Pretty too, he noticed, though in a detached way. Her friend, a brunette wearing a yellow blouse, seemed to be assessing him as if she didn’t fully trust his presence.

“Three years, seven months,” he said, shortly.

“Awh,” she said, politely, “Noah turned three in September. It’s such a nice age, isn’t it?”

Five looked back up to the ballpit where Noah, white-blonde like his mother, was shrieking with laughter as Aoife smashed two balls together in time to the raucous melody she was singing.

“Cute kid,” he commented. 

“Thank you.” she smiled, “So is…”

“Aoife,” he supplied.

“What a lovely name,” she said.

He nodded and tried to look away, but the yellow-bloused woman called back his attention.

“So you’re Italian?”

“No. I just speak it. I taught her and now we speak it together. She speaks a little Spanish too.”

“Have you considered what it might do to her speech development?”

“Does her speech seem under-developed to you?” Five asked, eyebrow raised, “It didn’t do my speech any harm: I bambini di tutto il mondo sono bilingui e se la passano bene. Potrei dirti di andare a farti fottere in sette lingue."

The women smiled uncertainly, clearly not understanding the last part of his speech. He continued as if he was translating:

“Multilingual children have developmental advantages over monolingual. I’m fluent, so why not give her that advantage?”

They both nodded their acceptance of this, and Five was just feeling he might have shut them up, when the blonde spoke again.

“So, is it Mommy’s day off?” 

This piqued Five enough that he looked up from his newspaper.

“No.”

“So you’re a single dad?” the brunette asked, her expression softening as she looked at him.

Five smirked, and a memory of Klaus floated to the surface of his mind. 

“Yup. I was young when I had her. I don’t even know who the mother is.”

He looked up, and the women were looking at him. There was a second or so of confused silence before Five put them out of his misery.

“That was a joke. My wife works.”

“Ah, so Daddy’s babysitting?”

“No,” he said, with a smile that tried extremely hard to hide his irritation, “Daddy’s parenting.”

With effort, he managed not to add: ‘dumbass’ to the end of that statement.

Both the women nodded earnestly, and the way they did it told Five they were probably the type to admire his stance on the surface, but underneath still pity him: convinced he was a hapless male incapable of lone childrearing for periods longer than an hour. 

“And do you manage okay?” asked the brunette.

“Well, Aoife’s still alive,” Five said, coldly, “I’ll take that as a win.”

Noah’s mother laughed, (somewhat sycophantically in his opinion), and her friend eyed Aoife critically for a few moments, lingering on her messy hair before speaking again.

“I’ll show you how to braid her hair.” she said, with the air of one taking control of a dire situation.

“No thank you,” Five said, shortly.

Noah’s mother stepped back in, tilting her head placatingly and speaking to what she imagined was his misplaced pride.

“I swear, you’ll never look back. It’s so good for keeping it out of her eyes.”

Five fought to keep his irritation contained, and his eyes found Aoife, throwing herself between two squashy funhouse rollers with a loud ‘Ooof!’

The sight gave him the grounding he needed.

He couldn’t lose it at these two moms, because then he’d have to leave. If Aoife was going to sleep tonight, she needed to run off all this energy. 

Not to mention the fact she was having the time of her life. 

He looked back at the women, his patience renewed:

“I can braid hair just fine. She just hates them. Hates having them done, hates having them in, screams like you’re pulling out her fingernails if you try.”

Five had, in fact, pulled out many fingernails in his time, and the similarity was disturbing. 

“Oh,” the brunette said, apparently disappointed at being denied an opportunity of dictating to him. 

As she sat down, and Five’s eyes sank thankfully to an article about the reformation of a blues band, Noah’s Mom asked.

“Is your wife a career gal then?”

“I guess,” he said, “she works hard.”

“That’s so admirable.” said the blonde - though he got the sense she didn’t really mean it. 

Her eyes moved over to her son as she continued.

“I just don’t know how she does it. I just couldn’t leave him to be brought up by someone else.”

Five felt himself becoming quite seriously annoyed. 

“Aoife’s being brought up by both her parents.”

“Of course, of course. But every girl needs her mom.”

Five took a sip of his coffee.

This shit was old news. He encountered it too often, whether it was this specific flavor of bullshit or the type where he got nasty looks at the playground as a lone male. He cleared his throat and hoisted a smile onto his face.

“So where’s Noah’s dad today?” he asked, leading her into a trap whether she was aware of it or not.

“He works too.”

“Oh.” Five said, trying to keep his smile playful rather than antagonistic, “So does every boy need his dad?”

As Noah’s Mom and her friend sputtered, Five held up a hand and continued.

“As long as a kid’s with a parent that loves them, it doesn’t matter if they’re a woman, man or hyper-realistic robot. Now,” he said, gesturing firmly to his newspaper, “if you don’t mind - ?”

He was glad that the women seemed to accept his request for solitude, and even happier when they went to get coffee and moved to a different table.

The next thirty minutes passed silently (as silent as it was possible in an echoing room full of shrieking kids), with Five flicking through his newspaper and glancing up to check on his daughter every few minutes. He was engrossed in an op-ed on the latest labor strikes when one shriek in particular drew his attention.

This shriek was distinct from happy play shrieks.

He looked up, and there was Aoife on the floor at the top of the netted play apparatus, bawling her head off with cries so high-pitched that soon only dogs would be able to hear. 

He looked around surreptitiously. Nobody was watching, Aoife was the only kid in that area and there was plenty of cover. He stood, took a few steps towards the play area and concealed himself behind a brightly-coloured padded pillar and thrust himself into the static electricity of a spatial blink. He emerged strategically, stooping behind a giant firetruck. He ducked out from behind it and approached his daughter at a crouch, unable to stand in the confined space.

Aoife was sprawled out on the soft floor, watching him approach through red eyes. 

She might be hurt, he thought, but she was tired too, and these tears seemed more linked to that. 

“What happened, bambina?”

With a gulp of air in between each word, she answered:

“I - fell - off!”

He dropped to one knee and scooped her up, pulling her dress down to cover her butt as he did so. 

“You hurt, sweetie?”

“Yes,” she said, the rate of her tears already slowing as he pulled her onto his knee, “I hurt my leg!”

She pointed forlornly to her left knee. Five took a quick survey- there was a small red mark from impact  - probably against the firetruck - but it seemed fine otherwise. 

He held her briefly to his chest and kissed her forehead, rubbing her leg with the palm of his hand, the warmth of his skin soothing away the pain. 

“Daddy’s got you, little one. You’re okay. Can you bend your knee for me?”

Aoife bent her leg with ease, though still sniffled in his arms.

“Okay,” he said, seriously, with the air of one performing serious diagnostic tests, “now, can you wiggle it for me?”

Aoife looked seriously down at her leg and wiggled it. 

“Excellent,” Five said, keeping his features schooled into mock-concentration. “Now, can you just put your finger on your nose for me?”

Aoife did so, looking up at him in confusion.

“Hm.” he said, lowering his eyebrows as if at an unexpected medical outcome, “Just let me try that.”

Aoife moved her finger and he prodded her nose.

“Honk.”

Aoife’s serious face broke, and she sniggered.

“There we go, see?” Five said, pressing her nose again, “Honk! - You just gotta press it hard enough, you’re fine.”

Aoife giggled and fell against his chest with an ill-coordinated thump. She rested her head against him, rubbing her face into his sweater.

You’re dumb.” she said, affectionately, “and bad.”

“Charming.” he said, stroking her hair, “Dumb I’ll accept - you got me on that one. But why am I bad?”

“You said no blinking.”

Five smiled as he pulled her onto his hip, stooping his way to the exit. 

“I’m allowed to blink in public.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m grown-up.”

“That’s not fair.”

“True, but I’m afraid life’s not getting any fairer than this, bambina.”

“That makes no sense!”

Five chuckled and held her closer, finally straightening up and heading back to their stuff over at the table. 

“We’re gonna go now. Mommy will be home soon.”

Aoife grumbled slightly, but he bribed her with a promise to play her Turvytown playlist on the way home, (as much as it pained him to put himself through it again). As a result, she allowed him to place her down and assist her in putting on her coat with a good grace. 

“It’s not fair rules that daddy can blink outside but I can’t.” she said, thoughtfully.

“I know,” Five said, grabbing his jacket and folding up the newspaper for the next beleaguered parent who might sit there, “but lots of people already know that daddy can blink. It's no biggie if they see me - but we don’t want them all knowing you can.”

“Why not we just tell them?”

“Because -” he faltered, “because it’s better if it stays a secret.”

He took her hand, folded his own jacket over his arm and lead her towards the parking lot, where 

“A secret? Like Daddy’s birthday present?”

“No,” he said, leading her outside by the hand, “not like Daddy’s birthday present, because you told me what that was the day Mommy bought it. You have to actually keep this secret, kiddo.”

“Okay.” she said. 

When they got to the car, he leaned over to help her with her car seat, but she slapped his hands away.

“I want to do it.”

“Sure,” he said, letting his hands fall into his pockets, watching her with interest. With a few minor grunts, she clicked the belt home and looked back at him, satisfied.

“See? I’m a big kid.”

“You sure are.” 

He looked back at her; into his own eyes in miniature. He felt the familiar rush of serotonin as he did so. He’d always had a soft spot for kids, but Aoife was different.

He loved his wife, sure, but his love for Aoife was in an entirely different league. She delighted him - there was no other word for it. Having her in his arms was just…right. It wasn’t rational, he knew that, but it didn’t make it any less true.

She made him more aware than anything else of his animality: his love hit him like a kick in the gut - it was something that pulled hard on a cord deep in his stomach. The first time she was put into his arms, he felt his foundations tremble, crumble and reform. He was enamored - totally and utterly. If anyone ever tried to hurt her…

Proud of herself, she smiled at him. It emphasized her cherubic cheeks, still pink from the chill outside. She was perfect. There had surely never been any child so perfect.

He leaned over and hugged her silently, pressing his angular jaw against one of those plush cheeks. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

She even smelled like his. 

“Love you, kiddo.”

Aoife suffered her father’s fervent hug for a few seconds before getting impatient.

“You gonna drive already?”

Five laughed, pressed a kiss to her cheek (which she wiped away with the back of her hand) before closing the car door and heading around to the driver's door.

“What, am I your goddam chauffeur now?” he murmured to himself, smilingly.

Request masterlist >> HERE

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed): @thebearmage, @nevbrooke-555

NOTE:

I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See masterlist for request status and more.

[klonnieshippersclub]

if Bonnie had her own “Aunt Jenna” which Bennett witch would it be?

I've been inspired! You didn't ask for a fic concept but here it is.

Emily had always been watching her descendant. She looked after all her kin through the years. The older Salvatore was too caught up in his own self pity to truly honor their deal. It was unfortunate knowing that she was partially responsible for her descendant knowing a vampire's wrath. There were thousands of Bennetts. She couldn't just watch over Bonnie but the teen stole most of her attention with Sheila dying and tapping into her powers. Emily couldn't resist using the power of a hundred witches to resurrect herself along with Jeremy Gilbert. Bonnie needed guidance and Emily was happy to provide it.

To Bonnie, it was strange having Emily in her life. The elder Bennett was more like an older sister than a mother. Emily would agree that she lacked a lot of mothering experience. Sometimes at night she would cry that she missed her children and Bonnie would comfort her. Because of this closeness, Bonnie agrees to go with Emily to Salem to better her magical knowledge. Neither Bennett witch expected Klaus to show up with Stefan.

Klaus was very satisfied with having his best mate, Stefan, by his side but he still longed to create more of his kind. He believed the world needed more hybrids. All his attempts were unsuccessful. He knew he needed a witch. He made plans to steal away Bonnie from Mystic Falls but discovers that she is elsewhere with another Bennett. Two Bennett witches to replace Maddox and Greta? Perfect. In Salem, the Bennetts reject Klaus' offer and a fight ensues with Stefan compelled to assist Klaus.

Upon hearing Emily cry out in pain, Bonnie stops and agrees to go with Klaus. Emily was her family. She wouldn't allow Stefan to drain her dry. Unlike Damon and Elena who were going crazy trying to track Stefan, Emily had another plan. She needed reinforcements. She travels the country recruiting Bennett witches to rescue Bonnie. When they arrive to retrieve her, they find Bonnie in Klaus' lap and she doesn't want to be saved.

The romance between Klaus and Bonnie was not immediate. His seduction of her was slow, far slower than he would have liked. From the moment he saw her in Salem, Klaus knew that he wanted to taste Bonnie's blood, her skin, her lips more than anything. Despite being even younger than Greta, Bonnie was unimpressed by his charm. Their magic lessons were more productive as every brush of their hands caused Bonnie's heart to skip a beat. Between their shared love for art history and Klaus' whispers of worship, Bonnie fell hard for the hybrid. She just hoped Emily wouldn't be too mad.

[tigertale]

A/N: Oh no! You, the magicless student, suddenly appeared in the all girl magical school, the Night Raven College!

A/N 2: At first I was like "let's write something good!" then I remembered that I don't care if it's well-written or not, I just want to get things off my system. Fuck my sexual orientation or whatsoever, no matter what gender Leona is, I can't resist him

A/N 3: (06/12/2022) I edited it a bit, but it's still a bit clumsy

•F! Reader; F! Leona

•〔　！ 〕 Smut; Badly written you'll lose braincells reading it; Grammatical errors; not proofread

"Ah! Leona, can you help me with my glasses? I can't properly see so it's difficult to look for them." The woman only answered with a click of her tongue before walking past the kneeling student. The magicless student helplessly tried to follow Leona's movements, scared that she had just ignored her and went about her day. Thankfully the beastwoman didn't go far. She bent over something, and straightened her back soon after.

"Is that…" Her upper eyelids were lowered and she frowned as she tried to see who was approaching her. Despite her blurry eyesight, she almost immediately recognised the pair of long legs and the half opened shirt under the bright golden waistcoat. "Leona?"

Said woman stopped before the one that was squinting under her. A tired sigh left the lioness as she looked at the magicless student on her knees. And the pair of glasses a few meters away from them deepened her frown.

"Oi herbivore, what are you doing on the floor?" She pushed her hands into her skirt's pockets with a teasing smile as she cocked her head to the side. The savanaclaw student leaned her hips forward in a mocking manner, and yet, the other one was not impressed by the power the one above displayed. Instead she moved to be in a more comfortable position as to fully watch her potential saviour.

"Eh, you mean those broken glasses?" The girl was suddenly up, stumbling on her way to Leona as her blood had yet to properly flow to her legs. She picked the glasses from the other's hand and when she tried to touch the lense, her fingers passed through.

The silence in the corridor was all too suffocating. The frown on Leona's face only but deepend at the awkwardness. Well? When is she going to announce her gratitude? But the other was still trying to assess the new information.

Broken. It was broken. In all her entire life, she had never broken a pair of glasses, and she knew that without them her school life would only go downhill. And not just her school life, she could barely walk without them, she was terrified just by the idea of it! Come on! She couldn't see past her hands, how was she supposed to live a normal life without them?

"Uh?" Leona recoiled at the sight of the tears that were threatening to fall. The prefect was on the verge of crying as she mindlessly passed her thumbs inside the hole of her glasses again and again, as if to prove herself that she was hallucinating. "Shit, are you going to cry?" The pitiful show successfully played with the strings of her damn heart. How could she not be when the ramshackle student was being… well, her. Her usual vulnerable and honest self.

"Stop this already, I'll repair them." She shot her head up. Leona would help her? The stars in her eyes almost made the lioness regret. Almost. But the fact that her personality switched so quickly did, in fact, impress her. "Continue to look at me that way and I won't. Oh Great Seven, you herbivores are so helpless and annoying." She removed the tears with the sleeves of her blouse and excitedly nodded all the while.

"Move already." When she looked up, Leona was standing by an opened door. Her whole body pressed against the doorframe and in her gloved hand, she was playing with the shards of her broken glasses. During the small span of time, she had already picked all the small transparent crystals of her prescribed lenses, much to her surprise

"Isn't that a classroom?"

"No shit. Come on, enter." She jogged towards the lioness who sent her a snide look, one that she couldn't catch now that she didn't have her glasses. She was relieved to see that the classroom was empty, not a single person in sight that would bother them by asking why they were together.

"Were you aware that it would be empty?" But before she could turn around, a hand grabbed the back of her head. As Leona walked forward, she was forced to follow without much chance of freeing herself as the dormhead was much stronger than her.

"What? Did'ja think I was passing by uh? This place's barely used, and no classes are ever held on this day. And Ruggie won't bother me here." She walked past the magicless student as they came to stop and plopped herself down on the bench on the first row.

The girl sighed before trying to pass over Leona's legs. She had made herself comfortable on the edge of the bench, as if to further prove how annoyed she was with the situation, and if she wanted to sit next to her she had to cross over the lioness somehow.

Halfway through, and under the grunts of the dorm leader and the string of excuses that followed them, the prefect was suddenly pulled on the lion's lap. She fell onto one of Leona's leg and her knee was quick to find its place in between her thighs.

"I'll help you and you won't talk about this place to anyone, 'k?" If it was the only thing she wanted in exchange for helping her, even if she was curious about it, she might as well just let it go. "Same goes for whatever happens here."

"Just that?" She looked behind her, but the look the savanaclaw student sent her was enough for her to reiterate her question in a way that would please the leader. "I- I mean…! Don't worry, of course I won't!" She then turned back to face the table, a tight grip on the hem of her skirt as she tried not to think about the warmth between her legs.

"Then it's a deal." And so, the shards were all carelessly thrown on the table.

Leona made quick work putting some of them together, placing them so that it would make the shape of her broken lenses. The magicless student tried to follow her movements, trying hard to understand what she was doing, but her thoughts were slowly changing and focused on something else. Her poor previous attempts to forget about the knee rubbing against her were for naught as the hand caressing her thigh quickly replaced the fixation she may have had.

Or so she thought. Subtle movements of the knee pressed at the apex of her thighs had started before she could have fully adjusted to the fingers that had slipped under her skirt. They were dipping closer to her underwear with each stroke and it was becoming all too mind numbing. What was Leona doing?

Still, she kept, or more like she thought that she was keeping, a straight face and continued to watch the hand of the dorm leader that was playing around with the crystal shards.

The lioness was well aware that the woman by her side was slowly drifting somewhere else. And oh how much she liked that. The herbivore was trying so hard that she was still focused on the empty table when both her hands were gingerly placed on both hips.

"Eh, you're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" She was brought out of her reverie at the rhetorical question. But she couldn't even question what she meant by that (and she was so embarrassed that she had been caught red-handed, what if it was all a misunderstanding?) as the woman jolted her knee harder.

She let out a squeak, the first of a long string of whines that followed.

The crowned princess was working her up to the bone. Using the opportunity of having two hands on her hips, she grinded her against her leg to add to the friction. She even took the time to properly angled her so that her clitoris would feel the direct drag of her underwear against her skin.

"Awwn, look at you. You're so cute like that ♥" The prefect could barely see around her. Without any glasses and with the tears hanging on her lower eyelashes, her surroundings were blurry. A blurry mess that heightened the confusing feeling assaulting her lower stomach.

The kisses Leona pressed against her skin went almost unnoticed with how hot she felt inside. But when she felt the lips closing around her collarbone, she couldn't just go back to forgetting it. No, not when her tongue was creating a humid mess on her cheek as it lapped her tears away.

A finger blissfully slid under the black cloth covering her cunt before she could properly comprehend it. She, who had been focused not a moment ago on the appendage tasting her, couldn't have predicted it. The shock that courses through her when a nail merely brushed against her erected clitoris was almost too much. And the lioness made sure to mess with her even more as she was pleased with the reaction.

Well you know what? She would've loved to continue toying around with the twitching and breathless herbivore on her leg, but there was something she had wanted to taste for a while.

And said herbivore was completely at loss when she was suddenly laid against the cushioned bench and her skirt flipped over her stomach. And the confusion came back when the tongue, that had been previously marking her neck, licked a long strip along her inner lips.

Leona was but on cloud nine when she had finally tasted the prefect. Couldn't she not be perfect? Her tearstained face and those puffy lips were the most beautiful thing she had seen in a while, and she would enjoy it as much as she could.

The magicless student was unable to stay put, despite her legs closing around the lioness in-between them, she couldn't help but writhe and buckled against the hot muscle that was deep into her cunt. And with the added fingers that touched and twisted her clit, she feared how long it would take for her to come undone.

She pressed her tongue inside her and a long pause followed suit as she tried to overcome the overflowing taste that numbed her mind. But it wasn't long before she eagerly started eating her out with a vigor that had never been seen from her. She was a princess, and she was to please those under her for them to desire more.

And rightfully so, because it didn't take minutes for the knot, the one that painfully throbbed with the need to come undone, to explode.

It didn't stop Leona who switched to lapping her up. She was pleased to have been able to drink her juice so fast, a treat that she wouldn't let go of so soon. And the beautiful sounds of the overstimulated prefect was a nice little gift that she took pride in receiving.

"Hey herbivore." The concerned person looked down as the woman pressed her cheek against her stomach. The half lidded eyes and the smirk reignited the fire that was slowly dying.

The lion moved to lean her body against the one under her signature mocking smile. She kissed each tear of the prefect away while her wet fingers roamed along her shapes. And the magicless didn't resist when Leona slipped her tongue inside her mouth. It felt good. She felt complete even. To emphasize it, and now that she was free of the pleasure that was previously assaulting her both inside and outside, she wrapped too shaky arms around the neck of the dormleader.

Leona was far from being displeased by the contact, but still broke the kiss. She instead moved to bite her ear with a chuckle that reverberated in the room. It was followed by the sound of buttons hitting the wood of the row of desks behind them.

The prefect may not be aware, but she was oh so cute. Her cheeks heating up when her fingers caressed the open skin under her bra as if she wasn't just fucked until cumming not even two minutes ago.

Another chuckle was breathed into her ear.

"You won't be able to talk about how much I've fucked you dumb. Remember that."

[mecachrome]

Hi I would love to hear about the elaborate secret wag au you hinted at in the pastries post if youre up to talking about it. I think I need it injected directly into my veins I love it so much

ok note to self i have to stop calling things elaborate when in reality i mean that i think about them really hard before i fall asleep and then promptly forget anything interesting afterward. but of course i'd love to discuss this very vague universe some more!! :')

honestly this is all an extremely self-indulgent exercise because i'm just a huge sucker for the combined secret relationship + famous/non-famous trope, and i will always read/write it for any ship iteration that presents itself! like there is nothing i love more than understated displays of devotion, especially when it plays into the 4th wall socmed fuckery space of one half being famous and having an otherwise large social profile and the other being very lowkey and resisting any publicity about themselves... in that vein i can't tell whether the concept is super cringe & embarrassing (well i can & i know it is, but the question is whether that is enough to Stop Me!!!) because obviously lando dating some Boring Dude requires a er... certain suspension of disbelief (also sorry for any unintentional disrespect to maxf), but what is fandom for if not making stupid shit up <3

anyway the secretwag concept also developed from two things, 1) how much i enjoy & endorse oscar's private-not-secret relationship philosophy + 2) lando's extreme loyalty to & dependence on all of his childhood relationships, so the idea kind of took root as "what if oscar→lando what lily→oscar (and also kind of what maxf→lando)" but just with more of lando's friendgroup dynamix & his streamer identity folded into the mix. the origins of their rship are what remain the most ambiguous & handwavey 2 me but in short they'd somehow meet when they were younger (maybe oscar is the same age as lando, maybe lando stayed in school longer, maybe oscar moved to the uk earlier and they met during their karting days... idk!!!) except then because of finances oscar decides to go into engineering and gives up on motorsport pretty early on.

(tbh i always struggle with justifying non-driverness in canon divergence fic because i'm like WELL REALISTICALLY oscar would just go into another professional racing category if f1 weren't feasible, BUT ignoring that) i think oscar would objectively be a super adjusted engineering student and would thrive academically / not stew in self-pity about giving up racing, so i really like this idea of like... sure, oscar is One Of The Lads, but unlike most people in lando's life who revolve around his work somehow or otherwise reflect his level of celebrity—drivers, the quadrant team, d-grade influencers & djs & social media personalities—oscar is just... Oscar. he's the smartest person lando knows and his love language is quality time and lando is the one usually doing acts of service for all his friends but oscar always wordlessly & unquestionably reciprocates that for him (lando annoying oscar into giving him a massage every night and oscar conceding immediately like ok... jon who❤️) and while lando has to go out of his way to navigate/manage the emotions of those around him and feels indebted to all his friendships he's never had to do that for oscar because oscar is the steadiest part of his life. and then obviously at some point when they're young dumb & drunk they get fucked up about it and start dating on the dl

(waves hands) anyway IDK but i'm just stuck on the image of like lando at 19 starting his first season of f1 and being raw and uncertain of himself and constantly catastrophizing about the future and trying to build out his brand and prove himself, and even like maxf is racing full-time that year, but at least he has oscar who's away at uni (in slightly aged up verse) and shows up at his place every weekend to ground him... like oscar never sugarcoats anything OR doubts himself OR needs lando to be any less open about his irrational fears so lando is like damnnn your cringefail earnestness and clear-eyed perspective of reality has kind of bewitched me *momentarily healed* etc. ft. domestic bants & the birth of master baker oscarpastry when covid hits and everything goes virtual & they quarantine together... lando starts streaming regularly and there's just this random dude in the background of half his streams and chat is like "???" every time like. Who is that + Why is he australian + Why is he cooking you dinner at 1am. his only social media profile is a private ig page with 50 followers.

+ after grad they keep living together and oscar becomes a wfh developer and i imagine him being very financially steady and self-sufficient but also like... deeply LAZY, so he has 0 ambition or intention to chase anything more demanding and is happy to just do his boring software job + be lando's househusband after hours LOL. like bringing lando pastries at quadrant shoots (ty chel 4 this image) between dull code reviews & expertly ducking away from the landolog camera & letting lando drive them around in his stupid gimmick cars and just generally toeing the line perfectly of being invested in lando's success and caring as deeply about motorsport as he does and even kicking his ass in iracing sometimes because he's kept up with sim racing but also keeping his ego in check and not making him engage in the world/politics/circus of f1 more than he has the capacity for on their off-weekends *__* finally lando is like babe i need to go commit tax fraud in monaco and oscar is just like ❤️ ok ❤️ we can move out tomorrow ❤️ and they find a tiny flat that's deeply overpriced but it's Them and it works. oscar plans his days off so he can go to half the races but nobody ever even notices him because the photographers don't know he exists.... except for maxv who lives in their building and met oscar once and was immediately like I Respect You #fellowsimracer so now whenever he sees oscar they get caught up in a conversation for like 30 minutes about random nerd shit and lando is very discombobulated about it every time. on the other hand maxf has been trying to be chill about lando of all people having been in a healthy committed relationship for the past 6-ish years so he frequently gets into trouble for making bad jokes about their sex life on stream that everyone thinks is them being homophobic etc. etc. ANYWAY YOU GET THE GIST OF IT!!!

[melliae]

Refraction Railway Line #3 Abnormalities Part 1 (Analysis)

Something to Live For

“Yes. The deep sea is a dark place. But at the end of that dark path is a light. Because there are things that shine in the dark there." - Abnormality Encounter.

Envy, the devaluation of the self, and Pride, the overvaluation of the self.

They are, by essence, antithetical to each other: one leads to the highest height of the world, seeing everyone as minuscule and meaningless in comparison, while the other leads you to unfathomable depths, making you wish other people would sink alongside you—for them to suffer because they have what you don’t… And maybe that’s the point of Siltcurrent: prideful loneliness in your own suffering, seeing “light” where there is none.

“There are lights that can be seen only when there is no other light.” - Abnormality Encounter.

The fact that the option of “sinking together” has Sloth and Gloom advantage implies that such “sinking” is nothing but the acceptance of one’s own misfortune, relegating oneself into complete hopelessness which is misunderstood as “uniqueness”. This is supported by the corresponding EGO gift having a Pride as affinity, and that failing the check causes the selected identity to recover HP and sanity—to recognize their situation as something harmful from which they must escape.

“You still fear the dark, don't you? I know that you will miss the surface, forever out of your reach once this fluorescent lamp dies.”

Meanwhile, taking the choice of “fixing the fluorescent lights” has both Sloth and Envy as affinities. The dialogue of passing the check explains it:

“Now, if you ever recall a dream in which you wished to twinkle, even as a faint flicker…”

To restore the light is to return to that one thing that led you to that abyss in the first place, the only thing you can’t achieve while everyone else already did it: your dreams, the source of all happiness, the thing that allows you to breathe. The bitterness of envy has made you remember what you want, however fragile it may be (or you’re just too lazy to give up).

Now, what about failing the check? Well, you can finally let go of everything once you learn how to be content with yourself, able to navigate lightless waters unlike those on the surface. It’s no coincidence Siltcurrent is resistant to Gloom and Lust (pleasure for the sake of pleasure), while being weak to Pride and Envy.

In regards to its attacks:

"Headbutt”, “Pound” and “Press”: Welp, what better fits Sloth than mere physical attacks, with no much intention behind them?

"Crashing Siltcurrent": Silt is heavy, don’t you think so? It drowns you, it makes you heavy, and it separates you from the only light you ever had.

“Blind Obsession” and “Wayward Blind Obsession”: This obsession isn’t born out of an aspiration for the heights, but from sinking into the depths. It’s about blanding as a sword the sole thing that defines you now… even if it’s against the wrong things, those that remind you little by little of how frail everything is, like the dreams that it blindly has on its back and you can steal to catch its attention (and initate the battle).

"Sweep": Those flotsams aren’t for it, but for you. You are the one that can't breathe in the depths of despair; it can, and pridefully does so.

"Wriggle": First, it’s still a fish. Second, what’s the best way to forget and ignore your dreams than outright destroy them?

The Dream-Devouring Siltcurrent is exactly that: a current of silt that devious dreams, sinking you in the furthest recesses of despair. Only your envy for others, for the light they have and you don’t, or too much pride, enough to make you fight back even against the dreams of others, can save you.

In a way, it’s quite pitiful: a living paradox that uses its own fragile pride in order to survive, trying to bury its envy of those who have something to live for. But at the same, it doesn’t want to be alone; it wishes to make other people fall too, to join it… like the Whales themselves.

“Maybe the Whales were just lonely. And that’s why they carried within them the oil that had the power to turn others just like them. Maybe, people are the same… Out of loneliness, we want to make something, someone ours. To paint them just like us, to fill them with things that make us.” - Ishamel, Inside the Whale (Right Heart Ventricle), Canto V.

After all, Mermaids “feel” just like Distortions and Abnormalities according to Dante: they are fundamentally human.

Luxury and Nostalgia

“According to common sense, plants with deep roots and a good supply of water grow to be resilient.” - Heathcliff, Abnormality’s Observation Log #3

Gluttony and Lust, as of now, are possibly the most misunderstood affinities in the game, and not without good reason: they both refer to all kinds of sensorial excesses in the strictest sense of the word, of food and carnal pleasures respectively. But I think the previous quote explains it the best: Gluttony, the excessive consumption of “nutrients”, is born of (a perceived) necessity for such things, strengthened by Peccatulum Gulae’s Log (“Yet, those scrawny stems were hungrily seeking the missing sustenance.”); Lust, on the other hand, is just desire for desire’s sake, to endlessly ride the high of life without care. You can compare Dongrang’s and Kromer’s attitudes to see the difference even better: one is hungry to accomplish things and be recognized, while the other really couldn’t care less—she just wants to feel “good”.

By that matter, cotton is the most used natural fiber in the world, by a large margin, being considered one of the most exquisite fabrics through great part of humanity’s history. And for that, its old farms and fabrics are famous for being the epitome of inhuman, exploiting the employers—be it adults, children or slaves—to keep producing for the sake of money and luxury. That’s why Drenched Gossypium's most important affinities are Gluttony and Lust, for it needs blood above all to grow and delights in it, just like the cotton market of old (and maybe even today, but in different ways).

But then, what about the mentioned nostalgia in its Encounter? Simply: it hates it. All the smaller cotton flowers along with it attack you once you succumb to nostalgia and wave back at them, expressing and indulging in the paralyzing venom that inhibits growth (or, if you ignore it completely, only fumbling at you). That’s why Gluttony and/or Lust is needed to approach it, because the endless desire for more is the only way to get close to the luxury of  “cotton”, admiring your insatiable hunger and desire, giving you a part of itself.

In a way, it’s highly affable Abnormality, almost fatherly in a way. It expects people to follow its example, to discard everything for the sake of “eating” and taking pleasure in it, even forgiving you up to three times before it turns red and decides to “punish” (ie. eat) you. The fact that “Draining Root” and “Flourishing Gossypium” (used only in its red state) are its only Wrath-based skills supports this: you either grow and expand, or merely become pathetic food (even more if you’re bleeding and can’t move).

The rest of its skills, by that matter, reflect that mentality more since they’re either Gluttony- or Lust-based, explaining its resistances and the Event mid-combat: you can’t really use Lust or any (sin of) excess of something to defeat it; that is its nature by definition. However, great anger or egocentrism can go against such “zeitgeist” that defines pretty well most of the City.

Either you succumb and watch from a distance, resigned and waving back—maybe as a farewell—to that thriving future that you once wished, or you do everything that’s necessary to achieve it, drenching you in blood so you can relish in that single, needed moment of ecstasy.

“I think it fancies me—I’ve no clue why. But it keeps jabbing me with its straw vines.” - Heathcliff, Abnormality’s Observation Log #3

I do wonder if that’s the reason why it “liked” Heathcliff…

A Place Made by You and for You

“A giant clam walks before you. With each step it takes, it sprays a fetid green muck. Is the clam the source of the contamination, or is it working to contain the filth?” - Abnormality Encounter.

There’s no need to wonder anymore: the Clam is the source of all filth, with every ounce of that green slime containing countless of its“children”, which contaminated the beach in its entirety. It terraformed sea and land to make it perfect for itself and its children, yet it can’t care less about the latter; they only exist for only one reason:

“When the thing’s shells are shut, green slime seems to gather around it, making sure that the shells would stay shut.” - Sinclair, Abnormality’s Observation Log #3

The larvae only exist to protect the Clam’s pearl, lying inside its “mouth”. They are birthed with that as their only purpose, just like Mermaids and their respective Whales, or even Ahab herself. It doesn’t matter what they have to destroy and corrupt, they will do whatever it’s necessary to protect—or achieve—their purpose.

In regards to its skills, they’re quite easy to understand: 

All its Gluttony ones are it literally shooting the green slime to the Sinners, always around the perceived need to “corrupt” or “dissolve” them as well

“Predation” is Lust because it’s meaningless; Ambling Pearl simply enjoys devouring its larvae, despite the fact it can just create more if it truly wanted.

“Effervescent Green Slime” is likely Envy because, at some level, it doesn’t like contaminating its treasure while everything else is so clean; it’s insulting to it, as you can see when you throw the green slime directly into its maw. And while it can’t fully free the pearl from “trash”, it can certainly bring you down even lower.

And finally, “Overflowing Poison” is Pride because, well, it’s avoiding the attacks of more “trash", just as it (initially) ignores you during its Encounter.

The resistances of the Shell are self-explanatory, while the Pearl’s ones… Well, Wrath and Pride seem to be the wild cards of the affinities, since they allow individuals to reject the very core of the Abnormalities—the trauma and cultural spirit of the City.

The meanings of its Event and Encounter, by that matter, are also obvious, especially if you understand “Gluttony = (Perceived) Need”.

Finally, I don’t think it’s necessary to explain how Ambling Pearl is also a metaphor for the division within the City, being even clearer with the beaches in the Backstreets in District 21.

“It reminded me a lot of one of those Trash Crabs. Like the green slime, the ocean smell… you know.” - Sinclair, Abnormality’s Observation Log #1

To corrupt and degrade everything as long as you can have what you desperately wanted. If it’s tainted, then just make sure everyone suffers even more than you... even if that treasure isn't that special to begin with.

[tropes-and-tales]

No Idea What I’m Doing

December 1:  Ice Skating/Wintry - First Date (Marcus Pike x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts by the lovely @youvebeenlivingfictional​, found here)

CW:  Grumpy holiday Marcus; slight angst; tooth-rotting fluff; cursing.

Word Count:  1391

AN:  Requested by @bport76​

The holidays are supposed to be a time of family and togetherness, of cozy evenings with loved ones…and yet Marcus Pike feels so low, so depressed that he’s turned into something of a Scrooge around the office.  He scowls at the décor, scowls at the festive luncheons and happy hours and gifts passed between friendly coworkers.

He feels bad about it.  He hates that he can’t even fake it this year, but his ex-wife just gave birth to her second child, and Teresa just married Jane a month earlier, and Marcus is left to wonder when he’ll get his happily ever after.

And then he catches himself wallowing and feels even worse.

-----

It’s a coworker that sets up the date, and Marcus resists as much as he dares without being insulting.  It’s his coworker’s sister-in-law, and Marcus winces to imagine a future where he has to share holiday dinners with this guy…but his excuses are flimsy, and the coworker finally sells it as doing him a favor.

“Look, she’s a nice girl, but she’s shy and she’s coming off a long-term thing.  At the very least,  you’d be helping her get less shy, you know?  Get her sea-legs back under her so she can start dating again?” the man says.

Marcus sighs and agrees to it.  He’s only there to be a practice run, so there’s no pressure.  He can fake it for an hour or two, then get back to the serious business of wallowing in his own self-pity.

“Fine,” he tells his coworker.  “Give me her number and I’ll set something up.”

-----

It’s the Scrooge-Marcus that sets up the date at the National Gallery skating rink.  Romantic-Marcus would have found a perfect, intimate place to dine, then taken you to some perfect, intimate second spot—an art gallery or a pottery class or something unique and memory-making.

Scrooge-Marcus wants to put in the minimum effort (it’s only practice for you, and a favor to his coworker for him) and then go home alone to sulk.  Ice skating seems almost passive-aggressive as a first date:  he can’t skate at all, he doubts you can either, and it’s hardly sexy to dress for.  Plus it’ll be cold, noses will be red and runny…it’s almost cruel, in fact.  It’s something a middle schooler would plan, would get his mom to drive him to and from in a minivan.

Yet when he calls you to set it up, you seem excited at the prospect.  Marcus feels the tiniest bit of shame to be treating you so dismissively when you seem nice enough.

-----

The night arrives.

At the skating rink, the National Gallery is lit up, and there’s fairy lights strung around the rink.  Piped in holiday music makes the moment seem far more magical than he thought it might be.

You’re already there.  He can see you standing nervously by the skate rental, a pair of white skates already in hand.  You’re wearing a blue scarf the color of a robin’s egg, as you told him you would.

Dammit, he mutters to himself.  You’re cute.  Even shifting back and forth on your feet, even nervously pressing your lips together, he can see that you’re cute—

Then you turn in his direction, catch sight of him—and at that moment, it starts to snow.  As if it was on cue, for god’s sake.  The gentle fall of snow glittering in the lights of the ice skating rink, and you gifting him a shy, tentative smile—

Goddammit, he mutters again, knowing full well he isn’t getting out of this unscathed.

*****

David had warned you that Marcus Pike was not really looking for a girlfriend.  He gave you a rundown of the office gossip about the man, and you had groaned to hear how the entire date was sold to Marcus:  sad-sack sister-in-law, recently dumped, too inept to date without a few practice runs.

Unfortunately, there is some truth to it.

You aren’t that sad, you don’t think, but you were recently dumped.  And you are so out of practice that when you try the dating apps, you almost immediately delete them.  When did available men start the courtship dance by sending dick pics?  

And anyway, none of said dick pics were at all tempting, so why bother?

So you agreed to a date with Marcus Pike.  You needed the practice, and if nothing else, you’d get a night out from it.

Goddamned David never once said Marcus Pike was handsome.  When you pressed, your idiot brother-in-law shrugged and said, “eh, he has brown hair.  Brown eyes.  He’s okay.”

Not that looks matter that much, but when you turn and see your date for the evening, that slightly-mussed hair that curls against his collar, that slight stubble and those goddamned kissable lips…you honest-to-god go a little weak in the knees.

Fuck my life, you grumble as you turn away, as you take a steadying breath and wonder how in the hell you’re going to get through the next hour.

*****

Plan a date at the ice skating rink, Marcus had told himself.  It won’t be fun for her at all.

Bullshit.  

You bring your own skates.  You help him rent his own, and when he struggles to lace them, you kneel at his feet and do it for him, your face bent away from him so that he can only see the edge of your shy smile.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks, and he wants to kick himself for asking a stupid, obvious question, but you laugh and say you have.

“I took lessons growing up,” you reply.  You offer him a gloved hand, help him hobble out onto the slick surface.  He clings to your hand too tight, and he flails out his other hand until he’s grasping the waist-high wall.

There’s nothing sexy about skating-appropriate clothes, he had told himself too.

Double bullshit.

Once he’s sort of stable on his skates, he urges you to go on without him for a few laps, so you do.  You’re in black leggings, form-fitting to your curves, your thighs as you glide away from him.  You’re wearing a short jacket, also cut to your form, and the blue scarf and a matching blue headband, and you look lovely and cutely sexy as you warm up.

The shy tension on your face melts away as you skate.  Whatever muscle memory you have keeps you well served on the ice:  you glide like a natural, you do neat little swivels and turns, and once—when you’re warmed up—you even perform a jump, a tightly efficient single rotation in the air before you land on a blade.  You give yourself a pleased smile, then look over at him.  You startle to find him watching you—the only time you wobble on your skates and have to balance yourself.

When you return to him, there’s a sparkle to your eyes, and Marcus can’t help but smile at you.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he confesses as he stumbles forward another step.  “I’m from Texas.”

You swivel on your skates and face him:  you drifting backwards, him stumbling after you.  You hold out both of your hands:  an invitation.

“Want me to teach you a few things?” you ask, and it turns out that Scrooge-Marcus has disappeared and Romantic-Marcus has returned.  He doesn’t want it, but he can feel the nervous hammering of his heart in his ribcage, the fluttery feeling in his stomach.  The first step of a crush, of new love, maybe.  

You smile at him, peer into his eyes like you might be able to really see him.  Dave said you were in a long-term thing, recently dumped.  Maybe you can see his pain because you’ve felt it too, yet here you are—game for this date with him, smiling at him even if he wasn’t especially warm to you over the phone.  You’re smiling at him, so he thinks he can salvage it, and already he knows of a place to take you afterwards:  the perfect little coffee shop where you can wrap your hands around a mug of hot chocolate, where you can tell him whatever you’re willing to share about yourself.  

“Please,” he says, and he takes your hands and allows himself to be led forward.  “Please do.”

[mins-fins]

THORNS.

synopsis: the thing about being head over heels in love with your best friend, and knowing that best friend doesn't love you back, is how ironic the suffering you face is.

pairing: kim taerae x m!reader

genre: angst angst angst, hanahaki au, unrequited love, university au

word count: 2.7k

warnings: the hanahaki disease, blood, vomiting, suicidal ideation, reader is very self conscious, simply sad no happy ending

notes: this is for @luvjiun's event!! i love angst and i love taerae and he loves taerae so now we have this concoction.. idk either, love you all though :)

do you ever look at yourself and think of how pathetic you seem?

he can't even fathom how he got himself into such a situation, i mean— he's heard the phrase "love can be deadly" before, and he definitely laughed at it a few times. if he were to look at his past self, he'd smack him across the face.

even in a situation like this, the first thing he thinks to do is laugh. laugh at his situation, laugh as a way to just give himself some sort of pity. his back hits the bathroom door, and he slides down onto the floor, and he pokes his tongue through his cheek.

roses, those are his favorite flower.

he sighs, a sick smile coming to his face. sitting on the bathroom floor at 9:23 pm, being miserable because of something so stupid is just such a.. disappointing thing to think about to him, he leans his head back, scratching his hand.

"your such a drag y/n. i mean— what kind of guy leaves a party because he has to throw up? no wonder your friends hate your guts".

"especially taerae, he's so tired of you, you know?"

y/n groans, trying to shake off the voice in his head, as soon as he moves his head in the slightest bit, he begins uncontrollably coughing, trying to get something that was caught in his throat out of it.

then, after a minute of feeling like he was going throw up his guts, a rose petal falls onto the floor, and he grimaces. he licks his bottom lip and stands up, walking towards the mirror in an honestly slow motion.

as he stares at his reflection, his wet hair, the clear eye bags, the lack of color on his face, he resists the urge to punch the mirror. pathetic. the word rings through his ears, and he can practically hear the sound of taerae's laugh mocking him in the background.

he's like this because of kim taerae.

y/n sighs, shaking his head as he turns on the water, beginning to wash his face, hoping to hide everything that had just occurred a few minutes ago. when he looks back up at his reflection, not much has changed.

your really here suffering because of a boy? look at how pathetic you've become..

y/n resists the urge to bite off his tongue, or grab a knife and gouge out his eyes. he ignores the growing voice in his head, how as it continues talking, it sounds more like taerae, he finally opens the door after what seems like forever, and simply rushes to clean up his mess.

he tries his best to ignore the voice, the voice that sounds so much like taerae.

"let's face it, y/n, you were never good enough to have me".

he resists to snap the broom in half, as well as his neck.

"do you ever think about how gross alcohol at college parties are?"

"you actually drink that shit?" y/n inquires, and taerae snickers at those words, downing more water to try and wash out the remaining taste of alcohol in his throat. "jesus, calm down, i'm not sure water helps with hangovers".

taerae's face squeezes in uncomfortableness, and he shuts his eyes before opening them again, a deep breath exhaling from his lips. "i still feel it, ew it burns".

"well that's what you get for deciding to drink".

"shut up you sound like hanbin".

y/n barely manages to dodge taerae's hand coming to smack him in the shoulder, and he giggles at the way taerae's face scrunches. he always found the way taerae got mad cute, but that's mostly because he's known him so long he's basically memorized his expressions.

taerae groans, leaning a little towards the left, resting his body on y/n's. "why'd you leave early?"

y/n blinks. "huh?" he heard taerae loud and clear, he just didn't know if he'd be able to answer such a question without bursting into tears. taerae shifts, moving a little to the right, away from y/n.

"why'd you leave the party early? i spent twenty minutes looking for you until jeonghyeon told me you went back to the dorms".

y/n feels his throat go dry, and that unbearable itch immediately comes back. grow up, y/n, he asked you a simple question.

you know he'll never love you, why can't you just deal with it?

y/n shuts his eyes, trying so hard to ignore the voice, the itchiness in his throat, and the way his stomach tightens in uncomfortableness when he glances up and notices a bouquet of roses on the kitchen counter.

he tries so hard to ignore it.

"i was feeling nauseous, flashing lights and a bunch of college students out in general is not good for me".

the lie slips past his lips so comfortably that it feels planned, almost staged, like it was set in stone hours ago and y/n has been waiting to say it since he got out of the bed this morning.

"you should've texted me" taerae replies, slowly being able to get up and stand on his feet, but he quickly wraps one arm around y/n's waist. "it's so boring being somewhere without you".

"is that you or the leftover alcohol saying that?"

taerae elbows him in the waist, actually making sure he got him this time. y/n shrieks in pain and taerae jumps in contentment, happy he was able to catch his best friend in a moment of weakness. he winks at y/n before letting go of him and walking towards the counter. "asshole".

y/n snickers once again, but he pauses when he sees that taerae is walking towards the bouquet of roses, and he hums of his examines them. his stomach again tightens in uncomfortableness, and he begins feeling nauseous.

it's like the flowers are staring into his soul, taunting him about the one thing taerae doesn't know, taunting him because he wasn't the one that gave taerae those roses, taunting him because he'd never be the one taerae had eyes on.

his eyes fall to the card on the bouquet, and they narrow as he zeroes in on the name written with permanent marker. from: jaehoon &lt;;3!

"whose that?" he immediately asks, and he also immediately regrets asking that. his tone was such a judgmental one he probably would've punched himself if he was taerae. he quickly swallows up any other words that dare come out of his mouth, and simply stands there waiting for an answer.

"hm?" taerae looks up again, continuing to play with the beautiful roses. "oh, jaehoon? he's one of matthew's friends, we've been talking for a few weeks now, he's very sweet".

y/n catches the way taerae's eyes light up, the way he especially fiddles with the flowers, the way he says his name with so much fondness laced in his tone, the way he bites his lip to stop himself from rambling on and on about jaehoon.

because he's done exactly that.

and he's done it because of taerae.

he tries to not snap his own neck in half, or just sprint out of the room and jump off the roof, anything to just.. not have to have this conversation about another boy with the boy he likes so much.

so instead, he cracks his knuckles.

"that is nice" he hopes the disgust in his voice isn't obvious, the sheer hatred for this random boy named jaehoon he's never met before is rising. "so when can i meet this jaehoon person?"

"uh.." taerae pauses, continuing to fiddle with the roses gifted to him by jaehoon, stupid fucking jaehoon, y/n doesn't even know what kind of parent names their child that. "maybe next week, were supposed to be going on a date on friday".

y/n's eye twitches, he balls his hand into a fist and gives the fakest of fake smiles, he would really love to just a jam a fork into his throat right now, maybe simply faint and die.

your such an idiot, y/n. in what world would taerae ever love you?

"god fuck off" he mutters, and taerae looks up, blinking in confusion.

"did you say something?"

y/n immediately looks back up. "i said— um, that's great, rae, i'm happy for you".

taerae's gaze softens, and he finally stops touching the roses to walk towards y/n and pulls him into a hug, surprising the very much not happy boy. "woah, what's this for?"

"i don't know, just felt like hugging you".

but as taerae squeezes him, tightening the hold his arms have around y/n, it only breaks the boys heart more.

he could never have kim taerae.

"would you look at that? another mess".

"can you fuck off?"

"cursing isn't gonna make me go away sweetheart".

y/n takes in a deep breath, if he could punch this person, he would, except they're not actually a person, it's his inner conscious, chipping away at the little self esteem he even has left. he rolls his eyes and doesn't turn to look at him, because he'd just be staring at a reflection of himself.

"i don't like when your here".

"what? i'm just telling you the truth" he states, a smirk coming to his face as he watches y/n rush to grab his jacket and quickly leave the house. "such a coward, l/n, always running away".

y/n shoved his hands into his pockets, walking quickly down the hallway, just wanting to get out of building, ignoring the way the voice grew loud, and how the more it spoke, the more it sounded like taerae.

"seriously y/n, why are you so butt hurt over some feelings? it's so selfish of you to be mad at taerae for finding someone better".

y/n speeds up his walking, as if he's trying to get away from the voice, even though he's nothing but a voice in his head, obviously. as he exits the building, he checks behind him like an idiot, as if the voice in his head is gonna pop up and actually become real.

"do you really think walking fast is gonna make a difference? i'm in your head, dumbass, what would taerae think? he'd probably laugh at your pathetic display wouldn't he? you know he would, it just goes to show, you don't deserve him".

"shut up shut up shut up shut up.." he mutters, putting his head down. he doesn't want to look up, he's afraid all these random pedestrians will just look at him and scoff, grimace, roll their eyes and call him crazy in their head.

he can hear the laugh sounding at the back of his head, it sounds so much like taerae's that he's sure when he opens his eyes taerae will be right behind him, making fun of his display.

"gosh, y/n. look at just how weak you've really become, maybe it's better off for taerae that he stays away from you, i wouldn't want to be near someone so pathetic".

y/n wants to scream and shout, and cry, or maybe just take out that pocket knife of his and causally slit his throat.

anything to make the pain go away, anything to make him go away.

and as he looks up, just for a mere moment, he doesn't notice how his vision begins to blur.

by the time he can even realize it, nothing is even visible anymore, and his body goes limp, hitting the hard ground with no stopping whatsoever.

"what!? so were just gonna refuse to help him?"

"he said he doesn't want the surgery, we can't force him into it if he doesn't want it".

"but doctor! are you just saying we should let him die? he's twenty one years old, he— he still has so much more life to live! we have to try—"

"we can't do the surgery; if he doesn't want us to, we have to respect his decision".

"but he's going to die eventually! we can't just—"

y/n puts his headphones on, tuning out the noise of the doctor and nurse arguing outside. he is well aware of what they're arguing about, and he knows what he has, but he decided already, he doesn't want the surgery.

he knows that at some point though, because he can't just decide to die, that's not how it works. this thing, these flowers blooming in his lungs are slowly restricting his airways, the removal surgery is the only way he can actually live.

y/n wishes he could fight it, he feels so weak, pathetic, like he doesn't even deserve to live anymore, because why can't he just, deal with it? he feels so weak, and everything is so painful.

he's lost in his thoughts until there's a knock on the door, when he looks up, he's met with a pair of eyes that hold sympathy, worry, and he easily recognizes the pair of eyes staring at him from the door.

"come in".

taerae softly smiles, stepping in as he closes the door behind him. he looks to the window in the room, quickly closing the blinds, knowing y/n doesn't really like the light. "hi love" he whispers, as if scared of talking loudly, he pulls a chair from beside the door and sits in front of y/n's bed.

"hi" y/n replies, taerae unexpectedly reaches for his hands and intertwines them with his. "i didn't mean to worry you, i know this is all a bit much and i'm sorry for this—"

"y/n" taerae cuts into his sentence, tightening the grip he has on his hands. "i don't want to hear this, your health is important to me, i don't care if i was in the middle of final exams, i would drop anything if i knew you were hurt".

y/n pauses, he doesn't necessarily know how to respond to such words, but they somehow warm his heart, especially with how hopeless he felt before this exact moment. "i— i didn't mean to upset you".

taerae sighs, keeping their hands together. "i'm not upset, n/n, i just don't want you to think of yourself as an inconvenience, i care for you".

yeah but you don't love me.

the words weigh heavy on y/n's tongue, he wants to say them so bad and just tell taerae, tell taerae that the only reason he's suffering here is because taerae won't return his feelings, because taerae has jaehoon, because taerae needs jaehoon, not him, never him.

taerae loves jaehoon, he'll never love y/n.

how great, how amazing, how spectacular that these are the circumstances he has to be in.

as y/n zones out, taerae pauses, then suddenly moves forward to pull y/n into a hug. y/n yelps in surprise, and taerae wraps his arms around him, burying his face into his best friends neck.

"taerae.." he mutters, his voice feels weak, like he can't speak louder. "is everything okay?"

"don't ever do that again" taerae mumbles, y/n can hear the sheer pain in his voice, and it just makes him feel even more selfish. "i'm not ready to lose you, your important to me and i can't bear the thought of you even here in the hospital".

y/n listens to taerae's words, so close to his ears because taerae is quite literally pressing into him. he opens his mouth but no words come out, and his heart breaks because he just can't have kim taerae, even with how much he wants him.

"kim taerae will just never be yours, l/n y/n, do yourself a favor and just get the surgery, it'll make your life easier, end all of your suffering".

for once in his life, y/n would listen to the voice in his head, and he presses his head onto taerae's shoulder, feeling comforted by the embrace, even with all the pain he felt.

he would get the surgery.

for the sake of himself.

and for the sake of taerae.

he faintly begins sobbing in taerae's arms.

he just can't have kim taerae.

[lanymme]

Having just reached Meltryllis’s first appearance it’s very apparent why she’s the leading lady in the SERAPH collab and so on, and why she’s a fan favorite over Passionlip.

As much as I personally like Lip, Melt is undeniably standout, and Saori Hayama’s voice performance of cool intelligent superiority and breathless sadism is really compelling.

She’s not just a favored child—yes, she gets to be the one to break genre expectations and shatter the episodic format, which of course is going to give her a huge boost, but the intricacy of how her parts work together is apparent from just her first scene.

To see what I mean, let’s compare the two sisters.

Lip is very pitiful, and she’s convincingly miserable and mentally unstable. She’s a really compelling character and I really love her arc. But I think she doesn’t really take advantage of the fact that she’s designed after a BDSM concept—Masochistic Constitution feels like it mostly serves as “this is one of the several reasons she’s so miserable and sad.”

Based on some lines from her Punish scene and her SG entries, it seems like there’s supposed to be a sort of temptress angle to her powers—that once you get a taste of hurting her, you lose yourself in her like a fly in a trap, even knowing she’s not well, even knowing she’ll hurt you, until she closes around and devours you.But we just don’t see that in practice.

If she inspires anything it’s pity. Like, yes, we see in her SG2 scene that Robin Hood gets caught up in trying to punish her, but it’s more of a technical process, limited to the scenes where someone is bullying her. She doesn’t represent what’s so enticing about a masochist or a submissive person, she’s not even really portrayed as a closeted or unconscious masochist. Every indication points to her hating that kind of treatment, but being too meek to resist.

As a result, the different elements of her character don’t tie together. The eternal victim who shares the blame for her own loneliness and kills people because she doesn’t want to be alone, but doesn’t want the vulnerability of being known—she doesn’t have that element to tie everything together.

In fact, the line about her being a temptress from her Punish scene falls so flat as to come across as distasteful projection, which seems to imply we’re supposed to know she likes it by the fact she doesn’t fight back. It kind of makes me think Nasu doesn’t understand how to portray the appeal of a submissive, how to represent her as subject and object of desire.

Melt, however, is a different beast.

She’s bold. She’s direct. She’s domineering. She’s scary, she’s a merciless killer, but she’s also a really hot sadist.

It’s hard to fully get across without Hayamin’s breathless perfromance. She just sounds like a dom enjoying the high of Dominance. There’s an intoxicating joy in her violence, a sense that it’s not a warrior’s attack but something that she enacts for her own sake. She’s scary, but she makes that fear feel sexy; that life or death moment where you know she will kill you if you slip up feels almost like a scene between the two of you. It’s hot, and you can feel that almost dulling your extremely necessary fight or flight reflexes.

You can feel the influence of Sadistic Constitution just by being present with her. She goes from cold, beautiful, and fearsome to sounding like she’s going to lose herself in the joy of sadism as the encounter continues.

And this connects directly to her goal: she wants to offer up her entire self, the whole world, as a cradle of pleasure to her beloved. It’s the generosity of the sadist taken to its utmost extreme, the selfish selflessness of wanting to be the one that creates a paradise for your partner. It’s magnetic.

You can tell she’s unsafe. You can tell she doesn’t have limits and will really hurt you, that her love has no room for your humanity. She’s very obviously messy and dangerous. But also, she’s so magnificent that you worry if your attention slips, you just might take her offer anyway.

Melt is the femme fatale that Lip fails to be, and that lets her tie her aesthetic together and adds a lot of depth and complexity to her character. It makes her entrancing whenever she takes the stage.

It makes me sad to think about what Passionlip might have been, but it also makes me really pumped for Melt’s chapters.

[the-dye-stained-socialite]

@fallenlondonficswap @thedeafprophet a little gift for Prophet as part of the group gift exchange! Alex's Insomnia. Alex/Fires, general rating, 758 words, insomnia and fluff

As Alex stepped into his apartment, the reflective silver of his mirror rippled, then settled once more into solid glass. His tail was left behind in reflection, his ears returned to human shape, and the almost-warmth of the Cosmogone Sun faded behind him. The persistent sense of bone-deep exhaustion, forcibly held back by a stubborn awakeness, did not. It had, in fact, been tormenting him for days. Nights. An unpleasant period of time.The irony of one who guided and guarded dreamers being unable to sleep was not lost on him.

Maybe it would be easier if it weren't so bloody cold, he thought. Alex sighed, and removed his spectacles, moving through the door and into his bedroom.It was so much harder to fall asleep when it was cold, and winter in the Neath had a special way of leeching the heat from one's bones. Lacre had only begun to appear just last week, and the temperature plummeted with it.

When he entered, it seemed as though his bedroom was somehow multiple degrees colder than the rest of his apartment. Maybe it was the outside walls? Maybe it was the thin pane windows? Or maybe it was the lack of… ugh, no. He was not going to think of that. Instead, he'd light the Firesplace.

Between nightmares, wounds, and the cold, sleep had become a rare luxury. The closest thing he could usually get nowadays was a trip into Parabola to help others get a restful night. In the Is though, he would normally attempt to exhaust himself by planning out further heists, but all of those plans had been finished a night ago. Besides, he had neither mind nor energy to spend on that tonight. So to a different, warmer solution it was.

Alex set his glasses on his nightstand. Searched around for his matches. Searched around for tinder. Found an unanswered invitation to a long-past party (a whole 1899 ago) and figured it would do. He rubbed at an eye idly. His head felt like it was full of wool.

He didn't remember lighting the fire, nor laying down on his rug, but when his attention snapped back to the present, there he was. Sideways, curled up under his cloak, and staring at the fire for long it had burned afterimages onto his retinas.

But what had gotten his attention?

"Alexander, what are you doing?"

Huh, he really was tired if he had managed to miss the enormous Master of coal shoving itself into his room. That was actually rather concerning. Maybe he should set up-

"I repeat, what are you doing?" It leaned down to tower over him, gaze alone radiating more heat than his pitiful fireplace would.

Alex was conscious enough to suppress a whimper, but not conscious enough to not have needed to in the first place. Surely his exhaustion showed? "I'm trying-" He paused to shift upwards on an arm, "to get to sleep. It was nearly working before you broke into my home."

Impressively, he managed to miss exactly what happened next. He could have sworn Fires had scooped him up in a tangled cocoon of cloaks, compared him to a cat, and carried him over to his bed, but he wasn't certain. Regardless, Fire's greatest annoyance found himself laying on top of it. Furthermore, it had apparently unbuttoned its cloak, revealing a bright orange ruff, and the softest chest fur he had ever felt. Alex was immediately enamored, and stuffed his hands as far deep into that fur as was physically possible.

Oh, and it was incredibly warm, and the fur kept him so pleasantly insulated. It reminded him of a freshly baked pastry. Heat soaked into his every muscle and joint, soothing and relaxing him. Fires laughed a quiet chuckle when Alex began to knead its ruff. He was too close to be self conscious. It was incredibly hard to resist when he was melting into sleep.

"Get some rest, little Lyon."

And finally, surrounded by softness and heat, the Silverer managed his first night of sleep that week.

Fires would not stay until morning. It would leave an hour before the workday would begin, and several hours before Alex would awaken, finding himself wrapped in blankets. But it would stay until well past him entering deep sleep, original intentions for its visit long discarded.

They could argue another day.

[dreamofmetoday]

JA MORANT PERSONALITY READING

idealised self vs real self reading

this reading was a paid request, a big thank you to the buyer!

idealised self:

he wants to be someone that’s untouchable - someone who’s talent and star power speaks so strongly that he can’t be told what to do and he can’t be told yes or no, he just does what he wants at all times (as if his talent should make excuses for any behaviour). someone who seems destined for his career and to make it to the top. he also wants to be someone who’s seen as pretty emotionally deep, he essentially wants to be seen as someone struggling or has struggled but is super mentally resilient at the same time (sort of a mixed desire of wanting to be a little pitied but also admired and he may have a desire to share his story, such as through a book or documentary). he wants to be a passionate person who is able to maintain high energy levels, someone consistent. and super ideally (this part is rather dreamy), he wants to be someone who has it all - famous, wealthy, successful romances etc. he wants to be someone capable of this and to prove he’s capable of “everything”. he wants to be someone people beg to keep around. lastly, he wants to be someone who doesn’t take shit and is brave (stands up for himself as well as showing being brave enough to show authentic, unfiltered behaviour).

real self:

so he definitely is a bad listener who filters out a lot of advice, doesn’t follow rules and can behave in a pretty unrestricted manner but not because he’s so talented that people have so much faith in his abilities to let him behave this way - it’s more so rebellious and he runs the risk of suffering more consequences than he may realise because people really try to get through to him and they just can’t. he thinks he knows a lot (a sort of me against the world mentality) but at the same time subconsciously knows he’s clueless in a lot of situations - he feels he walks a delicate balance, trying to move through with life with what he objectively knows vs. what he can’t predict or work out and this stresses him out (as if he’s always walking a tightrope and could fall at any moment, he doesn’t feel stable). he also waits for problems to solve themselves and distracts himself rather than sorting things out - part of this is because he ignores the advice and opinions of others, he doesn’t let people help him (you know that story about a man praying to god to save him from drowning, god sends someone to rescue the man but he’s like, “no thanks, god is going to save me” so then he dies - this is really the energy he gives). he has trouble viewing beyond himself and he overthinks on details that don’t matter - this holds him back from behaving as naturally and brave as wishes he could be (resulting in oscillating between being too resistant and rebellious vs too restricted and repressed). he is also pretty closed off and isolated to other people, he finds that other people hurt him easily (personal slights really hurt his feelings and so does feeling too judged).

[i-dont-talk-for-days-on-end]

@febuwhump Day 11: Fever

You can now find my contributions to FebuWhump on Ao3!

Sherlock couldn’t remember the sofa in the living room being so uncomfortable. Half-awake, he tried to shift to find a position that would ease the dull ache in his bones and found lifting his arms was oddly exhausting. What had happened? He blinked and opened his eyes, only to squeeze them shut again when light seemed to pierce right into his brain. Sherlock groaned faintly, instantly whishing to fall asleep again.

God, he must have been poisoned. It was the only possible explanation.

“You awake?”

John. That was good. He probably wouldn’t let Sherlock die.

He made another try at opening his eyes. Something wasn’t quite right about the living room. Dark spots were dancing in front of his eyes and somehow the colours seemed to contribute to his headache. Sherlock dimly remembered that wasn’t normally the case. To top it all off, it was deathly cold in the room. He sniffled and hoped John would do something against this dreadful situation soon.

“Good morning, Sherlock.”

Sherlock groaned at John’s choice of words – there was nothing good about this morning. Couldn’t John see that Sherlock was dying? Sherlock lifted his eyes and sought his friend’s face in a wordless plea to put him out of his misery. His throat was prickling and his head was throbbing and John seemed to be generally unfazed. It was cruel.

Well, not time to wallow in self-pity. He had to find out who was responsible for this. “What happened?” Something about his voice was off. His throat was parched. Sherlock tried to swallow and discovered it was quite a painful endeavour.

“You tell me.” John sighed, apparently not pleased with Sherlock for some reason. “All I can tell is that you apparently came home in the dead of night, threw your drenched clothes on the floor and passed out on the sofa in your dressing gown.”

“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock smiled a bit when the memories came back to him. “I found the killer. Former Olympic swimmer. He got away at first when he jumped into the Thames.” He furrowed his brow. “I hunted him down a few hours later at the flat of his secret lover. He made a terrible scene.” Sherlock grinned smugly, surprised when a second later his triumph was interrupted by a series of violent sneezes.

“Well, he doesn’t seem to be the only one who took a swim yesterday,” John concluded, looking down at Sherlock with mild worry. “We will have to take your temperature. You look terrible if I’m allowed to say so.”

“You’re not”, Sherlock said indignantly. He crossed his arms in front of his chest in the effort to suppress a shiver. It didn’t really work. John noticed, of course.

„Well, maybe try not jumping into the Thames and running around dripping wet for hours next time,” he chided. “Really, don’t you have any sense of self-preservation when I’m not with you? Wasn’t Lestrade there to get some common sense into your head?”

Sherlock considered sitting up to present a worthier opponent in this discussion but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Was it always so exhausting to argue with John?  He closed his eyes again. “I have lots of common sense,” he croaked. His throat hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt. This was hateful.

“I doubt it,” John retorted. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t catch pneumonia.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock mumbled. Pneumonia. Of course he wouldn’t catch pneumonia. He didn’t have time for things like this …

He must have dozed off because next thing he knew there was a cool hand on his forehead and something touching his lips. “Come on, Sherlock,” he heard John say, “try to collaborate a bit. I’m trying to help you here.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he could be helped or if he would just silently waste away on the sofa but he opened his lips anyway and allowed John to shove a thermometer into his mouth. The truth was that he was too exhausted to put up resistance, but there was no way he would admit that in front of John.

He made the effort to open his eyes again. John was watching him closely.

“You’re definitely running a fever,” he remarked. “Are you cold? You’re shivering.”

That at least was an easy question. Sherlock nodded, choosing to respond nonverbally in order not to move the thermometer too much, and to spare his vocal cords. His throat really was sore. There was a possibility that John was right and he really had a fever.

“I will go and get your blanket. Although maybe you should consider relocating to your bed entirely.”

“Later,” Sherlock mumbled. There was no way he was getting up. He wasn’t moving. Nope.

“It’s got you pretty badly, hm?” John said compassionately.

Sherlock intended to say something scathing and eloquent to throw John off the scent, but instead he was overcome by a sudden coughing fit which wasn’t good at all for his throat and his head. “Ughh,” he said instead, “Jooohn …” Was there nothing he could do? Wasn’t he supposed to be a doctor? This needed to stop. It was unacceptable.

“Alright, alright.” John withdrew the thermometer Sherlock had all but spit out in his effort to draw breath. “Yep, almost 39, you will be staying home for a few days. I will get you your blanket and something to drink and a paracetamol, and you will rest and not even dream of running off for another case until you feel better. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied weakly. What exactly gave John the idea he was about to run off? It was embarrassing, but he didn’t suppose he would get far.

“Alright.” For a second, there was a hand in his hair, smoothing back the curls that stuck to his forehead, and then John was off to get the promised supplies and Sherlock could already feel himself drifting off into sleep.

[bellshazes]

Etho rolls his eyes, acting irritated that his warning’s ignored as if Bdubs hasn’t seen him play against any authority he’s ever come across, more or less. “And so it won’t be your fault things get ruined if you make other people take control. You stay perfect if you never make anything that isn’t.” He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, then whistles low. He forgets, sometimes, the way Etho can go for the jugular with casual precision. “Come on, that’s not - you know that’s not it.” Etho snaps his journal shut, gives a one-shouldered shrug as he sets it on the pile on little table next to his chair. The accumulation of papers and storage on every surface were as big as Bdubs had ever seen Etho let them get in all the years they'd known each other, always being coaxed into order against the entropy of daily routine. He could have been here a week; he could have been here before the basement appeared, the stairs twisting out of his way so he could emerge after a century into the monolith, inevitable. Real apologies for things he means are rare, but there’s resignation just shy of gentle pity in his voice when he says, “I know.” It’s close enough to letting him off the hook: not agreement with the protest, but understanding what Bdubs actually means. If Etho minded Bdubs’ tendency to sideline himself or the pedestal Bdubs liked to put him on, he hadn’t breathed a word of it in years and years, too many repetitions of worlds to count now. He spent a long time learning the joy of joining someone else’s woven threads to make a new tapestry, has always understood the utility of artifice that sets something else at its center since he started. The fact Etho doesn’t invent his own enemies anymore and Bdubs offers himself up as one to fall to others makes his criticism as good as a concession; the old pattern is coalescing, Etho taking up against the rule Bdubs advocated for, and the gratitude settles with diffuse warmth across his body. Repetition always helps make it real.

actually i guess i just still want to talk abt this because it's the only part of ruinsfic that makes me grimace when i read it. like i stand by it but i think it's a little... on the nose? originally this led to the comparison btwn redstone machines that don't work the first try and stories.

but like the whole driving force of that fic is that bdubs performs perfectionism to hide his numerous flaws, which are also hiding the fact that he is, in fact, a very very very exacting people pleaser, which is almost the same as perfectionism. villains only need be useful, narratively. but it's also important to me that etho is being mean on purpose as he does, bc it IS easier to sidestep the need to be perfect if you only make imperfect things so nobody can criticize you - but that's also not the like, main driver of bdubs instigating the king arc. the difference btwn self-deprecation & doing something at your own expense for a communal experience. and etho acknowledging he'll be the opposition is as good as enabling bdubs. the weakest part is probably trying to thread the fact that etho used to do little storyline bits with an invented villain but doesn't anymore BUT is happy to tag along with dogwarts in 3L (& again in LL lol) or playing both sides of the mycelium resistance etc.

well it's a lot and i don't love it but i think it's good enough. one day ill write the thesis-in-a-fic i want to. but not yet :(