#tumblr: idiocy and deep thinking

[sarayu-sunrays]

what do you guys see when you imagine the word poetry in your head? reblog and add, i'll go first and do my best to explain:

i see a wide open, empty room (like a ballroom, grand and airy) filled with golden light and beautiful plants. in this room i can almost taste the heady aroma of what elegance seems like to me. in the centre is a woman, with dark brown hair and a golden gown, turned so i can almost see the tip of her nose. she has her arms outspread as if about to go into a curtsey, and i can nearly see a breeze flutter through, swishing her dress gently.

[satanic-fruitcake]

the i should rewatch gilmore girls urge is back, just in time for autumn, unfortunately, The Horrors.

[cerastes]

This is absolutely the Lack Of Reading Comprehension Website, but there's another issue I've noticed that I never see brought up, and it doesn't exist completely excised from lacking reading comprehension, but it's definitely it's own topic.

Tumblr's a Bad Faith Website as well. Like the above, it's not something exclusive to Tumblr, but it definitely defines it in my opinion. A lot of people want to be Right, and disagreements are seen by a bunch of people as something to "win" rather than something to "have". You'll have randos that frame their entire argument against you based on latching onto technicalities to try to prove why you are wrong rather than actually engage with your argument to try and propose something else or turn it around. As someone who was in a debate club during university, I call it "debate-poisoned people" who see arguments and conversations as a sport more than an interaction or, well, an actual conversation to be had, or in other words, that consider every argument as a debate to be had, when a lot of the time, it's not that deep fam, and also the other person never really agreed to play under your rules, because, here's the thing, a debate is a very specific kind of interaction. In a debate, bad faith interaction and trying to erase the very floor the other party is standing on is a valid tactic, it's part of the game. In a conversation or an argument, bad faith interaction and trying to erase the floor the other party is standing on gets you rightfully called a moron who cannot use inference or extrapolation to actually engage with the topic at hand. I had one such weirdo like a week or so ago, even, who used so many words to say absolutely nothing, that I thought I accidentally performed a digital necromantic ritual and had actually found myself face to face with the spirit of Jacques Lacan.

Even in more innocuous, non-hostile scenarios, this still applies: A lot of people are so, so eager to Be Correct On The Internet, that they'll reblog something with a correction or an opinion seemingly so hastily that they did not in fact read the entire post or comprehend it. This feeds into the lack of reading comprehension, but in my opinion, it does also have to do with seeing something that they believe they can correct, and immediately chomping at the bit to correct it without stopping for a second to ask themselves, "Did I read this right? Does this need correction?", and a lot of the time, it turns out, yes, you did not in fact need to correct it, you just had to read it a bit slower without letting your quickdraw hand get the best of you, cowboy. The way I consider this to be Bad Faith, even if it's not really hostile or confrontational, is the long-held belief that The Internet Is Inhabited By People Stupid Enough To Actually Think Or Say Something This Stupid.

I'll be real with you: Yeah, you've seen wild stories on the internet, plenty of them true, about how stupid people can be. No, they do not define the majority of people that aren't you. A wild, flabbergasting story about idiocy gets traction because it's funny and wild. We don't hear stories about how User A made a compelling argument that seemed stupid at first but then turned out that their rationale was incredibly sound as much, because that's not funny and wild and doesn't make us feel good about ourselves, because we'd never make such a stupid mistake. You aren't a sage wearing the floatie of wisdom in an ocean of idiots, no matter what your echo chamber and/or carefully curated internet space makes you think. You are not exempt from having to think about things, and you are not exempt from having to acknowledge people that know things you don't, people wiser than you are out there. This isn't "you are dumb as shit, actually", because I personally believe most people are smart, this is "you are being superficial and too eager to be Correct, which only works to your detriment in the long run and makes you a rather unlikable person".

It's as simple as engaging in good faith, even when you disagree or dislike the other party. Rip apart their arguments properly, instead of trying to disqualify them with cheap gotchas from the get go just because you want to own someone. Yes, sometimes people don't make sense, period, but that's absolutely not as common as people like to claim it happens. Inevitably, you'll run into someone that will actually call out your bullshit and there goes your entire argument. And in less intense settings, really, no one likes a pedant who really wants to be Correct on fucking Tumblr of all places.

[ihatesocialmedia45]

My Debut Onto The Tumblr Homelander Fanfic Scene

I see a lot of other Homelander writers post their fics on here, and I think I will start, too! Here is Chapter One of my fic: (also - you should listen to Guts' Theme from Berserk while you read!)

Sunshine, Happiness and Rainbows

Vought's New Year's Countdown was in full swing; VNN was filming live, and the camera panned outside, to show the cheering crowd huddled outside the Tower. Homelander watched from the window, the flash of cameras lighting up his face, wearing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He would be hosting this event, he thought with an internal sigh. The people outside might have been genuinely celebrating - but to him,  to the rest of the Seven, it was just another soulless bid for attention. They hadn't even officially been asked to host; The Tonight Show had fought them tooth and nail for the time slot - but Stan would not be cowed, and Vought had won, once again.

All this, just to celebrate another pointless year... 

"Over here, Homelander!" a cameraman urged, waving wildly. Homelander flashed him a dazzling smile; the shutters clicked faster.

Deep was entertaining a gaggle of fans outside, taking pictures, while Maeve was nursing an old fashioned inside, leaning on the meeting room table. Noir, hidden the back, was wearing a neon sign that flashed colors and messages across the screen: 20 minutes till next year!  Sage, the sourpuss, had managed to find a way out of the affair entirely, and was probably scraping her brains out and eating fast food... or whatever it was she did during those moments of idiocy she quite literally carved out for herself. Homelander felt his lip curl in disgust. The Seven was in shambles, and Stan had saw fit to drag them on TV and make them dance, anyway. 

Starlight and Firecracker seemed to be making the best of it, at least, talking to the camera about their resolutions. "Well... I hope to beat my record for saves this year! 350," Starlight said, puffing her chest out slightly. Firecracker gave her a teasing look. "Oh, what a coincidence! I also hope to beat Starlight's record of 350 saves this year," she joked, giving Starlight a playful push. 

As Stan gave his annual speech - his State of the Union, Homelander scoffed, suppressing an eye roll - everyone watched as the camera panned to Noir and his sign: 10 minutes till next year!  Homelander watched the sign flash, Stan's voice like static in his ears. He was already thinking of what he'd do tomorrow; he'd go down to the 30th floor, maybe terrorize Ashley a bit (holidays made him angry), do his itinerary... maybe fly across the globe, sit at Mount Everest... He'd built something of a settlement on the summit, where he could sip his milk and watch the sun rise at the highest elevation in the world. Of course, he could have flown higher, but he'd recently decorated the place with a very deep leather recliner, complete with a heated cushion. Every king needed his throne, after all. Stan fixed him in his steely gaze, snapping him from his reverie. He smiled.

"Now that I've said my piece, I'd like to turn the mic over to Vought's own... Homelander," Stan said smoothly, making way for him. Homelander stepped to the mic, that same static from before in his ears, choking out the festivities and leaving him in a silent film of a scene.

Just move your mouth, John. Tell them what they want to hear.

He felt the words come out, heard the crowd's answering laughter at his jokes, their cheers... but nothing registered in his own ears. He watched the crowd give their silent shouts, mouths set in open grins - and he answered with yet another one of his own, clenched fist throbbing under the podium. His face was starting to ache.

Standing there, at the podium, ushering in a new year he couldn't care less about, but being too influential to miss the show, Homelander straightened his spine, even as he felt his face twitch when he saw a couple outside, wrapping each other into a passionate embrace. He kept his eyes on them, raking over the way they moved - a tender brush of hair, a kiss on the forehead. His eyes felt hot - the urge to laser. He stuffed it down, willed himself to smile.

Finally, though, someone announced that the time had come; there were only 10 seconds until the ball dropped. The city held its breath as Homelander raised his hands, counting down, the words falling on deaf ears, sweeping his gaze around once again.

Five!

Maeve, looking depressed as she stood apart from the show.

Four!

Sage, in her dark little den, lobotomy wand in hand, as the masses celebrated outside.

Three!

Deep hugging a fan, bristling as their hands brushed his gills.

Two!

Noir, forever mute and unable to join in on the countdown.

One!

And Homelander, overseer of the entire sordid affair, fists tied in a white knuckled knot under the podium.

"Happy New Year!" everybody cheered, and the crowd outside went wild. The air, once so charged with anticipation, seemed to let out a breath, the smattering of glitter and confetti shimmering in the night sky as New York celebrated. The Seven looked on, their rehearsed smiles growing wan.

Oh, God... Homelander groused, looking around; everyone had begun to embrace, swaying gently as they kissed, hundreds of thousands of hands that held their partners close, the breaths of a million contended sighs reaching his ears and turning his stomach.

He'd seen enough; his duty fulfilled, he stepped stiffly from the podium, shouldering his way past the throngs of people, his step determined. Maybe he'd be able to make it to Everest in an hour if he left now. Less, if he sped. 

In his haste to leave, he heard snatches of conversations ("Is that Homelander?!") that he waved off, his façade waning alongside his patience. He couldn't take a picture. Not today.

He'd finally broken free of the crowd, and was preparing to fly off - when a new voice sounded, a few dozen feet behind him, the melody low and soft in his ears. He stopped himself, lowering his arms. 

"Did you see him, though? He looked so..." they let their words trail off. The friend snorted, and Homelander felt a surge of irritation flash through him.

"What - sexy?" Homelander rolled his eyes but pressed on now, looking for the duo, only to find a hoard of faces obscuring his view.

"No," the reader said, a hint of disgust at her friend's callousness in her voice. "Lonely."

Lonely. 

The word bounced around in his skull, and for a moment, Homelander was incandescent with rage. Who did this... girl... think she was, to act as if she knew him? To lay his inner turmoil out so plainly, as if it was something she could understand. But as the word sunk into his mind - lonely, lonely, lonely... he felt his anger fade, in the wake of its truth.

Lonely. 

He imagined the New Year's celebration he'd planned for himself, sipping steamed milk on Mount Everest, with the heated cushion serving as the only other source of warmth for miles. But the speaker's pity grated on him; he grit his teeth at the feeling.

Was it pity, though? No... that wasn't quite the word. They'd sounded... concerned when they said it. Concerned, for him.  He found himself leaning in, waiting to hear more.

"Yeah, but he's Homelander. He probably has an afterparty to get to," someone else responded. "I doubt he has nobody to kiss on New Years."

"I'd kiss him..." the first voice mumbled furtively. Homelander raised a brow, craning his neck to find the person behind the statement. Their friend scoffed.

"Yeah, I bet! 'Oh, Mr. Homelander, you're dreamier than the posters give you credit for!" 

"Shut up!" 

So, this person was a fan? He stepped closer, his dark mood lightening somewhat. And the way they'd spoken about him... it wasn't in the same dismissive tone their friend had. Gods got lonely, too - a sentiment this fan's insipid friend couldn't seem to grasp. But they did.

Lulled by their dulcet voice, Homelander's legs carried him to her, lingering occasionally so as to make their eventual meeting seem organic. He ghosted behind them, hidden by the trees, the glint of his eyes the only proof of his presence, watching as the girl - wearing a Homelander shirt, he noticed with a wry little smile - walked her friend to her car, then set off, to walk home themselves.

Walk?  Homelander quirked a brow, cocking his head. That wouldn't do at all. Silently cutting through the air, he brought himself a few yards out, where the girl would eventually cross his path, and put on a contemplative face. Barely hiding his smile at his ingenuity, he waited for them, hand tucked into a fist under his chin - the Thinker, waiting for her to bring him to life.

Eventually, she reached him, headphones in her ears, jumping nearly a foot in the air when she realized who she'd discovered. Eyes like saucers, they stuttered out their greetings, hands shaking when they raised them to remove the buds.

"Homelander?!" she started. He smiled, genuinely for the first time that night; beneath the sounds of the city, and the celebration at Vought, he could hear the hummingbird patter of her heart as she took him in. 

"The one and only," he greeted them, rising to his feet. He pointed to their shirt, a teasing smile tucked away at the corner of his mouth.

"Don't tell me you've been following me," he joked, smile widening when their jaw dropped, hastily making to turn the shirt backwards.

"This isn't - no! Well..." shirt turned backward, they brought their shy gaze to his, cheeks turning rosy from the cold - and a hint of embarrassment.

Homelander extended a hand to them, eyes kind despite himself. It wasn't his way, to offer favors to fans - mudpeople, his mind spat before he banished the thought... but in this case, maybe he could make an exception. New Year, new Homelander.

He'd looked so... lonely, her words echoed in his mind. He felt his smile falter, but quickly brought it back to life.

"Let me take you home. It's too cold to walk," he said, the thin veneer of bravado melting slightly when she took his hand.

Warmth. Pure, unadulterated warmth. The shock of it, radiating from their hand, had him stuffing down a gasp, the softness of their palm seeping through his glove. She wrapped an arm around his waist, the warmth bleeding into him there, too, and when she looked up at him, he saw the full moon, reflected in her wide eyes.

I'd kiss him. I'd kiss him...

Then kiss me.

The thought shocked him, but try as he might, he couldn't will it away. It floated to the forefront of his brain, soft and insistent all at once.

Do it. Kiss me. Please.

The fan - the woman - murmured her address into the crook of his neck, her breath leaving goosebumps in its wake, and he held her to his chest as he breezed through the night sky, the gentle breeze wafting her hair. Homelander caught a whiff of her conditioner - vanilla, bergamot - and inhaled as quietly as he could. They seemed content to let him carry them, head relaxed on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The thought that that wasn't all they could hear gnawed at him, but he shook it off and kept his eyes forward, focused on how right their weight felt against him.

Finally, he reached their apartment, setting them on their feet, and giving them a strained little smile. They stood at the doorway, lingering, and for a brief, wild moment, he imagined them, inviting him in, sharing hot cocoa, hands entwined as they watched television. Through the window he could see she used warm lightbulbs for her lamps, nothing like Vought's clinically bright ones. The image burned him with its sweetness, and he felt the strange urge, again, to lash out. How dare she make him envision a vignette that could never possibly happen? Even as he fought from leaning into her, his rage flared. He hated her. He hated the emptiness she'd left in his arms, when she'd stepped out of them.

"Well... I'm sure you're very busy," they said, opening their door.

I'm not, Homelander thought, burning to follow her in. She turned to face him, a glimmer in her eye; Homelander held his breath and hoped against all reason.

"Thank you, for taking me home. You were right - it was chilly tonight!" They shared a small laugh, the ache in his chest throbbing.

"Goodnight, Homelander. Happy New Year," she murmured, closing the door behind her. He made to leave, only to retake his position outside the door for a moment, his breath floating above him in frigid puffs as he stared. The reader's farewell, saccharine as it was, left him with a sense of uneasiness he couldn't shake. He nearly pressed a hand to the door, but held firm. It wasn't right. It wasn't right.

John,  his heart wept, something inside him quaking as though to come apart. Call me John.

[tigreblvnc]

BLUE LOCK MATCHUP — @ssstar

Your match is...

— Itoshi Rin

✦ Forgive me, my lord.

✦ I'm about to embark on another endless psychoanalysis…

✦ But I always want to do this when I receive such detailed and complex bios!!!

✦ Listen, I've never read about anyone on Tumblr who made me think of Rin as much as you…

✦ Who are you? Where are you? What do you do? How do you like your eggs in the morning???

✦ … You know what?

✦ Even before reaching the last paragraph of your last message, the one indicating your MBTI… I already knew I was dealing with an INxJ, hehe.

✦ The longest and most detailed descriptions I receive usually come from INFJs or INTJs, and it makes a lot of sense with the way your messages are structured and your complex, rich, and introspective way of thinking. It’s clear that your words are well-thought-out and have been maturing for a long time. I love these MBTI profiles and could talk about them for hours. So, thank you for stopping by for a matchup! I always enjoy receiving such material and discovering different temperaments and stories.

✦ "I wouldn't be able to get along well with someone hyperactive and noisy. I quickly get tired of communicating with very expressive people." Just this sentence alone allowed me to rule out a large part of the cast when I was making my selection hahaha

✦ "I notice that sometimes I find it difficult to get in touch with my negative emotions, but in recent years I have been learning to be more open with sadness and trust my loved ones more when I feel bad." This is a challenge many INTJs experience because in their stack of cognitive functions (in order for INTJ: Ni-Te-Fi-Se), their Introverted Feeling (Fi) is in the Tertiary position. This means it’s one of the functions that INTJs struggle the most with and have the hardest time mastering (the worst being the Inferior: Se). Introverted Feeling (Fi) is the function that focuses on being in harmony with one’s own feelings and values. In the third position for INTJs, it’s hidden under what others might perceive as coldness. This explains why people might sometimes say you seem intimidating.

✦ This is a very common characteristic of MBTI profiles where Extraverted Thinking (Te) is in the top two functions. Unlike INFPs and ENFPs, whose Introverted Feeling (Fi) is at the top of their cognitive stack (making them very in touch with their own emotions), ENTJs and INTJs often struggle with their own inner feelings because they’re so focused on achieving their goals (manifesting their Te) that they have little contact with their inner emotional world. This is why they sometimes struggle to understand themselves on this point.

✦ (That was a little MBTI note)

✦ (Back to the matchup now)

✦ I thought of two other characters for you because I think they resemble you a lot. I’ll tell you more about them at the bottom of the post.

✦ "So, because of this, from time to time I fall into melancholy and thoughtfulness" The INTJ temperament is often melancholic-choleric. I understand this as someone who, deep down, feels a kind of poignant, inexplicable blues, sometimes motivated by the past, sometimes because they feel a strong disconnect from the world and others. This melancholy occasionally turns into anger when this gap becomes too great and unbearable. Typically, it reminds me of this phrase you wrote: "I've had enough of human idiocy for today. And I deeply regret that I share the same species with these people."

✦ In fact, I think you and Rin share a lot, but really A LOT of characteristics. Logical sense, your individualism, the tendency to analyze everything, your occasional caustic response when disturbed. Your inclination for solitude, the fact that there are only certain very specific things for which you open up… Which makes me think that you probably see a lot of yourself in him through his motivations, his way of being with others, and who he is at his core. And since you share the same MBTI, the fact that you and him are so similar don't surprise me.

✦ I have a philosophy that we often resonate with characters who resemble us. We recognize ourselves in them.

✦ "I approach everything I do responsibly if I'm interested in it and tend to immerse myself in what I like, sometimes forgetting that my body needs to replenish its water and food reserves. (Neglecting my own condition is something I've been struggling with for a couple of years now)" There's a moment in the manga (Chapter 110) (Yes, I looked it up) where Rin is training, and Isagi joins him. Rin says to him: "If I break down from this, that just means that's all I was ever gonna amount to." And I think that resonates with your tendency to overwork yourself without paying attention to your physiological needs. There's a drive to achieve your goals that’s so strong that your body becomes a tool for your ambitions, nothing more.

✦ Ultimately, it’s Isagi who ends up reminding Rin to drink.

✦ Indirectly, seeing someone work as hard as he does to achieve their ambitions resonates deeply with Rin, and he respects that ability. It’s the cowards, the weak, the incapable who give up.

✦ In fact, as the manga progresses (well, a little less during the BM x PXG match, let's be honest *cough*), Rin opens up a bit to Isagi. It’s not direct; it’s very subtle, but we see them talking together! Whereas before, if Rin didn’t outright ignore him, he would clearly tell Isagi to get lost.

✦ And as their relationship evolves, as they face their opponents together (specifically during the Japan U20 match), Rin shows gestures of almost solidarity towards Isagi. He ruffles his hair to bring him back to earth, tells him not to get "swallowed." He even promises Isagi, when they’re in a tough spot: "In 90 minutes, I'll turn those cheers into screams of anguish." This is how he ensures their own victory to Isagi.

✦ Like you, he shows more human, less harsh, less ruthless aspects of himself.

✦ Honestly, I’m convinced that there’s still a bit of the child Rin within the current Rin, but it’s completely buried under layers of poison and vengeance because of Sae.

✦ "I am more open with my family and friend" Yes, Rin used to do that too...

✦ (please help him)

✦ "I'm still learning to accept help normally and admit that I need it at all" Do I even need to say anything… Reminding Rin to drink!!

✦ "But I am tough on betrayal and would never forgive a person who would cheat or betray me." Well, you see, I think it’s the same for Rin, and that’s why he changed so much when his brother abandoned him -- betrayed him.

✦ "I also love ambitious and purposeful people who are burning with their goal and know what they want. If they can also make a joke, whether it's sarcasm or a pun - great." Yes, I think you’ll be well off with Rin!

✦ I’ve always thought that humor says a lot about a person’s creative intelligence, and it’s a quality Rin recognizes. Someone who has wit and knows how to banter with their opponent at the right moment. I even think that if he heard you, it would make him give a slight amused snort, you know? And maybe, if we look closely, under a microscope… We can see the hint of a smile forming at the corner of his lips.

✦ "This is a bit special, but I get along well with traumatized people prone to reflection. Most likely because I can understand them well and it is easier for them to understand me and my traumas." Well, you’ll have plenty to do with him. I also think he’s the type you’d desperately want to save because his deepest wound (aka his brother’s betrayal) can be healed.

✦ … And at the same time, I see Rin as someone too proud to admit that he needs help. He even reacts violently when someone tries to approach him, like with Isagi. I think he can’t stand the idea of being pitied, and at the same time, there’s something very sad about him, you know. His inner child is calling for help. The fact that you can pinpoint this inner wound makes your relationship incredibly powerful.

✦ Rin is not, but I mean NOT AT ALL expressive about his feelings (except for his rage to win, I mean), but he knows very well how to make someone feel special to him. In my opinion, his love language is totally quality time and words of affirmation. It’s when he starts paying attention to what the other person is saying that you can tell something has unlocked.

✦ "I'm not particularly compatible with very active people" Rin is very active, but in his own way. Especially when it comes to his career and football. But outside of that… I see him as someone completely disinterested in living adventures or things like that, you know? I even think he spends most of his time at home taking care of his own business rather than being at shopping centers.

✦ "I can't stand liars and manipulators, as well as people who don't keep their word. For me, honesty is more important and I would prefer a serious, albeit painful conversation, rather than a 'pleasant lie.'" I don’t see Rin as a manipulator or a liar; quite the opposite. His honesty is so abrasive that I can’t imagine him trying to lie. In a relationship, even if he’s not very demonstrative, he’ll immediately express when something isn’t right. He actually expects the same in return and cannot tolerate those who act behind others' backs. I really think it’s a strong principle he stands by.

✦ "I would also not tolerate someone who does not respect me, considers me 'inferior' to themself and does not consider my opinion." Well, I think Rin tends to underestimate just about anyone who hasn’t proven themselves on the field or directly in front of him. This rule applies to any individual in the sport.

✦ Because outside of the field… Well, I think everything leaves him a bit indifferent. He neither esteems nor despises. If it doesn’t help him achieve his goals, then it’s useless.

✦ He’s still a perfectionist, and that makes him demanding and ruthless. But finding someone he respects makes him less harsh.

✦ "My little weakness is horror games, I love them, but I rarely play them myself, preferring to watch others play them." It’s crazy how so many little details about you resonate with Rin, even though we don’t know much about him! Were you destined for him from birth or something? In the Egoist Bible, here’s what we learn about him: "He spends his holiday either playing horror video games or immersing himself in horror movies."

✦ ...Yes, hello?

✦ It seems that words speak for themselves, but I’ll elaborate by saying: YES, of course, you both spend your days off in the room, you watching Rin try-hard the latest horror video games.

✦ In fact, he wouldn’t pay much attention to your presence, so absorbed would he be in his game, but hearing you occasionally gasp or comment on certain aspects of the game would remind him that you’re there.

✦ One evening, while he’s been playing for thirty minutes facing the screen, you’re there, sitting on the bed, flipping through books and glancing at the TV from time to time to see Rin making progress.

✦ At one point, a horrible jumpscare appears on the screen, and you let out a sharp squeak that makes Rin’s neck snap towards you.

✦ "Did that scare you?"

✦ He asks, even though technically, it shouldn’t be you getting the question.

✦ But as I said: words speak for themselves.

✦ "There’s nothing scary about it."

✦ (Deep down, he’s scared too)

✦ (Too proud to admit it, obviously)

✦ "You should try this level."

✦ Because he knows there’s a horrible boss in it that you really don’t like, and it makes him laugh softly to see you struggle in front of it.

✦ Laugh, I said laugh!

✦ Because these are the rare moments when you see him without his usual furrowed brow. Just relaxed, doing something he enjoys, with someone who doesn’t stress him out.

✦ And while you’re playing, struggling with hordes of terrifying zombies…

✦ … The "You died" screen flashes up, and a compassionate hand rests on your shoulder.

✦ You jump. It’s Rin coming to sit back down, with a tray full of snacks and drinks.

✦ "Don’t forget to eat. It’s late."

A word about your match: I also considered Ego and Sae, as you share many traits with them. I ruled out Ego because I think that in terms of compatibility and depth of relationship, it would have been complicated over time, especially between two intellectuals too focused on their own goals. I mostly see a professional relationship for you two. And regarding Sae: he’s the kind of person who can betray without a second thought or any remorse, and I think you, like Rin, would find that hard to swallow. So for me, the most relevant match is with Rin! Good luck managing someone as stubborn as he is fascinating.

© TIGREBLVNC 2024 | AUGUST '24 MATCHUPS EDITION.

[armand1481]

You are so fucking fake. I used to follow you because I rembered you from ArtistoftheMillenia and I thought you were talented but I unfollowed after all this dumb shit drama started bcus I realized how fucking obnoxious you are as a person. First of all, “UWU pwease don’t call me Amadeo it twiggers my twauma :(“ what a load of bullshit. Trauma my fucking ass, the internet has rotted your brain like all the other fake asf chronically online ass people and made you believe you have tRaUmA, No. You got an opportunity any young artist would kill for being featured on a big YouTubers channel and all u can think to do is whine and be ungrateful bcus UWU my trauma WAAAAH. Makes my fucking blood boil. I don’t see what was so fucking traumatizing for you, getting to learn from one of the most talented artists of our age? What the fuck kind of trauma is that? And putting aside that bullshit, the way you talk and write is INFURIATING. It’s SO clearly fake that it makes me want to throw up from embarrassment. You talk like some pseudo gothic cringy emo kid who wants to come off as deep and smart and uses words like “purge” on fucking tumblr and talks in a forced monotone voice so ppl think ur more interesting then u actually r. CUT THAT SHIT OUT, everyone can tell it’s an act and it’s so embarrassing. And yes I’m choosing not to be anonymous for this bcus now you can’t shame me for being a coward and sending anon hate. I don’t give a fuck if u know who I am and your fans harass me, I don’t give a fuck. That’s how much you piss me off

The world would be improved if you just fucking killed yourself now and did us all a favor by PURGING society of the useless waste of space and air that you are, you anti intellectual dog shit, you pollute culture and you pollute art. You are nothing. Your inability to analyze anything beyond the most baseline surface level shit that is right in front of you is dispicable, you fucking idiot. Your idiocy shocks me.

Marius did give me wonderful opportunities but he also GROOMED ME, and I mean so very literally, he sexually exploited me and abused me. You are an idiot to believe that you understand the whole situation just by the glimpse you saw of us on the internet. Also, I’d like you to know that I’m fucking autistic, and the reason I seem “fake” to you (are you twelve years old? I wouldn’t be surprised) is because my autism makes me speak and behave in ways people find unnatural or forced. I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you. I wish I could kill you myself but unfortunately you live quite far away from me and I’m too busy to book a flight. However, someone else could always do it for me.

Palais Garnier, 8 Rue Scribe, 75009 Paris, France

Lock your doors you stupid cunt.

[alexanderlightweight]

Hello! I have been enjoying your posts immensely. I been reading your fics on AO3 and followed the link to Tumblr. If you don't mind, I would like to request more Competent Alec and Magnus with a dash of darkness. It doesn't really matter to me how you decide to write this but I really liked how you have been creating the worlds and ideas.

ah thank you! i enjoyed this verse a lot so i was happy to jump on it again and write more. i hope you enjoy <3 thank you for the compliments and trust

lumine

-

Mirai is competent, clear-headed and concise. Three things that Alec desperately needs in not only a second, but in someone other than himself. It’s with relief that he welcomes her to the Institute and in the time, it takes to settle her in, he has an appointment with the High Warlock of Brooklyn.

It’s faster than he expected but it’s also a relief, because he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to keep the mundane and knocked out underground while hooked up to IV’s. They’ve used runes to regulate the temperature, but it’s still not ideal and Kaleb has better uses than as a doorman.

—

Magnus isn’t sure how a mundane got through his wards and into the Institute, or why it had to happen now, of all times, but he accepts the offer.

And it is an offer, rather than a summons.  A generous compensation for his arrival, his consultation and his aid. Which is how requests are supposed to be made but is normally ignored.

Magnus portals to the Institute and is met by an antsy, exhausted hunter who greets him brusquely before showing him inside. 

The first thing Magnus hears is someone who is obviously in a position of authority berating another.

“Does it look like I have time for idiocy?” A tall, gorgeous shadowhunter is saying coolly to someone of clearly little significance.  His voice is low and calm, like ice running hundreds of feet deep and uncrackable. “There is no room in my Institute for insubordination, incompetence, or betrayal. If you’re fighting to stay because you don’t want to go to Idris, then apply elsewhere but you're gone come dawn. Other Institute’s may still accept you.”

Magnus smirks, because other Institutes are clearly not this man’s Institute.  A man Magnus is suddenly looking forward to meeting.

“Commander,” Magnus guide calls out, “High Warlock Bane is here to help with the mundane.”

Magnus’ shadowhunter turns, “Alec Lightwood—” he says, holding out a hand that would have fallen if Magnus didn’t catch it. Alexander’s fingers curl with his own and a smile threatens the edges of Alexander’s mouth, as if by accident.

“Hello darling, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Magnus tells him, eyeing him up and down hungrily and Alexander just nods agreeably, hand still in Magnus’ even as he’s giving his incredulous shadowhunters orders.

Several of them are slack-jawed and Magnus swears he sees one walk into a wall and two into each other. Considering how situationally aware shadowhunters are supposed to be, he can only consider that Alexander’s behavior is something of a shock.

Which makes something wake up deep inside of Magnus.

“The mundane?” He asks, because that’s the most important thing and a young woman steps up. Her brown eyes are exhausted, but she looks determined, and Alexander is watching her with wary pride and an almost curious hope.

It’s explained to him quickly and Magnus learns of Jocelyn’s fate, and he hoards away his own knowledge of the situation and pretends it’s all new.

“So, the mundane tracked her phone, but doesn’t have any true knowledge of the shadowworld?” Magnus asks, delighted by their show of competence despite being blindsided, “incredible.” He murmurs and he admires Alexander’s biceps as he says it, unable to help himself.

There’s a cough and Alexander’s second — a new addition from what Magnus has overheard — give him a tired but amused look.

“It’s only his interest in this building that we want to take away. Perhaps implant an idea that his friend is being taken care of. Or that she’s safe?”

Magnus hums thoughtfully and then nods, “that will be easy enough.”

“And the price?” Someone pipes up and then there is a shocked wheeze.  Magnus felt no danger, but he smells the scent of fresh copper pennies, and he smirks as he looks over to a blushing but otherwise stoic Alexander.

“That will be discussed after the job is finished.” Alexander says calmly and if Magnus couldn’t see how pink his cheeks are, he would think him innocent of being involved.

-

“Kaleb, you’re relieved from duty.” Alexander tells his hunter and Magnus is amused, wondering if Alexander means to let Magnus be alone as a sign of trust.  And then Alexander is stepping down into the crypt and reaching his hand up, looking sincerely up at Magnus and murmuring, “watch your step, it’s steep.”

And Magnus falls.

Metaphorically, because even if he’d tripped or swooned Alexander would have caught him.

But he falls, because Alexander is competent and sweet and he’s everything that Magnus wants, and Magnus is going to find a way to keep him.

It’s easy to take the child’s memories and even easier to change it so that he won’t focus on his friend’s disappearance so much.  Then Magnus pulls back, and he smiles at Alexander.

“Can I name my price now?” Magnus asks, truly curious and Alexander nods, head cocked to the side but gaze steady and surprisingly trusting.

“I want you, darling. Any way I can have you. What will you let me have?” Magnus knows to be bold, because this is the only chance like this he’s going to get and Alexander is too high of a rank and competent of a leader for Magnus to just take him.

Alexander makes a considering noise and then Magnus is shuddering, because Alexander is on his knees, looking up at Magnus through his lashes.

“I can think of a few things.” Alexander murmurs and presses a kiss to the seam of Magnus’ pants before he rises, the pink higher on his ears and neck but something stubborn in his gaze. “But—” and his voice darkens with disdain, “not here.” Magnus follows his gaze to the mundane and grimaces in agreement.

“Agreed.” Magnus snaps his fingers and unhooks the IV’s, healing the marks before he portals the mundane to somewhere he’ll be found at a reasonable time. “There, like he was never here.”

Alexander looks at him with such relief and awe that for a moment, Magnus is tempted to try and convince him to get back on his knees. Except then someone is calling for their commander and Magnus has to quietly seethe as his Alexander goes cooler and colder the longer he’s turned away from Magnus.

“Alexander.” He calls, because he needs to know how deep it goes both ways and Alexander’s head snaps around, his eyes finding Magnus’ immediately.

“What do you need?”

Magnus is asked and it’s like the world doesn’t exist beyond him, even though he’s aware Alexander’s still listening to the chatter around them.

“Just you, when you’re ready.” Magnus reminds him and winks, stepping back and preparing to leave. Alexander will find him when he’s ready and Magnus has no doubt that it won’t take long, not when his boy is equally eager.

[seriously-mike]

Better A Fratboy Than A Presbyterian

In the grim darkness of the far future there is only war. You know the deal. Bugs, robots, space elves, communist aliens, ork football hooligans and so on. Such a state of events is crazy, untenable and there are apparently two ways to deal with it.

You can figure out that the immature jingoistic fratboys praying to Prosperity and Democracy are the Helldivers. They're basically the last fifty years of US Army in pop culture distilled into something so over the top that you'd have to be really dense not to read it as satire, particularly when it goes "How do you like the taste of AAAARGH MY LEG!" Those guys are ridiculously stupid yet gung-ho jocks armed with potentially dangerous weapons and routinely calling in heavy ordnance at danger close. Their motivation is to put the sonofabitch on the other side six feet under, just like General Patton said. They're optimistic about the whole thing, because they have Democracy and Prosperity promised as the reward. The absurdity of war here is that they're indoctrinated to believe they're invincible: they're gonna scream "WOOOOO!" like Ric Flair, ride the bomb like Major Kong, do a lot of suicidal shit, enjoy every moment of it and maybe even survive it by accident, then celebrate it by tebowing.

Now, the other side. Why "Presbyterian", specifically? This one comes from some British sketch that I've seen on Tumblr, I think it was titled "The Ulsterman". The titular Ulsterman was a stiff guy at a party, with a disdainful expression that was explained to be a very realistic depiction of a "Presbyterian scowl", something typical of Ulstermen who are notorious for being complete and utter party poopers. An Ulsterman is a Stop Having Fun Guy, because Having Fun Is A Sin. And so, the Empire in Warhammer 40000 is every conservative cliche from the Spartans to Margaret Thatcher rolled into one huge dysfunctional feudal cult running on the typical "dulce et decorum" bullshit where you're a nobody, everybody around you is a nobody and all of you would do best dying FOR DEE EMPRAH as officially ordered. It's death, paranoia and oppression all around, an all stick, no carrot deal that hasn't fallen apart yet only due to Plot Armor. Then you have the whole thing with monastic, genetically modified super soldiers half of whom just up and quit because of some contrived reasons and got into some badly written devil worship. Oh, and the weirdos who fuck toasters and enjoy the monopoly on building and maintaining all the tech because of the British auto industry's track record and some religious idiocy shamelessly stolen from Frank Herbert. The whole thing wants to sound deep and complex but comes out as merely daft, pompous and contrived instead. It's not even original, telling the same jokes as half of the British pop culture, but worse and long past the point of relevance.

[fbfh]

dave strider dating headcanons

1k words, spoiler free

warnings: some swearing, mentions of brief fears (spiders, heights, loud noises), some swearing

pairing: dave strider x gn reader, optional brief skirt wearing

a/n: I am still in act 4 of homestuck so pls !! no spoilers !! take my interpretation of the characters with a grain of salt !! 

also  why is there no homestuck x reader fics?????? Am I looking in the wrong place????? Why are there barely 80 dave x reader fics on ao3 and almost none on tumblr??????? Did homestuck’s popularity just miss the x reader fic train???????? if so I fully intend to fix that (this is the first two or so pages of my dave dating hcs doc, I’m on page five and show no signs of stopping)

also since I’m still in act 4 right now I’m only writing for Dave, probably Jade, John, and Rose (maybe some of the trolls but it’ll be on a case by case basis until I feel like I know them well enough to write for them)

aged up to 18+ for moderate sex jokes lol

=>

Someone told me once that they think Dave is the only character they know of who can match my feral chaotic energy

And honestly I have to agree

Dave is a very strategically feral, chaotic person

You know that thing where 

Wait I’ll see if I can link it here

I can’t find the post but 

I forget what it said verbatim

But basically that if you want to take the piss out of someone who has an Intellectual Superiority Complex you just need to act brazenly confident and sure about something you know is incorrect and as long as you don’t let on that you’re joking they’ll argue with you endlessly and it’s fucking hysterical

Dave does that

All the time

He will deadass argue with the Smart Kid in his class that the moon is fake for hours

He’ll argue endlessly that Terry Crews, Kevin Hart, and Kevin James are the same person shifting forms with randos online

He does that thing where he one ups conspiracies with more outlandish conspiracies

“The moon landing is fake”

“Uh, bro, you still believe in the moon?”

You got a truly delightful video once of him arguing with a smart kid in class about one of those ridiculous topics

Like glinda being a princess

He leans forward, tilts his glasses, and says in the most confident self assured voice

“Okay- riddle me this, bro,” 

He points to the guy

“If pee isn’t stored in the balls, where do you hold it? In your hands?”

The entire class erupts into screaming laughs

The teacher enters to the guy getting up in Dave’s face screaming about sperm and piss

Both of them got a detention

If you can match his irony and sense of humor beat for beat

His brain goes into in love overdrive

You basically never “break character” and it’s fucking immaculate

He didn’t know you could vibe so well with someone

Every bad joke you make

Every meme reference

Every act of idiocy for the sake of the joke

He falls harder

It’s kind of scary for him at first

Having these raw genuine feelings so close to him

He covers with humor as usual

But part of him is freaking out a little

It’s sort of like finding a possum in your house

And then you realize there’s more possums hidden around

Then you run into the bathroom, look in your closet, check the pantry

There are possums everywhere

They don’t seem mean

They’re actually kind of cute

But what the fuck

Aren’t possums usually supposed to stay outside?????

So yeah when he falls he falls hard

I might do Dave crushing on you hcs too

One of his favorite ways to spend time with you is just chilling together doing separate activities and periodically updating each other

He’ll be working on some sick beats 

You’ll be sitting on his bed doing something you love

Drawing, bullet journaling, blogging, editing videos

Whatever your thing is

It genuinely makes him feel so close to you to just

Be near you

He has this sort of deep quiet admiration for you

For a while he genuinely has no idea how to connect the two aspects of his feelings for you and how he’s used to expressing himself 

He feels like he can’t tell you how much he likes you cause like

That’s not swaggy bro

So a lot of his affection is in little ways

He knows all of your favorite snacks and drinks

Favorite candies and gum 

He will protect you from anything you’re afraid of

Spiders? Gets rid of them so fast you literally didn’t know it was there

Loud noises? Has you listen to his latest mixtape when you’re going through somewhere noisy

If you have any mental health problems or we you bet your ass he will do so much research on how to support a friend with [insert thing]

Picks up on a lot of your cues and mannerisms quickly

Knows exactly when to give you his jacket, when to show you the perfect meme, when to take a study break

When to just pull you into a random dance party

He really likes dancing badly with you

Just failing around and spinning you around

If you like to wear skirts he likes the way your skirt flows when he twirls you

It looks so flowy

Like water or something

His favorite part is after you’ve been dancing for a while

When the song ends or when you get tired

How you’ll both kind of slow down and laugh and catch your breath

You’re still holding his hand

And you’re standing really close to him

He thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful

He never wears his sunglasses when you dance

He claims it’s because he doesn’t want them to fly off

But it’s really bc he doesn’t want anything getting in the way of watching you laugh and smile so much

Oof he’s got it bad for you

[azul-marie]

welcome to tumblr¡ 💗 can I ask for a drabble with a bit of angst that ends in fluff?) for saburo yamada with a reader who usually participates in beauty contests but this because in her childhood she suffered abuse by her father who made her feel horrible

hello! thank you for requesting. i hope i interpreted this the way you wanted, and that you enjoy it. take care!

note: fem. reader

genre: angst/comfort/fluff.

characters: saburo yamada.

"saburo, do i look okay?"

slowly his eyes raise from a complicated code sprawled across his tablet to your place at his desk, now a makeshift beauty parlor, a flash of a peek enough to confirm his opinion. "yeah, really nice." he says. it's a common enough interaction that he doesn't give a second thought to look at you, really look at you. he didn't lie; he never does. you always knew how lovely you were, how to make sure you stayed that way. saburo trusted your judgement over his own most of the time.

you let out a deep, listless sigh. saburo's eyes snap up from his screen.

"what?" he asks, vaguely concerned. your shoulders are slumped. the intricate style of your hair seems to wilt along, your carefully crafted design falling victim to gravity. now that he looks, really looks, he can tell that the makeup you apply so perfectly suddenly looks off, like colors clashing in a mishmash. saburo feels a pierce of idiocy. rare indeed, but he supposes even he makes miscalculations from time to time. he's only ashamed it happened with you.

"name? what's going on?" he asks again, having only met your silence. he tucks his tablet away so he can slip to your side, kneeling to look up at you from below. "did something happen at school today?"

you shake your head. it takes another moment for you to gather yourself. saburo waits quietly as you do.

"you know...my beauty contests, right?" you ask softly. "lately, i haven't been able to focus on them. i don't know...i don't really know why. i've been doing them since i was little, so it's all i really know how to do. but..." there's a tremble of your lip, a cotton wad caught in your throat. "i never wanted to do this, you know? my dad pushed me to join them. he made me feel...like, this was the only thing i was good for. he never asked how i felt. i don't even think he cared. and now that i'm getting older, i'm just...i'm so scared i won't be good at this anymore. i don't know what else to do." your face crumbles into tears, unable to hold them back any longer. your hands fly up to muffle your sobs, partly shamed of letting saburo see you this way.

he stays still, shocked at the sight before him for a few seconds. he's half the mind he usually is before he realizes himself. saburo scrambles to wrap his arms around you, surprising you both. but he does not let you go. he wraps you up tightly, the way ichi-nii hugs him when he's had a nightmare, the way he hopes will calm you down.

"th-that's awful, name! i-i don't...gah, i don't know what to say...but it's okay to cry. don't be embarrassed. if it makes you feel better, i...you're really pretty, okay? it's no wonder you win all the time. just because you're getting older doesn't mean you'll be less pretty," saburo can't stop himself from speaking faster than his mind can deliver coherant thoughts. "maybe you can be a model, or an idol? you might be too pretty for those, but that's something else you can try to get into..."

he's relieved to hear a huff a laughter sounding through your crying. knowing you're listening to his senseless rambling is reassuring somehow. saburo leans back to brush your hair from your face, feeling a burn in his heart at the sight of your tears. you can't meet his eyes just yet, but just looking at you helps him collect his thoughts a little better.

"i'm sorry you're feeling this way," he begins, unsure. "i...i know i'm not the best at this, but i want to help."

you're reduced to sniffles now. you've had plenty of experience with drying up your tears within minutes; it's a habit to keep yourself steady. saburo watches you with shy eyes, yearning to help but unsure of how to go about it. your usual saburo. seeing his concern for you makes you smile.

"you really think i'm pretty?" your voice is raspy, but your tone is light. saburo nods earnestly, eager to comfort you. his lips curl up slightly when you smile wider, your eyes tearing up from relief. "you'll still like me when i'm older? when...when we're twenty?"

"definitely." says saburo, catching your drift. he's glad to go along with it, as long as it makes you smile. "i might even like you until we're thirty."

"thirty? that's a lifetime away!" you exclaim, laughing gently. saburo is pleased with the sound. courageously he ducks down to rest his chin on your head, pulling your head into his chest. eventually, he feels your arms wrap around him, just as tightly.

"we'll just have to stay together until then. to test out that theory." saburo states matter-of-factly. "so cheer up already."

your smile is gentle against his embrace. "sure thing."

[classysassy9791]

Drinking is not a bad thing after a break up. In fact, it's a damn good coping mechanism for Kagome Higurashi, especially at the bar with other heartbroken patrons. A guy buys her a drink, and then two, and then things get a little out of hand.

Fandom: Inuyasha Genre: Romance/Humor Pairing: InuKag Rating: T

Originally written for INUKAG Week on tumblr circa 2016 Day 4: AU Part 1 Word Count: 2,400

Can also be found here

.

.

.

Breakups were never an easy thing. They were messy, full of tears and angry outbursts, and the awkward encounters afterward were definitely something to avoid. Really, it made her wonder why anyone would choose to stop being single.

Kagome Higurashi grasped the strap of her purse tighter as she stormed into the local pub. The music was loud as the bass pounded through the speakers, reverberating through her chest and drowning out the sad thoughts in her head.

Screw men and their idiocy. She really should stop dating all together, and maybe she would. After all, she had her own place, an amazing career, and her cat Buyo to come home to every night. Who needed the male population anyways?

She leaned on the bar, her obsidian hair lying over one shoulder of her black, sequined dress. She tilted her head to one side, pushing out her red lips just a little. The bartender was there to take her order in a flash, eyes dropping momentarily to her low-cut neckline.

“What can I get for you, beautiful?” he asked, flashing a wolfish grin.

“Margarita on the rocks with salt,” she answered with a sweet smile, nibbling on her lower lip seductively.

His eyes were the blue of water so deep that she was afraid to jump in, but she was still tempted to. “Coming right up,” he replied with a wink, before making his way to the other end of the bar.

Kagome watched him fetch her drink as she slid onto a stool. His black shirt was tight, revealing his chiseled chest and toned abs. His face was above average with those eyes and tanned skin. Perhaps she would come back for him later, after they closed, and invite him home. It was perfectly acceptable, wasn’t it?

As soon as the thought came to mind, she immediately rolled her eyes and dismissed it. Why would she even think such a thing? She was not about to be one of those heartbroken girls who found comfort in the arms of another man as he screwed her senseless. That wasn’t her style, and she certainly wasn’t going to stoop so low now.

“Here you are,” the bartender returned, handing her a cocktail glass filled to the brim with tequila and lime.

She appeared pleased as she sipped it gingerly, relishing in the cool sour taste against her lips. “You have a nice touch,” she commented wryly.

He leaned against the bar. “So I’ve been told,” he said, his eyes dipping to glance at her low cut top again. “What brings you in tonight?”

Kagome sighed. This is not what she wanted. She didn’t come to the bar to talk about her problems. She came to get drunk, maybe smack lips with a guy, and then leave feeling a little fuzzy. “Just needed a drink,” she asserted, taking another taste, attempting to show her disinterest.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get the hint.

“Is that all you needed?” he questioned, his voice low and seductive.

She frowned, not in the mood to deal with forward guys like him. Especially not so soon into her evening. She would definitely need a few more drinks in her before she even considered him. A range of words were perched on the tip of her tongue, hell bent on putting him in his place, but someone else beat her to it.

“Hey, flea bag,” a man said, stealing the stool beside her. “Get me a whiskey sour.”

The bartender narrowed his eyes and shot him an annoyed look. “Back again, Inutrasha?” he scowled.

“Do you want your tips tonight or not?” said man growled with furrowed brows.

Rolling his eyes, “fleabag” moved away to grab his order. Kagome smiled behind her glass as she took another sip. She glanced at the man beside her out of the corner of her eye. He was tall, with startling silver hair and luminous amber eyes. Definitely not like the men she was used to being with, and he clearly wasn’t someone to be looked over easily. His stand-out features made sure of that.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he grumbled.

Caught off guard, Kagome’s eyes widened as she placed her glass back down on the countertop. “Excuse me?”

“It’s rude to stare.”

Her lips pulled into a frown. “Well, aren’t you just a ball of sunshine.”

The bartender returned with his patron’s drink and slid it in front of him. “Inuyasha is the furthest thing from sunshine,” he announced with a chuckle.

Said man glowered at him. “Don’t get me started,” he warned, curling his hand around his whiskey sour. “I’m not in the mood today.”

“When are you ever in the mood?” he barbed, leaning his hands against the top of the bar.

Taking a large gulp of alcohol, Inuyasha slammed his glass down and abruptly stood. “You wanna take this outside, Kouga?”

“It’ll be my pleasure.” He shot him a sadistic grin.

Kagome glanced wide-eyed between them before grasping onto the silver-haired stranger’s arm. “Hold on,” she intervened, stepping between them. “Come on boys, its early. Can’t this wait until later?”

“Keh,” Inuyasha sneered, shrugging off her hand. “If you don’t want to get involved, go get drunk somewhere else, wench.”

All attraction Kagome had felt for the man moments earlier immediately vanished. She was not a stranger to name-calling, but she would be damned if she took it from some pretentious jerk she just met.

“Who the heck do you think you are?” she demanded, folding her arms over her chest.

Amber eyes glanced toward her with disinterest. “What’s your problem?”

Her blood boiled. “You can’t just come waltzing in here, start a fight, and treat a woman like crap. It’s men like you who disgust me.”

Inuyasha knitted his brows and turned toward her fully. “Listen, lady,” he began, clenching his hands into fists. “I’ve had a rough fucking day and I’m not in the mood to deal with your whiney bullshit. So if you don’t mind, go get drunk somewhere else, you floozy.”

That did it. Before Kagome even knew what had happened, her hand came up at an alarming speed and made contact with his cheek. His eyes turned wide as she stood there, her arm still raised, glowering at him with eyes full of absolute hate.

“Holy shit,” Kouga breathed, his piercing blue eyes glancing between the two. That had quickly gone from bad to worse.

Inuyasha brought a hand to his face, his cheek still resonating with heat from where she had smacked him. After getting over the initial shock, he glared at her. This chick had some nerve. Never in all his life had he met someone so infuriating!

“What the fuck—“

“Kouga!”

The bartender turned at the sound of his name to see a red-headed woman storming through the crowd. He visibly paled. This was bad. This was really freakin’ bad. If the manager saw a fight in the bar so soon into the evening, there was be hell to pay.

As the realization of what she had done sunk in, Kagome began to wither under Inuyasha’s intense gaze. Where in the world had that come from? She was not a violent person. She wouldn’t hurt a fly! And yet, she had smacked some stranger in a bar for simply having a dirty mouth. Oh. Oh no.

Heat crept up her neck and flushed her cheeks, but she was just as stubborn as she was kind. She bit the inside of her cheek to steel her nerves. “Look,” she began, hoping to ward off his impending fury. “I didn’t mean—“

“Quiet, you two!” Kouga hissed, leaning over the bar. “Sit down and look like you’re having a good time!”

Kagome had no time to object as Kouga forcefully pulled both her and Inuyasha back onto their stools. He pushed their glasses toward them eagerly, his eyes glancing fearfully between them and the crowd. Curiosity got the better of her embarrassment, and Kagome found herself searching the mass of people behind her.

“What is it, Kouga?” she dared to ask, momentarily forgetting the silver-haired idiot sitting beside her.

The bartender gulped, nervously cleaning a glass. “Ayame’s here,” he grumbled with wide eyes, as if that alone would mean anything to her.

Before she could ask any more questions, a fiery red-headed woman pushed between her and Inuyasha. “Kouga,” she said sternly, leaving no room to question her authority. “Didn’t I tell you to restock the bar inventory before nine o’clock?”

“I thought you told Hakkaku to do it?” he prodded.

Kagome could see he was racking his brain for a way out of this one. Apparently, he was afraid of Ayame’s temper, and she could see why.

The bar manager narrowed her green eyes at him. “Hakkaku isn’t working tonight,” she snapped. She leaned forward threateningly. “It better be stocked in thirty minutes. Otherwise, it’s your job.”

She turned on her heel and left as quickly as she had come, leaving a shaking bartender in her wake. Kagome turned hesitant eyes to Kouga. “Are you all right?” she asked.

He blushed and scowled. “Damn that Ayame,” he grumbled hotly. He set down the glass and began walking to the other end of the bar, mumbling, “I’ll be right back,” over his shoulder.

“That was a little harsh,” Kagome muttered, turning her attention back to her drink. Tonight was definitely bizarre to say the least. All she wanted to do was drink until she could forget what had happened earlier that day, but already she had run into a flirtatious bartender, an arrogant brute, and a hot headed manager.

“It’s his own fault,” Inuyasha piped up beside her.

Kagome startled, almost forgetting he was there. “Come again?”

He nonchalantly took a sip of his drink. “If he did what he was supposed to, Ayame wouldn’t be hounding him. But he’s lazy and would rather flirt with girls than do his job.”

“Isn’t that part of his job?” she pointed out. “I mean, girls tend to leave better tips for a man who gives them attention.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “Is that what you’re gonna do?”

Realizing the implications behind his words, warmth flushed her cheeks as she frowned. “No,” she denied. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

Inuyasha smirked. “That’s hard to believe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she quipped, her blood beginning to boil.

“A single girl sitting alone at the bar on a Friday night?” He shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly scream purity.”

She glared daggers and clenched her hands tightly into fists. “I’ll have you know that I’m simply having a bad day and needed a drink,” she spat out through clenched teeth. “I plan on going home with a nice buzz. Alone.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, darling.”

Kagome faltered from the nickname. Well, she supposed it was an upgrade from ‘wench’. “All right, jerk-face, what are you doing here?” she questioned hotly. “A man sitting alone at the bar on a Friday night? I don’t see any pure intentions there.”

“Didn’t say I had any,” he reminded.

She rolled her eyes. “Sheesh. Not even a saint could be patient with you.”

“You wouldn’t know, would you?”

That was it! That was the last straw! Forget her simple night out. Inuyasha had completely ruined it. She had been talked down to a fair share already today and she would be damned if she sat here another moment being spoken to like that.

“You’re a jerk,” she snapped. “There is absolutely no hiding that. Apparently a girl can’t even enjoy a drink around you! No wonder you’re here alone!”

Kagome suddenly stood, grabbed her purse, and threw a few dollars onto the granite top for her drink. She was ready to storm out of the bar, Inuyasha be damned, but a hand on her wrist stopped her.

“Woah, hold up,” he called.

“Let go of me!” she demanded, pulling on his grip insistently.

Intense amber eyes met her gaze, causing her heart to leap into her throat. “Sit down,” he insisted.

“No way!” she sassed back. “I couldn’t stand another minute in your presence.”

He exhaled deeply and slowly released her. “Look, I’m sorry,” he grumbled, averting his gaze. “I’m just in a bad mood. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

His words shocked her. So far, Inuyasha had been brash, rude, and inconsiderate. Taunts and barbs she expected. She did not foresee his eyes becoming soft and the sharp tone of his voice changing to a gentle manner. This was unanticipated.

She eyed him warily. “Everyone has bad days.”

“Keh,” he scoffed, turning his attention back to the bar. “At least let me buy you a drink.”

Kagome sighed and hesitantly returned to her stool. “I guess I can’t turn that down.”

He raised his hand to grab Kouga’s attention. As soon as he was within earshot, Inuyasha ordered a cranberry vodka.

“What?” Kagome asked with a raised brow.

Inuyasha’s eyes questioned her. “What’s the problem?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want some girlie drink,” she pointed out. “If I’m getting a free drink out of all of this, it’s going to be something I like.”

He frowned. “What the hell do you want then?”

“I’ll have what you’re having,” she replied, noticing his empty glass.

Smirking, as he was sure this woman was going to regret her decision, Inuyasha turned his attention back to Kouga. “Two shots of your finest whiskey,” he ordered.

“Make mine a double,” he heard Kagome speak up from beside him.

Inuyasha felt his jaw drop open slightly and he studied her. “A double?” he parroted, leaning his arm against the bar top.

“Yes, a double,” she confirmed with a nod.

He chuckled and shook his head. “Are you planning on hitting the floor tonight?”

Her eyes scrutinized him, fearless and full of a fiery spirit. She was not backing down. “I can handle my liquor,” she assured confidently.

Inuyasha’s eyes dipped to examine her body. She was a tiny little thing. Couldn’t have weighed more than one-twenty soaking wet. And she thought she could keep up with him? He smirked. This was going to be fun.

“Whatever you say, wench.”

She finished off her margarita and scowled. “My name is Kagome,” she addressed him. “So you can stop calling me that.”

“Sure thing,” he said, leaning toward her. “Wench.”

This was going to be very fun indeed.

[bisluthq]

Like bestie she’s called you freaks freaks many times lol because that’s what you are // no she hasn’t. Just like dumb het swifties with low IQ you are projecting and putting things in her mouth. She never called kaylors freaks. This is a fact. Liking tumblr posts means nothing because at the night of kissgate she liked pro-kaylor posts. If you dismiss those then dismiss the ones calling kaylors freaks. Instead she smiled at kaylor signs at an Asian 1989 tour date. Again you are spreading misinformation to push your “Taylor hates kaylors!” Narrative. Are you sure you’re not just a regular dumb het swiftie truther? Because it’s starting to sound like it. Enough with the idiocy

Lmao I mean she also regularly liked Taybigail and Taylena and MarTay posts like it wasn’t deep to her and when she realized it was to people she obviously backtracked because the fandom got weird. She thought people stanned a cute friendship and were making some sexy jokes which she has been fond of since her “I just deep throated a lollipop” days.

I’m not an anything truther, I think she might be bi but the girl is OBSESSED with dudes and dick so she sure as shit isn’t a gold star lesbian. If one day she realizes she is a lesbian - she could like we don’t know what other people’s sexualities are - it would probs come as a big shock to her. Like it’d make her comphet issues deeper than mine lol and I can’t imagine that lmao because mine are ~powerful.

We know she said she doesn’t like being shipped or people favoriting friends and treating her life as their Barbie dollhouse, which is exactly what Kays (and Hays) do. We know she said she explicitly doesn’t like being romantically shipped with friends, which is what Kays (and Sweeran truthers) do. We know she liked a post calling Kay romantic truthers - not people who liked the friendship which was like all of Swiftdom tbh - freaks. We know she thinks Karlie is a crook who got caught. Like if you think Taylor Swift likes your conspiracy theory about her love life, when she’s out there inviting current relationship shippers to Secret Sessions and liking posts about her current boyfriend and telling fans about him, then I can’t help you.

It’s not misinformation, she literally thinks y’all are weird. Doesn’t make her a homophobe, doesn’t make her not bi, but like you…. are weird lol she’s right.

[organabanana]

leaves of three, let it be [2/3] || harlivy

Chapters: 2/3

Fandom:  DCU (Comics)DCUHarley Quinn (Comics)Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationships: Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel

Characters: Pamela Isley, Harleen Quinzel, Selina Kyle

Additional Tags: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of batman fucking bats, most of this is straight up idiocy tbh, i just finished watching the cartoon so everyone swears like a sailor i’m sorry, rated for (ahem) happenings later on, ivy/harley/catwoman frenemies

Summary

After Harley mistakenly confesses her love and then promptly takes it back, Ivy spends some time sorting through the things she absolutely doesn't feel (and the ones she does). Selina and Harley don't quite help.

Chapter 1: Tumblr | AO3

Chapter 2: AO3

If you ever asked Poison Ivy if she’s into meditation, she’d say she isn’t.

Actually, if you ever asked Poison Ivy if she’s into meditation, she’d probably stare you down until you crumbled under the sheer weight of her judgment and apologized for ever talking to her, but that’s beside the point.

The point is, Ivy doesn’t meditate. The concept of meditation, if you ask her, goes in the same patchouli-scented box as moon-charged crystals and essential oils.

No. What Ivy does is… introspection. Yeah. She introspects. She consciously clears her mind of all intrusive thoughts. Which may sound a lot like meditation, maybe? But — she cannot stress this enough — it’s not the same thing.

So there she is. Sitting on her couch. Introspecting. And it may look like she’s staring off into the distance, but she’s actually looking at a nearly invisible, tiny little hint of a green sprout that’s managed to grow in a crack on the windowsill.

There it is. A tiny little fighter. Just like—

Nope.

No way.

We are absolutely not thinking about her. We’re introspecting. So Ivy takes in a deep breath, in through her nose, eyes fluttering closed as she exhales slowly and then opens them and tries again.

As she was saying. A tiny little sprout. She could go over there and touch it and quite literally breathe life into it. She can’t tell what kind of plant it is, but she could make it bloom if it’s a flowering species. What if it’s a tree? She could make it grow so big its roots would tear this whole building apart just like her heart was torn apart last ni—

Motherf—

“Morning, my little dill pickle.”

Selina climbs in through the window, practically gliding into Ivy’s apartment with the kind of grace that would normally make Ivy stop and stare and perhaps have a not-quite-respectful thought or two.

Listen: she has eyes. Don’t read into it.

Anyway. As graceful and ridiculously nimble as Selina is, she’s also way up high in Ivy’s shit list at the moment (second only to you know who), so today is not the day for lighthearted conversation and platonic crushes.

“Fuck you, Selina,” Ivy offers as a greeting, glancing at the plant to make sure it’s still there. And it is, of course. Selina fucking Kyle may be a bitch and a half, but she knows how to move without leaving a trace.

“Now?” Selina cocks one perfectly manicured eyebrow at Ivy, the slightest hint of a teasing smirk on her face. “I mean I was gonna offer brunch, but that doesn’t sound like the worst midday plan.”

Ivy simply stares for a moment, as if she’s forgotten if there’s one person in the world that’s absolutely immune to even her most wilting looks, that’s Selina fucking Kyle.

“Oh, come on,” Selina practically groans, “stop it. Brooding is such a teen boy move.”

“I am not brooding.”

“Right.” With one single word, Selina makes it clear that she doesn’t believe Ivy and, most importantly, that she doesn’t care enough to argue. “Anyway. Brunch? My treat.”

Ivy closes her eyes. Not meditating. Just introspecting. Just trying to channel the urge to make a full-grown sequoia grow out of Selina Kyle’s ass into something productive. One deep breath in through her nose and—

“We can have margaritas!” Selina lets out a quiet chuckle as she admires the perfectly matte black polish on her fingernails. “Yikes. Too soon?”

Fuck introspection.

“I. Am going. To fucking murder you.” Ivy stands up with every intention to make good on that promise, and Selina must read it in her eyes because for the first time since Ivy’s known her — for the first time in her life, maybe — Selina looks scared.

Well, maybe not scared.

But she is absolutely concerned.

“Fuck me, Ive, damn,” Selina takes one step back, no longer smirking, “calm down, will you?”

Ivy stops, Selina’s audacity basically jolting her out of her murderous rage. “Calm down, Selina? Fucking seriously? You did what you did and now you come here and tell me to fucking calm down?”

Selina tilts her head just so, like she’s conceding (against her will) that maybe there is a reason for Ivy to be somewhat upset with her.

“Oh, come on,” she sighs, rolling her shoulders like the tension has to leave her body somehow, and it will certainly not be via an apology, “it wasn’t even real poison.”

Ivy’s eyes widen slightly in disbelief. Does Selina think she’s mad because she thinks Harley was in actual danger?

No. No, Selina can’t think that, because Selina may be an asshole, but she’s a very smart asshole. So she must know Ivy’s well aware of Harley’s immunity to toxins. She must know that’s not even remotely the reason Ivy’s spent the last eleven hours and some change introspecting all thoughts of last night out of her mind.

For a split second, Ivy feels something similar to warmth towards Selina as she considers that maybe she’s simply ignoring the embarrassing part of the event to spare Ivy. Maybe she’s pretending this is about Harley’s physical wellbeing and not… well. The other thing.

Sadly, the split second passes.

“If it helps,” Selina says, and even before she finishes the sentence Ivy can already sense it won’t help at all, “it’s totally reciprocated.”

Ivy feels it crawling up her veins, thick like sap. She’s managed to distill plenty of emotions, turned them into tonics and toxins and elixirs and used them for her own benefit and the Green’s. She’s bottled love — well, lust — and hatred and rage. Fear, even. Insanity, ironically enough. But this.

This… this humiliation.

Oh, this is something else.

Ivy closes her eyes. In through her nose, and even the air feels like it has to go through that thick mixture of (public) pain and weakness and acknowledged vulnerability to get to her lungs.

It’s one thing to have Harley see her like this. Like that. Like last night. Defenses down and heart out there in the open like her ribcage’s forgotten its purpose. That’s fine, she figures, because it’s been the norm for years and years and years. It’s nothing new, really, to have Harley see her accidentally stumble over the line into pathetic from time to time. It happens.

But Selina.

Selina fucking Kyle.

Selina saw that and she understood what she was seeing and now she’s acknowledging it, and Ivy isn’t even mad anymore.

I mean, she is. She’s really fucking mad.

She’s just many other things as well as mad, so it’s harder to focus on it.

Out through her mouth. Slowly. And her voice is nice and even when she opens her eyes and looks at Selina once again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ivy lies, walking towards the kitchen like that had been her intention all along, “there is nothing to reciprocate.”

Ivy can feel Selina’s look on the back of her head. She’s not going to give her the satisfaction of turning around, of course. Selina Kyle’s ego is healthy enough as it is. But she can absolutely feel it. A look involving an arched eyebrow and narrowed eyes and possibly a smirk. Maybe the slightest purse of painted lips, if she’s going for judgmental rather than smug.

Selina is multi-faceted in her scorn.

“You have got to be shitting me, Ive,” Selina says, and Ivy still refuses to turn around, focusing instead on staring at the interior of her fridge and ignoring the fact that ninety percent of its contents are there for Harley’s all-day snacking needs.

She ends up grabbing a jug of water not because she’s thirsty, but simply because it’s the only thing in there she knows for a fact is there just for her.

“Seriously?” Selina prods, walking closer and crossing her arms over her chest as she watches Ivy methodically fill a glass of water like it’s a delicate operation that requires her undivided attention. “You’re such a fucking pussy. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.”

Ivy does turn around then, gripping the glass with perhaps a little more force than strictly necessary. In her defense, she’d much rather be gripping Selina’s neck instead.

“Once again, Selina,” she says with a slight shrug, taking a sip of cold water, “no idea what you’re talking about.”

Selina gapes at her. It’s kind of flattering, actually. It’s not every day something leaves Selina Kyle fully unable to speak. Maybe — Ivy thinks to herself, enjoying her water — she’ll never speak again. Maybe she’ll leave Gotham entirely. Wouldn’t that be just—

Ivy’s train of thought is completely derailed by something that is never a good sign: Selina Kyle is laughing.

Not chuckling. Not snickering. Not letting out one of those sarcastic giggles she likes to use to obliterate people’s entire self-esteem.

No. No, this is honest to goodness, full-on belly laughter, and it’s fucking terrifying.

“Wh— what the fuck, Selina?” Ivy asks, trying to sound less scared than she actually is. Selina’s sense of humor is not so much dark as it is downright fucked up, and if she’s finding something in this situation funny, it can only mean someone is about to get crushed, metaphorically or otherwise.

All signs point to Ivy.

“Look at you!” Selina points in the general direction of Ivy, like she’s about to rip her fashion sense to shreds. But this, sadly, has nothing to do with clothes. “Holy shit, you’re in so much deeper than I thought, this is fucking hilarious.”

Ivy takes one step back, until her hip bumps against the counter and she blindly feels around to leave the half-empty glass on it. To her credit, she still manages to try and infuse her voice with something resembling nonchalance one last time.

“You’re not making any sen—“

“Man, you’re in love, in love, huh?”

Ivy’s been shot before. So she feels like she’s not being overly dramatic when she says Selina’s words feel just like that. Like being shot right in the gut. And Ivy tries to be as stoic as she usually is when faced with things like gunshots and blunt force and bat-shaped ninja stars (holy fuck, he’s such a nerd), but she feels a bit like she’s been standing on a castle of cards for the last… however many years it’s been since she met Dr. Quinzel in Arkham, and Selina’s just figured out exactly where to blow to make it all come tumbling down.

“I mean I knew you two were into each other. Obviously,” Selina continues, and Ivy suddenly understands the exact meaning of all those expressions regarding cats and mice, “but I thought it was like… well, you know. Friends in need of a nudge towards the benefits. But this.”

Selina shakes her head, smile as wide as her eyes. She looks both surprised and delighted. Like she’s really just found out there are feelings involved in whatever lust-filled fever dream she’d interpreted as reality before now.

“And you’re the one who’s doing all the yearning. I totally thought she was the useless one. Holy shit.” Selina takes a couple steps in the direction of the window, like using a door like a normal person is simply not an option for her. “How long?”

Ivy opens her mouth, but Selina interrupts her before any sound can come out.

“Don’t answer that. I already know.” Selina waves her hand dismissively. “No wonder you’re fucking terrified. You’d be safer falling in love with an actual hyena.”

“I’m not—“

“Please.” Selina reaches the window and notices that little plant for the first time, giving it a little pat that could almost pass for affectionate if you didn’t know Selina Kyle. “So what’s scarier, Ive?” Selina almost purrs the question. “That she may not love you back, or that she probably does?”

Ivy tells herself she could murder Selina right then and there, with the help from the little plant. Hell, she could probably kill her without help from the plant.

But that wouldn’t really fix anything, right?

“Anyway!” Selina lets out a happy little sigh as she slinks out of the window and onto the fire escape outside. “No brunch, then. I’ll leave you to your brooding.” Her smile turns into a smirk then, eyes narrowed like she’s about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. “And don’t worry, Ive. I can keep a secret.”

Selina winks at her before she disappears.

Ivy refuses, pointedly, to think about her conversation with Selina.

She tries to go back to her introspection, but it turns out there’s no breathing in and out when your chest is full of feelings to the point of actual physical discomfort, so Ivy gives up on that, too.

She could plot. Scheme, if you will. It’s been a while since she’s gone for an actual multi-step plan to rid Gotham — and, later, the world — of parasitic CEOs profiting off nature. A bit of environmentally friendly murder never fails to put her in a good mood.

But it turns out it’s nearly impossible to come up with a solo plan without being constantly aware of the fact that going solo is no longer her default. A plan involving only herself doesn’t feel like just any random plan anymore. Now it feels like a plan without her, and that’s just— that’s just the opposite of what she needs to be thinking about right now.

So.

What’s an eco-terrorist to do when eco-terrorism is not an option?

Eight hours later she’s in her lab, hair haphazardly held in a bun with a pencil as she looks at her latest experiment through her microscope.

The little sprout from her windowsill sits right next to the microscope in a beaker serving as a makeshift flower pot while Ivy works.

“You know, if this works,” Ivy tells the sprout, eyes trained on the cell that should enter active mitosis any second now, “you’re going to be my sidekick when we take down the next big guy.”

If this works, and she can give this tiny plant the powers she hopes to give her, they can take over Gotham and the world as a team. Ivy’s always worked best with plants, anyway. Who needs—

“Red?”

Harley’s voice is uncharacteristically mellow, but it manages to startle Ivy anyway.

“Jesus, Harley,” Ivy doesn’t look away from the microscope, “what the fuck are you doing here?”

She’s not mad. Not at Harley, anyway. None of this is her fault. She’s just—

Listen. Figuring out exactly what to call what she’s feeling would require introspection, and we’re not doing that anymore.

“Oh. I uh—“ There’s something in Harley’s tone that twists uncomfortably in Ivy’s chest. “Wanted to talk?”

Ivy doesn’t want to talk. Talking, as it turns out, may be the very last thing she wants to do. But there’s that something in Harley’s voice. Something that sounds a bit like embarrassment. Like shame, even. Like maybe if Ivy were to listen in on Harley’s inner monologue right now the voice in there would sound suspiciously like him calling her a fuck-up and an idiot and—

“I’m sorry.” Ivy leaves the little plant’s cell to enter mitosis in its own time and turns to fully focus on Harley. “I didn’t mean to snap. You just startled me.”

Harley visibly relaxes. Ivy decides she hates him just that much more than she did ten seconds ago.

“Didn’t mean to startle ya,” Harley leaves her bat propped against the trunk of a giant nightshade and takes a few steps towards Ivy.

Normally, Harley has no concept of personal space. She sits on whatever surface is closest to Ivy, invading her space and making it impossible for her to fully focus on anything that’s not Harley. It should be annoying, but it isn’t, for reasons Ivy is absolutely not going to consider at this time.

This time, however, Harley hovers just a step or two away from Ivy and her microscope and her standing desk.

It feels…

It feels wrong.

“What did you want to talk about?” Ivy taps the desk and tries not to smile when Harley beams as she practically bounces to sit on it. Her legs dangle over the edge, well-worn combat boots lightly bumping against Ivy’s legs with each soft swing of Harley’s feet.

Nothing really feels wrong anymore.

“I’m sorry, Pammy.”

Ivy shakes her head. “It’s fine. You know you’re always welcome here, I just wasn’t expecting—“

“No,” Harley says, and when Ivy looks into her eyes she realizes Harley’s not going to let her pretend she has no idea what this is about, “I mean I’m sorry about the other night.”

Ivy stands up a little straighter. Takes half a step back, like that’s going to help. Crosses her arms over her chest.

“It’s fine.”

Harley tilts her head just so, bright blue eyes narrowing for a second, and Ivy sees a flash of Harleen right there staring back at her. Reading her fucking thoughts, almost. It’s unnerving.

“It’s fine, Harley,” Ivy insists, tone sharper as she takes another step back. She can hear the low rumble of every vine in her lab stirring along with her mood.

There’s a moment there, maybe a few seconds long, where they both simply stare at each other in silence. Like they’re trying to figure each other out in a way that feels completely foreign because she knows Harley, and Harley knows her, and there’s nothing to figure out. Nothing at all.

“You know—“ Harley’s voice sounds a bit brittle, like it may just break if it hits the wrong word, “you know I didn’t mean it, Pammy.”

Ivy nods. Once.

“I know.” She knows now and she knew when she first met Harley and she’s known for the last however many years it’s been. She fucking knows it’s love but it’s not love like that. She knows. “It’s fine.”

“You know Selina just got in my head, right?” Harley keeps talking, and on some level Ivy knows there’s nothing to be angry about because Harley just wants to explain. She just wants to make sure things aren’t weird between them because they’re best friends. But it feels almost cruel anyway. “You know I don’t—“

“I know you don’t love me, Harley, yes, for fuck’s sakes, I’m not an idiot.”

“But I—“

“Don’t.” Ivy holds one finger up. If she has to listen to Harley say she loves her, but just not in that way she may lose her fucking mind. “It’s fine.”

For a few blessed seconds, it feels like maybe Harley will let it go. Like maybe she’ll just drop it and let Ivy get out of this with some semblance of pride.

But that would just be too much to ask, wouldn’t it?

“I do love you, Ive, it’s just—“

“Holy shit, Harley!” Ivy raises her voice and hears the tell-tale creak of vines growing up the wall. “I know! I fucking know, all right? Selina is a dick and you thought margarita mix was a love potion and you’re not fucking in love with me, all right? I know!”

“But—“

“No! No fucking but!” Ivy swears she hears it. The little snap when she loses her last thread of control over what she’s saying and things spill out before she has a chance to filter them. “I don’t love you either, have you even considered that?”

Harley’s eyes widen in the purest expression of surprise Ivy’s ever seen in her life.

“Right!” There’s a part of Ivy that wants to stop. She wants to stop and backtrack and tell Harley she didn’t mean it because she can’t stand the thought of hurting her, and she needs her to know that of course — of course — Ivy loves her. But she just can’t right now. “I’m not secretly in love with you! All right? I’m glad you don’t love me. I’m fucking fine.”

Harley opens her mouth like she’s about to speak, but closes it without making a sound. She doesn’t look hurt, necessarily. She looks… she looks disarmed, almost. Like she doesn’t know how to react.

“I’ll just—“ Harley swallows and jumps off the desk. “We’re fine, so I’ll just leave. Yeah?”

Ivy nods. “Fine.”

“Cool. Yeah.” Harley sort of smiles, but not really. She moves a bit slower than usual as she goes back to her bat and walks towards the door, and there’s a part of Ivy that wants to stop her and fix this somehow — because it’s not fine at all — but self-preservation wins in the end.

“Remember to lock the door on your way out.”

For a second, Harley almost looks like she may say something. And for a second, Ivy almost hopes she will. But Harley just nods and walks out, and when she hears the lock snap into place, Ivy knows she’s all alone with her plants.

Right where she belongs.

[the-shy-shrimp]

Well, hello! I am one of your readers from the AO3 and I just wanted to say that I enjoy your lotr related works very much! And since you allow asking for commission, there is one thing I would love to see if you ever felt inspired and that is Elrond Peredhel being hurt in a fight.

Adding in the rest of the ask because this came to me in three parts:

It seems that since he is a healer in most stories it is quite rare for him to get physically hurt – which is understandable of course... But I would love to see that written by you, as you are quite good at portraying this amazing hurt/comfort stories.

The floor is all yours, but maybe it would be nice to see how his family would react to that? Or any Imladris inhabitants. But you know, it’s just an idea, no pressure. Thank you very much! And whether you decide to use this idea or not I hope we will meet in some lotr-related work. Have a nice day! :D (And sorry for sending three asks - I am not used to Tumblr :c)

So here you go! Sorry it took forever, but I made a bad decision (very, very bad) when scheduling an exam that my entire career relied on me passing, so I was pretty brain dead for the two weeks after I got this ask... But here it is! Enjoy!

...

Pain is the first thing that registers when Elrond wakes, pain and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from fighting for one’s life.

Strange, he can’t remember being in a fight, not recently. Yet here he lays, sprawled out on the floor of his study, exhausted and aching for no clear reason. Attempting to move proves to be unwise, bringing dizziness and nausea with each shift, but the alternative of lying prone until someone finds him seems even more unsavory.

He goes slowly, first turning onto his side as he tries to deduce what has happened. His face and his jaw hurt the most by far, though the rest of his body is not far behind. But his jaw had been tightly clenched for several days now, likely the result of stressing over his third child’s imminent arrival, and so he finds it difficult to relate that symptom with the rest of what he feels. His hands wander over his body in a search for injuries. While he does not discover anything new, he does find his shoulder to be red and hot, the small puncture wound he sustained in a skirmish over a week ago now open and weeping. He groans internally at the finding.

It should have healed long before now, and that knowledge fills his gut with dread. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

The simple act of using the corner of his desk to pull himself upright leaves him shaking, and the idea of forcing himself to walk down the hallway to find Erestor is daunting to say the least. But it must be done. He presses onward, putting one foot in front of the other, desperately clutching whatever furniture seems sturdy enough to lend some support as he shuffles toward the door. Once out in the corridor there would be little to hold onto, unfortunately, but it was only a few yards between the doors to each of their workspaces. He would have to manage.

After fumbling with the doorknob for a moment, he breathes a sigh of relief upon finding the hallway to be entirely empty. The last thing he needs to be gawked at in his present state.

His movements are slow, but determined, as he makes his way along the wall, eventually coming to a stop in front of Erestor’s door. He attempts to knock before entering, but the sound is weak and piteous, barely heard over the sound of his own breathing. He has better luck with the doorknob this time around, and with minimal struggling, he tentatively steps into his friend’s space.

“Elrond? Is something the matter? You don’t look well.”

Erestor is at his desk, several papers in his hands and concern written across his face. He seems to be debating between getting up to rush over, and letting Elrond speak first.

The Peredhel swallows thickly, then gives an almost imperceptible nod, taking one, then two steps beyond the doorway. When he opens his mouth to speak, however, the ache that had thus far been sitting quietly in his jaw crescendos into a roar that races down his neck and back and into each of his limbs as pain engulfs his entire body.

A strangled cry is the only sound he makes, and Erestor’s cursing is the last thing he hears before the world goes dark.

-

“You really are the worst, you know.”

Erestor’s chiding is soft, lacking its usual barbed timbre, and is accompanied by the warm weight of a thick blanket settling over his body. The Peredhel gives him only a quiet sigh in return, blinking until the image of his friend comes into focus. He is not sprawled across the floor of Erestor’s office, as he halfway expected to be, but is instead tucked into a cot in the middle of an unfortunately familiar room. He groans, feeling even worse now than he did before, every muscle in his body wound tight as a bowstring, unable to relax no matter how much he ached.

It doesn’t take more than a minute before Elrond decides that he does not like being the one in the sickbed, and much prefers to stay within his role as a healer.

“Why didn’t you have the wound looked at when you returned? If one of your sons had pulled the same stunt you would have had their head on a platter.”

He can see the poorly veiled concern in Erestor’s expression, creeping through every time Elrond fails to suppress the violent shivers that come in waves almost too intense to bear.

“T-T-T’was only an, an, arrow…”

His voice is weaker, shakier than he would like it to be, stuttering as he tries to keep the shuddering at bay. His advisor only scowls down at him, looking more hurt than angry.

“Yes, only an arrow with a rusted head. If you were fully elven you might have been able to ignore such a detail, but you aren’t, Elrond! Now the poison is already in your blood, and it might just kill you. Andûnél says that it probably won’t, but there is still a chance.”

“I’m s-sure I’ll, I’ll be f-f-fine.”

Erestor leaps to his feet at that, sending the stool he had previously occupied flying back to clatter against the floor.

“Fine? You think this is fine? You cannot take risks with your life like this! What if you don’t make it, hm? Everyone in this valley depends on you, son of Eärendil. Your family depends on you. What if this is what does it? Would you leave your children to grow up fatherless, leave your people leaderless? You are all we have left, Elrond. They don’t have a high king to follow anymore, no one is going to step in and take care of things if you perish.”

He turns on his heel, disgust written on his face as he slams the door shut behind him.

Silence descends on the tiny room, and Elrond finds himself whimpering as the next wave of shivering hits him full force. He knows he isn’t alone, not truly. Someone will be around to check on him eventually. But for the moment he cannot help but feel abandoned. He wants Erestor to come back, but he will need time to sulk. He wants Celebrían, but he knows she won’t be back in Imladris for another week. Perhaps shamefully, he finds he wants Maglor most of all.

Maglor who had done his best in spite of circumstance, who made sure their needs were provided for. Maglor who held him when the tears didn’t seem to have an end. Maglor who sat with him late in the night when sleep wouldn’t come because of nightmares or insomnia or the disturbances that had come when his foresight finally began to manifest. Maglor who was the closest thing to a father he had ever really had.

It wasn’t until Andûnél knocked and entered that he realized there were tears in his eyes.

“Now, now, none of that.”

She sighs softly and dabs at the wet spots on his cheeks before anything else. He is grateful for the way her touches are nothing short of professional, devoid of the almost motherly tenderness they held when he and Elros were just young things being brought to her with scraped knees and sprains and broken bones. He already feels small and broken enough without being coddled.

Was it because Erestor had yelled at him? Probably. Being reminded of everything, everyone, that relied on him had left him feeling grossly inadequate. There was no high king. No one was around to supervise him and yank him out of his stupidity anymore. Ereinion couldn’t come to his rescue. Galadriel might, but not because she actually cared for him. She would come out of responsibility, and likely regret allowing her daughter to marry him as a result. Just a stupid, half-blooded fool who managed to survive long enough to reproduce in spite of his own idiocy—

“Elrond? Look at me, Elrond.”

He hiccups twice while trying to blink away the tears, and it takes several more minutes of dabbing at his eyes before he can actually see her face as more than just a wet blur.

“That’s better. Now, are you weeping because you are in pain, or because you are upset?”

“Pain.”

The single syllable is rasped out, barely louder than a whisper. The look in her eyes tells him that she knows he is lying, or at least telling only half the truth. Maybe the pain was a part of it, but Andûnél clearly knew it was just as likely a combination of the two.

“Alright. I can do something about that, at least.”

She leaves his line of sight immediately. If his neck didn’t ache so badly he might have tried to watch her, but he could barely move at all with how tense he was. He settles for staring at the ceiling and trying to breathe evenly. At least he could hear her moving about the room, and so he knew she hadn’t left him. Not like Erestor had.

Another whine escapes him at the thought.

“Hold on, I’m coming.”

He doesn’t get the chance to feel any more sorry for himself before she pries his lips apart and sticks a dropper full of bitter medicine in his mouth. It tastes foul, as all her tinctures do, but it works quickly, dulling the ache in a matter of only a few tense minutes, and for that he is grateful.

“Better?”

“Better.”

Elrond sighs, relaxing against the bed beneath him as the pain is driven back for the moment. He hadn’t noticed just how much the tension in his body was bothering him a moment ago, but with it now under control, its absence leaves him feeling weak and jittery.

“Unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do outside of managing the pain that comes with the muscle spasms.”

Andûnél’s voice feels far away, even if vaguely registers that she now sits beside him in the stool Erestor had previously discarded. She smiles down at him, looking tired above all else.

“There isn’t an antidote or any effective treatment for it. You’ll just have to wait it out until your body rids itself of the toxin.”

The idea sits poorly with him, although there isn’t anything he can do to change things, not now. The healer is quick to remind him, of course, that had he gotten the wound treated sooner, properly cleaned and bandaged as it should have been, he might have avoided this unpleasantness altogether. She says he ought to know better, and he knows she is right. But she takes his silence as exhaustion rather than the moping that it is, and mutters something about the two of them being the sole purpose someone came up with the adage that “healers make the worst patients” before tucking another blanket around him and getting up to leave.

“I will send Camaenor in to sit with you while I take care of some other things that need my attention. He will probably be so engrossed in whatever book he brings with him that you’ll hardly notice him, but at least he’ll be present if you need him.”

Elrond is asleep not long after Andûnél latches the door behind her, snatching up what sleep he can while he has the option. He’s seen this sickness before, in mortals wounded by pieces of old metal, and he knows that it is likely to get worse before it gets better.

When it does get worse, either Andûnél or her reedy apprentice are always present, ready and waiting with another draught for the pain and muscle spasms that make his limbs cramp and his back arch off the bed. The Peredhel is grateful that it is only the two of them who see him like this. Not that he doesn’t trust the discretion of the other healers, but he knows that Andûnél will not gossip, and Camaenor has been so absorbed in his studies that he is likely to follow his master’s trend.

The days all blend together, a cycle of sleeping until he is awoken by excruciating pain and downing more medicine until he can once again rest comfortably. More than once he wakes in the dead of night, due not to the constant muscle contractions, but instead because the apprentice perched nearby is struggling with his reading, stumbling over some new term or another and attempting to sound it out.

The first time this happens, it leaves Elrond confused and disoriented, wondering if the apprentice is trying to speak to him and his brain is simply failing to interpret the words. Eventually though, after hearing several similar sounding terms in a row, he realizes what is happening, and rasps out an answer.

“Parenchyma.”

Camaenor nearly jumps out of his skin when his charge suddenly speaks, but quickly recovers and nods his thanks before asking if he would like some water, or if he was in pain. Elrond decides then that the boy will make a good healer, someday, and resolves to help him study during his precious moments of wakefulness and clarity. It is the least he can do.

He loses track of how many days and nights he’s been bedridden, knowing only that it has been long enough for him to grow tired of it. The only break in routine comes when Erestor returns to his previous position, constructing a nest of bookwork at Elrond’s bedside to keep himself busy while he sits with him. He says nothing of the outburst that resulted in his several-days-long absence, but instead chatters on about all the things going on in the valley that he’s missed since this all started. Profit margins for new trade routes. Personal correspondences that need attention. Setbacks in planting a new section of the orchard.

His chief advisor says nothing of Celebrían’s whereabouts, and so he assumes that she has either not been informed of his current state or has chosen to remain with her parents until this has all blown over. Part of him hopes for the former. This pregnancy has already been hard enough for her, and it has only just begun. She doesn’t need the added stress.

It comes as a surprise, then, when the soft morning light brings him toward wakefulness and he is assailed not by the whole-body ache he has come to expect, but by the soft velvet of her lips on his. He sighs, thinking it must only be the remnants of some very pleasant dream, but the gentle brush of her fingertips over his eyelids tells him otherwise.

“Wake up, my love.”

A weak smile finds its way to his face, the first in days, as he slowly pries his eyes open. His silver queen is waiting for him, her soft expression framed by the wild platinum curls of her unbound hair. She kisses him again, more fiercely this time, and though his attempts at reciprocating are sloppy at best, it still fills his heart with joy.

They still cling to each other, even after Celebrían finally stops nibbling at his lower lip and stretches out on the bed beside her husband. Neither of them says a word about what happened, about what Elrond has suffered through in the past week, or about the fact that they are celebrating their reunion here instead of the quiet intimacy of their bedroom. None of it matters, though, at least not to the Peredhel.

The presence of his beloved is like a balm on his aching soul, and in her strong arms he is reminded of what it feels like to belong and be loved. He sighs, burying his nose in the tangled nest of her hair and breathing in the scent that is undeniably hers, causing her to giggle and throw her arm over his bared chest and drag him closer.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

[curekibouka-writing]

Crimson World (Pandora Hearts one-shot fanfic)

Summary: He gladly drifted off to a long overdue repose on her lap, believing the mere fact that she was with him would finally allow him to dream of wonders as sweet and forgiving and beautiful as her. 

A/N: Been a long time since I posted a Pandora Hearts fic? Yea. Fun fact, I delayed this by a lot because I kept thinking it’s not good enough. Now? I did try to rewrite but it’s still terrible T~T. But I really want to post some Break x Shelly (/Kevin x Shelly), so here we go.

I am a teenager who has no experience in the romance department writing a romance between two adults. You have been warned XD

Note: This is supposed to be a two-shot, but I merged them for tumblr format. It doesn’t really matter since the content is the same. But if you’re curious, you can check out the links in the reblog. (Quotev has better formatting options)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A crimson eye darted to the side in acknowledgement to the golden light of sunrise illuminating the view outside. It was perhaps the first occurrence his mind managed to register in the last few hours.

He tried. He really did. Every cell in his body had been urging him to sleep for the past hours, and the hours last night, as well as those the night before, and he tried to comply.

But every time he closed his eye, all he saw was a nightmare.

A world of crimson. A hall, stained by crimson. A child, stained by crimson. His clothes, his hands, his face, his eye, all dripping in revolting crimson.

He pulled his finger out from his hollow eye socket. His clothes, his hands, his face, now dripping with crimson as well.

He almost smiled as he rammed his fingers into his blood-flooded eye socket again. An agonised howl bursted out from his throat, but he had no intentions of ceasing his torture, not until his reality was painted with the same amount of crimson as his nightmare just because he knew he deserved it.

With less than half of his sanity intact, it was a miracle he even heard her voice, ever so benevolent, even with worry in her tone, even in this realm of hellish red.

Shelly touched him with the gentleness one would display to a weeping child. In his astonishment, he heeded her request for him to stop.

She extended an invitation to him after his blood and his shredded bandages had been taken care of.

“Kevin,” she whispered his name as if it was not something filthy and despicable, “care to accompany me to the garden?”

He flinched as he stepped into the light. How long had it been? A specter who had always lurked in the shadows was a disgrace to the blessing of the golden sun, darkness was his domain. But as he laid eyes on her, so radiant as she elegantly trod the soft grass and smiled at him, he could not help but follow her further into the light.

Unfortunately, his fatigue caught up with him. Between his deprivation of sleep and his lingering pain, he found his mind in quite the hazy state.

“Kevin... Don’t leave me alone...!”

I know. I shall return. I promise. Please give me some time.

“Do YOu wISh tO cHAnGe tHe pASt?”

I... must kill.

“It’s the Red-eyed Specter! Run! Quic—“

I must kill.

“Kevin...!”

“KEviN.”

“Kevin...!”

“KevIN.”

“Kevin?” Once again, Shelly called his name with that calming voice of hers, stepping forward as she sensed something was amiss, “Are you alright?”

He backed away by instinct. His gaze blanked, somehow even more than how it had already been.

But she could see. She could see beyond the blank surface. She could see all the fear and all the fragility, as if something was screeching — despite his silence — deep within his soul, demanding her to stay away.

And then she made a judgement. They had given him enough space, enough time, enough liberty to regain control over himself and he had shown no ability to do so. He was too shaken, too exhausted, too blinded by something that wasn’t his reality in the present.

Time and distance were not what he needed, it was something much more basic, so much so that she pondered how he could possibly lack it.

“You are tired,” she stated — not asked — curtly yet assertively, leading him to the shades of the nearest tree, then sat down and smoothed out her dress, “Come. Rest.”

He shook his head after a good while.

“It’s less likely to have nightmares when you are not alone.”

The slightest hint of surprise flashed across his countenance, as if to ask “How did you know?”. Although he did not voice it.

She pretended she didn’t see that, “Your physique is feeble enough as it is. In fact you look like you’re about to pass out at any moment even now. You have to rest.”

“...”

“There’s nothing to fear. Come on, come closer.”

“......no... not for... me...” he muttered under his breath ever so quietly, but he believed in it more than anyone. He backed away again, regaining distance, for one thing he feared far more than his nightmares was the crimson in said nightmares spreading into someone else’s life (again).

.

But it wasn’t spreading.

She grasped his hand. And it didn’t spread.

Only her golden warmth had spread to him.

“Running away? Are you going to lock yourself up again?” she probed, “Kevin, you won’t heal for the rest of your life if you don’t let someone in.”

“That is—“

“Not fine,” she declared. She would never allow this. She would not just leave him to his own devices, knowing that his fear would surge and drive him to self-destruction.

Because how in God’s name could she cast aside this young man who so desperately needed somebody to tell him it was okay for him to live and breathe?

“I know not what you fear, or why you fear them. But I know that this moment in which you’re only standing here is not a lie, not a nightmare and certainly not a sin.”

She was wrong, he knew she was. He knew his current life was a lie and his past was a perpetual nightmare. He was constantly condemned by the knowledge that his existence in this time and space was a sin in and of itself. Yet his heart leapt forward to believe in her words before his head could deny.

Finally, he allowed himself to lie down and rest his head on her lap.

Warmth. Warm like the gracious sun rays of morning. Warm like the embrace of a pure angel’s wings. Warm like memories of the days before he was broken in almost every way possible.

He shifted uncomfortably, reminding himself that he, an unsightly, murderous specter, deserved nothing of the sort, nothing so warm, so compassionate, so humane.

“You’ll be fine.” She pressed lightly on his shoulder to steady him, “Sweet dreams.”

A thousand words halted at the tip of his tongue, and he gulped them back inside, a compunctious smile was all he offered as a reply. But that was good enough for now.

For now... he placed his trust in her words, and believed the mere fact that she was here with him would finally allow him to dream of wonders as sweet and forgiving and beautiful as her.

(End of Part 1)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shelly-sama. 

Another day without you. Can you believe it? It has already been a year since.

Somehow, I pulled through. Somehow, I am still in one piece, staggering, struggling, surviving, just as you told me to. 

And I suppose you have not the slightest idea of how arduous it is. 

Be it in the heat of summer or the cold of winter, the drizzles of spring or the breeze of autumn, I have scoured endlessly for warmth and beauty akin to yours. 

Alas, I doubt even the finest velvet quilt in the Rainsworth’s possession would even come close to the comfort your mere presence bestowed upon me. 

Please rest assured, I have advanced beyond the idiocy of wallowing in despair. I will continue to survive, as you so wished. Believe me, I would have more than willingly allowed an otherworldly being manipulate me into mad bloodlust again had it harboured the slightest possibility of bringing you back. But your command is one thing I would never so much as to consider disobeying. 

Ah. 

But. 

I miss you so. 

Perhaps in this short-lived wonderland yet to be defiled by crimson, I would be permitted to utter words I never dared to:

I love you. I love you with all my heart. I love you more than the accumulated amount of kindness and care and mercy you had given me. I need you. I need you to live. I need you to breathe. 

Would you be so kind as to bless me with all the hope in existence just once more? A single, brusque glance at your silhouette would suffice, I beg of you, please grace this rotting blood-red eye with your compassion.

So please, would you let me see you tonight?

...

......

..................

He woke up. 

The End

[hairasuntouchedaspartoftheamazon]

Okay Tumblr, I’m about to do a stupid thing and ask for validation on some of my original writing. I’ve been working on a novel for a while now, and while I don’t have nearly as much to show for it as I would like, I do have this prologue. 

The story it is is attached to is long and complicated and queer and magical and I love it. My question to you fine internet denizens is: after reading this prologue, would you keep reading this book? 

(If you have follow up questions about this story at all, please ask because I love blabbing about this and I’m considering making a side blog just about this story because I want to develop it and hopefully get it published one day)

My buds: @a-l-ias @madre-des-leones @books-andbiscuits @chihuahuapowersgo @oopstheregoesthatlifeofmine @ivneess @elissastillstands @i-am-triple-a @becca-becky @goddess-of-fluff (You are all under absolutely no obligation to read this, I just think you’ll get a kick out of it)

So, without any further ado, I give you the prologue to Cheshire Moon:

Prologue: In Which It’s The End of the World As We Know It

Here is the boy on his bicycle. It is a dark and stormy night, a strange night for a bike ride. A Monday night as it would happen. Just goes to show that even after the events collectively referred to as “the Apocalypse” have ravaged the Earth and destroyed the capitalist institutions such as bureaucratic schools and offices that made certain weekdays widely hated, Mondays are still, and will always be, awful.

So here is the boy on a bicycle twenty years after the Apocalypse. He is pedaling madly through woods that had once been somewhat tamed. The woods were made of pine and maple and oak, the staples of a Northeast American forest, but they were also more than that. See, when nature is left to its own devices, even forests once populated with such things as marked hiking trails and outdoor recreation areas can turn into something quite different. This forest, once a nature preserve belonging to the state of New York, was now a wildwood. Things not quite friendly and not quite mundane and things not evil but also certainly not kind to trespassers lived in the dark spaces between these trees.

So here is the boy on a bicycle, riding through a wildwood full of dangerous things not kind to humans on a stormy Monday night twenty years after the Apocalypse. This is odd for three reasons.

First, as previously mentioned, it was a rainy night. And not a little drizzle, May-Day morning kind of rain that you barely needed an umbrella for, but a sky-splitting, earth-shaking, world-flooding howler of a storm. Each bolt of lightning ripped the sky apart; every roll of thunder shook the ground; the howling wind threatened to send even the oldest trees crashing to the ground. Surrounded by all of this, beneath the trees and in the mud, was the boy on his bicycle. 

The bicycle was the second odd thing. Despite the absolute hell it’s rider was currently putting it through (he wasn’t biking on a path, you see, just careening through the underbrush as it suited him; scratching the paint, splattering it with mud, and getting half a forest worth of sticks stuck in the wheel spokes), it was a very nice bike. A ten-speed, all-terrain, for-serious-athletes-only sort of bicycle. In another life, it would have been the property of some over-achieving businesswoman, the sort who did triathlons on the weekends and polished it with special bicycle wax three times a week. In this lifetime it had been stolen from an abandoned sporting goods store and aggressively spray-painted black because its new owner had been in a mood that day. There was also a laptop precariously duct-taped to the handlebars. Surrounding the ancient laptop was a clear plastic container, which several hours earlier had been looted from an old Target store and taped over the handlebars with extreme prejudice to protect the computer from the coming rain. 

The third odd thing was what the rider of this bike was doing. He wasn’t just soaked to the bone while pedaling full speed through the dark and rain and underbrush, with no light to guide him other than the faint glow of the computer screen. He was also singing at the top of his lungs.

“It’s the end of the world as we know it! It’s the end of the world as we know!-oh!-” He swerves to avoid a tree- “Oh, it! It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I FEEEEEEL FINEEEE!” He had a deranged smile on his face, the kind adrenaline junkies get when they’re doing something supremely idiotic while enjoying themselves immensely, and couldn't be damned to care about the consequences. He was quite possibly insane, more likely sleep-deprived.

Just then, the computer started beeping. The boy quickly brought the bike to a stop, crashing through a puddle and narrowly missing a large rock that would have brought this story to an end much quicker. Still singing nonsensical lyrics to himself- “Lenny Bruce, Lester Bangs, birthday party, cheesecake”- he dismounted, taking something small and electrical out of the bag he wore over his shoulder.  He hit the device a few times, cursed twice, and hit it again before it finally turned on with a beep and a few flashing lights. The light illuminated his face, pale and tired and shivering. Splashes of mud on his face gave the appearance of more freckles than he actually had. He wiped his long, rain-drenched hair out of his eyes to peer at the computer screen before punching some coordinates into the handheld device. A map appeared on the smaller screen. Blue vector lines appear, joined by two small dots, one green, one red. As he moved, the red dot moved. “Excellent,” he whispered to himself before walking deeper into the woods, leaving his bike behind. It would be the last time he saw that bike.

Walking through the rain was much harder than biking through it. Every minute or so, he had to stop and pull his boots out of the shin-deep mud. Twice he slipped, spreading mud all over his front. He refused to think about the state of his hair, despite the fact that it smelled like some of the wet matter coating it might not be mud. He slipped a third time, and the device in his hand went flying off into the wet night, never to be seen again. He paused for a moment, staring pitifully at where his device had disappeared before proceeding to curse loudly and creatively in at least three languages; insulting not only the stupid forest and the gods-damned rain, but his own stupidity and the idiocy of his informant for failing to tell him about this job before it became a time-sensitive matter that resulted in him being covered in enough mud to pass as a very short golem……

He went on like that for awhile before continuing his walk. The past few days had been incredibly frustrating, and there was a lot of bottled up anger to be released. As absolutely no one listened, he cursed the Trader caravan who treated him worse than the dirt on their boots, the scavengers who’d stolen his good knife last week, and the state of his life in general, gods give him a sign that he shouldn’t end it all right now, just climb up a tree and get struck by lightning…

A particularly loud crack of thunder erupted just then, followed by a bright burst of lightning that was a bit too close for comfort. It seemed like the gods were calling him on his bluff. With a world-weary sigh, he shoved his frustrations back down and continued walking into the woods. First and foremost was the mission, he reminded himself. There would be time for pity parties later.

It seemed like the universe was mocking him at that moment; as he gathered his convictions, the storm worsened. He would have said it was impossible, but the rain came down harder, as if trying to tell him that just lying down in the mud forever was so much simpler than trying to be a hero, who was he anyway, to try and save the world…He began to sing again, attempting to combat the darkness of the weather and his mind. “Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn, world serves its own needs, don’t miserve your own needs…” He walks to the tune of the highly appropriate song, keeping his head up and eyes peeled for his destination.Finding anything in this weather would take nothing short of divine intervention, possibly by multiple gods, but find something he does. There, on his right, almost outside his field of vision, a faint glow in the darkness of the night. He smiled, a wild thing, before running full tilt towards the glow. 

As he got closer, it became clear that the glow was coming from the ground itself, a golden line stretching as far as the eye can see in either direction. The glow is slowly intensifying, but he’s arrived in time. He takes another device out of his bag, this one about the size of his head. It looked like if someone had melted down several computers, a tacky bachelor’s pad worth of chrome plating, and a rotary phone before mashing them all together and drenching the entire thing in white paint. That really wasn’t far off from the actual process used to create the gadget, which was of his own invention. He was rather proud of it, especially as it was one of a select few of his projects that had been completed without any magical assistance whatsoever.

With the golden glow lighting his way, he steps forward and gently places the SaviorBlob(that was what he had named the blobby thing) directly onto the line, aligning one of the sticky-outy metal bits towards magnetic north. Then he takes a carefully measured number of steps to the right, taking a second SaviorBlob out of his bag and placing it on the line. Again, he takes a carefully measured number of steps to the right, watching his feet while taking a third and final SaviorBlob out of his bag. He’s adjusting the magnetic alignment when he hears a loud grunt. He looks up. Then he starts running. 

A roar erupts from the massive creature straddling the line. Something vaguely resembling the idea of an arm erupts from the darkness, grabbing the boy by the back of his jacket and bringing him face to face with the rotting corpse of something that had never been properly alive. Desperate, he throws the remaining SaviorBlob at the creature’s face with surprising force, but it bounces off harmlessly. The creature roars again, throwing the boy up in the air only to snatch him up again, this time around the waist. With another arm, it sweeps the SaviorBlobs off the line, sending them flying into the night. 

Satisfied, it returns its attention to the boy trying to free himself, slowly pulling him closer as it opens it’s stinking maw wide. The boy watches, eyes wide, heart pounding. He waits. He waits. Then he strikes. A second before the darkness would swallow him whole, he pulls a knife from his boot and drives it deep into a mass of twisted flesh. 

As the creature flails, he rips off one of his many necklaces and shoves it down the creatures throat, kicking away at the same time and falling to the ground. His jacket is torn to pieces, tangling around the arm covered in dark acid from the creature’s mouth. 

The creature roars and lashes out, clawing at it’s wound with one arm and pinning the boy by his leg with another. The touch is dirty and so cold it burns, the antithesis of everything alive. The boy screams for the first time. Another twisted and corrupted limb is pressed to the glowing line, and the creature rears its head and sings, a single high piercing note a human could never hope to replicate. 

The boy struggles, trying to pull away from the pain, but he’s stuck fast. As the creature continues to sing, the light of the line grows brighter, turning from golden to white hot. The air itself is resonating with the impossibly high note, the whole world shaking as the boy tries to twist free and cover his ears from the onslaught of pure noise. With a final cry of pain, he escapes the creature’s hold, trying to run, trying to get as far away as possible...BOOM. The world goes white. He flies through the air, hitting a tree with a CRACK. Darkness falls immediately.

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I WILL TAKE ANY AND ALL CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM

I WANT TO MAKE THIS GOOD 

I WILL ALSO BLAB ABOUT THE CHARACTERS SO MUCH, SPOILER THEY”RE ALL QUEER AND MOST ARE POC.