#without a hint of irony it's true

[lexithethird]

Hey, sorry if I reblogged or like a bunch of the stuff on your blog. I just think you have great taste <3

[luna-azzurra]

Emotionally reserved characters

Instead of openly sharing their emotions with others, they keep their feelings locked inside, letting their inner thoughts do all the talking. You get a glimpse into their mind, where a storm of conflicts, doubts, and desires brews quietly beneath a calm exterior. This internal monologue allows readers to understand what’s going on inside their head, even if they don’t show it on the outside. It’s like seeing the world through their eyes, where every little thing stirs up a wave of emotions that they never express out loud.

For these characters, actions speak louder than words, but even their actions are restrained. They communicate their emotions through the smallest of gestures—a slight tightening of the jaw when they’re angry or hurt, a brief flicker in their eyes when they’re surprised, or a controlled change in posture when something makes them uncomfortable. These tiny, almost imperceptible movements can say so much more than an outburst ever could, hinting at feelings they would never openly share. It’s about what they don’t do as much as what they do.

When they do speak, every word is carefully chosen. Emotionally reserved characters don’t ramble or spill their feelings in a flood of words. Instead, they speak in a measured and controlled manner, always keeping their emotions in check. Their sentences are concise, sometimes even vague or indirect, leaving others guessing about what they’re really thinking. It’s not that they don’t feel deeply, they just prefer to keep those feelings close to the chest, hidden behind a mask of calm and composure.

For these characters, what they do is often more telling than what they say. They might not say “I care about you” outright, but you’ll see it in the way they go out of their way to help, the quiet ways they show up for the people they love. Their actions reveal their emotions—whether it’s a protective gesture, a silent sacrifice, or a kind deed done without expectation of recognition. It’s these unspoken acts of kindness that show their true feelings, even if they never say them out loud.

They often have strong personal boundaries. They keep their private lives just that - private. They don’t open up easily and are cautious about who they let into their inner circle. They might deflect conversations away from themselves or avoid sharing personal details altogether. It’s not that they don’t want to connect, it’s just that they find it hard to lower their walls and let others in, fearing vulnerability or judgment.

When they do show vulnerability, it’s in small, controlled doses. These characters may have moments where they let their guard down, but only in private or with someone they deeply trust.

Sometimes, emotionally reserved characters express their feelings through objects that hold special significance to them. Maybe it’s a worn-out book they keep close, a piece of jewelry they never take off, or an old letter tucked away in a drawer. These symbolic objects are like anchors, holding memories and emotions they can’t express in words. They serve as tangible reminders of their inner world, representing feelings they keep buried deep inside.

When these characters communicate, there’s often more to their words than meets the eye. They speak in subtext, using irony, implication, or ambiguity to convey what they really mean without saying it outright. Their conversations are filled with hidden meanings and unspoken truths, creating layers of depth in their interactions with others. You have to read between the lines to understand what they’re really saying because what they leave unsaid is just as important as what they do say.

Despite their calm demeanor, there are certain things that can break through their emotional reserve. Specific triggers - like a painful memory, a deep-seated fear, or a personal loss - can elicit a strong emotional response, revealing the depth of their feelings. These moments of intensity are rare but powerful, showing that even the most reserved characters have a breaking point.

Over time, emotionally reserved characters can evolve, gradually revealing more about themselves as they grow and change. Maybe they start to trust more, opening up to those around them, or perhaps they experience something that challenges their emotional barriers, forcing them to confront their feelings head-on.

[twistedwonderlandimaginesblog]

Scarabia and Octivinelle boys when they find out/overhear that their crush was meant to be in an arranged marriage after they graduated back in their world

Azul Ashengrotto:

Azul can’t help that the arranged marriage gnaws at him, planted firmly in the back of his mind; if his thoughts were to clear it stood there like a beacon in the night, reminding him that you were promised to another. He wondered the details, was it some type of business deal, or perhaps your parents were simply good friends? And how would he stack up against this so-called future spouse of yours? He tried to gather more information, saying it’s for the sake of knowledge and to satiate curiosity, while hiding his own insecurities and jealousy that sparked each time he thought of you with another person.

Floyd Leech:

Floyd has never met this person and doesn’t display much interest in knowing who they were, even though his mood darkens when it’s brought up by someone around him. He might not ever have the chance to meet this person yet he still feels the need to take his irritation out on others, wondering how you might feel if he squeezed the fight out of them as a warning. He hoped they weren’t thinking of still being with you now that he was around, as he was fully prepared to make a point with as little words as possible.

Jade Leech:

Jade can only theorize about the type of person you were to marry, wondering if they fit your ideal type or if you thought you might fall in love with them if given enough time. He doesn’t have a strong opinion on marriage but he can’t seem to agree with an arranged one, perhaps hinting at the deeply romantic side of him that he keeps well-hidden. It’s always difficult to tell his true feelings even when asked directly but it’s clear he’s willing to help you get out of said arranged marriage, no matter the cost.

Jamil Viper:

Jamil is shocked to hear that, for once, something had worked in his favor. To know fate had helped him win your hand felt like an irony he could hardly wrap his head around, but he’d accept it for what it was. He’s not interested in the terms or why your marriage had been arranged, preferring to focus on your future together. Your previous destined partner was irrelevant, after all, and Jamil would assure that they stayed that way.

Kalim Al-Asim:

Kalim rarely, if ever, gets jealous, but this is one instance where he feels his heart sink into his stomach. To think that you were almost promised to another, meaning you never would’ve fallen for him and he never would’ve had the chance to fall for you, was heart-wrenching. You had changed his life in such amazing ways and every day with you felt like dancing under the warm sun, he couldn’t imagine a life without you in it and he’s thankful that his own parents accepted his distaste for an arranged marriage.

[omg-they-were-clavemates]

I am so fascinated by the way the cardinals speak to each other. On the one hand it's primo repression—everything they say has to be coded and danced around. It takes so many steps of formality and apology for Lawrence to ask Tremblay if the accusations are true, and even once he 'speaks freely' they're still doing a tango of subtext.

But on the other hand, all of that drama and symbolism affords them a way to speak really openly with each other, if they choose to. I mean, in what other context could somebody say "search your heart, and then tell me it isn't so" and be completely serious?

To say "I had the temerity to tell you to search your own heart..." as part of an apology to a friend without a hint of irony?

It's so performative, but also strangely sincere on another level. I would need a lot more words to ask even a good friend to sit on my bed and hold my hand while I have a breakdown over my shattered dreams than "Will you pray with me?"

Like yeah they can't say "I like you" or "The new guy's kinda hot, right?" but I can't tell my friends to search their hearts so...

[tf-kinky]

Reece was at his wit's end. Sharing a small dorm room with Kurt was challenging enough, but the real torment came from Kurt's habit of never updating his wardrobe, particularly his sneakers. These weren’t just any sneakers; they were an ancient, battle-scarred pair that had seen better days, probably back when they were new in the early 2000s. The stench that emanated from them was like a toxic cloud, enveloping the room whenever Kurt kicked them off after a long day.

Day after day, Reece aired his grievances. "Kurt, man, those sneakers are biohazards. You need new ones, like, yesterday," he'd say, pinching his nose in dramatic fashion.

But Kurt just shrugged, his response always some variation of, "They're broken in. I like 'em."

Weeks passed, and Reece's complaints grew more desperate. He tried everything from leaving subtle hints to outright begging, but to no avail. Kurt's sneakers remained a staple in their shared space, their smell intensifying with each passing day.

One evening, as Reece was once again lamenting the state of their room, Kurt's patience snapped. With a mischievous grin, he pulled out his phone and tapped on an app no one had ever seen before – the "TF App," which stood for "Transformation."

"You want to shut up about my sneakers?" Kurt asked, his eyes glinting with an odd light. Before Reece could respond, Kurt pressed the screen.

In a flash of light, Reece felt an odd sensation, like every part of him was being flattened and reshaped. When he came to, he was no longer human but had become a pair of insoles. Not just any insoles, but ones designed to fit perfectly inside Kurt's repulsive sneakers.

Kurt, with a chuckle, pulled out the old, worn-out insoles and replaced them with Reece. The horror for Reece was immediate and overwhelming. As Kurt shoved his bare, sweat-drenched feet into the sneakers, the experience was magnified for Reece. His senses were heightened; every odor was amplified, every touch was a nightmare.

Kurt's feet were the epitome of nastiness. They were unwashed for days, covered in a thick layer of sweat and grime, with nails that hadn't seen a clipper in ages. The smell was like a physical entity, invading what would have been Reece's nose if he had one. And the taste, oh, the taste was worse – salty, bitter, with a hint of whatever Kurt had stepped in that day.

Reece would have screamed if he could, but all he could do was absorb the horror of his new existence. Each step Kurt took was a crushing blow, each second an eternity of suffering. The irony was cruel; Reece, who hated feet more than anything, was now intimately acquainted with the very thing he despised.

As days turned into weeks, Kurt's feet only grew more vile, and Reece's torment seemed without end. But in this bizarre twist of fate, perhaps Reece would finally learn to keep his complaints to himself – or at least, that was what Kurt hoped as he laced up his sneakers, ready for another day of college life, with his former roommate underfoot.

As time wore on, the melding of Reece into Kurt's sneakers became complete. The insoles, a source of pure horror for Reece, now conformed so perfectly to Kurt's feet that they seemed like they were part of him. But for Reece, this melding was a never-ending nightmare.

With each step Kurt took, the terror in Reece's existence was palpable. His senses, unnaturally heightened, were assaulted by the constant stench and sweat of Kurt's feet. The pressure of each footfall was a reminder of his loss of humanity, his once vibrant life reduced to the sensation of being crushed and molded underfoot.

Kurt, oblivious to the true horror of his former roommate's plight, reveled in the newfound comfort. His feet felt supported and cushioned in a way they never had before. He walked with an ease that suggested he was floating rather than walking. But as he noticed this miraculous change, a decision brewed in his mind, one that would seal Reece's fate.

One night, while lounging with his feet propped up, Kurt pulled out the TF app. He contemplated the reversal process, but the thought of returning to discomfort was unbearable. With a cold resolve, he deleted the reverse data, ensuring Reece could never return to his human form.

"Sorry, man," Kurt said aloud, though he knew Reece couldn't respond. "But you make the best insoles I've ever had."

Reece, trapped within the confines of the insoles, was in constant, silent horror. He tried to scream, to plead, to beg for his humanity back, but his voice was gone, replaced by the silent endurance of inanimate suffering. Each day was a relentless cycle of sensory overload; the smell, the taste, the feel of Kurt's feet were all magnified to torturous levels.

He felt every step, every shift in weight, every moment Kurt's feet rested on him. The horror of his situation never dulled; instead, it grew with each passing second. He was aware, acutely so, of every moment, every touch, and yet, he was powerless, voiceless, his protests nothing more than the inaudible cries of a sentient insole.

Kurt, now accustomed to this perfect fit, wore his sneakers more than ever, seldom taking them off, even when he could. He had no idea of the torment he was perpetuating with every step. For Reece, there was no escape, no relief, just an endless, horrifying existence as the insoles beneath Kurt's feet. His mind, trapped in this cruel reality, could do nothing but endure, hoping against hope for a miracle that would never come.

[monayen]

hiii mona! im a new fan of yours (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) and honestly i really love your work! honestly, i love randal and satoru.., you should write something bloody with them! like a period fic… (like, cmon. you’re telling me that at least ONE of them isn’t into that?) (￢ω￢。)

Menstruation Angel | Randal Ivory

➷ Paring - Randal Ivory x Fem!Reader [Randal's Friends / Ranfren]

➷ CWs - period kink, oral (f. receiving) / cunnilingus, (period) blood eating, negative talk about periods but thats just the PMS talkin' baby!

a/n - got my period so i finished this. readers pronouns aren't said but they do have AFAB parts, breasts arent mentioned... but wombs are. randal u freak. also thank u guys for the birthday wishes!! made a girl very happy ;>

You woke up with cramps, a heat pad halfway off your stomach, and a distinct sense of being watched... immediately knowing who it was when you bothered to open your eyes.

There he was, Randal. Sitting in a chair he dragged in from another room, staring at you with an almost giddy look behind his black rims.

"Good morning, menstruation angel." he cooed.

You groaned immediately, tossing around under the covers of your bed. "Randal, please don't start today."

"It's already today." He stood up slowly, dramatically, like this was a holy event. "I smelled it in my dreams. I woke up and thought, 'Ah. My pet is bleeding again. Beautiful."

You narrowed your eyes, already feeling a light discomfort settle in your abdomen. "I literally feel like garbage."

“And I’d roll in that garbage,” he promptly replied without a hint of irony, shifting from his seat and crawling onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, his eyes fixed on you with reverence. His presence was heavy, heat rolling off him even with the fan blowing on high.

He tugged the blanket down slowly, deliberately, exposing the oversized sleep shirt clinging softly to your form. The fabric clung to the flesh of your body, thin enough to make you suddenly aware of just how little separated you from him.

"You know," he said finally, voice lower and dragging, "you always say you hate this time of the month. But I've never seen you more... real than you are right now."

He shifted closer, the blanket tugging off more and more as he did. You're sure it's intentional, so he can see the way you shiver and blush. So he can get even closer.

"I can smell it on you," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "It's not gross. It's not shameful. Natural actually, natural blood." He said the last word in an almost dopey tone, a smile spreading across his face.

You're surprised his nose isn't supplying his own  bit of blood already, with his whole fascination with it showing itself almost every month when you start your period. 

It's true, you dread this time of the month. The hot flashes, the gross stickiness, the painful cramps, and the extra tenderness. It all adds up to make you annoyed and tired for the upcoming days.

Luther is kind to give you everything you need, but you still manage to isolate yourself in your room until it's over. 

You can't help it, you feel extra gross when you have cotton shoved up your hoo-ha or a thick pad sticking onto your thighs. Much to Randal's dismay.

“Uh, I need to shower.” You huffed as warmth spread across your body, attempting to move a bit under him. He doesn't let you, arms trapping you on either side. He immediately shakes his head, “No! No! S-Stay like this. Showers are overrated.” 

You're about to respond about him being gross, about you being gross. But he doesn't let you, suddenly shoving his face into your neck. He inhales deeply, nose pressed against your skin as he breathes in your scent, “Mmm, you smell so good, so ripe.” 

“Randal!” A moan pulls from you, hands shooting to grip his shoulders, “I’m all—” 

“Noo, you aren't! You don't even know what you do to me when you're like this!” His voice pitches against you, like you’ve offended him for speaking so lowly about yourself in this state.

Randal’s weight presses against you more, letting you feel the growing erection in his pants. "Can you feel that, doll? How excited you make me?”

His breath is hot against your neck as he continues to inhale your scent, his nose brushing against your skin with each exhale. 

One wondering hand slides up from under the thin shirt you wear, fingers playing across the soft flesh of your stomach that’s guarding your precious bleeding womb. The other hand grips your hip possessively, pulling your body flush against his own.

Randal's breath grows heavier as he grinds more insistently against you, his erection now fully hard and throbbing. He can feel how you shake slightly, heart speeding up once he slides a hand between your thighs. 

"Randal, please, this is so embarrassing..." you whimper, burying your burning face against his shoulder to hide from his intense gaze.

"Awe, let's not be shy. Spread wideeee for master~!” He exclaims too loudly in your ear, gloved fingers shoving against the cloth of your panties. An excited giggle heard when he feels the outline of your pad. 

Randal moves to hover lower, upper body right between you, legs on either side of his head. A shuddering gasp escapes as he grinds his palm harder against your core, the friction making your hips buck into his face.

"Randal, fuck..” you whimper, trying to close your thighs, to stem the flow of your shameful arousal and blood that's definitely staining the bedsheets. But he's relentless, pushing your legs apart further to make room for his eager hand.

"Just relax," he coos, "Let me worship you, my bleeding bride." His fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, brushing against your slick folds. He lets out a pitched, appreciative moan at the feel of your wetness coating the latex.

"Now keep still, doll," he commands, “I wanna eat you.” His eyes are fixated on his hands tugging off your underwear, taking in the sight of your bloodstained pad and glistening entrance. 

He shamelessly inhales deeply, making a face that you bite back a chort in reaction to. “Really?” you tremble when he does it again, feeling the ghost of his breath on your sensitive flesh.

"Uh, Randal, you don't really have to…” A shy part of you takes over, still embarrassed with the idea of him going down on you during your period.

"Hush now," he chides gently, before his tongue takes a long, slow lick up your slit.

"Ahhh!" you cry out at the sudden sensation, your back arching off the bed. "Tastes even better than I imagined." Randal laughs, holding your legs down.

He dives in without a second warning, sealing his lips around your clit and sucking hard. His tongue works on lapping around your pussy, sucking and licking your mixture of blood and arousal. 

The combination of sensations is overwhelming, and you find yourself fisting your hands in his hair, tugging him closer. Your hips start to move on their own, grinding against his face as he eats you out, much to his enjoyment. 

"That's it, doll. Ride my face," Randal urges, the words muffled against your pussy. "Rub against me harder!” His excitement has him speeding up, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs. 

“Randal!" you moan, your voice echoing off the walls of the room. Trembling thighs clench around his head, holding him in place as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. You can feel your orgasm building, your core clenching and fluttering around his quick tongue.

He muffles against you again, but you can't make it out with your legs clamped around his head — nor with your moans pitching louder and louder as you reach your peak.

It crashes over you quickly, rubbing against his mouth as you ride it out. Randal just moans in delight, licking up the come and leftover blood dripping out of you. He only stops when your shakiness calms down and you let up your grip around his head. 

Randal pulls back, a smug grin on his face as he licks his lips. "Ohoho," he giggles, crawling up your body until he's cuddled against your side.

“I was aching to do that, y’know?” He gives you a lazy hump against your side, letting you feel the half-hard on he’s still sporting. “Now I just wonder what it’ll look like with your blood covering my dick!~” 

[novlr]

How do you write an unreliable narrator in a way that actually feels clever and not just confusing or annoying? I want readers to realize something’s off without hitting them over the head with it, and still keep them hooked enough to want to figure it out.

I’m an absolute sucker for an unreliable narrator. I find them completely frustrating and endlessly entertaining. When you read a book, and you just know that something doesn’t quite add up, and you start to question the nature of the reality of the story you’re reading? Mwah. Chef’s kiss.

Sometimes unreliable narrators are obvious. Other times there are just hints. It could be a detail that contradicts an earlier scene. A character who reacts oddly to what should be normal. And then, slowly, you realise you can’t trust the very person telling you the story. An unreliable narrator transforms readers from passive observers into active participants, forcing them to become detectives in their own reading experience.

What is an unreliable narrator?

An unreliable narrator is the voice of your story whose credibility has been compromised. They might be lying deliberately to conceal a truth, or completely unintentionally. What makes them fascinating is that they are telling their version of a truth or attempting to create one, even if that truth doesn’t match reality.

Unlike traditional narrators who serve as trusted guides through a story, unreliable narrators force readers to question everything they’re told. This means that the real story often lives in the gaps between what the narrator says and what the reader comes to understand is actually true.

It’s like a friend telling you their breakup story; their version of events might be completely honest from their perspective, but you know you’re only getting one side of the story. Unreliable narrators remind us that truth is often subjective, and that everyone is the hero of their own story.

Types of unreliable narrators

There is no definitive type of unreliable narrator, so the first step is to understand their role in the story and what you want their version of the truth to mean. Here are some common types:

The deliberate liar consciously misleads readers.

The self-deceiver believes their own false narrative.

The mentally compromised has their perception affected by illness, injury, or trauma.

The naïve observer lacks the experience to understand what they’re seeing.

The morally ambiguous has values that skew their interpretation of events.

Each of these types of unreliable narrator serves a different purpose and will change the tone of your narrative. For example, a deliberate liar is often used in thriller and mystery stories where readers must untangle truth from deception, while a naïve observer might be used for dramatic irony. A mentally compromised narrator might lead readers through a haunting exploration of perception, reality, and the self, whereas a self-deceiver might highlight wider social issues in their story world as their illusions gradually crumble.

So, how do you actually write an unreliable narrator?

Writing an unreliable narrator is a delicate balancing act. You need to give your readers enough truth to keep them invested, enough lies to make them question everything, and enough clues that they can piece together what’s really happening. The trick isn’t just about deceiving your reader, but about making that deception meaningful (and entertaining).

Let’s look at some of the more universal techniques:

Build credibility before breaking it

Start by establishing your narrator’s voice as trustworthy. Let readers settle into believing what they’re told. This makes the eventual revelation of unreliability more impactful. Show your narrator being accurate about small details or making reasonable observations before introducing elements that challenge their reliability.

Leave breadcrumbs

Plant subtle inconsistencies throughout your narrative. These should be small enough that readers might miss them on first reading, but obvious enough to create that satisfying “aha” moment when the truth is revealed,, like contradictions in the narrator’s version of events, other characters reacting to the narrator’s version of reality, or something that runs counter to the reality of the reader.

The power of perspective

Remember that unreliable narration is fundamentally about perspective. Your narrator isn’t necessarily lying; they’re telling their truth, even if it doesn’t align with objective reality. Show how their personal biases, experiences, and limitations colour their interpretation of events.

Build tension through uncertainty

Use your narrator’s unreliability to build tension. When readers begin to doubt the narrator, every new piece of information becomes suspect. This creates a self-perpetuating cycle of uncertainty that keeps readers engaged. But make sure you keep it balanced. Give readers enough reason to doubt your narrator without completely destroying their credibility too early.

The art of the reveal

The trickiest part of writing any unreliable narrator is deciding what the best time to reveal it is. And it does have to be considered carefully. Do you want a dramatic singular reveal, a gradual reveal with an “aha” moment, or to never explicitly confirm it, leaving readers to decide?

Remember: the goal isn’t simply to trick readers, but to explore deeper truths about perception, reality, and human nature. The best unreliable narrators make us question not just the story, but our own assumptions about truth and reliability. So make sure you consider that when you decide whether you need a reveal or not.

Keep your inconsistency consistent

Even unreliable narrators need to follow internal logic. Their unreliability should make sense within the context of their character and the situations they find themselves in. A narrator with memory issues should consistently show those issues. A deliberate liar should have clear motivations for their deception.

[22ayla21]

"Strawberry Cheesecake and Apple Cider"

Event "Sweet Stories, Intoxicating Feelings"

From the Author: again, I accidentally deleted the request due to app lags, but fortunately I saved the anon's hint as a picture. Anon, respond if you read the request.

In the backyard of Night Raven College, a quiet serenity always reigned, as if the very air held its breath in respectful silence. In a secluded corner of the garden, beneath a time-darkened arch entwined with grapevines, Ace sat, lazily swinging his leg. His robe was carelessly open, and his hair was tousled by the gentle spring breeze. Beside him – she was there. A girl from another world, so down-to-earth and direct in this place steeped in magic and strict rules.

He cast fleeting glances at her, pretending to be engrossed in shuffling the cards in his hands. In reality, he watched her read, her head bent over the book, her lips moving silently in focused concentration.

To him, she seemed like a strawberry cheesecake – airy, light, and yet utterly stunning. His fingers seemed to remember the taste of her laughter on their own: a little whipped, a little cheeky, and dizzyingly sweet. Their love didn't need formalities or pompous words. It simply arose. Unexpectedly, like a lucky break on an exam he hadn't studied for. But here she was, and here he was – and between them hung a pause, filled not with silence, but with the sensation of a frozen world, gifting them these precious moments.

"You're looking again," she said, without lifting her gaze from the pages.

"And you're noticing again," he smirked, leaning back on his hands and admiring her profile. "Can't I admire the local beauties?"

She closed the book and turned to him. "You could at least pretend to be busy with something useful."

Ace chuckled, a lively spark flickering in his smile. He felt genuinely good. Truly light and carefree, because with her, he could be himself, not hiding behind sharp jokes and sarcasm.

"Honestly…" he began, "I never thought I'd meet someone like you. So… simple. Like…" He stumbled, searching for the right word, and suddenly blurted out, "Like apple cider."

She blinked in surprise. "Cider?"

"Yeah. The one you made yourself in the kitchen last month. A little tart, natural, with a light fizz. Nothing extra. Just… real."

Her eyes warmed. Ace rarely said anything directly. He usually hid his true feelings behind a mask of irony. But in those rare moments when his sincerity broke through this armor, it sounded especially genuine.

"Then you must be strawberry cheesecake," she said with a soft smile.

He raised an eyebrow. "Me? Why's that?"

"Because you're sweet, but you know too well how delicious you are. And sometimes you can give a real sugar rush."

He laughed. His laughter was deep, sincere, without a hint of pretense. And in his eyes flashed a usually hidden gratitude. For her being there. For accepting him as he was.

The pause between them lingered, but it wasn't awkward. It felt like a warm blanket on a cool evening. In this silence, there was no need for words. She simply looked at him, and he at her. And both knew: even if the world around them became chaotic and unpredictable again, they would still have this quiet garden, these casual words, and this elusive warmth that couldn't be expressed in words.

Ace, without breaking eye contact, reached out and lightly touched her hand. "If you're cider, I wouldn't mind getting drunk on you."

"You're incorrigible," she shook her head, but there wasn't the slightest hint of reproach in her voice.

"And you're already used to my antics," he added with a mischievous grin, intertwining their fingers.

The love between them wasn't a storm of passions; it didn't require loud vows and sacrifices. It was like homemade cider – simple, tart, alive. Or like a piece of cheesecake that you want to savor with small spoonfuls, prolonging the pleasure. And in this world full of magic, transformations, and oddities, it was their love – warm, earthy, understandable – that was the truest magic of all.

[sprachgefuehle]

The true danger of learning Spanish that no one ever warns you of is that you might end up speaking a dialect where they add the diminuitive -ito and -ita to every word because you might end up using that in other languages as well.

This post is sponsored by me, an adult in their late twenties, casually and without a hint of irony dropping into a conversation with other adults the sentence "I saw some birdies at the lakey" in German.

[samubytheocean]

yeah everyone talks about the boys as your first love, but how about the second love?

falling for someone feels so much more intense especially when you know how much love hurts.

friends to lovers? fluff but slight angst if u squint lmao

Imagine lying down at his floor, it’s like some time after midnight, and you can almost taste the aftermaths of rain in summer night wind. It’s hinted with cherry coke and the smell of his ears, already stained a pretty blush whenever you lock eyes. Your head still rings from the party music from some hours ago, but you can’t tell if it’s that or the sight of the handsome boy in those shorts.

God, he is pretty.

He looks at you from his bed, upside down and hair all frizzed up. A little out of breath from a satire joke you’ve just blurted out, and the sound sends chills throughout your body, the strangely familiar kind that wakes you up with the hope of forever. The thought makes you sit up, and breath in the space with content. You move forward, face inches from the lopsided boy who’s looking up at you. You can’t really tell what’s on his face. Your hands feel hot against his cool cheeks, and you can see the blush watercolor against your hands. His eyes never leaves yours.

You’ve been dating for some time, having known each other for years before that. The past couple of months of testing the waters were more than enough for the both of you. You know all of his exes. He’s seen you cry about yours. For a long time, almost too long, you were just friends.

Sure, you’ve held your breath whenever his tall figure leaned down to discuss some tea that you’ve heard the night before. But he always got a girl whenever you broke things off with your boyfriends, and vice versa. There never seemed to be a proper time for feelings to grow, until that drunk night when he fell asleep in your dorm after taking one too many shots at some stupid party.

Woke up next to you, all too similar with the same moles on your shoulders that he has memorized, the same small frame against his that he has cried against, but now under the same covers, without some other person between you and his feelings. He knew you. He cares about you.

And by the way you quietly smiled in your oversized shirt handing him a cold glass of water in the morning.. Luckily all the times he was gritting his teeth at how your horrible ex was acting out; he wasn’t the only one with the hopes. Guess since then, there was this quiet consensus about taking things slow. He knew you. He knew what you’ve cried about. And you did too.

First love. First kiss. First sex. It sounds so much better in the books on your bedside table. You’re no stranger to the rushing of hearts, hell, you could swear your teenage years consisted full of it. Addicted to it even. But seems to it that teenage love isn’t what is just given to everyone. It comes as a slow realization, that maybe some girls aren’t meant to be loved, at least not yet, not then. Sure you have forgiven your exes and their mistakes; they were just boys.

But you were just a girl. Just begging to be loved. In the most primal, desperate, romantic way, you just wanted to be seen. For someone to understand the language you were speaking, in its true irony and references. You wanted to be held, not grabbed. But first times, first love, first sex. It’s not pretty for everyone. So you put that all behind.

Scared? Maybe. A big front, yeah. But right now, some time past midnight, in some messy summer night after some dumb party, smelling like your favorite song that he held you through, he looks up at you. No, he sees up at you. He sees you. In his bed, in his room, with one too many shirt buttons opened, in that familiar shorts riding up his comfortably situated thighs,

And it sends the fucking chills throughout your spine.

“Something on your mind, sweets?” Deep, cheeky voice a hush. His cheeks are warm. He smells like the sparkly drink you’ve had. And he looks so painfully pretty, you can almost look past all of your exes. All of his exes. All of the times you guys sat on the steps, laughing cynically into the night about how you both seemed just so impossible to be loved. The crook of his smirk seems so boyish, you can almost wish a life where all you knew were him. Where you chose him, from the start.

You shake your head, and he rolls over, face still at the edge of the bed looking at you mischievously. He nudges his chin urging you closer. For a second you eye at how his collarbones and shoulder muscles glisten lightly in a layer of sweat. You are so close, you can see his pulse, and how the pink is now spreading with it.

Okay, a boyish look in a man, what Taylor said, you slightly roll your eyes at his clear objectives. Slowly you close the space between. His lips are curled up in that familiar infuriating way, but they are trembling none the less. You see it. You see him. And in the most forbidden, aching way, he whispers your name.

Taking things slow. Taking things slow. Take things slow-

You don’t want to end up regretting him as well. He’s too pretty.

Yeah, but he sees you. And maybe, just maybe that’s all you need.

OSAMU, KITA, SUGA, IWA, fucking KUROO and plz HINATA

hey guys it’s my first time posting here and jeez i’m so nervous

[lrithill]

Of Black and White (Art x gn! reader)

Hi everyone,

This is a fanfic I started writing after having a  bad day at university and realizing I desperately needed Art to... comfort me.

And honestly, I just realized how incredibly therapeutic writing can be, because it genuinely made me feel so much better. I was actually laughing and having a good time while writing it.

Summary: After a day that shatters you more than you dare admit, you come home, unsure how Art will face your sorrow. What you find is terrifying and beautiful: a love too deep for words, and a future as fragile as a candle trembling in the rain.

Warnings: Extreme fluff, free pizza (for reasons), violence (but in a joyful context), the deepest kind of romance, crying (both from sadness and happiness), true love.

I wanted this to be a gender-neutral reader fanfic so that everyone could feel represented.

I tried not to mention anything that could hint at the reader's gender.

I hope I did it right—it's my first time trying!

It's hilarious how you can literally see the evolution of my mood throughout this fic—it starts off all sad and gloomy, and then slowly climbs its way back up into my usual style, full of humor, romance, violence... cozy violence (yes, I’m calling it that).

I started this as something silly and quick, but as always... it had to evolve into a nearly 5,000-word emotional one-shot. I was honestly moved by the ending—like, wow... feelings happened.

So I ended up crying agaaaaain…

The title "Of Black and White" is not merely about colors, but about the fierce contrasts that shape the story: happines and sadness, love and pain, light and shadow, life and death.

Also, this was possibly the hardest fanfic I've ever written so far, because it was really challenging to write this more "human" version of Art without making him too OOC (though at the beginning I totally took some liberties, because I needed the fluffiest fluff ever to exist).

PLUS, I spent like two weeks just thinking about ONE SINGLE PARAGRAPH that was absolutely RUINING MY LIFE.

And trust me—you'll know exactly which one it is when you read it. It was insanely difficult.

I mean, it's already hard enough to pull something like that off in my first language... now imagine trying to do it in a language that's not even mine. Holy Christ.

But honestly, with Art, it could never have been any other way.

Those lines had to be precise, razor-sharp...

They had to go deeper inside than Art’s dick ever could (and that says a lot).

(I don't want to spoil anything, but I'll just say that every gif I use is for a reason).

It was a strange day. One of those days that can’t quite decide whether it’s the last breath of winter or the first yawn of spring. A dry, howling wind—as dry as the desert—scratched at your eyes and filled your lungs with burning sand.

And yet, in the shade, the humidity soaked you to the bone, as if sadness itself were trying to bloom inside you in the form of mushrooms.

But you’d be lying if you said that was what was bothering you. Your irritated eyes, your tight chest, your uncomfortable body... they weren’t complaining about the outside world—but the inside one.

And you realized—with a kind of cruel irony—that this dissonant weather was the perfect mirror of your emotional wreckage: a chaotic storm hammering at your temples.

You were heading home in a rush, with the urgency of someone who doesn’t want to be seen. You didn’t want to run into anyone, and if you had… you probably wouldn’t have noticed—because you didn’t have it in you to lift your eyes from the ground, let alone meet someone’s gaze.

Well… maybe one gaze.

You’re not a serious person. You don’t usually get angry at anyone, much less hurt them—you don’t want to.

And that person… He isn’t used to seeing you sad, to feeling you distant, to the silence of a shadow without arms—you have no idea how he’s going to react to all this. Will he become your emotional support clown? Will he laugh at you? Will he vanish for days like you’re some sickly plant that needs to be left alone to recover?

You stormed into the building like a burglar. You opened the door with the kind of anxiety that wants to phase through matter. You climbed the stairs—those endless stairs. Everything was a gray blur—no edges, no contrast—a tasteless fog you swallowed without thinking. A grayness you longed to turn into something more legible: a balance of black and white.

And finally, your front door. You made a beeline for your room—craving your pajamas, your bed, a splash of fresh water to rinse away the tears, anything that would feel soft against your skin.

You greeted Art in passing, who was half-asleep on the couch—probably recharging before heading out to cause his usual nighttime chaos. He barely managed to let out a groggy “Honk!” before you vanished upstairs without looking back.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see him…

It was that you didn’t want him to see you like this.

And that… that is what truly unsettles him.

Art is used to your greetings being full of kisses and laughter, with hugs and playful shoves. You, who speak to him like a well-tuned violin; you, who drown him in affection as naturally as breathing. And he—who is all flesh and expression, who loves through the body, who needs those gestures like a dancer needs music.

So, he slowly sits up, stretching and yawning in an exaggerated  motion. He sniffs the air, trying to detect any traces of menstrual blood in your scent—just in case it might explain your behavior—but no. Nothing.

It’s another kind of scent that reaches him—familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

He rolls up his sleeve to check the time on his invisible watch and nods with confident flair.

“Cue the sad music… it’s time for the clown to step into the spotlight. ”

Art climbs the wooden stairs, careful not to make a sound, dodging every creaky board—he knows them by heart, like a spider that knows each thread of its web.

Upstairs, your bedroom door is slightly ajar. He peeks in cautiously—scouting the terrain before making his entrance. He sees you lying on the bed, turned away from him, silently sobbing into a pillow, your arms coiled tightly around it.

An invisible knife cuts through his heart at the sight.

He can’t help but collapse dramatically against the wall, gazing up at the ceiling, one hand clutching his chest. Not because he’s sorrowful—but because he’s offended. 

Offense. Pure, undignified offense.

“What does that pillow have that I don’t? And why haven’t I turned it to ashes yet?”, he thinks, hurt.

But he collects himself. He’ll deal with that plush lover later—with all the fury a pillow fight can offer.

He slips through the door quietly—just wide enough to let his lean body in—and closes it back to exactly how it was, careful not to disturb the soft, shadowy cocoon you’d created.

He kneels by the edge of the bed, and—for one fleeting second—the thought of honking right into your ear crosses his mind. (Intrusive thoughts… are strong). But he resists—he’s clearly fighting for your affection against a dangerously cuddly rival.

Instead, he gently lets himself fall beside you, doing his best not to disturb you. His arms carefully wrap around your waist; you feel his chest against your back, his breath brushing softly across your shoulders. The sensation is warm, soothing, intimate… and it makes you blush, pulling an involuntary first smile from your lips.

His hands go searching for yours—as they always do—to interlace your fingers. Needing your warmth, your touch... connection.

When—

BAM!

To hell with the pillow.

Art runs into it before he finds your hands and hurls it against the wall at the speed of light—with all the jealousy and rage the world has ever known. Had there been a window, it would’ve landed in the neighbor’s house.

“I’ll pluck every feather from your body later,” he thinks, with the kind of anger he saves only for those foolish enough to touch you—already sentencing it to a slow, velvety death.

You look at him, stunned, blinking at the sudden, unprovoked assault.

His expression softens instantly when your eyes meet his.

Now his hands change course, reaching for your hair, gently brushing back a few strands from your face... just so he can really see you.

And he stays there, silent, watching you: Swollen lips, red eyes, tears still sliding down your chin...

It’s a face he’s seen a hundred times—on other people, in other moments, usually under flickering lights or right before a final scream—but somehow, seeing it on you... it’s like the first time. It doesn’t amuse him like it usually would, he doesn’t want to make it worse… in fact, he doesn’t even want to keep looking at it.

He leans in and kisses you—softly.

Sloppy kisses—silly, clumsy, innocent… One after another; like summer rain.

You feel his lips brushing yours gently—soft, playful. Kisses landing on your lower lip, at the corners of your mouth—like butterflies. His tongue peeks out timidly, just enough to graze you, never to intrude.

He’s not trying to seduce you.

He’s trying to comfort you… and somehow, he's doing a surprisingly good job.

His mouth finds the salty trail of a tear and follows it, drinks it, erases it. He cleans the droplets on your chin with trembling lips as if they were little stalactites—like he’s trying to absorb the pain directly from your skin.

You think about speaking. About telling him how grateful you are for this—how much his presence, his gestures, his way of loving you… actually calms you.

But you choose silence instead—letting your body say it all. Letting your fingers, your breath, the gentle movement of your mouth over his, speak for you. Letting your body language talk to him the way his talks to you—you speak the same language, the kind that doesn’t need translation.

Because in this moment—strange, warm, intimate—you both know there’s nothing more to say.

You bring your hands to his face—and gently—guide him, laying him down beside you. Never stopping the kisses… never breaking the spell.

Now you’re both fully lying down, on the same level. Eyes closed—though every now and then, Art sneaks one open to spy on your face (he still can’t quite believe how much you like kissing him).

Your bodies curl into a human nest, arms and legs tangled comfortably in a tight, warm embrace, full of tenderness—no urgency, no hunger, no desire. Just love.

You caress his face with one hand, and with the other, you gently guide his hand toward your lips—kissing his fingers, his knuckles, the back of his hand, his wrists… You feel the fine hairs on his arm rise, and how that wave travels upward, upward, like your kisses were a gentle electric current.

Art pulls back slightly and takes a deep breath—releasing it in a sigh that can only mean… peace.

There’s a soft, innocent smile on his lips now, and a light blush blooming on his cheeks—he can’t help it.

Then, he moves his hand away from your mouth.

Your brow furrows, just a little, puzzled.

But the confusion turns to wonder in an instant.

Because you see what Art is doing.

He lifts the pinky finger of his right hand. "I"

He crosses the index and middle fingers of both hands, then opens them wide. "love"

He points at you with his index finger. "you"

You don’t know much sign language—yet. But you had asked Art to teach you some important things.

And this—this one in particular—was one of the first you’d wanted to learn.

It’s the first time you see him doing it for real. No rehearsals. No jokes. No distractions...

And something in your chest melts sweetly.

Your eyes well up with tears—and this time, they’re tears of joy—and Art looks even more confused.

He watches you in silence, tilting his head with that trademark perplexed expression. His eyes scan your face with that curious look he gets when he doesn’t understand what’s going on—when he’s starting to suspect he might be the sane one in the room.

“Why do I always make people cry?” he wonders, proud of himself in the most frustrating way possible.

Then, as always, he decides the best way to handle discomfort… is to make it his own.

He throws himself at you with ridiculous theatrics and pulls you into a tight hug. So tight your face ends up smashed against his chest, barely able to breathe.

He starts repeating the “I love you” gesture again in sign language… but now in the most utterly chaotic, clumsy, exaggerated way possible—his hands flailing like a mute, stuttering ADHD octopus.

His movements are visual mayhem. Adorable mayhem.

And that—that pulls a laugh out of you, scattering the tears.

Art always seems like an emotional disaster, and yet he has this incredible ability to make you feel better—even when he has no idea what he’s doing. (A good clown, after all—if we ignore the whole “murder” thing—could probably brighten up a birthday or two.)

You try to mimic the gesture too, as best you can, but Art’s hugs aren’t bear hugs, they’re bear traps.

So all you can do is... shout.

“I LOVE YOU TOO! I LOVE YOU TOO!” you yell against his chest, hoping your ribs survive.

Your ribs will survive.

But your heart—most certainly—won’t.

That night, Art came back at a surprisingly reasonable hour—It was exactly 12:00 a.m. on the dot.

He rang your doorbell—as usual—covered in blood like a walking clot. He was in a great mood, even more than usual.

Art, unlike the rest of us mortals, always finishes work with renewed vitality—and, well… reduced vitality from others.

He kissed you carefully, trying not to get too much blood on you—though let’s be honest, nothing was going to save you from the butt slap.

He headed straight to the shower, no detours, which was… another sign that something was off.

Art’s just happy to see me happy again, and he doesn’t want to mess it up, you thought.

It had been a long day, and the only thing you truly needed now was something easy and comforting to eat.

So, in an act of pure wisdom, you decided to order pizza.

Art is sitting next to you on the couch when the doorbell rings:

DING DONG!

He doesn’t even need a second to think. His head snaps toward the door like a hunting dog that just sensed the delivery guy from miles away.

He throws you a knowing look, a mischievous little grin over his shoulder as he walks by. His eyebrows bounce playfully, his tongue shamelessly licking his lips.

I always have to be the one to order, but honestly? Worth it, you think to yourself, never taking your eyes off him.

"50 SECONDS IS YOUR RECORD!" you shout from the couch, stopwatch in hand.

Art strides toward the door with purpose, plants himself in front of it, and before opening it, does a few breathing exercises like an actor prepping for a major monologue.

And then...

CREEEAAAK...

He opens the door—slowly, dramatically. The hinge wails like a portal to hell. The door groans so loud, so cursed, it sounds like it’s haunted by its own misery.

On the other side, the delivery guy stands, smiling with the pizza in hand. But that smile lasts approximately 0.2 seconds.

Because facing him is not Art’s "few friends" face—it’s his "DEAD friends" face.

*In my language, there's an expression used to describe someone who looks unfriendly — we say they 'have a face of few. friends' That's where the joke comes from, because Art doesn't just have the face of someone with few friends; he looks like he killed them. I couldn't find a close way to translate it into English, so I'm explaining it here.*

“C-cash or… card, sir?” the poor guy whispers, holding the box out with visibly trembling hands.

Art looks up, feigns deep thought and then—

ZAS!

In an impossible quick motion, Art pulls his hands from behind his back and stabs the pizza from below, impaling it with something that is neither cash nor card.

“Big knife… or BIGGER knife?” his eyes say. 

The delivery guy goes paler than Art’s face. He watches the tomato sauce drip and suddenly… empathise—sees himself in that pizza’s place.

He drops the box—now skewered—and bolts down the stairs like a bat out of hell.

Art wipes away a tear from laughing too hard, soaking in the chaos.

“HONK! HONK! HONK!”

He curses out his mother through the horn, watching him run down the stairs, watching him completely lose it on the way down, watching more than one open fracture stick out, watching with absolute certainty that he won’t be making it to the hospital.

Finally, with the pizza in hand, he shuts the door and lifts the lid. The smell of melted cheese fills the room, blending with the lingering aura of natural terror and fresh trauma, setting the perfect mood for a romantic dinner.

Art sets it down on the table and plops beside you, sliding an arm around your shoulders—radiating the pride of an elite psychopath who plays competitively "Bring food, or become food.”

He looks at you like he just pulled off the stunt of a lifetime.

Which, to you, he absolutely did.

You’ll never have to pay for delivery again (though yes, you do need to rotate food places every two weeks to avoid investigations—but hey, free food is free food).

“48 SECONDS, BABY!!!!” you announce, stopping the timer, and clap your hands. “Gold medal for the champion,” you say, pretending to place an imaginary medal around his neck.

Art gives you a high five, already munching on a slice—still impaled, of course, because using hands is way too basic for him.

But now comes the interesting part—the reason Art was so cheerful when he arrived.

The movie you were watching suddenly gets interrupted by breaking news.

You glance at Art—who’s wearing a picture-perfect expression of surprise, his mouth forming a flawless "O." He turns to look at you, keeping that same face, as if he had absolutely no idea what’s about to be said.

📢 BREAKING NEWS — MILES COUNTY DIARY📢

"At 10:38 p.m., two bodies were found on the outskirts of Miles County, next to a video camera. The investigation team has confirmed that the footage shows the presence of Art, the infamous homicidal clown. Authorities are urging residents to stay indoors, lock all doors and windows. The following images contain graphic violence. Viewer discretion is advised. This material may be disturbing for some audiences. Watch at your own risk."

"What is this, Art?" you ask, genuinely confused.

Art simply points at the screen, smiling wide, eyes sparkling with excitement—he’s only missing a tub of popcorn, though the pizza works just as well.

"I love how they say ‘stay indoors, lock all doors and windows,’" you say, chuckling. "Because obviously I’m going to do all that… with my homicidal clown already inside."

You both burst out laughing at the irony.

The footage begins—Art raises a finger to his lips, signaling a “shhh”.

The recording starts with a jarring camera shake, as if someone had hit “record” by accident… or abruptly. The image wobbles for a few seconds before stabilizing, revealing a deeply unsettling scene:

A man tied to a chair, duct tape wrapped tightly around his torso, wrists, and ankles. He’s in a dark room, lit only by a single harsh, yellowish spotlight hanging above his head, casting a long, trembling shadow on the wall behind him.

“Please… I don’t want to diiiie,” he pleads through clenched teeth, looking straight into the camera.

Art swings the camera side to side, shaking it as if to say “no”—so even the audience gets the message… though he hasn’t shown himself yet.

He walks up to the man and gently strokes his hair—as if to comfort him—bringing the camera in close to capture his bruised face and glassy eyes—with dilated pupils. It looks like Art injected him with something to keep him awake.

It seems there are wires at the base of his neck—subtle, almost hidden—, as they trail behind his head.

“Wh-what do you want from me…?” the man whispers, trembling.

Art then pulls out a knife and shows it to him—the man freezes, eyes locked on the blade.

Art passes the knife slowly near his Adam’s apple, not quite touching it.

“I have a wife… she’s pregnant…” the man blurts out, trying to appeal to some flicker of mercy.

Art finally turns the camera toward himself for the first time. He makes an exaggerated pout, clearly heartbroken by the situation, clearly full of sympathy, clearly… performing.

“You’ll never know what love is!” the man spits at him, desperate and furious.

Art pauses.

He points to himself with a skeptical face…then points to the man’s face… then back to himself again—like a sarcastic seesaw, a pantomime of disbelief.

As if to say:

“Are you sure about that?”

Then, he lifts his hat and—

TADA!

He pulls out a photo of you. He doesn’t show it to the camera, but he holds it up to the man with a reverent gesture. So proud and happy.

He turns the camera back to his own face, now wearing a smug, satisfied smile. He kisses the photo with a dainty little “mwah”, presses it to his chest where his heart is, and tucks it safely away again.

Without warning, he points a gun at the man.

The man freezes in pure, bone-deep terror.

Art hands him a piece of paper, neatly folded.

But the guy’s wrists are still tied, so Art very helpfully proceeds to stab one of his hands repeatedly, destroying it completely before leaving it free enough to hold the paper.

The man screams in agony—his hand now practically useless, bones poking through like shattered twigs.

Art just laughs—though you don’t hear it. But you see it: shoulders shaking, chest bouncing, tongue poking out playfully from the corner of his mouth.

He steps back a few paces, angling the camera to get a perfect wide shot, making sure to capture every second of the show.

The man is trembling. Crying. Begging. Bleeding. 

Art makes a very clear gesture with the gun.

Read.

The man swallows hard, sobbing, and begins to read out loud the handwritten message from the killer himself:

“You are the sky stretched over my hell, the bloom that rose where my body fell, the nightmare I long for, night after night, the fall I crave, more than the flight. I no longer know if this is a curse— for every drop of blood forgets its path, and every stream, no matter how dire, leads back to you through pain and desire. It must be a curse—this aching delight, that makes me weak and steals my fight. It makes me fear what I never did: not monsters or death—but feelings I hid. I fear to die—drenched in endless black. I fear your death—I'd bleed the heavens to bring you back. Treachery’s the sin most deeply damned— a sin I never knew, until today. And now I’d drown, with pride and grace, in Cocytus’ cold, in death’s embrace— for you have made me turn on me, and crowned me my worst enemy. You were my first delicious mistake, and you’ll be the final breath I’ll take. So I ask you now—divine, unholy— Will you marry me, my one and only?”

*In Dante's Divine Comedy, the lake Cocytus is the ninth and final circle of Hell, an immense frozen wasteland where traitors are punished. This icy region is marked by the extreme cold caused by Lucifer's wings, meant to punish betrayal.*

You're completely absorbed in the recording.

And that last line—that line—snaps you back to reality like a bucket of cold water… or cold blood.

Your soul slams back into your body, and for the umpteenth time today, your eyes well up with tears.

Because when you turn your head…

Art is no longer sitting on the couch.

He’s not there.

He’s no longer beside you.

He’s kneeling on the floor… with a small black box in his hand, holding a beautiful ring that looks like it was forged in the most intimate corner of hell.

In his other hand, he holds a bouquet of ghost flowers—pale Monotropa uniflora. 

Their waxy, translucent stems trembling like glass on the verge of breaking—white, ethereal, eerie, spectral… yet real. 

Just like him.

Rootless things that bloom in the dark, feeding on decay, and yet… so full of beauty. He offers them with care, as if they were precious, impossible things. 

The recording is still playing, but nothing’s happening—As if even past Art is holding his breath, waiting for your answer.

“Oh… Art…”

You can’t find the words. Your throat tightens, but an undeniable smile blooms across your face.

“Yes. Of course yes! I’ve never wanted anything more in my life… I LOVE YOU.”

You kneel down to hug him, not even looking at the perfect ring waiting for your finger… honestly, nothing seems more perfect right now than your… husband.

Art sets the box and the bouquet gently on the table and lifts you up in a hug that sweeps your feet off the ground.

And he kisses you like it’s the first time—which, in a way, it is.

The first time—as spouses.

The recording flickers back to life: romantic music begins to play, a soft waltz worthy of an enchanted, bizarre wedding.

Of course Art planned this. Of course it went flawlessly.

You start dancing without thinking, without speaking… just floating.

The moment couldn’t be more dreamlike—you never imagined, as a child, that your proposal would look anything like this—but honestly… it’s unbeatable.

On screen, the other Art appears again—he’s applauding, blowing kisses at the camera, wiping away an invisible tear.

He signals to the man beside him, gesturing for him to clap as well—as if he knows—as if he can somehow see what’s happening right now on the other side of the screen.

While you and Art keep dancing, video-Art—visibly satisfied—, takes a step back.

With a final bow, he steps away from the man and pulls out a small detonator. 

He smiles wide, eyes darkening with a slow, delicious malice.

Your Art points to the screen, urging you to watch.

Video-Art presses the button and—

For a moment, nothing happens.

And then—

BAAAAM 

The man’s head explodes in a monstrous fireball, accompanied by homemade fireworks—a burst of color, violence and celebration.

His brains go flying, scattered through the air like confetti. Blood gushes out like a fountain, a crimson rain of eternal love.

Video-Art jumps with joy, twirling under the blood shower—it turned out exactly as he’d planned.

He holds up a finger in a 'wait a minute' gesture, then casually walks off, as if he's gone to get something

The music keeps playing.

Then he reappears, now dancing with… another headless body?

(Maybe the first take wasn’t good enough).

And the scene continues.

Music and blood.

Dance and delirium.

Death and the corpse entering and exiting frame with hypnotic steps.

And you, without thinking, keep dancing too—dancing with your own sweet death.

As you kiss him, as you caress his face, your hearts beat in sync—chest to chest, as if trying to merge into one.

Art reaches for the box again from the table. His eyes are glowing, eager to see how beautifully the ring fits your hand.

The ring he made himself.

He shows it to you, and this time, you finally take in every detail that the rush of emotion had blurred before.

It’s elegant—it’s perfect. Exactly the right proportions for your finger.

Tiny jewels are embedded in the ring: obsidian and pearls, mirroring his own colors—as if his essence had crystallized inside the ring.

His, on the other hand, is not nearly as ornate—you could say he poured all his effort into yours.

Or perhaps, for him, it was enough to have something that simply matched you.

And then you see the inside.

And on the inner band, there’s a detail so deliberate it actually frightens you—frightens you with how carefully Art prepared this moment.

Etched with almost reverent precision, something leaves you breathless:

Your names.

Together.

Engraved like a prayer—or maybe an eternal curse.

There’s no way to tell which.

It’s beautiful. And it’s yours.

You start to slide the ring onto your finger… but Art stops you.

He takes your hand gently, and he’s the one to slip the ring on, watching with deep satisfaction as it fits perfectly.

Of course it does.

He made it for you—maybe that’s why he was always staring at your hands with such devotion.

"I love you, Art. Forever," you whisper, admiring your hand—now complete.

Art kisses your hand in response, his eyes glowing with emotion.

"Your turn," you say with a soft smile, holding his ring now.

He offers his hand a little shyly, and you kiss it gently, reassuringly. You feel his whole body relax beneath your touch.

You slide the ring onto his finger, and yes—it fits perfectly too.

And then your hands find each other—fingers lacing together like puzzle pieces finally reunited after a long, winding search.

You look at each other, you smile and… for a moment, you see someone else. Or rather, you see something in him you’d never seen before.

There’s the faintest gloss in Art’s eyes, like something unspoken stirred him.

You’ve never seen him cry—and he certainly can’t remember the last time he did… if he ever did at all.

But you didn't get the chance to read it, to piece it together—to make sense of it.

Because, suddenly, the light fades—

The video ends at that exact moment—as if past Art had sensed a tear slipping out, and decided to protect himself in the future by cutting away just in time.

The music fades.

The tv-screen goes black.

And the room is left in total darkness.

There’s nothing left now… but this:

The kisses.

The embraces.

The darkness.

The silence dance.

The presence.

The warmth.

One for the other, forever.

The next morning, you couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened.

You’re not even sure Art fully understands what marriage means (besides owning a perpetual hostage)—and maybe, yes; it was impulsive.

But then you remember… Art lives every day on the edge of death.

That thought always brings a quiet, heavy sadness that settles in your chest, and you can’t shake it.

Because deep down, you know your relationship won’t last forever.

Not because the love will fade—but because he will.

Quite literally, any day could be his last. 

And he knows it.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to lose the chance to marry you—before he ran out of time to do it.

Before the day comes when you no longer have to worry about blood-soaked clown shoe prints to clean.

Before the day comes when he stops showing up at your door.

Before the day comes when there's nothing left of him but the quiet.

Before the day you realize he's already gone.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end.

You could say you just read a little piece of my soul—I truly poured my feelings into this, especially into Art’s poem.

I adore writing poetry, and even if it’s not exactly perfect, I believe I managed to express everything I wanted to in the best way I could.

While I was writing the ending, I couldn’t help but shed a few tears, because at that point, it wasn’t the reader speaking anymore—it was me, thinking about everything I had written and why.

I think I hadn't fully realized that someday, I’ll have to say goodbye to Art for real—that I’ll never see him on the big screen again.

But that’s necessary, and it can't be any other way.

This character truly is so special, and even though I want him to have the most brutal, torturous death in the whole franchise—because he absolutely deserves it...

I’m not ready to watch him die.

Also, this is what the bouquet of ghost flowers kind of looked like:

[blasphemousclaw]

Like I do genuinely think they maybe should have replaced Radahn’s appearance with Godwyn’s instead? I know his soul has been slain, but I just like the idea that even the kindly Miquella is still on this naïve journey to become a god and bring back his dead brother to become his lord who honestly wouldn’t really be the same and would probably just be a husk of Death incarnate itself, but he wouldn’t care because he’s still grieving for him.

With that being said, the whole Metyr lore was super good, the whole reveal that the two fingers actually don’t really know what’s going on and they’re kinda just pulling shit out of their ass just adds a whole layer to the tragedy of the game, like all of these events were really for nothing and it just makes the Frenzy Flame ending and Ranni’s ending more understandable

ehhhh I absolutely see where the “it should’ve been Godwyn” mindset comes from and I agree with a lot of the arguments to an extent, but I’m not sure bringing back Godwyn’s soul entirely works for me?

I think Miquella’s attempts to return Godwyn’s soul were always going to fail, because his soul was completely and permanently destroyed by Destined Death. The ending to Gurranq/Maliketh’s quest is basically that things can never be the same again, so I don’t think there’s really a way to bring back Godwyn’s soul without it feeling like a contrivance? I really like the fact that he’s a character who can’t ever be brought back; his death was the catalyst for everything, a point of no return. Godwyn not being able to come back gives Ranni’s actions a special weight, that she was willing to permanently destroy his soul if it meant being free from the Two Fingers.

But with that being said, I absolutely see the sense in saying that Godwyn should’ve been Miquella’s lord. What’s strange to me is that Godwyn was set up in the base game to be a beloved older brother figure to Miquella — there’s the statue of him with Miquella and Malenia at the Haligtree, there’s the Golden Epitaph with Miquella’s prayer that he might die a true death, and there’s the spirit at Castle Sol, implying it was Miquella’s intention to return Godwyn’s soul through the eclipse. And now the DLC says that Miquella always looked up to Radahn as an older brother, when this relationship was never even hinted at in the base game, so it ends up feeling out of nowhere. If Radahn was always the one Miquella envisioned as his consort, then why is Godwyn the only brother he’s ever shown to have had a significant relationship with?

And, it’s also true that Godwyn ending the war against the dragons with diplomacy and bringing about peace really embodies what Miquella would consider admirable, since his quest in the DLC is in part to heal the hurts caused by Marika’s war of vengeance long ago. Radahn, on the other hand, is known for idealizing Godfrey, who helped Marika enact her wars of conquest, and for loving conflict so much that he literally fought the stars themselves. Miquella was said to have admired Radahn for his strength and kindness, but there aren’t really any instances showing Radahn being renowned for his kindness, except for his love for his horse? (the loyalty of his soldiers doesn’t count. Rykard had die-hard soldiers too and we know what he’s like)

On the other hand, I feel like Radahn as Miquella’s consort works thematically as a concept because Miquella’s journey in the Shadow Lands mirror’s Marika’s own ascent to godhood, and Radahn is like Godfrey’s spiritual heir. I’m also compelled by the idea of Miquella idealizing a young Radahn for his strength and kindness, only for Radahn to become corrupt during the Shattering, warring for the sake of war… which is why Miquella brings back specifically the young version of Radahn whom he idealized. It’s like a vision of Radahn colored by a child’s naïveté, and it belies the irony of beginning an “Age of Compassion” with the demigod who idealized war the most at his side. I think all of this makes for a more interesting story than Miquella somehow bringing back Godwyn’s soul.

BUT I still believe that this story was not developed enough. Again, we don’t SEE enough of Radahn’s relationship to Miquella hinted at beforehand, so this FEELS like a cheap plot twist. Godwyn was the one with the established relationship to Miquella in the base game, so it being revealed that Radahn was actually the one he always wanted to be his lord is like… huh? since when???

anyway I also really loved Count Ymir’s quest and the revelations about the Fingers… the Two Fingers say that the Greater Will hasn’t abandoned this realm, but I think it’s clear now that they’ve been without the Greater Will’s guidance for a long, long time. Since we know Count Ymir was Rellana’s teacher, I wonder if his distrust in the guidance of the Fingers somehow came to influence Ranni?

[azuresage]

It gets talked about a lot but I still can't stop nerding out about Link's characterization in TotK. It's done through his many creative dialogue choices and his expressions of course, but it's also done so subtly through what he *doesn't* say. Notably, he doesn't talk about himself. And this is why nobody recognizes him unless they've already met him. Because he doesn't tell them when they've got the wrong impression of him.

The meme about Link having Tony Hawk syndrome is so real. People will look at him and straight up say, "Wow, you look exactly like Link!" without a hint of irony. Lookout Landing has a detailed picture of his face in their watchtower and the search party still doesn't recognize him. Penn works with Link for a long time and thinks he's unlucky that the Yiga keep "mistaking" him for the Hero (granted, Traysi asked him to deliberately keep quiet, but Penn still didn't put two and two together himself). I think the reason for this, aside from it being really, really funny, is that Link just doesn't talk about himself. He doesn't feel the need to.

Characterization isn't just about what we see a character doing, it's also about how other characters respond to them. Link is so unassuming and humble that he doesn't match people's expectations of what "Link" should be like. The three Gerudo ladies hanging out around Outskirt Stable are one of many perfect examples. Link stands in front of them carrying the Master Sword, but they expect the Hero to be taller than they are, with a giant glowing sword, so they don’t believe it's him. Obviously that's not the reality, but they don't know that. Link doesn't correct them, either. Again, he doesn't feel the need to.

This is also why many NPCs from BotW don't recognize or remember Link. To them, he was just a passerby that did them a good turn once 6+ years ago. Nobody's going to remember a person like that for so long after. They had no way of knowing he was the Hero, unless it came up for story quest reasons. When they hear stories about the Princess's Appointed Knight who woke up from his 100 year nap, defeated the Calamity, and rescued Zelda, they imagine someone larger than life. Then when they see what Link actually is like, they can't put two and two together.

This is true even during the Hyrule Restoration efforts. Link always follows behind Zelda as her shadow, which she notes in her diary, but the people in the stable investigation quests and in Hateno don't recognize him either, even though he went everywhere she did. Link is just that unassuming. He resigns himself to being a shadow, allowing Zelda to take the lead and do as she pleases but always staying nearby to support and protect her. He doesn't need to be recognizable to do his job. And we know from both BotW and now TotK that he's wholly devoted to her. He's content with this. Many people more eloquent than I have spent many paragraphs elaborating on this. I just wanted to focus on what it says about his character.

Link is humble and unassuming, so much so that nobody believes that he's the Hero unless they already know him. He's devoted to Zelda, so much so that he's willing to do anything to chase even a glimpse of her. He doesn't talk about himself or correct people who have the wrong impression of him. He doesn't need to do that to chase his Zelda. He is a person of great humility in spite of his station. I think that's so interesting and neat how the comedy of him being unrecognizable also tells us all this about him. It's also cool how this is only one aspect of him; all the dialogue choices and expressions he makes during cutscenes and actions out in the world show a whole other, lighter side to him that meshes with this. It's all so good. I am in love with it. It always kills me inside when people dismiss his characterization as being nonexistant or flat just because it's not spoonfed to them or when they say Link being unrecognizable is lazy writing instead of a deliberate choice. I am biting and gnawing and gnashing over him and his relationship to Zelda. I love them so much.

[jamdoughnutmagician]

So, now everyone knows.

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader Word Count:4,302 (oops!) Summary:As it turns out you're not as slick as you think you are when it comes to sneaking around in secret with your boyfriend. Warnings:Smut, 18+, Humour, Fluff.

This was born of a silly NYE drabble that I wrote, and it kind of spiralled into a fic inspired by everyone finding out about Chandler and Monica's relationship in Friends.

Steve Harrington Masterlist // Masterlist

*also not proof-read, so if you saw mistakes no you didn't :)

Steve and you were the only ones left, tidying up after yet another big party at the Harrington residence. Steve always insisted on having the parties at his parents house, seeing as his parents were barely there enough to care whoever it was that he invited over. He was never this lucky with the small apartment he shared with Eddie, so he often took advantage of the palatial space that his parent’s huge house afforded him.

You were sitting down with him on his couch, having tidied up, just chatting about anything and everything that came to mind.

You and Steve had been friends for absolutely ages. You had met him when you were in the second grade, after you had moved with your family to Hawkins. He was the kind boy who befriended you in the playground, offering you a share of his animal crackers and ever since then the two of you have been inseparable.

“I’m probably going to die an old woman surrounded by cats, aren’t I?” you huff as you swig a few drops of beer from your bottle. 

Steve knew all about your numerous failed dates, of course he did. He was always the one to help put you back together when you inevitably came home alone with a frown and a small shake of your head. The dark smudge of mascara gathering in your lashes from the beginnings of disappointed tears.  

“Look, if these guys can't see how amazing you are, then honestly, it's their loss.” Steve says, giving your shoulder a gentle nudge. “You're so beautiful, and any guy would be lucky to date you.” He tells you.

You leaned your head on his shoulder with a soft sigh.

“You're my best friend, Steve. You have to say that.”

“I’m not just saying that, it’s true, okay? I mean you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” he turns to you, without any hint of irony or sarcasm in his voice at all.

You lean close to him and wrap your arms over his shoulders, your fingers ruffling into his hair, as you smash your lips against his. He matches your kiss with fiery passion of his own, his tongue slipping past your lips as he explores into your mouth.

You both pull away from each other slightly breathless and flushed.

“Well I’ve never done that with you before.” Steve chuckles slightly, still feeling the tingling buzz of your lips on his.

“Neither have I, but I liked it.” you admit shyly.

“Yeah, I liked it too. I liked it a lot, actually.” Steve blushes before leaning in close to kiss you again.

After that kiss everything changed. You and Steve had secretly started dating one another for a few weeks now. Neither of you wanted to tell any of your friends quite yet, for fear of it ruining a relationship that was running pretty smoothly.

The mind-blowing sex was just an added bonus.

“Steve…” you moaned, letting a quiet whimper slip past your lips.

“Shh Honey, gotta be quiet for me okay?” Steve worried as he kissed your lips to silence your cries of pleasure. The fact of Eddie being in the bedroom next door did nothing to deter the wandering hands of your boyfriend. “Don’t wanna wake up Eddie.”

You huffed out quiet breaths as Steve slowly rolled his hips up into you, his messy hair falling in front of his eyes as he leaned down to kiss you.

“You feel so good Honey…” Steve murmured against your lips as his hip movements picked up, chasing both his and your highs. With Steve’s thumb gently rubbing precise circles on your clit and his cock filling you so deeply it didn’t take long before you were squeezing around him, milking him of his release as you came.

Steve slowly pulls himself out of you, watching as his cum spills out from your glistening cunt. He quickly grabs his old t-shirt from the floor, before using it to clean you up and then throwing it into the washing basket in the corner of the room. 

Pulling you close to his body, he spoons you in his warmth, covering the pair of you in his duvet before softly kissing his lips against your shoulder.

“G'nite, Honey.”

“Night Stevie.”

You carefully prise Steve’s arm from around your waist and pull yourself out of bed before quietly reaching for your underwear and borrowing one of Steve's clean t-shirts from his drawers.

The blinking red numbers from his digital clock beam back at you in the dark room. 03:55am. 

You carefully slip out of the bedroom without rousing Steve from his sleep, all with the intention to head back to your shared apartment with Robin across the hall. All you would have to do was quietly slip back into your room and nobody would be any the wiser.

Closing the bedroom door on your way out you are suddenly shocked to see Eddie sitting on the couch, a bowl of cereal in hands and spoon dangling from his open mouth.

“What are you doing here?” you accuse Eddie.

“I got hungry and I made myself cereal. Plus I live here.” he smirks. “I think a better question is what are you doing here? And why are you wearing Steve’s shirt?”

You stand there stuttering for a moment, unsure of what to say.

“OH MY GOD YOU TWO ARE SLEEPING TOGETHER?” Eddie screams as slowly begins to piece together what was going on.

“Will you keep your voice down, Munson.” you chastise in a shouted whisper, as you jab a finger in his direction.

“Hey, what’s going on out here? What’s all the shouting about?” Steve mumbles sleepily as he yawns and rakes a hand through his ruffled hair, but as he takes in your appearance, your body draped in his shirt and Eddie’s accusatory gaze, he rushes by your side immediately. 

“Oh nothing. Except for the fact that you two have apparently been sleeping together for god knows how long.” Eddie states, his voice rising in tone with shock.

“We didn’t want to say anything, because we didn’t want to make a big deal about it.” Steve explains, with a flush rising to his freckled cheeks at having been caught out by his roomate.

“But it is a big deal.” Eddie huffs. “How long has this little thing been going on for anyway?”

“Since Steve’s party.” you reply.

“But Steve’s party was like 3 months ago?” Eddie stutters.

“You can’t tell anyone about this Eddie, please, I’m begging you.” you plead, giving him your best puppy-dog eyes

“Oh alright fine. I’ll keep your little secret.” Eddie huffs with a resigned sigh.

“Thank you.” Both you and Steve say in unison, a relief washing over both of you.

That was fine. It was only Eddie who knew about your’s and Steve’s relationship. And he wasn’t going to tell anyone. Everything was going to be just fine.

Robin slouched as she made her way through the apartment doors with a huff. Working at the library and stacking and organising books on the shelf took way more energy than she cared to admit to.

She trudged her feet towards the phone on the coffee table, peeling off the little sticky post-it note tacked on top of it. It’s in your handwriting.

Meeting up with an old friend. Don’t wait up for me, won’t be back until much later. X   

Huh, weird? You never mentioned anything about meeting up with an old friend? Perhaps this was something that came up last minute, you were always the more spontaneous one out of the two of you.

Robin shrugs it off, not thinking much of it as she picks up the phone to check her answering phone messages.

“Hey, so I'll be over at your place later, I'll just tell Robin I'm meeting an old friend.” Robin’s eyebrows knit together, upon hearing your voice on the answering machine.

“An old friend huh? I don’t think you can really call me an old friend when you’ve had your mouth on my dic-” Robin’s eyes widened in shock upon hearing Steve’s voice on the other end of the conversation. She yelps as she quickly slams the phone back down before she could hear how that message was going to end.

You and Steve were hooking up? How long had that been going on for?

You sat with Robin and Eddie gathered on your apartment's couch, catching up after work.

“Well it’s been nice chatting, but I’ve got to go. I promised an old friend I would meet up with them for drinks.” you smiled to your friends as you excused yourself and made your way out of the apartment.

Eddie just looks at you with a sly smirk before taking a sip of his beer. Robin eyed Eddie suspiciously, and although he never said anything, just from one look at him Robin could tell that he knew more than he was letting on.

“Weird how all of a sudden she’s meeting up with this “old friend”, don’t you think.” Robin says, raising the question.

“Is it?” Eddie replies, playing dumb.

“Say, Eddie, you wouldn’t mind going over to Steve’s bedroom and getting that book I lent him last week?” Robin asks, her eyebrows raising slightly as she directs her question to him.

“Uh..Do you need it now? Like right now?” Eddie replies cautiously, knowing full well that if he goes over to his apartment now that he would likely catch you and Steve in a very compromising position, and Eddie didn’t need that kind of visual trauma inflicted upon his eyes.

Robin once again eyes her friend’s nervous nature as he shifts uncomfortably on the couch, fidgeting under her glare, his fingers playing with his clunky metal rings as a distraction.

“Do you know something?” Eddie pipes up.

“Do you know something?” Robin parrots back his question.

“I might know something.” Eddie replies shortly.

“I might know something too.” Robin says cryptically.

“What’s the thing that you know?” Eddie presses.

“Oh no, I can’t tell you the thing that I know, until you tell me the thing that you know.” Robin answers with a shake of her head.

“Well I can’t tell you what I know.” 

“..And I can’t tell you what I know.” Robin responds, still playing her cards close to her chest.

Eddie fixes her with a glare of his own. A tense silence falling between the two.

“You don’t know anything.” Eddie rolled his eyes with a scoffing laugh.

“Alright, fine.” Robin huffs, standing up from the couch. “How about I go over to Steve’s apartment and I will see the thing that I think I know is actually the thing that I know.”

Eddie’s eyes widen in shock, as he jumps up in realisation that Robin was also in on the secret.

“YOU KNOW ABOUT STEVE AND Y?N?!” Eddie splutters out, the weight of having to keep their secret to himself finally being unburdened.

“Yeah I know! And you know too!” Robin laughs.

“Oh my god, Robin I’ve been dying to talk to someone about this.”

“So what is it then? Are they just having sex or are they, like, dating and stuff? Like, is this serious?” Robin barrages Eddie with an abundance of questions.

Eddie shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders.

“I dunno.” Eddie mumbles.

“Does Nancy know about them? Getting with a friend’s ex-boyfriend, that could be super messy.” Robin keeps running with question after question, letting them filter from her lips as quickly as they enter her brain.

“I dunno about that either.” Eddie admits.

“Yeah you really don’t know anything, do you?” Robin pokes.

“What I do know is this. You remember that time where Steve wore that big scarf a few weeks back? Refused to take it off despite it being the middle of July?” Eddie began.

Robin nodded for him to continue.

“Yeah, his neck was covered in hickeys.”

“I fucking knew it!” Robin cheers with a laugh.

Robin was helping Chrissy to settle into her new apartment. She had just moved into the apartment block across the street from your’s and Robin’s place, so it made it very convenient to gather together for an all girl’s movie night.

“Thanks so much for helping me move in Rob, I don’t know how I could have coped with all these boxes by myself.”

“Don’t mention it, it’s no problem!” Robin smiled, setting down the last box in the living room.

Chrissy wandered over to the heavy curtains in the room, flinging them open to let the light flood into the apartment from the window.

“Oh look it’s Steve and y/n!” she smiled as she spotted the pair of you chatting to one another in the apartment directly opposite hers. “Hey! Guys!” she waves, trying to get your attention.

Before she could turn away she saw you quickly whipping Steve’s shirt over his head, and Steve kissing his lips urgently against your as he held you up, with your legs wrapping around his hips. He presses you against the window as his kisses become more intense and his hands wander to squeeze the soft curve of your hips.

“OH MY GOD! MY EYES! MY EYES!” Chrissy squawked out dramatically. “THEY’RE DOING IT!”

“I know! I know!” Robin tells her, doing her best to calm her down.

“You know?!” Chrissy bubbles out her eyes unblinking as she tries to process what she had just seen.

“Yes. I know and Eddie knows, but Nancy doesn’t know so you can’t say anything about this to her, okay?”

Chrissy nods, with a nerve-steadying breath.

“This is huge, I can’t believe it.”

“I know, trust me. I now know more about my best friend and my roommate's apparently active sex life than I ever have, and ever wanted to know, before.” Robin huffs, before closing the curtains to hide the sight of Steve railing you up against the window.

“So all the time she was on the phone with her ‘old friend’?!” Chrissy asks

“Uh-huh, phone sex.” Robin laughed.

“I can’t believe you told Chrissy about them! I kept their secret, why couldn’t you?” Eddie pokes as he chimes into the conversation.

“I didn’t tell her. She found out on her own.” Robin says defensively.

“Yeah I saw them doing it through the window.” Chrissy explains. “Well I actually saw them doing it up against the window.”

“Yeah, I could’ve gone the rest of my life without seeing Steve’s bare ass if I'm being brutally honest.” Robin adds.

“Okay, so now three of us know about them, we could just tell them and then all the lying and secrets would be over!” Eddie cheers hopefully, wishing to be done with keeping everyone’s secrets.

Robin arches her eyebrow at Eddie, a devious plan forming in her mind.

“Yeah, but they don’t know that neither me nor Chrissy know about them, so I’m thinking that we could have a little fun of our own.” Robin begins.

“No, no, no, do you know what would be even better? Telling them.” Eddie says firmly.

“Hm, no, I wanna do Robin’s thing.” Chrissy says, shaking off Eddie’s disapproval.

“Okay, but just so everyone’s clear, I don’t want any part of this, you hear me.” Eddie huffs before getting up to leave.

As Eddie walks out the door Steve wanders in.

“Hey everyone! How’s things?”

Eddie gives a small snort of ‘hmmf’ before making his way out.

“What’s his problem?” Steve mutters as he sits down next to Chrissy. 

Chrissy gives Robin a sly wink, letting her know that the plan was indeed in action.

“Oh I don’t know, Stevie. I just think he’s been a little stressed recently.” Chrissy’s voice barely more than a sickly-sweet breathy whisper as she leans up next to Steve.

“Oh really?” 

“Yeah I know we all get stressed, and sometimes all you need to do is just to release all that pent up energy.” her voice becomes ever more sultry as she speaks, and her hand grazes up the length of his arm, giving his bicep a cheeky squeeze. “Ooh, so strong.” she teases.

“Um well yeah, okay.. So I should probably get going, it’s getting pretty late.” Steve excuses himself quickly, suddenly feeling very unsure and embarrassed.

The girls wait until he’s out of the apartment before bursting into laughter.

“Oh my god that was amazing! He looked like a deer in the headlights!” Robin cackled, wiping a tear from her eye.

The plan to get Steve and you to admit to your relationship was slowly falling into place.

You sat astride Steve’s naked torso, peppering kisses all over his neck, stopping only briefly to nip your teeth at his earlobe, before your lips found his, capturing them in a sweet kiss.

His large hands splayed comfortably, holding their space on either side of your hips.

You continued placing soft kisses on every little freckle you could find, although Steve’s expression didn’t read one of pleasure, in fact he seemed kind of out of things, almost like he was deep in thought.

“Okay, either you’re not enjoying this, or there’s something on your mind.” you voice as you pull away from his lips.

“I am enjoying this, I promise.” he silences your worry with a simple kiss. “I was just thinking, that's all.”

You swing your legs to get off Steve's body before settling beside him in the bed.

“What’s going on Steve?”

“Earlier I was hanging out with Robin and Chrissy and something weird happened.”

“Weird how?” 

“I think Chrissy was flirting with me?” He explains, his brows knitting together confusedly 

“There’s no way.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Honey.”

“No, I don’t mean it like that.” you playfully slap his arm. “Chrissy isn’t into you. She was only telling me the other day about how much she’s into this new guy she’s been dating.” You say, in your attempt to reassure Steve.

“Really, because she squeezed my bicep and she called me ‘Stevie’. Nobody apart from you calls me that.” He goes on to explain.

“Oh my god she knows about us!” you gasp. “She knows and now she’s trying to weird us out.” you say, beginning to piece together the information that Steve had just told you.

“But how could she know? There’s only one other person who knows about-'' Steve started, but the answer to his question hit before he could even finish asking it. “EDDIE!!”

The pair of you stomp your way over to Eddie’s room, before Steve knocks a heavy fist against his door. 

“Open up Munson, I know you’re in there.” Steve shouts.

“Jeez, what’s got your panties in a bunch, Harrington?” Eddie asked as he swung the door open to come face to face with both Steve and you looking less than pleased.

“Eddie, who else knows about me and Steve?” You ask pointedly.

“Just me.” Eddie replies confidently.

You glare at him with a stare that has him cracking under the pressure.

“..and Chrissy…and Robin…” Eddie mutters and he tries his best to hide behind his hair.

“Eddie!” you slap his shoulder, scolding him almost as if he was a naughty school-boy.

“Hey! In my defence, I didn’t exactly tell them, they found out on their own.” Eddie owns up. “Poor Chrissy saw you doing it through the window. You should really shut your curtains, you filthy animals.”

You look at Steve for a moment to see a rosy flush creeping up from his neck and blooming across his cheeks.

“I would have told you, but the girls made me promise not to say anything.” Eddie pipes up once more. “But, hey! Now everyone knows so we can all talk about it and things can go back to the way they were before. No more secrets and lies, right?” Eddie looks between you and Steve with a hopeful look.

“No.” you said simply.

“No?” Steve turns to you, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Eddie worries.

“Those girls think they’re so clever messing with us.” You smirk. “But they don’t know that we know, that they know.” you explain to the boys, although their puzzled expressions led you to believe that they weren’t following you.

“Gather in boys, I’ve got a plan.”

It was a few days later when your plan was put into action. You let things rest for a while so as not to arouse suspicion.

The plan was to invite Chrissy over to Steve’s apartment, get him to flirt with her in order to throw her off the scent of you and Steve being together.

“Steve wants me to meet him in his apartment. Said that he’d been wanting to get me alone for quite some time.” Chrissy said as she sat up from her space on the couch next to Robin. 

“Huh? Steve’s way into Y/n but then he wants to meet up with you? Alone? No way. Something’s up. Oh my god! They’re onto us.” Robin works out.

“What?” Chrissy bubbles with a shake of her head.

“Look, just go over there, flirt with Steve, tease him, kiss him if you have to! He’ll get all confused and uncomfortable and then he’ll finally have to admit to sleeping with y/n!”

“I don’t know about this Robin, what if there’s more to their relationship than just sex?”

“No way, if I know Steve like I think I do, then he’s just being a typical horny boy. It’s just sex with him. He’s not one for a serious relationship.”

You were hiding behind the door of Steve’s bedroom after coaching him through your plan, and encouraging him to flirt with Chrissy to throw her and Robin off the scent of you two being together.

Kissing his lips, and giving him a confident pat on his broad shoulders before pushing him out to go open the door.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Chrissy breathed a nerve-steadying breath before she knocked against Steve’s apartment door, waiting before it swung open to reveal the man in question.

“Hi.” Steve said seductively, running a hand through his ruffled hair. “Come on in.”

Chrissy smiled as she made her way under Steve’s arm and into the apartment.

“So, do you want anything to drink?” Steve asked, keeping his composure as best he could in the unusual situation he found himself in.

“No thank you, Stevie. I think we both know why we’re here..” Chrissy said, her voice so sweetly seductive. 

“I suppose there’s really no point in pretending anymore, is there?” 

“I suppose not.” Chrissy said, stepping closer to Steve, placing a delicate hand on his face. Desperately trying to ignore the cringing feeling that was blooming in her chest. This was so wrong. 

“So…” Steve dragged out as an awkward silence fell between the two.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” Chrissy said in her best sultry voice.

“Okay then.” 

The pair slowly leaned in close to one another, neither one really wanting to kiss the other.

Steve got a hair’s breadth away from Chrissy lips before pulling away.

“Alright, fine! You win! I can’t do this! I’m not going to kiss you!” Steve screams defeatedly. “I can’t kiss you”

Chrissy pulled away from Steve excitedly with a beaming bright smile.

“Aha! And why not?”

“Because I’m in love with y/n” Steve shouted. 

Chrissy gasped in surprise and in that moment you came out of hiding behind Steve’s bedroom door. Robin and Eddie pushed through the apartment door, with matching shocked expressions on their faces.

“It’s true, I love you so much, Honey.” Steve smiled as he pulled you close to him.

“I love you too, Stevie” you returned his smile, rising up on your toes to sweetly press your lips against his. 

All your friends watched on with warm smiles, at Steve’s declaration of love for you.

“Aww! I didn’t know you loved one another.” Robin smiled, happy that her two friends had found love in each other. “I thought you were just having sex.”

She wasn’t far off the mark. There was a lot of sex, but being with Steve was way more than that. He quickly became someone whose arms you felt safe in, who loved you for every little thing that you were. In return, the love you felt for Steve went deeper than platonic friendship and you just couldn’t ignore your feelings anymore.

“We thought it would only be right that you heard this from me.” You said, reaching out to take Nancy’s hand in yours.

You had talked to Steve about how you wanted to tell Nancy about your relationship with Steve.

“Steve and I are dating, and I love him very much, and I hope you understand that I had no intentions of hurting you or doing this to upset you or make you mad.” you babble nervously, frightened that telling her about your relationship would ruin your friendship with her.

“Oh no! Sweetheart! No! I’m so happy for you!” Nancy beams, bringing you into a warm and friendly hug. “I’m so glad you’ve finally found the right one!”

You smile as you quietly huff a sigh of relief.

“Does he treat you right? Does he make you smile? Does he make you happy?” Nancy asked.

“He does.” you nod. “He does indeed.” 

“Then how could I be mad at something that makes my best friend so happy?” she shakes her head at the thought of you being nervous to tell her. 

“Thanks Nance, that’s so sweet of you.” 

That couldn’t have gone any better. 

So now all your friends knew about your relationship with Steve, you could stop hiding and tip-toeing around, and love him the way you wanted. Out loud and on purpose.

Tagging: @sunnythevampireslayer @penguinsandpotterheads @xxhellfirebunnyxx @reidsbtch @seatnights @mrsjellymunson @keeksandgigz

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Bound

Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader

In which Tom was raised by his grandfather and now a betrothal is in order.

Word count: 1.1k

Content Warning: None

I II

----

Before you stood a man of regal stature, his presence both overwhelming and suffocating. It was almost easy to forget that he shared the same age and school years with you. The weight of his presence was magnified by the realization of what his presence meant. You had to suppress a dry swallow to ease the tightness in your throat.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Or was it Gaunt?

Unlikely as it seemed, you didn't believe he went by that name. Regardless, he was there—the sole heir to the fading Gaunt family. A touch of amusement brushed against you at the irony; the boy didn't even bear the Gaunt name. Though the dwindling bloodline had little else to hold on to.

Generations of tenuous friendship existed between your family and the Gaunts. An alliance of sorts, given the, well, intensity of the Gaunt family. Yet, this current scenario was beyond any prediction. An arranged marriage had been expected, even if begrudgingly, as a consequence of your pureblood lineage. But being paired with the bastard heir of the Gaunt family? That was never on your radar.

You suspected the Gaunts chose your family for their own salvation. Oddly, your parents had accepted the arrangement without protest, despite receiving nothing in return. Tom's halfblood status likely ruffled your parents' beliefs, though they probably consented due to his Gaunt heritage, despite the Muggle name he bore.

And so, here he stood, the man who was to be your future husband. The thought of turning and walking away briefly crossed your mind, but fear of your parents' wrath kept you rooted in place.

"Marvolo, what a pleasure to have you here," your father chimed with an overly cheery tone, his joviality clashing with the somber situation.

"The pleasure is mutual," Marvolo responded curtly, extending his hand to your father for a firm handshake.

"And Tom boy, haven't you grow!" Your father diverted his attention to the other, as him and Marvolo Gaunt ended their greeting. Tom gave a polite smile in response.

"It is nice to meet you, sir," The boy said as his dark eyes shifted over to you.

With a subtle nod, you worked up the courage to acknowledge his presence, meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment. His eyes held a calculated intensity, making your heart race. You had known him for years, had attended the same school, but this encounter was different. Now he was no longer just your classmate. He was Tom Riddle, the heir to the Gaunt legacy, and your betrothed.

A small, almost imperceptible, quirk of his lips suggested a hint of amusement as his attention shifted to you. His gaze swept over you, studying you in a way that felt unnerving yet strangely thrilling. You couldn't help but feel self-conscious under his scrutiny.

"Allow me to introduce you to my daughter," your father spoke, his tone more serious now, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere. He simply gave the two your name.

You inclined your head politely, mustering a delicate smile. "Tom," you greeted, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions inside you.

"An honor," he replied with a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. It was as if he had mastered the art of polite gestures, yet his true intentions remained carefully concealed.

The air between you held a subtle tension, both of you aware of the unspoken expectations and the responsibilities that came with your union. Your parents' voices droned on, discussing the details and formalities, but your attention was locked onto Tom. There was an enigmatic aura about him, an air of mystery that left you simultaneously intrigued and cautious.

As the conversation continued, you couldn't help but wonder how your life had taken such a turn. A mere arrangement had transformed into a bewildering collision of two worlds—yours and Tom's. Your thoughts swirled with questions, doubts, and a hint of curiosity about the man you were destined to share your life with.

The future felt uncertain, yet amidst the uncertainty, there was a glimmer of intrigue, a faint ember of connection between you and the mysterious heir of the Gaunt family.

"Tom," you began, and his dark eyes shifted to yours. "Walk with me?"

He smiled slightly and nodded, following your lead as you guided him through the halls of your home.

You weren't sure if your parents noticed the two of you disappearing, but if they had, you didn't really care. You wanted to at least attempt to get to know this man before signing your future away to him.

"Your estate is very beautiful," Tom spoke first, admiring the portraits of relatives and ancestors that adorned the walls.

"Thank you," you replied, taking a deep breath to gather your thoughts. "I'm glad you like it."He hummed in agreement. "How long has it been in your family?

"You frowned slightly, wondering why he’d ask such an obvious question, but you weren't one to be rude. "Oh, for generations. It was built by my 8th great-grandfather. Of course, it's had a fair amount of renovations since."

"Interesting," he mused. A silence fell upon you, making you want to say anything to fill it.

So you did, albeit ridiculously. "Do you want to marry me?" you asked, with less confidence than you intended.

Tom looked at you with an expression you could only read as amusement. That alone made you want to never speak again.

"Where'd that come from?" The corner of his lips quirked, and the darkness in his eyes lightened.

You mentally facepalmed. Why would you ask him that? "Well, I just—it's just that this is an awfully strange occurrence." You stumbled over your words, a habit you thought you'd grown out of.

"There have been stranger occurrences," he replied, still staring at you with a look that told you he was enjoying this.

"I suppose you're correct, but I am a little worried. I mean, we've known each other for years because of school and such. However, what if you're actually repulsed by me and I have to spend the rest of my life with a man who won't even look in my direction?" You were rambling, of course. You had half a mind to take out your wand and curse yourself.

"Repulsed is quite the word," Tom said, his eyes flicking over your figure so quickly you almost thought you imagined it. "And it is definitely not the one I'd use."

Before you could process what he said or what he meant, you heard a call from the other end of the hall, a mix of your parents and Marvolo Gaunt calling for both of your presence.

The Gaunt family was leaving, and as you rejoined your family's side, Tom sent a smirk your way and mouthed something that looked like, "See you at school."

But as you watched him turn and leave with his grandfather, you suddenly didn't want to go to school anymore. Returning to Hogwarts after that felt like a death sentence in itself.

What on earth were you going to do?

[tokoyamisstuff]

gn! Reader I some gore I angst I just a short lil' drabble I can be read platonic or romantic

Your betrayal happened slowly.

There was neither that one dramatic moment that revealed your true intentions, nor a complicated scheme reaching it's end. It was merely an accumulation of barely noticeable sabotages and data breaches.

Things were never supposed to end this way.

But Iscariot - no, the face of your whole church - had changed into something unrecognizeable, something so vile and malicious that your conscience couldn't possibly identify with anymore.

Each and everyone of them had long since stopped serving the true faith, let alone the word of your Lord and Savior. Instead they were twisting the religion to fit after their own sick and selfish desires, leaving a trail of suffering and carnage with no regard of the consequences.

Nonetheless, those people were your allies, friends, the closest thing to a family you might ever have. Indirectly harming them was eating you alive, and yet there was no other way to keep them from committing further sin against innocents.

It started with you secretly slipping informations to the enemy, like that one time you informed Sir Integra that the Judas Priest would invade their area in Ireland.

Anderson noticed early that there was a traitor amongst their rows, his methods of finding the leak unnecessary cruel and without method...

...not once he suspected the informant could be you, though.

At some point however you unveiled Maxwell's plans of using the mayhem caused by Millenium to purge England instead of liberating it - and much to your shock the only person you dared confiding in was already well aware.

After confronting Anderson about this insane operation without him showing any hint of hesistance or remorse, you fled and never looked back, seeking refugee at the Hellsing manor.

Even Alucard's new weapon, forged with the sole purpose to destroy the regenerating priest, had been directly built after the top secret files you had stolen for them.

Too late for any regrets now, you were already in far too deep. You always knew that shall you ever meet again, you'd inevitably find yourself at the other end of his bayonet - and you had made peace with that fact.

Everything has led you to this moment of absolution.

You had been separated from what was left of the Hellsing organization, worn out by aimlessly slaughtering yourself through both nazis and crusaders in this neverending war.

Eventually you just had to run into your former brethren - but for the Paladin himself to cross paths with you was an irony of fate only God could understand.

They say every human has a cardinal sin their soul is especially prone to, and for Anderson that sin has always been wrath.

A flash of recognition made his face drop shortly before his whole stance tensed again, expression contorting through several emotions at once.

He was oozing bloodlust from every pore, like water from the little stream near the orphanage you wished to see again so dearly. You had witnessed this state of his so often yet it had always made you feel oddly safe - but then again, it was never directed to you before.

The priest was calm, too calm for the situation at hand, but you knew him better than that: Beneathe the surface he's close to bursting from all the hatred and rage that's been rotting him from the inside like the poison it is.

He mutely, pitilessly raises his weapons as you fall to your knees in sheer exasperation, the cold stones a huge contrast to the otherwise burning city. You want to explain yourself, cling to his coat and beg his forgiveness - but at the same time you knew you had no right to.

So you decided to gift him one last, heartbroken smile before lowering your head in defeat, voice only a breathless whisper as you apologized for having caused him such trouble and pain.

You wince as you sense the momentum of his blade, but much to your surprise the blow failed to deliver. No, that wasn't right either. It hit the target it was meant to - right into the visage of a SS soldier that had lunged at you from behind, splitting his skull in two.

Anderson's judging stare never left yours as he pulled the weapon from the bloodied carcass, wiping the steel clean on his cassock. For a moment he just stands there, gears in his head visibly turning before he wrings out a shuddered exhale, shaking his head.

He walks past your frozen, trembling self until he turns around one last time, eyes softening ever so slightly. You see his mouth open and close several times in an attempt to vocalize what he had bottled up ever since you left - but even after all that happened, the fact that he missed you so excruciatingly much outweighted anything else.

Ultimately, he feels sorry for having driven you to do this, and even though he cannot forgive you he understands. Yet all he could bring himself to say is:

"Get out of my sight, apostate. Go save yourself."