#[ And then potentially one of us in the middle somewhere ]

[litnerdwrites]

Yes! Exactly. I love everything you said there.

To add, one of the many ways this fandom, and even SJM herself, discredits the Archeron sisters, and their character potential is by dumbing them down, so to speak.

Feyre is the good one, who we're meant to root for, and should rarely, if ever criticise or question, and if she does do something wrong, it's because she's young.

Elain is the soft, gentle, innocent lamb, who sometimes snaps, mostly at Nesta, but that's fine because she's had enough of her.

Nesta is the mean, horrible bitch. She's an abuser and should be punished by everyone for everything she's ever done, even if others benefited from/asked her to do it.

By assigning these simplistic motives and qualities, they take away from the characters. And again, I think SJM is guilty of this as well.

For Feyre, when she's called out for not considering the political ramifications of her actions, such as destroying the Spring Court, or stealing from Tarquin, either Tarquin and Tamlin (more so Tamlin) are put down, arguing that the Rhys&Co. Know better, and that they were better equipped to handle the situation, and just overall demeaning them and their authority as sovereigns of their own court in order to justify the crimes the Night Court commit.

This argument turns Feyre from a cunning, apathetic, borderline heartless, calculating, young woman dealing with a lot of trauma, who's now found herself in the middle of several very complicated political situations (between Tamlin and Rhys, Hybern and Prythian, and humanity and the Fae) with unprecedented magic, who should be considered a threat to and by her enemies, to an infuriating idiot. A liability who shouldn't be trusted because she's too naive to utilise critical thinking skills and is more likely to derail everything you plan because she didn't look before she leaped. A child at the adult table, trying to understand their conversations, but not having the knowledge, experience or context to do so, if you will.

For Nesta, any good deed she does is overlooked, no matter how painful or difficult it is. No matter how hurt she gets, or what she endures, it's always downplayed and taken for granted. Nesta is relegated to being this abusive, cruel, heartless monster, who shouldn't expect or deserve care for her pain, acknowledgment of her attempts to atone, and praise for her good deeds, whether they work out or not (exhibit a, see aftermath of almost being raped and eaten by a kelpie).

This undermines any actual healing or redemption Nesta may actually go through, as well as any relationship she forms with her sisters. None of it matters because it all feels superficial and forced. Any trauma responses, or moments of weakness and pain that make her a relatable character, or add context and nuance to her thoughts and actions, goes away.

For Elain, she's trapped in the box of being the demure, hyper feminine, doe eyed, child. The way she's talked about and overlooked, when she isn't needed to manipulate Nesta insults her intelligence and autonomy as a fully grown woman. As a result, Elain is left as merely a pawn, and any praise she and Feyre receive for their good relationship or her place in their court is null and void, because she isn't an equal to her sister.

She isn't someone who found happiness with the IC, she didn't have a choice but to try and be happy with them, because even if she did want to go somewhere else, she wouldn't be taken seriously or allowed to do so. The moments of her arguing with Nesta, that people use to praise her and put down Nesta, it's not her venting some arguably valid frustrations, but being unable to word it/ struggling to both acknowledge her own failures and communicate her genuine feelings with her sister as her parroting the words others told her too to manipulate Nesta instead. She isn't a family member, she's a pawn, and a prisoner, but is too naive to realise it. She can never have a genuine conversation with Nesta, because she's being forced to help indoctrinate her.

The way some in this fandom chose to regard and utilise their characters feels very detrimental to them, and a bit like a waste of character potential. As OP pointed out, many indications and examples of a complicated relationship, or character traits that don't fit the aforementioned narratives assigned to each sister, are largely overlooked or outright ignored. There was so much potential that feels like it was thrown out of the window.

All three sisters have so much potential, and I especially love the lovely @hrizantemy 's interpretations of them in her fics, A Place of Silver Silence and What Happened to You. I love the way she makes use of these characters, and dives into different aspects of their characters in each one. I'd also recommend Burn the Path, Thalassa_05, A Court of Exiles by Notquiteright, The Unfordged Hearts series, by limeandorange (on AO3) and The Fire Before the Storm by Sarafey on AO3 for some fun takes on the sisters. These are fics I love because of the way they try to dissect and portray the Archeron sisters as well as the IC.

I believe my mutuals @kataraavatara and @litnerdwrites made a post talking about Elain, and I want to add on.

I don’t like Elain. And I say that with an understanding that she reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger—the way she makes herself small, slips into softness, plays the role of the quiet, gentle one. But that’s not why I dislike her. I think she’s survived by making herself a victim, and that survival strategy gets dressed up as innocence far too often in this fandom.

People always say “Nesta is overprotective,” or “Nesta won’t let Elain make her own choices.” But Elain is a grown woman. She has been for a while. And I’d like to call back this scene in A Court of Silver Flames:

“Like calls to like,” Amren countered. “You were Made by the Cauldron. You may track other objects Made by it as well, as Briallyn can. And because you are Made by it, you are immune to the influence and power of the Trove. You might use them, yes, but they cannot be used upon you.”

A glance to Elain. “Either of you.”

Nesta swallowed. “I can’t.” But to let Elain involve herself, jeopardize her safety—

Amren said, “You tracked the Cauldron—”

“It nearly killed me. It trapped me like a bird in a cage.”

Elain said, “Then I will find it. I might require some time to … reacquaint myself with my powers, but I could start today.”

“Absolutely not,” Nesta spat, fingers curling at her sides. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” Elain demanded. “Shall I tend to my little garden forever?”

When Nesta flinched, Elain said, “You can’t have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater.”

“Then go off on adventures,” Nesta said. “Go drink and fuck strangers. But stay away from the Cauldron.”

Feyre said, “It is Elain’s choice, Nesta.”

Nesta whirled on her, ignoring the warning flicker of primal wrath in Rhys’s stare. “Keep out of this,” she hissed at her youngest sister. “I have no doubt you put these thoughts in her head, probably encouraging her to throw herself into harm’s way—”

Elain cut in sharply, “I am not a child to be fought over.”

Nesta’s pulse pounded throughout her body. “Do you not remember the war? What we encountered? Do you not remember the Cauldron kidnapping you, bringing you into the heart of Hybern’s camp?”

“I do,” Elain said coldly. “And I remember Feyre rescuing me.”

Roaring erupted in Nesta’s head. For a heartbeat, it appeared that Elain might say something to soften the words. But Nesta cut her off, seething at the pity about to be thrown her way.

“Look who decided to grow claws after all,” she crooned. “Maybe you’ll become interesting at last, Elain.”

Nesta saw the blow land, like a physical impact, in Elain’s face, her posture. No one spoke, though shadows gathered in the corners of the room, like snakes preparing to strike. Elain’s eyes brightened with pain.

Something imploded in Nesta’s chest at that expression. She opened her mouth, as if it could somehow be undone. But Elain said, “I went into the Cauldron, too, you know. And it captured me. And yet somehow all you think of is what my trauma did to you.”

Do I think Nesta is being overprotective in this scene? Absolutely. But she’s not telling Elain she has to stay pliable, docile, or under her wing. In fact, she’s telling her do whatever you want—have a life, make choices, be wild if you want—but don’t put yourself danger.

That line—“you only think of what my trauma did to you”—hits hard in the moment, but it’s not entirely fair. I don’t think Nesta is sitting around thinking about how Elain’s trauma affected her. No—Nesta is thinking about what she did that might have caused Elain’s trauma in the first place. Like when she agreed to scry for the Cauldron during the war, which directly led to Elain being kidnapped by Hybern. That guilt haunts her. It’s not selfishness—it’s responsibility, it’s shame, it’s regret. And that’s a huge difference from what Elain is accusing her of.

Is it healthy? No, absolutely not. But think about it like this—throughout her entire life, Nesta has consistently been shielding Elain from things. From their cruel, abusive grandmother. From the brutal reality of the cabin and the poverty they endured. From the harshness of the world, from faeries, from war. Nesta’s role has always been protector, even when she didn’t know how to do it in a way that was kind or constructive.

So when she tries to stop Elain from engaging with the Cauldron or the Trove, it’s not about control—it’s about falling back into that same instinct: protect Elain at all costs. It’s not healthy, no. But it’s deeply human, and it’s rooted in a lifetime of seeing herself as the only barrier between Elain and the ugliness of the world.

And Elain isn’t innocent in this dynamic—because she let Nesta take on that role. Time and time again, she allowed Nesta to be the shield, the angry one, the wall between her and the worst of the world. She leaned into that softness because she knew someone else would do the hard, ugly protecting for her.

That doesn’t make Elain evil, but it does mean she benefited.

In A Court of Frost and Starlight, we get this moment:

“Nesta is still a part of this family.”

“Is she?” Elain sawed deep into the next loaf. “She certainly doesn’t act like it.”

Elain doesn’t say that with concern. She doesn’t ask why Nesta’s withdrawn or what pain she might be in. She doesn’t express fear for her sister. She frames Nesta’s pain as rejection of them, and then immediately distances herself in return. That’s not support. That’s emotional retaliation.

And then in A Court of Silver Flames, we get this:

“She’s not getting any better. She’s not even trying.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and stared toward the distant sea.

Again, Elain doesn’t ask how she can help. She doesn’t express sorrow, or frustration rooted in love. She just makes a judgment. She assumes Nesta isn’t trying, when in reality Nesta is drowning. That’s not care—it’s condemnation, veiled in softness.

In both of these moments, Elain puts her own pain first. It’s “I feel hurt because she’s distant” rather than “she’s hurting, and that distance might be a symptom.” It’s “she’s not trying” instead of “she might not know how to try right now.”

And this is why Elain’s line in ACOSF—“you only think of what my trauma did to you”—rings hollow. Because Elain consistently thinks of what Nesta’s trauma is doing to her, and not what Nesta is actually going through.

So instead of “you only think of what my trauma did to you,” a more accurate statement would be:

“You carry guilt for the ways you think you failed me.”

Because that’s what it is. Nesta isn’t consumed by what Elain’s trauma did to her—she’s consumed by what she did, or didn’t do, that might’ve caused it. It’s guilt, not selfishness. And that distinction changes everything about how you read that scene.

And Feyre’s little line—“It is Elain’s choice, Nesta”—honestly doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of that scene. Because at the end of the day, Nesta still ends up doing it. Nesta is the one who gets pushed into tracking the Trove, not Elain. So Feyre’s attempt at standing up for Elain’s autonomy is performative at best.

If Feyre truly believed in respecting choices and protecting the people involved, she could’ve said something like, “You might not like this, Nesta, but Elain is going to do it—because you’re still recovering. You’re in a vulnerable place, and we’re not going to put you in danger.”

But that doesn’t happen. Because despite Feyre’s talk about choice, it’s Nesta who’s still expected to sacrifice, to endure, to suffer—even while in what is essentially rehab and battling untreated PTSD from war, death, and trauma.

And this line right here—“Elain doesn’t go near him,” Feyre said. “And you won’t let me near him?”—only cements my point.

Yes, on the surface it’s about who’s going to dance with Eris, but it reveals something deeper: Feyre will not put Elain in danger. She refuses to let Elain step into even a politically uncomfortable situation, let alone one involving risk.

That moment with Eris shows exactly what Feyre is willing to shield Elain from. It makes her earlier line—“It is Elain’s choice”—feel hollow. Because Feyre is quick to step in and say, not her.

Whether she agreed or not, Nesta was always going to be the one to look for the Trove.

[wolfpackmuses]

I won't lie, anytime I see any of the other Satans here on the dash, I can't help but think about the entire "Brother" meme that Space Marines do with each other. Because I feel like that is something my Satan would absolutely do.

Also, hear me out to those of you who portray Satan as well: I feel like we all take vastly different personalities to Satan and I feel we fall on a giant line chart of extremes in terms of the personality we give our Satans.

[haniette]

right at the fingertips. // ln4

part one. || part two.

pairing | lando norris x fem!reader

genre | angst, friends to ???, childhood best friends au, unrequited love, hurt-comfort

word count | 2.1k

warnings | no use of y/n, panic attack, emotional distress, themes of regret and longing, jealousy, use of alcohol, slow burn heartbreak, cursing, crying.

inspired by: sombr — back to friends

summary: once, they were childhood best friends. but one missed chance has changed everything. at sixteen, she stayed silent, and he chose someone else. love slipped through her fingers—before she even realized it was there.

a/n: i am in my angst mood rn im sorry 😭😭 this is definitely NOT inspired by a real situation taken right from my life haha- :’) just thought it might be nice to somehow write about it as it had a potential lololo but still hope you’ll enjoy !!

Oh, how you wished you could turn back time and not come here tonight.

The house was alive. Music pulsed through the air, the bass thudding in time along with your heartbeat. Laughter and conversations overlapped, a chaotic mix of voices shouting over the noise. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and too-sweet perfume clung to the air, making everything feel thick and heavy.

Inside, people were packed together—red solo cups in their hands, pressed into corners and against the couches, bodies swaying in the rhythm of the music. The lights were dimmed, just bright enough to catch the occasional flash of a smile, the flicker of someone’s gaze across the room.

Somewhere in the kitchen, a game of beer pong was met with loud cheers. Someone else cranked the volume on the speaker, sending vibrations through the floorboards. And the others had a good time, partying on that Saturday night. The world around you was drenched in chaos, color, and movement.

But none of it mattered, because all of your focus was locked on him.

Lando was leaning against the wall, one hand holding his half-empty drink. But that view—breath-taking view—wasn’t what had your chest tightening, your stomach twisting into painful knots.

It was his phone.

The glow of the screen illuminated his face, reflecting in his slightly parted lips as he grinned down at whatever message he had just received. His thumb moved across the screen quickly, typing something before stopping, waiting. And then, the softest chuckle left him as his phone buzzed with a reply.

You didn’t need to see the name to know who it was. Olivia. His new girlfriend.

Something in you snapped. You tore your gaze away, the weight of it unbearable. It was like being punched in the ribs, the breath stolen from your lungs in one swift motion. You shouldn’t feel like this. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t want to walk over, snatch the phone out of his hands, demand why he was giving her the attention that used to belong to you.

But you did care. And you hated yourself for it.

Your chest felt tight, heat creeping up your neck as emotions you had spent months suppressing began to crawl back up. You couldn’t sit here and watch this. You couldn’t let yourself spiral in the middle of this suffocating, crowded room with the music reverbing through your body.

So you left. You didn’t think much about it—you just moved. You weaved through the group of bodies, ignoring the calls of your name, the outstretched hands trying to pull you back into conversation.

The second you stepped outside, the air felt different. It was sharp and cool, a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth inside. It bit at your skin, but you welcomed it—anything to ground you.

You walked around the house, your hands gripping the sleeves of your sweater, your heartbeat still uneven. You needed to escape, to be alone, to let the tension drain from your body before it consumed you.

A small ledge near the fence caught your eye. It wasn’t much—just a flat piece of concrete, probably some part of the foundation—but it was away from everyone. That was all that mattered. You sank onto it, pulling your knees up to your chest and tilting your head toward the sky.

The stars were scattered across the darkness, tiny pinpricks of light, so far away they barely seemed real. It was quiet here, save for the faint hum of cars in the distance and the muffled thumping of the music inside.

It should have been peaceful. But it wasn’t. Because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t push away the image of Lando’s smile. Not the one he used to give you. Not the one that made your chest warm and your stomach flutter.

No, the one he gave his phone. The one meant for her.

A lump formed in your throat. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to take slow, even breaths, but it didn’t stop the sting behind your eyes.

God, you were so fucking stupid.

How had you not realized it sooner? How had you been so blind when he was standing right in front of you, waiting—hoping—for you to see it?

A few months ago, he had literally told you.

“You know.. I think I might like you more than I expected.”

And you—stupid, teenager you—had just rolled your eyes, nudged his shoulder, and said something like, “Shut up, Lando. It’s not funny.”

You had waved it off like it was nothing just because it was Lando—always joking, always teasing. It had never even crossed your mind that he would have meant it.

But he had.

Yet, you hadn’t let yourself realize it, because you had never even considered the possibility that he could love you in the way you were now aching for him to.

And then, a few years later came the infamous Instagram post.

You were scrolling absentmindedly when the picture popped up on your feed. Just a casual picture of him and Olivia in his new car. Her legs draped over his lap, his hand resting on her knee like it had always belonged there. The caption was simple— an orange heart.

At first, you felt… weird. Off-balance, like the ground had slightly tilted underneath you. But then, a second later, as if someone had taken a knife and driven it straight through your ribs, you felt an unbearable pain. Your breath caught in your lungs, your stomach twisting in anxiety.

You reread the caption once. Twice. 

No.

No, he would have told you. Right..?

He would have told you. It wasn’t like Lando to not tell you about his secrets. You were sure he had told you about everything, yet it turned out not to be true.

You remembered how your hands had started trembling, how you had immediately called your best friend, breath shallow, chest tight, panic clawing at your throat.

“Hey, what’s up?” Her voice came through the speaker. You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You were shaking, and your chest felt tight. It felt like something was crushing your ribs.

“Hey—are you okay?”

“I didn’t know.. he never told me— … why didn’t he tell me?” You were choking on the air, first hot teardrops rolling down your cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart...”

It wasn’t enough. The space felt too tight, your lungs too small. You collapsed onto your bed, clutching your chest as the world tilted. Your breath came in shallow gasps, and the room spun around you like a sickening carousel.

The screen of your phone still glowed in your hand, but you couldn’t focus on it anymore. The next picture of the post was the image of Lando and Olivia, their faces warm with affection, that kept spinning in your mind. You felt like a weight was pressing down on you, drowning you in a flood of emotions you couldn’t process.

Why didn’t he tell you?

You felt your heart pounding in your throat.

Why didn’t you see this coming?

Then the tears began to spill uncontrollably, hot and heavy. It wasn’t just the pain of losing him. It was the feeling of failure, of being too late, of missing every signal he’d sent and completely ignoring them.

The world felt so small now. So empty.

Your breath caught as you tried to force the panic back, but it wasn’t working. Your chest heaved. That’s when your phone buzzed again. You almost didn’t see it—didn’t want to see it. But when you finally gathered the courage to glance at the screen, you saw her name flash.

Olivia. And that was your breaking point.

You slammed your phone down and grabbed the blankets, pulling them tight over your head, suffocating yourself in the darkness. But then, through the haze of your panicked thoughts, your best friend’s voice cut through like a lifeline.

“Hey, calm down. Just breathe with me, okay? Focus on breathing, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

You clung to her words like a drowning person reaching for a rope, and slowly, the trembling stopped. Slowly, your heartbeat returned to a more normal pace, but the pain—the ache—didn’t go away.

And the thought of Lando with someone else…

You squeezed your eyes shut and tried not to let the tears fall again. But even after the panic faded, the silence in your room felt deafening. You couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he hadn’t chosen you. You hadn’t let yourself believe it.

And now? Now, you have lost your chance.

Your eyes burned. You blinked up at the sky, desperate to keep the tears at bay, but the ache in your chest was suffocating. You had let him slip away, straight into the arms of someone else. And now, all you could do was sit here, under the same stars that had once witnessed your late-night conversations, your laughter, your unspoken moments—and mourn.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Your breath caught as you stiffened at the sound of an oddly familiar voice, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Lando stood a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, curls slightly tousled like he had been running his fingers through them. His expression was unreadable—soft, curious, maybe a little concerned.

“You left.” He said simply, taking a step closer to where you sat, observing your face.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Just needed some air. Got a bit overstimulated.” He hummed in response, nodding slightly. 

Lando took another step forward, then crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on his knees. His eyes flickered across your face, studying you. “You okay?”

No.

“Just tired, I guess.” You murmured, turning your head away to break the eye contact between you two.

He exhaled, shifting his weight. His gaze was soft while searching yours. “Hey, talk to me. What happened? You’ve been very distant lately.”

Your stomach clenched at his mention of the last few weeks. You hesitated, then chose your words carefully. “You have a girlfriend now, Lando. I didn’t want to interfere or anything.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head slightly. “That’s nonsense.”

“Is it?” You questioned, finally looking at him again and meeting his hurt but also frustrated gaze. 

Lando’s jaw tightened, but then he sighed. “You’re my best friend. You’ve been in my life for ten years now, and I’ve only known Olivia for eight months. There’s a difference in who I prioritize.”

The words struck something deep inside you, something raw and aching. And suddenly, you hated how much you wanted to believe him and his words.

But it didn’t matter. She was the one he eventually chose, and not you.

Your breath hitched as his words settled over you like a weight, heavy and suffocating.

“Does she know that?” You asked softly while playing with the sleeve of your sweater.

He hesitated for a while before answering, and for the first time that night, you saw something flicker in his eyes—uncertainty. But then, he shook his head slightly, brushing the thought away. “It’s not like that.”

Your chest ached. Because it was. And you had no right to say it, no right to fight it, no right to want him to see what was so obvious to you now. But it was too late.

The weight of it all—the regret, the longing, the unbearable ache—crashed over you in waves, and before you could stop it, the first tear slipped down your cheek.

Lando’s eyes widened slightly, and then, without hesitation, he reached forward, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.

“You’re crying.” He murmured, amusement lacing his voice, like he was trying to lighten the moment.

But if only he knew. If only he understood that you weren’t crying because of the exhaustion, the school stress, or anything else. You were crying because of him. Because he had once been right there, waiting for you to notice him. And now, he was right here, too—arms wrapped around you, heartbeat steady beneath your cheek—but still just out of your reach.

“Lando, come take a shot with us!”

The distant call snapped the moment in half. Lando turned his head toward the noise, and for a second, you thought he would go. Thought he would untangle himself from you, get up, and leave you alone with the mess of feelings suffocating your chest.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled, tightening his grip around you slightly. “Not now,” He called back. “I need to stay here for a bit. Drink without me.”

That dickhead. How could he play with your heart and mind like that?

Closing your eyes, you pressed your face into the fabric of his hoodie, breathing in the familiar scent of him that you missed so much.

So close — right at the fingertips. But still, somehow, not yours.

© haniette | 2025, all rights reserved.

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

[frownyalfred]

Okay I was re-reading my “Hal and Bruce in the JL showers” fic and it made me remember something I forgot to add into that fic, which probably didn’t fit as well because it was mostly poking fun at Clark’s Midwestern sensibilities. But someone also mentioned it in a comment so I wanted to expand on it here:

If you’re Clark, and you’re coming into your Kryptonian powers at that awkward age somewhere between elementary and high school (incrementally, heat vision one year and super strength later, maybe) and one day you’re just crazy ripped? The Kryptonian genes decide THAT is when you get the full benefits of sun and therefore the Superman physique?

You’re not taking your shirt off around anyone who’s not your parents. Not in the communal showers, not during gym class, not at swim practice. Middle or high school kids are BRUTAL. You’d think abs aren’t things to make fun of, but it’s not about the abs, it’s the fact that they’re different. Why does Clark suddenly have abs? Does he think he’s better than us? Why is he so freakishly tall all of a sudden? Is he working out every night all night, and that’s why he’s not hanging out with us?

It prompts questions, jealousy, and — most importantly — staring. Nonstop staring, good, bad, and neutral. People are confused. The gym teacher doesn’t understand how this scrawny kid got built up virtually overnight. And why he still can’t participate in sports worth a damn. It’s like he doesn’t even try.

So yeah. Clark keeps his body covered, from that point onward. Clark Kent can’t explain those muscles, not until he’s moved and set up a new life somewhere else. He starts laying the groundwork for bumbling reporter Clark Kent — he wears big shirts, poorly fitted pants, anything that softens or hides the lines of his physique so he doesn’t get questions.

And while we do see him embrace himself and his Kryptonian heritage later on, I always wonder how much that period of potential shame and avoidance early on in life affected his confidence later — not as Superman obviously, not as the shirtless muscled guy on an oil rig saving people, but as Clark. The guy who sees Hal and Bruce showering near each other without any sense of shame, or any staring, or really any value judgements at all about appearance other than “do I have goo in my hair?”

[notebooks-and-laptops]

I hate the viper as the black divine btw I hate it I hate it I hate it

And no, it's not because it's a bad idea.

It's because it's an EXCELLENT idea, and the idea that they intended it to be canon (or planned for it to be) is quite frankly an insult to such a complex idea. Especially in the game series that used to explore religion quite seriously and which has decided, in the game about Gods and potentially disproving faith, it no longer actually cares about faith (the MAIN THEME OF THE PREVIOUS GAME).

Like. Firstly narratively the Black Divine being Viper could have had such an impact because you could have built to it. You meet Viper, get to know him... simultaneously you're meeting various imperial chantry officials. Maybe these chantry officials are even aligned with Venatori. They keep alluding to the Black Divine but you never meet him until ACT 3 when it turns out...the black divine was the viper all along.

And one assumes the black divine would turn to a life like the Vipers because they don't think their office is doing any real good. That's!!! Really interesting!!! Someone decked in glory and power realises their own office is a sham that is doing no good not stopping slavery or Venatori and so works to do it from the shadows...that's interesting!!! And has something to say about systematic power structures and how changing a system from the inside can be damn near impossible.

Or maybe he does this because he DOESNT want to risk his seat as the black divine but feels immense guilt about how he's not actually helping the faithful poor in his city. He wants to cling to his power because he believes he can nudge history in the right direction if he does, but simultaneously knows that by not speaking out publiclly on slavery or poverty he's potentially dooming people to death and so needs to sooth his guilt by going vigilanty. Maybe there's an interesting question in there somewhere about living in two worlds and trying to maintain the status quo in one and destroy it in the other.

Also it DIRECTLY parrellels previous characters like Cassandra and Leliana and is a continuation of inquisitions themes surrounding what good can faith ACTUALLY accomplish for people (this even goes back to da2 and Anders)? When does faith break/why? What

Also because it's not explained, it's just kinda stupid. Does Bioware think that high ranking religious officials do nothing all day? They're not billionaires sat in a mansion popping into occasional meetings, they're public figures and political leaders of giant organisations who regularly have to be on show to the masses and to their own advisors. I won't believe that they not only a) have time to be batman AND b) they also have time to just...sit around in some room in the middle of nowhere to be a performative faction leader to the protagonist of a video game they don't know they're in.

Also. Are you telling me. The venatori were going to execute the FANTASY POPE??? And nobody cared??? They were going to publiclly execute the FANTASY POPE and the viper wasn't going to reveal himself and he wasn't going to be recognised and that wasn't going to cause problems? Are you kidding me?

Tblr; the idea that the viper is the black divine is such a good idea it makes me so angry they seemingly couldn't be bothered to actually put the time into it to make it interesting

[cupcakedieabetes]

Dumpster Baby Part 3

<<First, <-Previous

Dick, as Robin, huffed in anger, scouting out the rooftops alone as he had ran from Batman after an argument.

Batman thought he was so incompetent because he was still young, Dick would show him for sure when he finds THE kidnapper.

The kidnapper had been showing mostly in poorer parts. Nobody knew if it was a group, but most testimonies either didn't want to talk about it, or they didn't even know that their children disappeared in the first place.

Dick thought, it would be a great idea to show Batman that he was competent by being bait without his help. Dick was still young enough to be one of the targets, either as his civilian form or as Robin, so he could go as either, anyways.

Despite being alone, Dick knows that Batman still has trackers and cameras on Robin, so he could use this as proof so that Batman didn't have to be so annoying with his nagging.

It was kind of chilly in the middle of the night, so Robin huddled on a rooftop, peering below to observe a potential kidnapping.

"B̸̫̐̚á̶̝͝b̶̦͌̔ẙ̸̢͈???"

Robin whirled around, eyes widened, and screamed

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

Batman rushed to the area where Robin was, having just observed him from far when the cameras on him, both visual and audio went fuzzy.

But what he can tell last was Robin screaming in terror. Batman didn't know what exactly did Robin encountered, but whatever it was, he didn't want to be too late for whatever it is.

This was why he kept trying to bench Robin. He didn't want a dead child on his hand, something that was entirely preventable if he was stricter..

The tracker on Robin was also untrackable, so Batman went the classic way of tracing his last whereabouts through the cameras, finding the fuzzyness that lead him to a warehouse.

He slammed open the door to the entrance, weapons ready to attack, but found it empty. But not quite.

Batman cautiously entered into the warehouse, finding transparent glowing people ignoring him. Apparitions? There were so many, and what fo-

He whirled around, feeling that someone was staring at him, only to see an eyeball staring at him.

He threw a Batarang at the eyeball, only for it to pass through. So he decided to launch himself at it, kicking it and punching it, but still it went through the eyeball.

Long glowing green hands extended from the floor and restricted his movements. Batman struggled against the hands, even resorting to biting it, but found that he could not get out of the bindings.

The hands started bringing him somewhere with the eyeball leading. Eyeballs. More and more eyeball started appearing, all to stare at him.

"BATMAN!!!" His head whirled around to spot Robin, safe and unharmed, and most of all, FREE, running towards him.

"It's okay!! Batman is just worried about me!!!" Dick looked at an eyeball.

The eyeball just kept on staring alongside the other eyeballs, but the hands slowly removed itselves from him.

"Batman! I found the kidnapper! And you wouldn't believe it!!!" Dick dragged Batman by the arm, but the adult was firm in place.

"Explain. Otherwise, I'll be telling this to Agent A."

Robin winced and whined.

"That's why!!! I'm dragging youuuuu to show youuuuuu." Robin tilted back while hanging onto his arms.

Batman let himself be led by Robin to a room. And for the first time in a while since his debut as Batman, did he get shocked at something he had never encountered before.

I wrote this in a way that Dick still isn't able to separate himself from 'Robin' and 'Dick' while Batman is able to separate the identities completely.

[pollyanna-nana]

One of the most tragic and compelling aspects of Dunmeshi, to me, is that we’ll probably never know (unless Kui tells us lol) how Delgal actually felt about Thistle. I’ve seen people say that he genuinely cared for him as a brother and his journey to the surface was to save him from his madness as much as it was his people. I’ve seen people say that he saw Thistle as nothing more than a fancy accessory or tool that ended up going astray. Others I’ve seen (and personally agree with) say that the truth lies somewhere in the middle. But honestly, I think any one of these interpretations has the potential to be correct… and that’s just heartbreaking.

After all, Delgal is dead. Like, dead-dead. The very first chapter of the manga starts with his spirit leaving this mortal coil, taking that answer with him. And…

How he talks about Thistle here… it’s interesting. He does not ask for him to be talked down, or captured or imprisoned, but instead “defeated”. Which Mithrun interprets as asking for his death… which is reasonable, because that’s likely how the vast majority of adventurers interpreted his words, too. Obviously as he was crumbling to dust he probably didn’t have the capacity to be particularly verbose or explain the complex backstory to how the kingdom ended up this way, but the effect is the same no matter how he may have felt with it. He asked for Thistle to be killed.

But… even in situations where he wasn’t under any such time limit to explain what was going on, he still seemed not to. Most glaringly:

Yaad seemingly has no idea that it was Delgal’s fault that Thistle sought the demon’s power. Obviously he couldn’t talk to him about it because Thistle was, uh, a little out there by that point, but why didn’t Delgal explain? Was he embarrassed? Mournful? Couldn’t find the words?

Delgal was scared of dying. He wanted prosperity at any cost, and how could Thistle possibly refuse? Did he even realize that what he was the one who pushed his own brother— One who basically helped raise him despite being a child himself, and in many ways is still a child— down this path? Or was it like watching an overzealous employee misinterpret directions?

The way Yaad describes things here makes it sound like Thistle simply dug too deep in his studies and fell into madness, but we know that’s not true. Delgal didn’t “suggest” he learn magic, he wanted a mage who could help himself and his people defy death, which he admits to Thistle openly:

So, why? Why not tell his grandson, at least, the truth of the matter? Did he worry it might make the remaining residents more likely to upset Thistle, and therefore suffer the consequences? Did he just not care? For what it’s worth though, Yaad does suspect the truth from Delgal’s behavior.

He “always blamed himself” for his descent into the dark arts. This is just Yaad’s observation, and that’s without knowing that it was quite literally Delgal’s fault Thistle went down this path. So, why? Why was it all kept a secret?

Of course, this made things ripe for the winged lion to manipulate to its advantage. Clearly despite knowing he’d pushed him into using it, Delgal still thought the lion was a force of good that was misused by Thistle as a result of his madness. His face in that last panel is particularly haunting. He looks terrible, gaunt and pale with overgrown hair and missing teeth. Had he gone mad, with grief and sorrow, as well?

Could he no longer see Thistle the way he did when they were younger? No one can ask him, because he died long before the story even began.

To go back to the original question, well, how did Delgal see Thistle? None of the previous points make a definitive answer any clearer, and I think that’s just brilliant. And so, so tragic.

[thebluester2020]

[GI] Kinktober Day 4: "Triple Penetration"

Summary: Since your victory against Tartaglia inside of the Golden House, now that you've healed up properly from your wounds, it seems that your brain can't help but see the harbinger's three forms and their potential in a new light...

Warning(s): Foursome (All 3 of Childe's forms + you), Monsterfuckery(?), Rough Sex, Public sex (In a way, reader and the forms fuck in the Golden House), Fear play, Blood (Reader is bitten but there's not an intense focus on it), Manipulation.

Side Note(s): Finally, an excuse to rant/write about how much I've always wanted to be plowed like a field by Childe's three forms. 🧍

Writing this fic made me realize I need more practice with fivesomes though. 😔

Imagine your shock when you found out that Tartaglia possessed three different forms. Each one stronger and more deadlier than the last.

When you were in the middle of your battle against the harbinger, your heart thrumming against your chest as each attack of his came way too close to either slitting your throat or puncturing a vital organ, you feared him more than anything you had ever feared in your life up until that point. Despite the playful tone he carried throughout the battle, his actions and the way he wielded his weapons spoke a different tune. If he wasn't aiming to kill you, he was at least heavily intent on maiming you. Anything that stopped you from interfering with the Fatui's plans.

To this moment, as you lay in your bed as the steady fall of rain beat against your window outside, you still had no clue how you survived with only a couple of cuts, some bruises, and a few broken ribs! Each thought of him and how you received your injuries made you wince.

And...made you extremely horny.

Perhaps the harbinger had somehow managed to break your brain during the fight.

What was supposed to be fear and perhaps even hatred, you had somehow developed a sick crush on the harbinger as you imagined each of his forms surrounding you whilst you were on the cold marble floor of the Golden House.

"Surrendering? Good..." His base form spoke before he crouched down as a wicked smirk found its way to his lips. "I promise I'll be gentle."

Your thighs clenched at the dirty image that was beginning to form in your head, your hand already traveling south as you delved deeper into your imagination...

. . .

You yelped when the blunt end of Tartaglia's spear slammed into the palm of your hand, all the while a boot pinned down your other one. Your eyes were narrowed as you stared up at the harbinger's three forms, their eyes (or...eye, in terms of Foul Legacy) stared you down before the masked form got on one knee to stare you deep in the face. "C'mon comrade, it was like you weren't putting in any effort at all!" He mocked before he took out a blade that was tucked away inside of his boot.

"It's like you actually wanted us to beat you." He added lowly. Your breath hitched in your throat as he trailed it up your side, over the tops of your breasts all before he slowly...teasingly trailed it down until it hovered just above your clothed pussy.

The three chuckled amongst themselves, Foul Legacy, especially as a long purple tongue flicked out of its mouth to lick over its teeth. "Seems you were focused on something else entirely." It spoke before the masked form flipped up your skirt just enough to be able to cut away your underwear, tossing them aside to be forgotten somewhere before he groaned.

A whine left your lips when a gloved finger pressed against your clit. "Dirty comrade, you were fighting all three of us with such a needy cunt this entire time? I don't know whether to praise or pity you! No wonder you lost." He laughed.

Suddenly, Foul Legacy and Tartaglia's base form knelt down as well, the three large bodies crowding around you before the base form smirked. "Because you still chose to fight us despite having such a big disadvantage...the least we can do is help you, right?" He smirked, your eyes going wide as you watched how he began to fiddle with the belt looped around his pants.

. . .

"S-Shit!" You cried out as the Foul Legacy form currently had you in a mean mating press, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing as you keened at the feeling of his fat cock slamming in and out of your walls. The monstrous form somehow managed to smirk at your noises, his tongue coming out to lick the side of your cheek as a clawed hand came to flick at your nipple. "Feelin' good?" It rumbled out before its head dipped to begin pressing its teeth against your face and neck in its own version of a "kiss".

Until it suddenly clamped down on your shoulder.

The delusion unleashed form laughed mockingly at the yelp you let out as he stroked his cock just above your face, your panting mouth tasting the salty pre-cum that dripped from his cock. "Such a lewd expression comrade..." He said with a smirk as he aimed his cock to your lips. "If you had graced us with such an expression—" He interrupted himself with a groan as he slipped into your mouth, taking advantage of your fucked-out expression and how brainless you were quickly becoming thanks to the Foul Legacy fucking you mercilessly. "—S-Shit...we would've had a much more fun ending to our battle."

"I don't know...that look of pain on your face was addicting as well," The base form purred against your breasts as he sucked and lightly nipped at one whilst he tended to the other with his hand.

Suddenly, he pinched at your nipple. The delusion unleashed form cursing under his breath at the way your throat suddenly tightened around his cock. Despite the rough treatment although...you relished in the feeling of being used so thoroughly, your quickly approaching orgasm nearly giving you whiplash as you struggled to ground yourself via grabbing onto anything that you could manage to grab. Something that the Foul Legacy sensed as his teeth unclamped from around your shoulder, licking your blood from off his teeth with a satisfied growl. "You gonna cum pretty~?" It said.

You flinched at the feeling of its claws moving against your cunt, the sharp yet delicate feel of it making you clench even tighter around the monster, eliciting in a hiss from it. "Fuckin' tight—" Then, it suddenly curled its knuckles before it pressed them against your clit immediately starting a rapid pace as he moved them against your clit. You screamed around the delusion unleashed's cock at the mind-numbing pleasure, the man above you nearly keeling over as a deep-bellied groan left his lips.

"Don't you even think of cumming without us girlie..." He hissed out. "There'll be a punishment you definitely won't like if you do."

Your eyes fluttered at the threat, your hand shakily rising to stroke at the section of the delusion unleashed's cock that wouldn't fit into your willing mouth. Suddenly though, the Foul Legacy and base form groaned in unison, a faint fapping noise reaching your ears as you managed to piece together that the base form was touching himself as he played and sucked your nipples. "Ah..." He moaned. "I-I'm close—" He clenched his teeth, his words being the final nail in the coffin as you felt the knot in your stomach grow impossibly tight before...the Foul Legacy felt a gushing against his abdomen.

The delusion unleashed released a drawn-out moan as he came down your throat at the dirty sight, your glistening arousal splattering against the Foul Legacy's cock as your hands flew to dig your nails into its shoulders. The base form suddenly stilled as he came on your sides, his eyes slamming shut as he moaned and sucked even more harshly on your nipple.

As the two baser forms came down from their eyes, one slipping his cock from your mouth while the other parted his mouth from your breast. They both smirked at the sight of your cock-drunk form still being fucked silly on the Foul Legacy's cock.

With you clenching so impossibly tight around the monstrous form's dick, however...it wasn't too much longer until it came with a near bone-shattering snarl, its claws unintentionally sinking into your thighs as they drew blood whilst its long tongue slipped out from its mouth to lick at your arousal that coated his abdomen. There was a steady buzzing in your ears as you came down from your high, your entire body aching in such a delicious mixture of pain and pleasure.

Perhaps...in reality, you'd have to find Tartaglia again in order to see if you could make your daydream become reality...

[northopalshore]

Pick A Card: ☆

Your next relationship

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Choose an image & group respectively.

Pile one:

Decks used: Dreaming way tarot, sacred earth oracle, oracle of mystical moments & astrological oracle

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚

So immediately jumping in, your next relationship will be with someone who is very goal driven. They are very passionate, intelligent & skillful. This person may have come from a lower financial status growing up. Only being able to get by on a daily basis. This person has probably been surrounded by amazing and talented people who are very dedicated to their craft, and hence grown to develop a similar habit.

Their main goal in life is to get rich lol. They want to be at a point where they can look back and not recognise themselves in the position they once were in financially. This is somebody who works wholeheartedly on their craft. They may be involved in independent business or they are working on their own brand.

They may have a very young heart as well, always looking at things from a hopeful perspective. However, they are also very logical! They are able to plan their ventures and predict things that may or may not happen with every step that they take towards their goal! That desire to change their lives will always remain as a priority & main motivation for them to continue on their path.

This person will likely have an extroverted approach to life. Wanting to explore and see everything the world has to offer.

Their career may be very competitive, and their ideas or brand may come under scrutiny very often. If they work ina directive company for example, people was have dissatisfactions with how they present themselves or thing they may be to rash when coming up with new suggestions. However, they are resilient lol! I feel like they have a lot of potential for greatness, but by the time you meet them they are somewhere in the middle of their journey.

Your relationship will be intertwined with your career. This person will be the one to get your engines running, and to reignite that passion you might have held out in the rain before. They will act as a guide to you and help you realise things you may have overlooked before.

They will prove themselves to be a very stable companion. They will teach you to be fearless & confident when it comes to your passions and beliefs.

I feel like you'll bond over common interests and backgrounds . They may be from a different race than you as well! If you work with your hands i.e build, writing, drawing, animating and so on, this person will be on your side during sudden late night inspirational drives lol. This means they will be awake with you, talking and supporting what you do even when you're both supposed to be asleep.

You will be able to draw out the both the passionate and gentle side of eachother. Respecting boundaries and personal wishes going forward.

I feel like you'll meet them through chance, or coincidentally you work in the same department for example but you will be able to click immediately.

They could have Libra, Cancer, Gemini & Pisces placements in their charts.

MBTI wise, I feel like they could be an ENFJ, ENFP, ESTJ, ESTP, ENTP, & INTJ.

Pile two:

Decks used: Modern witch tarot, bluebird lenormard & astrological oracle

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚

Oooh pile two, this person is honestly incredible.

So first of all, they are someone very optimistic & rational. They perhaps have been born into wealth or have been blessed with a higher position in life than most. They are very mature and very calm & collected. When they speak, people may find it impossible to dispute them or overtake them. This person perhaps is great at debates or could work as a lawyer (or come from a family of lawyers). They are the type to value intelligence & fair judgement over any irrationality. They could be an only child or grew up being cared for fully by their parents. They may have shown great leadership qualities even from a young age. They are very humble & down to earth despite being at a position of power. They could own a business or inherit a business from their family. You will think that they are a dream come true or even too good to be real. Perhaps they were very studious in their younger years, performing much better than other students or seen as more mature relative to people their age. I feel like this might as well be the person you end up marrying because four of wands has shown up lol. Their parents could be divorced or living in different countries/states. They may have developed objective opinions on marriage as well. For example, if they are a woman they do not think that a man can provide her with anything she doesn't already have. They could want to marry for love rather than business or for practicality. They want to form genuine relationships with people they know are worthwhile (in their perspective). Perhaps people have used them as a means to lift themselves up and this has hurt your person. Your relationships could be very flirtatious. You both may be quite weary of eachother at first but you will soon find comfort in eachother's presence. Perhaps you will discover a soft side neither of you could have expected you'd get to. It reminds me of Anastasia and Dimitri's relationship lol. Rocky at the start but they soon develop deep feelings for eachother. They could have Sagittarius, Leo, Pisces, Aquarius & Virgo prominent in their charts. MBTI wise, they could be an ENTJ, INTJ, ENFJ, ENFP, INFJ, ISTJ, ISTP & INTP.

Pile three:

Decks used: VOX ( voice of tarot) arcana, The literary witches oracle & astrological oracle

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ .₊๋ ‧

Welcome pile 3! So your next relationship will be with someone who I can only describe as stubborn & possessive but very unique and full of ambition. I feel like this person has had a fair share for admirers or past relationships that may not have ended very well, and has since then been quite abstinent of love or the dating scene.

They have since learned to control their energy, and find satisfaction in being alone with themselves i.e putting themselves before relationships.

They may be quite materialistic or pay a lot of attention to their finances. They are very tactical and resourceful. There may have been disagreements or issues regarding their finances. Perhaps they have had legal issues with the company they work with or there may be issues with inheritance.

This person is extremely charming and charismatic. They may have the ability to sweep you off your feet & without even realising it you'll fall for their many charms lol. They could be quite hot hearted ( & hot headed) as well, and very direct with their feelings. Your relationship will be hot and passionate, you will feel like you have manifested eachother into your lives.

They may break the expectation you might have regarding the type of people you would usually go after romantically i.e their personality will be more in your face instead of quiet and reserved.

You may be thrill seekers when you are together, and you may find that the energy can be very heavy or s*xual. You will have a lot of fun in that department lol.

They can act sort of tsundere too as in they may act mischievously or playfully, they could also like to see you getting riled up 👀 lmao. They could have Taurus, Capricorn, Scorpio, Pisces, Leo & Aries prominent in their chart. MBTI wise, they could be ENTP, ENTJ, ESTP, ENFP, ESTJ, ISTP, ISFP & ISTJ

──────────୨ৎ───────────

***entertainment purposes only: reader discretion is advised***

None of the images are mine, all rights reserved to their original creators on Pinterest

Thanks for reading!

@northopalshore

@northopalshore 2024 pick a card.

[bunji-enthusiast]

Bunji hear me out 🙏🥺👀. So imagine a satoru gojo!reader in the invincible. Mark down bad for her (you've seen the girls cosplaying him 😍👀) , homegirl would just be out saving lives just for the fun of the game . Ciecil would hate to see gojo!reader coming since most know how much gojo hates the higher ups in jjk and feel like she'd just love messing with him . Anissa and conquest trying to be funny with her man mark end up split on the ground . Invincible war ending before angstorm levy can try another one of his villain monologues . Please bunji 🙏🥺

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐨

Mark Grayson x Fem!Gojo!Reader (something’s there lol)

Summary || your existence was something unexpected, both infuriating to most, but also a pillar of strength when needed.

Note // superrr tired, but I liked writing this one. I only addressed the events that occurred with Anissa in the show, Invincible War and Conquest happen right after eachother (I’m too pussy to write those things just yet lmao).

Mark was sent by the Coalition of Planets to investigate a dimensional rift. He expected a universe-threatening villain. Instead, he crash-landed in the middle of a battlefield where [Name] Gojo was already handling things—casually levitating mid-air, arms crossed, while cursed spirits vaporized trying to land a hit.

Mark tries to step in to help. You stop him with a finger to his chest and a smirk: “You’re cute. But also in the way.”

Mark is stunned. Not just by your power, but your vibe—like you knows your the strongest and wants him to watch you prove it.

He respects strength, but he’s not used to someone being so… cocky about it. Meanwhile, you find his earnestness both adorable and a little exhausting.

Mark is the heart. Your the sharp edge. You fight for fun, for pride, because it’s a game of domination. Mark fights because he has to. It leads to arguments—but also epic synergy in battle.

People mistake you both for a couple constantly—Mark’s flustered, you lean into it. “Can you blame them?” You says, ruffling his hair. “You’re always chasing after me.”

Mark offers to fly you somewhere. You pretend to be impressed… then levitate beside him just to make a point. Next time, you ‘forget’ and lets him carry you bridal-style through a sky battle just for the bit.

Battle banter consists of something like this:

Mark: “We should try not to kill them!”

You: “They tried to kill us. You’re too soft. Want me to toughen you up, sunshine?”

Mark: “Please don’t call me that.”

Your sparring sessions are practically relationship therapy. You like pushing his limits; Mark wants to prove he can beat you. He never does—but he does improve. And you notice.

Mark reminds you of your younger self—before the arrogance fully settled in, back when you still had Suguru. His compassion gets under your skin in ways that surprise you. You sees potential in him, maybe even a kind of moral compass. Not that you’d admit it.

It’s painfully obvious. He’ll deny it to his dying breath, but he always stands a little too close, always looks a little too long. The others tease him. You just raise an eyebrow: “He blushes when I breathe near him.”

You both lost someone close—Mark with his father’s betrayal, you with Suguru’s fall. One night, during a rare calm moment, Mark asks if you ever wonder if you could’ve saved him. You go quiet. Then: “Every day.”

You claim your stronger than any Viltrumite. Mark says “no way.” So you make him hit you with everything he’s got. He does. You smiled through it.

Mark wouldn’t stand a chance. You would absolutely dominate the relationship. Not in a cruel way—but you loves being the most powerful being in the room, and Mark would lowkey love being the guy who got you to open up.

You call him “baby Viltrumite.” He calls you “Queen of Chaos” when he’s flustered.

Your the kind of couple that people warn you about: loud, passionate, terrifyingly good at fighting, and stupidly in love beneath the surface tension.

The golden light casts long shadows over the ruined shoreline. The cruise ship lies grounded, metal groaning as rescue crews scramble to help the injured. The monster’s corpse still steams in the distance.

You watch from a short distance, arms folded, your tight black shirt speckled with ocean spray and blood that isn’t yours.

Mark’s voice is raised now, his fists clenched. “You don’t get to lecture me about humanity! You don’t care about this world!”

Anissa steps forward, calm, firm, a little too sure of herself. “I care enough to warn you. Earth is weak. You are weak. You’ll understand soon, Mark.”

The tension snaps.

Mark lunges at her, anger driving his punch. Anissa blocks, but just barely—he’s stronger now, more focused, more dangerous. Still, she’s older. Sharper. Viltrumite-born.

The two of them collide like thunder, fists cracking like lightning across the sky. Sand explodes in geysers as they slam into the beach, sending terrified civilians scattering for cover.

Then—

Time halts.

A shimmer in the air. A stillness. And suddenly, you’re there—standing between them.

Mark’s fist stops just short of your shoulder.

Anissa’s next strike halts midair.

Both of them freeze.

You tilt your head, smiling that lazy, arrogant smile of yours. “Wow. You two really know how to ruin a sunset.”

“[Name]?” Mark stammers, stumbling back slightly. His expression softens—for a moment, relief flooding his face.

You glance at the crushed sand around you, the frantic screams from nearby civilians, the cracked pavement where someone nearly died. Your smile fades.

“You wanna break each other’s bones, fine. But do it without turning humans into collateral damage.” Your voice dips. Cold. Sharp. “I don’t do messy team-ups.”

Anissa narrows her eyes. “Who are you supposed to be?”

You blink, and suddenly you’re inches from her. She didn’t even see you move.

You lean in, eyes gleaming behind your bangs. “The reason you’re still breathing.”

And with that, you tap her chest—nothing more.

She flies backward like a meteor, skipping across the waves with a deafening crash. The ocean hisses around her impact site, the water parting from sheer kinetic force.

Mark stares, slack-jawed. “…I had that under control.”

You shrug, stepping back beside him. “Sure, sunshine. But you were taking way too long.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, then sighs. “She said I was her ‘first warning.’ That the others are coming.”

Your expression hardens. For a brief flicker, your usual smugness cracks.

“Let them.”

Your voice is quiet. Final. Like you already know how this ends.

Now, the air smells like salt and ozone.

Rescue drones hum overhead. EMTs load the last few injured passengers onto stretchers. The wreckage from the cruise ship smolders in the distance, but the beach is mostly cleared now, thanks to your timely arrival. Civilians lived. No one got flattened. Clean work.

Mark stands near the water’s edge, hands on his hips, bruised, scuffed, and visibly rattled. He’s still watching the spot where Anissa vanished after your hit sent her flying halfway into next week.

You appear beside him without warning—no sound, no shift in the air. Just there.

He flinches. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

You smirk. “Only the cute ones.”

Mark groans, scrubbing his face. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you gesture to the mostly intact beach, “incredibly effective.”

He exhales slowly, his shoulders sinking. “Thanks. For saving the people. And… probably me.”

You glance at him sidelong. “That was your thank you? You sound like someone just told you your dog ran away.”

Mark chuckles softly, but there’s no humor in it. “She said they’re coming. Stronger ones. That I should’ve joined her. She sounded so sure I’d break eventually.”

You pause.

Then you reach out and flick his forehead—lightly, but enough to snap him out of the spiral.

“Hey,” you say, voice low. “You’re not breaking. Not while I’m around.”

He looks at you, really looks. There's weariness in his eyes, that deep-soul tiredness he carries after every fight where the odds were rigged from the start.

“But you won’t always be around,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you walk ahead a few steps, letting the waves lap at your slippers, arms crossed. The wind whips your hair, your silhouette sharp and untouchable against the dying sun.

“I don’t stick around for many people,” you finally admit. “Most aren’t worth the trouble. Too weak. Too scared. Too boring.”

You glance over your shoulder at him.

“But you… you keep getting up.”

Mark’s brows lift slightly.

“You think that makes me strong?”

“I think it makes you stupid.” A beat. “But the right kind of stupid.”

He laughs, a little more real this time.

Then—more hesitantly—he steps up beside you. “So what now?”

You shrug. “Now? We prepare. Train. Fight. Win.”

Mark nods. Then, quieter: “And if we don’t?”

You flash him a wicked smile, eyes glinting. “Then we make sure the world remembers we went down swinging—and looking damn good doing it.”

He laughs again. Then looks at you for a long moment, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I meant what I said earlier. You scare me sometimes.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “Yeah. I figured.”

[copperbadge]

I'm researching second-line medications for ADHD, because the Adderall works well for the executive function but non-pharmaceutical solutions are simply not effective for the emotional dysregulation, which I think the Adderall might be making worse, apparently that can happen.

But what's wild to me is that it seems as though the most effective treatments for ADHD, first or second line, almost all come in one of two flavors:

-- High potential for addiction

-- Used outside of ADHD as a treatment for addiction

There are definitely some treatments that fall somewhere in the middle, but it's hilarious how often my notes read stuff like "Second-line treatment for ADHD, can be used with stimulants, also used for smoking cessation/substance use disorder/individuals with history of alcohol misuse". It's almost like addiction frequently has biological causes related to emotional regulation and impulsivity and can be treated medically. Fancy that.

I've also found fascinating anecdotes by people with ADHD who prior to their diagnosis were struggling with addiction to opiates and were able to stop when they got on stimulant medication -- which "shouldn't be a thing" because opiates are depressants, not stimulants, and shouldn't impact ADHD. I've seen the theory floated that it's not stimulant/depressant that matters so much as impact on dopamine production and reception, but who the hell knows honestly.

It is interesting to me, though, because despite the jokes I've made in the past I've always watched myself very closely when it comes to opiates. I became well aware fairly early on that "oh, this is the drug that I could get in trouble over", but part of that was always that if I took a Vicodin, I would actually go do stuff like the dishes or the laundry or my essays for grad school, and that felt really good.

Anyway, I don't think it's often discussed that medication which increases your ability to do stuff can also overblow your ability to feel stuff, and also medication for emotional regulation may also boost you onto the wagon. So there you have it.

[killerkillerkillher]

Bound to Fall in Love

Angel/Demon! 141 x reader

Tags: kidnapping, sacrifices, religious references, reader is too angry to die, reader commits murder lol, canon typical violence??, reader gets a kissy on the forehead, a tad crack-ish

Inclusivity tags: reader is referred to w he/him and they/them pronouns, no bodily description, no y/n

A/n: call my brain an apple w all the worms it's got. This was just a blurb at first, but I made room in there for me to potentially make it into... something I guess.

minors dni!

"Cole, I can't fucking focus while they're just... staring at us like that."

"Ignore it, Bess. We have to finish these candles."

You wish a bolt of lightening would come down and strike all three of you at once. Or maybe the building spontaneously combusting would be better. Anything, anything, would be better at this moment than watching your boyfriend and best friend work together to light a summoning circle after having tied you up in your sleep.

For a fraction of a second, you wonder if any gods are watching, if any of them would be willing to give you a boon and allow you one last chance to punch both of these betrayers in the face.

"Okay, okay, the book," Bess mutters, going to the pick up her ritual book from the coffee table you bought. Honestly, if they were going to try to sacrifice you somewhere, your living room is one of the most disrespectful places. Probably right under your bed room.

"I'm sorry," Cole has the gaul to look down at you with a face stricken with grief. Like you're dead already. "We didn't know what else to do. We're both in bad places and you've always been so good to us, so we figured-"

"You better hope this fucking kills me." You grunt. Cole's face melts into a glare. "Because if I'm still breathing, it's going to take more than Satan's intervention to save you from me. I swear on my mother." You jerk forward, making him jump back a step.

"Cole...?" Bess looks at you, then up at Cole with unease. Cole doesn't say anything for a second, sorting his feelings out with a leer before turning to her.

"Read the book."

He drags you into the middle of their pentagram while she sings Latin words off the old book pages. The candles flicker and waver before their flames grow twice as tall. Cole rolls you onto your back and pulls a knife from his back pocket.

"I meant it when I said I'm sorry," Cole mutters. You snarl, but don't jump at him like you want to.

"Yeah? Yeah, you're sorry? Kiss my ass!" You shout over Bess's reading. "If I'm still alive after this, I'm killing you and burying you in the fucking septic tank!" You crane your head up so you can see Bess as well. "Time to get some stuff off my chest, yeah? Bess, I fucked your older brother on the day we graduated."

Her eyes go wide, and she almost stops talking, but Cole shoots her a look that forces her to continue.

"And his friend Carl, the one you had a crush on. And Cole? I never. Fucking. Finished. Ever! You are the only person I've dated who couldn't get me off." Cole's hand's twitch around the blade.

"Are you serious?"

"Does now look like a time to- ack!" You don't get to finish because Bess finished the spell and it was time for your blood to fuel it. The blade buries in your gut, turning this way and that way at measured increments. You just lay there and twitch, breathy gasps falling from your gaping mouth, the pain only throwing fuel to the fires of your rage.

"Please, we call you here! Honor us with your presence!" Bess chants. Cole step away from you when the candles roar and your vision is filled with bright red and orange.

The ground beneath you rumbles. Whispers fill your ears, nothing you can ever imagine understanding, but something tells you they're other summoners. Or maybe little souls of those who were just where you are now, with a people sacrificing them.

It's odd, you think as blood soaks your back, your hair. You thought you'd be more scared in what could be your final moments. But there's only anguish where there should be fear. Only unfettered violent tension felt in your muscles, and a tongue hungering for iron and gore. You're jaw is wound tight enough to shatter your teeth.

If you could think straight, if you weren't about to die, you might be a little concerned. Never have you wanted to sink your fingers into someone's soft bits as much as you do now. This is normal, right? A normal amount of rage for the people taking your life.

Something in your gut tells you it's not.

In the fog of your rage, you missed the appearance of a pair of men above you. They hover, leathery plum colored wings sagging. One wears a leather strap harness across his chest, while the other favors an unbuttoned silk shirt. One of them looks at you curious as the fire dies, steam and copper colored smoke bellowing from his mouth. A thick cigar hangs on his lips.

"You came! There's... two of you?" Cole gawks, then falls to his knees beside Bess. You can't help but scoff at their sniveling forms.

"We did. There are." The one without the cigar brushes back his long mohawk to get a better look at the whimpering humans. They're nothing new to them, just another set of weak little things looking to get something without putting in the work for it.

Well, they might have had to put in the work to capture you, based on the way you still squirm and fight the rope keeping your arms together. So much blood has left you. You are going to die. Yet you spend your last moments doing what most humans find to be a waste of precious time. Being angry. It's interesting.

"What do you want?" The bearded one in the silk shirt grunts out around his cigar. Bess lifts her head just a bit to speak.

"We want to make a trade. A soul for a better life for us."

There's a moment of silence. You blink your heavy lids, growing too tired to do much else anymore. Both demons look back at you, then to the kneeling humans.

"They're not dead." They say at the same time.

Bess and Cole stiffen and finally chance a glance at you. You're bleeding, a glassy look to your eye and a smile on your face, but you're not dead.

"See, Bess?" You cough up blood only to swallow it back down, "what did I tell you? The cunt can't make me come and can't... can't even make me go."

The mohawked devil pops a wicked smile, not even hiding it from his would-be contractors.

Cole fumes. "I can finish the job. Fuck, am I going to finish the job." He stands, moving to step into the circle only to yelp, the invisible border around the summoning circle becoming visible if only to shock Cole back.

"Not so fast," the bearded one spawns a scroll in his hand. He's eyes glow a molten orange as he scans it. "Section 1, clause 3, part 19 states: executioner(s) must sacrifice one(1) human soul to contractee(s)... Let's see... Here it is: Sacrificee(s) must be dead upon arrival so that proper collection can be done. If sacrificee(s) is still soul bond upon arrival, then they are made the true contractor and all work will be conducted with them."

"In other words," the mohawked one grinned, "you should have went for the heart." He taps at his chest.

"Or the neck." The other devil offers.

"Or that vein in they're thigh."

"The sephenous, Johnny."

"Yeah, that."

"No, no!" Cole grabs at his hair as Bess looks like she's about to start crying. You want to laugh. They deserve the despair. They deserve the horror in their mistake. They were going to kill you!

"That means," the devils lean back to look at you. "You're our contractor. You get two requests at the price of one, human. I suggest one of those requests includes healing you." He flicks the ashes of his cigar on your leg. You don't even have to think of what you want most right now.

"I want you to untie me." You roll on your side. They wait for the rest. Cole and Bess look like they're going to shit themselves from the pale faced looks of terror they give you. Your eyes narrow. "And a hammer. A old fashioned iron and wood handled hammer."

Another beat of silence before the infernals bend over in laughter. The room shacks, sulfuric smoke pouring from their mouths to funk up the room. Cole tries to cox Bess to her feet while they're distracted. Their feet can't move though. It's like they're glued in placed and no amount of pulling and tugging could get them loose. Shame.

"Yer a funny one, love. I'll love having your soul for a few eternities." The one in leather floats over you, tilting his head this way and that way to get a good look at you. You settle him with a neutral look. "My name is Johnny. You sure that's what you want? I think you've only got a few minutes left in you."

"Then let's hurry this up a little, huh?"

"Ooh, you heard 'em." The cigared one snickers and snaps his claws. Two contracts appear in front of your face, both written in a language you can hardly comprehend. A pen appeared in front of your mouth. "Sign on the dotted line please."

You take the quill in your mouth, dip it in the blood beneath you.

"Rah 'ere?"

"Mhm."

You lean forward to dot the paper with your sloppy signature, but bizarrely enough, it seems like the powers that be have decided that they haven't made enough appearances. The floor trembles, and you worry about your poor infrastructure for a fraction of a second, when a set of gold doors spawn right behind you. You roll back onto your back to intake everything. You swear you're hallucinating when a pair of white winged angels step out, the clouded blue of heaven at their back.

"Hello?" You greet stupidly. You must be losing your mind, right? What the fuck is happening.

"Do not sign a thing." The bronzen angel instructs. "Human, we are here as messengers. God sees great things for you in your ascension. Please do not squander that to these demons." He shoots a sharp look at the demonic pair. The angel's counterpart wears a white cloak, obscuring all but his glowing golden eyes. You half expect him to sing "Be not afraid." despite you actively shitting bricks.

Oddly enough, their appearence seems to have some sort of healing property. Your lethargy starts to clear and the blade in your gut starts to get pushed out. Nothing hurts anymore.

"Oh, so we've got a big soul on our hands here, huh?" Johnny smirks. "Price, what's the plan?"

Price the devil throws his cigar to the ground and crushes it.

"Do what we do best. Bargain."

"Don't play with us, Price." The shrouded angel grunts. He's got a mind piercing voice that's got your head ringing, and you swear it echoes despite the room being well furnished. "We can provide them with just as much, if not more, at no cost of their soul." Those gold orbs land on you. "All we ask for is your faith."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" You tug at your bonds with renewed vigor. The angels wince at the mention of their Lord, but only watch as you force yourself upright. "I could not give a rat's ass who gets what! How about this? First one to get me free and a hammer in hand gets my loyalty."

There's two resounding snaps from either side of you. The ropes disappear, a hammer is in your left and right hand. You don't think deeper on what that implies. You finally stand, dropping the hammer in your nondominant hand, and march over to the two people you thought you could trust. They kneel now, seemingly ready to beg for their souls.

"Come on, don't look scared now." You drop your hands on your hips. "What happened to you finishing the job?"

"I didn't want-"

"Say it with your chest." You poke his breast plate with the iron hammer head.

"I didn't want it to come to this!" Cole yells. The divine audience doesn't say anything about it. They watch you curiously as you bounce the hammer in hand. Your soul is visible to them. What should be a glowing ball of light is a red and white morning star, all sharp edges and pulsing like a heart. Your soul will certainly not end up with the others, that much is true.

"I just... I couldn't keep up with you! Your life style, the way you act, your job. I never left good enough. Bess expressed the same thing and we just... clicked. We would have just left, but we could have never lived without struggling, so we just..." He swallows. You can't look at him anymore, hands clenching at what he says next. "The book called for someone we cared for."

''That supposed to make me feel better?" You tilt your head. Cole winces, eyes falling on your feet. You look to Bess. "Thought you were better than this. You were going to kill me. Because what, I was happy? I loved both of you, you could have just talked to me."

"We're sorry! What more do you want?" Bess sobs. You straighten up, bouncing the hammer on your hip, acting like you next action is something to deliberate. You already know what they deserve, and a flash of sadness bubbles in your chest, but it quickly passes as a hot, searing emotion burns a hole into what little hesitation you had left.

"Reckon I want your souls after all the shit you've caused." You grin before swinging the hammer back and caving in Cole's chest.

"Fuck..." is all you can say after everything is done. Cole and Bess lay in a bloody heep, all recognizable features destroyed and crushed. You pant, hands trembling and nothing but white noise and static crunching around in your head. You just killed your best friend and boyfriend. For some reason, you've never felt so light.

Someone's whistle gets followed by a clap.

"Impressive. Done that before?" Johnny chuckles. He floats closer, hand running down your back as he moves past and pokes around the pulped organs. "Shite, did them right in. Can't tell which is which."

"I've never-" you start to answer, but hands are clapped onto your shoulders, shocking you into silence.

"Well, that was a good place to start, lad. Your swings were a bit sloppy, but we can fix that." Price squeezes at your trapezius, massaging the stiffness out of them. A throat clears, and Price sighs like he forgot there was other company.

"We aren't finished. The human is our ward now, Price." The uncloaked angel snaps his finger, pulling you from Price and making you spawn between the two angels. The bronzen angel smiles down at you with teeth so white you could damn near see your reflection.

"There you are. It's nicer to have you close. My friend here is Simon and I'm-"

"Come on, Kyle, you know he's ours!" Johnny spits, his wings flaring out. "We gave him the hammer first, so piss off."

"Uh...huh." Kyle's smile falls. "I think you're a bit mistaken. Look, after executing the human's request, I have his name here." A stone slab appears in front of your face. It's smells like sunshine and warm grass. What the fuck. "His pledge to the Lord has been set and his soul already has a place next to Their throne."

"Right, right, like we don't have documentation neither." Johnny huffs. The stone disappears as a scroll appears next to the devil. The smell of sulfur and smoke wafts over to you. "His name is right there, pretty boy. Getting yer fuckin' lookers on."

Kyle ignores the rude tone and does pull out a pair of reading glasses to go over the scroll. You stand there in the silence, a little too scared to speak up. What could you do anyway? In a blind anger, you didn't really have the mind to think any of this out. Angels and devils are fighting over you because you'd stupid ass was too blood hungry to think past murder. All that can be done is for them to figure this out amongst themselves, and for you to wait for the sentencing. Heaven, or Hell?

"...Simon." Kyle slowly pulls his glasses off. "This is legit. His soul is promised to all of us."

You glance up at Simon, the scary motherfucker. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then pinches the bridge of his nose with a hagard sigh.

"Shit."

That's not good.

Johnny laughs, Price grinning like a dog with a bone. Kyle marches over to you, patting your shoulders with an awkward smile. His demeanor reminds you of the way your mom acted when she said she was going to divorce your dad. And all you can think is "Not this again." Are you going to be spending your afterlife going between heaven and hell forever? Does God get weekends because Their day is Sunday or whatever?

"We need to go and talk this over with some superiors. We'll clean this up," Kyle snaps and the gore is gone, so is the ritual circle and candles. "And we'll get back to you in the morning." He places a feather light kiss on your forehead, and suddenly you're squeaky clean and in the softest set of pajamas you've ever worn. "Stay safe while we're gone and don't allow these two to influence you. Get some rest."

"Blah, blah, blah," Johnny mocks from the sidelines. Price tilts his head, and there's nothing but amusement behind those eyes. Yeah, this is exactly like your parents divorce.

"O-okay? I mean, I'll try." You shrug.

Simon nods. "That's all you can do." He steps back into the golden doorway and Kyle falls in stride. You make some distance, and with a final wave from a white toothed angel, the doors shut with a slam that shakes the house's foundation.

"Just you and us now, stud."

You turn with a comedic slowness to the devils. Price chuffs and floats forward. His assess you, takes you in in all your fluffy white pajama glory, and it seems he finds what he wants when he nods.

"Guess we've got to talk with top brass to see what's going on ourselves. Pity we couldn't stick around longer." The devil's eyes never meet yours, staying glued to various parts of your face. They hop from ears, to your eyebrows, down to your lips. Christ on a bike, is it getting hot in here? His blue, glowing cerulean eyes appear to flash with something.

"Shite, yer right." Johnny groans. "I hate going down there."

"Suck it up, love. You know how I feel about sharing." Price drops his interest in you like an old toy and takes Johnny close by his waist. You watch with a lead poisoned stare as their noses touch intimately, words you can't hear being exchanged. It's kinda of awkward to just stand there and watch but your brain isn't really functioning well enough to tell you to stop.

"Hey, stud." You blink, refocusing on the pair. Johnny seems to have climbed his partner, his legs on his waist and arms around his neck. Price makes busy opening a portal to hell in your livingroom with one hand, supporting Johnny under his ass with the other. "Sit pretty, yeah? 'll be back before those two arseholes, promise."

"Right... yeah." You nod. "Uh, be safe?"

"Be safe, he says." Price mutters. "Cute." Johnny waves until Price steps through the infernal hole and falls from view. The portal closes right behind him so you'd have no hopes of seeing anything but the red hue of smog and dust.

And here you are. A little dazed, a little sad, probably holding back a break down from the last hour of events. But you're alive and you're healed. There's no blood to clean, you're in comfortable pajamas. Could probably sleep right now if your brain would stop for a minute, but it doesn't look like that's in the plans.

So you look for something to do. Cole and Bess and moved around all your furniture to make the summoning circle. Guess you can start there, right?

[niningtori]

clementine | preview

pairing: choi beomgyu x you

summary: after your explosive breakup and wordless, thorough disappearance from beomgyu's life, he's surprised to see that you've moved back to his town. when he happens to meet you again, beomgyu wants to apologize, maybe make amends for his unforgivable behavior, but he's devastated to find out that you've erased every memory of him. you don't want to remember him—or the love you once held onto so desperately—anymore. he knows that to be the case, so why is it so hard for him to feel the same way?

genre: angst, romance, potentially second chance, asshole!beomgyu to groveling! beomgyu (who saw this one coming...), inspired by eternal sunshine of the spotless mind tho i've never seen it and only know major plot points through cultural osmosis

warnings: angst, previous toxic relationship

word count: tbd

release date: really far in the future probably

notes: i received a request for this a while ago and i said i'd think about it then received an ask a couple of weeks ago saying another author was working on something based on the same movie. again, i've never seen the movie and i haven't read the author's work (or any new fanfiction rlly in the past few months cuz i haven't been in the headspace to enjoy it) so i will be making it up based off of the general concept of having memories of an ex erased. i said i'd wait to post it and i have every intention of doing so but i wrote this in a moment of inspiration and i've been posting previews so i thought i'd post this just as a teaser! it won't be out for a long time cuz i have so many wips and i don't want to be inconsiderate or invite weird, unsolicited comparisons. i just want to post previews bc i'm excited to get back into consistently writing after almost quitting 🥹

-

it’s jarring, to say the least, to see an estranged ex you used to love more than anything else in any unexpected context; but it's especially jarring for beomgyu as he watches you chatter away on your phone in the middle of the cafe he finds himself in. he catches your eye for just a second before you look away, and it's like he can't breathe. after your phone call, you smile as you type away on your screen. beomgyu gulps, because he knows that since you two made eye contact, it would be weird to just leave and pretend he didn't see you, though that's exactly what he wants to do. besides, no matter how much of a coward he is, he can't keep living with his unspoken feelings when he finally has the opportunity to express them, no matter how resolutely you might reject them. he hesitantly rises from his seat and walks over to you with unsure steps.

“hey,” he says unsteadily. you look up from your screen and give a forced smile, a far cry from the easy affection you used to give him. only him.

“uh, hey?” you reply. beomgyu worries he did the wrong thing by approaching you, especially because you seem confused that he said anything at all. you probably expected him to exit the cafe without a word, and the thought that you thought that he, who was once completely and utterly in love with you, would brush you off so easily brings a sharp pang to his chest.

“i… i know it’s been a while, but i… i want to, um, apologize for… everything.” he wants to lay down and die at his awkwardness, but he's wanted to say these words for so long, and no matter how much he’s compelled to swallow them down and safely tuck them away in the home they've carved out for themselves in his stomach, he knows this is the right thing to do. especially since you blocked him on everything before changing your number. especially since you moved away without a word after your disastrous breakup. especially since he hasn't seen you in so long, and he doesn't know if he'll ever see you again after this. your eyebrows furrow, and he braces himself for impact. but no amount of contrived mental fortitude could ever prepare him for your next words.

“... do i know you from somewhere?”

notes pt. 2: might delete this preview so be prepared for that possibility 🫰 peace and blessings :,) but please don't be mean or weird like actually

[inarvii]

˚☽˚｡- AN AMPLE WAGER

Aventurine isn't one to express how he feels, but he finds himself longing and desperate when he decides to neglect IPC protocol and go on a mission alone. It's astounding what just one game of Black Jack can do.

OR

Revelations occur when you save Aventurine, and he saves you.

wc - 4.7k

Warnings - Blood, Gore, Slightly Nsfw

“What beautiful eyes.”

That’s the first sentence you ever said to Aventurine. 

Although he had just been promoted to manager of the Senior Investment Department, the IPC still considered him new. Becoming a manager meant meeting fellow managers of other departments for the first time. 

It meant meeting you, a Senior Manager of the Marketing Development Department. So he stayed over in the meeting room to introduce himself to you while others packed their stuff and fled. But you beat him to the punch. 

It was the first compliment he had received about his eyes. Others had thought them to be “unsettling” or even “bird-like.” Your words had shattered his snarky persona, and his eyebrows raised. Before he could even answer, you followed up your compliment with a question. 

“You walk around like that?” You ask, your hands grasping at papers on the meeting room table. 

Aventurine’s brow quirks, his mind puzzled by your words as he stands in front of your desk. 

You laugh, entertained by his confusion. “With your eyes for everyone to see?” 

He doesn’t respond; instead, his eyes travel over you as you walk closer to him. Your hand sneaks to his shoulder, and when your lips get closer to his ear you whisper, “Be careful now. Such pretty eyes would go for a hefty price if the right person found them.”

You pull your business card out of your blouse pocket. “They’re a privilege to look at as well.” You smile, holding the card in front of him. He takes it hesitantly. 

Aventurine watches as you walk towards the office door, seemingly having somewhere to be. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” you say. “Oh, and congrats on the promotion,” you wink. Then the sound of your heels click and clack down the hallway and Aventurine stares at your business card, twirling it between his fingers. 

The next time he sees you, he wears shades 

However, he makes sure to take them off when speaking to you—wanting to give you the privilege. 

At times, Aventurine thinks that there is no other place that he belongs more in than the IPC. 

Being a Manager for the Strategic Investment Department gives him opportunities like no other. Although his job was to spot depleting planets that had the potential for profit, the IPC gives Aventurine plenty of more ways to invest his time. 

Like investing in people. 

And, oh, what a great investment you were. 

He learns so much by your side. He learns what other managers to avoid in different departments. He learns how to navigate the brash personality of Diamond. He learns how to use his tongue more efficiently to get what he wants. 

Like when you kiss. 

When you touch.

When you fuck. 

It’s been different doing all those things with you. It’s never forced when it comes to you. It’s never a transaction like how it was before he came to the IPC. Oh, he learns a great deal, but it leaves him scared of the difference. He wants to kiss you. He wants to touch you. He doesn’t just want to fuck you, but he wants to make love with you. And this scares him greatly. 

But he’ll never admit those things out loud. He barely admits it to himself inside his head when his arms are wrapped around you in the middle of the night, and his thoughts begin to run in the back of his mind. Aventurine is able to adapt quickly. It just seems your gentle affection he can’t comprehend

Aventurine had gotten comfortable. 

He was too used to his position of power at the IPC. It made him forget that he was but an endangered species to everyone looking in. 

“Beautiful eyes,” the man says to him as he closes in on Aventurine, too close for comfort.  Raga was his name. His frame was built and bulky, along with the accomplice that sat on the other side of the room. Aventurine doesn’t remember his name due to the twist of dread that fills his stomach at Raga’s words. 

The compliment doesn’t sound much like one to Aventurine’s ears. He cringes in disgust at it instead of feeling the excitement when you had given him the very same compliment all those years ago. 

“Heh, why thank you, Sir. ”He reaches for his shades in his coat pocket and takes a step backward, trying to regain his personal space. 

“They’re a privilege to look at…” 

He hears your voice ring in his ears like a reminder. A privilege—he reassures himself. A privilege that the man in front of him is undeserving of. 

He flicks out his sunglasses. But as his shades reach towards his eyes, Raga grabs his wrist. Aventurine’s eyes dart upward to meet the man’s. 

“Tryna hide them from me?” 

The blond smiles sweetly, yanking his wrist out of Raga’s grasp in the process. “Such pretty eyes come with a downside, Sir.” He puts on his glasses, making sure they're snug on his face. “They’re quite sensitive.” He lies. One of the perks of being the sole survivor of an extinct race was that there was no one to fact-check him. 

“Only eyes like those can belong to a Sigonian.” Aventurine’s head snaps to the man sitting down in the chair. “And working for the IPC too?”

The bulky man looks back at Aventurine. “Well, color me impressed! A Sigonian this far from home?” He lets out a booming chuckle that causes him to almost wheeze. “Well, I guess you ain’t got none, do ya?” 

The man slaps Aventurine on his back. “I thought all y’all were all dead.” 

Aventurine forces a laugh. “Well, you get to see a miracle today, don’t you.” He'd rather not go into detail about his home, so he just continues to plaster a grin on his face.  

The man walks closer—cornering Aventurine once again. “Those eyes of yours sure are a miracle, too, huh? 

Aventurine can only glare up at the man. 

“Hey, Chidi!” The man calls. So that was his name? “How much does a Sigonian eye go for ya think?”

Aventurine’s gaze doesn’t leave the man that leers down at him when the other answers. “Not sure…but maybe we can continue our negotiation if we find out.” 

The bulky one grins. “How’s that sound?” 

“You’ve never played Russian Roulette?” There’s genuine confusion on your face when you ask. But Aventurine can’t help but eye the backside of your naked body as you try to meticulously fix your sex-ridden hair in the mirror. 

You pull out one of Aventurine’s shirts and put it on. 

“We can’t have an IPC strategist losing his bets,” you say as you sift through your clothes. “Here, let me show you.” 

The next thing he sees is your revolver in your hand. You fling out the cylinder and empty all the bullets in your hand. 

He remembers only looking at your glossy and bruised lips as your painted fingers slowly put a round into the gun. 

You give it a spin and fling the cylinder back in place with one hand as you creep onto the soft comforter of Aventurine’s bed. He can’t help but watch as you get closer and closer to him with a smirk of mischief that only The Elation would be proud of. 

Your hands grab his’ as you put the gun in his hand. Your fingers are soft—welcoming as you guide the weapon to your heart. The barrel touches your chest and Aventurine notices the small movement of your breast. 

You smile and lean towards him. His facial expression stays unwavering, but his eyes intrigued as they meet yours. 

“One in six,” you say. “A one in six chance that you’ll shed blood, take a life, end a path.” Your free hand snakes to Aventurine’s thigh, your thumb leaving soothing circles on his skin. His head tilts back ever so slightly, and he smiles. “That’s what this game is.” 

Your fingers guide his thumb to the hammer, pulling it down.

“Wanna take the chance?” You question—tilting your head. 

What a game this was. Aventurine jerks the gun from your grasp, taking the bullet out of the barrel. He chuckles breathlessly. “And here I thought you weren’t as crazy as everyone else here.” He leans back, triggering the safety on the gun. 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Have to be a little crazy to be a big shot here,” you reply. Your hands replace the gun in Aventurine’s hands as you crawl over his frame.”Don't you think?” Your lips press to his cheek, his neck, and then his chest. He leans into every one. When you give him this affection, he wonders if you mean it. Or if it's just part of the arrangement you two have. 

“Why do people play this game?” He groans, closing his eyes and leaning back on the headboard. “You win nothing b-“ A gasp slips from himself after you give him a small nip on his collarbone. He tries again. ”…but can lose everything.”

You leave one more chaste kiss just below his jaw and lift your head up. “Power,” you answer. 

Your hand is still in Aventurine’s as he opens his eyes to gaze at you. Your head tilts. “If you avoided the fates of death, would you, too, not feel on par with an Aeon?”

He sighs. What a game. What a crazy and outlandish game. 

He might actually like it if he were on the other side of the gun instead of you. 

Aventurine is a lucky man. He always has been. 

He’s lucky that you’ve been paired up with him to come to this planet–he’s also lucky that you’re quick on your feet. 

He shouldn’t have come to this negotiation alone—if you could even call it that. He should have waited for you. Maybe then you both wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place and maybe then you wouldn’t be cleaning up his mess in the form of two twisted games merged as one. 

This small planet had been corrupted over the years. Its government had been rendered useless against a hate group's planned coup d’etat. Their citizens now only obeyed and obliged them. It was now yours and Aventurine’s job to either rebuild the government or eradicate the new one—whichever was faster. You both knew which was faster. 

So there you two were standing in front of this so called “Leader” as you humored him with a potential way to get the eye he apparently desired.

“I love a good game,” you had announced when you arrived.“How about we play one for it?” Your fingers gently grazed Aventurine’s eyelid, sending him a flirtatious but knowing smile. Your warning had come to fruition. 

Black Jack. 

It was Aventurine’s favorite game he had learned since becoming a Stoneheart–a freed man–a human being. He thinks it’s because it punishes those who feel overzealous but simultaneously those who are too modest. A perfect balance, he thinks.

But the men had suggested playing it differently, a way that involved more risk. The loser of each round would have to play one game of Russian Roulette. However, another bullet was added to the chamber after each round. 

How exciting. 

You both obliged. He knew that you wouldn't disagree to such an exhilarating twist on a game beloved by everyone in the IPC. However, when one of the men suggests that you be the dealer, Aventurine notices the way your lip twitches slightly. What he fails to notice, however, is the way you somberly sneak a glance at him in worry. 

The tension in the room fills the air like thick smog as the first round commences. There’s nothing but silence as you deal out the cards. 

One by one, a string of commands comes your way from each man. 

“Hit.”

“Hit.”

“Hit.” 

“Hit.”

“Hit”

“Stay.” The built man to your left says. 

“Hit.” Aventurine smiles. 

When the time comes when all must show their hands, Aventurine is the first to offer. He presents a nice even 18, and you a 20. 

Raga spreads his cards before him, showcasing a total of 14. 

You frown unapologetically. “Mmm, looks like it’s too low.” You get up from your sitting position and pull out your revolver. Everyone watches as you take a bullet and put it in the chamber, giving it a good spin. 

You stand in front of the burly man, gun to his forehead. He smiles. Oh, it’s a sickly smile. A smile that exudes hunger and madness. You smile back, of course. 

“Say, I thought your people were ones to brute force with negotiations, not play petty games.” You tilt your head expectantly. 

He laughs, the smell of liquor wafting in the air as a result. “Everyone knows the IPC ain’t ones to be messed with, pretty. Do us good to play fai-“

Click 

Theres silence. But soon follows a snicker from the other side of the table from Aventurine. He practically coos at the man’s dumbfounded expression. 

“Hmm.” You remove the gun from the man’s forehead. “Ever the lucky one,” you commend with a smirk. 

The man on the other side of the room starts to cause a ruckus, but Raga calms him down with a wave of his finger. 

He smiles. “Couldn’t have two pretty things if I were dead.” His dark eyes drift to Aventurine and then back to you. 

Aventurine refuses to let his smile drop, although it yearns to. 

The next round is then set in motion. 

Cards are dealt, drawn, and played. When the time comes for all to flip their cards over, it doesn't matter the poker faces shown throughout the round or if Raga’s hand is closer to 21 than Aventurine’s because Aventurine says one small word when he tallies up the total of his hand.

“Bust.”

His shades glint in the dim yellow light of the room, and he shows a beaming smile. Your heart sinks, but poker faces are never turned off on the clock when you are an IPC manager. So, you neatly place your own cards down and begin to stand. 

Aventurine watches as you take the gun out of your holster. His eyes follow your every move as you add another bullet to the chamber. When the chamber is flicked back in place, he smiles at you sweetly–innocently. Like this is all a game of checkers. 

You say nothing and point the gun to his heart. 

He chuckles. “Want me to suffer, huh?” His gloved hands gently meet your hand, and he moves the gun so it points at his head, the cold metal stinging his skin. 

His peacock-esque eyes put on a performance for you as he looks up through his blond eyelashes. “If my luck runs out, at least make it quick, boss.” 

His smirk is sickening, but your face stays that of a stone. You pull the hammer down and…

click 

You’re silent, but your actions speak for yourself. You quickly remove the gun from his head, causing all eyes around the room to stay lingering on you. You forcefully lighten your expression, forming a smile on your lips. “Hm.”

“What?” Aventurine questions playfully. “Did ya doubt me?” He just watches as you turn your back without a word and begin to set up the table for the next round. 

Its a quick round. One filled with few distractions. And when it’s time for everyone to flip their cards, all at the table are surprised at your hand, including yourself. 

Black Jack. 

You look around, observing the men’s hands. Aventurine smirks, his eyes practically sparkling at the outcome. He holds an almost perfect hand of 21. His opponent, not so lucky, grumbles as he slaps the deck of cards on the table–his cards only adding up to a measly 17. 

You stand up from your seat and begin to make your way over to Raga. Your fingers fiddle and twirl the bullet in your hand. The chamber opens with a clank, and you gently slide the bullet in place, giving it a good spin before closing it. 

“That’s three,” you warn. Your shoulders are squared as you aim at the man’s head. “You could call this all off now if you like.”You bend down to his level and give and furrow your brows “Is it really worth it?” You ask. 

“Think I can’t win?” He asks boldly as he puffs out his chest.

You smile sweetly. “I think bullets don’t care what your title is, Raga of the Waste.”

You pull the hammer, and Raga grins ear to ear at your smooth voice, calling him by his self-proclaimed title. That is until there’s a loud-

Bang!

Silence fills the room like no other.

Until there isn't. 

A wet noise riddled with death plagues everyone’s ears. Shock and fear fill Raga’s eyes as a gargling noise escapes from his throat. Blood threatens to make its way out his mouth as he claws at the wound in his heart. 

Your eyes widen as you watch the trail of blood escape his lips, and a small smile appears on your face. 

Maybe it wasn’t small enough. 

Because then your head is being grabbed and crushed down to the floor as screams and shouts mixed with the wet gasps of death flood your ear. 

“You bitch!”

“You knew, didn’t you!” 

“Answer me!”

The wind has been knocked out of you, but you still manage to laugh hysterically–your mind just as gone as your physical body. This angers the man, causing him to grab you by the neck, squeezing the life out of you while you’re on your back. You choke, still smiling at him. Your vision becomes blurry. Your mind hazy. Your eyes watery. You can barely even see the man’s malicious expression over top of you. 

A sudden loud noise makes you flinch, followed by a sharp, irritating ringing in your ears. A warm, wet liquid begins to drip, drip, drip on your cheek. The man’s grip on your neck begins to fade, and your vision returns just enough to see his eyes roll in the back of his head. 

The next instant, your chest is being crushed by the dead weight of the man on top of you, his body limp and lifeless. 

You gasp. Wrangled coughs begin to erupt from you as your chest heaves up and down–gasping for air. You look to your left, the sight of splattered brains and blood littering the wall behind you. The smell of iron floods your nostrils. Aventurine stands above you. His own chest heaves as his gun still points at the dead man’s body. You look up at him through your wet lashes, his gun just as flashy as him. You wonder how he was able to conceal it withou-

Bang!

He fires again. The noise makes you flinch, causing your body to jump back to reality. His nostrils flare, and there is a look of pure rage and insanity as he looks down at the already deceased man.

Then he fires again. 

And again.  

And when the last round fires into the limp man’s body, you can’t even think to react to it anymore. 

You both stay still taking in the newfound quietness–the newfound safety. There are only small breaths as you both calm down, the adrenaline leaving your bodies. 

Aventurine breathes in harshly through his nose and licks his lips. “Tell Jade…” He lifts his glasses up, resting them on the crown of his head. You watch as his hands shake as he does so. 

“Yeah…” You breathlessly agree, already knowing what he’s about to say. You squirm beneath the man’s body and lift his weight off of you.“That we’re not doing business…with this shit hole of a planet.”

He offers you his handkerchief.

You take it graciously while walking ahead of him–your strides unusually long. “Wasn’t that something?” Aventurine humors. You continue to walk as you rid your face of the almost dried blood on your face. 

Aventurine tries to catch up to you. His steps hold a slight bounce in them as he does so while readjusting the hat on his head. “You’re hot with blood on yourself,” he flirts, trying to cut the tension. “I ever tell you that?”

You stay silent and keep your pace, wiping the remainder of the blood that imposes itself on your skin. You politely hand him back his handkerchief. When it reaches his hands, he looks down at it, his eyes weary. 

“Besides the last part, you have fun?” He inquires. ”Bet you got a kick outta pointing a gun to my hea-”

There's a loud smack as the palm of your hand meets the side of his face. Silence follows, and you look down upon him as his head hands down to the side. He groans slightly as his hand makes its way to soothe the stinging pain of his cheek. 

When he recovers, all he can manage to do is look you in the eyes like a kicked puppy when his gaze lands on your mortified face–made so by his previous words. 

Your horror turns into anger as you bear into his soul before you turn and walk away without a word. 

You had taken a shower to remove the smell of iron and brain matter from your skin, but you had left the bathroom door closed, seemingly uninviting Aventurine to bathe with you. 

He waits for you patiently. When you come out clean and dressed, his hand tenderly trails to your neck in worry, the bruise becoming more visible now that your skin has been cleansed.

Your hand reaches for his. You take it away from your neck and squeeze gently. “I’m alright,” you reassure him as you lay down on the bed of the hotel room. He follows. 

He doesn’t like this, and he doesn’t like what you do to him. For Aeons' sake, you slapped him hours earlier and haven’t said a word since. 

Yet he follows you like a weak lap dog as your silence makes him more and more worried. You had struck him down and given him a look of utter disgust and horror. Hell, he might even like it if it were in the right context. But he believes he hates your silence more than being bitch slapped. 

He doesn't know what to say or how to feel, and he is clueless about how to make things right. 

So, he resorts to what he knows. Pleasure. 

Your thoughts are still processing while you lay down on your back in the cold hotel room. Your arm sprawls across your eyelids to block the sunlight that intrudes past the curtains. 

Aventurine places a kiss on your jaw. 

You let out a sigh. “I told you not to go without me.” Your voice is soft but stern, not at all reflecting the look of disgust you had given him before arriving back from the mission.

His lips travel to your neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispers softly. He tries to show it by suckling at the tender spot between your shoulder and neck, eliciting a small gasp from you. His fingertips gently trace along your neck, your soft skin now forming a bruise from the previous pressure. 

You let out a slow muffled moan. “You almost died.”

He trails small pecks down to your stomach, his hand traveling underneath your shirt to tenderly grope one of your breasts, “Hah, me? Never.” He presses his lips down to praise your skin, 

“I could’ve killed you,” you rebuttal. 

“I wouldn’t mind dying by your hands.”

“Don’t say that, please.” Your eyes are still closed, and you let out a small sigh of frustration. 

“Shh,” he murmurs as his mouth traps down to your hips, and his fingers hook underneath your underwear. 

“Kakavasha.” Your voice is sharp and in the present, as you yank his head up with your hand. You say no words, but your eyes speak for you. You don't have to do this. Talk to me. Listen to me. Your eyes beg him. There’s a hint of shock and pain in his beautiful eyes at the sound of his birth-given name. He waits patiently for you to speak, a worried expression riddling your face. 

“Don’t say that! I could’ve killed you!” You reiterate with a scream. 

“Okay, oka-”

“Why would you do that?” You question. Your own iris’ staring into his with fire in them. “The IPC needs you. You’re too valuable, and you would throw your life away?” You scream. “And let me be the cause?”

He looks at you in bewilderment. He had never seen you with this much panic in your eyes–in your voice–in your body language. You’re stiff as your hand still gently grips his blond locks. Your poker face at the time had fooled him, too. You were always calm; collected. He thought you enjoyed the game as much as he did…that is…until he started not enjoying it… 

Flashes of your face enter his mind. Replaying like a broken DVD on a loop. He sees your face turning a wild shade of blue, red, and purple, with the man’s hands on your neck. He comes back to reality, his eyes finding the bruise on your neck. 

“Me?” He questions, his voice raising, much different from his normal nonchalant tone of voice. “You act as if you weren’t dying on the floor.” He takes a sharp breath inward. After all that happened you chose to worry about him? “Be angry at me for almost getting you killed god damn it, not for playing a stupid game!” 

You let go of his hair in shock as he continues. “What the hell do you think would’ve happened to me if they found you dead and me alive?” 

It is at that moment that you both realize what you’re trying to do. You both aim to cover up your glaring emotions with selfish reasoning, to mask the wanting feeling in your chests with your calculated words.  

He’s the first to break as his voice begins to crack. “What would I do without you?” His eyes look into yours, and the weight of his question settles in on your heart. “What do you think would’ve happened to me without you here?”

You don’t answer; you only stare at him in bewilderment. He doesn't let you answer–gratefully– because you're not sure if you have one.

“And you were laughing—” he adds. His frame crawls on top of you. “Why were you laughing?” His eyes reflect the utter amazement and shock that he feels remembering your strained laughs, even in the face of death. 

With his body so close to you–with his face so close to yours, you have no choice but to answer him. 

“I wouldn’t mind dying by anyone’s hand,” you reply quietly, barely above a whisper. 

Aventurine’s own words replay in his mind as his eyes widen at your declaration. “Don’t say that!” he grunts, his hand grabbing your chin roughly. His fingers and thumb squish into both sides of your cheeks as he leans forward, his face mere centimeters from yours. “Why would you say that?” His voice is breathy when he questions you. You’ve never seen him so worked up, with so much pain in his eyes, so…vulnerable. 

He lets go of your chin and continues to stare into your eyes–a mutual level of understanding found between you two in the thick silence. A somber look. 

Both tired of working.

Of negotiating.

Of investing.

Both wearied of your lives. 

Aventurine breaks eye contact, and his head begins to sag. He whispers. “I shouldn't have gone alone. I-I shouldn't have had you fix my messes…”

“Shh, shh,” you interject. Your gentle hand travels to his cheek, where you had struck him, as you lift his head up. You usher him closer, and your foreheads meet. “You did well, Kakavasha,” you whisper softly to him. A sigh escapes his lips at the praise. “Please, be careful,” you plead. 

Aventurine nods ever so slightly. “Only if you are,” he counters, leaning forward to kiss you. His tongue slips in between your lips. It’s eager, yes. But it’s like no other kiss that you usually share with him. The ones filled with pleasure, want, and lust. Instead, it’s filled with another word that Aventurine dares not think of because it scares him too greatly. 

But there is a lingering feeling inside him that thinks you might feel it too.

Don’t date your coworkers, chat. Especially if ur both lowkey suicidal. Also, you know I had to make him say “bust.” C’mon now.

ty for making it to the end, whew. reblogs are appreciated. <3

[thistlerock]

Thinking about the bad kids in a more classic adventuring party context. The only time we really see the them out adventuring for a prolonged amount of time and camping and stuff is sophomore year, but I'd assume they get other slightly less fate of the world deciding assignments like that? Also they're probably out camping with the hangvan during the night yorb stuff.

If they have to camp somewhere potentially dangerous (which is. Anywhere you'd have to camp at.) obviously Adaine keeps watch at night because she only has to trance for four hours. Elf takes the night watch this is like adventuring 101. But Riz for sure does the other half so she can really rest during her trance. Should Riz sleep more than four hours? For sure. Does he? No. His body is so used to it that four hours is a perfectly functional long rest. Only slightly concerning. I think it always goes Riz stays up super late (and is maybe working out clues and stuff while the others are resting and he's keeping watch) and then Adaine gets her four hours in and "gets up" early. Riz is Riz so he only sleeps next to or on her so that if something is wrong he gets woken up as quickly as possible.

Also they all sleep with their weapons/spell casting focuses close by. (Riz and Adaine do this at home too which is slightly overkill but Adaine does have every anxiety disorder and Riz probably. Either has anxiety or ocd or both so that's. Fair.) Kristen fully hugs her staff (and the teddy!) in her sleep. The heavy metal axe or the infaethable bass are clunky and big but Gorgug and Fig at least sleep as close to them as possible. Could reach over and grab them type deal. Adaine just keeps the sword of sight on her since she can trance sitting so it's not a bother or anything. The sword of shadows DOES bother Riz sleeping but he still keeps it on him. His arquebus is directly under whatever padding he's using to sleep so it's hidden and he can pull it out. Fabian obviously keeps Fandrangor close by but he fully never stops physically touching his battle sheet. Mechanically I'm pretty sure it acts as both his spell casting focus and the shield for his protection fighting style so I like to think he drapes it over whatever friend is closest to him along with himself. Keeping his friends safe :) (also warm. I think it's always warm even though it's thin because of the fire elemental)

Oh also also. The Hangman. In motor cycle form it's pretty straight forward but if he's in hellhound form because they're traversing a forest or something and being a motorcycle is just. So inconvenient. (Which also means they couldn't have possibly travelled with or slept in the hangvan) He curls up around Fabian (and again whoever is closest) because big dog protect. Also sometimes his snout is in Fabian's lap because I'm obsessed with him just being a big dog okay. He's so cute.

Actually it makes a lot of sense to me if either Gorgug or Fabian is sleeping close to whoever is keeping watch because they're obviously the more tanky party members and the ones keeping watch are the wizard and the rogue. Also they're both on the outside (with, if possible the hangvan and also the hangman covering them on either side if that makes sense?) while their full casters and rogue are in the middle. I know Fig has Paladin levels and good AC post junior year (and would probably still like to adventure with them even without being a student) but she still operates on bard hit points and also old habits die hard so she's gotta be in the protection cluster. Also she likes cuddling with her friends let her cuddle with her friends in the cluster.

(Side Note. At lower levels being the damage sponge is absolutely a barbarian's job but at higher levels where a lot of enemies do the types of damage non bear totem barbarians don't halve they get slightly less effective at it ((though they still have much more hit points than any of their other party members so they're certainly still good at it)) and are often the most effective just for damage output. So as they get older I'd almost say Fabian has more comfortably slotted himself into the protector role ((will never get over his goading attack defensive flourish thing it's so. Nice from a character standpoint. Doesn't try to be his father anymore but he feels strong and right when protecting his friends, still so eccentric.)) while Gorgug is the more forward aggressor? ((Especially with his smites or when he's hasted!! Which is also so cool from a character standpoint. Settled into artificing and more in touch with his own rage.)) But hey still both front liners and mostly interchangeable in that regard. Both WILL be Adaine's meat shield if she needs it.) But yeah just decided that Fabian sleeps closer to Adaine and Riz while Kristen and Fig are halfway on top of Gorgug. They're all in a cluster anyway but. Yeah.

Also I just like thinking about how to a certain extend characters of Spyre are aware of game mechanics. Like Brennan said they're actually studying how to be their individual classes. They probably don't "roll" in their heads or think of their stats as numbers or anything but good strategising like they did in the last stand or the battle with Porter and the Rat grinders is in universe the characters applying knowledge that they've partially acquired through experience but also just. Literally go to school for. They go to school for adventuring. I imagine nerds like Riz or Fabian who's a battlemaster are especially aware of party composition, positioning in battle etc but like all of them have to be. So yeah that's cool. Spellcasters probably get told specific conditions for common problems like counterspell even if they can't learn it so they can stay out of range of it, stuff like that.

[ms-snape]

Can we do something platonic? Reader is a wallflower, basically almost all the time is in the sidelines and no one notices her, she’s accepted she’s not that bright or that pretty but snape notices she’s actually good at potions and in his own way tries to encourage her potential 

Title: Noticed

Warning: Plaronic relationships, a bit of angst, insecurity

Words Count: 2900+

Masterlist

---

Y/n had grown used to the way people never truly saw her. It was like living in a haze, watching life happen around her but never being a part of it. Day after day, she sat quietly in the back of classrooms, observing the way others interacted, laughing, whispering, and forming connections she knew she’d never be part of. No one looked twice at Y/n—not even once most of the time.

She wasn’t like the other girls at Hogwarts. She wasn’t pretty, or at least not in the way that people admired. Her hair didn’t catch the sunlight like golden threads, her eyes weren’t the kind that sparkled when she laughed (if she ever did), and her smile didn’t light up the room. In fact, she rarely smiled anymore. There wasn’t much to smile about.

Her grades were fine—never the top of the class, but she managed to stay afloat, drifting somewhere in the middle where she neither failed nor excelled. The professors didn’t call on her often, perhaps forgetting she was even there. It was fine. Y/n had learned to accept her place on the sidelines.

There was a dull, heavy ache that lived deep inside her, a quiet sadness that made her feel small and invisible, even in her own skin. She had stopped trying to stand out. What was the point? She wasn’t clever like Hermione Granger, who everyone admired for her intellect. She wasn’t as daring as the Gryffindors, or as cunning as the Slytherins. She wasn’t even as quirky as Luna Lovegood, who, though often teased, was at least memorable. Y/n was just… there.

She spent most of her time in the library, hidden behind towering shelves of dusty books. She could go entire days without speaking more than a few words. It was easier that way—easier to blend into the shadows, where no one could see how much it hurt to be invisible.

And then there was Potions class.

Y/n wasn’t sure what it was about Potions, but the quiet, methodical nature of the subject suited her. She liked the precision, the way each ingredient had its place and purpose. It was one of the few things she felt competent at, though she would never say she excelled. She followed the instructions, brewed her potions, and handed them in without a fuss. Professor Snape never paid much attention to her, which, in her mind, was a good thing. He was intimidating, with his sharp gaze and cutting words, and she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his infamous temper.

But then one day, something changed.

It was a particularly dreary Wednesday afternoon, the dungeon classroom colder than usual. Y/n had taken her usual seat at the back, her cauldron bubbling quietly in front of her. Today, they were brewing a particularly tricky potion, and though she had followed the instructions carefully, something wasn’t right. The mixture in her cauldron was a shade too dark, and the scent was off, a sharp tang that shouldn’t have been there.

She frowned, stirring the potion with a sense of growing frustration. It was always like this—she always got close, but never quite right. The other students seemed to manage just fine, their potions shimmering the exact color described in the textbook. But hers… hers was always almost right, always just a bit off. Just like her.

“Miss Y/l/n.”

The sound of her name startled her, the wooden spoon clattering against the side of her cauldron as she looked up. Professor Snape was standing beside her, his dark eyes fixed on her potion with an expression that could have been disgust or disappointment—she wasn’t sure.

“Are you incapable of following simple instructions?” he asked, his voice low and cold, the words like a blade sliding between her ribs.

Y/n felt her face flush with embarrassment, her throat tightening as she stared down at her hands. “I—I thought I was,” she mumbled, hating the way her voice wavered. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she braced herself for a scathing remark. But instead, he waved his wand, and the potion stilled. “The essence of wormwood was added too early,” he said, his tone brisk but not as harsh as she’d expected. “And you’ve allowed the fire to burn too hot.”

Y/n nodded mutely, feeling a fresh wave of disappointment wash over her. Of course, she’d messed it up. She always did.

Snape glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Try again,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “And pay attention to the process, not just the result.”

She blinked, looking up at him in surprise. He didn’t walk away. Instead, he stood there, waiting, as if he actually expected her to succeed. It was strange—no one had ever given her a second chance before. No one ever waited for her.

With trembling hands, Y/n began again, carefully adding each ingredient as Snape watched. She adjusted the flame, measuring the powdered asphodel with a precision that bordered on obsessive. This time, she didn’t rush, didn’t try to simply get through the motions. She focused on each step, feeling the rhythm of the potion as it began to brew properly, the color shifting to the soft, translucent silver it was meant to be.

For the first time, she felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time—pride. Small, tentative, but real. She glanced at Snape, half-expecting him to criticize her again, but instead, he gave a curt nod.

“Better,” he said, his voice cool but not unkind. “You have the capability. You simply lack the confidence.”

Y/n blinked in surprise. “Confidence?” she echoed, disbelief creeping into her voice.

Snape raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. “You doubt yourself at every turn, Miss Y/l/n. That is why you fail.”

His words stung, but not in the way she had expected. It wasn’t the sharp, cutting sting of insult, but the uncomfortable prickle of truth. She did doubt herself. Constantly. Every time she brewed a potion, every time she sat in class, every time she walked through the halls of Hogwarts, she felt like she wasn’t enough. Like she was nothing.

“But I—” She paused, unsure how to explain the weight she carried. “I’m just… not like the others.”

Snape’s expression didn’t soften, but there was something different in his eyes now, something that almost resembled understanding. “The world does not require you to be like everyone else,” he said. “It requires you to be competent. And you are, if only you would believe it.”

Y/n swallowed hard, her throat tight. She didn’t know how to believe in herself. She had spent so long fading into the background, so long being unseen, that she didn’t know how to be anything else.

Snape must have sensed her hesitation because his tone shifted slightly, becoming less cold. “You are not as invisible as you believe, Miss Y/l/n. Some of us see more than we let on.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure she had heard him right. Not as invisible? It was impossible. How could someone like him—someone so brilliant and intimidating—even notice someone like her?

But there was no hint of sarcasm or cruelty in his voice. He wasn’t mocking her. He wasn’t trying to tear her down. He was simply stating a fact.

For the first time in a long time, Y/n felt a flicker of warmth spread through her chest. It wasn’t enough to chase away the darkness that lingered in her heart, but it was something. It was a start.

Over the next few weeks, Y/n found herself paying more attention in Potions. She stayed behind after class sometimes, quietly cleaning her station while Snape graded papers or arranged ingredients for the next lesson. He never said much, but every now and then, he would glance her way and offer a terse comment, correcting her technique or advising her on how to improve.

It was strange, this new dynamic between them. Snape wasn’t exactly kind, but he wasn’t cruel either. He didn’t treat her like she was worthless, like she was just another faceless student. He noticed her. He saw her. And that alone was enough to keep her coming back, to keep her trying.

One afternoon, as she lingered in the dungeon long after the other students had left, Snape spoke again.

“You’ve improved,” he remarked, not looking up from the parchment he was grading.

Y/n, who had been tidying up her cauldron, froze. “I have?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do not sound so surprised, Miss Y/l/n. You are capable, as I’ve said before.”

She hesitated, her heart beating a little faster. “Why do you… care?”

It was a bold question, one she immediately regretted asking. But Snape didn’t seem offended. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, regarding her with those dark, penetrating eyes.

“I care,” he said slowly, “because I have no interest in seeing wasted potential.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and meaningful. Y/n swallowed, nodding slightly as she absorbed what he had said. For the first time in her life, someone had seen something in her. Something more than mediocrity.

As she left the dungeon that day, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. The shadows that had once consumed her felt a little less suffocating. She wasn’t there yet—wasn’t whole, wasn’t healed—but maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so invisible after all.

---

Y/n’s days continued in much the same way after that, but something had shifted. She still sat in the back of her classes, still kept her head down in the halls, and still spent hours in the library with her nose buried in books. But there was a new sense of awareness that came with it all—a realization that, perhaps, she wasn’t as invisible as she had always believed.

In Potions class, that subtle connection with Snape continued. He never praised her directly, never showered her with compliments or made grand gestures of approval. But there were small moments—glances exchanged over bubbling cauldrons, a word of advice spoken in his curt, indifferent manner—that told her she was being watched, acknowledged, and, in his own way, encouraged.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. Enough to make her feel like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as insignificant as she had always thought.

It was a rainy afternoon when everything came crashing down.

Y/n had been keeping her head above water for weeks now, but the constant weight of her isolation, the crushing sense of being unwanted and unnoticed, never fully went away. The little spark of hope that Snape had ignited in her didn’t banish the sadness that clung to her like a second skin. It didn’t erase the countless nights spent lying awake, wondering what was wrong with her, or the gnawing feeling in her chest that whispered she wasn’t enough.

That day, it all became too much.

The lesson had been going well—she had even managed to brew her potion correctly on the first try—but a small mishap had occurred near the end. Another student had bumped into her table, causing her cauldron to tip slightly, spilling part of her completed potion onto the floor. It was an accident, but it felt like an omen. One small mistake, one tiny moment of chaos, and everything fell apart.

“Careless,” Snape had muttered under his breath as he passed her table, not bothering to stop and inspect the damage. The word was a knife to her chest, sharper than it should have been. He hadn’t even looked at her.

Careless. It echoed in her mind long after class had ended, long after she had cleaned up the mess and left the dungeon. That one word, spoken so casually, was enough to undo the fragile sense of self-worth she had been building.

By the time she reached the solitude of the empty corridor, the tears were already falling. She hadn’t cried in weeks, not since she had first felt that spark of hope, but now it was back—the overwhelming sadness, the feeling of being so small, so insignificant, it felt like she was fading away entirely.

Y/n slipped into an abandoned classroom, the door creaking shut behind her as she sank to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. The tears came harder now, spilling down her cheeks in quiet, desperate sobs. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t keep pretending that things were getting better, that she wasn’t still drowning in her own loneliness. What was the point? No one cared. No one even noticed.

She had no idea how long she sat there, her face buried in her arms, letting the tears come in waves. It wasn’t until she heard the door creak open again that she realized she wasn’t alone anymore.

“Miss Y/l/n.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest, and she quickly wiped her eyes, scrambling to stand up. She recognized the voice immediately, that low, authoritative tone she had come to know so well. Snape.

She turned to face him, her breath catching in her throat as she saw him standing in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowed in his usual expression of mild disapproval. He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at her, his gaze sharp and piercing as though he could see right through her.

“I— I’m sorry,” Y/n stammered, her voice thick with the remnants of tears. “I didn’t mean to— I was just—”

Snape raised a hand, cutting her off. “There is no need to explain yourself,” he said, his tone devoid of any softness. “I am not here to reprimand you.”

She blinked, confusion washing over her. “Then… why are you here?”

For a moment, Snape said nothing, his eyes flickering with something she couldn’t quite read. Finally, he stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. His presence filled the small space, and Y/n felt her heart race in her chest. He wasn’t angry, but there was something heavy about the way he looked at her, something that made her feel vulnerable and exposed.

“I noticed you left in a rather… distressed state,” he said slowly, his voice careful. “And I find myself compelled to ask if you are… well.”

It was such a strange question, coming from him. Snape, who was always so cold, so distant, was standing in front of her, asking if she was well. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

Y/n shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I highly doubt that.”

The bluntness of his words caught her off guard, and she felt a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. She tried to hold them back, tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it was no use. The dam broke, and the tears came again, harder this time.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I just… I can’t…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. The weight of it all—the loneliness, the self-doubt, the crushing feeling of being unwanted—it was too much. She didn’t know how to explain it, didn’t know how to put into words the way it felt to live in her own skin.

For a long moment, Snape said nothing. Then, to her utter shock, he stepped closer, his voice low and steady.

“Miss Y/l/n,” he said quietly, “you are not as invisible as you believe.”

Y/n’s breath hitched in her throat, and she looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “I feel like I am,” she whispered. “I feel like no one sees me.”

Snape’s expression softened, just the tiniest fraction. “That is where you are mistaken.”

He didn’t elaborate, didn’t offer her any grand reassurances or platitudes. But there was something in his voice, something in the way he looked at her, that made her believe him. Even just for a moment, she believed him.

Y/n wiped her eyes again, sniffling as she tried to regain some semblance of composure. “I don’t know how to… not feel like this,” she admitted, her voice small.

Snape watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice softer than she had ever heard it.

“It is not about being noticed by others,” he said quietly. “It is about recognizing your own worth. You are capable, Miss Y/l/n. Far more capable than you give yourself credit for. And it is time you begin to see that.”

The words struck her like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the fog that had clouded her mind for so long. It wasn’t a grand declaration, wasn’t a promise that everything would be okay. But it was something—a lifeline, a thread of hope in the darkness.

Y/n nodded slowly, her heart still heavy but just a little lighter than before. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Snape gave her a curt nod, turning toward the door. But before he left, he glanced back at her, his dark eyes holding hers for just a moment longer.

“Do not give up on yourself,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

And then he was gone, leaving her alone in the quiet room. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/n didn’t feel completely alone.

Because maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as invisible as she had always thought.