#(although that is oddly fitting in its own way)

[goddamnitmahtin]

Jason is a Teenage Dad Part 3

The following month after Jason came home with Danny was…. a lot of work to say the least. There were so many things to do now that there were 2 more kids in the house than there used to be and Bruce was not used to acclimating to more than one kid at a time. Last time there was a buffer. On top of that, there were all of the legal and social responsibilities that came with Danny and Tim.

Bruce was able to get Tim’s paperwork squared away pretty easily since the police and CPS were both a joke and didn’t really even look at it before approving it. Which was funny since the adoption papers were written on his Batcomputer since he didn’t feel like going out to pick up a real one. It was identical to a real one though.

Tim was doing well and seemed to be fitting into the household smoothly from what Bruce could tell. Maybe his old life wasn’t so different from his new one. He also did well at his first gala as a Wayne. He didn’t cause nearly as much trouble as Dick used to. He didn’t hang from a single chandelier.

Jason and Danny on the other hand… well Jason was trying his best. And Bruce could tell that he had grown attached to Danny. Which was why he didn’t tell him he was doing a background check on the child to see if he had anywhere to go. If they had someone’s kid and didn’t give him back, Gordon would be on his ass about it.

Bruce couldn’t find anything on the kid. Nothing. He thought he may have found a relative in Amity Park as he found a photo of a boy in a public record year book that looked a lot like him but when he tried to reach out to the family, they denied having lost a child around 3.

After that, Bruce reluctantly looked into the logistics of Jason becoming Danny’s legal guardian. He would have preferred if Danny became Bruce’s ward until Jason turned 18 so he could legally adopt him with much less hassle but Jason didn’t like that idea when he talked to him about it. So Bruce had to figure how to sidestep and loophole his way into becoming a grandpa. It’s been exhausting so far.

Although Bruce was having a bit of a struggle with the changes going on in his home, he wasn’t having as hard of a time as Danny. That kid was definitely in some sort of traumatic situation before Jason found him. He was often hiding or running when he wasn’t clinging onto Jason like a life preserver. So far he hadn’t had any major scares due to Jason being oddly in tune with what to avoid.

The part that was the most stressful though? Explaining to Commissioner Gordon why he had the Joker’s head in his house. No body. Just the head. He explained that one of his kids found the head and brought it home. It wasn’t a lie but he wasn’t going to tell him the exact truth either. He was already lying about the fact that Jason died. The public was under the impression that it was just some joke the Joker pulled and he never actually killed Robin.

Bruce and Jason had covered it up by telling people that because of the whole fiasco Robin was taking a break from the field until it blew over. Although he wasn’t really sure how Jason was going to return to being Robin. Danny never left his side. Not to mention he didn’t really seem interested in it like he was before. Which… was fine. Once word got out that the Joker was dead, the public was pretty 50/50 about Robin. Half saying he was a hero for “killing” him and the other half worried about the ethic implications.

Bruce was going to have to talk to Jason about this more. It wasn’t like Bruce hadn’t fought alone before. He knew how. It was just significantly easier if he had some help. And he was NOT going to call Clark every time something happened. Of course he was never going to force Jason to do it. Infact, Bruce was relieved that Jason might actually want to live a normal childhood. Well as normal is it can be raising a child.

At least the household was finding its own routine again. Everyone was getting used to each other and Alfred was estatic that there were more mouths to feed claiming that he would “not have to hold back my cooking prowess now that I can make dishes meant for many people, Master Wayne!”

This morning, Alfred had outdone himself making a breakfast buffet of sorts that they could all grab from. Bruce got himself a plate and grabbed a little bit of everything. He always enjoyed trying Alfred’s food and he saw some things he didn’t recognize so he grabbed those.

Bruce sat down at the table and watched as the others in the house slowly peeled in. First was Jason who grabbed some toast and promptly left again since Danny often had nightmares and tended to freak out if Jason wasn’t there when he woke up.

Then it was Tim. He watched the boy make himself a plate and begin to eat silently. Bruce hated that. During the first two weeks or so of Tim living there, he thought that was just his personality. Very quiet, avoiding attention until necessary. But then he noticed that Tim commented about being used to being overlooked for “more important things” and it made Bruce’s blood boil to think that was how he was treated.

Bruce could tell that Tim hadn’t lied about that fact. He showed every sign of someone who wasn’t used to even being perceived while in the same room unless he was “needed.” Bruce was working to try and correct that since he knew how lonely a life that was.

“Hey Tim, your awfully quiet this morning. I assume you’ve found yourself a little mystery?” Bruce said, hoping to coax the kid into talking about whatever was on his mind. He had found that this strategy worked more times than not since he loved to talk about his interests.

As always, Tim looked surprised that he was being spoken to at all. Bruce hated that. He was going to make sure this kid knew he deserved attention.

“Uh yeah actually. I noticed that…” Tim began to animatedly talk about how Batman’s fighting style was significantly different when there was no one else around compared to when he had a Robin with him and that he found it fascinating that despite being able to more freely fight without worry of an ally being injured causing more efficient takedowns when it came to combat with a large number of goons, he also seemed to have a slower time with deductive reasoning without another person to bounce off of or talk to, leading to higher risk of civilian loss when it came to certain rogues like Joker or Riddler.

Bruce wasn’t dumb. He had started to suspect that Tim knew he was Batman two weeks ago. He didn’t make that fact subtle. Tim had been very much making sure that every opportunity he had to talk, he was talking about Batman. And he often had very interesting things to say that Bruce actually took to note. Tim wasn’t afraid of being honest about the shortcomings of the dark knight.

The thing was though about Tim’s current subject of fighting style and efficiency, was that he was right. Bruce did have a harder time with unplanned things when it came to taking down rogues. Fighting wasn’t a problem. He knew how to fight alone and he had done it before. But the ability to think on his feet without a person to bounce off of or use in his plans was much harder to do after not having to do it for years.

Bruce hated to admit it but… Tim had a valuable mind that would be perfect for a Robin. If he were to ever want to do that. Which knowing Bruce’s track record when it came to adopted kids…. he probably would. He just don’t know if he wanted to put another kid in danger. He didn’t have any proper training like Dick or Jason. And Jason literally died recently so the reality of what being Robin meant was really looming over Bruce’s mind right now.

Tim’s unapologetic and devastatingly accurate analysis of Batman was only interrupted when Jason reemerged with a newly awake Danny, still rubbing his eyes in his arms.

“Morning Danny,” Bruce said.

Danny scanned the room cautiously and after only seeing the people he was used to, he visibly relaxed, “Morning Grand-B. Morning Tim.”

Jason smiled, putting Danny down and telling him to pick a seat so he could make him a plate. Bruce knew this was a good sign that Danny’s morning didn’t start horribly wrong. No nightmares.

While at first they had a hard time getting Danny to feel safe enough to play or explore or even let go of Jason’s hand, they had made great progress and now as long as Jason was in the room, Danny was able to walk around on his own without as much fear and Bruce was glad to see that he was improving. However the whole Grand-B thing was something that Bruce hadn’t expected. But no doubt that was Jason’s influence.

Danny crawled onto a chair and looked at all the food cautiously as he did every morning. He stared at it for a moment as if looking for something as he did every morning. When he didn’t find anything, he smiled and agreed to eat. As he did every morning. Bruce didn’t know what trauma this kid had that made him distrust food that he didn’t watch get made but he did know that at least he didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

Jason made Danny a plate and poured himself some coffee. Bruce would have said something about it being bad for him to drink it at his age but the last time he did, Jason very dramatically pointed out that other things could kill him faster than coffee. Like the Joker. With a crowbar. It also didn’t help that he learned that Tim also drank obscene amounts of coffee. Bruce learned to pick his battles on that one.

“Hey Tim, how’d your first gala go? I heard you dissed some CEO for embezzlement,” Jason said casually while sipping his coffee. He didn’t look it, but Bruce knew Jason thought it was hilarious.

Tim shrugged, “I just pointed out that according to public record he should have had enough money to pay his employees way better than he does. He’s the one who assumed I thought he was embezzling. Which he is by the way. I did the math and tracked his personal purchases a while back,” Tim said matter of factly.

Bruce wanted to be surprised but from what he had learned and seen from Tim since their meeting, he was crazy smart and had an eye for inconsistencies. A little detective in his own right.

“Daddy are we still going to the observatory tonight?” Danny asked, his plate already cleared of food.

Bruce watched as Jason went into dad mode. It was off putting the first few times he had watched it happen but by now Bruce was getting used to this new side of Jason.

“Of course my little star,” the 15 year old said as he helped Danny clean up the very little food Danny had gotten on himself while eating, “Daddy doesn’t have much homework today so we can go extra early. Are you excited?”

“Yeah!” little Danny exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. This was going to be Danny’s first time out of the manor since moving in. Jason had picked the observatory since not many people went there and Danny really loved space. Bruce hoped that everything went well so Danny wouldn’t be scared of going out again in the future.

Bruce continued eating after Jason and Danny left to get ready for the day. While at first he hadn’t quite liked the idea of Jason transferring his studies to homeschooling, he seemed to be adapting to it well and it gave him more time with Danny to take care of him and help him when he panicked. To be honest… Bruce was very proud of Jason for the Dad he seemed to be becoming.

…

Sam and Tucker knew that it was bad news when the GIW shipped off in their trucks with Danny inside. They knew their friend was probably fucked. But they had hope. Except… that was 7 months ago. And last month the SCP Foundation came through Amity and cleaned up after the GIW who were apparently stealing their SCPs. Sam and Tucker had mentioned that their friend was taken and the foundation said that they would reach out if they found him. Apparently SCPs that were considered not dangerous were allowed to do normal human things like have friends. Who knew. Except that call never came.

At this point the two of them didn’t really know what to do. They didn’t want to believe that Danny was fully dead because he would have come to see them. But they also knew that if the SCP Foundation didn’t find him then the GIW didn’t have him anymore either. But if no one had him, why hadn’t he come home?

They were at a loss until Tucker came across an old text in the Smithsonian online library. It was a list of summoning spells and circles for different being types or certain beings themselves if they were powerful enough. Maybe they could just… summon Danny home?

At first they looked into the ghosts summoning spells but it seemed to be fairly unstable and there was no way to guarantee that the results would be what they wanted so they kept looking until they found a sigil for the Ghost King. The circle and and incantation were well thought out and the entire ritual seemed to be pretty straight forward. Maybe the Ghost King knew where Danny was? Since he was half ghost and all…

So the next thing they knew, Sam and Tucker were in an abandoned shed a few miles out of town drawing a summoning circle on the floor. Tucker did most of the outline work and Sam tackled the sigil that had to be drawn in the center. They took their time with it so it would come out right.

According to the book, some sort of sacrifice had to be made but ii said that it could be literally anything as long as it held value to you. Sam had suggested she bring something from her house but Tucker insisted that the only thing they probably had that was important enough to them both that they had was his PDA. So…. Tucker very sadly set it down inside the circle.

Then they began the chanting. Sam lit the candles the way the instructions described. Tucker followed the hand motions exactly.

Instantly, the circle began to glow as the summoning began to work. They watched as it got brighter and brighter, the green emanating from the portal that opened in the ground filled the entire space. And then… a figure appeared on a massive throne, adorned in a bellowing cape of stars and a crown of ice.

“I am the Ghost King, hi how are you doing? Just throwing it out there before we get started, I’m not into the whole mass destruction thing so don’t ask me to end the world. Oh hey! Sam and Tucker!”

Sam and Tucker were shocked to see Danny in front of them in full on ghost mode. But he looked different. Felt different. More powerful and maybe slightly older? Not the 15 year old they went to school with.

“Danny?” Sam said, frozen in shock.

They watched as Ghost King Danny squinted his eyes at them for a moment before realization seemed to hit him, “Oh you aren’t my Sam and Tucker. Hey Clocky, what universe is this?”

A post it note appeared in the air next to Danny. He plucked it out of the air and read it before saying, “Ohhh that makes sense okay.”

Tucker spoke up this time, “Danny… what’s going on?”

Danny smiled, “Ah well in the universe I’m from, I became the Ghost King. But since the Ghost King is a being of the Infinite Realms, I’m the Ghost King for all universes, not just mine. I am Danny, just not your universe’s Danny.”

Sam and Tucker felt a wave of disappointment wash over them. It was great that Danny from another universe got all powerful and stuff but it was still disheartening that it wasn’t their Danny in the circle.

“Soo… what’s up? People don’t really summon the Ghost King unless crazy shit is going down,” Ghost King Danny said, leaning forward on his throne.

Sam and Tucker explained everything, from the GIW to the SCP Foundation to their Danny never returning. Alive or dead.

“Huh… weird. Well he’s not dead. If an alternate me died I would have seen the paperwork,” the kingly version of their friend said while thinking. Then a tired look appeared on his face as if he had remembered something and it was something quite annoying.

“Clocky… what did you do?” he asked the air. Another post it note appeared. Danny read the note. Then let out a large sigh.

“You two ever heard of Gotham?”

Part 2 Part 4

[joyfulcowboycandy]

The princess in the tower... And the dragon?

Malleus x Reader

❥ one shot

Content warning: murder, angst and fluff, malleus is very tall, hints of past sexual assault

fem reader

The princess in the tower… And the dragon?

This is how the story goes:

A beautiful princess from a faraway kingdom is kidnapped and held captive in a tower by an evil and strong dragon, and the knight must slay the dragon and save her from his evil clutches. The princess then falls in love with the strong knight who risked his life to save her, and they lived happily ever after.

This "princess," however, is far different from how the story is meant to go.

She is no princess at all.

Y/n is merely a common girl who ran away from a life of suffering, seeking refuge in a lonely tower in the middle of a desolate forest. She found solace here, safe from the cruelty of others. But the tower had a guardian of its own—a dragon. Not that she knew it at first.

The dragon was enormous, far too large to ever fit inside the tower, so at first, she thought she could stay without much trouble. After all, she reasoned, dragons don’t communicate with humans… Do they? If he wanted to harm her, he would’ve done so by now. Yet, despite his fearsome appearance, he never attacked her. Instead, he left her alone, merely resting atop the tower. He even brought her berries and fruits. It was confusing. Back in her village, dragons were supposed to be vile creatures—monsters of destruction.

But unlike the people she once knew, the dragon never hurt her. And that was all that mattered.

Back in her village, life had been anything but safe. Y/n was forever scarred by that one night, the night when she dared to speak up about the man who assaulted her. He was a respected figure, shielded by his reputation, while she was met with disbelief and scorn. Her cries for justice were silenced, twisted into accusations that she had tarnished his honor. Her family turned their backs on her, and the verbal abuse became unbearable. They accused her of lying, of bringing shame upon them. The whispers, the judgment, it all closed in on her, suffocating her until she could no longer bear it.

The fear of men had embedded itself deep in her heart, long before she ever arrived at the tower. Their leering gazes, their unchecked power—it had always terrified her. The man who hurt her wasn’t an isolated case. She’d witnessed the way men in the village treated women—like possessions, tools for their amusement, and nothing more. And her voice, like so many others, had been ignored.

The tower became her sanctuary, and the dragon… oddly enough, her only comfort.

He never tried to speak to her. He never tried to control her. He only existed, a quiet presence at the top of the tower. It was strange how she found herself feeling safe in his silent company, even if she knew nothing about him. There were no words exchanged, no gestures of friendship. But he brought her food, he never entered her space, and most importantly—he never tried to harm her.

The men who came after her, however, were nothing like the dragon.

One day, the peaceful silence was shattered by the sound of hooves pounding against the forest floor. Y/n’s heart jumped into her throat as she rushed to the window, peeking out just enough to see a knight approaching the base of the tower. A sinking feeling filled her chest as she backed away, trembling. He called out for her, and although she didn’t respond, she could feel his eyes tracking her every movement from below. The way he stared at her… it was enough to freeze her blood.

She didn’t want to face him, didn’t want him to come any closer. But when he started climbing up the tower, panic surged through her veins.

In his eyes, she was nothing more than a prize. A damsel in distress that needed saving. It disgusted her how these men—knights, they called themselves—felt entitled to her. They believed they could show up, kill the dragon, and take her hand in marriage as if she were a mere trophy. She’d seen that look in their eyes before. It wasn’t concern. It wasn’t compassion. It was desire. Lust. Greed.

She didn’t trust him. She couldn’t.

So, when he reached the top and looked at her with those hungry eyes, her fear turned into cold determination. She pushed him down the tower, watching as he fell.

The sickening thud echoed below.

It wasn’t the end, though. Someone found the body, and after that, more men came—knights in shining armor, each more eager than the last to claim the “princess” for themselves. None of them cared what she wanted. They were predators, and their so-called chivalry was nothing but a facade for their selfish ambitions.

They never once asked for her permission. They assumed their presence was wanted, that they had the right to "rescue" her. But she didn’t want to be rescued. She didn’t want them at all. And every time one of them climbed the tower, she pushed them down just the same. The rumors spread quickly—of a dragon killing knights left and right, all to protect the princess in the tower.

But she knew the truth. The dragon had done nothing.

In fact, the dragon had done more for her than any man ever had. He was gentle. He respected her space, and in return, she felt safer around him than she ever had with another human. It was strange, perhaps even foolish, to trust a dragon—an unpredictable creature of legend. But in his quietness, she found solace. He gave her berries and fruits, a kind of offering. Maybe the dragon, too, was lonely.

One evening, he left a clawful of berries by her window as usual. She hesitated for a moment before reaching out. With trembling hands, she touched his claw—a tentative gesture, a soft caress of gratitude. The dragon froze, as if startled by her touch. She could feel the cold, smooth surface beneath her fingers, the sharpness of his talons. Her heart pounded as she traced the lines of his scales, feeling a strange sense of connection.

Suddenly, he let out a low growl, pulling away quickly. Fear gripped her as she stepped back, her pulse racing in her chest. Did she do something wrong?

“T-thank you, dragon!” she stammered, her voice shaky with fear and something else—hope, maybe.

The dragon huffed, a deep, rumbling sound that reverberated through the air. Was it a response? She couldn’t tell. But she took it as one.

She watched him from the window, her eyes tracing his dark silhouette against the moonlit sky. For the first time in so long, she felt something other than fear—something closer to… peace. Maybe, just maybe, the dragon wasn’t as evil as the stories said.

Maybe they were both just trying to survive in a world that had been cruel to them.

˙ ✩°˖🫐 ⋆｡˚꩜

Several days passed like this—her exchanging brief touches and whispers, him delivering food and resting on the roof of her tower. Until one day, something changed.

She had been waiting for the usual sound of his wings flapping when she heard something else—a soft footstep. Startled, she spun around, expecting another knight who had somehow scaled the tower. But when her eyes fell on the figure at the entrance, she froze.

He was very tall, but not in the imposing, armor-clad way of the knights. His clothes were dark, elegant, and his presence felt… different. The horns on his head glistened in the dim light of the moonlight, curling like the very symbol of power. His eyes, sharp and glowing, locked onto hers, and yet, they didn’t hold that familiar lust or greed she had come to expect. They were curious… warm.

Her breath hitched, her mind racing. Who—no, what was he? He wasn’t a knight, not a man here to take her away. But he wasn’t just any ordinary human either.

"Who… are you?" she whispered, voice trembling, not from fear, but from uncertainty.

The man—no, the creature—tilted his head, eyes softening. He didn’t speak, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was familiar, almost as if she had known him all along.

It clicked slowly in her mind. The dragon. The same eyes, the same gentle aura. He had always been watching over her, not as a threat, but as a guardian.

"You're... him, aren't you?" she murmured, stepping closer. She noticed the slight huff of air escaping his nose, much like the dragon’s low rumble when she thanked him. Her fear melted, replaced with wonder.

Her hands, almost instinctively, reached up toward his face, fingers lightly grazing his jawline. He stood still, just like he did when she touched his scales as a dragon, as if allowing her to confirm what she already knew.

He brought his hand up to meet hers, softly guiding it against his cheek. The coolness of his skin startled her—so cold, it almost seemed impossible that he was alive. In contrast, her hand was warm, curling instinctively against him, feeling the soft tickle of his hair as it cascaded over his shoulder and brushed lightly against her fingers.

“I am,” he finally spoke, his voice low and rich, carrying a quiet power that resonated deep within her.

There was no doubt left. He was the dragon—the creature that had watched over her, protected her from the horrors of the world, and silently kept her company all this time. And now, he stood before her in this form, speaking, meeting her touch with a tenderness that was both startling and comforting.

"Why… why didn’t you tell me?" she whispered, her fingers still resting against his cold cheek, her voice barely more than a breath.

The corners of his lips twitched slightly, as if he wanted to smile but wasn’t used to it. His hand, still holding hers, gently lowered it from his face, though he didn’t let go. "You were afraid," he said, his gaze softening as he looked at her, the golden glow in his eyes dimming into something calmer, more serene. "And I did not wish to make you more so."

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Afraid?" She almost laughed, though there was nothing humorous about it. "Of the knights, maybe, but never of you. You…" Her voice cracked, and she paused, taking in a shaky breath. "You’ve been the only one I could trust."

For the first time in a long while, the truth was spilling out of her. All those months of isolation, of pushing knights off the tower in desperate fear, and yet somehow, she had found solace in him—a dragon, a creature who shouldn’t have had any reason to care about her. She couldn’t even understand why herself.

His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, a barely-there gesture, but one that sent warmth spreading through her. "I have watched over you," he said quietly, "and I have seen your strength." His gaze flickered, the glow intensifying briefly. "But I have also seen your sorrow."

She blinked rapidly, her breath catching in her throat. It was true—her life had been marked by sorrow for as long as she could remember. The betrayal of her village, the trauma that haunted her every waking moment, the men who tried to take what wasn’t theirs to claim. They all left scars, both visible and invisible, and for so long, she had felt alone in carrying them.

But with him… she hadn’t felt so alone anymore.

"I don’t know why I stayed," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "When I first came here, I didn’t know if you were going to kill me, or… or worse." She laughed softly, a bitter sound. "But I couldn’t leave either. There was nowhere else to go."

"You stayed because you found safety," he murmured, his voice almost a growl, but one laced with understanding. "You stayed because you are not like them."

Her gaze met his, and for the first time, she didn’t feel the familiar tightness in her chest that came with looking into the eyes of a man. He wasn’t like them either. He wasn’t like the knights who invaded her sanctuary with their hungry gazes and false promises. He didn’t look at her like something to be claimed.

Slowly, she pulled her hand back, though her eyes remained fixed on him. "I’ve never met anyone like you," she confessed softly, taking a small step back, though she wasn’t retreating. She was just… overwhelmed. "You’re… not human, are you?"

He shook his head. "No. I am not."

She studied him for a long moment, her eyes tracing the curve of his horns, the ethereal glow of his eyes, the way he stood so still, so calm, so unlike any man she had ever known. And then, as if the weight of everything suddenly caught up with her, she let out a shaky breath. "I don’t know what to say," she whispered, her voice cracking with the weight of all the emotions swirling inside her.

"You don’t have to say anything," he replied gently. His voice was like the rumble of distant thunder, soft but powerful. "I will not force you to speak."

She bit her lip, her gaze lowering to the floor as she tried to collect her thoughts. "I just… I feel like I’ve been running for so long. Hiding." Her voice broke on the last word, and she quickly swiped at the tear that slipped down her cheek, hating how vulnerable she felt in this moment.

Malleus watched her in silence, his eyes never leaving her, though his expression never changed. He wasn’t judging her. He wasn’t pitying her. He was just… there, with her, in this moment. And that alone made her feel a strange kind of safety she hadn’t known in a long time.

"You don’t need to run anymore," he said quietly, his voice a low murmur that seemed to reverberate in her chest. "Not from me."

Her breath hitched, and for the first time, she felt the warmth of hope flicker inside her, fragile but present. Could it really be that simple? Could she really stop running? Stop hiding? It had been so long since she felt safe, truly safe.

And yet, here he was, the dragon she had once feared, now standing before her as her protector.

Tentatively, she reached out again, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve. "Then… stay," she whispered, her voice so soft it was almost lost in the stillness between them. "Don’t leave me alone."

His gaze softened further, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes—something she couldn’t quite place, but it warmed her all the same.

"As you wish," he replied, his voice as soft as the night air around them. "I will stay."

[barcapix]

hear me out, reader wants to get a nose job and pedri is like telling her how she doesn’t need it and stuff just really fluffy.

✮ Belleza - Pedri González

Pedri Gonzalez x Fem!Reader

SY: After dealing with your harsh insecurity about your nose, its time fot your mindset to change.. all thanks to your boyfreind.

A/N: I AM INFACT HEARING YOU OUTT & genuinely this may of brought a tear to my eye but whatever!

Warnings: insecurity

it was a typical lazy sunday afternoon, the kind where the world seemed to move a little slower. the soft hum of Las Palmas football match played along in the background, although pedri wasnt really paying any attention to it.

pedri was sitting next to you on the couch, legs stretched out, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the back of your hand.

inconveniently, you’d been quieter than usual all day, constantly scrolling on your phone with your brows knotted in determination, carefully examining influencers’ 'perfect' button noses.

you had always been very self conscious of your nose, the bridge of it so crooked that you would subconsciously cover your it every-time you laughed. or even occasionally sitting with your hand over the side of your face so from the side, the bump wasn’t as noticeable.

it often brought you down—seeing the flawless women on social media with the cutest noses, with no flaws, no imperfections. the ones you always dreamed of having.

pedri was peering over your shoulder, also following your eyes to the nose job applications on your screen. his hand froze mid-circle, suddenly invested in what was going on.

he noticed. he always noticed.

after what felt like forever, pedro shook his head, swiftly taking the phone from your grasp. "you shouldn’t need to look at this stuff neña. it’s bad for you."

he turned your phone blank, hoisting it into his trouser pocket and scooting over closer. almost instinctively, he immediately swung his arm around your shoulder, planting light kisses to your hair.

your face flushed under his touch, folding your arms. "well, it’s not that bad," you defend. "plus... i’ve been thinking about it."

"¿que?" pedri pauses, bewildered.

his kisses stop, his face pulled away and directly boring into your eyes; his lips part in a way that’s upsetting—almost as if he were the one to bear down bad news.

you sigh, tearing away from his eyes. he was always aware about how insecure you were about your nose, hesitantly joking about getting it done—but never did he think you would actually consider it.

“it’s just... i’ve always hated it y'know? it doesn’t even fit my face." you tried to laugh but it came out weak. "i just think I'd look better if I fixed it."

your eyes were falsely confident, a small crack in them hinting at the despair and defeat you felt about not being deemed perfect in yourself.

pedri, still in shock, pulled his face into a frown and without saying a word, he cupped your face gently as his thumbs brushed over your rosy cheeks.

"stop this."

"what?" you reply.

"stop saying things about yourself like that," he murmured, his tone flared with an unfamiliar firmness; filled with something that made your chest ache in the best way.

"do you know how beautiful you are? like actually uniquely beautiful?" he counters, sweeping a stray band of hair out from your eyes.

pedri didn’t wait for you to respond, despite the roll of your eyes. "you dont need to change anything hermosa. not your nose, your lips, not anything, si? your perfect like this."

you blink, those words making your throat sore, like a bleeding wound to your heart. your own words clogged up inside your throat whilst noticing the glimpse of purity in his hazel eyes.

there was no teasing, no humour—just raw, unfiltered sincerity. something that was oddly satisfying to you, as it wasn’t common.

"babe, your supposed to say that. you’re my boyfriend." you gulp, trying to downplay how much his words were affecting you.

"no, i’m saying it because its true." he insisted. his hand slid down your face, his fingers tilting your chin up so you couldn't look away.

"i love your nose,” he continued, a small smile tugging at his lips. “i love how it crinkles when you laugh, which makes me laugh. i love how you scrunch it up when your thinking too hard."

he shifted on the cushion, bringing your other hand to his lips. "it’s you. and i love you."

as if you werent on the verge of tears already, you blinked profusely, trying to keep your tears at bay. your heart was knocking agaisnt your ribs, swelling in your chest. "pedri.."

your boyfriend leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours. "don’t do this for anyone else, and definitely dont do it because you think your not enough. because you are. your everything to me."

pedri pressed a delicate kiss to your cheek, never letting his hold loosen. his steady breathing rate brought you to a calm as his words sank deep into your heart, softening all the little insecurities you'd been holding onto for so long.

"okay," you whispered, barely audible. "i wont."

the spaniard grinned, now pulling you into his arms and burying his face into your neck. "good. because your nose is just like mine, and you'd be saying i have an ugly nose too."

you laughed, swatting at his chest lightly. although you fought it off on the oustide—deep down you knew you wouldnt change a thing.

not when a guy like pedri could love you so completely, just as you were.

(p.s: all noses are so beautiful and unique in their own way, thats what makes us human❤️)

[culticterror]

"There you go, good girl." Vivian grinned, reaching into their ample cleavage, which was held up by their latex corset and pulling out a single vial of a glowing blue substance.

Isabella involuntarily moaned, more tingles flurrying through her mind. The somewhat demeaning praise from the woman made the nun feel oddly warm.

"You're lucky I saved this one, alcohol free too. Just for you Sister." Vivian boasted as she unceremoniously poured the liquid into Isabella's waiting mouth.

It tasted somewhat sour, but surprisingly delicious. Isabella couldn't pinpoint the flavor however as it unnaturally spread itself over her tongue and slowly coating the entire inside of her mouth.

Vivian stepped back to watch and enjoy what was about to come.

"FUCK!!" Isabella screamed unabashedly as she suddenly collapsed to her knees, wave after wave of pleasure rippling through her. The girl had already begun to gently bounce in place mindlessly, her head filled to the brim with foreign thoughts of lust and promiscuity.

Meanwhile her body continued to ramp up with energy. The redhead leaned forward towards Vivian slightly as she practically humped the floor. Isabella used her right hand to hold herself up while her left hand made its way towards the space between her legs.

There was but for a moment, an ounce of resistance when the nun's eyes locked onto Vivian's. Steeling herself against the relentless volley of sin threatening to plunge her head first into rapturous oblivion. Isabella strained against it for an eternity, holding onto her faith as a source of strength.

Until another wave of thunderous euphoria crashed into her mind, washing away everything as her eyes slipped into the back of her head. Cyan drool pooled from her wet lips, splattering onto the toe of Vivian's black boot.

Isabella's left hand pressed itself uselessly against the thick fabric of her habit, a last bastion of protection that prevented any further self-defilement.

Vivian was just about ready to rip the outfit to shreds herself, until she noticed something peculiar. The nun's clothes began to glitch, blurring and shifting. Taking on a new form, shrinking tighter in some areas while other layers underneath faded out of existence entirely. When the cloth finally settled down, the habit had become a mockery of its former purpose. The front of nun's legs were bare save for a single long flap of black material which did nothing to hide her indecent state. While the top half had turned into form fitting long sleeved leotard.

Isabella made no indication that she was aware of the alteration to her clothes, other than her left hand forcing the barriers aside in order to insert themselves inside her pussy. She gasped, sputtered and moaned incoherently much to Vivian's delight. Isabella squealed in mindless bliss as she experienced her first orgasm, and her second, and third… Eventually reaching eight total climaxes before her body finally gave out.

Although clearly exhausted, Isabella continued to masturbate furiously on autopilot, panting like an overheated puppy.

After about a minute or so, Vivian noticed the Sister slowing down and returning to some form of consciousness. "Welcome back Sister, looks like you've got some real talent."

"I uh… F-fuck." Isabella said before realizing the word that came out of her mouth. She would never use vulgar language like that… And yet it felt kind of.. Good? "What's happening to me?"

"You just became my bitch is what. Now clean my boots with your mouth, don't want any void to go to waste." Vivian snarled down at the disgraced holy woman.

“I.. Yes, Mistress." Isabella muttered much to her own surprise. Unsure where the words even came from. Her mind was reeling, unable to really think at all as she lowered her face to Vivian's boots. Forced to stare into her own neon spittle before settling her lips directly into the substance.

Excerpt from one of my stories; Prey to the Void

[cevansbrat0007]

Off the Market

Summary: Ari learns that you're not the sharing type. Which is fine by him, because neither is he.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Ari Being A Menace, Jealous/Possessive Reader, Oral Sex (mentioned), Discussions of Public Sex, Mentions of Disordered Eating, Polite Fat Shaming, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: This story is part of my Sweet Renegades Series. Be sure to check out the follow-up fic, A Man Starved. Not beta'd. Not beta'd. All mistakes my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

“So?” You ask before taking another sip of your milkshake. The thick and creamy treat goes down easy, which makes the amount of time it took to get to you well worth it. “What’s the verdict?”

“Not bad.” Your companion mumbles as he eagerly gulps down his own shake. “Not bad at all. But just so we’re clear, drinkin’ one of these isn’t gonna get you out of our deal.” He stirs the drink with his straw before plucking out the cherry and popping it in his mouth. “Remember you swore on it.” He holds up his pinky finger as a reminder.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sugar.” You tell him as a smile flits its way across your lips. Without thinking, you go to feed him your own cherry. You find yourself giggling at the way he playfully nips at your fingers, his tongue lapping at the traces of whipped cream. 

There went your big Beast of a man proudly living up to his nickname, as per usual. Thank goodness you were the only couple dining outside today.

“Hey. How come yours tastes better?” Ari pouts suddenly, sending you into another fit of giggles.

“We got the exact same thing, honey.” You roll your eyes at him before returning your attention to the menu in your hand.

“Bird?” His growl comes out soft and silky. And it immediately has you on high alert. Because you recognized that tone. 

It meant you were in trouble.

“Um, yes?” You try ducking your head behind the oversized, laminated piece of paper. Maybe if he couldn’t see you anymore, he’d just let it ride.

“Did you just do what I think you just did?” 

“Well, I suppose that depends on what you think I just did.” You sneak another sip of your chocolate shake, doing your best to forget about all the extra unnecessary calories you’re putting into your body right then. After all, you and your man had a deal. And you aimed to see it through. 

“I think you just rolled your eyes at me.” Ari rests his elbows on the table, leaning forward on his arms in an attempt to get your attention. “Now, just because I gave you a pass back the boutique–”

You blow out an annoyed breath. “That wasn’t my fault! You kept making me model the most ridiculous pieces for you, even when I knew they wouldn’t fit.” You peek out from behind your menu long enough to scan the area for Stella, your waitress. Of course she’s nowhere to be found. 

Which, oddly enough, was fine by you. There was just something about the woman that seemed to ruffle your feathers a bit. Although you couldn’t quite put your finger on the reason why. 

“Except they did fit.” Your bounty hunter surprises you by yanking the menu from your grasp. He then tosses both yours and his onto a nearby empty table. “And maybe if you would’ve allowed me into the fitting room with you earlier, we could’ve scored you another bathing suit. I still think we should go back for that sweet little black and white number. That ass was made for it.”

“It was too small. Just like the other ones.” You counter, feeling your cheeks heat at the intimate praise. The burn only intensifies when you recall the way he’d simply let himself into the fitting room after you’d vetoed your third bathing suit. It had been his pick, which meant he felt that he was well within his rights to, as he put it, “see for himself”.  

One Hour Earlier

“Baby.” He said, chuckling softly. “If a woman expects a man to wait outside and do it patiently, then perhaps she ought to give him a little show.” When you balked he’d simply shrugged and picked up an ice blue monokini before handing it over to you, silently demanding that you try it on. With him right there in the flippin’ fitting room. 

And he hadn’t felt the least bit compelled to help preserve your modesty by looking away as you’d changed. Instead, he’d had the gall to take a seat in a chair that was tucked away in a corner.

“This is completely inappropriate!” You hissed, clutching the forgotten suit to your chest. “Wh–what if someone comes by?” 

“Then I expect you’ll have to be quiet then, won’t you?” He held a finger to his lips, playfully shushing you. “That way it stays our little secret. Now, how about you model the pink one for me?”

“I’ll model whatever you want once we get back to your place.” You tried, your entire body had been practically vibrating with embarrassment. 

“Nah. I’m afraid that ain’t gonna work for me.” Ari had leaned back in his chair then, leisurely crossing his long legs over his ankles. “See, this Beast of yours is itchin’ for some instant gratification.” He’d locked his fingers together before resting them on his firm stomach. “And I ain’t leavin’ until I get it.”

“Guess we’ll be in here for a long time then, huh?” You’d responded rather snippily. “Because I’m not about to–”  

“You know, sweetheart, now that I’m thinking about it, I just realized you haven’t fed me yet today.” 

“I thought we were gonna grab a bite after..?” The knowing look that passed between you two had been enough to make you feel weak in the knees. “Umm...”

“You know how I get when you make me go too long without a taste.” His piercing blue eyes had dropped to your (thankfully) still panty clad pussy. “I’m gonna need a fix, baby. And soon.” You’d watched him cup his impressive cock through the fabric of his jeans. “Otherwise I might start gettin’ antsy.” The silky purr of his voice alone had been enough to have your thighs clenching.

“Don’t – ooh! Behave yourself, damn you!” You’d done your best to ignore the way your core had spasmed with need. “There will be no funny business in this fitting room. You are not getting us kicked out of this store, Beast!”  

“But I’m hungry now. Starving actually.” He’d pressed, a wolfish grin spreading across his features. “And all I can think about is sinking to my knees and burying my face in that gorgeous pussy. Right here. Right now.” 

You'd watched as he rose from his seat, his big body crowding your smaller one. “Wanna taste all that sweet, wild honey of yours when you cum on my tongue like a good girl.” You’d also squealed none-too-quietly when he pinned you against the wall. 

And although the man had seen fit to warn you of his plan, you still hadn’t been prepared for his boldness. Even less so when he dropped to his knees in front of you, his nimble fingers tugging at the edges of your panties.

“Ari…” You'd breathed, rising on your toes to graze your lips along his bearded jaw. “We can’t. Not here. Patience, sugar.”

“Like I told you, I’m about out.” He’d responded on the heels of a groan. “But I might be able to find some more. Maybe. But only if…”

“If what?”

“If you stay the night once we get back to Bell’s Creek. I wanna spend the rest of the evening getting all tangled up in you. Especially after I managed to work up such a sweet tooth.” Ari had brushed mouth over your covered mound, loving the way your nipples pebbled at his words - his touch.        

“I accept your terms.” You’d told him with a soft giggle as heat suffused your cheeks. “Now let me go so I can model these last few for you. It’s about time we get a move-on to our next stop -- no more kisses. Oh God, Ari! Be patient!”

“I’m not trying on another thing after I stuff my face, honey.” You mumble as you take another sip of your drink. “We’ll just have to come back another time. Plus, you’ve already spent more than enough on me.” 

“You’re worth it.” 

“You should’ve at least let me pay for half.” You start to protest, feeling uncomfortable with being doted on in such a way.

“Already said no. And you ain’t payin’ for lunch either, so you’d best not get that pretty mouth all twisted up to ask.” 

“How about we–” You find your conversation interrupted by the arrival of your waitress, Stella. 

“Hey, ya’ll!” She chirps as she comes around the corner, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her as she finally makes her way to your table. “Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. How are those shakes treating you, hm? Pretty good?”

“They’re great.” You and Ari respond at the same time. 

“I just knew you’d love ‘em!” She responds rather animatedly, her freshly manicured fingers lightly brushing over Ari’s shoulder. He doesn’t seem to notice. But you do. Because it’s not the first time it’s happened. “Looks like you’re doin’ alright over there, handsome. Can I get you another one?”  

“No, thank you.” Your Bounty Hunter hums, his gaze locked on the menu as he works to make a final decision. “But I do think we’re ready to order.” 

“Yep.” You readily agree, even as your eye twitches. “We sure are.” 

Stella makes an innocent show of turning away from you, her gaze focused on Ari. “I bet a big, strapping fella like you would be interested in one of our steaks. Our beef is grass-fed and sourced locally. Which means it’s always fresh, never frozen.”

“Actually, I think we’re both gonna have–” You attempt to interject, only to be shut down without so much as a glance in your direction. 

“Did you happen to see our line of Skinny Gal Salads, buttercup? They come with all the flavor, but only half the calories. They’re listed on page two if you wanna take a gander while I walk your lovely friend here through tonight’s specials featuring our signature porterhouse.” 

Your waitress’ audacity hits you so hard you almost feel a headache coming on as an unexpected fury burns in your belly. A belly that could probably stand to benefit from one of those so-called Skinny Gal salads, but then again that would go against the deal you’d made last night.

Which involved you and your man enjoying a couple of worry-free milkshakes and bacon cheeseburgers. You’d promised that you would try to relax and not get so caught up in all of that internal calorie counting like you usually did.

So, like it or not, a deal was a deal and you aimed to see it through. Regardless of what your waitress had to say about it. And if the woman was smart, she’d take her hand off your man’s arm before something happened to it.

“Now handsome, did I hear you say you were visiting from Bell’s Creek?” Your waitress cocks her hip against the table while she ignores you in favor of cozying up to your Beast. “Because it just so happens that I have a friend there that I like to visit from time to time. Do you happen to know–” 

“Actually, I’ve heard amazing things about your barnyard cheeseburgers. So I think we’re gonna have two of those with bacon. Extra bacon. Please.” You tack on the last word, which is spoken through gritted teeth. 

Finally, Stella turns to you and offers a patronizing smile. “Can I interest you in a side salad with that, buttercup? It comes with a spritz of our homemade red wine vinaigrette.”

Ari sits back in silence, apparently content to watch whatever the fuck was transpiring between you and this bottle blonde heifer with a notepad. Which was fine. You were a big girl who knew how to take-up for herself when the situation called for it.    

“I want fries, sugarplum. But who knows, my friend might want one of those skinny ass salads to go with his meal. Does that sound good to you, baby?” While your eyes never leave hers, you manage to catch a glimpse of a smile from your companion. 

“I, uh, would also like fries.” He coughs. You can tell he’s trying not to laugh, which only serves to piss you off even more. “But thank you.”

“That’ll be all, honey.” You politely growl, snatching Ari’s menu from him before your waitress could use it as an excuse to touch him again. “We’ll let you know if you need anything else.”

“But you haven’t heard the specials.” Stella turns back to Ari, a soft pout gracing her plump lips. “It just might change your mind. You might find yourself wanting something…better.”

Oh, no the fuck she did not. Your man was fine with his choice. You. The burger. All of it. Be gone, bitch!  

“We’re good.” You snap, seething inwardly. “You couldn’t possibly have anything more special than what he’s already got goin’ on in front of him, right here. Right now.”

Your waitress stares you down, but you refuse to be the one to blink first. If your eyes gave up and fell out, you had faith Ari would collect them for you before safely guiding you home. Your man was a gentleman like that.

“I guess I’ll go ahead and get these orders in. Two burgers, heavy bacon, coming right up.” The smile she gives you now is much more brittle and it doesn’t meet her eyes. But you also can’t bring yourself to give a fuck.

This woman needed to remember to stay in her lane before you ran her off the road.         

“Thanks.” 

“Welcome.”

And then she’s gone. You find your glaring at her retreating form. You’re actually in the middle of fantasizing about what would happen if you took a pair of scissors to her annoying ass ponytail when you hear your name being called.

“What?” You snarl as Ari comes back into focus. And what the hell was he grinning about? Didn’t he realize that that pretty face of his was in slapping distance?

“You’re really something, baby.” He murmurs, his gorgeous blue eyes dancing with mischief. “You know that?”

“Meaning?” At the moment, you were in no mood for anyone else’s bullshit.

Ari leans forward in his chair as one of his big hands comes to rest atop yours. “I just meant…I’ve never seen you jealous before. It just surprised me a little is all.” He finishes with a shrug. “I didn’t expect for you to…to…”

“Didn’t expect for me to do what, Beast?” Your tone softens as you watch his head dip, his bearded cheeks tinged with red. He perks up when you give his hand an affectionate squeeze, flipping your positions slightly so you can lace your fingers through his. 

“Claim me.” 

Those two simple words are enough to send you reeling. Is that really what you had just done?

“It’s no secret that I like you, Bird. A lot.” His voice drops an octave as he works to explain himself. “Every time I see you, it’s like there’s something in me deep down inside me that screams mine. I guess I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way about me. Until now.” 

Was he being serious? Of course he was! This man had never struck you as the type to joke about any of this.

“I like you too, Ari. But what I didn’t like was watching our waitress flirt with you like I wasn’t even here. I almost fucked her up with my spoon for touching what’s mine.” Ari’s perfect teeth sink into his plush bottom lip, his nostril’s flaring as his mind works to process your admission.

“Say that again.” The command rumbles out from somewhere deep in his chest, compelling you to obey. “Louder”

“You’re mine, Ari Levinson. For today. Tomorrow. For however long this magical thing between us lasts – you belong to me.” You breathe, butterflies filling your belly. “You’re officially off the market, you got that?”

“I hear you, Bird. Loud and fucking clear.” The grin on his face soon proves to be infectious. “And you have no idea just how happy I am to hear you say that.” Ari opens his arms to you then, beckoning you forward.

The next thing you know, you’re up and moving before you’ve even registered what’s happening. All you knew was that your man needed you. Which meant you needed to go to him. Now.

“I always want you, Ari. Even when I shouldn’t.” You tell him as you gracefully slide into his lap, looping your arms around his neck as you do. 

“I know the feeling.” Ari murmurs, brushing his mouth over yours. “Which is why I want to do something special once we get back to Bell’s Creek. Before I have to leave again.” The startled look on your face has your Bounty Hunter rushing to finish his thoughts before you can verbalize your confusion.

“What do you–?”

“I’m only gonna be gone a few days, baby. Three, maybe four, tops.” One of his large, slightly calloused palms presses against the back of your neck, drawing you in closer to him so that he can take your lips again.   

“Oh.” Comes your lame reply.

“I’m coming back to you, Bird.” Ari rests his forehead against yours as you try to calm your racing heart. “You have my word. But I still wanna do something special for you – for us – before I go. Will you let me do that without a fight?”

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” Feeling content, Ari leans in to capture your mouth with his own once again. After behaving himself all day, it was time for his reward.

“Wait.” You place your hand on his chest, halting his advances. “You’re still mine wherever you go. I don’t care if it’s fucking Siberia.” You grab a fistful of his shirt, hauling him forward. “You’ll still be mine there too. You with me?”

“Fuck yeah I am.” Ari growls, using both of hands to cradle your face as he slants his lips over yours once again. The kiss is as passionate as it is raw. Your tongues dance together, both fighting for dominance. But this time your Beast lets you win.

Desire burns in your belly as you savor the sensual victory. You bury your fingers in his hair, tugging at the chestnut strands. Meanwhile, one of Ari’s hands goes to grip your hip, making you moan when he gently molds and kneads your curves. 

Jesus Christ! You suddenly felt as if you were wearing too many clothes. 

His lips skim along the column of your throat as you pant. You were always so fucking needy for him all the time. It made it almost impossible for you to resist him during moments like these.

You’re so lost in each other that you don’t even bother to look up when you hear footsteps approaching. “Will these be separate checks or…oh.” You hear your waitress stammer as she tries to collect herself. “I’ll, um - I'll just bring the one.”

Ari briefly pulls away, eliciting a soft whine from you. “Thanks. And while you're at it, we’ll be taking our food to-go.” 

“Bye, Stella.” You giggle as you give a little wave before playfully nipping at his jaw, not even bothering to glance over at the other woman’s face. You knew it was petty, but staking your claim on this man in front of your so-called rival felt so damn good. Especially after a day like today.

Frankly, the only way it could get any better was if you could make yourself utter those three magic words – the same ones you’d been practicing in the mirror last night. But right now they simply wouldn't come. They kept getting stuck in your throat.

Oh well. Guess you’d just have to try again tomorrow.

END

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[trashmouth-richie]

⁂ 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡 + 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 || a mini series || eddie x you

“soul ties” based but with a spin — part 1

part 2: i’m your dream, make you real

chapter summary: back story on reader and the history of the ‘souls’, the girl sadly wonders why she suddenly can't stop thinking of eddie munson; eddie spends the night nursing a migraine and trying to remember what that girls name was… the same girl who he can’t seem to get out of his head. oddly enough, both eddie and the girl feel terribly ill— a symptom of rejecting the soul tie. also WAYNE! Yay!

 [series summary: reader and her lover are souls bound to one another for eons and eons, they always find their way back to one another no matter how long it takes or what bodies they might be in, but when reader feels the magnetic pull of her other half and wills the girl’s body she is in to find her lover— the body her lover belongs to is a boy— none other than the meanest boy in hawkins, eddie munson] 

trigger warnings: 18+ smut, bisexual! eddie, mean! eddie, shy! girl, smut. etc eddie the girl are both 18 in this story, drug use, talks of addiction, prison etc.

reader (you) are a “soul” in this story, meaning you are only bound to the body you are inhabiting during this lifetime. The girl will have features mentioned— but again— you (the reader) are a soul, which i imagine to be a flame of all colors. 

You had no control over how, when or where you would appear in a new body. It was never the same timeline. one minute you were floating in a sea of stars on a blackened canvas, the next you were viewing their world from the way they envisioned it. 

The body could be brand new, shiny and soft skinned, no marks of life on its petal-like skin. Sometimes the body was weathered, having seen many moons and decades and you arrived when they needed you most. Years before you had come here, the body you lived in was impaired, seeing nothing but marooned eyelids, navigating the earth with the four other senses. 

Shapes and colors could vary from one body to the next, but inside they all remained the same. The only difference were the souls.

Some of the souls you had encountered weren’t pure. They had a darkness rolling through them that made the bodies they live in do unspeakable, horrific things. 

The malum, as they were known were tainted with vile evilness. Instead of being made with licks of pretty sparkled flame, the malum were created with sharp edges, a singular dark hole in the center showing their emptiness. Compassion was lost from them, all they knew was destruction and how to use the body to their own advantage. 

They could change their appearance, tricking others into loving them.  And although it had been awhile since you’d come across one, you were always weary. Hence, the boy with the fast car from last year.

You were even thankful to come to this girl, the sad lonely girl who just wanted to be loved… her heart tie within reach…but then he rejected her!

That stupid boy and his dumb hair was ruining everything! This was wrong— this was all wrong! It never went this badly before. All it took from the others before this girl and this boy was to feel the “special” pull. The tug of that tiny invisible string that was nearly impossible to ignore. 

Different species, different sex, it didn’t matter! The pull always worked. You sat and stewed in the girl's brain, running laps around her mind, showing her images of the boy, the one she was destined to be with. 

It was deeper than love, stickier than the cotton candies of a carefully woven fate, her heart belonged with his! Plain and simple. You hoped your other half was doing the same with that long haired boy, making his head split and pop like a sunflower seed. 

You could bet that he didn’t know how sad she was. He wouldn’t know that she had cut her tutoring lesson short with Max because the concentration for basic algebra just wasn’t there.  

You could do this, you could make them both see how they belonged together, that they fit like a puzzle and complemented each other like the stars do the moon, despite their differences, or walks of life. 

Time was all you needed, and thankfully they both were guaranteed to be in the same building for almost eight hours a day, five days a week. 

“Are you okay?” 

Eddie had been staring at his mac n cheese for nearly ten minutes. Each tick of the clock squeezed his head like a vice. He had been fixated on something he couldn’t quite grasp. As if he were in a fuzzy dream where punches didn’t land and he coincidentally had the winning lottery ticket. 

A name. 

It’s all he was trying to think of, but he couldn’t for the life or death of him remember it. 

Beth? Kay? Maybe… Yeah.. Kay sounds right—nope Kay was that smokin’ hot foreign exchange student last semester. Jesus Christ, who the hell is that girl?

Wayne watched with his bushy eyebrows raised into the sparse bits of hair left on his head as his nephew drug his spoon counter-clockwise then clockwise through the cheesy valley of noodles, not saying a single word other than the occasional grunt or mumbling a series of consonants and vowels through the entirety of supper. 

His head had spun all day. A loose paper boat down a sewer drain to awaiting clown claws had a better success rate in survival than the absolute collegiate level of  nonsense he was trying to get his brian to spark. No matter what he did he couldn’t get that girl out of his head. 

Maybe if he could put a name to her face—he had thought that would settle it. Then he could finally fucking move on. But alas, it was as if his brain left on vacation… or maybe those drug scare ads were right and his brain cells were actually fried.  

“Something wrong with the food, Ed?” Wayne asked around a mouthful, “thought you loved dogs with mac n cheese.” 

Eddie went class by class in his head imagining the seats of every girl who occupied them. In Geography there was Tiffany, Alice, Wheeler, Robin, Barbara, and Chrissy. 

This is fucking stupid, he thinks. She could be a year or two below him in school, but goddamnit what was her name?

He could memorize DnD manuals, a whiz at math especially percentages for his.. hobbies. But a simple name to a girl he’s seen a dozen times falls short. 

Dropping the metal spoon with a loud clunk, he groans, throwing his head in his hands. “I’m fine, Wayne.” 

He wasn’t, along with his head pounding like the hammering tune of a chainsaw, he had felt nauseous all day. Like a hangover that never seemed to end, or that time he had the stomach flu last year and missed a week of school. 

But this wasn’t the flu, and it wasn’t a hangover. It was a nagging feeling in his head and a rip to his gut. 

“You sure?” Wayne tested cautiously, “Y’ know I don’t have many rules here.. and I don’t care that you smoke in the house, but son if you’re doing something… more than that… I…” Wayne shakes his head, his voice growing earnest, “I just don’t want you to end up like your old man ‘s all.” 

“Jesus, Wayne,” Eddie groaned, scrubbing his hands down his face, he hadn’t touched that shit his dad was caught with, and was currently serving a sentence for, ever. 

“I’m not doin’ anything like that, okay? I just… GOD—” he ran thick ringed fingers through his hair and cursed again when the rings got tangled, huffing through his nose like a bull, “I feel like shit!” 

Wayne relaxed a bit in his chair, a chuckle in his throat at his nephew's theatrics, “eat then, you’ll feel better.” 

Eddie shoved his plate away,  synchronizing the metallic dragging scuff from the chair’s legs across the cheap linoleum floor with a grumble of ‘m not hungry. 

His long legs seemed to tangle under themselves as he stood and he caught his shoulder hard on the wall, the drag of soft cotton down a plywood wall muffling his curses as he headed to bed. 

Face first he landed into the worn and spring heavy mattress, the smell of weed and spiced deodorant engulfing him. Leather scuffed boots still on his feet from when he drove to Rick’s for his weekly supply. The pounding against his skull was dull, twisting like a knife and it just wouldn’t quit.

Nose crushed in the misshapen pillow, Eddie throws his hand out hazardly to the nightstand. His fingers skid around the scattered DnD dice, a crusted half eaten sandwich from the night before and the sharp foiled  edge of a ripped corner from a Trojan from when—yeah, whew…that was a great night.

Finally, his fingers wrap around the cool steel of his zippo lighter. 

Without looking up, he flicks the pad of his thumb against the wheel igniting a flame to be sure there’s enough fluid. Groaning again he slides a hand into his jeans and pulls out the little bag he had gotten from Rick.

Movements that were taken for granted were now causing sweat to pool in the middle of his back, his temples dripped as a tickling bead of sweat wove a path down his chin. 

Whatever illness that was currently plaguing him was one like nothing before, and he only hoped his last vice of getting out of his mind with the sweet burn of a joint into his lungs would help. 

Slotting it between his lips he flicked the lighter and inhaled as much as his lungs could take. 

The girl drove home in silence. A salty drip of steady tears stinging her cheeks from the bite of the breeze that seeped through the cracked open car window. She didn’t understand why on this particular day he had burrowed so far under her skin, and even though he was rude, per usual—she couldn’t let it go. 

A horn honked behind her at the stop sign before she realized she had been staring at the steering column, foot pressed on the brake. Tears dripped onto the apples of her cheeks and she wiped at them with the sleeve of her cream colored cardigan, leaving flecks of mascara behind. 

Blowing out a blubbery sigh she eased her car forward and drove along the wet pavement of Hawkins, vision blinded by traitorous tears for the boy who didn’t deserve them. 

She ate her supper in a sad silence— fork balancing green beans gone cold. The girl sighed with a hand resting into her palm, watching the fall leaves plucking themselves free in the front yard. 

Her mind played that scene at Eddie’s trailer over and over. The way he practically bit her head off, how easy it was for him to dismiss her as a nuisance. She could feel the heat blossoming on her cheeks, how it had practically burned like his eyes did when they looked at her. 

Eddie was like that with everyone at school, so it really shouldn’t have been a surprise to her. But it was. And tears started again as she thought of why he was so mean.

“…see Mom! She hates green beans so much she’s crying about them!” 

The girl shook her head and blinked back the tears, “‘m not crying you little turkey,” she bites back, shoving her younger brother with her elbow, “just.. had a long day, ‘m tired.” 

“Well,” her mother protested, pressing a cloth napkin to the corners of her mouth, “why don’t you run a bath and go to bed early?” 

Nodding, she excused herself quietly from the table and walked the plush carpeted path to the upstairs bathroom. 

More tears began to roll down her cheeks as she climbed each step, a tingling in the nape of her neck made her skin feel boiling hot. The further up she went the worst she started to feel. 

I’m probably getting the flu. She thought to herself, Hawkins High had more than fifteen students out with it last week, and it would make sense that she too would fall victim to it. But the flu wouldn’t make her cry for no reason, no— a sickness wouldn’t have her feeling like she was nothing. 

But those dark brown eyes could. 

Thinking of her encounter today just made it worse, but she couldn’t turn it off. She welcomed the warmth from the water to seep through her bones after the tub was filled and she slipped gingerly into the water. 

Hoping the steam would will away the awful empty feeling in her stomach,  she let herself fully submerge, her wet brown hair feeling like the bottom of a silky moss covered lake. 

She laid under the water for what felt like hours, no sound, just her racing thoughts to keep her company.

Maybe I’m getting my period? She thought after taking a few winded deep breaths and sitting up in the water. 

It would explain why she was so irrationally upset about all of this. It was plausible. And maybe the burning flames of hell's butterflies in her stomach was because she had barely eaten anything for supper.

It definitely wasn’t the fact that Eddie seemed to radiate like a neon light in space the second he opened that door, and she was like a moth to his flame. One that was quickly swatted away. 

Eddie Munson. 

Standing and wrapping a towel around herself she hit the drain and stepped from the tub onto a peach colored bath mat. 

His face played like a movie in her head. A montage of him and only him. The cocky gait he strutted down the hallways, hollering at the jocks to get the fuck out of his way. The jingling swish of that chain linked wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, a soft black bandana in the other. 

Eddie. 

Wiping condensation from the mirror she shakes her head. What the hell? Never. Not once in her entire life had she thought about Eddie Munson. Even thinking his name made her stomach lurch like she might be sick. 

Wait. No, she was going to be sick. 

She makes it just in time to lift the seat on the toilet before she vomits violently into the bowl, tears leaking from her eyes with every retching heave her body produced. 

She hears her name buzzing in her ear. Once, twice, three times and she knows her mother is behind those calls on the other side of the door.

“‘m okay, Mom,” she gasps, “just the flu, it’s been going around—” 

And normally where her mother would have come in to rub her back, ask if she needed anything— she doesn’t. 

Flushing the toilet she looks over her shoulder, “Mom?”

No answer.

Rising from her knees she walks to the door and opens it, “Mom?” 

Nothing. 

Maybe she was hearing things, but she swore her name was said loud and clear. 

Smoke billowed around Eddie’s room, hanging like dense clouds from an oven fire. Either his tolerance was higher or the bud from Rick was skunked— because after smoking three joints back-to-back-to-back, he still couldn’t feel anything. 

Not even a tiny little buzz or the hazy droop of his eyelids forming into slits. That sickening pounding kept its beat along his chest and into every vein in his body, unrelenting in its ravage upon him. 

He thought of the times he had seen her. Where was he standing? What section of lockers was she shoving books into? 

Sandra? Beth… no he already said that. Fuck. 

It’s not until he laid flat on his back a few minutes later, the short remnants of paper flickering from the last bit of the joint burning close to his fingers. Eddie closed his eyes in complete solitude, and that’s when it clicked. 

Shuffling on what felt like broken legs to his closet, Eddie wedged the door open on its broken track. Every muscle in his body screamed in agony, he felt as if he had ran a marathon, backwards. 

His tongue was out between his lips as he concentrated on his task at hand. Rifling through heaps of clothes, old shoes, playboys with dog eared pages. He was elbows deep in the depths of his closet, searching for what he had tossed in here at the end of last year. 

The pads of his fingers feel the textured cover under a halloween mask and he yanks it free stumbling backwards and tripping over his amp, landing hard on the floor. 

He doesn’t wait to be in a more comfortable position on his bed or even sitting up straight before he holds the book over his face and flips open the cover of Hawkins High 1985 Go Tigers!, his yearbook. 

Pages and pages he skimmed through. Freshman class, Sophomore class, pictures of every sport from Fall to Spring, Band, Choir, The school newspaper… he was about to give up after he saw his own picture staring at him from Junior year.

And he would have missed it if his thumb hadn’t suddenly stung. As if a bee or a strike of lightning went through him and he had to adjust his hold on the book. Where his thumb had been pressed into the page, was the girl. 

Just a few down from his own school portrait, she sat smiling shyly at the camera with closed lips, silken voluminous dark hair, a sparkle in each eye. 

Eddie’s stomach plummeted, his pulse speeding up as each letter of her name danced behind his irises, and his lips tingle when he finally says her name. 

Mickey 

thanks for reading💋

taglist: @cinemabean @findmeincorneliastreet @pleuviors @boltonbritreads @nailbatanddungeon

@what-the-jams @aprisher @bbygh0st18 @lemme-slytherin-that-dick @joejoequinnquinn

[slasherparty]

Um hello, are you still writing requests? Is it okay if I could request the babadook relationship headcanons with a female s/o? Please and thank you!

i thought i'd never get a babadook ask 😭 here you go my friend <3

the babadook doesn’t knock on the door of love; it scratches gently at the edges of your heart until you let it in, a presence you both fear and find oddly comforting.

it speaks in riddles, its voice like the rustle of leaves in the dead of night, offering cryptic compliments that sound like: "Your shadows fit you well tonight."

dates are unconventional. it might whisk you into its dark, paper-and-ink world, where reality bends and folds like origami, a place that somehow feels more like home than home ever has.

the babadook is fiercely protective, its long, spindly fingers curling around your nightmares to keep them at bay — although it might save one or two, calling them “treasures worth keeping."

its idea of affection is peculiar but sincere: it rearranges the bookshelves just slightly, ensuring your favorite stories always seem to find you at the right time.

it doesn’t say “I love you” outright; instead, you hear it in the way its shadow stretches to cover you when you’re cold, or how it leaves a cup of tea steaming on the windowsill, just the way you like it.

while its presence is unsettling to others, to you, its deep growls and guttural noises have a lullaby-like cadence, and its dark shape at the foot of the bed feels safer than silence.

it cannot give flowers, but it’ll hand you a sprig of a withered tree branch, whispering that the gift is from a forest where the trees hum songs to the moon.

when disagreements arise, its tantrums are theatrical — thunder rolls, shadows writhe — but it always returns with an awkward apology: a scratched drawing of you in its childlike hand.

in its own way, it teaches you to embrace your darkness. “Monsters,” it murmurs, “are just secrets we let walk free.”

🌙

thank you for reading!! 💌

you can find my other writing here on ao3!

[rebelfell]

Welcome to your appointment, @sidereustales Robin is all set up for you in the back. Enjoy!

18+, MDNI┃1k

cw: summer romance, a little sad but pretty much just fluff

The surface of Lover’s Lake shimmered with the rays of dying sunlight reflecting off it.

Your bare feet dangled in the water, swishing back and forth so the ripples radiated out from around your legs and the pale, freckled pair next to them. Her toes tipped in electric blue wiggled above the murky depths and she exhaled, blowing her fringe out of her eyes.

“We can write,” Robin reminded you for the umpteenth time, although the meekness in her voice betrayed her own doubts. “And talk on the phone. Once we figure out the time difference.”

You nodded back, a single tear leaking from the corner of your eye that you hurriedly swipe away. Both of you had promised, no crying. No wasting time with tears on your last night together.

There’d be plenty of time for that later.

When your mother broke the news you would be spending the last precious weeks of your summer vacation in Hawkins, Indiana of all places you just about threw a fit. You’d never heard of this “Uncle Rick” guy before, and you had zero interest in staying in his lake house even if it was free.

But now there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Just a couple of days into your vacation, you had ambled into the local Family Video with both your younger siblings in tow. While they had raced off to scour the animated films, you drifted aimlessly through the racks until you stopped on a double VHS you picked up to examine.

“Oh!”

A squeak came from the end of the aisle as someone rounded the corner, and you looked up to see a girl about your age standing not five feet away from you seemingly frozen in place.

She had almond-shaped, watery blue eyes and choppy, caramel-tinged tresses that framed her lovely face. She was dressed in what looked like men’s clothes—a button-down shirt and a blazer underneath a dark green vest that bore the name of the business—but she feminized them slightly by cuffing the sleeves to show off a silver bangle on her wrist and the rings on her fingers.

“That’s a great one,” she said, eyes falling to the copy of Dr. Zhivago in your hands. “If you were wondering, that is. Also I’m Robin, I work here, I’m not just offering my unsolicited opinion for no reason. Not that you solicited it, just that if you were wondering how it is—it’s a good choice.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the words that tumbled so freely from her mouth, how she was seemingly trying to stay ahead of her own brain.

It was oddly fascinating.

“That’s good,” you smirked, “I only watch movies that are old enough to order their own drink.”

“Not a bad rule of thumb,” she answered with a fluttery laugh. “You know, uhhhh…they’re playing La Dolce Vita at The Hawk tonight. That one’s old enough to rent its own car.”

You took a careful step closer to her, placing the video back on the shelf and crossing your arms behind your back. Her eyes bugged, chest heaving as her breathing picked up.

“I’m hoping The Hawk is a theater,” you chuckled. “Because I do love Fellini.”

And so began what you could only describe as the most romantic four weeks of your life.

She met you that night downtown, explaining that once the mall and the fancy cinema opened, The Hawk had taken to showing older films in an attempt to draw in business. It hadn’t worked out very well, considering you two were the only ones in the theater. Not that you were complaining.

You had never felt so instantly at ease, so totally comfortable being completely 100% yourself with someone. Robin was unlike anyone you had ever met before. She had that frenetic way of talking and an even more chaotic way of thinking you found endlessly charming. She was clever and smart, but also deeply caring and intuitive. And no one had ever made you laugh like her.

Any and every moment you could, you’d spent together. Seeing movies, playing arcade games, sharing milkshakes and baskets of fries at her favorite diner. You even convinced your mom to let you borrow the car for the night so you could drive to a concert in the next town over.

And it was there, in the front seat of your family’s minivan, hours past when the show ended as you and Robin got caught up talking all night, that you leaned across the center console and kissed her.

But your favorite place to go remained the lake.

You could spend hours together down at Ricks’s dock, laying out in the sun on the bleached wood and reading while Robin sang along to some of your favorite songs played over a portable radio. Trading lazy and sleepy kisses, slipping your fingers together to hold her hand.

Those moments had felt so immovable, unencumbered by the laws of time and space. Like they could have gone on forever, stretching on into eternity. Not like now, with the sun setting and the night rushing in far too quickly for your liking; the threat of your return trip looming.

Robin leaned in first, dropping a delicate kiss to your bare shoulder and laying her head against it. You leaned back, letting your cheek press into the warm crown of her head. Taking a deep and slow breath of her strawberry-scented shampoo.

“I feel,” her throat clicked, voice wavering with hesitation, “I feel like I wanna say something…but I don’t wanna say it just because you’re leaving, or because I feel like I’m supposed to say it, or—”

You smiled sadly and took her hand, pulling it into your lap and quieting her runaway thought.

“But I would say it,” she emphasized, “I want you to know, I’d say it in a heartbeat.”

Another tear leaks out of the corner of your eye and you don’t wipe this one away. It rolls off your cheek and lands on the top of her head, seeping into her scalp. You take in a slow, shaky breath.

“I know,” you finally whisper. “I’d say it, too.”

Thank you so much for visiting the spa, we hope your services were satisfactory 🌿

[asyawrites]

I live in the bathroom.

Yes, where the tiles crack and water is held.

That one.

My bathroom is a small rectangle, enough to fit all five of my bodies if they were cloned. The floor is blue and so are the walls. The ceiling is white.

In the upper right corner sits a tub, which holds the water, but you don't go in it. Beside it is the toilet seat. And further to its right is a rack for all the things that belong there: toothbrushes, toothpaste, sanitary pads, more sanitary pads, plastic bags for the pads after use, empty bottles of shampoo and soap which we oddly kept untouched, and a bunch of other questionable trash our eyes gloss over.

The door, wood on one side and an iron cover on the other, creaked like it belonged in a horror movie where the main character stupidly buys the haunted house anyway—despite all the signs.

Doesn't sound pretty, but I'm used to it. In fact, the bathroom is probably the space I'm most familiar with. Every little detail sticks in my head like a parasite.

And although tight and nevertheless unrecommended, it's my favorite room.

Because outside is a whole orchestra.

Violins and flutes talk harmoniously while the piano goes in between. Cellos try to converse with the trombones. The harp plays by itself while secretly attracting everyone's ears. And last but not least, the others who come once in a while to announce their presence. Even if you run miles away from them, you'd feel like you've been doing it on the treadmill—making it in vain.

They're loud.

They're everywhere.

Everywhere but the bathroom.

Inside is a liminal space—where only my thoughts and I reside. No distractions, no commands, no questions, and definitely no noise. The only company, which I think is the most tolerable, is the water. Trust me, there's no better listener than this element, especially when you've been used in that role. All. The. Time.

It doesn't shout or ask a bazillion questions, nor does it push you to answer. It understands my role—and replaced it with its own.

Maybe it's selfish to think this way.

Maybe it never wanted the role to begin with.

But ironically: like the water, we can't complain.

In the bathroom, time stops. My only connection to it is through my hands—by abusing the element. I'd stroke its surface with my fingers and plunge them deep over and over again, until the tips age on their own, leaving the rest of me frozen.

The more I ponder my very existence in that place, the more I realized that I'm capable of ruin: without the shame, without the guilt, and with no one to judge but my own reflection.

So while the world outside continues to stir in its own endless melody, I let myself be captured by the four walls. Each side familiar, each side knows me. And knowing that when the sky collapses, mine won't even move.

So yes, I live in the bathroom.

There's no other way to say it. I just am. Maybe you are too... maybe.

[boxturret]

Bionicle Toa Posters

Did you know that there are multiple variations of the poster that came with the Toa in 2001?

Version 1

I would consider this to be the first version, and in some ways, the best. It features the fullest view of the Toa art and has the least clutter, just the Bionicle logo, Technic logo, and the ID number. The numbers have a consecutive range of 4130827 to 4130832.

The backside of this poster to my knowledge can have two variants. The first is a general Technic advertisement sheet only focusing on Bionicle in one corner, I assume this is the first version based on the 2000 copyright. The second is a much more Bionicle focused image that can also be found on the backs of many Rahi instruction books.

So version 1 has two variants, I would consider the second variant the "Optimal" Bionicle poster, as it has the clearest view of the Toa and the most interesting Bionicle themed back.

Version 2

The 2001 copyright date makes me think this is a later revision. Many things were added in this version, there is now a trademark symbol beside the Bionicle logo, full copyright text has been added along side the ID number, which is now vertical along the left side of the page, the Technic logo has been shrunk and moved to the right, and at the bottom a strip has been added featuring all the Toa similar to what can be found on the canister, although they're named here.

This version seems to exclusively feature the second back layout, which would fit which it being a later addition.

Version 3

At first glance this poster would seem to be the same as the previous version, but there are several key differences. The easiest one to spot is the dropping of the Technic brand, as this is from closer to 2002 (though it still retains the 2001 copyright), when Bionicle became its own line, rather than a subtheme of Technic. The ID number has also been shifted from the left to the right, being placed over the Kopaka tile in the Toa strip. This is the only variation to actually be given a new ID number, though oddly the numbers are not consecutive: 41760[67 | 72 | 74 | 81 | 83 | 85].

In fitting with the 2002 theme the back of this poster prominently features the Bohrok and several newer Technic sets.

There is also a slight error where Kohrak was misprinted, still featuring the identifier they must have used when assembling the image:

And that's all the information I've managed to gather on the posters. My sample size isn't huge, roughly 13 but it seems to be consistent with what I've seen online.

I've made recreations of all 3 types of posters for each of the 6 Toa and have uploaded them HERE.

And the raw scans can be found HERE.

[bookmuseum]

[REVIEW] The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

3/5 stars (★★★)

"He does not deserve the light, he deserves peace."

This was an oddly enjoyable read for the Christmas season. Before I read The Master and Margarita, I had zero idea what the book was about and 412 pages + a lot of reviews later I still can't exactly say what even happened here. The Gogolian influence was very persistent in Bulgakov's prose, so I highly recommend reading some of Nikolai Gogol's stuff before getting into TMaM. That being said, I agree with people that it's a novel that stands on its own in spite of its heavy context. I did some background research into Bulgakov's biography, the ten-ish years it took for him to write the book, Stalinist Russia, and the 25-year gap between when he finished the manuscript (which don't burn!) and the actual publication of it after his death. Critics seem to be unanimous in agreeing that the Master is a self-insert of Bulgakov himself, which I really felt to be most fitting during the scenes in the hospital where he discussed with Ivan the Homeless his philosophies on art and the current social order. I appreciated Bulgakov's harrowing criticism on Soviet Russia without actually being too grave about it; the dark humor is good because the "dark" is the adjective that informs the noun, not vice versa like a lot of "satire" plots which I feel fail in comparison. The magical realism was a good kind of wacky (although I wouldn't exactly call it magical realism, but that may be just because I'm more used to its South and Latin American literary uses). I liked Woland and all the beheading episodes. Bulgakov's tongue-in-cheek treatment of citizens "disappearing," private executions, political censorship of the Soviet intelligista, and the air of general repression felt in all people, especially artists, during the time were spot-on (though that's coming from someone who never experienced Stalinist Russia and have only done humble research into it). I think TMaM is a great testament to the political and social climate of Russia in the 20th century. Bulgakov captured everything so well whilst still retaining a sense of wonder, folkloric absurdism, and, at times, tender humanity.

Personally, I didn't like the scenes set in Yershalaim with Pontius Pilate and Yeshua Ha-Nozri, though I appreciate their symbolic meaning and narrative weight as a whole. I honestly found myself falling asleep, especially during the infamous conversation between Pilate and Jesus. That being said, I found Bulgakov's portrayal of Jesus very intriguing, as well as his decision to refer to ancient Jerusalem by an alternate transliteration from the Hebrew quite bold. It gave a sort of distancing effect to the otherwise well-known Biblical places that separated their religious (over)-associations with actual historic (and fictionalized) context. I like that Jesus became "Yeshua," with the name obviously coming from the Aramaic word for "the Lord is salvation." Bulgakov making Jesus' last name "Ha-Nozri" meaning "of Nazareth" specifically was quite beautiful to me, as it places him as coming explicitly coming from the town of Galilee (north of Palestine), which Jesus was said to have lived in before he began his ministry. Instead of "Jesus Christ" or "King of Israel," which are common ways he is referred to, Bulgakov opted to name him according to his native Palestinian roots first and foremost. There's a lot of literary analysis you can take from that, but it's inherently a very defiant decision that I appreciate Bulgakov for making, and I'm saying that as a reader in 2024. Bulgakov, amongst other subtle cultural references, also mentions the keffiyeh ("kefia") in his novel a handful of times, most strikingly in the scene when Matthew Levi essentially curses at God because he was too late saving Yeshua from crucifixion. Bulgakov here is writing almost 100 years ago from where I am with zero idea of the political climate happening now in my world (although Zionism was still obviously present in early 20th century Russia). Matthew Levi's keffiyeh was one of the book's most resonant images for me, even if Bulgakov didn't exactly intend it to be as jarring as it is since he couldn't have predicted the genocide happening in Gaza right now. However, this small link I've noticed between the past and now is just an example of literature transcending time and space by acting as a bridge for human connections. Long ago, one man from Palestine disrupted Jerusalem and Rome's established (tyrannical) order and then centuries later a writer in early 20th century Russia adapted Jesus' story to criticize the cruelties and ridiculousness of the Stalinist regime, and then I in 2024 am reading this as the mass killings are happening in Palestine. Through this one book, three generations -- three timelines -- are somehow connected.

My final comment is that TMaM, particularly that connection I've personally drawn as a modern reader, reminds me why humanities, reading, history, literature, the arts, etc. are so timelessly and universally important. I know I may sound crazy and "you're just trying to be deep," but it really honestly is the truth. Bulgakov explicitly highlighting Jesus as Palestinian in Soviet Russia as a form of political protest and me in 2024 reading this book just as Jesus' same homeland is being massacred during Christmastime ... it's so haunting. The book being finished in 1940, meaning it and Bulgakov's very Palestinian Jesus is older than the "state" of Israel is an even more damning fact in and of itself. Even though I gave the book 3/5 stars, it's surely a story I will remember. That final image of the four "horsemen" riding off into the distance just as another dawn is breaking over a dictatorial empire history knows is doomed to crumble that concludes the novel will stay with me.

[aurianavaloria]

👑 The King - An Analysis ✨

I've already stated my love for the Kingdom of Heaven soundtrack in a previous post, and in case it wasn't already obvious from my ambience edits, "The King" - essentially, King Baldwin's theme - is one of my favorite tracks on the OST album (if you're curious, "Burning the Past", "Crusaders", "To Jerusalem", and "Ibelin" are my other faves); it so effectively encapsulates his character with several simple variations on a single melody, on top of just being a lovely piece to listen to. What follows is my amateur analysis of this track (fully enabled by @atomnolly - please go check out their art, they're amazing). Please note, however, that I have absolutely zero experience with musical composition and theory. I'm just going by what the piece invokes in me, as a listener, in relation to Baldwin's character in the film.

I'll primarily be analyzing the OST's version of the track, which brings me to my main gripe about the way this piece is presented in the film and one reason why I'm doing this analysis to begin with: there's actually two variants floating out there - the basic OST album version and the Complete/"Full Expanded" album version, the latter of which is how it was implemented in the movie. Unfortunately, in the film, you never get to hear "The King" as its own full track like you do with "Burning the Past", for example. Instead, it's spliced up over the course of several scenes, one of which has nothing to do with Baldwin himself. 🙃

Go figure.

Because of this, I'm using the full "suite" version from the OST (called the "Album Edit" on the complete soundtrack) as, oddly enough, it is far more coherent to listen to than how it actually shows up in the film. More on that later.

The suite opens up with an intro that is called "Golgotha" on the complete soundtrack (unfortunately, Tumblr isn't letting me upload my audio clips no matter what I do, so we'll go by timestamps instead - I highly advise docking the video in your sidebar while you read for convenience). Between 0:00 and 1:20, we get this soft, meandering, mysterious melody on duduk, accompanied by equally mysterious female vocals that briefly drift into a brighter, almost angelic sound. This change in tone is backed by what sounds like a glass harp before the duduk repeats the initial melody.

I've noticed that the "tinkling" glass harp often shows up in the film to seemingly emphasize something ethereal or supernatural, and we mostly hear it in connection to Baldwin, although it does spring up in other places on occasion. Each time it's used, it invokes the slightest bit of tension, as if it's a cue to think more closely about whatever it is the viewer is looking at.

Even more intrinsically tied to his character, however, is the presence of the Armenian duduk, which, if I haven't missed anything anywhere (which I could have), doesn't appear in any track other than those clearly associated with the king. In this way, I think we can effectively say that, as far as the KoH soundtrack goes, the duduk is "his" instrument - fitting, considering his Armenian heritage.

As a side note, this is why it's strange and somewhat frustrating to me to have this intro segment tacked onto Balian's visit at Calvary in the film, because, after hearing it as part of "The King" suite on the album edit, it's obvious that the duduk signals Baldwin's presence. Yet at this point, the king hasn't even been introduced and won't be for a few more scenes. I do believe it replays in full after Balian's invitation to speak with Baldwin, but it is almost completely overshadowed by his conversation with Sibylla, leading the viewer to possibly attach it to her rather than her brother.

Back to the duduk. The Armenian duduk, a double-reed instrument traditionally made of apricot wood, has a very distinctive sound that's been described by listeners as everything from mournful, lonely, and haunting, to relaxing and soulful, to majestic and even romantic, depending on how it is played. This powerful versatility is certainly demonstrated in "The King", beginning with this introduction that I would say ventures into "haunting" territory. In fact, it almost feels like a lure - a siren's call for listeners.

After that call, we get the beginning of what is "The King" on the Extended soundtrack and the first appearance of the leitmotif that is attached to Baldwin from that point forth. Between 1:20 and 1:50 on the album edit, we have a very "gentle" (as @atomnolly put it 😁) melody played on a flute, first heard when Baldwin is beckoning Balian to come closer, again accompanied by the glass harp. While starting at a lilting higher pitch, it soon trails off into a lower one before a slight pause, and then a slide of strings precedes a repetition of that same melody at a lower pitch than the first. A solemn tension builds from then until 2:24, at which point, in the Complete soundtrack, it is very obviously and awkwardly chopped to silence. 🙃We'll get back to that in a bit.

This introduction of Baldwin's leitmotif is a very interesting point of the suite, because the almost light airiness of the flute doesn't last very long. It soon gives way to a much richer, even "darker" sound. For me, this represents what belies the almost angelic appearance of the king - there's far more depth there than his friendly introduction might suggest, and this is reflected in the music itself... brightness intertwined with mystery, and possibly a little danger (this is a king we're talking about, here, with all the power that position provides).

This mystery is further emphasized when the duduk comes back in, echoing the leitmotif between 2:25 and 2:50, and it is further strengthened by the dual presence of the glass harp and growing strings supporting it. Unfortunately, this part doesn't show up at all during Balian's first conversation with Baldwin; in fact, it is put off until the middle of "Terms" on the complete soundtrack: the discussion with Saladin at Kerak. IMO, it would have been far more fitting to have it in the background during the most serious part of Baldwin's lecture (a la my first atmosphere edit); this is really the second-strongest iteration of his leitmotif and should have accompanied his most powerful quote in the film.

What comes after is the closest thing we get to a battle theme for Baldwin. From 2:50 to 3:06 we get another repetition of the leitmotif by the duduk, but in its strongest form: at a higher pitch but with greater power than before, it is accompanied by drums and backed by strings that give a sense of urgency. This is the king on horseback, both right before the meeting with Saladin and immediately following. Utterly gone is the glass harp - mystery gives way to majesty.

The leitmotif then continues with even stronger strings alongside the duduk at a lower pitch from 3:07, almost overpowering it, before being repeated a final time by horns at 3:22. This, I believe, is essentially a royal fanfare of sorts; brass has been associated with military and nobility (as the ultimate leadership of said military) since ancient times, and it is here that the score emphasizes Baldwin's role as commander of his kingdom's army. Again, unfortunately, this part isn't kept singular to Baldwin and is replayed in the future scenes of Balian's battle at Jerusalem - it's possible this is intended to evoke the memory of Baldwin, but it further takes away from the composition's uniqueness.

At 3:37, then, we get a small "falling action" portion that actually doesn't appear where it was intended. According to Drake55116's analysis, this particular bit was actually supposed to play while Baldwin dismounted his horse and approached Raynald in Kerak's courtyard, but was ultimately cut. I'm not sure why - it has a definite sense of "impending doom" to it, not just for Raynald, but for Baldwin himself, as this becomes his last great "hurrah" as king. Both the string and horn buildups are wonderful and really emphasize it as the climax point before the disaster that follows.

After that, interestingly enough, the portion that appears at 4:17 on the album edit is actually put where the leitmotif chops off suddenly during Baldwin's earlier conversation with Balian on the Extended soundtrack. To be honest, I think it would have served just fine during or even after Baldwin's interaction with Raynald instead. The slide of the low strings and the slightly discordant horns continue that regal majesty, but also provide appropriate tension for the situation.

Briefly returning to the initial conversation between Baldwin and Balian - there is one portion of the theme that is reserved for the Complete soundtrack and doesn't appear on the OST album edit: at 56:28 there is a unique high string version of the king's leitmotif followed by a slower, half repetition by the duduk, which has had an echo added to it. It essentially serves to "close-out" their conversation after Baldwin gives his orders to go to Ibelin. This iteration is much, much softer in tone, and with the echo and the growing glass harp sound alongside it, it seems to purposefully emphasize the ethereal mystery of the king, but this time with a definite positive tone... perhaps reflective of Balian's hopeful outlook on him?

Back to the album edit. From 4:42, the leitmotif appears again as an even higher flute than it first appeared, almost delicate. A deliberate pause follows with emphasis on the glass harp between 5:06 and 5:15 before the duduk echoes the theme one last time... the softest and slowest it's played on the whole track as it extends to the end. Here, from 4:42 onward, is the dying king. A certain innocence is reflected in the high flute notes, weariness and vulnerability conveyed through the duduk. Despite being the gentlest segment of the suite, it is perhaps the most powerful way to close it out, the prior strength and mystery quite literally fading away into nothing.

In essence, I think "The King" would have been much more effective presented in the movie exactly as it appears as a suite on the OST, going precisely in that order and restricted to Baldwin's appearances alone. As a whole, it perfectly illustrates the king as a character - the flute and glass harp reflecting the angelic elegance, the horns the majesty, the duduk the mystery, power, and tragedy. Harry Gregson-Williams's composition is beautifully-deep despite its relative simplicity, and it adds so much to every scene in which Baldwin appears; thoughtfully-crafted to invoke the above feelings in the audience, it effectively enhances the Leper King's brief but powerful presence in the film.

[unofficials4t4n]

ALRIGHT BITCHES LEMME LEARN YOU A THING OF SORTS

THESE MOTHERFUCKERS MIGHT AS WELL BE SEPARATE CHARACTERS AND SO, LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND OTHERS, I'M EXPLAINING WHY THAT IS INDEED THE CASE

Slenderman

8 feet tall, sometimes taller, can change height

6 or more extra appendages on his back, can retract at will and extend with unknown limits (not tentacles, no suckers, but behaves in a similar way)

Two piece suit that seems to always fit it, black or charcoal gray, and black or red tie, white button-up shirt, black dress shoes, white socks or no socks, who knows

Faceless, sometimes has the impression of eye sockets

White skin

Anatomically seems to be comparable to an elongated human, usually proportionally correct to a human just way longer, sometimes has longer limbs than human proportionally

Seems to be radioactive, interfering with nearby technology and making nearby humans sick. Doesn't seem to affect animals

Lives in the woods/ own pocket dimension

Consistently seems to find messed up people and adopts them, whether this is out of compassion or something ulterior motive depends on the source

Has pages that he supposedly draws himself (some sources say they're from a daughter, her whereabouts depends on the source)

Talks, telepathic or not depends on the source

Has above human intelligence but is pretty comparable to a human mentally

Can be aggressive to humans, equally, can become friends with them, often an 'imaginary' friend of children and disturbed people of any age

Many sources give him a whole family of similar beings

Can teleport

Steals children for unknown reasons sometimes

Literally just a guy

The Slenderman

A.K.A - The Operator, The Administrator, The Keeper, Der Großmann, Der Chirurg, The Tall Man, The Faceless King, The Faceless Angel, The Ajax Monster, Stick-in-the-mud, The Tree That Walks, Mr. Slim, The Host, The Tall Fucker, Gorr'Rylaehotep

Appears from about 6 feet tall to 20 feet, potentially taller

Sometimes has extra arms

'Appendages' on back are cracks in reality where it breaks through

Appears to wear a suit and tie, although hard to distinguish

Face is not fully comprehensible to humans and cannot be picked up on camera

Misshapen, humanoid, comparable to a man shaped tree

Psychically attacks humans for unknown reasons, footage of it is almost always heavily distorted

Interdimensional, can hop between at least two dimensions at will

Infects and messes up humans for unknown reasons

Oddly effects people into drawing and graffiting a series of images and symbols

Seems to put thoughts and information into people's mind, shares information by airdropping that shit basically

Unknown intelligence, seems to hold information of huge consequences

Seems to have incredibly harmful effects on humans, whether intentional or not is debatable

Only one of its kind

Can displace itself to any point of the universe, any space, any time, as it isn't bound by our rules

Cause people to go missing, harm or kill themselves and others, and other drastic behaviors

Essentially a god

Thank you for coming to my ted talk

[revvethasmythh]

reverse unpopular opinion: shakarian! i'd love to hear something you like about the dynamic between garrus and your shepard, specifically

A general thing I loved about the dynamic was how steadying of a love interest I found Garrus to be. He's a good man in a storm, and in the worst shit going down, he's capable of taking a huge issue, breaking it down into its small, separate parts, and make tackling that problem feel feasible. The final romance scene in me3 before Cerberus Headquarters stand out strongly to me re: this ("Every bullet we've ever dodged could have been the one. This time, the bullets are just a little bigger.") What he had to say after Thessia, too, I remember thinking was the most bolstering of any of the companion comments. Fitting, perhaps, that a lot of his engagement with Shepard in me3 revolved around, well, relieving stress, considering the origin of the relationship, and I really appreciated that about the dynamic.

Specific to my own Shepard, I remain entranced by the incredibly weird dynamic they had in me1 that was not even romantic, it was like...pure projection on Shepard's part, because he reminded her of herself before everything happened at Torfan (a thing she would never ever admit is her greatest regret, although it definitely is). Him being at a moral crossroads in that game was significant for her, because she felt like he was one day away from becoming exactly what she was, and she hated herself. She experienced crushing guilt at all times (that, again, she would never admit to) and so taking a paragon route with him in me1 was her trying, in a slightly deranged and definitely unclear way, to say: "Don't be like me, all you're going to find at the end of that road is regret." She really wanted to save him from living with same guilt she did, and then two years later in Omega he, uh. Well, he found some guilt all on his own, didn't he? It left them with oddly similar regrets, and contributed quite a bit to why he was a character she felt uniquely capable of being honest and vulnerable with.

[nuuspace]

The Door to Nowhere

In a chamber of forethought, Gris vanishes.

Their consciousness fades and their corporeal tangibility becomes meaningless in an instant. The life they once experienced is a memory that will inevitably wash away into the infinite pool.

All the aforementioned precedents vanish. Gris sighs, their new sight hazed.

Clouds of verdant and mauve, serpents and groves; each piece of abstraction their brain pieces together for milliseconds before their vision clears.

Today, they stand tall. Today, they are a man.

His shoulders relax, his legs remain tense. He's standing. Around him, a large crowd of people talk amongst themselves. Every few ticks, they stagger towards the direction he was supposedly facing.

He stands in a hallway as thick as roughly five people if they lay flat on the floor, that of which is covered in blue carpet, just as the walls. Between the floor and walls are oddly-angled stairs, covered in the same carpet, no seams to be found. The ceiling breaks the pattern, an off-white tile, splattered with occasional faux dirt specks to help with the immersion. Peering above the many heads, he notices the hallway may be one-hundred steps until the presumed destination. Soon after he twists his body around, he feels very light-headed.

The hallway extends for what feels like forever. As it gets further away, it curves upward, completely disregarding gravity, if it were even there in the first place. Gris does not bode well with odd geometry, albeit the entirety of Nuuspace.

He turns back and grounds himself, focusing on his new body; black lax jeans, white ragged t-shirt, and an olive, loose-fit waxed cotton jacket.

There's a gap in front of him in-between the crowd, so he moves forward to close it.

Gris is not particularly used to looking down on others. Most of his bodies are petite. It can be assumed that his original body was closer to that size, considering the pattern. People prefer familiarity after all. However, this body is more burly and old than the others. Not too old, no, perhaps in its late thirties. But far out of the standard range of Gris' experiences. Whether it's one of his own or one that's preoccupied, he chooses to keep it as is.

He turns to his left to find a relatively young man; black hair, black jeans, gray crop-top. He scoots toward him.

"What are we doing?" He asks the young man, his new voice deep and soft.

"We?" The young man asks. "Well I'm waiting in line. What are you doing?"

"I'm waiting in line as well," He assumes. Gris looks toward the presumed destination. At the end of the hallway, there is a set of wide doors, but that's the extent that isn't abstracted by the crowd. Periodically, the doors open and close in an odd pattern. Perhaps, and more likely, it's a series of doors.

"What are you waiting in line for?" He asks the man.

"The edge of the universe." The young man verbalizes.

Gris ponders for a moment. "Is that… dangerous?"

The young man stands in line.

Gris sighs. He moves past the man, as those around him inch towards the door once again. Maneuvering through the crowd is hardly an inconvenience; although there are many people, there are no obstacles, and no obstructed paths. He moves toward the stairs on the sides; no guard rails and no separation from the floor or carpet. The stairs jut out from the floor like an odd extension of the hallway's body, while the carpet acts as its skin. They're rotated in a way that makes them feel more like spikes, a rather unorthodox design for something that is presumed to be traversed.

And yet, Gris' curiosity bests him. He walks onto the stairs, and loses his balance, falling to the ground. He quickly regains his footing, only to realize that everyone else is standing on what seems to be a slope. It's as if his and their gravity are separate, relative to the surface they're standing on. The stairs are no longer at an angle, the hallway is.

The doors at the end of the hallway are now at the bottom of the stairs. There is no longer a queue for Gris, if there ever was one in the first place.

Down the stairs, passing each soul. Each in their own world, in their own space, slowly inching towards their supposed destination; none bat an eye. There are no obstacles, there is no trouble. There is nothing stopping them from getting to where they want. What is it that they're waiting for?

He arrives. The wall at the end houses a series of doors, each identical, laid out next to each other in a row. No one comes through, they only enter. Door opens, one enters, door closes. Again. And again. And again.

Gris steps off the stairs. His gravity returns to normal, flinging him upright. The vertigo sends a wave of nausea through his body from top to bottom.

One door remains still—no one enters. As if the door is waiting for him. He approaches the door and caresses the cold wood surface, moving his hand down to grasp the door knob. Ice cold.

For but a moment, he forgets that his body is not his own. Whether this was the door his host was meant to be in or not, this was the door for him. He opens it and walks through.

All that lay ahead is the hallway he just stood in. Nothing more, but so much less. No one stands in the room, waiting. No one stands in the room, moving forward. He turns the other way. The door is gone.

All of that curiosity, all for nothing. The anticipation. The waiting. Just for it to end in absolutely nothing, in absolutely nowhere.

His consciousness begins to fade. His time is up. Ended so perfectly at this moment, as if destined to be.

From here to there, and inevitably everywhere, Gris will continue their journey until the end of time itself. Changing lives, creating new ones. Injecting new points into stories, and retconning old ones. All at random, forever and ever.

As Gris leaves the man behind to deal with the actions of his possessor's consequences, they enter an echo chamber. Doubt, regret, sorrow. Remorse.

All the aforementioned precedents vanish.

And they begin anew once more.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Hello! Merry Christmas and good luck in the new year! I have a question, I don’t know if it’s been asked already, but I’m interested to know which of your characters is closest to you in spirit? What traits do you have in common with him? And vice versa. Which character is the most difficult for you to write, which you do not always understand: his actions, words and motivation, because you are a real writer and are probably good at the psychology of heroes (I really apologize for the distorted sentences, because I am a foreign subscriber and use a translator)

Absolutely no need to apologize, Nonny! Everything looks great and thank you so much for taking the time to send these thoughtful questions 💕

Y’all already know the rambler in me is getting all excited, so prepare y’all selves! Though I must say, it’s quite hard to pinpoint an answer, mostly because there’s at least a small bit of myself in each of the characters and who’s easiest to write is not always who is the most like me? So naturally, let’s go below the cut, and I’ll split this into sections to make it easier for us to read 😘

1. My spirit characters:

Honesty time. I think that it’s easier for me to put my “negative” qualities into characters and thus also easier to recognize them in hindsight. This is probably because it’s simply often easier to see what needs to be improved in yourself than vice versa, but also probably because I’m a dramatic broad who likes giving her characters flaws.

So although I could probably find a bit of myself in most characters, I would say those who are most like me are Rosella, Zelda, and Violette. Just down to sims traits, Rosella and my simself actually both have the self-absorbed trait (oops). I think this manifests in different ways, but at its core I’m just as likely to follow my wants and cut ties as she is. I also have a ~rather strong~ proclivity for the aesthetic and vain, enjoying beautiful things for their own sake often to the point of distraction. However, I like to think that this is tertiary to me, and my pursuit of them is not as detrimental as it was for her.

Which brings us to, of course, Zelda. Zelda shares this love of the beautiful with her sister, although for her it can extend into the ephemeral and artistic rather than simply the mundane. I would say I share that tendency toward internal existentialism with her, as well as the proclivity to separate from my immediate surroundings rather than live in the present moment. I, like her, can thus often seem “out of it” but in reality we’re just interpreting our surroundings through a distorted, if not tinted lens. However, I’m by no means as artistically talented or reserved as Zelda, which brings us to….

Our little heiress, Violette. Now I’ll try not to get too deep into spoilers here, but Little Lottie and I definitely share some core tendencies. I, like her, despise being told what to do, and will usually become more stubborn or do the opposite simply because of what someone said (whether it’s well intentioned or not). I can also be gregarious, dramatic, and loud when I want to be, and enjoy being the center of attention. However, I think the Zelda in me tempers that so that I need to retreat back into my cave after a while, while Violette thrives on it. I was also raised an only child, so a lot of Lottie’s experience with loneliness and not knowing how to relate to other children is coming from my own childhood.

2. The easiest to write:

So oddly, I don’t think there’s a clear connection between the characters who are most like me and those I find easiest to write. Rather I think that comes from the historical situation that is currently inspiring me, which character fits into that inspiration the best, and how clear of a grasp I have on that character’s personality. This often comes in the form of scenes just appearing in my head, and as I write it’s like the sentences already exist? So there’s this natural understanding between the character and me, where I don’t really have to sort through thought rubble or force their perspective quite as much?

This answer is highly dependent on what part of the story we are currently in. As in, there have been times I have found a character easy to write, and then it will suddenly switch. Zelda is absolutely one of those characters, as her perspective came very naturally to me in parts of the 1910s and then again after motherhood. Now, I find it easier to write the characters surrounding her, and I’m sure it will switch again at some point in the future.

Currently? I find Josephine easiest to write (although she is not very similar to me at all, and her deep fear of commitment is something that I don’t share in the slightest), with Antoine coming in as a close second. Violette’s perspective in the 1940s has also kind of begun presenting itself to me, although at various points I would say that Adelia, Virginia, and Florence have all also been the easiest characters to write for, and those who’s voices have inspired me to come up with new scenes and plotlines.

3. Who even is she?

Now for the characters who are least like me? That one has gotta probably gotta go to Florence, Virginia, and Antoine. As much as I may want to be like Florence, I’m gunna be honest with y’all and say that is not the case. Starting with the fact that I strongly dislike the great outdoors. Farming? Nah. Camping? Absolutely not. Living of the land? What a pleasant dream. What can I say, I am absolutely a Rosella; I enjoy being fancy and comfortable, and Florence in some ways is the antithesis of this. She also embodies selfless generosity and a sort of steady love, which are not things that I would say I really relate to (I once again point you to answer 1 😅).

Now Virginia is a strange one. I was actually very concerned with writing her, because I share none of the righteousness or quickness to action that define her. Likewise, I don’t think that I am able to remain as steady and surefire in tragedy and trauma as she does. So when I first conceived her character I thought I would have great difficulty writing her, but as I mentioned above, despite the fact that she is probably the least similar to me of all the Darlingtons, I found her easy and almost natural to write once we began her storyline.

Which brings us to my baby boy. Sigh. I say this next because Antoine has easily been one of the most natural characters for me to write. I think this is because I had such a clear vision of him from the start that has really been able to grow through the story. So he’s remained who he is through it all, and why I still find him so easy to write.

Despite this, there is very little to none of me in his character, despite the fact that I maybe sorta have a thing for the broken artist stereotype (hello, hubs, I know you’re out there 😙). So there may be some ways in which I wrote my partner into his character’s talent and approach to the world around him, but he is heavily inspired by these ideas of “old fashioned masculinity”, of self-imposed stoicism and protection and fatherhood. These are feelings that I have to imagine rather than pull from experience, but somehow the more I write him the more real they become to me as well.

4. The ~struggle~

Hands down the hardest characters for me to write have been Oliver and Isaiah. I think that Oliver really suffered from the fact that he was my first gen heir, so I was at a place in the story and my writing process where I wasn’t as sure in what I was doing or as good at honing into what I wanted to do. Then by the time this became more clear to me, I had really begun to lean into writing Florence’s character and then his children. So he kind of became less of a focus, and the less I focused on him the harder it was for me to define his voice, which then became a cycle.

I think if I could go back, I would lean more into the connection that I see between him and the romantic poets, really kind of exploring that juxtaposition between idealized nature and reality. I also think his position as a pseudo-wealthy aristocratic and failed businessman had a lot of potential, but alas, you live and you learn.

Now onto the Forgotten Child. Y’all (and I) call him that for a reason, and I think next to his sisters it’s no secret that Isaiah received much less focus (I even have a post about him realizing this 😂). Part of this is just that he’s the youngest, so I really didn’t get much time to explore his adult life or even his teenage years. It’s also because trying to juggle six perspectives all at once means that some are going to suffer more than others.

Now that being said, I am happy with his storylines. However, they often felt more like I was exploring plots I had come up with rather than really viewing things through his perspective. I think this is the biggest challenge to me when having trouble writing a character: it’s that their voice is just for whatever reason not really clear in my mind. Even in the subsequent decades, our English Darlington updates are mostly going to come from Summer, because I still have never really gotten my finger on exactly who Isaiah is. For that reason, my poor forgotten baby boy is probably the most difficult character for me to write.

—

ALSO if you made it this far please know that turning your delightful questions into a multi-paragraph rant about myself is a very self absorbed and very Rosella/Violette thing to do so in the end…I think you have all the answer you need right there 🤣