#But a 9/10 for sheer effort

[rynrising44]

Guys I'm trying so hard to understand my ipad knock off but all i have is penup and limited free time, so this is what we get 😂

[wisecura]

Sheets

megumi fushiguro x fem-reader

p.1

p.8  ( ⸝⸝꩜ ᯅ ꩜⸝⸝;) p.10??

p.9

AN: this took a minute, but I was finishing the outline for a few of the other chapters and a few other works I've been doing. I was off from work for a bit, went back, had a set of traumatic back to back days. and well, writers block is one hell of a thing, y'know? aaaand with the seasonal changes I'm just tired maybe a bit down. but thank you guys for your love and support!

warnings: this story may cover sensitive and uncomfortable topics. please read at your own risk, violence, lashings, blood, mental breakdowns, yandere, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, mommy kinks, mommy issues, arranged marriages, forced marriages, angst, eventual smut, clan politics, age gap (5 years from meg, and a little over 10 with toji), toji aint the best dad, mentions of child abuse, slowww build.

Short summary: Your arranged marriage to Toji Fushiguro had been sudden and unexpected, but now you found yourself living under his roof alongside your moody stepson. Your only directive from your clan head before moving in was clear: keep a close eye on Toji, the notorious Sorcerer Killer, and his son, a potential sorcerer prodigy.

threats and cwuddles

an: i said what i said

How utterly pointless.

There he was, standing before the pathetic excuse for a man—the one you called uncle, the so-called leader of your disgraceful clan. The ridiculous get up had him holding back a joke, as the man seemed to sneer down at him. His expression oozing disdain—as if he wasn't even worth the effort of a proper glance.

Toji nearly laughed at the sheer audacity.

This man, puffed up with self-importance and brimming with hollow authority, presumed to have the upper hand?

Absolutely comedic.

Toji let his eyes drift over the man slowly, deliberately, as if assessing a weak opponent in a fight he knew he’d already won. Everything about him screamed mediocrity wrapped in false power—his carefully pressed robes, the practiced tilt of his chin, the way he held his hands behind his back as if it really added weight to his presence.

But Toji saw through it all. He always did.

Authority like this was a farce. A staged act meant to instill fear in those who’d never known freedom. And Toji? He was already a foot out the door. And he didn’t play by their rules. Not now. Not ever.

He could kill him in seconds...if he really wanted to. 

"So," Toji said, his voice dripping with derision. "This is the man in charge, huh? Can’t say I’m impressed. You look more like an angry little chihuahua guarding a bone that isn’t even yours."

Your clan leader's sneer faltered for a second at his blatant disrespect. It wasn't often someone so ill-mannered showed their face in his estate, let alone had the audacity to open their mouth in front of him.

But they were all the same to Toji—weak, predictable, and utterly worthless.

Toji wasn’t the type to be a hero—never had been, never would be. Kindness just wasn’t in his nature, and every decision he made came with a price. He didn’t hand out favors for free, and he certainly didn’t involve himself in someone else’s mess out of the goodness of his heart.

So why was he here?

The answer was annoyingly simple.

you.

Maybe it was because, technically, he was your husband. Sure, it was only in name, but the fact remained. Or maybe it was because of Megumi—his dumb, lovesick son—whose actions, if not his words, made it painfully clear just how deeply his affections for you ran. 

From the surface, Toji could make excuses, just how he may have when he first picked you up from this clan. But deep down, way below—in the dark recesses of his mind, Toji understood the real reason.

It wasn’t about obligation or some half-hearted attempt to help Megumi.

It was the moment you'd broken down in his arms.

Sobbing, so uncharacteristically vulnerable, your back covered in those deep, fresh lashes—five if he counted correctly. Clinging onto him, in a way you hadn't ever done before, even when Megumi had been ignoring you. And he could see the scars from previous lashings. Some faint, a light pink indention, and others a solid light purple.

He wasn’t good at comforting people—really. And what good was an assassin in that situation?—but something in that moment had made his head snap. And a mix of different memories and bottled-up emotions compelled him forward. He'd never made impulsive decisions. And Toji Fushiguro was never one for kindness.

But now, here he was. Standing in front of your uncle, the so-called leader of your clan, ready to do something he knew was reckless. Something that could potentially mess things up for both you and his son. A defensive action like this could easily hint at a deeper relationship between the two of you, which was not something he really wanted. These geezers weren't brand new to mind games, but neither was he. And, sure, he could just kill the guy, but that seemed like way too much effort. A few choice words should handle it.

"So, tell me...why is the Toji Fushiguro bothering to grace me with his presence? I can’t imagine you're here to meet the in-laws?" He was fishing, hoping he would rise to the occasion, hint at any personal glimpse into the killer before him.

Toji didn’t take the bait. He just stood there, calm as ever, his face giving nothing away. God, did he hate these clan politics. His dark eyes casually swept the room, clearly bored—not impressed by the fancy decor, not intimidated by the guards at the doors, and definitely not by your uncle. Honestly, he'd rather be back home, digging into some of your homemade yakitori. This whole thing was turning out to be a real drag.

"What’s the matter? Are you just here to puff your chest and waste my time?" He's getting antsy now,

Toji’s lips twitched into an almost imperceptible smirk. His gaze razor-sharp, locking onto the older man. There was a pause as your uncle locked eyes on Toji's. Unmoving, unflinching, before Toji took a deliberate step forward, closing the distance just enough to make the clan leader stiffen. "You know," Toji said, his voice casual, almost conversational, "it’s funny. For a guy so full of himself, you’re awfully quiet about those welts you sent her home with."

Your uncle's eyes widened—but only for a moment, leaning back with mock nonchalance. "Welts? I have no idea what you're talking about. And what's it to you anyway? Don't tell me you've actually caught feelings for her?"

"Feelings? Don’t kid yourself. I’m not here to play hero, and I’m definitely not here for her." Toji shrugged casually, tossing his head to the side and leaning back to give him some room, his eyes flicking over the clan leader, as if taking his question seriously. "But let’s be honest—she doesn’t look as hot in bed when she’s got all those welts. Kinda ruins the mood, you know?"

Stunned, the clan leader chuckled uneasily, trying to regain some semblance of control. He shouldn't have been too surprised given the Sorcerer Killers stellar reputation for the debauched lifestyle. You were technically his wife afterall, "Ah, well—that makes more sense. Using the whore for what she's worth, I guess." Toji could practically hear your resale value dropping by the second, as the clan leader processed this thought before continuing in an almost thoughtful murmur. "Just here to make sure your toy stays intact."

"Call it whatever you want. I don’t care. But if you think I’ll let you mark her skin up again, then you’re even dumber than you look."

The clan leader’s sneer returned, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. Much like a petulant child, not getting his way. "And if I don’t? What then, Fushiguro? You’ll kill me?" Now lets not go putting ideas into his head...

Toji let out a low chuckle, shaking back in laughter at the fear creeping into his voice. "Kill you? Nah. You’re not worth the effort." He paused, feigning a change of heart as his voice dropped, leaning in again for the kill, his words a hefty weight. "Actually, maybe I’ll stick around. Tear this whole place apart just for fun. I hate this sorcerer bullshit anyway. Watching your precious clan crumble might actually make my day."

The clan leader’s face twitched, his bravado faltering again under Toji’s unrelenting gaze, his words hanging in the air-message loud and clear.

"Fine," he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. "If it means that much to you, no more marks. No need to make this a bigger deal than it is."

Toji smirked, satisfied. He stepped back as he turned toward the door. "Good. Glad we could see eye to eye," he said oh so smoothly.

With that, he strode out, leaving your uncle in an uncomfortable silence. Toji knew the man wouldn’t see him as anything but a threat, and that was exactly what he wanted. As long as they kept their grubby hands off you, he didn’t care what they thought—or what he had to say to make them believe it. And hopefully your home clan wouldn't go around making decisions on this calculated move alone.

Now, it was time for some well-deserved meat.

Thankfully, your clan visits were few and far between.

The trip home that day had been nothing short of brutal, and your clan head’s disdainful disregard for how you might explain the aftermath to your husband lingered in your mind like a bitter aftertaste.

The weeks dragged on, and before you knew it, the seasons had shifted. Fall gave way to winter, winter melted into spring, and eventually, summer arrived again. Yet, Megumi’s absence remained a constant despite the seasonal changes. 

Determined to stay connected despite the distance, you’d picked up a cell phone not long after Megumi left. Toji had handed over both his and Megumi's numbers with his usual air of indifference. “In case of emergencies,” he’d said, tossing the paper onto the table like it was no big deal. But to you, it was. Your focus had been on one number only: Megumi’s. He was the hardest to reach anyways. 

What would you even say? Hi, how are you? Too formal. I miss you already. Too much. The hesitation gnawed at you. After a few moments, you settled on something simple and sent it off, heart pounding in the silence that followed.

Megumi’s replies, however, had been scarce—short, distant, and frustratingly neutral. You tried not to let it sting, reasoning that he was busy adjusting to his new life at Jujutsu Tech. He had training, studies, and an entirely new world to navigate. But the lack of insight into his world left you feeling unmoored and oh so helpless.

Did he eat well? Was he overworking himself? Did he even want to hear from you? The unanswered questions piled up, an invisible weight pressing on your chest.

When his birthday came, you’d agonized over whether to call, but the fear of interrupting—or worse, being brushed off—kept your fingers from dialing. Instead, you texted him, wishing him a happy birthday in a message that felt far too impersonal. Hours later, his reply came: a simple thank you.

It was polite, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t tell you if he was happy, if he’d smiled at your message, if he’d even thought of you beyond that brief acknowledgment. The distance between you felt larger than ever, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was slipping further away—or if you were.

You hoped—prayed—that he’d found some happiness at school. That maybe the time away had helped him grow, helped him heal in ways you couldn’t. You wondered if his sharp tongue and stubborn attitude had softened enough to allow for real friendships. Did he smile more? Did he laugh? You pictured him in that new world, surrounded by people who might understand him better.

As summer approached, anticipation and unease twisted in your chest, a slow, suffocating knot that tightened with each passing day. The thought of seeing him again stirred a mix of emotions—excitement, yes, but also a quiet fear that plagued you. Would he still look at you with that same guarded expression? Would the distance he’d created remain? Would he persist with questions you couldn't answer?

His parting words haunted you, echoing in the quiet moments when your mind wandered too far. You replayed that last conversation over and over, dissecting every syllable, every pause, every look. The unspoken questions lingered like ghosts: Had you done enough? Said enough? You’d wished, countless times, that you’d found the right words to ease the tension before he left.

Now, with the summer sun creeping closer, you could only wonder if it was too late to mend what had been broken—or if it had been broken at all.

And then, one quiet afternoon, he came home.

The sound of the door creaking open sent a jolt through you. Without thinking, you found yourself halfway down the hallway, your heart pounding in your chest.

When you saw him, you froze—and so did he.

He stood in the doorway, his tall frame outlined by the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. A faint breeze followed him in, tousling his hair and leaving it slightly messy, adding to the disheveled charm he carried so effortlessly. His piercing eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall away.

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, laden but charged, his gaze lingering on your face as if he were trying to memorize every detail. He looked different—older, his features sharper, his presence more commanding. You still found yourself struggling to recognize him each time you saw him—such a common occurrence now that it was almost expected. There was something in his eyes, something softer, more vulnerable. He looked like he wanted to say something.

“Megumi,” you whispered, full of hesitance. Your voice almost broke under the weight of the moment, a flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

He didn’t move, his hands still gripping the straps of the bag slung over his shoulder. For a second, you thought he wouldn’t respond. Then he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction as he stepped further inside.

“Hey,” he said softly, the warmth in his voice wrapping around you like a balm. It was a simple word, but it carried so much—a mixture of relief, uncertainty, and something deeper—something unfamiliar, that made your chest well up.

You’d missed him more than you dared to admit. More than you’d allowed yourself to feel during the long months of silence. And now, standing here, the space between you felt both impossibly vast and achingly small.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, without a second thought, you closed the space between you and wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug. He stiffened, caught off guard, before slowly, his arms came up to hold you, and to your surprise, he hugged you back. Not hesitantly or awkwardly, but fully, his arms wrapping securely around you and pulling you close, almost flush to him. His head dipped down, his nose brushing against your hair as he held you firmly against his chest.

“Welcome home,” you murmured, unable to keep the brittleness from your tone, your cheek pressed against him. The words felt fragile, as though the moment might shatter if you spoke too loudly.

He didn’t respond immediately, but you felt him exhale, a deep, contented sigh that seemed to come from somewhere buried deep inside. His nose pushed further into your hair, and his grip tightened just enough to knock the breath out of you.

“I missed you,” his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the stillness. You hadn't expected it, the sentiment not lost on you. It'd been too long, the texts too short, and the emptiness of the house too loud. But the way his arms enveloped you, strong and protective, took away all of those negative feelings.

Your arms tightened around him in return, head still laying on his chest. The words slipping from your lips, practically dripping with affection. “I missed you too.”

Finally, after what felt like both seconds and forever, he shifted slightly, loosening his hold just enough for you to pull back. When your eyes met his again, you couldn't help the small smile plastered on your face. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, and it sent a bittersweet ache through your chest, a feeling you didn’t quite know how to name.

The corner of his mouth twitched, “You text a lot, you know that?”

A soft laugh bubbled out of you. “And you’re terrible at replying.”

“Dinner’s already started,” remembering the pan still on the stove. “You’re probably starving.”

He didn’t let go immediately, his hands lingering on your arms as if reluctant to let the moment end. “Yeah,” his voice low, as a faint flush crept up his cheeks, he finally stepped back. “Starving.”

You gave him a warm smile, brushing your hand lightly against his arm before turning toward the kitchen. Even as you moved away, you could feel his gaze lingering on you from behind—heavy, unrelenting, and more present that he previously was. Whatever walls had been between you before—whatever distance he’d tried to create—seemed to crumble in that quiet, intimate moment. Just what happened while he was at school?

Dinner that night was warm and comforting, a feeling you hadn’t experienced in what felt like forever.

“So, how was school? Are you making any friends?” you chirp, pacing around the kitchen, so aware of his eyes tracing your every movement. The excitement in your tone was impossible to miss, a lightness that hadn’t been there in months. After so many quiet dinners with only Toji for company, the thought of someone else at the table made you relieved. Even if the two of you had been getting along better recently.

Megumi glanced up from his plate, pausing for a moment before answering. “It’s...fine,” he said, his tone clipped but not unkind. “I’m focused on my training. That’s what matters.”

You hummed, a small smile tugging at your lips. You don't miss the evasiveness of his answer. “Still, I hope you’re finding time to enjoy yourself, even just a little.”

He didn’t respond right away, fiddling with his food, his gaze briefly dropping to his plate.

“Make any friends?” you try again, gently.

“A few,” he admitted, his tone reluctant but not dismissive.

“Really?” you hum out again, glancing over your shoulder at him. You wanted him to open up to you, but with his nature it wasn't exaclty going to be easy to get him to talk. “Anyone special?”

He shrugged, eyes still downcast. “Not really,” he replied, his voice neutral but you saw the way he trailed off, lost in his own thoughts.

You paused, raising an eyebrow at him, deciding to press a little more. “C’mon, Megumi,” you teased lightly, turning back to the stove. Your tone intentionally unserious. “I know you’re not that antisocial. You’ve got to be opening up a little, right?”

His lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but the expression didn’t quite land. “It’s fine,” he groaned, though his tone softened slightly, as if the question hadn’t entirely annoyed him. “I’ve been busy.”

You hummed again in acknowledgment, not pushing him further, but your smile lingered. You were just glad to have him here, back where he belonged. Actually talking to you. Even if he wasn’t saying much, his presence spoke volumes.

Your questions continued easily—about school, his classes, his life outside of the house—and though his answers were typically grumpy and brief, you didn’t mind. It was the fact that he was answering at all, the fact that he wasn’t shutting you out, that made it all feel worthwhile. You didn’t dare bring up the tension from last summer, not wanting to risk spoiling the fragile good mood.

Toji was out for the night, leaving the house blissfully quiet, and Megumi made no comment on the food, though he cleaned his plate for the second time. It was a small victory, but it still left you smiling as you settled onto the couch afterward.

Megumi surprised you by sitting beside you. He didn’t say anything, just crossed his arms and leaned back, his expression neutral as you put on a movie. Sure, he'd sat near you before, but the long months that followed his absence made you tense a bit. He didn’t seem particularly interested in the movie you put on, but you heard no complaints.

At some point, exhaustion crept up on you. The day had been long, and the warmth of the room, combined with Megumi’s quiet, steady presence, lulled you into sleep. Without realizing it, you shifted slightly, leaning toward him, your head eventually coming to rest against his shoulder.

Megumi, of course, noticed immediately.

He stiffened at first, his entire body going rigid as he felt the soft weight of you curling against him. His breath hitched, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would break out of his chest. His mind screamed at him to stay still, to not move or make a sound.

But then he glanced down.

You looked so peaceful, so utterly at ease with him, and it sent a surge of emotions through him that he could barely contain. Warmth, nervousness, longing—it all tangled together, leaving him frozen in place. The faint light from the television cast soft shadows across your face, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

You trusted him so much, leaned into him so easily, and it made him ache with something deep and primal. He didn’t know if he deserved this—if he deserved you—but he couldn’t stop himself from savoring the moment.

Tentatively, he allowed himself to relax, his shoulder shifting slightly to give you more room. His fingers twitched in his lap, aching to reach out and brush a stray strand of hair from your face, but he held himself back. He couldn’t ruin this.

He stayed like that, unmoving, as you curled closer, your breathing soft and even against him. Every part of him burned with the overwhelming need to keep you like this, to hold you, to never let you go. 

When the movie ended, and the room fell into quiet stillness, he carefully reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch. Gently, he pulled it over you, his hand brushing your arm as he tucked it around you. The brief contact sent a shiver down his spine, but he forced himself to pull away.

He refused to leave, wanting to be with you like this as long as possible. 

p.1

p.10

come home

[evellynssocbrainrot]

I know I mentioned in one of my last posts that I was VERY sad at the ending of Crooked Kingdom because it ended, but here is why I still don't want a SOC 3

Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom were written 9-10 years ago at this point. That is a long time. It is very possible that Leigh Bardugo could lose grip on these characters. And if that happens, the characterizations might not be accurate, the storyline could get bad, and the book just won't feel the same as the first two. And THAT is a problem because as everyone is aware, the first two are ✨ P E R F E C T I O N ✨, I DO NOT want that sheer perfection to be ruined.

The potential death of Kaz Brekker HAUNTS me, every single second. I don't want him to die, at all. I know for sure that it will scar me way WAY worse than Matthias's death. I'll be so upset that I'll just step away from the Grishaverse. Because, you know what? Kaz doesn't deserve it. After the literal hell he's already been through, he deserves a long and happy future with Inej, not death at a young age. And his death just won't make sense either. Why would Leigh spend 2 books building up his relationship with Inej, only to kill him in the third? Then there is really no point in all that time and effort invested in their relationship.

The "Kanej Diehard Fan" in me just doesn't want a SOC 3 because she doesn't want Kanej to be hurt, which could happen. If that happens, she will be very depressed, more depressed than she already is. She wants hope and love, not more tragedy.

And besides, I've already accepted Dealing With Our Demons by @ravenyenn19 as my SOC 3.

[waterfae]

A Good Pillow [Part 3]

Summary: A glimpse of your budding friendship with Ominis and your growing feelings after the events in the Scriptorium.

Pairings: Ominis Gaunt x Reader, Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Warnings: canon-typical violence, mild language, angst, comfort, fluff, friends-to-lovers, unhinged Slytherins, complicated relationships, house-neutral fem!reader, no use of Y/N, no beta

Word Count: 1.1+ K

Part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

|| General Masterlist || Hogwarts Legacy Masterlist ||

You. Were. Livid.

Ignorant?! You inwardly screamed as you emerged from the Undercroft. He dared to call me ignorant?! Your mind reeled, trying to process the conversation you just had with Sebastian. All you wanted to do was get as far away as possible; you needed to calm yourself before you did or said anything foolish.

“Not sure what I did to deserve that.” Sebastian muttered as you pushed past him causing him to stumble.

You instantly came to a halt – triggered by his words – and turned on your heel, jaw slacked incredulously as you faced him, “Are you serious right now?” You stared at him and he merely glared back, the dark corridor making him appear more menacing. “Are you daft?” You added in an attempt to coax him to say anything that could counter your bewilderment.

Sebastian continued to glare with no effort to form a reply. You held his gaze for a few more moments, disappointment setting in as the silence continued. All you could muster at his lack of response was a growl before stomping off in petulance. You couldn’t help but think that after everything the two of you had been through: the secrets, the quests, the danger, the camaraderie...reduced to this? You wanted to cry out of sheer frustration.

So lost were you within your thoughts that you didn’t notice that you had just marched right past Ominis. With his wand out, he had sensed you coming around the corner and quickly rose from his place from the stone floor to greet you only to find himself completely neglected as you darted past. Immediately, he followed behind and called out your name when you showed no signs of stopping.

You jumped in surprise and turned to face the speaker, hands patting your chest, “Ominis! You gave me a fright!”

He let out a soft chuckle, “Perhaps if you were paying attention to the world around you instead of the one that has entrapped your thoughts? You wouldn’t have had such a fright.” He brought his wand up further to get a better sense of you and began cautiously, “Y’know...I waited quite a bit in the Great Hall earlier this evening. Where were you? You weren’t at dinner and neither was Sebastian.” His voice suddenly turned disapproving, “You two certainly took your time with whatever feats you may be up to now. Dangerous and life-threatening, no doubt.”

You huffed, not saying a word. Ominis half expected a sarcastic or defensive remark, but when none came, he asked with brows furrowed, “What’s wrong?”

You debated whether or not to say anything. He could clearly feel that something was amiss, there was no denying that, but if you told him that it was once again due to your exploits with Sebastian it might only upset him further. The friendship between the three of you was barely hanging on as it was with all the things happening around you.

“I am not ignorant!” You eventually stated unable to keep it in any longer as you crossed your arms over your chest indignantly.

Ominis took a step back at your sudden exclamation and dropped his wand to his side, “Never said you were, darling.”

“Sebastian seems to think so.” You mumbled.

“Ah...I see.” He let out a sigh; it the was sigh of a tired young man, “I suppose you two have had another row.”

You nodded, “Yes.”

Ominis pinched the bridge of his nose. It was getting more and more exhausting to deal with your mutual friend. His only comfort was that at least you had each other and that neither of you were alone with the matter. He could sense you were still struggling with your emotions and didn’t pry for more information. For now. He could only assume that the incident, whatever it may have been, happened only recently as your wounds appeared to still be fresh.

Wanting to give you some sense of relief, he took a step forward, reached out, and swiftly pulled you against him. You stumbled forward as he encased you in his arms. The surprise from his sudden action caused your body to stiffen initially, but once you felt his hold on you tighten, keeping your body snugly against his, you allowed his warmth to envelope you and relaxed. You could feel him lightly patting your hair, his chin resting against your head, and his warm breath on your neck. You let your eyes close, relishing in the moment and slowly you brought your own arms around him, turning your head to bury it into his shoulder. You felt a deep exhale come from him as you did so.

“We’re losing him, aren’t we?” You finally whisper.

You could feel him shaking his head, “I...I still want to hold onto hope that isn’t the case.”

You gave a slight nod.

He slowly pulled out of the embrace, but still remained close as he brought a hand up to your face, thumb caressing your cheek. You looked up as he did so, staring up into his pale eyes.

“I don’t know what it is that you are up to.” He began warily, “Neither you nor Sebastian will speak of it, but it seems important.” Both his palms now cupped your face, “Do be careful. And I hope in time, you will trust me enough to tell me.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you Ominis.” You whispered back, leaning into his touch, “You put up with enough as it is. It will only worry you more. I’m just trying to keep you safe. As my friend.”

“As my...friend.” He repeated your words. You felt his hold on you tighten slightly and a flash of emotion you couldn’t quite pinpoint darted across his features, “Well as your friend, I will worry regardless. I, too, wish to keep you safe.”

“Ominis…” You reached up and placed your hands on his that still lingered against your cheeks. He closed his eyes at the sound of his name.

“If you haven’t already noticed, I care for you. Deeply. More than you could possibly know. Allow me this, at least.” He lightly placed his forehead against yours, “As your friend…” He repeated so low, so softly you almost didn’t hear it before his lips descended onto yours.

You instantly melted into him, softly returning his kiss. It was not wild with unbridled passion, there were no fireworks or sparks of electricity; it was a gentleness and sweetness that put your whole being at ease and made your heart soar all at once.

And he continued to kiss you in that corridor among the dancing candlelight and sleeping portraits.

a/n: I highly recommend listening to "My Dear" by Chen as it's the song that plays in my head when I watch the scene play out in my mind's eye. Just listen for and imagine the build up, then right at 01:05 is when it happens. I am squeeing just thinking about it!

Thank you for continuing to follow along. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always greatly appreciated and my askbox is always open. ♡

[hana-a-chattic]

Karasuno first years and Talent.

I've recently seen a quote that goes something like, Genius is a product of obsession. Can't remember the exact words, but there's plenty of similar ones, you get the idea.

I wholeheartedly believe that's what partrayal of "talent" in Haikyuu!! is like.

The character that has the word "talent" thrown at him most is probably Kageyama. He must be one of, if not the, best players overall in the story. He also started playing when he was 7/8. And even before that, volleyball was everywhere around him at his home. He also dedicates his entire life to the sport. He's never shown to care about anything else, no sign of having any other hobby (dude doesn't know how to use a PSP ffs).

Have you seen the guy's room in anime?

Yeah. It's empty as hell, with only volleyball magazines and workout equipment in the shot. If he's not practicing with the ball, he's working out. He only approaches his peers when he needs it for better performance. And I'm not saying that to be rude, or sad, he seems content. Because that's his obsession.

Hinata? His teammates and rivals alike unanimously agrees he - from the technical standpoint - sucks at the beginning. He picked it up when he was 12/13, and even then, it's shown he only started getting actual practice in his last year of middle school, so, 14/15. He's been doing it for less than a year. (Oh, ye also has casual social life, friends outside of this one thing he does, and ejoys - or, at least, used to enjoy - doing other stuff with them)

But now he gets actual coach, actual people who know how to play with him on the team, and of course, Kageyama. With whom he can stay well into the night practicing, go running together. Compared to Kageyama, he lacks experience. A lot of experience. And compared to many other players in his position, he lacks physicality. Height. But he makes up for it with sheer enthusiasm, basically. By joining Kageyama in allowing the sports take over his life, even flying to another side of planet. He's also, definitely, obsessed.

Tsukishima is not. He found joy in it, enough to join a pro team, albeit not the best one (sorry Frogs I swear I love you). But he also went to uni. Got a degree. Got a stable, public servant job. He has at least one friend (from whom we know he does play video games lol). He has other interests, showcased for the first time ironically in his room.

This one ball game never was and never will be end-all be-all to his life. And he's not a genius, no one would call him that. But he's pretty good, isn't he? Part of it is genetic lottery, sure (both he and his brother are Tall for Japanese boys), but even outside of that, he's good. And he also has to have been doing it since he was 8/9, although for most of the time, he wasn't really putting himself into it. And he was plenty familiar with it even before, with his brother playing it at least since Kei was 6. To a lesser extent than Kageyama, but Tsukishima also grew up with it, watching his brother play, probably watching other people play with his brother. He's no genius, he's no maniac, but he knows this stuff.

And then there's Yamaguchi. The only person out of them who dropped the sport after highschool, despite putting so much effort during those 3 years. Because it doesn't really seem like it was ever about volleyball, for Yamaguchi. It was about his pride. It was about proving himself he can do it. It was about no longer just envying "stronger" people, but actually standing tall and proud by their side. I can't figure out when he started playing it (i.e. met Tsukishima, in his case), has to be 8-10, but he says it himself: all he knew was the fun volleyball, a game you play with buddies, a club activity you do to hang out with your friends. And with sad self-sabotaging best friend by his side, he didn't ask for much else. Until he did. He probably couldn't go pro with his skill set, but it doesn't seem like he wants to, either. He likes volleyball, sure. As an adult, he watches it on TV and even visits faraway games in person. He's probably extremely supportive of his pro league friends. But he seems content with that. He's casual.

Haikyuu!! is pretty fair in this way. You can have an innate advantage, be it physical or the sort of family you're born to, but at the end of the day - the more you sacrifice, the more you earn. And the more of an obsessed crazy freak you are, the more you enjoy every single sacrifice you made, I suppose.

(I wouldn't know I kin Tsukishima lol)

[shanastoryteller]

Happy pride!!! I would die for a continuation of lady mo please!

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Wei Wuxian is keeping himself upright through sheer force of will and his utter refusal to let Lan Zhan be right about anything.

He has been sort of exhausted lately, but he’s been training himself into the ground and keeping to ridiculous Lan morning routines and he has a curse mark slowly killing him, so he thinks he’s entitled. He would have made it to the Jin tower just fine if he hadn’t run into Song Lan and had to hunt down a town fierce corpses and fight Xue Yang. That alone would leave most people exhausted, so he has a perfectly good excuse for his vision to be going fuzzy on the edges.

Except he’d literally rather fall off his sword and snap his neck then admit that. He can’t even let that happen, because A-Qing is flying on his sword with him, and she’s not even a cultivator. Her bones will break a lot easier than his will.

He’s not even injured. Or, well, not any injuries that count. He once fought off fierce corpses right after having his core ripped out, being tortured, and dropped from a height high enough to kill. Some bruises and cuts are nothing, and they don’t feel like anything now. Maybe he should have let Xue Yang stab him a couple of times. It would have made everything more believable and also would have let him nap with his dignity intact.

They land back at the inn and the rest of the Lans look extremely relieved and then confused when they see their newest additions. Except for Jin Guangyao, who only shows that he’s noticed them by raising a single eyebrow and looking to him immediately.

Jin Guangyao is a stone cold bitch that’s too smart for anyone’s own good. Wei Wuxian sort of regrets that they’d never had any reason to really get to know one another during the war. Surely Jin Guangyao could have steered him away from some of his worse decisions.

“We’re bringing guests,” he announces to all of them, jumping to the ground and nudging A-Qing to do the same with a guiding hand on her hip. “Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen, who I assume you all already know. And A-Qing. They’ve had a rough time and we’re going to be very nice to them.” He looks over to Lan Xichen. “I guess it’s a good thing that you brought the carriage. They can ride in there the rest of the way.”

The awkward silence is broken by Jin Guangyao saying, “Madame Jin is not fond of accommodating extra guests.”

Madame Jin is going to make Jin Guangyao deal with it because she’s petty that way. Apparently Jin Zixuan plays interference as much as he can, but considering he’s no longer fighting fit and the perfect heir he once was, his ability to influence his mother has been similarly reduced.

A politician down to her core. Wei Wuxian might be able to admire it if it didn’t make him hate her so much.

“I’m not fond of Madame Jin, so I’m sure it even outs,” he says carelessly.

Some of the Lan go to the effort to pretend to be appalled but most of them seem to have no problem agreeing, regardless of all the rules of propriety and respecting one’s elders that he’s breaking. People take their cue from their leaders and Lan Xichen is straight up just pretending he didn’t say that, probably because he agrees.

He’s treated to the rare sight of Jin Guangyao’s dimples. “Can you at least pretend not to be a menace? I can only put out so many fires at once.”

“I can pretend,” he agrees and then A-Qing is faking a coughing fit to hide her giggles.

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch10

chapter ten: departure

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no physical descriptors or pronouns are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 10, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-9, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

author's notes: Frederick is so cunty. He INVENTED cunt. This man stared down Abel Gideon and didn’t even flinch. He just said “see you in court.” 💅 This man left Hannibal a copy of the book he wrote *based on him*. That shit was crazy!! I don’t care what anyone says. Frederick is cunty.

Anyway. This chapter has been eluding me for a while. I wanted to live up to the intensity from the book, but I felt like that was impossible for me to accomplish. I also didn’t want this to be a straight replication of the book scene, so… I tried to make this deviate a bit more. So, here goes. It’s a bit shorter as far as chapters go, but whatever.

I also made small edits in the first installment of this series, changing the writing from Hannibal giving you his clothing to Hannibal just giving the reader clothing in their size. I realized it wasn’t inclusive to all body types so I wanted to change it. Plus, imo, it’s even more homoerotic to think that Hannibal specifically bought clothing for you and kept it at his house. That’s very gay. Anyways. Back to regularly scheduled programming!

Warnings: typical violence/blood; kidnapping, death, vomiting. Lots of gore for this one. To avoid spoilers, I’ll put more in-depth warnings in the endnotes.

Frederick Chilton wants to pick you apart. And he isn’t the only one—far from it. That’s the danger of being in a position like yours—a federal agent tasked with chasing after killers and criminals. The thrill of the chase… It forms a relationship between cat and mouse, predator and prey. Frederick may be a predator, but you are not his prey; you have a much larger carnivore on the prowl nearby, haunting your shadows and waiting for you to slip. Frederick may be intrigued by you, but Hannibal Lecter is utterly fascinated by you. There’s no denying the harsh shift in his behavior, from silent and nearly despondent in your absence to verbose and enigmatic upon your arrival. Frederick had tried to pull that energy out of him through their sessions, but he was entirely unsuccessful. Lecter was well aware of his research interest, and seemed perfectly content with keeping his lips firmly closed in the first years of his captivity. 

The thought interests and infuriates Frederick in equal measure. After all, having unrestricted access to an intelligent, self-aware sociopath is a very rare opportunity. The sheer strides Chilton could make in the field of abnormal psychology from even a single test score from Lecter… Frederick has to actively push himself away from those thoughts. They are nothing more than a deluded fantasy, for Hannibal Lecter completely defies quantitative reasoning. 

Frederick muses on the nature of Hannibal Lecter as he approaches the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The building is still a bit of an eyesore. Since his promotion to Head Administrator, he’s made efforts to both repair the space and modernize many of their practices. Whether those efforts have done much to improve the institution’s reputation is another story altogether. 

He’s looking forward to sitting down at his desk and getting through the mountain of paperwork waiting for him. The thought has been bearing heavily on his mind over the weekend, and Frederick is eager to do something with the restless energy that he can’t seem to suppress. 

He’s one step away from the stairs leading up to the entrance when a sudden harsh pain erupts in the back of his head. Frederick topples to the ground as his blurring vision slowly fades to black. The last sensation he can register before succumbing to unconsciousness is a vice grip on his ankle. 

______

A harsh ringing sound forces Frederick to acknowledge his hazy new reality. His head lolls forward and he blinks open his eyes, only to be met with an unrelenting darkness. It takes him a few seconds to realize he’s been blindfolded, and a few more to register the bindings around his wrists and ankles. He seems to be restrained in a chair. 

Frederick isn’t new to being kidnapped—not after Abel Gideon. But this particular situation feels different. Something deep in his chest—an inexplicable yet unwavering conviction—tells him he won’t survive this particular encounter. Because if his captor is who he suspects… he will show no mercy. 

He immediately starts fidgeting and struggling, but the effort is pointless. Frederick has been tightly and effectively restrained. Fear strikes at his heart as his senses work to interpret the space around him. Darkness camouflages the majority of the space, but Frederick can just barely make out some sort of projector screen in front of him. There’s a projector situated right next to him, tauntingly close and within reach. But what good would it serve?

The sound of footsteps sends Frederick’s heart roaring in his ears. He almost feels trapped in the foreign room, time moving like a slow sludge as another presence makes itself known. The person—evidently his captor—steps behind him, their breath practically hitting Frederick’s neck in their proximity. 

“Frederick Chilton.” His captor’s voice breaks through the stiff air and sends a shiver down Frederick’s spine. It sounds like he has some sort of speech impediment, as his S’s are drawn close together. Frederick has very little time to dedicate to that observation, as his blindfold is roughly yanked off. “Lay your eyes upon me. If you don’t wish to look, I will make you look.”

Frederick’s eyes water and he blinks a few times, only to find himself staring at a blindingly white projector screen. Before it stands a shadowed figure, towering over him in near darkness. The man takes a step forward and Frederick just barely stops himself from inhaling sharply at what he finds.

The man is wearing an elegantly patterned kimono; he has a cleft lip, his face slightly disfigured. His knuckles are cracked and bloodied. The man looks at him with gleaming eyes, almost appearing to salivate before him. Frederick’s heart drops to his throat as he remembers everything the FBI deduced about this killer and his personality. The Tooth Fairy stands before him entirely unmasked… and Frederick is assailed with the unshakable conviction that he is not going to live to escape this nightmare. 

“Do you understand?” his captor asks after a few minutes. 

Frederick doesn’t understand anything that’s happening. But he has the wherewithal to recognize the answer the man is looking for. “I understand,” he says through gritted teeth. His mouth is growing dry and his stomach is aching. Just how long has he been confined here? 

“Do you understand who I am?” the man insists. 

“I understand,” Frederick repeats. The only thing he is able to adequately understand is the pulsing fear running through his bones, cementing his fate to die a slow death behind these crumbling walls. Frederick can’t even begin to understand or comprehend the man before him. 

“I am no man,” his captor says, as if somehow sensing his thoughts. His voice echoes in Frederick’s ears, igniting goosebumps along his skin. “I am many things, but never a man. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Frederick is too terrified to say anything else. He can’t deviate from his agreement, for fear of losing his life to this behemoth standing before him. Indeed, his captor is inhumanly tall—looming over him with a far too intent gaze. Every rational part of Frederick’s mind is reminding him of the likelihood of his own impending death. 

“Do you see?” his captor demands.

“I see.” Frederick chokes out. The man quickly breaks the distance between them, his large hand crawling up Frederick’s neck and cradling his jaw. It takes an immense amount of effort from Frederick to remain pliant under the killer’s grip. His touch is deceptively light, almost gentle. Frederick’s breaths are shaky and shuddering. He is forced to be frozen in his bonds, as this man’s thumb carve paths along his face. 

“Once upon a time,” his captor murmurs, his voice almost a whisper. Frederick is terrified of this man—terrified of the juxtaposition between his purported cruelty and the delicacy with which he’s touching him now. Frederick nearly chokes on a breath when the man’s thumb glides over his Adam’s apple, before sliding up to his cheek once more. “I would’ve killed to be like you.” Frederick doesn’t need to think about that statement too much to understand the gist of what he’s saying. He can’t imagine the kind of cruelty and harsh treatment this man has been faced with on account of his facial disfigurement. And while that is no valid excuse for the crimes he’s committed, it contextualizes the desperation behind them. The desire to be seen. The need to be perceived. 

“But not anymore,” he continues. Frederick swallows past the acidic feeling in his throat. The man’s hand keeps rising higher, higher, higher. Now, his right hand stops at the edge of Frederick’s cheekbone, his thumb close enough to make Frederick’s eye flutter instinctively. “Bear witness to my Becoming.” 

It happens in a dizzying blur. His captor’s hand twists, his fingers locking into sharpened hooks. Frederick doesn’t even have the time to flinch before the man is digging his hand into his eye socket and yanking, dragging his eye out in a brutal move that rips a horrified scream from Frederick’s lips. He has never been in so much pain before. It feels as if his captor is digging deeper and deeper into his eye socket, ripping at anything and everything. Frederick’s vision goes dark on the left, deep red tears streaking down his face. In a harsh, disgusting snap, his eyeball is firmly ripped out. His severed optic nerve hangs out of the cavern that sits on the left side of his face. Someone has been screaming in a raspy, broken voice—and it takes Frederick several moments to realize the sound is coming from him.

The killer holds Frederick’s eyeball in his hand. Frederick feels nausea bubbling up his chest and into his throat with frightening speed, barely giving him a chance to prepare before he’s lurching forward in vain and promptly throwing up. Within seconds, he’s dry-heaving as saliva drips down his lips. He’s shaking and trembling, as the vision from his right eye almost pulsates in time with his heart. 

Frederick wants nothing more than to sink into unconsciousness. But the killer is shaking him roughly by the shoulders and hitting him every time his eye threatens to slip shut. At some point, Frederick’s exhaustion is temporarily at bay. “I want you to repeat after me, Frederick,” his captor demands, a camera in hand as he stares at him. “You can do that for me, can’t you?” 

Frederick can hardly respond. He manages a jerky nod and the man hums, starting his camera and giving him the words to say. Frederick is horribly delirious, the words falling to mush on his tongue. He’s slurring through the blood in his mouth and what he’s saying holds absolutely no meaning to him. 

His captor is cruel and merciful in the same breath, for once Frederick truly starts to lose the battle against unconsciousness, he is freed from his bonds and led to collapse on the floor. His cheek meets the scratchy carpet and he blinks tears from his uninjured eye, the man before him morphing and swirling in darkness. 

A wet wipe is rubbed harshly over his face, roving over his cheekbones and following the path the killer  had made with his fingers only moments ago. Frederick lets out a pained whimper and the pressure stops, replaced with an achingly tender swipe along his skin that still seems to hurt. His mind is buzzing, a dull hum that refuses to leave him in solitude. As much as he tries to stay awake and aware of his surroundings, the pain ripping through his face is enough to drag him into the shadows once more. 

He does not wake as he is bound to a wheelchair and thrown into the back of a van. Frederick does not wake, even during the horribly bumpy car ride that ensues. If he were able to pull himself from the unseeing void, he would recognize the fate that awaits him. But he is unknowing of the horrors that have not yet ended. 

Frederick is only broken from his slumber by the harsh screeching of the van arriving at its final destination. He blinks and the doors slide open, revealing his captor standing outside with a mask secured over his face and gloves covering his hands. Frederick can discern little of the environment around him, save for the inky black night devoid of stars. The man then steps into the back of the van and rolls Frederick out onto the pavement.  

“A mortal cannot witness the transformation of a god without dying,” he remarks, his hands gripping the handles of the wheelchair. Frederick desperately tries to escape, despite knowing it’s no use. His vision is still adjusting to the loss of his left eye; he’s exhausted; and the ropes binding his ankles and wrists are rather tight. The killer seems to know this, as a strange sort of smile rises on his lips. “This has always been your fate.”

It is only then that Frederick notices the red gasoline canister he’s holding. Even through his exhaustion, his mind rapidly connects the canister to the box of matches poking out of the killer’s pocket. The Tooth Fairy is going to burn him alive. Frederick begins to writhe and squirm as his adrenaline spikes, but his struggling is futile. There is nothing human in the monster’s face as he upturns the canister, coating Frederick in gasoline. Frederick is nearly hyperventilating now, as flashes of significant moments in his life come to mind. 

He stares up into the eyes of his captor, searching for a hint of humanity to appeal to. But there is only an unfeeling abyss. Terrified, Frederick watches in mute horror as the Tooth Fairy circles around him and stops behind him. He hears the telltale sound of a match being lit; a searing warmth greets the side of his face, before a match crawls down his shirt and his entire body is consumed with flames. At some point, Frederick is shoved forwards—sending the wheelchair careening down an incline with increasing speed. He screams until his voice dies in his chest. Fire paints his tunneled vision a remarkable orange-red, with the air around him flickering and waving with the sudden heat. His last breath ripped from his chest, Frederick Chilton slumps back in the wheelchair and surrenders to the relentless flames.

warnings: gore involving eyeballs/eye sockets & ensuing blindness; kidnapping and captivity.

next chapter

endnotes: Did I have to make that so homoerotic? No. Do I regret it? Also no.

Wow. I really made Frederick go through it. *Sigh.* I love hurting characters I like.

anyways, thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!

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[walkswithmyfather]

Ephesians 2:8-10 (NLT). [8] God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God. [9] Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it. [10] For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.

2 Corinthians 5:17 (NLT). [17] “This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!”

“The God Who Saves” by In Touch Ministries:

“Salvation isn't something we earn; it is a gift of God.”

“Today’s passage tells us that we have been saved by grace through faith. Whatever we’re asked to change or give up for Jesus’ sake pales in comparison with that amazing gift.

The Lord isn’t looking for people who change a few habits by sheer force of will; He’s calling people to surrender themselves to Him. The only action God requires is belief in Him. That means trusting Jesus is who He says He is, will do what He promises, has the authority to forgive, and will equip His people to live a godly life. Because of those convictions, a new Christian is empowered to turn away from his or her old life—in other words, to repent—and begin the process of living as “a new creature” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

We don’t evolve into a saved people by stopping old habits and instituting better religious ones. Rather, we are transformed by the saving power of Jesus Christ when we believe in Him.

Since salvation isn’t something we earn, no one can boast before God. Compared with the holiness of Jesus Christ, all of our moral living, good deeds, and strenuous efforts to change bad habits amount to nothing (Isaiah 64:6). Only His righteousness can cover our sins and make us right before the Father.”

[Photo thanks to Guillaume de Germain at Unsplash]

[ivystoryweaver]

Moon Knight s2 wish list pt. 2

Read part 1

1. Marc's sheer badassery and skill sets

2. Suit up! I want to see all the suit transitions INCLUDING JAKE'S

3. Moon Knight is famous for blood showing on his white suit. I know the armor heals him but...damn, Disney, show some blood

4. GLASSES

5. Steven infodumps, fanboys and shows off his intelligence

6. SKIN

7. Let this baby boy speak all the Spanish he wants. I will read 60 straight minutes of subtitles since I don't speak it

8. Speaking of Spanish, more languages from the system. I wanna hear French and Arabic too, plz. Or whatever they each speak. (with better effort on subtitles and such, Disney?)

9. Marc calls Steven buddy some more. And they call Jake something too? (What should they call him?)

10. Steven's moral center shines

11. Jake gets this close to his alters (preferably without death)

12. Steven's bravery and brutality (what a mix!)

13. If the system is on the spectrum, let them be so. They are Jewish, let them be so. Let them be who they are. Same goes for all aspects of their culture. I know it's a superhero show, but represent where you can.

What do you want to see?

My Masterlist

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

[binbogummy]

Humans are —

A second intermission of sorts!

This technically takes place -mid- chapter 9, a few hours after Aziraphale and Crowley's little interaction in the beginning. Cut it from the main fic cause it felt a bit repetitive after the end of chapter 8, buuut I wanted to include it somewhere regardless~

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | * | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | *²|

Chapter 10|

~

"She's been sleeping so soundly," Aziraphale muttered, slipping a bookmark between the pages of his journal and setting it aside.

Your fever-red complexion had faded slightly, your breathing was even, and for the first time in days, you looked peaceful. Not just out cold from sheer depletion as you have been, but genuinely peaceful.

The angel's brow furrowed regrettably.

"I do hate to disturb her," he sighed, "but I really ought to wake her for just another moment before we retire for the night. A little more water before bed, then we'll let her sleep through 'til morning."

Crowley was slouched low in his chair, flipping through a magazine with the air of someone who had very little interest beyond glancing over the pictures inside. He didn't react much to the angel's observation, but the weight of something unspoken pressed against his ribs.

It was well past dark now and the two of them had veritably staked out the guest room together since Aziraphale got back. Distracting themselves individually but with the same goal in mind and watching closely for the same thing.

Before he had fully processed the thought, the words were already leaving his mouth.

"I can do it."

Aziraphale blinked, glass already in hand, turning toward him in mild surprise. "...Pardon?"

Crowley shifted, exhaling sharply, like he already regretted speaking. He flipped the magazine closed with a lazy thwap and tossed it onto the nightstand. "I'll wake her. Get her to drink something. You go do... whatever it is you were gonna do instead." His tone was casual, too casual, as if he was desperately trying to play off this uncharacteristic jump to volunteer.

The angel studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow, keen smile curled at the edges of his lips. "Oh," he said, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Are you sure quite sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." The demon ground out. "I did it earlier. I can... do it again."

Aziraphale's smile deepened, soft and knowing, as he regarded the demon's poorly hidden embarrassment. "Well now, that's very thoughtful of you, dear boy," he mused, his voice dipping into something just shy of playful. "I do recall you saying she gave you a bit of trouble, so if you'd—"

Crowley stood up fast, cutting him off with a vague, dismissive gesture. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I said I got it."

"Well," Aziraphale hummed, "far be it from me to argue." He made a show of setting the glass down and politely stepping back toward the door. "If you're so certain, I shall leave her in your capable hands."

But the angel didn't step out. Not just yet.

Crowley didn't notice at first, too focused on taking the angel's place at your bedside. He rested his hand over the glass and stared down at you like he was psyching himself up for a monumental task.

And Aziraphale? He stood just by the door, making zero effort to actually retire downstairs like he said he would. Watching quietly with all the barely concealed delight and patience of one who suspected they were on the verge of witnessing some once-in-a-lifetime moment.

But even with his back turned, it didnt take Crowley long to feel the angel's lingering presence and turn back sharply.

Aziraphale gave him an innocent look. Almost smug as he glanced from the glass under the demon's hand then to you.

Crowley's eye twitched.

"Oh for— go."

"Oh, very well," Aziraphale relented, letting out a delighted, insufferably knowing little hum at the demon's expense. He stepped out into the hall, calling back lightly as he went. "I'll pull us out something to drink. Do join me downstairs once you've seen her back down~"

Crowley stood at the edge of the bed for a long moment, watching the angel off. The door had been left open and he was well out of sight, but it wasn't until he was sure he'd made it down the stairs did the demon turned back to you.

He scoffed, drumming his fingers against the edge of the nightstand before picking up the glass.

That insufferable look on Aziraphale’s face before he left was burned into his mind now, and it grated on him.

"Smug bastard," he muttered under his breath.

As if he was being predictable. As if this was just another one of those little things that always happened. That he, Crowley, was always going to get roped into the angel's ridiculous little routine of caring for you. That it was inevitable and Aziraphale knew it.

...

But if that wasn't the case, then what exactly was this?

He turned back toward you with a frustrated sigh, half-tempted to just miracle the water into you while you were still asleep and be done with it.

But no. That would be cheating.

And besides, that wasn’t the point.

The point was...

The point WAS...

He swallowed. His thoughts were already going in circles as he avoided the actual answer.

Well, whatever the point was, it was time to prove it.

Prove it to who? To the angel? To himself? Didn't matter.

"Alright, love," he murmured, keeping his voice deliberately low. "Time for some water."

As expected, you didn’t move.

He exhaled through his nose, recentering and starting from the top.

Okay. Be patient. Be gentle. Like the angel.

He carefully reached out and pressed his palm to your forehead, letting the warmth remind him exactly how you must have been feeling.

"C'mon now, sweetheart," he coaxed, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Wake up just for a moment, yeah?"

You stirred, just slightly, but didn’t open your eyes.

The demon set his jaw tightly and pressed on.

"There we go," he purred, gently combing his fingertips into your hairline in a slow, unintrusive way, just like he'd seen Aziraphale do before. You had seemed to have liked it then. "I know you're tired, but I just need you to drink a little bit. Few sips like earlier. Then we won't bother you for the rest of the night. Promise."

Silence, then a sluggish, barely perceptible blink.

Crowley grinned. That’s it, kid. Just a little more.

You blinked again, unfocused but deliberate, and for a brief moment, Crowley thought, hoped, that you were finally responding to him.

But then…

Your fever-glazed eyes narrowed ever so slightly in confusion. A weak, questioning look, like something wasn't quite right.

The demon froze, his hand stilling atop your head.

You blinked yet again, slow, hazy and searching.

Then your lips parted just a little, as if trying to form words, but nothing came out.

The only thing you managed to do was frown.

A tiny, confused frown that made something twist deep in Crowley’s gut.

It wasn't working.

He scowled and immediately pulled his hand away, shoving it through his own hair instead in attempt to play off the affectionate gesture.

You sighed, slow and drowsy, before turning away, your eyes slipping shut again completely. Like you'd already dismissed whatever nonsense the demon had been up to.

Undeterred, his grip on the glass tightened and sat on the side of the bed, giving you a light shake. "No, no," He whispered, running his tumb over your shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to reinforce that he was trying to be gentle. "I know ya heard me. C’mon, just a little, love. For me?"

That’s when you cracked one eye open again—and this time, the look shot back at him was not just confused.

Great.

It was suspicious, offened even, and the demon nearly groaned out loud.

The angel had done this exact same thing, taken these exact same steps a hundred times and you always melted like butter in his hands.

But Crowley tries it? And suddenly you’re giving him this tiny, half-conscious, dubious little glare?

"What?" he muttered, leaning away as he feigned ignorance. "What's with the look?"

You didn't answer, of course, but the sleepy squint you aimed at him was more than enough to get the message across.

What are you doing? Why are you acting weird?

Dammit.

"Nothing," he lied swiftly. "Just... helping you like the angel does. You like the way he does it, don't you?"

Your tired gaze lingered on him for another long moment, and he was certain—certain—you were about to call him out for being completely out of character.

But instead, your lashes fluttered slightly, and you seemed to decide that whatever was going on with him was too much effort to question.

With a dismissive hum , you closed your eyes again.

Even in your barely-conscious state, as you fevered brain worked overtime to process what was going on, you already knew that something wasn't right and had no patience for it.

Well... it's not like he didn't try.

Crowley threw a hand up in the air. "Fine! Be that way, but you're still drinking this, one way or another."

Still grumbling under his breath, he shuffled closer, slipping an arm under your shoulders without invitation and lifting you ever so slightly off the pillows.

This time, all you did was let out a long, feeble groan of protest, which—frankly—Crowley found deeply unfair.

But you didn't resist. Not in the slightest. You even leaned into him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he mumbled, supporting you with one arm while pressing the glass to your lips with the other. "I'm horrible. The worst. But guess what? You're still drinking."

Your brows scrunched, but when he tilted the glass ever so slightly, you swallowed instinctively.

Crowley smirked.

Gotcha.

And for all his grumbling, for all his pretense of exasperation, felt himself ease completely as you complied.

"There we go," he sighed in something dangerously close to relief, right before his voice dipped into something softer. "That's my girl."

The words left him without thought, completely unfiltered. They weren't calculated like before. Weren't an attempt to mimic the angel's tone or trick you into listening.

He stiffened and his jaw clenched immediately like he wanted to snatch them back from the air, to pretend like he hadn't said anything at all, like it hadn't sounded so damn... fond.

But you didn't react at all.

No squinting. No drowsy, questioning looks. No furrowed brow like you were trying to puzzle out what he'd just said. Just the simple, instinctual act of drinking as he supported you against him.

A small hum, vibrated in your throat, and he realized a moment too late that had been his signal to stop.

He muttered a distracted apology and set the glass to the side, easing you back onto the pillows and yanking the blankets up over your shoulders again before letting himself untense.

"Right," he breathed, running a hand down his face. "That's... sorted, at least."

The angel made this look so easy, and yet, Crowley knew as well as he did that it couldn't just be about the technique.

Because you knew. Somehow, even through your fevered haze, you knew the difference.

Aziraphale's touch was something you trusted without question. His voice was something you responded to with immediate ease.

And Crowley… Well, you knew him too, apparently.

Even now, half out of it, your instincts could tell that that softness—the one he was trying so desperately to replicate—was not natural for him, and it was entirely possible that keeping it up would have gotten him nowhere for just that reason.

He lingered, just for a moment, his fingers twitching at his side.

Then, before he could think too much about it, he reached out and brushed the backs of his knuckles over your temple, the touch light and fleeting.

Not forced. Not rehearsed. Not something he had seen Aziraphale do. Just him.

And you tilted into it.

You didn't flinch, didn't frown, didn't question it, didn't even open your eyes, and he felt something uncoil deep inside him.

He exhaled sharply, withdrawing his hand to rub at the back of his neck

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

But he did know one thing for certain.

That whatever Aziraphale had waiting in a glass for him downstairs had better be strong.

[seventeenlovesthree]

Time Saver - a Taishirou Fanfic, Chapter 1: Lightning Strike

Summary: Takeru struggles to find the inspiration to continue writing his novel. It's a warm Summer night in July 2015 and the last thing he expects is a sudden lightning strike - one which may affect him, the other Chosen Children and their future to an extent he cannot fathom yet...

Word Count: 738

Chapter POV: Takeru Takaishi

Chapter List: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10]

‘One thing that shall never be underestimated is that there is always something unexpected to expect when Digimon are involved.’

Once he had finished that sentence – as stiff as it appeared to him –, Takeru leaned back into his chair and stretched out his arms. He had been trying to get into a habit of daily writing his novel for a while now, but today, the words simply didn’t want to flow.

After yawning loudly into the silence of his room, he let his eyes roam around. Patamon was already fast asleep, dreaming of chocolate frappuccinos on his bed as the clock on his laptop taunted him with how late it already was.

“Almost midnight…”, he mumbled to himself. The chat window had gone silent an hour and so, without much distraction, he didn’t even have an excuse for the lack of creativity that had been haunting him all night. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel like sleeping either, so the urge to just go and text the others to see if anyone was still awake was incredibly tempting…

Takeru was pretty sure that Koushirou was still up, as always. Maybe Iori was up late studying. Hikari was having a week off from kindergarten duty, so he might be lucky in trying to reach her. Maybe his brother, who currently resided in the United States for an internship, was not busy for once and could text him back?

“I shouldn’t though…”, he groaned, knowing he had to be responsible. In sheer desperation, he opened the Chosen Children app on his laptop to take a look around the map and chat options, hoping to find any news he could occupy himself with, regardless of where in the world somebody was texting. It was a shame that gate hopping wasn’t a thing anymore since the Digivices had vanished almost three years ago – and they still hadn’t figured out how to make it work with Koushirou’s technology. Still, Takeru liked checking on the app, just like he liked checking the general group chat. It was giving him a sense of serenity to see everyone interact casually, just when everything finally seemed mostly peaceful.

… Which was his last thought before he caught the glimpse of lightning striking outside from the corner of his eye.

“Woah!”

There had been a loud noise – somewhere not too far away from his apartment complex, so he had naturally jumped up from his chair.

“Wha- Takeru?”, Patamon shrieked, woken up by the rumbling as Takeru rushed to his open window. It had been a warm Summer day in the middle of July, but there was a chilliness right now that sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes sought through the night sky, trying to locate any kind of strange occurrence – and apparently, he wasn’t alone in his assumption that something about this lightning had not been ‘natural’.

“I can feel something…”, Patamon murmured, still half asleep, but alert enough to fly next to his human partner onto the window sill to join his efforts to look around.

“What do you mean? It wasn’t a digital gate, was it?”, Takeru asked, heart racing, both with worry – and excitement. Not that he had wished for a nightly Digimon attack disturbing the peace they had worked so hard to achieve. But a part of him really missed the supernatural experiences they used to encounter on a daily basis.

“I’m not sure… Something like an energy spike…? And doesn’t it look more foggy to you?”

Takeru squinted his eyes. “Yeah, it does…” Never had he missed the responsive beeping of his Digivice more than in this moment. Either way, whether or not there really was a Digimon involved, he felt validated in sending a warning into the group chat after all.

‘Just witnessed a lightning strike near my flat. Did any of you see anything? Patamon says there was an ‘energy spike’?! Will check out if there’s anything dangerous out there. I’ll keep you guys updated!’

“We should go and see if anything happened. You ready?”

“Aaaaawwwwlways!”, Patamon agreed with a yawn in between and Takeru quickly grabbed his phone. It was still odd to be able to trigger an evolution just with the “power of his belief” facilitated by the phone. But with Angemon by his side, he was confident that they’d be able to face any threat out there. And maybe gather some more writing inspiration in the process…

[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

Number 9 must give a piggyback ride for Number 10 while riding on the back of a zorse (a zebra x horse hybrid)

Wait, so Kyoko's number 9, and Sakura's number 10?

Correct.

So...KYOKO has to give SAKURA the piggyback ride?

While riding...this...

For the record, a hybrid between a Horse and a Zebra is called a Zebroid. A Zorse is a specific kind of it.

Are you sure you can handle this, Kyoko?

I…honestly don’t know if this is even physically possible.

*Despite the tension, the group urges her on, and Kyoko, ever determined, approaches the Zorse with an uncharacteristically hesitant look. She mounts the creature first, gripping its reins tightly as she adjusts to the strange sensation of being on such an odd animal. Then, with a deep breath, she motions for Sakura to climb onto her back.

Please excuse me...

HNNGH!?

*Sakura, trying her best to be gentle, carefully wraps her arms around Kyoko’s shoulders. Despite her efforts, the moment she fully places her weight on Kyoko, the detective nearly buckles under the pressure, her face showing a rare expression of struggle. The zorse, surprisingly calm, begins to move forward, its steps slow and steady.

This…is…so much harder than I expected…! GAH!

*Kyoko fights to keep her balance. The weight of Sakura combined with the awkward ride on the Zorse makes the usually composed detective look completely out of her element. Her face shows a mix of intense concentration, mild panic, and sheer determination, emotions she seldom shows so openly.

I’m going to be crushed… I’m going to be crushed under Sakura’s weight while riding a hybrid animal…this is…beyond ridiculous!

Maternity leave not working out Kyoko?

SHUSH! Aaaahahahagh!

I-I’m sorry, Kyoko, I can get off-!

No…no, I’m finishing this…!

*With every step the Zorse takes, Kyoko’s face twists between grimaces of exertion and uncharacteristic looks of vulnerability. Despite everything, she pushes through, holding on for dear life. Finally, after what feels like an eternity for Kyoko, the Zorse completes its lap around the room.

DONE! You're done!

HAAAAAAH!

*As soon as they stop, Kyoko practically collapses from the effort, allowing Sakura to carefully climb off her back. Breathing heavily, Kyoko slides off the Zorse and stumbles, clearly exhausted but still holding her head high.

I…did it.

Congratulations...allow me to aide you.

Haaaaaahh...

*Kyoko relaxes as Sakura gives her a well-earned massage.

[bonefall]

Ask Etiquette

HELLO sorry for the intimidating post lmao, I just need something to toss up on the masterpost because I feel bad deleting asks and then people will never really have an idea of why I never answered them

I get a ton of asks (usually anywhere from 10 - 20 a day!) and I'm not able to get to them all! I try to answer as many as possible but I'm still just one guy. So with that in mind, there are some sorts of asks I will simply not answer, and some 'requests' I have for people who send them in;

Please keep your asks short PLEASE try not to send me essays if you want a response; I still love reading them! But if you send me walls of text/analysis you are asking me to write a lot in response, which I'd rather spend on actually writing or designing cats. (On that note if you send a bunch of questions at once, the likelihood I respond goes down.)

Do not send me personal questions Listen... I'm a stranger on the internet. I'm overjoyed to see when my art connects with people and helps you realize things! But don't ask me sensitive questions like how to move out of your abusive parents' house!! PLEASE learn internet safety and get less comfortable with volunteering that kind of information to people you don't know!

Do not ask me personal questions you do not need to know what i study or where i work. get less comfortable asking these sorts of questions to queer people on the internet, especially when they talk openly about having previously been abused or stalked. (not that a person should even need to be as open about that as i am)

If I don't have a good response I won't answer Especially for suggestions I don't vibe with. I try to only say "No" if I have a particularly interesting "No" to talk about, if that makes sense! If I had to write a full explanation for every veto or idea I don't vibe with, this blog would be 90% what isn't in BB.

No AUs within the AU. "What if Hawkfrost survived his impalement? What if Firestar never joined? What if Tigerstar was never born?" Listen, buddy, you're creating an exponential distraction for possible ways the story could have gone and I'm not looking to write several essays for the literal hundreds of alternative ways Clan history could have been written. It takes you 5 words to ask "What if X never died" but it takes me paragraphs to answer. (This isn't about suggestions btw, I very specifically mean ppl asking hypotheticals for fun.)

Don't be rude. I feel like this should go without saying but please mind the parasocial gap. Especially if you're on anon, I don't know you, your backstory, or your cadence.

No "Fight Baiting" You're free to ask me to speak about fandom trends, or for my opinions on general ideas, character discussions, and popular arguments! But it crosses a line if you're linking someone's posts with their uncropped usernames, sharing unsolicited google docs, youtube videos, etc, with the intention of getting me to attack a third party. We can talk about ideas without making it a PVP battle.

And, lastly, CLANMEW ASKS!!

I make a hard effort to get to everyone!! Those are published on Clanmew Day (WHICH IS NOW JUST GOING TO BE THE 30TH OF EVERY MONTH SO THAT IT'S LESS CONFUSING) but PLEASE understand I get a ton of them.

As I write this I have more than 26 tabs open of unanswered Clanmew asks, a lot more in my inbox, and 9 already in the queue. So that you understand the sheer volume of asks I have there.

If I didn't get to you that month, chances are that I'll get to you on the next, but please understand why I ask for folks to not re-send asks

So here's Clanmew-specific requests;

PLEASE just try a translation on your own first! Don't just send me raw lists of OCs to translate, give it a go first using the Lexicon, just so I can see you tried. I will happily and gladly make more specific words for you when I see you try!

When you send OCs you've translated, ask me for a new word at the end if you didn't already in your list. Just in case I can't think of a witty comment or a word suggestion, you will help me a lot

Please try to format with lists like this one Folks will send me double or triple-indented lists and it will take up my entire screen when they've only sent like, 5 names. Remember that posts you send to me go on people's dashes, be considerate please You can open a list like this by starting a new paragraph, typing -, and then an immediate space. Hold Shift + Enter to indent without adding another bullet.

If you could put "Clanmew" somewhere in your ask, like even if you open up with "Clanmew: Here is my question blah blah," it would help immensely I physically can't get to every ask I receive on Clanmew Day, so if you have "Clanmew" in your ask somewhere, it makes it a lot easier for me to find it when I can finally answer! I really wish Tumblr had ways to sort asks, but currently, I've just gotta make due with Cntrl + F.

[demispark]

Donald Duck Is Among The Strongest Mages in the Final Fantasy Universe (Who Rivals the Divine)

I am, perhaps, the least qualified person for this task, but I love mentioning it and @ancestorlegacy said this should've been an option in my poll for KH topics to explain to my friends who nothing about it, and I just couldn't resist.

I have no idea how long whichever post I'll write when the poll is over will be, so writing this in advance means I'll still be able to post a Kingdom Hearts infodump on April 1st like I wanted to.

(After writing this, it's getting a little long, so if you don't want to read the whole thing, I'll put a TL;DR at the end of the post.)

Donald has a tendency to die quickly, misuse magic by hitting enemies with their elemental affinities (causing them to be healed), and often doesn't heal Sora when most needed.

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR - Kingdom Hearts III, Bravely Default, Final Fantasy XVI, as well as some non-story spoilers for Kingdom Hearts I & II

The beginning of this story is immensely funny. Remember how the title of this post says that Donald Duck is an incredibly strong mage? That tends not to be the case for most of the series.

Whether he is or isn't powerful, he is highly unreliable. He has, however, been known to throw a good Flare spell in his time.

Allow me to introduce Flare Force, a Limit in Kingdom Hearts II and a Situation Command in Kingdom Hearts III.

This whole maneuver is called "Flare Force", but Donald's firework-summoning spells themselves are known as "Duck Flare", "Rocket Flare", and "Megaduck Flare", respectively.

With that "Mega-", now seems like a good time to explain the various Flare Spells for context.

In the Final Fantasy franchise, Flare is a high-level magic spell. One of the "ultimate" Black Mage spells, in fact. It's often non-elemental magic, but is also the final form in the line of Fire magic in others.

I'll refrain from discussing all of the different offshoots of Flare, and just discuss the relevant upgraded forms.

Still with me? Great.

Higher forms of Flare tend to be given metric prefixes:

- Nanoflare = one-billionth (10^-9)

- Megaflare = one million (10^6)

- Gigaflare = one billion (10^9)

- Teraflare = one trillion (10^12)

- Exaflare = one quintillion (10^18)

- Zettaflare = one sextillion (10^21)

Now, setting aside the discussion of how these firework Flare spells compare to Flare and Megaflare, we can now get to what you've all been waiting for: Donald Duck vaporizing a final boss-level opponent with some of the highest grade Black Magic in the FF Universe!

Golly, wasn't that amazing? Now, we can FINALLY get into why this scene makes Donald one of the strongest mages ever.

Recall how I said that Flare is an "ultimate" Black Magic spell. Donald cast a spell equivalent to ONE SEXTILLION of an endgame offensive spell.

I mean, he appears to have either passed out for exertion or straight-up died from the effort of casting it, but that's not important. Why? Because now I can finally explain what the last part of the title of this post means.

While Donald now shares the title of strongest mage with two others to date, there is one difference: he's just a mage.

First up: Airy the Fairy.

She was a companion-turned-major antagonist in Bravely Default. While her master plan involved successfully destroying dimensions, this wasn't a direct result of her own power. Furthermore, she was a servant of the God of Destruction, Ouroboros, and was being powered-up and supported by the god during the fight in which she uses Zettaflare. Therefore, I do not believe that she can be compared to Donald's sheer might.

No, the only true comparison is to the one who is so strongly associated with Megaflare and its associated variations: Bahamut.

In case you hadn't heard, Final Fantasy XIV's original launch was so bad that they destroyed the setting of the game in canon. Bahamut's Teraflare was the cause.

Bahamut obliterated an entire continent with one spell, and Donald's spell was many, many orders of magnitude higher.

Fast forward to Final Fantasy XVI, however, and it seems that the legendary King of Dragons may have finally become a match for our feathered Flare-casting friend!

... Or maybe not. See, I haven't played Final Fantasy XIV. In fact, the only games mentioned in this post that I have played is the main one the post is about, the Kingdom Hearts series.

I'm a little hazy on the details because of that, so forgive me if I have gotten anything wrong, but Bahamut's Zettaflare failed. I mean, Airy's clearly did too since she was defeated by the protagonists of the game she was in, but Bahamut is THE Megaflare guy. Gigaflare, Teraflare, Exaflare, all used by Bahamut or some version of Bahamut.

Outplayed by Donald fucking Duck. Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk.

TL;DR - Despite being typically unreliable, Donald Duck successfully vaporized a major foe with the absurdly high-level Zettaflare spell. Airy (a fairy backed by a God of Destruction) from Bravely Default and Bahamut (A massively powerful and legendary dragon who is a staple of the FF series) from Final Fantasy XVI have also used Zettaflare, but to much less effectiveness compared to the mortal duck mage.

[thecreaturecodex]

Protean, Heputwisa

"King of Spades" © deviantArt user RayEtherna, accessed at her gallery here

[More proteans! I went for the mammalian design for this protean as an homage to D&D's arcanaloths, especially the Planescape depiction of them as hyper-competent conspiracy masterminds. To go with that theme, I gave it a number of SLAs drawn from Ultimate Intrigue, which is a book I haven't used much. As a reminder, all of my proteans have names that are anagrams for people who are thematically linked to their purview. See if you can figure it out! There's also a reference to an upcoming protean lord I'm working on, although it might be a while before that comes to fruition.]

Protean, Heputwisa CR 18 CN Outsider (extraplanar) This creature looks like an unusual combination of canine and serpentine forms. Its head is like that of an exaggerated jackal, with a long muzzle and pointed ears. A mane of hair grows along its neck and shoulders, which is accentuated by jagged spines. Similar spines grow from the wrists above its clawed hands, and along its long serpentine lower body.

A heputwisa is a powerful protean that embodies conspiracies and lies. They craft and cultivate rumors, spreading them from person to person and watching them mutate and take a life of their own. Few heputwisa are content with a single conspiracy at once, and they often stoke multiple false beliefs at once, some of which are at odds with each other. Some create their own conspiracies more directly, forming cells of rebels that plot against the status quo, or infiltrating a lawful organization to disrupt it and stymie its efforts. Some heputwisas are content to merely create criminal networks or incite revolutions, whereas others seek nothing less than the breakdown of consensus reality.

Heputwisas usually enter combat in disguise, taking the shape of another as an apparent betrayal. Their combats are often as much for show as they are to inflict physical damage, and they may flee after a couple of rounds if they feel they have made their point. The bite of a heputwisa causes its victims’ bodies to revolt against themselves, suffering warpwave after warpwave. Perhaps most dangerous is their ability to disrupt teamwork with their sheer presence. A heputwisa might float over an army squadron invisibly, causing their tactics to fall apart without lifting a finger.

Heputwisas are among the most solitary of the proteans, as they typically view others of their own kind as rivals. Two heputwisas in the same area will usually devote their energy and resources to uncovering the other’s conspiracies, which results in escalation and frequently violence. Only the presence of a protean lord can cause heputwisas to work together, and even then usually at some distance, each contributing to part of a greater conspiracy. The protean lord Etna is one of the greatest patrons of heputwisas, and at least a half dozen of these proteans are sewing seeds of dissent to achieve her ultimate, ambitious goal of regime change in Hell.

Heputwisa             CR 18 XP 153,600 CN Large outsider (chaos, extraplanar, protean) Init +10; Senses blindsight 60 ft., darkvision 60 ft., Perception +29 Aura betrayal (30 ft., Will DC 29), cloak of chaos (DC 25)

Defense AC 33, touch 20, flat-footed 26 (-1 size, +6 Dex, +1 dodge, +4 deflection, +13 natural) hp 312 (25d10+175) Fort +21, Ref +24, Will +23; +8 vs. mind-influencing DR 15/lawful; Immune acid, divination; Resist electricity 10, sonic 10; SR 29 Defensive Abilities amorphous anatomy, freedom of movement, mind blank

Offense Speed 30 ft., fly 90 ft. (perfect) Melee bite +33 (2d6+9 plus lingering warpwave), 2 claws +33 (1d8+9), tail slap +31 (2d8+4 plus grab) or touch +33 (ego whip) Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Special Attacks constrict (4d8+9), ego whip, sneak attack +3d6 Spell-like Abilities CL 20th, concentration +27 Constant—cloak of chaos (self only, DC 25), mind blank, tongues At will—aura alteration, compulsive liar (DC 19), greater teleport (self plus 50 lbs only), invisibility, paranoia (DC 19), rumormonger (DC 19), suggestion (DC 20) 3/day—confusion (DC 21), deceitful veneer (DC 21), quickened glibness, quickened greater dispel magic, modify memory (DC 22), they know (DC 21) 1/day—crime wave (DC 24), demand (DC 25), mislead (DC 23), pox of rumors (DC 25), word of chaos (DC 24)

Statistics Str 29, Dex 23, Con 24, Int 24, Wis20, Cha 25 Base Atk +25; CMB +35 (+39 grapple); CMD 46 (cannot be tripped) Feats Combat Expertise, Deceitful, Dodge, Great Fortitude, Greater Vital Strike, Improved Feint, Improved Vital Strike, Improved Initiative, Multiattack, Power Attack, Quicken SLA (glibness, greater dispel magic), Vital Strike Skills Appraise +28, Bluff +35, Diplomacy +31, Disguise +35 (+55 to resemble a specific person), Fly +22, Intimidate +31, Knowledge (history, planes) +31, Knowledge (arcana, local, nobility) +28, Perception +29, Sense Motive +29, Spellcraft +28, Stealth +26, Use Magic Device +28 Languages Abyssal,Common, Protean, tongues SQ change shape (greater polymorph), perfect copy

Ecology Environment any land or urban (Maelstrom) Organization solitary Treasure standard

Special Abilities Aura of Betrayal (Su) All creatures within 30 feet of a heputwisa must succeed a DC 29 Will save or become filled with dissension. Creatures that fail their saves are no longer treated as allies to other creatures and can't provide flanking, use or benefit from teamwork feats or aid another actions, or allow other creatures to move through their space. Any spell or effect that requires a willing target fails if used on an affected creature, and even harmless effects require an attack roll (if applicable) and require affected creatures to attempt a saving throw to resist their effects (if a save is allowed). In addition, if a creature casts a beneficial spell or uses a beneficial supernatural ability (such as channel energy) while in the area of the aura of betrayal, it must succeed a DC 29 Will save or include the heputwisa in the effect. This is a mind-influencing effect, and the save DC is Charisma based. Change Shape (Su) A heputwisa can change shape at will, but does not gain the healing benefit as is usual for a protean. Constrict (Ex) A heputwisa’s constriction deals bludgeoning and piercing damage. Ego Whip (Su) The touch of a heputwisa inflicts severe doubt. A creature touched by a heputwisa is affected by an ego whip IV spell (CL 25th, Will DC 29). A heputwisa can inflict this penalty along with one of its melee attacks as a swift action. Lingering Warpwave (Su) A creature bitten by a heputwisa must succeed a DC 29 Fortitude save or be affected by a warpwave. Each round, it must attempt another DC Fortitude save—if it fails, it is affected by a warpwave again until it succeeds a save to end the effect. A dispel chaos or similar effect removes a lingering warpwave. The save DC is Constitution based. Perfect Copy (Ex) A heputwisa can masquerade as a specific individual using its change shape ability, gaining a +20 to all Disguise checks to appear as that individual.

[yumiyue07]

Through Fire and Blood

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆｡･:*:･ﾟ’★ POV: K-idol x reader

H/N = His name Y/N = Your name

M/N1 = Member 1’s name (choose any member of your bias’ group) M/N2 = Member 2’s name (choose any member of your bias’ group

Trigger warning: swearing, violence ｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆｡･:*:･ﾟ’★

H/N’s scream, raw and filled with unimaginable pain, tore through the warehouse, reverberating off the walls and piercing your heart. In that horrific moment, you could only think one thing, clear and unwavering amidst the chaos: "Better me than him." You braced yourself, forcing your mind to accept the inevitable, a rush of cold fear twisting through you.

H/N, despite his injuries, refused to give up. Fueled by sheer willpower, he struggled to push himself up, managing to get onto his knees. But before he could make another move, one of Cobra’s men stepped down on his back with brutal force. H/N cried out in pain, his body jerking under the crushing weight. The man twisted his boot into H/N’s wound with sadistic pleasure, laughing as he kept him pinned.

"Stay down, hero," the thug spat, drawing more cruel laughter from Cobra’s gang.

Desperation and fury burned in H/N's eyes, his muscles straining as he fought against the boot pressing him to the ground. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his focus never wavered from you. He could see Cobra's gleaming knife, aimed directly at your chest. The malice in Cobra's eyes was undeniable, and time seemed to slow as he lunged toward you, his arm rearing back for the deadly strike.

M/N1 and M/N2 tried to come to your aid but were also held back by Cobra's men. They were pinned down, their struggles futile against the overwhelming force of their captors. They could only watch in horror as the scene unfolded before them.

You locked eyes with H/N in that instant, your heart breaking as you saw the horror in his gaze. You were almost glad that he was being held back. He was powerless to stop it. "No!" H/N roared, his voice a desperate, guttural sound, his entire body trembling with the effort to fight off the man holding him down. Every second stretched into an eternity as the blade came closer, the air thick with the weight of what was about to happen.

You closed your eyes, every muscle tensing as you braced for the sharp, inevitable pain of the kn*fe piercing your flesh.

But instead of agony, there was silence—broken only by a wet, gurgling sound that wasn’t yours.

Confusion fluttered through you, and with a heart pounding in your chest, you forced your eyes open.

Standing protectively in front of you, his body between you and Cobra, was Jun Ho.

Time froze. The knife was embedded deep in his chest, right where your face should’ve been. His back was slightly hunched, as if shielding you even now, as blood seeped through his clothes. A single ruby tear slid down the blade, glistening under the dim light. Cobra had struck him, not you. He had taken the blow.

A scream rose in your throat but choked off before it could escape, leaving only an unbearable weight of horror. Your mind struggled to process what you were seeing. Jun Ho… he had protected you?

"Filthy traitor," Cobra hissed, his face twisted with cold satisfaction. He stared down at Jun Ho, eyes filled with sadistic pleasure as he registered the betrayal. "Serves you right." His words dripped with venom. "You wanted her for yourself, didn’t you? I saw the way you looked at her. You thought you could have her?" His sneer widened, pulling the knife out deliberately slow, twisting it just enough to drag out the pain. Jun Ho’s body jerked at the movement, but he remained silent, his jaw clenched, refusing to give Cobra the satisfaction of hearing his agony.

Blood poured from the wound, a flood of crimson staining Jun Ho’s once-pristine suit. You watched in helpless disbelief as the man who had brought you into this dilemma sacrificed himself, the weight of his betrayal to Cobra now crashing down with deadly finality.

"What a waste of talent," Cobra added with a disgusted sneer, his hand dripping with Jun Ho’s blood.

Jun Ho crumpled to the ground, his body folding in on itself as he collapsed onto his back. His face twisted with agony, yet through it, a fleeting expression of peace lingered in his eyes as they met yours.

"Just in time, right?" he rasped, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his blood-stained lips. His voice was barely more than a whisper, weak, fading fast.

Tears blurred your vision, overflowing in a torrent that mirrored the storm of emotions raging inside you—sorrow, disbelief, guilt. "Jun Ho… why?" you managed to choke out, your voice cracking under the weight of your feelings. You turned to the room, pleading desperately, "Someone, please, help him!"

No one moved. The room stood still, the cruelty of your captors evident in their cold indifference. You were alone with him now.

A shadow of a smile flickered across his face again, his breath shallow and ragged. "Take care of yourself, princess," he whispered, the familiar nickname somehow cutting deeper now. "I can't… do this for you anymore."

"Jun Ho...thank you," you murmured, your voice trembling with a depth of gratitude that felt too small for the moment. "I’ll never forget what you did for me."

His gaze softened, a mixture of sorrow and quiet resignation in his eyes. He had spent so long straddling the line between loyalty to Cobra and his own inner conflict, but in this final moment, he had chosen. He had chosen you, over everything else. He had played with fire, knowing the cost, but he couldn’t have watched you die—not like that. This was his final act of redemption.

His chest heaved with one last, shallow breath. Then, silence.

Jun Ho was gone.

The weight of his lifeless body lay heavy in the room, but even heavier on your heart. The one person who had shielded you, who had seen you beyond just a pawn in this deadly game, was now lost. You had harbored a secret hope that, once this nightmare ended, you could somehow convince H/N to take him in, to offer him a way out of Cobra’s world. But now, that hope was crushed. His sacrifice, his redemption—too late.

Tears streamed uncontrollably down your face as you stared at his still form. His death felt unbearably heavy, his final act a price you hadn’t wanted him to pay.

"I’m so sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible, a fragile thread of sound breaking under the weight of guilt. "I didn’t want this to happen."

You looked over at H/N, fear gnawing at your insides as you watched him struggle. You couldn’t bear to lose him. His face was pale, and a small pool of blood had formed beside him.

"I'm fine," he whispered, a faint smile flitting across his face. Despite his words, you could see the pain etched in his features.

Cobra, however, seemed to revel in the chaos, his eyes gleaming with a twisted amusement. "Oh, how dramatic," he sneered, his voice filled with contempt. "You all disgust me." He gestured around the room, taking in the scene of fallen bodies and desperate pleas. "I'll just end this now," he declared.

"You know, I've changed my mind," he continued, his voice laced with a chilling indifference.

Fear gripped your heart like an icy vice as Cobra turned to you, his cold, predatory gaze on you. His words dripped with malice, his twisted amusement feeding off your terror. "You're not worth being my bride," he sneered, as if tossing you aside was as inconsequential as discarding a broken toy.

"I'll start with you, my dear," he continued, stepping toward you with deliberate slowness, savoring the dread he knew he was inflicting.

You struggled against your bindings, the chair beneath you creaking as you strained to move, to fight, to do anything. Panic surged through you, your mind screaming for some way to stop him, but there was nothing. Jun Ho’s body lay still beside you, his sacrifice a raw wound in your heart, and H/N—oh God, H/N—was still on the floor, weakened and barely able to move.

H/N's gaze met yours, desperation and fury mingling in his eyes. He tried to rise, gritting his teeth through the pain, but Cobra’s men kept him pinned down, their mocking laughter echoing cruelly through the warehouse. "It’s not your turn yet, hero," one of them jeered, twisting their boot deeper into H/N's back, forcing him down as he groaned in pain.

Cobra’s shadow fell over you as he loomed closer, his knife glinting menacingly in the dim light. He reached for you, his hand cold and unfeeling, when suddenly, H/N's voice broke through the suffocating tension. "Don't you dare touch her!" he growled, his voice thick with rage and determination.

Cobra paused, a cruel smile twisting his lips as he glanced at H/N. "Still playing the hero, huh? Haven't you learned yet?" Cobra, however, wasn't fazed. He reached over and, with a sickening casualness, pressed the tip of the knife against your cheek. "I'll slit your pretty face first and then your throat," he said with a sadistic grin. "Let's see how much your 'knight' can save you now."

Cobra's words, dripping with venom, sent a chill down your spine, but you refused to back down. Despite the terror clawing at your insides, you kept your gaze locked with his, determined not to show the fear he so desperately wanted to see. The knife at your cheek felt like a brand, its cold sting a reminder of just how close to death you were.

Using the last of his strength, H/N twisted his body sharply, grabbing hold of the man’s ankle. With a force fueled by desperation and rage, he yanked the thug’s leg out from under him, sending the man crashing to the floor with a grunt. The moment his captor was down, H/N sprang up, adrenaline surging through his veins, ignoring the burning pain in his abdomen. Before the thug could react, H/N delivered a savage punch to his jaw, knocking him out cold.

Gasping for breath, H/N rose to his feet, the weight of his injury bearing down on him, but he never faltered. His eyes locked on you and Cobra, who was still pressing the kn*fe to your cheek.

"Let her go, Cobra," H/N growled, his voice hoarse but unyielding. "This is between us. Leave her out of it."

Cobra turned his head slightly, acknowledging H/N’s words with a sneer. "Oh, you don’t get it, do you? She’s the key to breaking you," he said, pressing the knife harder against your skin. The bead of blood grew into a thin trickle, tracing a crimson line down your cheek. "She’s why you’re weak. I own you now."

A guttural sound of rage ripped from H/N's throat. With a force that seemed impossible given his battered condition, he rushed at Cobra, grabbing him by the legs and throwing the crime boss off balance. The knife wavered, slipping away from your face just as Cobra stumbled, his sneer turning into a snarl of surprise.

"Get your hands off her!" H/N bellowed, adrenaline fueling his every movement. He rose, using every last ounce of strength he had left to shove Cobra back. The room seemed to pulse with the intensity of the moment, every breath, every heartbeat stretched taut with tension.

Cobra, regaining his footing, spun around, his eyes alight with fury. "You think you can stop me?!" he roared, lunging at H/N with the knife raised high.

Time slowed as you watched in horror, your heart pounding in your chest. H/N barely managed to dodge the first swipe. As Cobra's hand swung towards his face, H/N countered with a powerful punch, connecting squarely with Cobra's jaw. But the second came too fast. Cobra’s blade slashed down across H/N’s arm, a spray of blood following the movement. H/N staggered, clutching his wounded arm, but he didn’t fall. His determination was unwavering, fueled by the sight of you in danger.

"You’re going to have to kill me to get to her," H/N growled, stepping between you and Cobra, his body a shield despite the agony tearing through him.

Cobra wiped the blood from his lips, his expression darkening. "Gladly," he hissed, lunging forward with murderous intent, his knife aimed straight for H/N’s heart.

To be continued...

♡

I cried while writing Jun Ho's death part. T^T I really thought about changing the plot again. But yeah, I had to add a shocking moment...

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Stay tuned for part 18!

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